Return of the Crimson Guard (72 page)

Metal ground and scratched as the helm edged down to regard him directly. ‘It will take
what?’

Flames lit the column of the Crimson Guard as it climbed the road west out of town. Afoot, Shimmer paused to look back to burning Cawn as the buildings collapsed into charred ruins. Wagons piled high with hoarded and hidden foodstuffs rumbled past her drawn by
straining, sweaty racing thoroughbreds, their eyes rolling white at their unaccustomed treatment. A column of impressed Cawn levies also marched by, pikes and spears awry, the youths’ own eyes also wide from their unaccustomed treatment. She rubbed her side where Shell had cut deep to cure the infection from that crossbow bolt – one of the worst woundings she'd ever yet received.

She had spoken against any impressments at the field meeting. But she had to admit that their numbers were needed to flesh out the base of the Guard forces. An officer cadre of nearly one hundred Avowed commanded a force of nine thousand Guard veterans, swelled now by close to fifteen thousand recruits from Bael, Stratem and Cawn. A force small in numbers, she knew, in comparison to Imperial armies, but the Avowed were worth much more than mere numbers, and twelve were mages.

She watched the flames licking the south horizon and the coiling haze of smoke and wondered just how many towns and settlements they had left behind in similar straits. So many! Did all now count their name a curse? As surely did the Cawnese. Yet hadn't they come as liberators? She drew off a soot-stained gauntlet to pinch her eyes for a time as if attempting to blot out the sight. A cough brought her attention around; the Malazan renegade, Greymane, at her side. Helmet under an arm, his thinned ice-blue eyes seemed to regard her with real concern. ‘Yes?’

He raised his grey-stubbled chin to the west. ‘The column's well past, Lieutenant.’

Frowning, Shimmer followed his glance; sure enough, while she stood lost in thought the column had marched completely past. She was noticing such moments more often now that she and the other Avowed moved among – how should she put it – normal men and women. Occasionally, she or and another Avowed would stand sharing a conversation, or their reminiscences, only to find an entire afternoon had fled. It was as if they had entered into a different time – or more accurately a differing
perception
of it – from the rest of humanity.

She inclined her head and invited Greymane onward. ‘Shall we join them?’

A half-smile pulled at the man's fleshy mouth and he bowed.

‘Many of the Avowed wonder at your being with us here, Greymane,’ she said as they walked. ‘Once more we will face Imperials – perhaps those of your old command.’

A thoughtful nod of agreement. ‘We will face Imperials, but none of my command. They remain trapped in Korel. The truth is I am
even more pleased to be among the Guard with what we hear of this civil war, or insurgency, call it what you will, and this Talian League. It would seem to me that any domestic, ah, reorganization, would hopefully work against the continuance of, ah … overseas entanglements.’

Shimmer regarded the wide-shouldered ex-commander. The wind pulled at his long, straight grey hair; sun and wind had tanned his round, blunt features a dark berry hue. Obviously, the man had benefited from his share of the life-extending Denul rituals the riches of Empire allowed. It occurred to her that here was one of the few people alive who could be considered close to an Avowed himself. Yet so far what had he demonstrated while among them? Very little. The majority of her brothers and sisters were – to be honest – dismissive of the man. They regarded him a failure, a flawed officer who had broken under the strain of a difficult command. She however sensed within him something more. A veiled strength great enough to have defied not only his own superiors but the Korelan Stormguard as well.
Overseas entanglements’
Obviously, here also was an officer who felt keenly the responsibilities of leading soldiers.

‘I have been considering my staff and I'm offering you a captaincy and command of a flank in the field.’

The man's grey-shot brows climbed. ‘A captaincy?’

‘Yes. Do you accept?’

‘I am honoured by your trust. But perhaps there will be objections—’

There damn well will be objections, but no challenges. Do you accept?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Now, what can we do to make these recruits reliable?’

A grin of square white teeth. ‘A few small victories would go a long way.’

* * *

The chambers of Li Heng's ruling High Court of Magistrates were known officially as the Hall of Prudence and Conscientious Guidance; to others it was the Palace of Puckering and Spluttering. Predictably, it mirrored the city as a round room where a raised gallery looked down on a central floor. A continuous table of pink marble circuited the upper gallery where the magistrates held court over all petitioners below.

Hurl, her torso tightly bandaged beneath her leathers, now
occupied that floor, alongside Storo, Silk, Liss, Rell and Captain Gujran. Gritting her teeth, it was all she could do to stop herself from walking out on this absurd proceeding immediately. But Storo had
requested
her cooperation and so she was present, despite the strong need for a drink. It was also only the first time she'd seen Silk since the attack – the mage had been busy or making himself absent of late. She still had a lot of pointed questions for him regarding that city mage, Ahl.

The magistrates fiddled and shuffled their papers, or rather, their servants did, sitting behind them and acting as their amanuenses. Many eyes, Hurl noted, watched not Storo, as one might expect, but rather the wiry Genabackan youth Rell, who stood with his head lowered, long greasy hair obscuring his face. Rumours abounded of what this man had accomplished at the North Gate of the Inner Round. Hurl was not surprised; she'd seen him in action enough not to be surprised by any of his unbelievable acts of swordsmanship.

Magistrate Ehrlann tapped the butt of his switch on the table, cleared his throat. ‘Honoured fellow magistrates, assembled citizens, appellants. We are gathered here to discuss a serious course of action arising from the recent catastrophes inflicted upon this city by its current military leadership.’ Behind Ehrlann his servant, Jamaer, scribbled awkwardly on a vellum sheet balanced on his knees. The magistrate pointed the switch at Storo. ‘Sergeant Storo Matash, temporarily promoted Fist, do you have anything to say in your defence at this time?’

Storo unclasped his hands from behind his back, his broad face impassive. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

High above them, the magistrates exchanged uneasy glances. Ehrlann shook his switch as if dusting the table of the case. ‘Very well, commander. You leave us no choice but to pursue the painful course of action this court has decided upon.’ He pointed the switch. ‘You, Fist, are stripped of all rank, dismissed and placed under arrest for gross negligence.’ The switch flicked to Captain Gujran. ‘You, Captain, by the power invested in this court, are promoted to rank of Fist – on a provisional basis only, of course – and charged with military command of this city. Your first action as commander will be to open negotiations with the besieging force to explore terms of surrender. There you are, Fist Gujran. You have your commission. Please act upon it.’

Hurl turned to peer about the room, at the set faces of the magistrates glowering in a full circle down upon them. It occurred to her that the place didn't have one window. Just seven old men and five old women blinking inward at one another from across a circular room. A single window looking out on the city, it seemed to her, would have helped this court a great deal. As it was, Captain Gujran standing beside her just scratched a flame-scorched brow and said, ‘No.’

The switch froze. ‘No?’

‘No.’

The switch trembled. ‘Think, Captain. You are risking your future, your career. You are being offered a rank far above that which your breeding could otherwise ever allow.’

Gujran's hands went to his belt. ‘You're doin’ yourself no favours with that, magistrate.’

‘Enough of this charade,’ Magistrate Plengyllen burst out from where he sat a quarter of the way around the room. ‘Arrest the lot of them.’ He waved his switch at a guard. ‘Summon the soldiers of the court. Arrest these criminals.’

The guard glanced to the centre of the room. Storo gave the smallest of assents. The guard left. Three of the twelve magistrates also sprang to their feet and hurriedly left the room. Hurl grasped Storo's arm to point but Storo waved her concern aside. Shortly the magistrates reappeared, backing into the chamber, forced in by soldiery filling all exits.

Magistrate Ehrlann glanced about, took in the soldiery, their Imperial colours, and swore. He threw his switch to the tabletop. He slipped his fingers over the forward edge of the table, his mouth twisting his disgust. ‘So,’ he hissed. ‘It comes to this. Usurpation of legitimate republican rule. Once more you Malazans are revealed for the pirates and thugs you are.
Your
rule is the sword and the fist. Ours authority arises from the consent of the ruled. We shall see of which history approves.’

Storo inclined his head to the guards, who motioned the magistrates from their seats. ‘It seems to me, Magistrate Ehrlann, that you are only legitimately blind to the truth that oppression comes in many forms. Consider, if you are capable, the rather narrow constituency you and your circle claim to speak for in this city for the last hundred years.’

The magistrate gaped at Storo – as did Hurl. Never before had she heard the man speak in such a manner. It occurred to her that many hours of expensive private tutoring stood behind such opinions.

Contact with rulership seemed to be bringing out the man's hidden talents.

As a guard reached for him, Ehrlann spun to his servant. ‘Do something, Jamaer! They're arresting me!’ Jamaer's feather pen scratched as he dutifully copied down the magistrate's words. Snarling, Ehrlann slapped the papers from the man's lap. ‘No, no! Do
something,
you fool. You've worked for me for over thirty years! Doesn't that count for something?’

Slowly, solemnly, Jamaer handed the magistrate his umbrella.

Hurl suppressed a laugh while Liss chortled. The stunned incomprehension on Ehrlann's face was worth it.

Once the magistrates had been taken away Storo ordered the guard to withdraw. He waited for the room to clear, his hands reclasped at his back, and studied the flagged black marble floor. Silk paced, and Hurl noted that despite the opportunity, even in a besieged city, the mage had yet to replace or mend his tattered finery, or even repair his worn boots. He also noted that while the mage paced from one side of the room to the other, his glance unfailingly returned to Storo. While Storo, it seemed to her, with his downcast eyes, was avoiding the man's attention.

Then Liss straightened, hissing, and faced the single lower floor entry portal. Silk stopped pacing. Three men entered – or, rather, three versions of what seemed to Hurl to be the same man, though each was dressed differently – Ahl, the very mage who had saved her. Hurl rubbed her eyes. Liss visibly shrank from the three's advance. Reacting to the tensions of the room, Rell shifted to stand next to Storo, his hands on the grips of his twinned swords now returned to his shoulder baldrics.

Liss's heated gaze darted to Silk. ‘How dare you invite this man – this creature – back into the city.’

‘We need allies, Liss.’

A fat arm shot out, pointing. ‘That Path is an abomination!’

As one, the three grinned – though their smiles were not identical; the one Hurl was sure had introduced himself as Ahl, the left side of his face drooped as if dead, while another's right side hung slack, also as if dead. The third seemed to suffer no such affliction at all. Studying them more closely now, Hurl noted many more differences: one had his hair cut short while it hung long and unkempt on another. Each also bore differing wounds: a facial slash on one, a mangled, mishealed hand on another.

‘Nice to see …’ said the one in a soldier's light leathers.

‘… You too …’ said Ahl, wearing his dirty frayed robes.

‘… Liss,’ finished the third, in a reversed sheepskin tunic sashed at his waist.