The Malazan Empire, page 195
‘He should never have done it.’
‘That’s not the point, is it?’
Silence filled the room. Gruntle scrubbed his bristled face, then slowly lifted bleary eyes to Buke.
The old man had tears tracking down the lines of his weathered cheeks. Caught by surprise, he turned away. ‘Stonny’s in a mood to kill you herself,’ he muttered, walking over to unlatch the lone window’s shutters. He opened them. Sunlight flooded the room. ‘She lost one friend, and maybe now another.’
‘She lost two out there, Buke. That Barghast lad…’
‘Aye, true enough. We ain’t seen much of Hetan and Cafal since arriving. They’re tight with the Grey Swords – something’s brewing there, I think. Stonny might know more about it – she’s staying at the barracks as well.’
‘And you?’
‘Still in the employ of Bauchelain and Korbal Broach.’
‘You Hood-damned fool.’
Wiping his face, Buke turned from the window, managed a tight grin. ‘Welcome back.’
‘Go to the Abyss, bastard.’
* * *
They made their way down the single flight of sagging steps to street level, Gruntle leaning heavily on his gaunt companion whilst the blood roared in his head and waves of nausea clenched his empty stomach.
His previous memories of the city had fragmented, and stained as they were by shock, then pint after pint of ale, he looked around in momentary bewilderment. ‘Which district is this?’ he asked.
‘Backside of Old Daru, Temple District,’ Buke said. ‘One street north and you hit opulence and gardened temples. You found the quarter’s only rotten alley and its only foul tenement, Gruntle.’
‘Been there before, I guess,’ he muttered, squinting at the nearby buildings. ‘Some other excuse back then, can’t remember what.’
‘Excuses are easy enough to come by. I well recall that.’
‘Aye, they are and no doubt you do.’ He glanced down at the sorry state of his clothes. ‘I need a bath – where are my weapons?’
‘Stonny took care of them. And most of your coin as well. You’re paid up – no debts – so you can put your back to all that.’
‘And walk.’
‘And walk. I’ll join you, to the barracks, at least—’
‘In case I get lost,’ Gruntle said wryly.
Buke nodded.
‘Well, it’s a few bells yet before the shakes.’
‘Aye. The Destriant might help with that, if you ask kindly.’
They turned south, skirting the battered tenement block, and, approached the wide avenues between the high-walled, circular Camps. Few citizens were in the streets and those that were moved furtively, as if skating a thin patina of panic. A city surrounded, awaiting the first drawing of blood.
Gruntle spat into a gutter. ‘What are your masters up to, Buke?’
‘They have taken possession of a recently abandoned estate. Settled in.’
The sudden tension in Buke’s voice raised the hairs on Gruntle’s neck. ‘Go on.’
‘That’s why I … went to you. Partly. A Gidrath Watch found the first body last night, not a hundred paces from our estate. Disembowelled. Organs … missing.’
‘Inform the prince, Buke. Make no hesitation – a cancer at the heart of a besieged city…’
‘I cannot.’ He stopped and gripped Gruntle’s arm. ‘We must not. You haven’t seen what they can do when their backs are against a wall—’
‘They need to be driven out, Buke. Let the Pannions embrace their company, with pleasure. Just cut yourself loose, first. And maybe that old manservant, Reese, too.’
‘We can’t’
‘Yes you can—’
Buke’s grip tightened painfully. ‘No,’ he hissed, ‘we can ‘t!’
Scowling, Gruntle glanced up the avenue, trying to think.
‘They’ll start knocking down walls, Gruntle. Outer walls. They’ll wipe out hundreds of soldiers – unleash demons, raise the corpses and fling them back in our faces. They’ll level Capustan for the Pannions. But there’s more to it than all that. Consider another possibility. If it’s the Pannions who get them annoyed…’
‘They’ll let loose on them,’ Gruntle sighed, nodding. ‘Aye. In the meantime, however, the murder victims start piling up. Look around, Buke, these people are close enough to panic. What do you think it will take to push ’em over the edge? How many more victims? The Camps are kin-bound communities – every neighbourhood is knit together by blood and marriage. This is a fine line to walk…’
‘I can’t do it alone,’ Buke said.
‘Do what?’
‘Shadow Korbal Broach. When he goes out at night. If I can foul his hunting … yet remain unseen, undiscovered—’
‘You’ve lost your mind!’ Gruntle hissed. ‘He’s a Hood-damned sorceror, old man! He’ll sniff you out the first time!’
‘If I’m working alone, you’re right…’
Gruntle studied the man at his side, searched the worn, lean face, the hard eyes above the grey, tangled beard. Old burn scars painted Buke’s forearms, from when he clawed through coals and embers the morning after the fire in some frenzied, insane faith that he would find them … find his family alive somewhere in the rubble.
Buke’s gaze dropped beneath that steady examination. ‘I’ve no cunning, friend,’ the old man said, releasing Gruntle’s arm. ‘I need someone to think of a way to do this. I need someone with the brains to outwit Korbal Broach—’
‘Not Broach. Bauchelain.’
‘Aye, only he’s not the one going out at night. Bauchelain tolerates Korbal’s … peculiar interests. Broach has the mind of a child – an unfettered, malign child. I know them, now, Gruntle. I know them.’
‘How many other fools have tried to outwit Bauchelain, I wonder?’
‘Cemeteries full, I’d guess.’
Gruntle slowly nodded. ‘All to achieve what? Save a few lives … so that they can get slaughtered and devoured by the Tenescowri?’
‘A more merciful demise even so, friend.’
‘Hood take me, Buke. Let me think on this.’
‘I’ll come by this evening, then. At the barracks. Stonny—’
‘Stonny can’t know a damn thing about it. If she catches on, she’ll go after Broach herself, and she won’t be subtle—’
‘And they’ll kill her. Aye.’
‘Gods, my head’s about to explode.’
Buke grinned. ‘What you need is a priest.’
‘A priest?’
‘A priest with the powers to heal. Come on, I know just the man.’
* * *
Shield Anvil Itkovian stood by the barracks gate, fully armoured and gauntleted, his helm’s visor raised though the cheek-guards remained in place. The afternoon’s first bell had tolled a hundred heartbeats ago. The others were late, but that was nothing new; nor was Itkovian’s punctuality. He’d grown long accustomed to awaiting Brukhalian and Karnadas, and it seemed that the two Barghast who were to join them for the meeting held a similar disregard.
The Mask Council would greet them all seething from the apparent insult – and not for the first time.
The contempt is mutual, alas. Dialogue has degraded. No-one wins in such a situation. And poor Prince Jelarkan … positioned directly between two parties exchanging mutual loathing.
The Shield Anvil had spent the morning on Capustan’s walls, surveying the measured settling of the Domin’s besieging army. He judged that Septarch Kulpath had been given command of fully ten legions of Beklites, the red – and gold-clad, peak-helmed regular infantry that was the heart of the Domin’s forces – half of the famed Hundred Thousand, then. Kulpath’s Urdomen – elite heavy infantry – numbered at least eight thousand. When the breach occurred, it would be the Urdomen who pushed through into the city. In addition to these arrayed forces were various augmented divisions: Betaklites, medium infantry; at least three Betrullid Wings, light cavalry; as well as a division of Desandi – sappers and engineers – and Scalandi skirmishers. Perhaps eighty thousand soldiers in all.
Beyond the impressively organized camps of the Septarch’s army, the landscape was a seething mass of humanity, reaching down to the banks of the river to the south, and to the cobbled beaches of the coast to the east – the Tenescowri, the peasant army, with their wild-haired Women of the Dead Seed and their shrieking feral offspring; the scavenging parties – hunters of the weak and old among their own kind, and, soon, among the hapless citizens of Capustan. A starving horde, and seeing them crumbled the professional detachment with which Itkovian had viewed Kulpath’s legions. He had left the walls, shaken for the first time in his life.
There were a hundred thousand Tenescowri, with more arriving on overloaded barges with every bell, and Itkovian was staggered by the waves of their palpable hunger.
The prince’s Capanthall soldiers manning the battlements were pale as corpses, silent and virtually motionless. Upon arriving on the walls, the Shield Anvil had been dismayed by their fear; by the time he made his descent, he shared it, a cold knife lodged in his chest. The companies of Gidrath in the outside redoubts were the fortunate ones – their deaths were imminent, and would come beneath the blades of professional soldiers. Capustan’s fate, and the fate of those defending it, was likely to be far more horrifying.
The soft slither of coin armour announced the approach of the two Barghast warriors. Itkovian studied the woman in the lead. Hetan’s face was smeared in ash, as was her brother Cafal’s. The mourning visage would remain for as long as they chose, and the Shield Anvil suspected he would not live to see its removal. Even sheathed in grey, there is a brutal beauty to this woman.
‘Where is the hill bear and his scrawny pup?’ Hetan demanded.
‘Fener’s Mortal Sword and the Destriant have just emerged from the building behind you, Hetan.’
She bared her teeth. ‘Good, let us go meet these bickering priests, then.’
‘I still wonder why you have requested this audience, Hetan,’ Itkovian said. ‘If you are to announce the impending arrival of the entire clans of the Barghast to our aid, the Mask Council is not the place to do so. Efforts will begin immediately to manipulate you and your people, towards an endless and infectious mire of petty rivalries and battles of will. If you will not inform the Grey Swords, then I strongly urge you to speak with Prince Jelarkan—’
‘You talk too much, wolf.’
Itkovian fell silent, his eyes narrowing.
‘Your mouth will be too busy when I bed you,’ she continued. ‘I will insist.’
The Shield Anvil swung to face Brukhalian and Karnadas as they arrived. He saluted.
‘There’s some colour in your face, sir,’ the Destriant observed. ‘Which was not the case when you returned from the walls.’
Hetan barked a laugh. ‘He is about to lie with a woman for the first time.’
Karnadas raised his brows at Itkovian. ‘What of your vows, Shield Anvil?’
‘My vows remain,’ the soldier grated. ‘The Barghast is mistaken.’
Brukhalian grunted. ‘Besides, aren’t you in mourning, Hetan?’
‘To mourn is to feel a flower’s slow death, hill bear. To bed a man is to recall the flower’s bright glory.’
‘You’ll have to pluck another,’ Karnadas said with a faint smile. ‘The Shield Anvil has taken monastic vows, alas—’
‘Then he mocks his god! The Barghast know of Fener, the Tusked One. There is fire in his blood!’
‘The fire of battle—’
‘Of lust, scrawny pup!’
‘Enough,’ Brukhalian rumbled. ‘We walk to the Thrall, now. I have news to relate to you all and will need the time. Come.’
They strode through the barracks gate, swung left to cross the concourse that skirted the city’s south wall. Capustan’s open spaces – an accidental feature of the self-contained Camps – had needed little in their conversion into killing grounds. Strongpoints had been constructed at various approaches, of stone and wood and soaked bales of hay. When the walls were breached the enemy would pour into the concourses and enter an enfilade. Prince Jelarkan had emptied half his treasury for arrows, bows, ballistae, mangonels and other weapons of slaughter. The network of defences imposed a web on the city, in keeping with Brukhalian’s plan of measured, organized contraction.
Yield not a single cobble until it is ankle deep in Pannion blood.
The few brightly clothed citizens in sight moved from the path of the Grey Swords and the ash-faced, barbaric Barghast.
Brukhalian spoke. ‘The Destriant and I have held counsel with the Kron T’lan Imass. Bek Okhan informs us that their offer of alliance is in answer to the K’Chain Che’Malle. They will not fight mortal humans. He further informs us that the K’ell Hunters have gathered half a league to the north, perhaps eighty in all. From this I surmise that they will represent Septarch Kulpath’s opening gambit – an assault on the north gate. The appearance of such formidable creatures will strike terror in our defenders. The gate will be shattered, the Hunters will enter the city, and the slaughter will begin. Kulpath will then send his Urdomen forward, against the other gates. By dusk Capustan will have fallen.’ He paused, as if chewing his words, then resumed. ‘No doubt the Septarch is confident. Fortunately for us, the K’ell Hunters will never reach the north gate, for fourteen thousand T’lan Imass and however many T’lan Ay with them will rise to block their path. Bek Okhan assures us the denial will be absolute, and final.’
‘Assuming the validity of his assertion,’ Itkovian allowed as they approached the Old Daru district, ‘Septarch Kulpath will need to adjust his plan.’
‘And in circumstances of great confusion,’ Karnadas said.
Brukhalian nodded. ‘It falls to us to predict his adjustment.’
‘He won’t know that the T’lan Imass are interested only in the K’Chain Che’Malle,’ the Shield Anvil said. ‘At least not immediately.’
‘And that limitation may prove temporary,’ the Destriant said. ‘Once this Gathering takes place, the T’lan Imass may find themselves directed to a new purpose.’
‘What more have we learned of the summoner?’
‘She accompanies Brood’s army.’
‘How far away?’
‘Six weeks.’
Hetan snorted. ‘They are slow.’
‘They are a small army,’ Brukhalian growled. ‘And cautious. I find no fault in the pace they have chosen. The Septarch intends to take Capustan in a single day, but he well knows that the longest he can safely take to conclude the siege is six weeks. Once he fails in his first effort, he will step back and reconsider. Probably at length.’
‘We cannot hold for six weeks,’ Itkovian murmured, his eyes reaching over the row of temples lining Old Daru’s front street and fixing on the high walls of the ancient keep that was now the Thrall.
‘We must, sir,’ Brukhalian replied. ‘Shield Anvil, your counsel, please. Kulpath’s campaign at Setta – there were no K’Chain Che’Malle to hasten that siege. Its duration?’
‘Three weeks,’ Itkovian immediately replied. ‘Setta is a larger city, sir, and the defenders were unified and well organized. They stretched to three weeks a siege that should only have required a week at most. Sir, Capustan is smaller, with fewer defenders – and disputatious defenders at that. Further, the Tenescowri has doubled its size since Setta. Finally, the Beklites and Urdomen have been honed by a hard-fought contest Six weeks, sir? Impossible.’
‘We must make the impossible possible, Shield Anvil.’
Itkovian’s jaw clenched. He said nothing.
Within sight of the Thrall’s high gates, Brukhalian stopped and faced the Barghast. ‘You have heard us, Hetan. Should the clans of the White Face grasp the spear of war, how many warriors will march? How soon could they arrive?’
The woman bared her teeth. ‘The clans have never united to wage war, but if they did, the warriors of the White Face would number seventy thousand.’ Her smile broadened, cold and defiant. ‘They will not do so now. No march. No relief. For you, no hope.’
‘The Domin will set hungry eyes upon your people next, Hetan,’ Itkovian said.
She shrugged.
‘What then,’ Brukhalian rumbled, ‘is the purpose of this audience with the Mask Council?’
‘When I give answer, it will be to the priests.’
Itkovian spoke. ‘I was given to understand that you had travelled south to discover the nature of the K’Chain Che’Malle.’
‘There was no cause to elaborate on our mission, wolf. We have completed one task set before us by the shouldermen of the clans. Now, we must complete the second task. Will you now present us to the fools, or must we continue on alone?’
* * *
The Council Hall was a massive chamber, domed with a semicircle of wooden tiers facing the grand entrance. The dome’s ceiling had once glittered with gold leaf, of which only a few patches remained. The bas-relief images the gold had once lit were now faded and mostly shapeless, hinting of a procession of human figures in ceremonial garb. The floor was laid with bright, geometric tiles, forming no discernible pattern around a central disc of polished granite, and much worn.
Torches high on the stone walls flickered yellow light and exhaled tendrils of black smoke that drifted in the chamber’s currents. Standing motionless to either side of the entrance and before each of the fourteen doors arrayed behind the tiers were Gidrath guards, visored and in full scaled armour.
The fourteen priests of the Mask Council sat in a row on the highest of the three tiers, sombre in their robes and silent behind the carved, hinged masks of their gods. The representations were varied but singularly ghastly, caricatured in their malleable expressions, though at the moment every one of them was fixed in neutral regard.
Brukhalian’s boots echoed as he strode to halt in the centre of the chamber, standing on the single huge millstone appropriately called the Navel. ‘Mask Council,’ he intoned, ‘may I present to you Hetan and Cafal, Barghast emissaries of the White Face. The Grey Swords have honoured the request for this introduction. Now that it is complete, we shall depart this session.’ He stepped back.
