Deadhouse Landing, page 32
This she had meant for herself. But another had earned its kiss far more than she. She would play the part of the beaten-down disciple for now. Until the moment came. Then he would pay for his lies. He will pay.
She pushed the sheathed blade back down within her robes, wiped the wetness from her face, and slipped back within the temple precincts.
Chapter 15
Cartheron stood with Choss and Hawl on board the Twisted, awaiting Surly. It had been nearly a week since they’d limped into Malaz harbour, and now their commander wanted a detailed appraisal of the ship’s condition.
The news was grim and Surly, he knew, would not be happy.
He watched from the railing as she marched out on to the pier, accompanied by Urko, Shrift, and ten or so local Malazan toughs – her bodyguard now that they’d hardened their control of the majority of the island’s black market. Also trailing along was this new follower, Nedurian, old and scarred, in plain travel-stained leathers, looking more like a retired fisherman than a veteran mage. Cartheron had to say that he wasn’t certain he trusted the fellow yet.
The toughs remained at the gangway while Surly, Urko, Shrift and the mage came stamping up. On deck, she crossed her arms and faced him; her habitual sour expression demanded, Well? He noticed she favoured her side, where, he understood, Geffen had cut her quite badly before she broke his neck. Local healers had done their work, but these things still smarted, he knew.
Cartheron cleared his throat, glanced to Choss and Hawl. Might as well jump into the depths, he reasoned. ‘We recommend laying up the entire winter season for a proper refit.’
That he’d said the wrong thing was immediately evident in her flat side-to-side denial. ‘Not what I want to hear, Crust. I want off this island.’
‘We need the time,’ Choss put in. ‘We struck two ice floes.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be here all winter.’
‘She won’t be ready,’ Hawl said.
Shrift now waved her impatience, butting in. ‘What’s the problem? We just take another!’ She motioned all about. ‘There’re plenty.’
‘Not like this one,’ Nedurian drawled from where he leaned against the railing outside their circle.
Shrift turned a sneer on the man. For some unknown reason the swordswoman had no time for the mage. ‘Oh? How so?’
By way of answer, the fellow rested his lazy gaze on Hawl. ‘Because she’s ensorcelled. Isn’t that so, Hawl?’
Hawl eyed him in turn, then nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘No other vessel could have made it out of the strait,’ the mage continued. ‘Isn’t that true?’
‘Possibly,’ Hawl granted.
Cartheron was thinking of the Just Cause. They’d lost sight of it soon after entering the Strait of Storms, and after that they had all been too busy fighting the ice buildup and evading the floes to consider its fate. But he still couldn’t let go of his worry – what if it had made it after all? Wouldn’t it be prudent …
He cleared his throat again, saying, ‘Surly might be right. Perhaps we should push off as soon as possible. Finish the repairs elsewhere.’
‘And just where?’ Hawl answered, exasperated. ‘We can’t show our faces anywhere on the mainland.’
‘Kartool?’ Choss offered.
Shrift shuddered and Urko’s blunt face twisted in disgust. ‘Gods, no,’ he rumbled.
‘Further afield,’ Surly said, crossing her arms. ‘We offer our services to one of the Seven Holy Cities. Aren, or Ubaryd.’
‘Got no navies worth the name,’ Urko offered, nodding and scratching his chin.
‘We’d be facing the Falari,’ Hawl warned.
Urko waved one great paw in dismissal. ‘Faugh! We can take them.’
But Surly would not move her steady gaze from Cartheron. He tapped his fingers on the scarred railing. ‘Heard troubling things about that sea cult of theirs. What is it? The … Jhistel? Blood sacrifices.’
Surly’s gaze did not waver. ‘We’ll face that when we must. But right now we’ve hung about too long.’
Cartheron nodded his agreement. Yes. By now Tarel must know they were here, word from the Just Cause or not. He already seemed to have the island in his sights. ‘Yes,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘Minimal repairs. Just enough to get us to Seven Cities.’
Choss snorted, commenting under his breath, ‘That’s some journey, I’ll have you know.’
‘Regardless,’ Surly said, and she uncrossed her arms. ‘How long?’ she asked Choss.
Their best boatwright twisted up his features, thinking. ‘Two moons, soonest.’
‘One.’
The man jerked his head as if pained. ‘What?’
‘One,’ she warned, pointing. ‘We’re done. Everyone help out on the repairs,’ and she turned and headed down the gangway, followed by Urko, Shrift and the new mage.
Choss leaned against the railing and looked to Cartheron, shaking his head. ‘Plenty of work ahead for all of us. So where’s your new guy, Dujek, and his tag-along?’
‘Out whipping our Malazan boys and girls into shape.’
Choss raised his chin to the pier. ‘What do you think of the new mage?’
Cartheron considered, lifted his shoulders. ‘Looks like a veteran.’
‘He is,’ Hawl said from behind. Cartheron turned to her; she was eyeing the retreating figures. ‘He has ex-legionnaire written all over him.’
‘Ex-legionnaire?’ Cartheron echoed. ‘As in the Talian iron legions?’ He whistled. ‘We could use him.’
‘If we can trust him.’
‘Trust him? What do you mean?’
But the heavy mage simply hugged her broad chest and tilted her head in thought. ‘Don’t know. Got a funny feeling on the ship just then with everyone … Keep an eye on him, Crust.’
Cartheron nodded his full agreement. ‘If you say so, Hawl.’
* * *
The caravan was encamped a day’s journey from Fedal, a southern Itko Kan city, and termination point of the main north–south overland trade route. At the sprawling caravanserai grounds – a broad meadow of trampled grass – fires were lit against the dark and animals were being brushed, fed, and cared for.
As was usual, Dassem went for a long walk through the night. This time, however, he was alone. Shear no longer even spoke to him, save to lower her masked head to him in passing as if she were his subordinate, which, he knew she now believed herself to be.
It was autumn; the grass was dry and brittle and snagged at his trousers. There was an early chill to the air; he’d overheard some merchants attribute this to the Sea of Storms just to their south.
He paused in the dark to look skyward. Old familiar stars glowed above the southern horizon. The constellations of his youth: the Spear, the Cart, the Sky Mother.
Tomorrow they would part. He would carry on to the coast to take a ship out to Malaz Island, which he’d heard described uninvitingly as cold, rainy, and dreary. While she, he understood, would return to her island home far away.
He ran a hand through the tall, sharp-edged grasses. Should he simply allow that to happen? Shouldn’t he return, ask her to accompany him and Nara? Why not?
After standing silent for a time he let out a long slow breath. No; Hood had not taken his eye from him. He was certain of that. The Grey Walker held some special fate in store for him. Some stern lesson for his defiance.
He would not embroil her in that.
Yet shouldn’t that be her choice? He could warn her of the dangers and let her choose …
He half turned back to the distant flickering fires of the encampment, then quickly sank to his haunches amid the tall sighing grasses.
Weapon oil and sweat.
Then, the brush of ring-mail, and the faint click of a crossbow setting.
He reached down to his waist only to remember that he’d left his sword behind.
And is Hood laughing now. Mortal Sword indeed! Ha!
He lay still, listening. From what he could piece together it sounded as if a wide, staggered picket line just passed his position, closing on the caravanserai. Crouched still, he padded along behind the nearest of the individuals. To his benefit it was a dark night, and none of the figures carried any source of light – no doubt being guided by the fires of the camp. He took the man from the rear, clamped his hands round his neck just long enough for unconsciousness, then lowered him into the grasses. What he found, a ragged patched hauberk over a stained old Kanian uniform, confirmed his suspicion: outlaws, or renegades.
Through this gap in the picket he hurried inward, still crouched for a time, and jogged for camp.
The main body of the outlaws entered the caravanserai even as he closed. Panicked shouts arose but thankfully no screams or clash of blades – yet.
He pushed through the milling families and groggy fretful merchants to a position across a fire from where Shear stood with Horst Grethall. The fat-bellied caravan-master had his arms in the air and was shouting for calm.
Shear, of course, spotted him amid the flickering shadows. In the firelight her mask seemed to swim with a kaleidoscope of rich colours. Her blade was not drawn, as yet. A hand low at her side gave a slight flat wave – wait.
‘No need for any violence, Luel,’ Horst was saying to one of the outlaws. ‘You’ll have your payment.’
‘Tithe,’ the man clarified, rather archly. He wore a faded officer’s surcoat over a hauberk of scale. He was bearded, and his hair was long and bedraggled, suggesting he’d been camping in the field for a great many months. ‘Our legal due for keeping the roads safe here, so close to the Dal Hon border.’
‘Safe from whom?’ Horst grumbled under his breath.
The former officer chose magnanimously to ignore the complaint. He gestured to his men and women, all probably his own troops, and they set to searching the wagons.
Dassem’s hands clenched as bolts of cloth, blankets, baskets and cooking utensils came crashing out of the wagons amid protests and shouts.
‘You are searching all the wagons and carts?’ he called to the retired – or cashiered – officer.
Luel turned his way, searched the dim firelight. ‘All must contribute to the tithe.’ He squinted, frowning. ‘And you are…?’
Dassem started for his cart.
‘Stop that man!’ Luel bellowed.
Dassem threw down a number of the outlaw soldiers nearby but had to halt as numerous crossbows were levelled against him. He stood, waiting, while Luel marched up to study him closely.
Face to face, Luel said, ‘You are in an awful hurry to reach your goods, my friend.’
Dassem said nothing, fists clenched. His gaze was fixed into the darkness where his cart lay.
‘Forgot to hide something, perhaps? Some gold or silver maybe?’ Luel looked him up and down. ‘You don’t look wealthy, but perhaps it’s all hidden away in your wagon or among your rags, hey?’
Dassem studied the seven glinting crossbow quarrels arrayed before him, with more behind, no doubt. He damned this man for taking what looked like his entire command with him from the Kanian fold.
A bellow arose from the dark, a shout of open terror. ‘Plague!’
Dassem looked to the night sky and mouthed a silent curse.
One of the ex-soldiers came running to Luel, pointing a shaking finger back into the darkness. ‘A cart,’ he gasped, ‘a girl – plague!’
‘It is not plague,’ Dassem announced to everyone.
Luel’s gaze narrowed in suspicion. ‘What’s this? You bring a sick family member south with you?’
Horst now pushed forward, saying, outraged, ‘You told me she was old and infirm!’
‘She is not sick,’ Dassem repeated, stubbornly, but sounding unconvincing even to himself.
‘I’ve seen plague,’ the outlaw told Luel, ‘and she has it.’ He slapped his hands to his mouth, saying, ‘Gods! There must have been sickly vapours in there and they touched me!’
Luel nodded to the fellow. ‘Burn it.’
‘No!’ Dassem lurched forward, then spun as a crossbow bolt gouged his left side, passing on into the darkness.
He stilled, hunched in pain, a hand pressed to his side, panting. Luel watched him warily, then waved his man onward. ‘Go on. Burn it.’
Dassem reached out to Horst. ‘Think, man. How could she be a carrier? Has anyone got sick? Have I?’ But the fat caravan-master just backed away, shaking his head.
The outlaw jogged off. Dassem watched him disappear between the wagons, and steeled himself to follow though it meant a suicidal charge through a hail of crossbow bolts.
Even as he tensed for the leap, a great flash erupted from the nearby fire, blinding him and bringing cries of surprise and shock from everyone. A hand took his arm and he did not fight as he recognized the touch.
‘This way,’ Shear whispered, dragging him along by the elbow.
He wiped at his tearing eyes. ‘What was that? Are you a mage?’
‘No. It is a chemical made by a people north of my homeland. They trade small pinches of it.’
‘That was a pinch?’
She pushed him up against a wagon. ‘Do you begin all your fights unarmed?’
‘Well – it was a spur of the moment thing.’ He blinked repeatedly, struggling to regain his vision. ‘Lead me to the northernmost part of the clearing.’
Shouts and panic now filled the air as the caravan merchants and families sought to flee. Luel’s command-voice rose over the tumult: ‘Find them and kill them!’
Shear took his arm and thrust a weapon into his hand. He hefted it and was appalled by its balance. ‘What is this?’
She was pulling him along. ‘A sword. I took it from one of the outlaws.’
‘It is wretched.’
‘So throw it away and request something more suitable.’
Shapes moved now in his vision; families dashing about in the dark. Shear moved suddenly and a body fell to the dirt, writhing and gurgling.
He wiped at his face. ‘My apologies. It is a fine blade.’
They hurried onward; he could see almost well enough now to make his own way. ‘You believe me, then?’ he asked as they threaded between wagons. ‘This isn’t the plague.’
‘If it was the plague, she’d be dead by now. As would you.’
‘Exactly. Then why all this?’
‘Fear is fear. It has no logic.’
He could make out the cart; men and women were gathered there, carrying torches. They’d pulled it clear and were throwing dry wood and brush up against its sides.
Despite the searing pain at his side, he clamped both hands on to the weapon, hissing, ‘Hood witness,’ and charged.
Together they cleared the area around the cart very quickly. Then by mutual nods they separated, he going to the left, she the right, and worked their way southward through the caravanserai slaying every outlaw they met.
After the fifteenth, he began to feel sorry for these common soldiers, renegade or not, and switched to incapacitating cuts across the face, weapon arm, side, or neck. Some of these would bleed out, he knew, but others would have the option of limping away.
He found Luel in the south-west corner, behind a semicircle of defending crossbowers, double-ranked. Some sort of word, or battle instinct, must have warned him of what was coming and he was retreating behind his surviving men and women. They were pacing backwards, kneeling, firing into the dark, switching ranks and reloading – all in sequence.
Crouched in the grasses, Dassem admired their precision and discipline.
Shear joined him and together they followed, hunched, parting the grass with their blades to study the formation for an opening.
‘Perhaps we shall have to let them go,’ Shear offered.
‘We have to end this or they will return.’ He peered back towards the camp, thinking. ‘A moment,’ he said, and jogged off.
In the camp he found what he sought: a family of Seti tribal descent, refugees of some feud or blood-crime. He approached the aged grandfather guarding their felt-covered cart and nodded a greeting. The man held a wicked recurve bow low before him, an arrow nocked. A tall spear, adorned with wolf-tails, leaned up against the cart next to him.
Dassem motioned to the weapon. ‘May I borrow your fine spear?’
The fellow reached over and held it out. ‘An honour, Sword of Death.’
Dassem shook his head. ‘No longer.’
‘I saw what I saw. And I heard the stories from Heng.’
Dassem merely held the weapon out, horizontal, and inclined his head in thanks. Then he jogged back westward to Shear’s position in the dark.
He approached, hunched low, spear level with the ground. The stamp of horses’ hooves reached him, together with mild nickering and the jangle of tack. Shear was behind low brush and she gestured ahead. She whispered, ‘They are collecting the horses.’
Dassem took a quick glance; the outlaws were gathering the beasts together, yet a solid picket of crossbowers still kept watch. Again Dassem regretted that such a competent commander should have left the Kanian fold.
He waited, crouched upon his haunches, weapon readied at his shoulder, for the moment he wanted, and eventually it came.
Luel appeared, swinging up on to his mount. He pointed about with his sword, giving orders. Dassem backed up three paces, then rose to his full height and extended his arm backwards. Shear opened her mouth to say something, but closed it without speaking, obviously not wishing to distract him.
He charged, thrusting his arm forward, hopping with the release. Shear rose to her feet, her masked face tracing the night sky as she followed the weapon’s high arcing flight. Shouts arose in the camp – they’d been seen.
Atop his mount, Luel turned their way, pointing his sword.
As if by magic the spear sprouted from his lower torso and he grunted with the impact. The sword fell from his nerveless fingers. He clutched at the thick haft then slid backwards off the horse.
Alarm erupted in the camp. The crossbow ranks scattered, running to any nearby mounts, throwing themselves into the saddles, and kicking them into a gallop. In an instant all had fled the clearing. Shear and Dassem waited until the dust settled, then advanced.
