Assail (49 page)

‘Fine,’ Cartheron sighed. He gestured to Jute. ‘Pay the man.’

Jute blinked. ‘Pardon? Me? Pay?’

Cartheron waved him forward. ‘’Course!’

The hireswords parted to reveal a table. The woman in the expensive armour leaned against it and urged Jute onward. Jute pulled out his purse and started setting coin on the scarred wood planks. The woman crossed her arms, counting. Upon closer inspection, the scars appeared to be knife slashes. As if someone had deliberately savaged her face. She caught Jute eyeing her and pointed a finger down. He quickly lowered his gaze. In the end, it took every silver coin he possessed to satisfy her. Sighing her irritation, she finally waved him off and brushed all the coin into an ironbound wooden box the size of a helmet.

Black Bull held out an arm, inviting them onward. ‘There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Wrongway welcomes you.’

Cartheron pushed forward and Jute followed. The old Napan captain picked what seemed a random narrow mud trail that led up the gently rising slope of the shore. Before they’d made five turns Jute had had to step over three bodies. One he was certain was dead, what with his throat slit and the stream of blood that stained the already ochre-red mud a far deeper crimson. The other two, a woman and a man, he suspected to have merely passed out dead drunk in the muck.

Cartheron appeared to be making for the noisiest – and largest – tent nearby. Within, under the raised eaves, was the equivalent of a tavern. A band, of sorts, played stringed and wind instruments. The crowd roared their encouragement from tables assembled from wave-wrack and ship’s timbers. Fights broke out and spilled into the mud surrounding the great tent. A long bar separated the patrons from the kegs of spirits. On the counter stood several fine weight scales of the sort one might find in a goldsmith’s.

The skinny old captain mortified Jute by stepping right up on to the nearest table. The men and women drinking there yanked their leather and earthenware tankards from beneath his muddy boots. ‘What in the name of the Matron you doin’?’ one huge bear of a fellow bellowed and Jute flinched – an ex-Urdomen from the old Pannion Annexation, for certain.

Cartheron ignored him. He set two fingers to his mouth and emitted the most piercing whistle that had ever punished Jute’s ears. The entire tavern became instantly silent. Every face turned to him; even the musicians had frozen. Cartheron raised a hand, signed something, circled the arm overhead, then stepped down from the table and exited the tent. Jute, still somewhat stunned, hurried to follow.

Outside, he caught up. ‘What was that? What’s going on?’

‘Now we wait.’

The music started up once more. The crowd laughed and jeered, perhaps at Cartheron’s expense. After a few minutes two men came out, followed by a third. The first two were thick-shouldered and heavy, obvious ex-soldiers. Both possessed bushy flame-hued beards.

‘Names?’ Cartheron demanded.

‘Red,’ said one.

‘Rusty.’

‘How’s the gold-huntin’ business treating you?’

‘Piss-poor,’ said Rusty.

‘You in?’ Both nodded. ‘Okay, spread the word – Cartheron’s in town.’

Red’s arm rose to salute but he stopped his fist before it struck his chest and lowered it. ‘Sorry.’ They ambled off.

The third man approached. He looked like nothing more than a starving itinerant, thin unto emaciation. His mussed pale brown hair was going to premature grey. His face was pinched and his small close-set eyes were yellow with what Jute recognized as a heavy addiction to the khall leaf. Indeed, one cheek was fat with a ball of it.

‘You look like you are in need of some gold dust,’ the fellow called out, quite loudly.

‘No we’re not,’ Jute answered. ‘Get out of here, y’damned khall-head.’

Cartheron raised a hand to quiet Jute. He was studying the man closely, frowning in something like wary recognition. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘we’re lookin’ for gold dust.’

‘I know who has it – and who doesn’t.’

‘Good. Show us round and we’ll send some your way.’

The man smiled dreamily. Something in his lazy distracted manner made Jute’s skin crawl. It was as if he was moving underwater. And he was constantly brushing at his tattered shirt, tapping his fingertips together, and shifting his weight from side to side in a kind of weaving dance. ‘Need to get some to have some,’ he murmured.

Jute thought he saw Cartheron sign something to the man before the fellow waved an arm, inviting them on. ‘This way,’ he said vaguely.

He started off ahead of them and Cartheron pulled Jute back, whispering, ‘You keep out of this one’s way, yes?’

Jute was utterly confused, but nodded. ‘Certainly. If you say so.’ The khall-head glanced back at them, a languorous smile on his lips, and urged them on. ‘Come, come. This way.’

He led them to a tent containing another of the informal bars and here Cartheron repeated his performance. Afterwards, he led them on a lazy walk round an intervening set of tents before squatting on his skinny haunches in the mud.

Three men and one woman came ambling in from different directions to join them. Jute was startled to see by the cut of their hair and facial scars the mark of north Genabackan tribals – Barghast half-breeds perhaps. But veterans, cashiered Malazan veterans. They stood stiffly before Cartheron but couldn’t stop shooting each other excited grins.

Cartheron looked them up and down then nodded to himself. ‘Make the rounds. Tap any old hands you can find. Spread the word. We’ll rendezvous at …’ He turned to their guide. ‘I’m looking for a place with a nice view.’

The man tilted his head to stare off into the distance. He smiled, but emptily. ‘Anna’s Alehouse,’ he said.

Cartheron waved the four away. ‘There you go.’ They nodded and their grins turned savage with glee. They wandered off in different directions.

Jute watched all this feeling his brows crimping harder and harder, and finally he had to ask: ‘What’s going on? What are you doing?’

‘Crewing up.’ Cartheron urged their guide onward. ‘Let’s go.’

The khall-head led them to three more tent-bars and three more times Cartheron repeated his performance. By this time, Jute noticed among the crowds of men and women coming and going about them a number of the ex-soldiers here and there, surrounding them, keeping pace. Like some sort of guard. At last, Cartheron turned to their guide. ‘Anna’s Alehouse now, I think.’

It was long past twilight when they ducked under the raised sides of the large canvas tent that was Anna’s Alehouse. Their guide had waved them on, absently and vaguely, as if he could hardly make the effort, then wandered off.

The alehouse was jammed with fortune-hunters. Jute recognized many of the ex-Malazan soldiery. Cartheron headed to a table towards the centre that, as he approached, somehow became empty in a scuffle of spilled drinks and upset chairs. When Cartheron sat he pulled Jute with him and suddenly the table was crowded with the most hardened, scarred and battered veterans Jute had ever sat down with. It was like the old days, before Ieleen, before he swore off pirating for her.

She’d be so mad if she saw him here in this company.

A man in an apron approached and Cartheron ordered ale all round. The man held out a hand and Cartheron set a coin in his palm: a Malazan gold crown. Jute saw it and sent a bloody glare to the old captain. He raised a hand, murmured, ‘Just getting some attention.’

A moment later the crowd parted for a woman – a very large woman. Her face was garishly painted and her very ample bosom was spilling out of a barely laced top. She planted both meaty hands on the table before Cartheron and leaned forward, purring, ‘What can Anna do for you, sailor?’

The old captain twisted his bearded lips into something resembling a smile. He pulled a leather pouch from under his shirt and felt about within it then drew out two fingers pinched together and held them out. Anna pursed her fat painted lips in a silent ohhhhh and raised a hand.

Cartheron dropped something into her palm. It was tiny, frosted, and faceted.

Jute leaned forward to study it: a raw diamond. Or a wondrous fake.

Anna snapped her hand closed. She leaned even further forward. ‘Anything catch your fancy, sailor?’

He offered her a wink. ‘Like to have a private party, Anna. If I may. Invitation only.’

‘Certainly.’ She gave a husky laugh and wiggled. Though, to Jute, it was more like a wobble. ‘I
love
private parties.’ She straightened, opened her arms. ‘The place is yours.’

‘Clear the house,’ Cartheron said.

Men and women all about jumped to their feet. They took others by their shirts and necks, marched them to the sides of the tent, and threw them out into the mud. Anna watched with growing horror. One thick hand gathered together her shirt while the other went to her neck.

‘Lower the sides,’ Cartheron ordered.

The hanging leather strips were pulled and the sailcloth sides of the tent fell. In the muted light of the front flap, open still, Anna turned on Cartheron. ‘Those were paying customers!’

‘I’ve paid for the premises,’ he growled. ‘I suggest you take the night off.’

The big woman peered about at the gathered men and women, rough-looking ex-soldiers all, and a growing unease replaced her outrage. Her chin wobbled as she slowly nodded her head. ‘Lentz! Kora!’ she called, ‘Take the night off! These gentlemen have private business to attend to. Business,’ she added, ‘that we know nothing about.’

Cartheron glanced to the front and the woman took the hint; she marched stiffly out. His men now held the doorway. Some patrons they turned away, others they allowed in. Lamps of cheap fat were lit. Cartheron scanned the gathered crowd while nodding to himself.

‘How many men does this Lying Gell have?’

‘’Bout three hundred,’ someone supplied.

‘Quality?’

‘Thugs, strongarms, bandits. Nothin’ more.’

Jute was listening to all this and nodding his head and now he exclaimed, ‘I see it now! You’re taking over!’

Cartheron eyed him frostily. ‘No, I’m not doin’ that. This place is an indefensible swamp.’ He peered round once more. ‘There was supposed to be a regular town up here.’

‘There was,’ someone said. ‘All these waves of invaders ran ’em off. Took some fighting, I tell you.’

‘Where’d they go?’

‘Mantle.’

‘That’s some kinda fortress, right? What’s the situation there?’

‘Some Lether captain and a few other principals have the place surrounded. But they don’t know siegework worth crap.’

‘Does this keep, or whatever it is, have a harbour?’

‘Yeah. That’s blockaded right now.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Cartheron muttered.

‘You’re going to take the fortress?’ Jute asked.

The old captain ignored him. ‘Okay,’ he barked. ‘Here’s the drill. I want a head-count. I want you lot to shake out into squads. Then I want sergeants and up to come present themselves. Is that clear? Okay, let’s go. Don’t have all night.’

It seemed to Jute that everyone started talking at once. Cartheron turned to him. ‘I’m gonna send you off with an escort back to the ships. Have them ready to cast off at a moment’s notice, right?’

Jute waved to indicate everything around him. ‘What’s going on? What is all this? You’ve just collected your own army.’

Cartheron pulled a hand through his patchy salt and pepper beard, sighed. ‘Sorry, captain. Haven’t been entirely honest with you. I
was
on my way here when I was contacted by … by some old acquaintances. I was asked … well, a proposition was made that I help out up here.’

‘So you’re working for the Empire.’

The old man scowled, offended. ‘Done with that. Free agent now. Just contracted to lend aid to certain parties. That’s all.’ He raised his attention to the crowd surrounding them. ‘I want one squad to shadow my friend here down to the docks and help guard his ship. Are we good with that?’

A woman raised her hand. ‘We’ll take it.’

‘Okay.’ He motioned Jute to the front. ‘See you later. Be ready to cast off fast.’

Jute reluctantly pushed himself away from the table. ‘But what are you up to here? What are you going to do?’

Cartheron waved him on. ‘Don’t you worry ’bout that. Go on with you.’

The woman accompanied him through the maze of tents. Torches burned at various main intersections of footpaths. Gangs hung about seemingly ready to waylay anyone who appeared relatively defenceless. Passing one such group, the woman pulled her muddy cloak away from her side to reveal her longsword and the men stepped back from blocking their way. Jute also noticed members of the ‘squad’ down side alleys, shadowing their progress.

He studied the woman: stocky fighter’s build, a pretty face, after a fashion. Thick dark brown hair that fell in waves to her shoulders. Fair-skinned. Armoured in a battered hauberk of banded iron over leathers. ‘You’re of north Genabackis.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You are a Malazan veteran?’

‘Yeah. Cashiered.’

‘You know Cartheron?’

The woman snorted. ‘Abyss, no. How old do you think I am?’

‘I’m sorry. I just thought … since you showed up …’