Assail

CHAPTER VIII

Orman jogged north without pause, ever upwards; he collapsed only when it became too dark to see. The next dawn he drove himself onward again. He stumbled and tripped the entire way. He found himself missing handholds, or falling over rocks as he misjudged them. He cursed the throbbing blindness of his left eye then. He also knew he was climbing faster than he should for his own safety. The change in altitude was making him light-headed. His nose bled. He was so short of breath he sometimes gasped, bent over, almost blacking out. His legs burned as if he was dragging them through coals, and the vision of his one eye swam.

Yet he pushed on. Soon the bare rocky rises and ridges gave way to snow cover. It was dense and heavy and wet. A white fox yipped at him as he waded through the knee-deep crests. After half a day’s journey across these broad fields of whiteness, he came to a halt at the barrier of a sapphire face of sheer ice pockmarked by streams of run-off. The roaring of the combined waterfalls seemed to shake the heaped gravel he stood upon. His breath plumed while he searched the sculpted gleaming ice face for the best route up. Satisfied, he tore strips from his trousers, wrapped them about his hands, and started up.

His fingers immediately became numb. His route sometimes took him past cave openings that gushed icy waters. The spray soaked him and sent him into uncontrollable shivers. A few times he nearly lost his grip upon the knobs and undulations he clung to and so he drew his hatchets and proceeded up by hacking and hammering at the ice face.

Halfway, he paused to glance back and behind. The massive shoulders of the Salt range descended below in gigantic sweeps of ash-grey stone and misted forests. Low foothills obscured the Sea of Gold. He knew that if he could see it, it would appear no larger than a puddle. And he was only halfway up this enormous slab of ice. It must be a good four chains thick.

He climbed on and at last pulled himself up on to a vast plain of gently undulating snow and ice. He’d reached the top of one of the ice-rivers that dominated the upper crags of the Salt peaks. What some named the Frost Serpents. He stumbled on. Winds of stinging ice rime lashed him, yet he hardly felt the cold. At night he wrapped himself in his plain cloak and curled up next to ridges of naked gleaming ice that reflected the night sky like mirrors. He felt as if he were floating among the stars. He awoke with a solid layer of iced hoar frost over his thickening beard.

On the third day of climbing, the crackling of ice halted him. He paused to listen. All this time he’d heard the distant booming and grinding of this massive ice tongue. Only now did the cracking and snapping sound near. He edged one foot forward, hunched, knees bent, meaning to test the ice. Then the ground fell from beneath him. He tumbled, clawing at a passing sheer face. The ice slashed and tore the flesh of his palms and fingers. He struck something that punched his legs into his chest and knew nothing more.

Some time later he awoke to the wet kisses of heavy fat snowflakes. He blinked to clear his eye and saw stars glimmering down upon him through ragged gaps in thin cloud cover. He watched them for a time, and their graceful deliberate progress was so stately and beautiful it made his heart ache. They appeared within a slim opening between ice cliffs: a narrow slash some four man-heights above the perch he lay upon.

He would have yelled for help but he knew there was no one to hear. He relaxed then, and tucked his hands — numb clubs of blood — under his arms, and watched the show.

The Realm-Lights shimmered into view next. The wavering sky banners that some said marked a gate to other realms. Perhaps the land of the giants, the Thel-kind. Or the Tiste, the Children of Night. Or the Joggen race, as some named the hoary old Jaghut, in northern Joggenhome. The storied creators of winter itself in the times of heroes. He found these curtains and graceful banners appeared breathtakingly beautiful. He’d always admired the lights. Especially those few winters when he’d trapped and hunted the borders of the Holdings with his father. It was consoling to see them now, somehow. As if he’d come home. Home to where he belonged.

He felt himself drifting off to sleep and a small voice railed against him for this, screaming somewhere far off. But he was tired so very tired.

Something hit him in the chest. He looked down: a coil of knotted fibre rope. He peered up, narrowing his one eye. A shape obscured the gap above. Mechanically, dully, he began wrapping an arm in the coils. He could not use his hands — they were beyond feeling, beyond use. After numerous turns of his arm through the rope, it began to rise. It stretched, tautened. He was pulled upright. He knew that if he hadn’t been so very far gone in numbness, he’d be in agony. His arm was probably being twisted from its socket.

Hanging limp, he was drawn up the ice face, unable to help in any manner. At the top, he was heaved over the lip of the crevasse and allowed to flop into the snow, where he lay staring up at an extraordinary figure: a giant, so tall was he. Yet painfully slim, and so pale he seemed to glow. His wild mane of hair was snow-white, as was his long ragged beard, and despite the frigid cold he wore nothing more than a loincloth. He peered down at Orman with something akin to startled bemusement, like a fisherman who’d landed a particularly puzzling catch.

‘What are you doing here, child of the lowlands?’ he asked in a quiet and gentle voice.

Child of the lowlands? ‘Are you Buri?’ Orman gasped, his mouth numb, the words slurred. ‘The eldest who brings winter?’

The giant’s silver brows rose. ‘Is that what they say in the lowlands?’ He shook his head. ‘I am Buri, but I am not eldest. Come, I will take you to shelter.’ And the ancient being bent down, lifted him and set off with him in his arms like a child. Above his mane of white hair, the dancing curves of the Realm-Lights circled his head like a crown.

When Orman next awoke he lay in a cave, a glittering cave of ice. A fire burned over exposed naked granite. He was alone; he allowed his eye to fall shut once more and slept again.

The mouth-watering scent of roasting meat roused him. He opened his eye to see a large bird carcass roasting over the fire. Buri sat opposite, watching him, his long thin naked arms and legs akimbo.

‘What is a child of the lowlands doing here amid the icefields?’ the ancient one repeated.

And Orman told him everything. Slowly, piece by piece, while he picked at the roasted bird. Including his shameful behaviour at the stream. The loss of his half-brother. All this Buri took in without making a sound. He started only once, when Orman described how he jammed Svalthbrul into the stones and Lotji took it.

When he finished, both were silent for a time. The fire snapped and crackled between them. Dawn’s light brightened the ice cave opening with a pink glow. Finally, Orman could stand the silence no longer and cleared his throat. ‘Will you not come, then? Lend your help? Your clan is sorely outnumbered. The invaders must number in the thousands.’

Buri raised his gaze from the fire. In the light of the flames, his great mane of hair and beard, so pale as to be colourless, now glowed orange and red. His eyes however held a deep amber radiance, like embers themselves. ‘No, little brother. I am gathering my strength.’

‘Gathering your- The enemy is upon us! Now is the time to act. Surely …’

But the ancient shook his head. He crossed his legs, rested his elbows on his knees. ‘These invaders, these pathetic seekers after gold and riches … they are not the true enemy. It is for others that I am preparing.’

‘Who-’

Buri silenced him with a raised hand. ‘What must be done is clear.’

And Orman believed he knew exactly what the ancient meant. He hung his head. ‘Yes.’

‘You know what you must do.’

‘Yes.’

‘You must return and challenge Lotji for possession of Svalthbrul.’

Orman, his head lowered, nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Very good.’ Buri rose smoothly, towered over Orman. ‘I will show you the swiftest descent.’

At the base of a looming cliff of ice, Orman waved to Buri, a nearly indistinguishable shape amid the cornices and curves of snow above. Then the ancient was gone. Nearby, a waterfall pounded the bare rocks and gravel. The stream wound into a forest of spruce and pine. Orman followed it.

Jogging down slope, only now did he wonder about Buri’s use of ‘little brother’. He decided the giant must have meant it affectionately. Perhaps for his dedication to young Jass.

And he felt it again. That strange tightness across his chest. That feeling of belonging that he knew when Jass had held out his hand. He realized then that it was for the sake of this feeling alone that he now scrambled down through the evergreen forest for Lotji.

* * *

The Lost brothers led Fisher and Jethiss north-east, round the forested north shores of the Sea of Gold. Having grown up in this region, Fisher was much surprised when their path brought them pushing through virgin forest to suddenly enter overgrown fields, or discover the rotting log remnants of abandoned homesteads. Some obviously dated from years long gone; others appeared to have been hacked from the woods only a few seasons ago. When he’d left to travel the world, this shore had been uninhabited. But then, that had been a long time ago.

On the third day, they emerged from a copse of mature ghost-white birch to see cleared fields, trampled and ragged, and a log homestead, sod-roofed. Coots reached the homestead first, and receiving no reply to his call pushed open the wooden door and went in. Almost immediately he came outside again and stood against the wall his arms crossed as if hugging himself.

‘What is it?’ Fisher asked.

‘Lowlander family,’ Coots answered, his voice faint. He dropped his gaze, let go a long breath. Fisher passed him. ‘You needn’t go in …’ the Iceblood called. Fisher ignored him.

Within, he found the corpses of two boys, both hacked to death by axes. On a simple bed nearby lay a woman he presumed was their mother, naked, beaten to death. She had been badly abused before being finally strangled. The dark of that tiny cabin closed in upon Fisher then and he backed away as if being physically pushed. Outside, in the cool air, he found that he could breathe once more. He raised his gaze to the sky for a time, blinking. She had been repeatedly raped while her own sons lay dying next to her … He shook his head as if to force the image from his mind.

‘Who was it?’ he finally asked, and it hurt to speak.

Coots shrugged. ‘Raiders.’ He motioned to the rearing peaks of the Salt range. ‘They’ll push north …’

Fisher felt his blood run cold. ‘We can’t let that happen.’ He moved to pass Coots, but the man caught his sleeve.

‘Those’re just stories, Fish. Tales we bloods tell when the fires die down and the Greathall darkens. There ain’t none of them Forkrul left — if there ever was.’

Fisher yanked his arm free. ‘No.’ He glanced away to the plume of clouds the highest peaks flew like banners. ‘I have been there, Coots. I’ve seen the caves. We can’t risk it.’ An old line came to him and he recited:

Coots shot a glance to his brother, who stood cradling his jaw. He pinched his gold earring, rubbed it thoughtfully. ‘Well,’ he grudgingly allowed, ‘they won’t get through our cousins, will they?’

‘There’s a damned lot of them.’ Fisher waved Coots onward.

That dusk they were ready to stop for the night when the glow of flames shone through the forest far higher up the slope, while white smoke climbed into the purpling sky.

Fisher looked to Badlands. ‘Same ones, you think?’

‘Or others. Makes no difference.’

‘We should take a look.’

Badlands shrugged. ‘They’re lowlanders.’

‘We’ll go,’ Coots said from where he’d been working on starting a fire. He straightened, brushed his hands, and headed off.

Jethiss came to stand close to Fisher. He murmured, low, ‘What if …’

Fisher nodded curtly. ‘Yes, I know. I know … But I must know.’

They followed the brothers into the deep shadows of the forest. Coots and Badlands were, of course, master woodsmen and moved in utter silence from cover to cover. Fisher had once possessed the talent, but too long from the wilds had dulled his skills. Jethiss, however, was in no way hampered by the dark and he showed Fisher the way.

They came to the scene of a siege. Flames pillared into the dark behind a tall palisade of logs topped by a barrier of hung antlers. Archers lined the walls. They fired down upon a gang of raiders who jeered and answered the fire from the dark.

The sight of the antlers jogged a memory within Fisher and he recalled the name of a small settlement far to the east: the Keep of the Antlers.

From within the palisade came the scream of a woman — a terrified hopeless shriek of someone burning alive. Fisher bolted upright. Gods, women and children burning?

Yells of surprise tore from the night, followed by the ringing of iron. A man howled, wounded. Cursing, Fisher lunged forward, Jethiss with him. He drew as he ran. Jethiss, far surer of his way, outstripped him, and he followed. A bolt or arrow cut the air near him; he could not tell from which direction it came.

Four shapes charged Jethiss from the dark. The Andii met them at a full run; he ducked, spun, kicked one man down, took the top of the last’s head off in a wide swing. Fisher arrived to find all four dead or crippled. He eyed the Andii, amazed. ‘That was-’

But the Andii was off again. A bellow from the dark announced Coots. More iron rang and clashed. Curses and orders sounded out from a knot of men Jethiss was now closing upon. A line of raiders set shields as he came. The Andii jumped at the last instant, planted his feet square upon one shield and knocked its owner backwards. He fell within the knot and the line broke apart as the men turned for him. Fisher arrived and hacked down one fellow in an inelegant two-handed blow. Then all was the chaos of churning groups of men and women in the dark, some running, some closing upon him.

He fought using strong hacking blows that knocked aside shields and parrying swords — this was not a battle for the finer points of swordmanship. An axeman charged him, his two-handed double-edged weapon held high to split him in half. Arrows flashed between them, shot from both sides. Fisher sidestepped the blow then swung in to take the man at the back of his neck, severing his spine.

He spun then, turning to all sides: he recognized Genabackans together with a mishmash of others. Some looked like nothing more than casual bandits, while others were armed and armoured as mercenaries.

One of these, in thick layered leathers and iron helmet, charged him now, shield-bashing him. He took the blow but tripped, falling on to his back. The man raised his shortsword then coughed, hunching. Staring up at what he thought was his death, Fisher saw a dark wet arrowhead standing from the man’s chest. The fellow toppled on to him.

Fisher heaved the man off. Close now, face to face, he saw that the raider was of Lether. Stunned, he forgot the roaring and stamping feet surrounding him. Great Burn, no. Was this Teal’s work? Was the marshal somewhere among this force? Was … Malle? But no — they’d gone to such pains to remain friendly. Other adventurers from Lether must have arrived, surely.

Feet scuffed the dirt nearby and he started, twisting around. Jethiss stood over him scanning the dark. ‘You are hurt?’

Fisher climbed to his feet. ‘No.’ He peered around: the raiders were decamping, leaving dead and wounded to lie where they fell. Badlands came racing into sight as he chased after them into the woods. Fisher nodded to Jethiss. ‘You are good with those blades.’

The Andii was in no way flattered. He glanced away, troubled. ‘Not that I wish to be.’

Coots approached the main gate where the archers crowded, backlit by the burning keep. ‘Hello there!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve run them off! You can-’

‘Bastard Iceblood!’ someone shouted.

Bowfire sounded. Coots grunted and stepped backwards as if absorbing several blows.

Fisher charged for him, yelling, ‘No!’

‘Hey now,’ Coots slurred, almost chidingly, ‘that’s no way-’ More blows rocked the man. He half spun, fell to one knee. ‘That’s …’ The archers fired almost continuously now. Arrow after arrow punched into Coots. ‘Hey … now …’ he said, sounding very disappointed. He tumbled backwards.

A scream sounded from the woods. A harrowing call that raised Fisher’s hair in its elemental rage and hurt. Arrows whisked past Fisher as he was almost upon Coots. ‘Take his head!’ someone shouted from the palisade. ‘Take that Iceblood’s head!’

Then something knocked Fisher over and absolute black night fell upon him. ‘Iceblood magic!’ someone yelled, real terror choking his voice. Fisher climbed to his feet completely blind. He extended his arms to feel into the blackness. He could see nothing, though he could feel the heat and hear the roar and crackle of the huge fire just a stone’s throw from him. A hand took his arm from the dark and he jerked away despite knowing who it must be.

‘This way,’ Jethiss said from the wall of ink.

‘You have him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Badlands?’

‘He ran into the woods howling like a madman.’

Arrows thudded around them as the archers fired blind. They cursed and yelled from atop the palisade. ‘Let’s go from here,’ Fisher said.

‘Yes.’ Something brushed Fisher’s arm: a pair of moccasined feet. Coots’. He took hold of one. Jethiss led him on through the blackness.

They walked for some time. Jethiss coached Fisher through brush and over rocks. The slope climbed; the roar of the burning fort diminished to a distant murmur. It occurred to Fisher that to sustain such a large aura of elemental dark, Kurald Galain, must cost its summoner great effort, yet Jethiss betrayed no strain in his voice or breathing. Perhaps such raisings were natural for the Andii. He wondered, though.

Eventually, their pace slowed. Fisher bumped Jethiss, who had stopped. ‘I can go no further,’ the Andii murmured, his voice husky.

‘You have done a miracle, Jethiss. Saved us for certain. They would have pursued. Tried to take our heads.’

‘There is a tree here,’ he said. ‘There is a view over the lowlands.’

Like a passing deep shadow, the absolute black faded away. The sunshine glare of midday stabbed at Fisher’s eyes. He winced and shaded his gaze, peered around.

They had climbed far into the forested slopes above the Sea of Gold. Below, it glimmered now in the sunlight with an amber-like shine — hence its name, perhaps. Jethiss sat heavily, arms draped over his knees, his head sunk, utterly spent. He’d set Coots in the nook of thick roots at the base of an old knotted spruce. The body faced down-slope; Fisher thought it appropriate. ‘Have you belts or rope?’ he asked.

‘I have my weapon belt.’

‘Keep that.’

‘No. Take it. I have no more use for it.’

Fisher shook his head. ‘You’ll still need to defend yourself.’

The Andii lifted and dropped his broad shoulders. ‘I broke the knives.’

‘You broke them?’ Fisher marvelled; Wickan knives were a finger thick at the hilts. Thinking of weapons, he realized he’d lost his own as well. He pulled off his belt. Jethiss offered his own. Using both, he secured Coots’ body to the tree, tying him under his arms and across his chest. Something told him to leave the multitude of arrows still residing there and so he did so, careful not to snap one shaft.

Jethiss watched. Fisher took Coots’ long-knives and pressed them into his stiffening fingers, then laid his hands in his lap. He stood back to examine the corpse — still so broad and huge, seemingly full of life, as if asleep.

He cleared his throat and raised his head. ‘I name these twinned long-knives the Wolf Fangs. Let it be known they did not betray their bearer. I name any hand that takes them without due respect or honour cursed to see all hands raised against them. Cursed to lose all honour and respect. Cursed to fall as crow-carrion.’

‘This do I so too vow,’ Jethiss added, his voice cracking.

He lowered his head. ‘So ends my honour song of Coots of the Lost clan.’

After a long silence, Jethiss motioned down the rocky slope. ‘Look there.’

Fisher turned. A figure had emerged from the treeline. Staggering, falling, it made its agonizing way up the rocks, mostly on all fours, crawling over the stones, pulling itself up.

It was Badlands. His leathers were torn. His limbs bled from countless cuts. His face was a glistening mask of mud and blood and tears. He crawled on, weeping, sobbing, right past Fisher’s and Jethiss’s boots till he came upon one of Coots’ moccasined feet and this he grasped as if drowning. He pressed his face to it and gave a heartbreaking moan that drove Fisher to look away. This was not for him to see; this was the private grieving of family.

He touched Jethiss’s arm and together they walked off down the gently falling rock slope. The afternoon light gathered its amber colour. The shadows of the trees lengthened. Fisher turned to Jethiss. ‘You broke those Wickan knives …’ Jethiss nodded. Fisher eyed him speculatively. ‘Mane of Chaos — does this name mean anything to you?’

The Andii tilted his head, considering. He shook it. ‘No. Should it?’

‘It is another name for Anomander Rake. Is that name familiar?’

The man turned his face to regard him directly. There was a wariness in his dark eyes now. ‘There’s something …’ The eyes became alarmed. ‘Are you saying … that I might be …’

Fisher shook his head. ‘I don’t know. His hair was white, though. But …’ He took a heavy breath as if steeling himself. ‘They say he gave himself to Mother Dark, to elemental night. And if he did … is it not possible that perhaps it, or she, gave him back …’

‘Yet he had white hair.’

‘True. A mark of the Eleint, the ancient songs say. The chaotic touch of T’iam. Those Elder songs also say that Mother Dark never accepted the gift of Chaos. She would not take it in, and so he would return without it …’

Jethiss lowered his gaze. ‘I cannot say. I do remember something …’ He shook his head.

‘Yes? What?’

‘Something about a gate. I remember a gate. An opening on to … something. And battle and pain. Then suffocating as if drowning. And last of all, I remember something about a sword …’ He shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. I should not pry.’ Fisher set his hands to his thighs. ‘Should we see?’

Jethiss nodded. They walked up the rock slope. Badlands stood now, facing his brother, his hands clasped before him. They came and stood just behind. ‘I’m sorry,’ Fisher said.

Badlands turned to them, but he kept his gaze downcast and for that Fisher was grateful, for he didn’t think he could bear what might lie in the man’s gaze. His face still glistened with tears, though the blood of countless gouges and scratches had dried and cracked. He moved to step past them, as if to descend the slope. Alarmed, Fisher asked: ‘Where are you going?’

Still refusing to raise his eyes, he croaked, ‘To kill them all.’

‘No you’re not.’

Badlands halted. ‘Don’t stand in my way, Fish.’

‘I am only reminding you of your duty.’

‘Oh? An’ what is that?’

‘Your duty to your family. Stalker needs you now. Your other sisters and brothers and cousins will need you even more.’

Badlands barked a harsh laugh, startling Fisher. He raised his gaze, and though Fisher had readied himself, the fires of desolation burning there made him flinch.

Jethiss had stepped aside as if to make room. Now he slowly moved to Badlands’ rear.

‘You don’t know nothing,’ Badlands growled and Fisher heard the abandonment of utter feyness in the words.

‘What do I not know?’

‘Outta my way, Fish.’

‘Go to your family, Badlands.’

‘Don’t make me-’

Jethiss grasped the man round the middle and lifted him from the ground. Fisher lunged in and snatched a knife from Badlands’ belt, reversed it and smacked it across the man’s temple. Badlands fell limp in Jethiss’s arms. The Andii gently lowered him to the ground.

Fisher stood hands on hips, staring down at the big fellow. Of course, if the brother had truly wanted to be rid of them he could have easily won through. He could have drawn upon them. Neither of them was armed, after all. He sighed and looked to Jethiss. ‘My turn.’

* * *

The north coast of the Sea of Gold was a graveyard of broken ships. Some lay half sunk just offshore, a mere few leagues beyond the mouth of the channel up from the Dread Sea, their crews only able to coax a last few chains of distance out of their tortured vessels. Others lay on their sides on the mud flats between ice floes. Stranded crews and passengers waved and called to them amid great piles of cargo.

At the Dawn’s side, Jute heard some astounding offers shouted in accents out of Quon Tali, Malyntaeas, Falar, and even Seven Cities. Half the cargo in return for transport, one fellow bellowed. A tempting offer; but the large armed crew of hireswords surrounding the heaped crates put Jute off.

Buen suggested, ‘Perhaps we should pick ’em up. Easy money.’

Jute shook his head. ‘They’d swamp us. Probably try to take the Dawn.’

The first mate sighed wistfully. ‘Too bad. All that cargo brought all this way just to rot. Might be kegs of wine from Darujhistan out there …’

‘Drop it.’

Buen pushed himself away from the side. ‘Thought we came to make some money,’ he grumbled as he went. Jute ignored the muttering. Always griping; it was the man’s way. He walked back to the stern and Ieleen next to Lurjen at the tiller. He studied the vessels following: the Malazan Ragstopper had swung in behind, the Resolute next, while the Supplicant followed far offshore. Seemed Lady Orosenn wished to keep some distance between herself and everyone else.

‘What do you see?’ Ieleen asked.

Jute scanned the shore once again. He saw … futility. And greed. ‘Blind stupid avarice,’ he said.

‘We’re here.’

He snorted. True enough. And what had they brought in their hold to the largest gold strike in living memory? Food. Not weapons or timber or tools or cloth. Food. Flour and molasses, crates of dried fruit, stoneware jugs of cheap spirits. Goods for sale. And once the hold was empty, why, what to fill it with but sacks of gold, of course!

Jute shook his head at the stunning naiveté of it. It had all seemed so easy back in Falar.

Now … well, now he believed they would be lucky just to get out of this alive.

The coast passed in a series of flats and lingering sheets of ice. They passed vessels drawn up on the shore and raised on crude log dry docks, while crews worked alongside sawing logs into planks and burned fires to reduce resin to recaulk seams.

Then the stranded vessels and would-be fortune-hunters thinned. Those ships that couldn’t limp along any further had all pulled in or sunk by this point. Those that could continue did so, leaving their fellows behind. The old unspoken law of reaching out to take what one could and damning the rest to Hood’s cold embrace.

The raw ugly ruthlessness of it sickened Jute. What a waste! What a stupid urge to enslave one’s fortune to — the empty promise of unguarded riches to be picked up by anyone. Where was the merit in any such gathered power or riches? Merely because you were first to snatch it up? Could not the second person there simply kill you and take it for himself?

Best not to invest in such easily transferable value, Jute determined. His gaze fell to the blind face of his love and he rested a hand upon hers.

‘I feel your eyes on me,’ she murmured. ‘What’s on your mind, luv?’

‘I just realized that I’ve risked everything to reach a destination I don’t even want to be at.’

A secretive smile broadened Ieleen’s lips. ‘Glad to hear that, luv.’

Jute frowned. ‘But you didn’t object …’

‘That’s what journeys are for, my love. You have to take the path to learn where you want to be.’

‘The philosopher wife speaks.’

She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘We mates sit and wait. And, if we’re lucky, our partners finally catch up to where we’ve been all the while.’

Jute crossed his arms. ‘Oh? Been a long wait, has it?’

‘Damnably long. But now that you’re here, maybe we can go home.’

‘Certainly, light of my life. We’ll just sell our goods at outrageously inflated prices, load up with successful fortune-hunters groaning beneath the weight of all their gold, and head home.’

‘We should just cut out the middle and turn round now.’

Jute laughed. ‘And what would the crew think of that?’

Her frosty orbs shifted as if to look ahead, and though he knew her to be blind, Jute couldn’t shake the feeling that her sight was penetrating all the distance to their goal. She sighed. ‘We’re sailing into a nest of pirates, thieves and murderers.’

Jute tried to shake his premonition of trouble. ‘Then it’s a good thing we have a mercenary army with us, isn’t it?’

She shook her head. ‘A last mission, Tyvar said. Have you not thought about that?’

Indeed, it hadn’t occurred to him. He waved it off, then remembered, and made a noncommittal noise. ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll raise anchor and ship out if we must, don’t doubt that.’

They sailed through the day and night. The Ragstopper and the Resolute kept pace, while the Supplicant held out in deeper water, far offshore. Jute wondered at Lady Orosenn’s strategy, but it was the listing Ragstopper that held his attention; the vessel was so low in the water, so sluggish and lumbering, it was a wonder that it still held its bows above the surface. The collection of rotted timbers that it had crumbled into seemed little more than a glorified raft.

Late on the second day, smoke hazed the air further up the coast ahead. A stink reached them, the commingled reek of human settlement: smoke, excrement, rot, and cooking. Jute had been long from it and it churned his stomach. They rounded a low headland still gripped in ice and there ahead lay a broad bay fronted by wide mud flats. An immense tent city swept in an arc all along the shore. Smoke rose from countless fires. What must be a hundred vessels lay pulled up on the flats, or anchored in deeper water out in the bay. The coast swept up from here in broad forested valleys and ridges that climbed to foothills obscured by hanging banners of fog. Above this vista reared the snow-capped shoulders of a range of mountains: the Salt range, according to sources he’d heard recounted.

Jute was astounded by the numbers of ships that had succeeded in the journey — yet this must be the barest fraction of the entire fleets of vessels that had originally set out. All testament to the driving power of greed and the lure of easy riches. He felt saddened by the spectacle though he himself was a merchant, a businessman; it struck him as a damning condemnation of humankind.

‘Which way?’ Lurjen asked from the tiller.

Jute shook himself from his reverie. He gestured ahead. ‘Make for one of the docks there near the centre.

‘Aye, aye.’

Lurjen chose one of a number of log docks that stood tall above the flats and extended out over the water. The Silver Dawn came alongside, ropes were thrown and secured to log bollards. His crew wrestled with a gangplank. Jute studied the jumbled mass of countless tents, the men and women coming and going, the crews cutting wood to repair vessels, build more docks, and raise buildings. He estimated the numbers here in the several thousands. A city. An instant city utterly without planning or organization, as far he could see. Tents lay like fields of mushrooms, all without logic or order. No straight thoroughfares existed, no streets or lanes; all was a chaotic mess. He was dismayed to see men and women squatting over latrine pits right next to open-air kitchens where the steam from boiling pots melded with the steam rising from the pits to waft over the entire mass of humanity.

A far worse reek rose from the flats where cadavers lay rotting, most having sloughed their flesh: an open-air graveyard where the dead were obviously simply thrown from the docks and shore. Hordes of ghost-crabs wandered from corpse to corpse like clouds of locusts, gorging themselves.

The ragged fortune-hunters who crowded the dock waving and shouting were no more reassuring. Ragged and starving they were, in tattered shirts and canvas trousers, with mud-caked bare feet. They shouted their services as stevedores. Jute wouldn’t trust a pot of shit to any one of them.

Lurjen gestured further along the dock and Jute was relieved to see the Ragstopper coming alongside. Thank the gods for that. He peered around for the Resolute and was troubled to see she had dropped anchor in mid-bay, not far from the Supplicant.

The crowd actually had the temerity to try climbing the gangway. Buen was pushing them back; he cast a glance to Jute, who shook a negative. ‘No work,’ Buen yelled. ‘Not today. G’wan with you!’

‘Bastards!’ one shouted back.

‘You’ll get yours! You’ll see!’

Buen pulled his truncheon and waved them off. Someone new pushed through the crowd: short, grey-haired, in rags just as dilapidated and dirty. Cartheron Crust. Jute hurried down the gangway to meet him.

‘How are you?’

‘Better. Been better.’

‘Recovered?’

The old captain pulled a hand down his patchy beard. ‘Somewhat. Hard bein’ reminded of one’s mortality like that. Feelin’ old now, have to say.’

Jute gestured to the shore. ‘What do you think?’

‘Fuckin’ mess.’

‘Quite.’

Cartheron waved him on. ‘C’mon, let’s go see who’s in charge of this dump.’

Jute held back. ‘Just the two of us?’

Cartheron didn’t stop. ‘Yeah. Trust me. It’ll be just fine.’

Jute shouted back to Buen on the gangway: ‘Making arrangements!’ and hurried after him.

A knot of eight armed men and women blocked the base of the dock. They wore styles of leather armour from all over: the detailed engraved and enamelled leathers of Seven Cities, the plain layered leathers common to south Genabackis, even an expensive set of leaf-shaped scaled leathers clearly crafted in Darujhistan. The probable leader stepped up: a big black-bearded fellow in a long coat of mail. A longsword hung shoved through his wide leather belt.

‘Welcome to Wrongway,’ this fellow announced as they neared.

‘Wrongway,’ Cartheron echoed. ‘Funny.’

The bearded fellow grinned. ‘Yeah. Lying Gell thought so.’

‘Lying Gell …?’

The man hitched his belt up his broad fat belly. ‘Lying Gell, Baron of Wrongway.’

Cartheron turned to Jute. ‘There you go — that didn’t take so long, did it?’ He addressed the spokesman: ‘And you are …?’

The man’s grin widened over broken browned teeth. ‘They call me Black Bull.’

‘Black Bull? Why’s that?’

The grin sank into a scowl. ‘That you don’t want to find out.’

Cartheron waved the man off. ‘If you say so. Thanks for the welcome.’ He moved to pass.

Others of the eight shifted to block the way. Black Bull chuckled. ‘You don’t get it. Docking fees.’

‘Docking fees?’

‘Aye. Docking fees.’

Cartheron shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘How much?’

The spokesman cast a lazy glance over to a scarred woman with long hair the colour of straw, the one who wore the expensive Darujhistani leather armour. She supplied: ‘Two vessels — forty hundredths-weights.’

‘There you go. Forty hundredths-weights.’

Jute asked: ‘Forty hundredths-weights of what?’

Black’s grin became crafty. ‘Why, of gold dust, a’course.’

‘But we just got here. We don’t have any gold dust.’

Black shrugged his humped shoulders. ‘Well … that’s just too bad. Have to escort you to our exchange tent.’

Cartheron raised a hand for a pause. ‘Listen, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not exchange money in a tent owned by a guy named Lying Gell.’

Black pursed his lips. ‘Fine. You can just turn round and go home then.’

‘How about coins in equivalency? Silver?’

Black shot a glance to the woman, rubbed his chin. ‘Well now, that’s highly irregular. Have to be a surcharge on that. An extra fee of …’

‘Fifty per cent,’ the woman said. To Jute, her grin was far hungrier and scarier than Black Bull’s.

‘Fine,’ Cartheron sighed. He gestured to Jute. ‘Pay the man.’

Jute blinked. ‘Pardon? Me? Pay?’

Cartheron waved him forward. ‘’Course!’

The hireswords parted to reveal a table. The woman in the expensive armour leaned against it and urged Jute onward. Jute pulled out his purse and started setting coin on the scarred wood planks. The woman crossed her arms, counting. Upon closer inspection, the scars appeared to be knife slashes. As if someone had deliberately savaged her face. She caught Jute eyeing her and pointed a finger down. He quickly lowered his gaze. In the end, it took every silver coin he possessed to satisfy her. Sighing her irritation, she finally waved him off and brushed all the coin into an ironbound wooden box the size of a helmet.

Black Bull held out an arm, inviting them onward. ‘There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Wrongway welcomes you.’

Cartheron pushed forward and Jute followed. The old Napan captain picked what seemed a random narrow mud trail that led up the gently rising slope of the shore. Before they’d made five turns Jute had had to step over three bodies. One he was certain was dead, what with his throat slit and the stream of blood that stained the already ochre-red mud a far deeper crimson. The other two, a woman and a man, he suspected to have merely passed out dead drunk in the muck.

Cartheron appeared to be making for the noisiest — and largest — tent nearby. Within, under the raised eaves, was the equivalent of a tavern. A band, of sorts, played stringed and wind instruments. The crowd roared their encouragement from tables assembled from wave-wrack and ship’s timbers. Fights broke out and spilled into the mud surrounding the great tent. A long bar separated the patrons from the kegs of spirits. On the counter stood several fine weight scales of the sort one might find in a goldsmith’s.

The skinny old captain mortified Jute by stepping right up on to the nearest table. The men and women drinking there yanked their leather and earthenware tankards from beneath his muddy boots. ‘What in the name of the Matron you doin’?’ one huge bear of a fellow bellowed and Jute flinched — an ex-Urdomen from the old Pannion Annexation, for certain.

Cartheron ignored him. He set two fingers to his mouth and emitted the most piercing whistle that had ever punished Jute’s ears. The entire tavern became instantly silent. Every face turned to him; even the musicians had frozen. Cartheron raised a hand, signed something, circled the arm overhead, then stepped down from the table and exited the tent. Jute, still somewhat stunned, hurried to follow.

Outside, he caught up. ‘What was that? What’s going on?’

‘Now we wait.’

The music started up once more. The crowd laughed and jeered, perhaps at Cartheron’s expense. After a few minutes two men came out, followed by a third. The first two were thick-shouldered and heavy, obvious ex-soldiers. Both possessed bushy flame-hued beards.

‘Names?’ Cartheron demanded.

‘Red,’ said one.

‘Rusty.’

‘How’s the gold-huntin’ business treating you?’

‘Piss-poor,’ said Rusty.

‘You in?’ Both nodded. ‘Okay, spread the word — Cartheron’s in town.’

Red’s arm rose to salute but he stopped his fist before it struck his chest and lowered it. ‘Sorry.’ They ambled off.

The third man approached. He looked like nothing more than a starving itinerant, thin unto emaciation. His mussed pale brown hair was going to premature grey. His face was pinched and his small close-set eyes were yellow with what Jute recognized as a heavy addiction to the khall leaf. Indeed, one cheek was fat with a ball of it.

‘You look like you are in need of some gold dust,’ the fellow called out, quite loudly.

‘No we’re not,’ Jute answered. ‘Get out of here, y’damned khall-head.’

Cartheron raised a hand to quiet Jute. He was studying the man closely, frowning in something like wary recognition. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘we’re lookin’ for gold dust.’

‘I know who has it — and who doesn’t.’

‘Good. Show us round and we’ll send some your way.’

The man smiled dreamily. Something in his lazy distracted manner made Jute’s skin crawl. It was as if he was moving underwater. And he was constantly brushing at his tattered shirt, tapping his fingertips together, and shifting his weight from side to side in a kind of weaving dance. ‘Need to get some to have some,’ he murmured.

Jute thought he saw Cartheron sign something to the man before the fellow waved an arm, inviting them on. ‘This way,’ he said vaguely.

He started off ahead of them and Cartheron pulled Jute back, whispering, ‘You keep out of this one’s way, yes?’

Jute was utterly confused, but nodded. ‘Certainly. If you say so.’ The khall-head glanced back at them, a languorous smile on his lips, and urged them on. ‘Come, come. This way.’

He led them to a tent containing another of the informal bars and here Cartheron repeated his performance. Afterwards, he led them on a lazy walk round an intervening set of tents before squatting on his skinny haunches in the mud.

Three men and one woman came ambling in from different directions to join them. Jute was startled to see by the cut of their hair and facial scars the mark of north Genabackan tribals — Barghast half-breeds perhaps. But veterans, cashiered Malazan veterans. They stood stiffly before Cartheron but couldn’t stop shooting each other excited grins.

Cartheron looked them up and down then nodded to himself. ‘Make the rounds. Tap any old hands you can find. Spread the word. We’ll rendezvous at …’ He turned to their guide. ‘I’m looking for a place with a nice view.’

The man tilted his head to stare off into the distance. He smiled, but emptily. ‘Anna’s Alehouse,’ he said.

Cartheron waved the four away. ‘There you go.’ They nodded and their grins turned savage with glee. They wandered off in different directions.

Jute watched all this feeling his brows crimping harder and harder, and finally he had to ask: ‘What’s going on? What are you doing?’

‘Crewing up.’ Cartheron urged their guide onward. ‘Let’s go.’

The khall-head led them to three more tent-bars and three more times Cartheron repeated his performance. By this time, Jute noticed among the crowds of men and women coming and going about them a number of the ex-soldiers here and there, surrounding them, keeping pace. Like some sort of guard. At last, Cartheron turned to their guide. ‘Anna’s Alehouse now, I think.’

It was long past twilight when they ducked under the raised sides of the large canvas tent that was Anna’s Alehouse. Their guide had waved them on, absently and vaguely, as if he could hardly make the effort, then wandered off.

The alehouse was jammed with fortune-hunters. Jute recognized many of the ex-Malazan soldiery. Cartheron headed to a table towards the centre that, as he approached, somehow became empty in a scuffle of spilled drinks and upset chairs. When Cartheron sat he pulled Jute with him and suddenly the table was crowded with the most hardened, scarred and battered veterans Jute had ever sat down with. It was like the old days, before Ieleen, before he swore off pirating for her.

She’d be so mad if she saw him here in this company.

A man in an apron approached and Cartheron ordered ale all round. The man held out a hand and Cartheron set a coin in his palm: a Malazan gold crown. Jute saw it and sent a bloody glare to the old captain. He raised a hand, murmured, ‘Just getting some attention.’

A moment later the crowd parted for a woman — a very large woman. Her face was garishly painted and her very ample bosom was spilling out of a barely laced top. She planted both meaty hands on the table before Cartheron and leaned forward, purring, ‘What can Anna do for you, sailor?’

The old captain twisted his bearded lips into something resembling a smile. He pulled a leather pouch from under his shirt and felt about within it then drew out two fingers pinched together and held them out. Anna pursed her fat painted lips in a silent ohhhhh and raised a hand.

Cartheron dropped something into her palm. It was tiny, frosted, and faceted.

Jute leaned forward to study it: a raw diamond. Or a wondrous fake.

Anna snapped her hand closed. She leaned even further forward. ‘Anything catch your fancy, sailor?’

He offered her a wink. ‘Like to have a private party, Anna. If I may. Invitation only.’

‘Certainly.’ She gave a husky laugh and wiggled. Though, to Jute, it was more like a wobble. ‘I love private parties.’ She straightened, opened her arms. ‘The place is yours.’

‘Clear the house,’ Cartheron said.

Men and women all about jumped to their feet. They took others by their shirts and necks, marched them to the sides of the tent, and threw them out into the mud. Anna watched with growing horror. One thick hand gathered together her shirt while the other went to her neck.

‘Lower the sides,’ Cartheron ordered.

The hanging leather strips were pulled and the sailcloth sides of the tent fell. In the muted light of the front flap, open still, Anna turned on Cartheron. ‘Those were paying customers!’

‘I’ve paid for the premises,’ he growled. ‘I suggest you take the night off.’

The big woman peered about at the gathered men and women, rough-looking ex-soldiers all, and a growing unease replaced her outrage. Her chin wobbled as she slowly nodded her head. ‘Lentz! Kora!’ she called, ‘Take the night off! These gentlemen have private business to attend to. Business,’ she added, ‘that we know nothing about.’

Cartheron glanced to the front and the woman took the hint; she marched stiffly out. His men now held the doorway. Some patrons they turned away, others they allowed in. Lamps of cheap fat were lit. Cartheron scanned the gathered crowd while nodding to himself.

‘How many men does this Lying Gell have?’

‘’Bout three hundred,’ someone supplied.

‘Quality?’

‘Thugs, strongarms, bandits. Nothin’ more.’

Jute was listening to all this and nodding his head and now he exclaimed, ‘I see it now! You’re taking over!’

Cartheron eyed him frostily. ‘No, I’m not doin’ that. This place is an indefensible swamp.’ He peered round once more. ‘There was supposed to be a regular town up here.’

‘There was,’ someone said. ‘All these waves of invaders ran ’em off. Took some fighting, I tell you.’

‘Where’d they go?’

‘Mantle.’

‘That’s some kinda fortress, right? What’s the situation there?’

‘Some Lether captain and a few other principals have the place surrounded. But they don’t know siegework worth crap.’

‘Does this keep, or whatever it is, have a harbour?’

‘Yeah. That’s blockaded right now.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Cartheron muttered.

‘You’re going to take the fortress?’ Jute asked.

The old captain ignored him. ‘Okay,’ he barked. ‘Here’s the drill. I want a head-count. I want you lot to shake out into squads. Then I want sergeants and up to come present themselves. Is that clear? Okay, let’s go. Don’t have all night.’

It seemed to Jute that everyone started talking at once. Cartheron turned to him. ‘I’m gonna send you off with an escort back to the ships. Have them ready to cast off at a moment’s notice, right?’

Jute waved to indicate everything around him. ‘What’s going on? What is all this? You’ve just collected your own army.’

Cartheron pulled a hand through his patchy salt and pepper beard, sighed. ‘Sorry, captain. Haven’t been entirely honest with you. I was on my way here when I was contacted by … by some old acquaintances. I was asked … well, a proposition was made that I help out up here.’

‘So you’re working for the Empire.’

The old man scowled, offended. ‘Done with that. Free agent now. Just contracted to lend aid to certain parties. That’s all.’ He raised his attention to the crowd surrounding them. ‘I want one squad to shadow my friend here down to the docks and help guard his ship. Are we good with that?’

A woman raised her hand. ‘We’ll take it.’

‘Okay.’ He motioned Jute to the front. ‘See you later. Be ready to cast off fast.’

Jute reluctantly pushed himself away from the table. ‘But what are you up to here? What are you going to do?’

Cartheron waved him on. ‘Don’t you worry ’bout that. Go on with you.’

The woman accompanied him through the maze of tents. Torches burned at various main intersections of footpaths. Gangs hung about seemingly ready to waylay anyone who appeared relatively defenceless. Passing one such group, the woman pulled her muddy cloak away from her side to reveal her longsword and the men stepped back from blocking their way. Jute also noticed members of the ‘squad’ down side alleys, shadowing their progress.

He studied the woman: stocky fighter’s build, a pretty face, after a fashion. Thick dark brown hair that fell in waves to her shoulders. Fair-skinned. Armoured in a battered hauberk of banded iron over leathers. ‘You’re of north Genabackis.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You are a Malazan veteran?’

‘Yeah. Cashiered.’

‘You know Cartheron?’

The woman snorted. ‘Abyss, no. How old do you think I am?’

‘I’m sorry. I just thought … since you showed up …’

She shrugged. ‘Coupla lads from my old command swung by, said he was looking to hire.’

‘So you know of him …’

The woman snorted again. ‘Abyss, yes. Who doesn’t?’

‘Then you came here on your own?’

‘Yeah. Overland from the west.’ She shook her head. ‘Only a handful of us made it. And for what? There’s no gold left. Only people rakin’ it in are those selling booze or shovels. Or stealing it from those that got it. Ended up trapped here. Can’t afford to stay. Can’t afford a ticket out.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged again. ‘How it goes. Had a family farm outside Mott. Sold it to raise the money for this trip. All gone now. Fortunes of life. Gotta take risks to achieve anything.’ She eyed him up and down. ‘Same as you, hey? You just arrived with a ship, hey?’

‘Yes. A full cargo to sell.’

‘Whatcha bring? Timber? Anvils? Chandeliers? Ice for drinks?’

‘Oh no, nothing fancy like that. Just basic staples. Barrels of flour, molasses, rice, salted pork, jugs of spirits.’

The woman looked him up and down again. ‘God-damn,’ she breathed, in something like awe.

Jute and the woman — a retired officer? — made it down to the dock without incident. Perhaps it was the eight or so burly ex-soldiers surrounding them. In any case, they followed him up on to the Dawn and he checked in with Ieleen. He found her where she always was: sitting at the stern next to the tiller. ‘Back, love,’ he announced.

‘And who’s the woman?’ she asked.

Jute blinked. ‘Ah … she works for Cartheron. Here to help guard the ship. How did you know?’

‘I can smell her. She’s pretty?’

‘Ah … well, I suppose so. Yes.’

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

‘Ah … of course.’ He waved the woman to the stern. ‘Ah, this is Ieleen, my wife and ship’s pilot. And this is … ah …’

The woman bowed. ‘Lieutenant Jalaz. Giana Jalaz, of Mott. At your service, ma’am. Here to help out defending the ship.’

Ieleen inclined her head. ‘You are most welcome. Our ship’s master of weapons has had her hands full beating away thieves trying to sneak on board.’

‘We will give her a hand, then,’ Lieutenant Jalaz said, and went on her way.

‘She seems nice,’ Ieleen said. Jute blew out a long breath. Then he jerked, remembering Cartheron’s words.

‘Oh! I have to go to the Ragstopper. They have to ready to cast off — as do we.’

Ieleen urged him away. ‘Well, then. Off with you.’

He headed to the gangway but froze as Giana barked: ‘Stop him!’

The men guarding the gangway shifted to block his way. Suddenly, a sinking realization came to him: By the gods … I’ve just handed my ship over to a pack of Malazans! What a purblind fool! I deserve whatever it is they have in store for me. An unexplained disappearance, probably.

He slowly turned to face the lieutenant. She came to stand quite close before him. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

In his peripheral vision, Jute caught his master of weapons, Letita, edging in close, her hand at the grip of her longsword.

He swallowed hard and gestured up the dock. ‘Cartheron’s ship, the Ragstopper.’

‘Why?’

‘Cartheron wants both ships ready to cast off.’

‘Oh.’ She pointed to two men. ‘You two, go with him. Cartheron wants you guarded.’

Jute felt his legs weaken. Gods! Was that good or bad? Am I under unofficial arrest? Maybe I’m not being fair to the commander. But he’s of the old guard — infamous for their treachery.

He raised a hand to wave off Letita. Either Giana missed the gesture, or, more likely, she chose not to notice it, and did not react. One of the Malazans headed down the gangway first, and Jute followed. The second trailed him.

Scruffy would-be stevedores and touts came shuffling up. They made offers for work, or offered women, d’bayang dust, rustleaf, durhang, khall leaf. The guards brushed them aside. Jute did not think himself in any danger; the poor wretches obviously hadn’t had a decent meal in some time. They did, however, seem to have access to a lot of drugs.

Reaching the side of the vessel, he shouted: ‘Ho! Ragstopper! Permission to come on board?’ He waited, but no one answered. ‘Ahoy! Ragstopper?’

He eyed the peeling and barked-up timbers of the galley’s side. A single rope hung over the rail — the only means in and out? ‘Stay here,’ he told his guards, and took hold of the rope to haul himself up. It was a trick he imagined only a fellow sailor could manage.

He pulled himself over the side. The open galley benches were mostly empty. A few ragged sailors lay sound asleep. Jute carefully picked his way between them and up on to the centre walk. A familiar figure lay slumped and snoring amid jumbled rope here: Cartheron’s putative first mate with his thin mane of frizzy white hair. The sight of the fellow asleep — probably on watch — inflamed the lifelong sailor in Jute. He picked up a coil of rope nearby and heaved it on to the man, shouting, ‘Wake up, you useless whore’s son!’

The man sprang to his feet with a yell; he peered wildly about while squeezing some small object in both hands: ‘We’ll die together!’ he howled.

Jute flinched away; the man’s wild rolling eyes latched on to him and he blinked. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He wiped his gleaming brow. ‘By all that’s holy — don’t you ever do that again.’

‘What’s that you’ve got there, then?’

The man whipped the round fruit-sized object behind his back. ‘Nothing. Nothing ’tall.’

Jute had a hard time believing the man would’ve been crazy enough to fall asleep while holding a munition. Still, the Ragstopper seemed a floating asylum.

Now the first mate was frowning suspiciously. ‘What’re you doing here, anyway?’ he growled.

‘Orders from Cartheron — he wants you ready to cast off some time this night.’

The first mate gaped, then his lower lip began to tremble. ‘But he just got here …’ He gazed about in a panic. ‘We can’t … Do you have any idea …’

‘I’m sorry. I’m just relaying-’

The man threw himself at Jute and hung on to his shirt. ‘But we have to sell our cargo!’ he blubbered. Alarmed, Jute saw that indeed the man held a munition in one hand; he gently eased it from his grip. The fellow was weeping uncontrollably now. ‘You have no idea what we’ve been through! No harbour would allow us to drop anchor! We’ve been turned away from every city, every port. We’ve been at sea for years. It’s like a curse!’ He tried to shake Jute by his shirt but was too weak. ‘You have to talk some sense into him! Please … for the love of all the gods. Have mercy on us!’

Jute took hold of the man’s hands and gently eased his grip free. ‘Yes,’ he soothed, ‘I’ll talk to him. I promise. We aren’t going far — just the next town. I promise.’

The first mate was nodding with him, his eyes swimming. ‘You promise …’

‘Yes. Absolutely. On my word.’

The fellow slumped back down into his nest of rope, hunched, head hanging. ‘Doomed …’ he was murmuring. ‘Retirement, the man said … golden years …’ He covered his face. Jute gently set the munition down nearby and slowly backed away.

Back on the dock, he blew out a long breath and shook his head. Poor fellow! Clearly addled. Strain of the passage, no doubt. He returned to the Dawn flanked by his two new guards. On board, he went to the bow to watch the darkened slope of the tent city. Torches burned here and there, as did fire pits. A few of the tents were lit from within, though most were dark. The noise of the countless tent-bars, taverns, and inns came and went with the wind — as did the stink — though already he was getting used to it. He waited; for what he had no idea. Considering Cartheron’s reputation, however, he suspected it would be dramatic. Whatever it might be.

He glanced over and flinched, surprised: next to him stood the skinny pinch-faced khall-head guide, also leaning against the side. ‘How did you-’ he began angrily, then, remembering Cartheron’s warning, cleared his throat and repeated neutrally: ‘How did you get on board?’

The man merely gave his dreamy smile, more vague than secretive. ‘Same as you,’ he said.

Jute rolled his eyes. ‘What do you want? A stake?’

The man’s smile widened as if the thought amused him. He swung his head in a tilted negative. ‘Oh, no. Just here to keep an eye on things.’

He frowned at the man; for the life of him he couldn’t see what Cartheron saw in the fellow. However, having just seen the Ragstopper, it occurred to him that he would fit right in.

Fire suddenly blossomed in a quarter of the tent city. Its billowing eruption lit the tent tops. The noise of the blast washed over the Dawn. ‘What the …’ he stammered. A second blast, this one in a different quarter, now lit the high slopes. The guide smiled again and nodded to himself. ‘What’s this?’ Jute demanded.

The man gave an easy shrug of his bony shoulders. ‘Oh, Lying Gell had a number of caches of food and equipment stashed away. Looks like they’ve been doused in alcohol and set alight.’

Jute gaped at him. ‘But that means … they’ll all be after …’

The fellow nodded again. ‘Oh, yes. My guess is the boys are runnin’ for the dock right now with the entire encampment hot on their tails.’

Jute wasted an instant trying to utter his disbelief, outrage and horror, only to throw his hands in the air and lurch from the side. ‘Man the sweeps!’ he bellowed. ‘Ready poles! Raise anchor! Cut all but one rope there!’

Lieutenant Jalaz and her cohort ran pounding down the gangway then dashed for the base of the dock. Would-be stevedores and touts went flying from the wood slats to land in the mud. A gang of hires-words had been lounging at the base of the dock amid crates and bales; now they came to their feet and peered up-slope to the fires. From the bows of the Dawn, Jute watched as the Malazans came crashing into them. In a moment, it was over. All of the toughs were down, either knocked unconscious or heaved over the side where they struggled knee-deep in the mud.

Lieutenant Jalaz now held the dock.

‘Captain?’ Jute turned; Letita stood armed and ready, helmet cheek-guards lowered. He shook his head. ‘Stay on board, master-at-arms.’ The woman’s mouth hardened but she did not object. Jute pointed out over the bows. ‘However, we do have a good view of the dock from here …’

Her lips climbed in a savage grin; she turned to the mid-deck. ‘Archers! Form up!’

The shouts and iron-clash of fighting now washed down to the Dawn. A gang of Gell’s thugs rushed Jalaz’s squad. This time blood flowed as swords were drawn.

More tents burst into flame. The yells and cries swelled to a steady roar. Jute could now make out a running mêlée making its way down the tent city. Everything in its way was trampled and destroyed as it came. Men were running both away and towards it.

A solid crowd now pressed against Jalaz’s position; Jute nodded to Letita. ‘Archers,’ the weapons master called, ‘Thin them out — try to avoid our crew.’

Her team of forty archers opened fire on the crowd.

A strange clacking noise pulled Jute’s attention to the rear. He glanced back and blanched: Benevolent gods forgive us. The Ragstopper’s springals were being brought round to bear on the shore.

He’d seen what they’d done to the fortifications at Old Ruse, and now … civilians? Yet could any soul here truly be counted as an innocent civilian? Very few, no doubt. And those should be fleeing the scene rather than closing on it.

The springals released with twin bangs and fat bolts shot overhead in trajectories lower than the Dawn’s tops’l. Twin explosions lit the darkness and sent geysers of wet earth to the night sky — along with cartwheeling doll-like figures. The mud and debris came pattering across the dock and smacked into the mud flats like wet fists.

Into the profound silence following the eruptions, Lieutenant Jalaz’s voice came bellowing out of the darkness: ‘Watch where yer shooting, y’damned apes!’

The pause was only momentary as the fighting renewed itself. The running scrum broke into the open close to the waterfront. Jute could make out individual figures within the press: the two Falarans who’d given their names as Red and Rusty — which was a joke of course, all Falarans tell outsiders their name is Red. And in the middle of the pack, a scrawny grey-haired figure pointing and shouting commands: Cartheron. The roiling knot now made for the dock. Sword blades flashed in the light of waving torches. Men and women cursed and grunted at blows given and taken.

The huge figure of Black Bull reared into view before Lieutenant Jalaz. He leaned in swinging two-handed. She met him with twinned shortswords. The weapons slid and grated across one another in blows and parries until one of Jalaz’s swords flicked up across the man’s beard and he reared back in a spray of blood. He clasped his throat, his eyes rolling white in the darkness. She raised a boot to his chest and kicked him down.

Jute couldn’t fathom the numbers of these would-be miners and fortune-hunters all piling in, all struggling to tear the Malazans apart. He’d been there when they’d been told Lying Gell’s thugs numbered some three hundred. Yet far more than that — a horde of over a thousand — now clamoured to pull them down. And more were arriving every minute.

Something, it seemed, had turned the entire tent city of Wrong-way against Cartheron and his crew. Lying Gell couldn’t command that sort of loyalty, could he? But then, maybe it had something to do with them having just blown up or burned all the food in the town.

The crew, or gang, pushed through to the dock and linked with Jalaz and her squad. The entire troop now retreated up the dock. Letita kept up her punishing volleys of arrow fire. Then the springals released once more and Jute couldn’t help but duck.

The end of the dock disappeared in twin concussions that shot bodies and timber high into the air to come raining down as debris that knocked more people from the dock. When the smoke cleared, Jute glimpsed the Malazans backing away, headed for the Ragstopper. In their midst, lumbering like two laden oxen, struggled two of the Barghast veterans. They carried between them a huge iron trunk.

Jute almost laid his head on the ship’s railing. Oh, no … Cartheron … y’damned pirate. Don’t tell me you …

Lieutenant Jalaz came bounding up the gangway. ‘Push off!’ she yelled.

Jute blinked and shook his head; at her cry it was as if his daze from the explosion snapped away. ‘Cut that rope!’ he bellowed. ‘Push off! Lower sweeps!’

Arrows and crossbow bolts thudded into the Dawn’s side and Jute ducked. It looked as if the entire population of Wrongway now lined the shore. Many were striding out into the deep mud, waving swords and torches. The roar of the mingled yells and curses drowned out everything.

The Dawn pulled away; the gangplank tumbled into the water.

Something flaming arced from the shore to burst on the deck spreading fire. Everyone not manning the sweeps dashed to help smother the flames. More flaming pots came flying their way. All but one fell short and that one smacked the sternplate. The crew dashed water over the flames as the dock receded into the darkness behind.

‘Well,’ Ieleen said into the relative silence. ‘What got them all in a tizzy?’

Jute held his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’

Lieutenant Jalaz joined them, a helmet under an arm. ‘They’ll give chase,’ she said, and she brushed her sweaty matted hair from her face, breathing heavily.

Jute turned on her, furious. ‘Oh, you think so, do you? Think they’ll give chase — seeing as you just stole all their damned gold!’

But the lieutenant merely shook the blood from a deep cut across her hand. ‘Well, what in the name of the forest gods did you think we’d do?’

Jute kept his hands on his head, if only to stop himself from grabbing hold of the woman. God’s blood! Fifty ships pushing out to chase them! Nowhere to run! But … there was one place. He raised his head. ‘We’ve been had, dearest,’ he said.

‘How so, luv?’ Ieleen answered.

‘Cartheron … This is what he intended from the start — or was hired for!’ He thrust a finger at Jalaz. ‘Were you sent ahead?’

The woman’s face wrinkled up in a scowl. ‘What in the name of the Sky King are you talking about?’ And she cursed, studying the blood dripping to the decking from her hand. Letita had joined them and now she lifted the hand then pulled a strip of cloth from her belt and began tying up the wound.

‘Calm yourself, luv,’ Ieleen said. ‘Lieutenant — why don’t you tell us what Cartheron told you?’

Lurjen, at the tiller, cleared his throat. ‘Shall I follow the Rag-stopper, cap’n?’

‘Aye!’ Jute snapped. ‘We can’t let him out of our sight now, can we?’

The lieutenant shrugged. ‘He just asked whether we wanted a share o’ all that gold those lying bastards had been cheating from everyone. And we were all in, of course.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No, why?’

Jute gestured to the dark waters of the bay. ‘Because anchored out there is a sorceress and a pocket army of mercenaries who could sweep this entire northern region if they wanted to, that’s why. And if they’re not interested in this sorry-ass tent city — then the question is … why are they here?’

Jalaz glanced ahead to the starlit bay. The dark silhouette of one ship was just visible. It appeared that the Ragstopper was making for them. ‘I see only one vessel.’

‘Trust me. Those are the Blue Shields out there.’

‘Bullshit.’

Jute blinked at the woman, surprised by the strength of her reaction. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Listen, Malazan, I may be from the north, but even I have heard of the Blue Shields and the Grey Swords. The Blue are not really mercenaries — they fight only for Togg. You can’t hire them. They’re a religious order. Fanatics.’

Jute gestured ahead again, invitingly. ‘Well, they’re here. Along with their Mortal Sword of Togg, Tyvar Gendarian.’

Giana glanced away once more, scanned the waters. She drew a hand down her face, rubbing away the sweat. ‘Great gods,’ she murmured. ‘He’s actually left Elingarth?’

‘Ragstopper veering east,’ Dulat, the lookout, shouted down. ‘Resolute and Supplicant drawing anchor, raising sail.’

‘What’s east of here?’ Jute asked the retired officer, though he suspected he knew.

She looked back, blew out a long hard breath. ‘Some sort of fortress at Mantle. Ruled by a fellow who calls himself King Ronal the Bastard.’