The Malazan Empire, page 559
Up ahead, the crowd had slowed the ex-priest’s pace, which was good, since already nothing was going as planned. The target should have been settled in for the night at Coop’s, and the Hand was likely closing in on the alley behind the inn, there to await his contacting them with the necessary details.
Pointing the Skull, they used to call it. Identifying the target right there, right then, in person. A proper reward for following the fool around for sometimes weeks on end – seeing the actual assassination. Be that as it may, as things were turning out he would be bloodying his own hands with this target tonight, now that the decision had been made to kill the drunkard.
A convenient conjoining of Saygen Maral’s divided loyalties. Trained from childhood in the Imperial Claw – ever since he had been taken from his dead mother’s side, aged fourteen, at the Cull of the Wax Witches in the Mouse Quarter all those years ago – his disaffection with the Empress had taken a long time to emerge, and even then, if not for the Jhistal Master it would never have found focus, or indeed purpose. Of course, discovering precisely how his mother had died had helped considerably.
The empire was rotten through and through, and he knew he wasn’t the only Claw to realize this; just as he wasn’t the only one who now followed the commands of the Jhistal Master – most of the Hand on its way down from Mock’s Hold belonged to the phantom Black Glove that was the name of Mallick Rel’s spectral organization. In truth, there was no way of telling just how many of the Imperial Claw had been turned – each agent was aware of but three others, forming a discrete cell – in itself a classic Claw structure.
In any case, Clawmaster Pearl had confirmed the order to kill Banaschar. Comforting, that.
He remained ten paces behind the ex-priest, acutely aware of the seething violence in this mob – encouraged by the idiotic cries of ‘An omen!’ and ‘A Wickan head!’ – but he carried on his person certain items, invested with sorcery, that encouraged a lack of attention from everyone he pushed past, that dampened their ire momentarily no matter how rude and painful his jabbing elbows.
They were close to the docks now, and agents of the Jhistal Master were in the milling crowd, working them ever nastier and more belligerent with well-timed shouts and exhortations. No more than fifty City Watch soldiers faced a mass now numbering in the high hundreds, an under-strength presence that had been carefully coordinated by selective incompetence among the officers at the nearby barracks.
He noted a retinue of more heavily armed and armoured soldiers escorting a ranking officer towards the centre dock, before which now loomed the Adjunct’s flagship. The captain, Saygen Maral knew, was delivering a most auspicious set of imperial commands. And those, in turn, would lead inexorably to a night of slaughter such as this city had never before experienced. Not even the Cull in the Mouse would compare.
The assassin smiled.
Welcome home, Adjunct.
His breath caught suddenly as a prickling sensation awoke on his left shoulder beneath his clothes. A small sliver of metal threaded under his skin had awakened, informing him that he was being followed by someone with murderous intent. Clumsy. A killer should ever mask such thoughts. After all, Mockra is the most common natural talent, needing no formal training – that whispering unease, the hair rising on the back of the neck – far too many people possess such things.
Nonetheless, even a clumsy killer could know the Lady’s Pull on occasion, just as Saygen Maral, for all his skills and preparation, could stumble – fatally – to the Lord’s Push.
Ahead, now fifteen paces away, Banaschar was working free of the crowd, and Saygen sensed the man’s warren – Mockra, yes, achieving what my own invested items have done. Uninterest, sudden fugue, confusion – the sharper the mind, after all, the more vulnerable it proves to such passive assaults. To be a killer, of course, one needed to fend off such sorcery. Simple awareness of the trap sufficed, and so Saygen Maral was not concerned. His intent was most singular.
Of course he would have to eliminate his own hunters first.
Banaschar was heading for the Stairs. There was little risk in Saygen effecting a slight delay. He saw an alley mouth off to the left, where the crowd was thin. The assassin angled himself towards it, and, as he stepped past the last figure, quickly turned left and slipped into the alley.
Gloom, rubbish under foot, a tortured, winding route before him. He continued on five more steps, found an alcove and edged into it.
‘He’s getting ready to take the drunk,’ Gentur hissed. ‘He’ll circle round—’
‘Then let’s get after ’im,’ Mudslinger whispered, pushing his friend on.
They entered the alley, padded forward.
The shadows swallowing the niche were too deep, too opaque to be natural, and both soldiers went right past without a second thought.
A faint sound, whistling past Mudslinger’s left shoulder, and Gentur grunted, flinging up his hands as he staggered forward, then collapsed. Whirling, Mudslinger ducked low, but not low enough, as a second tiny quarrel struck him on his chest, directly over his heart, and, still spinning round with his own momentum, the soldier’s feet skidded out beneath him. He fell hard, the back of his head crunching on the greasy cobbles.
Saygen Maral studied the two motionless bodies for a moment longer, then he reloaded the corkscrew crossbows strapped to his wrists. First shot, base of the skull. Second shot, heart – that was a lucky one, since I was aiming for low in the gut. Guess he didn’t want all that pain. Too bad. Anyway…What were they thinking of doing? Mugging me? No matter, it’s done. Adjusting his sleeves, hiding the weapons once more, he set off after Banaschar.
A sixth of a bell later, the Claw realized that he had lost the man. In rising panic, he began backtracking, down alleys and streets, as a cool breeze lifted withered leaves that spun random paths across cobbles.
Making clicking sounds, like the skittering of dice.
The huge wheels of twisted rope suspended on the side of the stone jetty compressed as the Froth Wolf shouldered its bulk against them, then the craft slid away again, momentarily, until the lines, made fast to the dock’s huge bollards, drew taut. The gangplank rattled and thumped into place even as the garrison captain and his guards approached along the jetty’s length. Pointedly ignoring the troop of Red Blades standing at attention opposite the plank with their one-armed, one-eyed commander.
Something had just struck the sea beyond the anchored fleet, and the thunderous sound of its impact still echoed, even as darkness swept back into the wake of the bright, blazing fireball. The smell of steam was heavy in the air.
It had seemed to Keneb that there was a peculiar lack of reaction to this event, from the Adjunct and T’amber, at any rate. There had been plenty of shouts, warding gestures then animated talk among the sailors, but that was to be expected.
Let’s face it, Keneb admitted, the timing was less than auspicious. It was no wonder that thousand-strong mob awaiting them were shouting about omens.
The Fist’s attention was drawn once more to the approaching contingent.
‘They mean to come aboard, Adjunct,’ Keneb said as she prepared to disembark.
Tavore frowned, then nodded and stepped back. T’amber positioned herself to the Adjunct’s left.
Boots thumped on the plank, and the captain halted one step from the ship’s deck. He looked round, as if deciding what to do next.
Moving forward, Keneb said, ‘Good evening, Captain, I am Fist Keneb, Eighth Legion, Fourteenth Army.’
A moment’s hesitation, then a salute. ‘Fist Keneb. I have orders for the Adjunct Tavore Paran. May I come on deck?’
‘Of course,’ Keneb said.
Mostly unintelligible shouts and curses reached them from the crowds massing behind a line of soldiers on the waterfront, many of them taunts directed at the Red Blades. At these sounds, the captain winced slightly, then he moved forward until he faced the Adjunct. ‘The Empress awaits you,’ he said, ‘in Mock’s Hold. In your absence, command of the Fourteenth Army temporarily falls to me, with respect to disembarking and standing down.’
‘I see,’ Tavore said.
The captain shifted uneasily, as if he had been expecting some kind of protest, as if her lack of reaction to his words was the very last thing he anticipated. ‘It appears that the transports are anchoring in the bay, Adjunct.’
‘Yes, it does appear so, Captain.’
‘That will need to be countermanded immediately.’
‘Captain, what is your name?’
‘Adjunct? My apologies. It is Rynag. Captain Rynag of the Untan Imperial Guard.’
‘Ah, then you have accompanied the Empress to the island. Your normal posting is as an officer in the Palace Guard.’
Rynag cleared his throat. ‘Correct, Adjunct, although as a matter of course my responsibilities have expand—’
‘T’amber,’ the Adjunct cut in. ‘Please collect Kalam Mekhar. He is, I believe, once more at the stern.’ She studied the captain for a moment longer, then asked him, ‘The Empress commands that I meet her alone?’
‘Uh, she was not specific—’
‘Very well—’
‘Excuse me, Adjunct. Not specific, as I said, with one exception.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. The High Mage Adaephon Delat is to remain on board until such time as directed otherwise.’
Tavore frowned for a moment, then said, ‘Very well.’
‘I believe I was speaking about countermanding the order to drop anchor—’
‘I leave that to you, Captain Rynag,’ the Adjunct said as T’amber reappeared, Kalam trailing a step behind. ‘We will make use of your escort, as well as that of Fist Baralta’s Red Blades, to ensure our passage through that mob.’ With that, and a gesture to T’amber and the assassin to follow, she disembarked.
Bemused, the captain watched them cross over to the jetty. A few curt commands to the Imperial Guards assembled there and a careless gesture to Tene Baralta and his soldiers to fall in, and the two groups moved out in uneasy company to flank Tavore and her two companions. Then the party set off.
Rynag swung back to Keneb. ‘Fist?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well…’
‘Things aren’t going as planned, Captain?’ Keneb stepped close and slapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Consider this, it could be worse. Correct that. It is much worse.’
‘No longer,’ the man snapped, finally angry. ‘I am now in command of the Fourteenth Army, Fist Keneb, and these are my orders. Signal flag to Admiral Nok. The escorts are to withdraw and set sail without delay for Unta. Signal flag to the foreign fleet, they are to anchor outside the bay, this side of the shoals on the headland north of Mock’s Hold. A pilot ship will guide them. Finally, signal flag to the transports – we will establish a number system; and thereafter in sets of fifteen they will weigh anchor and draw in to the designated moorings. The disembarking will begin as soon as possible, Fist. Furthermore, the soldiers are to be unarmed, their kits secured for transportation.’
Keneb scratched his stubbly jaw.
‘Why are you just standing there, Fist Keneb?’
‘I am trying to decide, Captain, where to begin.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All right, never mind. First of all, whether you are in command of the Fourteenth Army or not, you do not outrank Admiral Nok. Signal him all you want. He will do precisely as he pleases.’
‘I am instructed by the Empress—’
‘He will need to see those orders, Captain. In person. The Admiral is very precise with such protocol. I assume you have said orders?’
‘Of course I have! Very well, signal him aboard!’
‘Alas, he will not comply.’
‘What?’
‘Now, as for the Perish – the foreign fleet, Captain Rynag – the only command they acknowledge, under the circumstances, is their own. By all means, make your request, but be certain that it is a request. Lest they take offence, and Captain, you truly do not want them to take offence.’
‘You are leaving me no choice but to relieve you of command, Fist.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I have given you my orders, yet still you stand here—’
‘Well that is precisely the problem, Captain. Not one of your orders can be carried out, for the imperative overriding them cannot be challenged, not by you, not even by the Empress herself.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Keneb said, ‘Follow me, please, Captain.’
They walked to the stern. In the bay beyond, the huge transports loomed a short distance away like gigantic, slumbering beasts.
‘Granted,’ Keneb said, ‘darkness obscures, and for this reason it is understandable that you do not as yet comprehend. But, allow me to direct your gaze, Captain, to the topmost signal flag on those near ships, a flag identical to those on Nok’s dromons. In a moment, when that cloud passes by the moon, with Oponn’s blessing there will be enough light with which to see. There is an edict, Captain, pertaining to survival itself. You seem to forget, both the Fourteenth Army and the imperial fleet have come from Seven Cities.’
The cloud slid away from the blurred, hazy moon, and enough light licked waves, ships, and flags for Rynag to see. The captain’s breath caught in a half-choke. ‘Gods below!’ he whispered.
‘And Seven Cities,’ Keneb continued in a calm voice, ‘was struck by a most virulent plague. Which, as you can now see, we inadvertently brought with us. So, Captain, do you now understand why we cannot comply with your commands?’
The man spun to face him, his eyes filled with terror and panic. ‘And this damned ship?’ he demanded in a hoarse voice. ‘And the other one that just docked? Fist Keneb—’
‘Plague-free, both of them, Captain, as was the ship from whence came the Red Blades. We would not have moored alongside were it otherwise. Anyway, beyond signal flags, there is no contact between ships. For obvious reasons. I suppose, if you believe the Empress would nonetheless insist we one and all disembark regardless of the slaughter our presence would deliver to Malaz Island – and, inevitably, to the entire mainland – you can insist on countermanding our collective gesture of compassion and mercy. Unquestionably, the name of Captain Rynag will acquire legendary status, at least among devotees to Poliel – nothing wrong with seeing the positives, don’t you think?’
The group marched ever closer to the wall of belligerence blocking the streets. Kalam loosened the long-knives in their scabbards. Glancing over, he found himself walking alongside Captain Lostara Yil, who looked profoundly unhappy.
‘Suggest you all draw your weapons any time now,’ the assassin said to her. ‘That should be enough to make them back off.’
She grunted. ‘Until they start throwing bricks.’
‘I doubt it. We’re for the Empress, not them. The ones these people are hungry to sink their teeth into are out there in the transports. The Wickans. The Khundryl Burned Tears.’
‘Clever ruse,’ Lostara said under her breath, ‘those flags.’
‘Fist Keneb.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Aye.’ Then Kalam smiled. ‘Spinner of Death. A prettier lie you won’t find. Fid must be grinning ear to ear, if he ain’t drowning.’
‘Drowning?’
‘He was over the side before the Silanda shipped oars, is my guess – probably Gesler and Stormy went with him, too.’
Just then they reached the line of City Watch, who parted to let them pass.
Weapons hissed from scabbards and shields were brought round by the Red Blades.
And, as Kalam had predicted, the crowds fell silent, watchful, and backed away to each side to let the party make its way through.
‘So,’ the assassin said under his breath, ‘we’ve got ourselves a long, dull walk. Sound idea, by the way, Captain, your Fist deciding to act on his own.’
The look she shot him started sweat beneath Kalam’s clothing, as she asked, ‘Was it, Kalam Mekhar?’
‘Well—’
She faced straight ahead again. ‘The Fist,’ she said in a whisper, ‘hasn’t even begun.’
Well…oh, that’s not good at all.
Behind the troop, the mob closed in once again, and there arose new shouts, this time of horror.
‘Plague flags! On the transports in the bay! Plague flags!’
In moments belligerence drained away like piss down a leg, and terror grabbed hold between those legs – squeezing hard – and people began swarming in every direction, but a heartbeat away from pure, frenzied panic. Kalam kept his smile to himself.
Ever so faint, the clatter of knuckles bouncing and skidding had alerted Banaschar. This night the Worm was awake, and with it the return of the ex-priest’s old sensitivities to the whisper of magic. In rapid succession thereafter, as he shifted from his path and found a dead-end alley in which to crouch, heart pounding, he felt multiple pulses of sorcery – a gate, slicing open the thinnest rent, the sudden, violent unravelling of some unseen tapestry, and then, finally, a trembling underfoot, as if something terrible and vast had just stepped onto the dry land of this island.
Dizzy from the successive waves of virulent power, Banaschar straightened once more, one hand against a grimy wall for support, then he headed off – back, back towards the harbourfront.
No choice, no choice. I need to see…to understand…
As he drew nearer, he could smell panic in the air, acrid and bitter, and all at once there were mute figures hurrying past him – the beginnings of an exodus. Faces twisted in fear blurred by, and others dark with rage – as if their plans had been suddenly knocked awry, and there was not yet time to find a means to regroup, nor yet the opportunity to think things through.
Something’s happened.
Maybe to do with that falling rock or whatever it was.
In the old days, such an occurrence, on the eve of autumn, the eve of D’rek’s arrival upon the mortal earth…well, we’d have flooded the streets. Out from the temples, raising our voices to the heavens. And the coffers would overflow, because there could be no mistaking…
