Stonewielder

CHAPTER IX

Bakune sat in the High Chair of the Banith Courts Civil and listened to the advocate for the aggrieved finish his argument. It was all he could do to force himself to pay attention. Outside, an occupying army patrolled the streets and blockaded the harbour, while here within these walls advocates and agents connived and conspired with as much unashamed greed as before.

Something within the Assessor wanted to scream. Under his robes he pinched his fingers into his palms to force himself to follow the advocate’s unlikely, and contrived, line of reasoning. After the summing up Bakune quickly hammered his desk. ‘Advocate, I see no clear and compelling evidence here to support your claims of collaboration and war profiteering.’

The advocate rose anew, swept his robes back from his arms. ‘Assessor… it is clear from this merchant’s sale of goods to the enemy…’

‘Sir, if I were to prosecute every merchant who has dealt with these Moranth then the Carceral Quarters would be full to bursting. That alone is no evidence of collusion or traitorous behaviour as your client contends. Meanwhile the accused, your client’s main rival in the timber concession, I understand, suffers under this cloud of doubt, his reputation stained, his business eviscerated. I suggest you work towards assembling compelling and material evidence to support your charges. Until then — case dismissed.’ Bakune hammered the desk again, and the foremost of the crowd jamming the court rose, half of them relieved, the other half muttering their dissatisfaction.

The Assessor turned to the next packet of documents, but somehow he could not muster the energy to face them. He hammered the desk a third time. ‘Court closed for the morning.’

An eruption of protest, shouting, papers waved in fists, the court bailiffs struggling to hold back the mob. Bakune swept out of the court; he simply no longer gave a damn. Where were these urgent calls to action, the public outrage, when youths were disappearing from the streets? He frankly had no sympathy for this sudden new passion for litigation. Our country is invaded by a foreign power, alien troops walk our streets, and our reaction? We attempt to sue them and each other. Bakune was ashamed that his countrymen would see in all this nothing more than an opportunity to make a quick profit.

He gathered up a few files then headed out to return to his offices. His guards took up positions around him — a precaution pressed upon him by Hyuke, now Captain Hyuke of the City Watch. The surviving members of the Lady’s priesthood had damned him for meeting with the enemy — as if they could just ignore them and hope they’d go away.

It was so frustrating he was tempted to walk away. Damn them all for their sudden newfound concern for ‘justice’ and the self-righteous aggrieved umbrage only the selfish can muster. At least no new murder following the characteristics of all those that had come before had yet surfaced. Certainly there had been killings: drunken stabbings, crimes of passion, spousal murders — oddly enough from those most vocally concerned with ‘traditional Roolian values’, it seemed. But no bodies of youths turning up in the tide. For that Bakune was grateful, and chose to take some small measure of credit. He’d even had a word with Boneyman, and Soon, the young servant girl, now worked as an apprentice cook in the kitchens.

He found Hyuke awaiting him outside his office, looking no different from before with his ridiculous fat moustache and lazy manner. Only his uniform had changed; Bakune did not think much of the epaulettes. He opened the door and waved him in. ‘What is it?’

The new Watch captain slumped in a chair, his eyes sleepy. ‘Them Blues want a warehouse and grounds to set up quarters on the waterfront. No one’s volunteering.’

‘Surely that’s a matter for the Lord Mayor’s office.’

A tired nod. ‘True enough. Except the Lord Mayor’s scarpered.’

‘What?’

‘Last night. Run off. City treasury’s empty too.’

‘You’re implying a connection?’

The man rolled his eyes. ‘What’re we gonna do?’

‘What do you mean “we”? The Vice-Mayor must step in.’

A shake of the head.

‘The Lieutenant-Mayor?’

A disappointed pursing of the lips.

‘The city treasurer?’

‘Arrested. A person of interest.’

‘Ah. That leaves…?’

‘You.’

‘Me? Lady forfend, no.’

‘Sorry, but we’ve ’bout run out of all other contenders. The Abbot’s dead, the Lord Mayor’s gone. That leaves you. Congratulations — this mess is yours.’

Bastard Mayor Gorlings. Never did like the pompous ass. Now he’s run off and left me to clean up. And I don’t want any of it. Bakune eyed his Watch captain. At least the fellow seemed willing to do whatever he told him. He supposed it was time one of the deputy assessors sat the bench. ‘Confiscate the necessary property. Tell them they’ll be paid in script.’

Hyuke’s long face lit up in a grin and he stroked his moustache. ‘That I like to hear.’ He stood. ‘They’ll hate you.’

‘They’ll hate me anyway.’

‘That they will.’ The man gave a brief bow. ‘Lord Mayor.’

Late that night as he was walking home, he was struck once more by how quiet the city was. The seemingly endless tide of pilgrims had ebbed. Countless citizens had fled the coast for the dubious safety of the inland towns. The capital, Paliss, was apparently choked with refugees. And the Overlord? Strange rumours circulated concerning him and his seeming non-response to this invasion.

Bakune’s housekeeper opened the door for him, curtsying — this too was new. Everyone treated him with either far more respect or far more hostility, depending upon where their particular interests happened to lie. His guards took up positions before his door. His cook was in the kitchen preparing an evening meal — another new addition. He hung his cloak then poured a drink. Entering his parlour he found the priest, Ipshank, sitting in his most comfortable chair.

Bakune nodded and sat, reminding himself to have a word with the housekeeper, who, apparently, was a convert to this priest’s strange new religion.

‘Nice place,’ the priest said.

‘A previous visitor called it wretchedly small.’

‘How our perceptions can change.’

‘Ipshank… perhaps you shouldn’t…’

‘No one knows I’m here.’

Bakune rubbed his pained brow. ‘It’s just that I’m already being labelled a traitor…’

The priest sat forward. The beast tattoos on his face darkened in the dim light. ‘I’m here to let you know things are going to get much worse.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘You’ve heard the rumours regarding our Overlord, Yeull? The Roolian Army?’

‘Which? I’ve heard twenty contrary stories.’

The man sat back. ‘Well, there’s to be no counter-offensive. No effort to free Banith.’

Bakune nodded. Already he’d come to that reluctant conclusion. It had been more than ten days and still no Roolian forces had arrived. What’s more, he’d heard some very alarming rumours regarding the disposition of that army. He sipped his liqueur. ‘I’d heard a rumour that Paliss was being abandoned.’

The priest nodded. ‘The official word is that the Overlord will hold the north then retake the south.’

‘What do you think?’

The man didn’t answer for a time. He looked down as if studying his wide spade-like hands. ‘I was going to leave, you know. Days ago.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I said it was time I confronted the Lady… and I was on my way.’

‘And something stopped you.’

‘Yes. One of those rumours. One that made too much sense.’

Bakune lifted his glass then stopped himself and set it down. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear anything that could possibly trouble this man. ‘Must I hear this?’

‘Yes. Bakune, I believe that the Malazans… Greymane… is coming here.’

Bakune waved away the possibility. ‘That’s absurd. He’ll march on Paliss, of course.’

The priest was shaking his head. Light from the fire gleamed from his bald pate. ‘No. This is his fleet. It’s awaiting him.’

‘Awaiting him? To take him where? They’ve only just got here! No, once he is close the Moranth troops will disembark and join him to march on Paliss. And if he is victorious, we will have a new overlord.’ Bakune shrugged his helplessness. ‘Simple as that.’

The priest stood. ‘No. It’s not so simple. Chaotic times are coming, Bakune. It may be that there will be no overlord. Then there will be a need for people who can see ahead. Think on that. That is all I suggest.’ He peered down at Bakune. ‘I do not know if we will see each other again. But if not — best of luck, and my blessing.’ He set a hand on Bakune’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see myself out the back.’

Long after the man had gone Bakune sat on into the night. The fire died away to embers. He reached out and swallowed the rest of his liqueur. He’d never been much of a religious man though he’d attended services all his life — as a matter of course as a civic official. Strangely enough, only now did he have the feeling of having been in the presence of a true priest, one less concerned with the welfare of the gods than with the real welfare of the people. It was a strange, discomforting sensation that made him feel that somehow he too ought to be concerned. All his adult life he’d lived under the Malazan yoke. He couldn’t imagine how things would be otherwise.

Yet it was worth thinking about, as the man said. For what if in the course of this coming confrontation no clear victor arose? Or what if Yeull died and the Malazan forces were crippled? What then? Regional warlords would arise. Disintegration of the state. Chaos. Who would guard the interests of Banith?

Well, he supposed that would be him.

Kiska was surprised to find this nether-Chaos Realm flush with life. Lizard-like things scuttled from their path to disappear amid the broken rock and shifting sands of the region. Tough thorny bushes choked depressions. Even things you might call blind albino fish swam in shallow rock pools. She’d wondered what the white hound had been surviving on. Now she believed she had her answer. She also thought the prospect of fish would excite the priest, Warran, but the man showed no interest. ‘Too small,’ he’d complained. This did not stop him from eating his share, though, after Jheval filleted a few. Their tiny bat-guide led them on, apparently tireless, and though their ultimate goal was obvious it led them true, avoiding defiles, gorges and a swampy lowland Kiska was glad to skirt.

Ever present in the sky loomed their destination, the immense bruise, or blotch, of the Whorl. At night it took the appearance of a circle of pitch black surrounded by a gyre of brilliance as curtains of light rippled and swirled. ‘The energy of destruction,’ the priest called the light.

The only strange or disturbing event that occurred for some time concerned Warran. During the relative gloom of one night Kiska got up to relieve her bladder and in doing so she passed behind the priest where he sat cross-legged facing the Whorl.

For an instant it seemed to Kiska that she could see the brilliance of the stars and the rippling banners of energy through the body of the priest. As if he were translucent, or wasn’t really there at all. She blinked, pausing, and stared again, but the impression was gone and the man was glaring over his shoulder.

‘I’m trying to meditate — if you don’t mind!’

And she’d retreated, apologizing. But the vision would not leave her and she found herself watching him much more closely than she had before.

Then, after an unknowable passage of time, a sandstorm blew in upon them. It came from ahead, the direction of the Whorl, a great wall of obscuring sand or dust boiling over the land towards them. First, the ravens, which had been hopping amid the rocks — searching for insects, Kiska wondered — let out great warning caws and swept up into the air. Jheval pointed to a clump of boulders and they ran to hunch in its lee. Kiska yelped as something latched itself on to her, but it was their guide, returned to wriggle under her cloak.

Warran straightened then, his brows rising in amazement. ‘This is no storm.’

‘Of course it is,’ Jheval snapped from behind his scarf. ‘Now get down!’

The priest raised a warning hand to Jheval. ‘No. This is something much worse. Do not move.’ And he stepped out into the open.

‘Fool! Come back!’ Jheval moved to follow but Kiska stopped him.

‘Wait. Perhaps he knows what he’s doing.’ She had time for one glance around for the hound — had it found cover? — before the cloud engulfed them. The diffuse light of the day darkened beyond the murkiness of night. The noise was almost too loud to hear: it hammered her ears with its reverberation. Something bit her hand — a sharp nip — and she looked down to see some sort of fly feeding upon her. She squashed it. Jheval pressed his head to hers, shouting: ‘Bloodflies! Flesh-eating flies! They’ll flense the meat from our bones! Do something!’

But Kiska flinched away. She cuffed at her head where they crawled in her hair. She thumped her armour where they’d wormed their way beneath. The bites were an agony; they dotted her hands like a pox. When a nip lanced far within her ear she screamed, her howl inaudible even to her, and fell curling into a fetal ball.

She didn’t think she’d passed out but slowly she became aware that the ocean of pain was diminishing, fading to a lingering searing agony that no longer threatened to push her into unconsciousness. She rose and wiped her face, feeling a warm smear — her forearm was sheathed in fresh wet blood. Peering around through narrowed eyes she saw that the cloud of flies had receded. It circled them now at a distance: a churning wall of a million ravenous mouths.

The priest was there and he passed her a cloth. She took it to dab at her face and arms, wincing as the weave rubbed the raw wounds. Jheval rose, hissing and groaning. If she looked anything like him right now she was a mess: his face ran with blood, as did his hands and forearms.

She saw that not one wound scarred Warran. ‘You’re not bitten!’ Damn the man! How was it he escaped? ‘What’s going on?’

‘We had something of a negotiation, he and I.’

‘He?’

Warran held up his opened hands. ‘Well… it.’

‘What is… it?’

‘It is D’ivers. It appears to have haunted these shores of Chaos for some time. It has grown quite powerful, as you see.’

‘Negotiation, you said?’ asked Jheval, his voice clenched with pain.

‘It flees the Whorl,’ Warran explained. Raising his voice, he called: ‘Is that not so?’

As the horde circled, hissing and thrumming, the massed whisperings of the millions of wings changed timbre. The tone rose and fell and incredibly Kiska found she could understand:

The Hole hungers more than I…

‘What name should I call you?’ Warran asked.

We do not remember such things. We are many. No one name can encompass us.

‘Been here too long…’ Jheval muttered.

Kiska stepped forward. ‘We are travelling to solve the mysteries of this Whorl.’

So this Cloaked One with you claims. Beware, then. Many are gathered on its verge, intent upon capturing its power. Dangerous beings. Ones even I choose not to consume.

‘Our thanks.’

It is nothing. This Whorl troubles me. Remember, all you meet need not be hostile. But beware the Army of Light.

The cloud peeled away, churning and spinning, rising like smoke. It drifted off the way it had been flying — away from the blot of the Whorl. The three watched it go. Kiska jumped then as the twig- and cloth-guide stirred to life under her cloak and leapt high into the eerie non-sky.

Jheval was dabbing at his face. ‘That thing is fleeing exactly what we are headed for.’

‘It can’t eat a hole,’ said Warran.

Kiska eyed the priest. ‘What is this Army of Light?’

Warran cocked his head, indifferent. ‘I assure you I have no idea.’

Jheval muttered something sour. They continued walking. The Seven Cities warrior paced along next to Kiska. ‘I don’t know why you try,’ he said.

‘Try what?’

He jerked his head at the priest. ‘Him. Asking him questions. He’s done nothing but lie to us. He’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Did you hear what that thing called him? “Cloaked”? He’s a scorpion disguising himself with us.’

‘You have not been so forthcoming yourself,’ the priest called loudly from where he walked some distance off, and Jheval growled his anger. ‘Who is not hiding things, hey, Jheval? Why is it, I wonder, that it is always those with the most to hide who accuse others? Why do you think that is… Jheval?’

Kiska cocked a brow to the Seven Cities native, who glowered, jaws clenched, saying nothing. There was no more talk that day and as the dimness of night gathered they found another of the small pools where pale transparent fish lazed. She and Jheval took turns washing and treating their wounds. Returning from the pool, Jheval was clean of his blood, but the angry red dots of the countless bites on his face and hands made him look like the victim of a particularly virulent pox. She supposed she looked no better.

Lying down on her spread cloak, her rolled gear under her head, she thought of the words of the D’ivers creature. Powerful beings had gathered to the Whorl. Beings even it chose not to attack.

And it had chosen not to attack them. Or rather, perhaps she should say that it had chosen not to attack Warran. There it was again. Cloaked. She agreed with Jheval, of course. Yet maddeningly there was nothing she, or he, could do about it.

The next day they continued on after breaking fast on the raw flesh of the fish. Oddly enough, it was Jheval and she who did all the catching — Warran wouldn’t go near them. Their usual walking order was she and Jheval leading, Warran bringing up the rear. This was how they were when, from beneath disguising layers of sand, armoured figures leapt up to bar their way.

There were more than twenty of them: some sort of patrol or guard, similarly clad in pale enamelled armour of cuirasses with scaled sleeves and leggings and white enamelled helmets. They carried pale shields, cracked and yellowed now, and the blades of their bared curved swords gleamed yellow.

Warran came up to stop beside Kiska. ‘The Army of Light,’ he announced.

Thank you very much.

One called something in a language Kiska did not know. The man tried several more until finally speaking in Talian. ‘Drop your weapons.’

‘Who are you to threaten us?’ Kiska shouted back.

‘Your companion also,’ the man answered.

‘We can take them,’ Jheval murmured, hardly moving his lips.

‘You do not really think this is all of them, do you?’ Warran said. ‘Best comply. Let’s not make a scene.’

‘Easy for you,’ Kiska answered under her breath. Louder, she called, ‘Very well. But this is hardly the way for civilized folk to behave.’ She knelt to set down her staff. Snarling his disgust, Jheval threw down his morningstars.

The party surrounded them, marched them on. The ground became more and more uneven. Their path wended round rocky outcroppings, boulders the size of buildings. At one point their escort stopped and spoke among themselves, their tone surprised. Then the white hound appeared, pushing its way through them to come to Kiska’s side. It paced there for a time with her; dried blood flecked its white and streaked-yellow hair.

‘Not far off enough, were you, hey?’ she told him — though she still dared not reach out to actually pet him.

They climbed a tall slope of loose bare broken stones, winding back and forth across its face until they reached the crest and saw an army spread out before them in a valley of black rock. Kiska was stunned; it was one of the largest gatherings of forces she’d ever seen. Tents dotted away into the distance. Smoke rose from countless fires. Their escort urged them on down the valley slope. As they descended the hound loped off — it seemed he had no interest in entering the encampment. Kiska watched it disappear among the rocks, feeling suddenly alone and vulnerable; for some reason she felt she could count on that beast more than she could trust the two men she travelled with. And what of this force? The Army of Light? Was this one of those gathered to claim the Whorl? One of those the D’ivers would not attack — a hesitation she could well understand. Yet what could they hope to achieve? You couldn’t attack this manifestation. There was nothing there!

They were led down and into the camp. Kiska saw that the force was composed entirely, as far as she could see, of heavily armoured infantry. All were alike with their pale narrow features, white or streaked fair hair. And just who were they anyway? Kiska was urged into a tent, separated from Jheval and the priest. She was alarmed by this but there was nothing she could do.

Within she found a pallet and a small table containing a jug of water, a washbasin, and a platter of food: dried meat of some sort, thin unleavened bread, fruit and cheese. All very plain and austere. Like a goddamned monastery.

A guard entered, helmet under an arm revealing long loose dirty-blonde hair: female. ‘Take off your armour and all your equipment.’

‘Is this how you treat all your visitors?’

‘We are within the shores of Chaos, not the concourses of the Glimmering Commons. Your equipment?’

Sighing, Kiska complied. Each piece of armour, each weapon, the guard took and tossed outside the tent, leaving Kiska in boots, trousers, shirt, vest, and cloak.

‘Boots,’ the woman said.

Kiska set her hands on her hips. ‘Really?’

The woman merely gestured to the opening. ‘Shall I call in my companions and strip you entirely?’

Kiska almost invited her to do so. Almost. She kicked off the boots. Searching them, the guard found the two throwing blades slipped down the lining of each.

‘Cloak.’

Kiska stared, then she laughed. Hood-damned humourless methodical military order. Must be.

She was reduced to the stained silk chemise and shorts she wore for comfort beneath everything. Only then did the woman relent and allow her to dress. When she finished the woman’s only comment was a curt, ‘Follow me.’

Two more guards fell in behind as the woman led her through the camp. It was very well ordered, almost ruthlessly so. Off-duty soldiers sat before their tents repairing equipment or eating. All were quiet; their demeanour surprised Kiska, who was used to the noise and complaints and banter of Malazan troops. She also reflected that she hadn’t seen their tiny guide for some time. Good. The little thing was showing better judgement than they.

She was escorted to a tent and the flap was tossed open to reveal Jheval and the priest. Her guide urged her in. ‘Wait here.’

‘Hurry up and wait,’ Kiska muttered as she entered. She nodded to the other two.

‘You’re all right?’ Jheval asked.

‘Yes. Who are these people?’

‘The Army of Light,’ Warran repeated blandly. ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’

‘And what does that mean?’

‘Tiste Liosan.’

Jheval cursed under his breath. The label meant something to him, that was clear, but it meant nothing to her. She knew of the Tiste Andii, of course, the Children of Night. She’d even heard of the Tiste Edur, the Children of Shadow. Now the Tiste Liosan? The Children of… Light? ‘What do they want?’

The priest shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘I should think they are here to investigate the Whorl.’

‘In such force?’

Again the maddening shrug. She was about to ask another question when the flap slid open and in walked several of their captors. Four had blades bared while the lead one, the fifth, stood with hands clasped behind his, or her, back. Other than the manner of assured command, there was no way to tell this one apart from the others.

‘What are you doing here?’ the commander asked, the voice revealing her as a woman.

‘We are here to investigate this manifestation, the Whorl.’

‘Whorl? We name him the Devourer.’

‘Him?’ Kiska echoed. ‘Him — someone? But how can it be sentient?’

The commander pulled off her visored helmet and shook out sweaty matted blonde hair. Her features were blunt and heavy, her jaw square, her brow-ridges thick. The eyes captured Kiska’s attention: gold flecked the irises, which shone almost mauve. ‘It is summoned and sustained by a powerful magus,’ she said. ‘And it has broached the borders of Kurald Liosan — among many others.’

Kiska hoped her face betrayed no reaction. A powerful mage. Tayschrenn. Yet… malevolent? Perhaps he has been driven mad… She missed what the woman said next and realized that they were introducing themselves. ‘Kiska,’ she blurted out.

The woman nodded. ‘My name and titles happen to be rather long. I go by Jayashul. Commander Jayashul. I hear you were accompanied by a Hound of Light and that speaks well of you. Please be our guests. Abide by the rules of our camp and you are welcome. Obviously you represent organizations or political entities which are likewise troubled by the Devourer. Rightly so.’ She nodded to Warran. ‘I see from your presence that Shadow, too, is concerned. No doubt your patron resents the loss of any of what little Realm he has left.’

‘Shadow is everywhere,’ Warran replied, rather smugly.

The woman’s gaze narrowed at that, but she offered a shallow bow. ‘Until later.’ They each answered the bow. The commander swept from the tent followed by her guards, leaving behind one man to watch them.

‘Would her highness allow us to walk through the camp, do you think?’ Warran asked the guard.

The guard’s gauntleted fist went to his sword. ‘You will show respect. She chose not to honour you with her titles but you should know she is Jayashul ’Od Lossica. She Who Brings the Dawn. Daughter of our Lord Liossercal.’

Kiska stared at the tent flap. Burn’s own blood. The daughter of Osserc, Lord of the Sky. Never did she think she would ever be in such company. Jheval, she noted, had gone almost green at the news; the name meant a great deal to him. Exactly what, she wondered if she would ever discover. For his part, Warran clasped his chin in one hand and mused aloud: ‘The fellow does seem to have a lot of daughters.’

On the eighth day of their unopposed advance across Rool, Suth reflected that life was good. No one was trying to eviscerate him; no one was taking potshots at his head; he was even eating better than when growing up on the Dal Hon plains — meat every day! Unheard-of luxury. His only complaint was that no one was greasing the wheels of all the wagons and carts the army commandeered as it advanced across the countryside.

This day it was their turn to rest in those vehicles. Suth sat with most of his squad in the back of a wagon, huddled amid cloaks and blankets. Keri was back with them, but so was Pyke: the man had simply appeared at their camp one morning looking far too well fed for Suth’s liking. Yana was of the opinion that he’d deserted to the Roolians during the stand-off and had been stuffing himself while the rest of them starved — and that now that the Roolians had been scattered to the winds he’d come slinking back. Suth was inclined to agree. It galled him no end that good-natured comrades whom he’d trusted with his life such as Dim and others would die in the fighting, while the shirkers like Pyke coasted on without harm. It was enough to tempt him to murder. He calmed himself with the thought that it wasn’t all over yet.

While they lazed, the winter sun warming them, Suth stretched his leg, massaging the wound, then looked over to Sergeant Goss, head back, apparently asleep. ‘Sergeant… what’s this about you and the Claw?’

Yana gave him a glare. Keri and Len perked up, eyeing the man, who hadn’t moved yet. Suth waited. The wheels squealed, columns tramped on either side. At least there was no dust as a cold sleet fell almost daily. Eventually Goss cracked open one eye to weigh him with a hard stare. Then the sergeant took a long breath, exhaled as if letting something go. ‘This is just for inside the squad, understand. Yeah, I was in the Claw.’

Yana’s brows climbed almost comically. Lard let out a whistle. ‘I knew it!’

‘Don’t mean a damned thing,’ Goss growled at Lard. ‘I quit.’

‘Why?’ Suth asked, deciding that he might as well push while he could.

A dark glower answered that and the man leaned his head back again. ‘Politics. Had a bellyful. Quit for some honest fighting.’

Suth thought there was more to it than that, but knew that was all he was going to get. ‘And Faro?’ he asked. ‘What about him?’

Goss’ gaze slid to him and lay there for some time, flat and hard. ‘We don’t talk about him.’

Well… some progress, at any rate.

Everyone was silent for a time, rocking as the wagon trundled over the rough road. Suth was grateful to Goss for opening up. He felt privileged. Part of a special brotherhood. Looking back, he could hardly remember the brash youth who’d joined up so many months ago. Then his goal had been to challenge everyone he met; to test himself against all comers. Now the last thing he wanted was to draw his sword in anger. He’d be happy if he saw no more action till the end of the campaign. And frankly, the way things were shaping up, it looked as though that may be the case. The Roolian forces were scattered over the countryside. Rumours of counter-offensives swept through the column occasionally, but nothing ever came of them. It seemed the Roolians were on the run, retreating north.

‘Where are we headed, anyway?’ Lard asked after a time, dreamily, as if half asleep.

‘The capital, of course!’ said Pyke, sneering.

Len appeared about to say something but he pursed his lips, deciding against it. Idly, Suth wondered why the man would keep his opinion to himself.

‘Right. The capital, Paliss,’ Goss said, his eyes closed.

‘Of course,’ Pyke said again, glancing round. ‘Where else?’

No one spoke and Pyke just snorted, waving his dismissal of Lard. Uncertain of the silences surrounding him, Suth cast a look to Yana, who gave the slightest head shake. Suth took the sign and eased back, closing his eyes.

Towards noon a mounted junior officer came up alongside the wagon; he looked them up and down, making no effort to hide his distaste. ‘You 2nd Division, 4th Company, the 17th?’

Goss straightened, saluting. ‘Yes, sir!’

‘New orders. You’ve been transferred to a cohort attached to Fist Rillish. Report to his banner.’

Goss saluted again. ‘Yes, sir.’

The officer answered the salute. ‘That’s all.’ He kneed his mount on.

Lard groaned, ‘Just when I was enjoying myself.’

‘Rillish!’ Pyke spat. ‘A useless eunuch. What’re we doing with him?’

‘What you got against him?’ Yana demanded, taking the opposite corner as she always did.

‘Everyone knows Greymane has no time for the man. Why do we need him when we have the High Fist?’

‘Muzzle it,’ Goss said, his tone conveying his utter boredom with their bickering.

Stretching and grumbling, they collected their gear and went in search of the Fist’s banner. They found it standing south of the trader road that the united Fourth and Eighth Armies travelled westward. Assembled around it were four other squads from the Fourth: the 20th, the 11th, the 6th, and the 9th. Suth spotted the Barghast girl, Tolat, among the crowd. She blew him a kiss and he, turning away, ran into Keri.

‘So who’s the big gal?’ she asked, a brow arched.

‘We were scouting together.’

‘Is that what you call it now?’

He had no idea what to say but Goss saved him by bellowing, ‘Stake out some ground and set up camp!’ Then he and the other sergeants reported to the Fist.

While they ordered their bivouac Suth hunched down next to Len. ‘What’s with you ’n’ Pyke?’

The man said, low, ‘I’m pretty damn sure he crossed the river.’

‘So?’

The old saboteur grimaced his disappointment. ‘So… was he caught? Did he cut a deal?’

‘What d’you mean, a deal?’

Len glanced about to make doubly sure they weren’t being overheard. He needn’t have worried: as usual when there was work to be done Pyke was nowhere around. ‘Handing over intelligence.’

Suth found that incredibly hard to credit. ‘C’mon. On us? Who’s got foot-rot or the clap? Who cares?’

Len nodded thoughtfully while hammering pegs. ‘General health — good point. But no, what I mean is deployments, strategic goals, all the rumours that run through the ranks.’

‘All that talk is nothing but horseshit.’

‘Not at all. Some is pretty damned shrewd.’

‘But who would he talk to? There’s no one around.’

Len frowned. ‘Well, where’s the bastard off to right now?’

Startled, Suth looked round. It was true: Pyke was nowhere in sight. Just what was the prick doing all the time? ‘I’ll fucking kill the bastard.’

‘No you won’t. We’ll just watch and wait. It’s Goss’ call.’

Suth knelt back down. ‘Hood-spawned bastard. I can’t believe we have to put up with him.’

‘It’s like family,’ Len told him, smiling lopsidedly. ‘You can’t pick your squadmates. Goss has his eye on him.’

The next morning, while the very tail of the expeditionary force rumbled past, they assembled for orders. Pyke was once again in line and Suth glared; when had he come sneaking back? Then he remembered Len’s warning and forced himself to look away.

The Fist was talking to the sergeants and Suth was pleased to see the Adjunct, Kyle, with the man. He looked as good as new, if a little more battered. Aha! This could be interesting. Then he thought of the last special mission and decided that maybe that wasn’t what he wanted after all.

Orders were given and, accompanied by a few wagons, they headed off south, down nothing more than a rutted mud cart track across open country while the rest of the army carried on west.

No, Suth decided. This was not what he really wanted at all.

They marched the full day south, following a farmers’ trail. Mixed snow and rain soaked Suth all the way through his layered aketon down to his linen. Only the marching kept him warm. From what he’d heard it was maybe another day’s march to the Mare border. He wondered if they were off to check that frontier. Yet with only fifty or so soldiers?

They pushed on into dusk. The Fist’s escort led, the Adjunct accompanying him. Twilight swiftly deepened beneath the cloud cover. Scouts appeared from the shadows, Tolat among them. They conferred with the Fist’s party. Orders came back for heightened readiness. Goss signed for shields to be unslung.

A further march through dusk into night proper brought their party to the smooth grassy crest of a dry valley and there, across the way along the far crest, torches flickered. In the valley a single tent glowed, lit from within. Dark pennants hung limp before it. There was too little light to tell, but those pennants might be the brown of Rool.

Wess spat a mouthful of brown spittle and set his heavy shield on the ground to lean over it. ‘Parley,’ he said, nodding his certainty.

Parley? Suth thought, studying the far torches. Whatever for? They had the Roolian forces on the run. Why would they waste time talking to them? Unless, unlikely as it seemed, this was surrender? No. It couldn’t be this easy. Could it? Suth was surprised to find part of him hoping such was the case, while another part was offended by the idea. He wondered which half would be rewarded come tomorrow.

Goss’ voice cut through the night. ‘Stand down! Bivouac here!’

Suth shared an unenthusiastic look with Wess. Setting up after dark. Gods, how he hated it.

*

Rillish sipped hot tea while he eyed the waiting tent in the golden light of dawn. Figures moved about it; only about five of them that he could see. The rest of the party remained on the distant crest. Some commander of the Roolian forces has asked for a meeting, Greymane had said. See what they want and if it’s of any interest to us.

And I agreed — then Greymane sent the Adjunct as well and again I said nothing though there was no need for both. One or the other. Kyle could negotiate for the High Fist; indeed, that was almost what the role of Adjunct was designed for. Why both of us is now painfully obvious even to the men: Greymane has no confidence in his Fist.

Kyle joined him, head bare, wearing just his padded and stained gambeson and soft leather trousers. Rillish knew that almost any other Fist in his place would resent and hate this young usurper of his or her authority, but older now, and a father, certain this was his last command, he could not muster the energy for seething bitterness. Quite the opposite: he always found himself wanting to offer the young man advice.

Which, surprisingly enough, this young Adjunct seemed to listen to, or at least he could hide his own resentment and contempt.

An aide offered Kyle tea, which he accepted. ‘How many should we take?’ he asked.

‘About five, perhaps.’

The Adjunct raised his glass to the far crest. ‘And how many hiding beyond that high land?’

‘Good question. Do we really have to talk to them, hey?’

The Adjunct picked up a hardtack biscuit, dipped it in the tea. ‘I think so.’

‘I agree. And the High Fist did not say who he’d be sending.’

Kyle grunted his understanding: hard to set a trap when you don’t know who’s coming. ‘Who do we take?’

‘A couple of sergeants, I suppose.’

‘If you don’t mind… there’re some hands with us I’ve been out with before.’

Rillish nodded his agreement. ‘And that sergeant — Goss. I’ll find them.’

Kyle set down his glass. ‘Don’t bother yourself, Fist. I’ll hunt them up.’

‘I-’ Rillish bit down the rest of his objection. The Adjunct turned back to him, frowning behind his long moustache.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing.’

Inclining his head in an informal salute, the young man left.

There it was again. Interference or consideration? What would the men and women of the cohort see now? The Adjunct active, giving orders, in command, while I stand aside apparently useless? Was this how the Adjunct wished it? Or had the youth interpreted such message duties as beneath the Fist? Did he not mind them seeing him acting as an aide? Or was he one not to give any thought to that at all?

He didn’t know enough of the man to be sure either way. So far, however, it appeared that the foreign plains youth really didn’t give a damn about any of these issues of rank or prerogatives of command. If true, it would be a relief to Rillish not to have to worry about such trivial things.

*

In the morning the Adjunct came by and spoke to Goss. The squad watched sidelong from their places hunched round the fire, warming their hands and stamping their feet. Len ladled out a broth from their cookpot. Blowing into his fists, Goss approached, gestured to Suth. ‘Kit up. You ’n’ me are goin’ for a walk.’ Suth nodded. ‘The rest of you… gear up and keep watch. We don’t know how many of the bastards there are.’ He gave Len a hard stare. ‘Corporal. You’re in charge till I get back.’

Len saluted. Yana, Suth saw, was eyeing Pyke, who seemed to be ignoring everyone.

Goss glanced at Suth. ‘What’re you doing still here?’

Suth downed his broth and went to get ready.

Six of them came walking down the overgrown farmers’ trail into the valley. The Adjunct and the Fist led, followed by Sergeant Coral of the 20th and Goss, then Suth and Tolat. While a small woman, Coral was rumoured to be lethally quick with her longsword, which she could wield in one or both hands.

The pennants were Roolian brown. The tent front was wide open to reveal a carpeted floor, a brazier with a tea service, and some foodstuffs. Four guards stood outside. Inside sat three men, waiting. Two were obviously guards while the third wore thick rich sleeveless robes over leather armour set with rings and studs.

The three stood and the fat one came forward. ‘Greetings. Thank you for answering my invitation. I am Baron Karien’el.’

Rillish bowed. ‘Fist Rillish Jal Keth.’ Turning to the Adjunct he paused, said, ‘My aide, Kyle.’

Suth was surprised to hear that bit of misdirection, but decided that there was no point in letting the man know just who was with him. And the Adjunct made no objection.

The Baron bowed and invited them in. ‘Sit, please.’

Goss and Coral motioned that they four should remain outside. They spread out in a broad arc. Suth tried not to overhear but he couldn’t help it — the Baron had a very loud voice.

‘I am honoured, Fist, and… encouraged… that the High Fist would send such a high-ranking officer.’

‘It is nothing,’ answered Rillish. ‘The High Fist is keen to see an end to hostilities.’

‘Would you like some tea?’ the Baron asked.

‘Thank you, yes.’ One of the guards readied the tea. Rillish continued, his voice uncertain: ‘Baron Karien’el, did you say? I do not recall hearing of you before — you are Roolian, yes?’

The man waved to himself, his swarthy face, black beard. ‘Yes, I am Roolian, as you see. Not Malazan stock. I am recently come into my title.’

‘Congratulations. But it was my understanding that the aristocracy were of Malazan descent, as a rule.’

‘Only among you foreign invaders.’

The Fist was quiet for some time. He sipped his tea. Tolat, Suth noted, was watching the field of tall grass surrounding the tent and that reminded Suth that he too ought to be keeping a lookout. Rillish cleared his throat. ‘Am I to understand then, that I am not addressing a representative of Overlord Yeull?’

The fellow stroked his thick rich beard, smiling. ‘Correct, Fist.’

Suth glanced about, alarmed. Thesorma Raadil! An insurgency! These Roolians see the chance to rid themselves of all of us! But why announce this?

‘And you have a proposal?’ Rillish asked, his tone expressing dry disinterest.

The Baron held up his open hands. ‘I will be frank. We Roolians wish to see the last of all of you Malazans-’ The man waved a hand at some reaction from Rillish. ‘Now, now. If I said otherwise you would know me for a liar, yes?’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Very good. On these grounds of candour let me offer a gesture of our neutrality. May I?’

Rillish nodded his agreement.

The Baron snapped his fingers and one of the guards waved to the far valley slope. Goss, Coral, Tolat and Suth all stood in alarm. Rillish and Kyle remained seated with Karien’el. A small party started down the far valley side. A file of figures escorted by a few others. It did not have the look of an ambush.

‘What is it, Sergeant?’ Rillish called.

Goss answered, ‘Looks like prisoners, Fist.’

‘Yes, Fist,’ said the Baron. And he stood, grunting and rubbing his legs. He invited Rillish and Kyle to the front of the tent. ‘Please accept these officers of the Overlord as a gesture of our goodwill,’ and he smiled once more.

In that bared-tooth savage grin Suth read the message:… that you will kill each other off and save us the trouble.

Rillish offered a slight bow. ‘Our thanks, Baron. Until we meet again, then.’

The grin broadened. ‘Yes. Until then.’

Corlo lay against the cold dank wall of his pen, legs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tight, not caring whether he lived or died. He’d done his shameful job — done what the Stormguard wanted of him — and now he lay cast aside, apparently forgotten. It was probable that the only reason he lived and was not chained along some frontier of the Stormwall was his prudent captors’ awareness that he may be needed again.

Gods, not again. Surely not. His lie would see Bars through this season. Of that he was sure. After that… all that was too far away to care any more. He had betrayed too egregiously. The lie burned too virulently in his chest. Yet surely some of them must still survive! Somewhere!

Now he lay jammed in with the worst of the Stormguard’s cullings. Dumped among those imprisoned within what was itself one immense prison. The murderers, the incurably rebellious, and the just plain mad. He was dying of starvation. Food came on plates shoved through a narrow slit. The strongest fell upon it and wolfed it down, leaving none for the rest. And since Corlo chose not to rouse himself he went without. Such was life without rules beyond individual gratification.

He set his head back. A cold breeze chilled him here below the single narrow chute that opened to the outside. No one spoke to him. Not only was he a foreigner; all here knew a hopeless case when they saw one. He had now what Hagen had identified as ‘the look of a jumper’. It was too late now. Even if he wanted to he hadn’t the strength to fight for his share. He would fade away. He rubbed at the metal torc round his neck alloyed with magic-deadening otataral. Too late. He’d planned to have Hagen wrench it from him when the time was right. So much for his grand plan for escape.

It was just too awful. All this effort to remain alive to help Bars — only to deceive him beyond all excuse. It was too much.

How many days had passed? He knew not. The glow from the deep chute that allowed light here far within the bowels of the Stormwall came and went. The engorged heartbeat of waves pounded ceaselessly through the stones.

Farewell, Halfpeck. I wish you better luck. May you see your way out. We made a good show of it. Almost made it, too. Crossed half the damned world only to fall short of Quon Tali, into the hands of these provincial, blinkered, ignorant religious fanatics.

Damn them to Hood’s deepest vault.

Some time later Corlo was roused by yells and blows in the cell. Guards had entered and were swinging truncheons right and left as they worked their way through the prisoners. They appeared to be searching for someone.

Oh, damn, no. Not again. No. Never. I’ll not…

Hands took hold of him, lifted him.

No! Damn you! I’d rather die!

He tried to fight but he was too weak. The effort blackened his vision and he knew nothing more.

He awoke lying on a pallet of straw. He no longer shuddered uncontrollably; warmth flowed over him from an iron brazier in the middle of what was a long hall where wounded lay on either side of the narrow walk between. Some sort of infirmary overflow. Gods, no. They couldn’t need him again so soon, could they? His heart clenched. Could there be trouble with Bars?

Someone sat next to his pallet. He smelled hot stew that sent his stomach churning.

‘Eat,’ the someone said.

‘Go away.’

The person leaned closer, said, lower, ‘You must eat, Corlo.’

Corlo turned his head and there sat Jemain, First Mate on board their ship, the Ardent, before the Marese sank it off the coast of Fist. ‘Queen’s mysteries, Jemain! What are you doing here?’

The skinny fellow shrugged, grinning. ‘I’m a trustee. Been keeping track of you. When I heard you were here I pulled a few favours.’

‘But they wanted to keep us separate…’

The man lost his grin. ‘Well, they seem to have forgotten who came with who. They have bigger worries, hey?’ He stirred the stew, offered a spoonful to Corlo, who ate it. ‘Anyway… I came because I have news. I met someone. A woman…’

‘Good for you.’

‘A sense of humour. A good sign. You’re recovering. No, this one fought like a demon on the wall and when I mentioned the name Bars she reacted like she knew him.’

Corlo’s stomach coiled, tensing. He tried to sit up. Hood no! Not someone else! ‘Who!’

‘Do you know the name Shell?’

Corlo stared. Surely not Shellarr? How could they have captured her? Unless… ‘Was she blonde?’

‘Yes.’

‘Attractive?’

The man almost blushed. ‘Yes.’

‘A mage?’

Jemain frowned. He stirred the stew, offered some more to Corlo, who ate absently. ‘She wore no neck tore…’

Corlo sat back. ‘The woman I know as Shell is a mage. She would’ve had a neck tore.’

‘Unless she’s hidden it from the Chosen.’

Suddenly tired, Corlo shut his eyes. ‘You say she fought well?’

‘Well enough to catch the attention of the Stormguard,’ Jemain said bitterly.

Shell was Avowed. Mage or not, that alone would place her among the most formidable here on the wall… ‘Who was with her? Do you know?’

‘She came with others. A few. I could dig around.’

Corlo nodded, eyes shut. ‘Yes. Find out who she came with. Names. Descriptions.’ Struck by a new thought, he opened his eyes. ‘Who else are you in contact with? Who do you know of?’ The man was quiet for a time; Corlo glanced over. Gaze lowered, he was stirring the stew. ‘Do you know who’s left, Jemain?’

Gathering himself, the man nodded. ‘Yes, Corlo. I know.’

‘Good. Who?’

The man pressed the wooden bowl into Corlo’s hands. ‘More of that later. That is enough for now. I have to go ask around, yes?’

Corlo grasped the man’s wrist as tightly as he could; which was hardly tight at all. ‘Who!’

Jemain pressed him back. ‘Don’t worry yourself, Corlo. Rest. That is enough for now. I’ll have more information in time.’

‘You’re coming back?’

‘Yes. Once I find out more.’ He stood. ‘This woman, Shell. She might be Avowed?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Good. I’ll ask around. Good to see you.’

‘And you.’

Jemain squeezed his shoulder then moved off. Corlo lay back, stared at the stone ceiling. Halfpeck, then. Maybe Meek, Dropper, Joden and Peel. The old Blade. Surely them. Surely of everyone they would have survived. And this woman, Avowed? Probably not. Why would they infiltrate the Stormwall? Bars was convinced that under Skinner the Guard had turned from its old mission. Were they here to finish him off? But why come at all? Surely Bars is contained where he is. Yet he remains among the Avowed; he’ll always be a threat to them.

Very well… He found the spoon and stuck it into his mouth to suck on it. He’d have to see. And if there were Avowed of the Guard here, then in a way he hadn’t really lied, had he?

The drain of requisitions for supplies, stores and men led Hiam to the length of Stormwall administered out of Ice Tower, north of Kor. It lay to the east beyond a tall headland and this Hiam climbed alone, cloak tight about him, spear held at an easy angle. Reaching the crest of the pass he was surprised to be challenged by sentries out beyond the obscuring snowfall.

‘Halt! Who is there!’

Irritated, Hiam called back: ‘By what authority do you challenge a Stormguard on the wall itself?’

‘Advance!’

The sentries were not Chosen Stormguard themselves, a fact that eased Hiam’s mind, for that would have been an egregious waste. The men were in fact two Theftian recruits carrying shields and swords. ‘You are?’ one demanded.

‘The Lord Protector come to see Master Stimins.’

The two gaped at him, then each other. They sheathed their swords. ‘Our apologies. We are just here to warn people off. There are repairs ahead — dangerous footing.’

Hiam cocked a brow. ‘Really.’

‘Yes, ah, sir. Master Stimins requests that no one continue on.’

‘And do you think this prohibition includes me?’

The two shared another glance. ‘Hard to say,’ one murmured, scratching his neck.

The other shrugged. ‘We got our orders.’

Fighting a smile, Hiam studied the butt end of his spear as he tapped the ice rime glittering on the stones of the walk. ‘Orders… That I can understand. What to do then? It is a thorny question.’

The two shared frowns. One stamped his feet. The other held his hands over a brazier on an iron stand next to their post. They seemed to be hoping he would just go away.

‘Perhaps,’ Hiam suggested, ‘one of you might escort me… onward?’

One shot a glance to the other. ‘Dunno. Maybe.’

‘I’ll let Master Stimins know you were most vigilant.’

The two relaxed, letting out pluming breaths the wind snatched away. ‘Well… okay,’ one allowed. ‘I’ll take you. Gnorl, you stay on guard.’ He invited Hiam onward. ‘This way.’

Hiam followed, a rueful smile hidden behind the narrow slit of his helm. He didn’t bother pointing out that he’d run up and down the wall since childhood.

Cresting the tall headland they descended to the low beach overlooked by the Ice Tower and its curtain wall. As they drew closer Hiam caught glimpses of that arc of curtain wall through the intervening gusting snowfall and he halted as if frozen himself.

Lady deliver us!

A great waterfall of blue-green ice enveloped lengths of it. The ice coursed over and down the rear of the wall, frozen in the act of falling. Figures worked like dark struggling ants upon the ice, hammering and chiselling, while others stood guard, facing the smashing waves.

What has happened here? Has it collapsed? ‘Take me to Master Stimins,’ he snarled to the guard and started down, slipping and staggering upon the slick rock steps. He found the Master Engineer directing repairs from the base of Ice Tower. He came upon the man suddenly, the blowing snow parting. Over the driving wind and the shuddering impact of the waves the engineer was yelling directions to a handful of workers. Hiam presumed these to be his crew chiefs. Upon seeing Hiam the men straightened, saluting, and Stimins’ back flinched, becoming rigid. ‘Dismissed,’ he told the men, who bowed to Hiam and disappeared off into the driving snow.

‘When were you going to tell me?’ Hiam demanded.

Stimins slowly turned. ‘You have the entire wall to manage, young Hiam. I hoped to spare you this worry.’

Hiam grunted, accepting that, though he was outraged. ‘Well, I’m here now. What are you doing about this?’

The old man gestured up the length of the walk to where equipment, rope, and blocks of stone lay jumbled and veined in ice. ‘I’m raising the wall.’

‘Raising it? During attacks of the Riders?’ Hiam was astounded — yet what else were they to do? He scanned the sea: the waves churned wind-chopped, but no burgeoning surge drove up the inlet, not today. Not now. Hiam could sense an assault to the hour just by the pitch of the wind. ‘How goes it?’

Stimins shook his nearly bald head. ‘Work is too slow. We’re losing too many men. The Riders smell blood. We need more guards.’

Yet all the Chosen were assigned — and each was vital to his position. The truth was, they had no men to spare. Due south of here, though, lay the city of Kor itself. The Riders could not be allowed to breast this section. A new question occurred to Hiam. ‘If there was no collapse, no break. Why here? Why now?’

The old man looked away, his mouth wrinkled tight. He examined his gnarled twisted hands, which were wrapped in rags. ‘I’d hoped to spare you, Hiam. It is not welcome news… the truth is, the wall has not lowered… the sea has risen.’

Hiam stared. Rising? All along the wall? No wonder the butcher’s bill had climbed so — he’d thought it their thinning numbers. But no. It was worse. For who can fight the sea? Yet… was that not what their ancestors had done for generations? How dare they do any less? Lady — why do you test us so? Is our devotion lacking? Is this a punishment?

He gripped his spear until his hands numbed. Very well, Blessed Lady… you shall witness. Our piety, our fervour, shall humble all who witness it!

‘What of the west, the Wind Tower and the weakness there?’

Stimins nodded. ‘I believe that also follows from the rising sea. All the flaws are emerging now under this increased pressure.’

Hiam snorted. You have the truth of that, Master Engineer. Flaws in more than just the wall. And those flaws must be hammered away else the Lady will allow us to fall. ‘Very good, Stimins. You’ll have whatever you need.’

‘More guards for the work gangs?’

Hiam thought of the latest communiques from loyal sources in Rool. Troops massing in Lallit for transport. All good signs. Yet reports also of the invader fleet in Banith. The Betrayer’s forces meaning to invade there? Ridiculous, with Rool to pacify. They would need it as a foothold. The Betrayer would not abandon it. The fleet was merely over-wintering in calmer waters. They meant to repair and refit.

He just had to hold on until that Roolian manpower arrived.

Again, Hiam’s instincts spoke to him. They may not have the numbers, but they had their champion, revitalized of late. And other skilled prisoners — even mercenaries. He would bring them all here; pour everything they had into this breach.

They would hold. They had to. They would be given no choice.

The Army of Reform crawled northward at a cripple’s pace that did nothing for Ivanr’s mood. Ahead of their outriders villages burned all across the landscape. Each cast a black plume of smoke that mixed and swelled, announcing open warfare between Imperial loyalists and Reform sympathizers. The smoke struck Ivanr as a fitting banner heralding their approach. Their numbers swelled further as sympathizers joined the army proper, or contributed to the swollen informal army of followers and refugees dragging along behind. All told he estimated their numbers at nearing fifty thousand. A huge force — in numbers. Largest yet of all the peasant uprisings and heretical messianic movements that he knew of from the past. Yet by his estimate less than a third could really be counted on to stand unflinching and fight.

He walked close to its centre now, completely disengaged from the day-to-day logistics and organization of command. So it was he could only watch while the army’s unofficial sappers and engineers demolished many of the wooden buildings they passed. They piled the beams and lumber on to wagons for transport. Seeing this, he came to the dispiriting conclusion that Martal was preparing for a siege of Ring. The woman’s lumbering carriages also rumbled here and there amid the disorganized crowds like siege-towers on the move. Seeing them heaving along reminded him of their commander’s opaque claim that they’d brought their own fortress with them. Were they intended as a sort of mobile archers’ platform? She must know she couldn’t count on employing the same tactics as before. The Imperials would be ready for them this time.

A light drizzle fell, cold and discomforting. Its chill reminded him that much farther north the Korelri faced down the Stormriders in the name of their own defence — even as he and this army of heretics and polytheists sought to usurp the Lady’s worship. Who was right? Was either of them? Again he wished Beneth were here, though he had never thought to discuss such matters with him while the man lived. What then was to be his role, if not teacher, prophet or inspiration? The question still tormented him and further blackened his mood.

A man waited to make his way through the layers of guards now surrounding him. Tall and sickly-thin: the old pilgrim. Ivanr nodded to allow him through. He approached, bowing, and paced Ivanr.

‘You have news?’ Ivanr asked.

The man’s drawn face was grim. ‘Yes.’ The rain had plastered his dirty grey hair over his uneven skull.

‘Troubling news?’

‘Yes.’

Ivanr motioned to the overcast sky. ‘Not a day for bad news.’

‘No day would be good for this news.’

Does this fellow delight in being the bearer of bad news? ‘All right. What is it?’

The man took a fortifying breath. ‘We have word from reliable sources that the Priestess still lives.’

Ivanr stared at the man. ‘Generous gods! This is bad news?’

‘She is with the Imperial Army. They are bringing her with them.’

Ivanr rubbed the cold rain from his face as they continued to walk along. They were bringing her south — to them? ‘And you are worried…’

‘What they intend, yes. I believe they mean to make a spectacle of her death.’

Yes. That would make sense. A gruesome lesson in the uselessness of rebellion. Yet do they really believe that would terrify these people? It would only infuriate them. Strengthen their resolve, not weaken it. In fact, it may provoke a bloodbath. Could that be their real intent? To goad these peasants into a precipitous attack? I will have to warn Martal.

‘Thank you… What is your name, anyway?’

A humourless tightening of the thin bloodless lips. ‘Orman.’

‘You served in Beneth’s organization?’

‘Yes, in addition to my preaching.’

Ivanr eyed him sidelong. ‘When we spoke before… were you acting for Beneth?’

He shook his head, completely untroubled. ‘Then, I spoke for the Priestess.’

‘Well, I’m not one to meddle among Beneth’s choices. So, what now?’

For a time Orman walked along in silence, hands behind his back, head cocked. ‘With your permission I will travel ahead to Ring city. Early on we made an effort to seed the city with followers. Now we’re pretty much locked teeth and throat in an unofficial battle for control of it.’

‘How goes it?’

A clenched, pained look crossed the fleshless face. ‘Poorly. These Imperials have finally caught on. They’ve sealed the roads north. Forced refugees back into the city. They’re not giving up any more ground.’

‘I see. So… what is your prediction?’

He tilted his head. ‘This time I believe the fate of the city will be decided by the battle. Whoever wins that will win the city — and half the country. Impartially speaking, the Imperials really should not meet us upon the field. They ought to garrison Ring, deny it to us, and watch our movement dissolve away goalless and unfocused…’ He sighed, lifting his bony shoulders. ‘But that they will not do. The way these uprisings have been dealt with in the past will dictate how the Imperials will handle this one now.’

He offered what might have been intended as a smile of encouragement, but which struck Ivanr as a death’s-head leer. ‘So you see, Ivanr. You may take their determination to meet us in the field as a potential disaster — I see it as already a half-victory.’ With that the man bowed, and took his leave.

Ivanr wasn’t certain what to make of all that. Either the man was an extraordinarily talented political agent, or he was a religious fanatic blind to everything but success. While he agreed that this lot did not have the discipline to last any protracted siege, the Imperial heavy cavalry playing to their strengths of warfare in the field did not particularly strike him as a mistake on their part. But he didn’t serve on the intelligence side of strategy. Tactics was his strength.

The call came back through the ranks for an end to the day’s march. The soldier in Ivanr was horrified: it was nowhere near dusk! At this rate it would take them another week to reach Ring. He dabbed his wet sleeve to his face. Such was the price of holding together a voluntary civilian army.

And as always, the Imperials watched and waited. He peered around, searching the rolling hillsides surrounding the loose, ranging force. There, on the distant flank, riders shadowing them. One of Hegil’s few remaining cavalry? No way to tell from this distance. Probably not. He wondered why they weren’t constantly harassing them, gnawing at their numbers. Perhaps the Imperials considered it beneath their dignity.

Perhaps they did not wish to discourage the rag-tag army from advancing to its destruction. A damned miserable conclusion to come to. He blew on his hands and wished he hadn’t thought of it.

*

A constellation of camp fires lit the night to the east. Here, in a wooded depression, a single hearth of embered logs glowed a sullen orange. A man sat cross-legged before it, hunched, studying small objects pulled from a bag. Each piece elicited further exclamations of disbelief and outrage until the man scooped up the casting of pieces and thrust them home once again.

The crackle of brush snapped his attention round. ‘Who is that?’

‘It’s Totsin,’ snarled the newcomer, cursing and pushing at the dense bracken.

The man relaxed. ‘Surprised to see you here. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to disturb a talent at work?’

Totsin straightened his shirt and pushed back his thin hair. ‘Is that what you’re doing? I’m looking for Sister Gosh. She’s here, isn’t she?’

The man shook the bag, squinted suspiciously at it. ‘Yeah. She’s here,’ he said absently.

Totsin watched for a time, stroking his uneven beard. ‘So, Brother Jool… what are you doing?’

Jool shook the bag next to his ear once again. A clacking sounded from it. ‘The tiles are talking nonsense.’

Totsin’s hand clenched in his beard. He took a quavering breath. ‘Oh? I’ve always thought them unreliable, you know.’

Not answering, Jool smoothed the dirt before him then reached into the bag. He drew a tile, examined it in the faint light, grunted, and set it down.

‘What is it?’ Totsin asked in a whisper.

‘Hearth, or Flame, inverted. Failure? Betrayal? A very troubling start.’

Next came another tile, this one of a very black wood. Jool snorted his disgust. ‘Again. Always early. A strong portent — but of what?’

‘What is that one?’

‘The Dark Hoarder, inverted. Death? Betrayal ending in death? Or life, the opposite of cessation? How am I to read it?’

Totsin said nothing.

Another tile, this one of crude fired clay. ‘Earth. Very unusual coming up this early. Could also mean the past returned, or consequences. It is aligned with the ancient earth goddess. Some name it the Dolmen.’

He reached in again and this time hissed at the gleaming white tile in his hand. ‘Riders next. Prominent. Are these two associated now somehow? What are the relationships here: hearth betrayed, death betrayed, earth or past, and Stormriders? What am I to make of it?’ Jool reached in again. ‘One last choice.’

This dark wood tile he held up, squinting at it. ‘Demesne of Night. Hold of Darkness. Related, how? A puzzle indeed.’

Totsin cleared his throat. ‘I have a tile for you, Jool. I came by it recently.’

Jool did not look up; he was frowning at the spread of tiles before him. ‘Oh? A new one?’

‘Yes. Here it is.’

Distracted, Jool glanced up. Totsin tossed the small rectangle of wood; Jool caught it. ‘What is… Gods all around! Totsin! You fool!’ The man sprang to his feet, tried to throw the tile away but it would not leave his hand. He stared at it, horrified. ‘We never — the Witch! Her! What have you-’

Then, a long hiss of comprehension, his shoulders falling. ‘I see now. Hearth, home, betrayed: a traitor within the family. Death — mine. Dolmen — the past, your reasons. Night — now, this night.’

The hand holding the tile withered before their eyes, desiccating to a dead skeletal limb sheathed in skin cured to leather. ‘The Riders, though,’ Jool continued, wondering. ‘What have they… wait! Four! Four fates foretold! Two greater and two lesser.’ The man’s face paled to an ashen pallor, sinking and withering. ‘Fool you remain, Totsin. You slew me too early. What I foresee I now withhold — to your despair…’ A last breath escaped dried lips and Jool collapsed, bones clattering, to fall in a heap of parchment-like flesh.

Totsin regarded the corpse. Bravado? Empty threat? What was he to make of that last message? Pondering it, he used a stick to push the tiles back into their leather pouch then cinched it tight. Nothing, he decided. It meant nothing. Too vague and unreliable, this technique… he’d never trusted it. A method for lesser talents only. He kicked dirt over the smouldering embers.

Only two left now. The two most dangerous.

After departing the Ancy valley, word came to the Moranth column that Borun and Ussu were to travel ahead by mount as they had been summoned by the Overlord. They took messenger mounts and used the system of changing-posts to transfer to fresh horses as they travelled west. Though a Moranth, and unused to riding, Borun endured the endless pounding with his typical stoicism. Ussu, however, hadn’t ridden so hard in over two decades. The travel was a torture to him. His inner thighs were scraped raw; his back and neck ached as if struck all over by batons; and despite the constant agony he nearly fell off his mount as towards dawn he drifted into a fog of exhaustion.

At the next changing-post he lay down and threatened Borun with death should he disturb him. Prudently, the Moranth commander did not answer and withdrew. Ussu slept immediately, and seemingly just as immediately a knock came on the door. ‘What is it?’ he croaked.

‘I have given you four hours,’ Borun answered.

Ussu let his head fall back. Damn. ‘Very well. I am coming.’ Levering himself up he set his feet on the ground and straightened, groaning. Gods, and Lady, I am too old for this. This trip alone will be the death of me. He opened the door, leaned against the jamb. Borun grunted, seeing him.

‘Food and fresh mounts await.’

Ussu shook his head. ‘I cannot. You go ahead.’

‘That is not the arrangement. We travel together. Now come.’

Ussu raised a palsied, liver-spotted hand. ‘No. I haven’t the strength. It’s been too long.’

The featureless matt-black helm regarded him in silence, then Borun gathered the food into panniers which he threw over a shoulder. ‘You are a mage — do whatever it is you do.’ And he left the post’s main room.

Ussu stared after him. Damn if the man wasn’t right. He regarded the hand, drew on his Warren. Blue flame flickered to life around the flesh. Anneal me, he commanded. Flames shall nourish. Instantly the bone-weariness sloughed from him like slag in a furnace. He straightened, shocked and, frankly, rather terrified. Whence comes this power? There was nothing of the Lady in it; rather, she seemed to have stood aside and allowed it. Grudgingly, he accepted it.

My thanks, Blessed Lady.

At the changing-post beside the main crossroads for the road to Paliss, word came that they were to make for Lallit. Ussu took the orders from Borun’s hands. ‘Lallit? On the coast? Whatever for?’

‘It does not say. But it is authentic. The seals and codes are correct.’

Ussu threw it back at the messenger in frustration. He needed to speak to Yeull! Why this detour to the coast? It was insufferable — and yet more riding! ‘That’s another four days!’

‘Approximately. And we must go. There is no questioning this.’

‘Still no word from Ancy?’ Ussu asked the messenger.

‘No, sir. You are ahead of the news.’

Borun dismissed the messenger. ‘We’ll take the Paliss road for a time then strike west.’ He headed for the corral.

Ussu watched the man’s armoured back. Here I am complaining and this man has yet to hear any word on his command. Surely they must be a good two or three days ahead of any Malazan advance — even if they broke through immediately. Still, he would do well to dwell less on his own troubles and think of those of others for a change.

Resigning himself to the shift in destination, he went to join Borun.

Three days’ riding, plus the better part of three nights’, brought Ussu and Borun near Lallit on the coast of an arm of Sender’s Sea which many named the Pirate’s Sea. These last few days they’d come across signs of the passage of many men and wagons and carts of equipment. It looked as if an army had been brought to the coast. All this further troubled Ussu. Could Yeull actually be here and not at Paliss? If so, what of the capital? Whatever was he planning? The Malazans were advancing; the reorganized Roolian Army ought to be massing and heading east to confront them.

Turning a last hillside in the long sloping descent to the coast brought the iron-blue expanse of the sea into view and the modest town of Lallit as well. Ships choked its narrow harbour and an encamped army surrounded the town. It looked like the assemblage of an invasion force. For an instant Ussu wondered whether they were looking at another Malazan force just landed on their west coast. But the dark brown of Rool flew everywhere, reassuring him. He and Borun exchanged a wordless look and continued on.

Sentries met them, and an escort was assembled to guide them to the Overlord. All the rest of the Sixth appeared to have been brought together from all frontiers. Elite native Roolian and Skolati forces fleshed out the numbers. Their escort brought them to the wharf and the gangway of a large man-of-war bearing Roolian pennants, plus the personal pennant of the Overlord, the old standard of the Sixth.

Here on the coast snow fell, driven inland by strong south-westerlies off the Ocean of Storms. The air was noticeably colder — the damp, Ussu told himself, nothing more. The Overlord’s personal guard waved them up the gangway. Within the dim sweltering main cabin they found the Overlord awaiting them. They drew off their thick travelling cloaks and Ussu knelt to offer obeisance to the shadowy figure behind the great desk piled with sheets of vellum, scrolls, and battered ledgers.

‘Overlord. You ordered us to report.’

‘And here you are,’ the figure grumbled. ‘Feed the fire. You’ve brought the frigid air with you.’

A guard set more wood on the iron brazier even though sweat now beaded Ussu’s brow and steam rose from their travelling cloaks.

‘You ordered our withdrawal…’ Borun said, his voice sounding more hoarse than usual.

The figure leaned forward, arms on the desk. His vision adjusting, Ussu saw that Yeull sat wrapped in his usual layers. His black hair gleamed wet with sweat and his face held a pale fevered look. ‘Is that an accusation?’ he demanded.

‘It is a question.’

The man grunted, sinking back into his tall-backed chair. ‘You may have stalled the Betrayer a week or more but he would have crossed eventually. If not there, then elsewhere. Or divided his forces in multiple crossings. Yes?’

Borun grated, ‘Possibly…’

The Overlord sneered. ‘It would have happened. The Betrayer is determined to win through to the coast. He must. It is his strategy. His throw for all or nothing.’

‘The coast?’ Ussu asked.

Yeull’s hot gaze shifted to him. ‘You did not stop for news during your ride here, did you? Else you would have heard. Tell me, this second invasion force arrived in more than four hundred ships. What do you think happened to those once the Betrayer landed?’

Ussu shrugged. ‘I imagine that in due course the Marese sank them. As before.’

Yeull seemed to growl his disgust. ‘Hot tea!’ he barked aside to a guard, and the man set about pouring a dark brew. ‘No, my too-trusting adviser. In due course the Marese acknowledged defeat and sued for peace!’ Yeull slammed a fist to the table, scattering vellum sheets. ‘So much for them.’ He pulled at the layered jackets and padded quilted jerkins he wore draped about his shoulders. ‘And now we are flanked.’

Flanked? Ah, the coast! Gods forfend! They are here?

‘You are abandoning Rool,’ Borun judged, far ahead of Ussu in matters of strategy.

The Overlord nodded. ‘Yes.’

Ussu was completely confused. Abandon Rool? To go where? Why won’t he stand and fight? ‘You too are capitulating?’ he blurted and instantly regretted it.

The Overlord was quiet. Sweat gleamed like a sheath on his face. His gaze was like a heated lance stabbing at Ussu’s brow. After a time he drew a shuddering breath, gulped down his steaming tea. ‘We travel to the real battle, my ignorant adviser.’

A grating snarl sounded from Borun’s helm. ‘They strike at Korel!’

Ussu felt as if he would fall faint. The exhaustion, the heat, these revelations. It was all too much. He wiped a hand across his slick brow. ‘That would be insane. The entire island would rise against him.’ He searched the dim room for an empty chair or a stool.

‘Your faith is a lesson to us all,’ the Overlord commented from the gloom. ‘That must be why she favours you so much.’

But Ussu was not listening. His breath would not come. It was too close, too constraining. He felt as if the ship were suddenly in a storm. Armoured hands gripped him and sat him down on a ledge. A hand forced his head down to his knees. ‘Breathe,’ Borun ordered.

The blackness swallowing Ussu’s vision abated. He panted while his heart slowed its constricted panic. Borun was speaking: ‘You are too quick to abandon Rool. Let me march south. We may yet stop him.’

‘True,’ the Overlord granted, sounding surprisingly tolerant of such questioning. ‘We may. But I have opted to substitute the possibility of victory now for assured success in the summer.’

‘Oh? How so?’

Ussu looked up, blinking. A guard offered him a glass of tea, which he took with gratitude. It was a herbal infusion he recognized, very resuscitating.

‘The Korelri are desperate for manpower. We have struck an agreement to provide it. Further, we will stand with them to repel any Malazan attempt to break them. After this, come spring when the Stormriders have retreated and the Korelri stand idle… well, just imagine what we could accomplish returning to Rool accompanied by the iron might of the grateful Korelri.’

Ussu stared, amazed. Would this work? The Korelri had never before interfered in any of the old internecine warfare and feuds; so long as they received their tribute, they were content. Yet if Greymane struck at their island in an attempt to break their power, and the Roolians stood with them… an alliance! The advantages would be incalculable.

‘And my command?’ Borun rumbled.

Silent, Yeull regarded the Black commander for some time, his eyes slit almost shut. Ussu sensed a dislike bordering on disgust in that gaze — could this be jealousy? ‘They will be last. Ships will be sent back. You may stay to await them.’

Borun bowed.

‘And you, my High Mage…’

Ussu straightened, bowing. ‘Yes, Overlord.’

‘You will accompany me. Have you ever seen the Stormwall?’

‘Ah, no, my lord.’

‘It is a wonder of the world. And quite a sight. Especially this time of year.’

Ussu suddenly no longer felt so unbearably hot. He pulled the sweat-soaked clothes away from his chest. ‘So you say, m’lord. So you say.’