Return of the Crimson Guard (15 page)

‘Soon.’

‘A while,’
Taya repeated, the sudden iron in her voice surprising from such a slip of a girl.

Mallick raised a placating hand. ‘Please, love. Listen. Time for subtlety and slyness is fast dissipating. Waters are rising and all indications tell it will soon be time to push our modest ship on to the current of events.’

Taya leaned back, plucked at the feather-like white cloth draped over one thigh. ‘I see. Very well. But it may be very messy. There may be … questions.’

Mallick set aside his glass, stood. ‘Such questions swept aside by the coming storm. Now, I shall leave you to your work.’

‘Am I to begin tonight, then? Dressed as I am?’ She spread her arms wide.

Mallick eyed her indifferently. ‘If you think it best. I would never presume to instruct you how to pursue your work.’

Taya's slapped the plush cloth of the armrests. ‘Damn you, Mallick, to the Chained One's own anguish. I don't know why I put up with you.’

He bowed. ‘Perhaps because together we have chance of achieving mutual ambitions.’

Taya waved him away. ‘Yes. Perhaps. Why, in the last month alone I have frustrated two assassination attempts against you.’ She peered up at him from under lowered eyelids. ‘You must be gaining influence.’

Mallick hesitated, unsure.
A mere reminder, or veiled threat?
He decided to bow again – discretion, ever discretion. He had in her, after all, an extraordinary asset. A talent undetected by anyone in the capital. ‘You are too kind. And remember, mention the Guard to the old woman again. And the firm hand needed. She must speak of it more often now.’

Taya nodded without interest. ‘Yes, Mallick. As ever.’

Outside, Mallick pulled his robes tight against the cooling evening air and pursed his fleshy lips. How dispiriting it was to have to stoop to cajoling and unctuous flattery to gain his way. Still, it had proved a worthy investment. No one, not even Laseen and her Claws who used to have this city tied in silk ribbons, could suspect who it was that had so successfully secreted herself within striking distance of the Imperial Palace. It was only his own
peculiar
talents that revealed her to him. Taya Radok of Darujhistan. Daughter of Vorcan Radok herself, premier assassin of that city. Trained by her own mother in the arts of covert death since before she could walk. Come to Unta to exact revenge against the Empire that slew her mother. And what a delicious vengeance together they would inflict – though not the sort the child might have in mind.

Stepping down into the loud, lantern-lit street, thoughts of assassins and eliminations turned Mallick's mind to his own safety. He glanced about, searching for his own minder but realized that of course he would never catch a glimpse of the man. He sensed him, however, nearby. Another of the orphans he seemed to have a talent for collecting: an old tattooed mage, long imprisoned in the gaol of Aren – how easy to effect his escape and gain his loyalty. And how valuable the man's – how shall he put it –
unconventional
talents have proven.

Slipping into the tide of citizens and servants crowding Diviner's Way, Mallick allowed himself a tight satisfied grin. Only two, dearest Taya? He had lost count of the number of sorcerous assaults Oryan had deflected with the strange Elder magic of his Warren delvings. Taya and Oryan: two powerful servants, of a kind. And of course, Mael, his God – and something else as well. It was almost as if
the fates had woven the pattern for him to trace all the way to …

Mallick stopped suddenly, almost tripping himself and those next to him within the flow of bodies. He thought of the old woman's rantings. The Gods meddling?
Him?
No. It couldn't be. None would dare. He was his own man. No one led him.

A hand hard and knotted with arthritis took his elbow, eyes as dark and flat as wet stones close at his side studying him – Oryan. Mallick shook him off. It could not be. He would have a word with Mael. Soon.

* * *

The first inkling Ghelel had of trouble was when the family fencing-master, Quinn, raised his dagger hand for a pause. She took the opportunity to squeeze her side where the pain of exertion threatened to double her over. ‘Why stop?’ she panted, breathless. ‘You had me there.’

Ignoring her, the old man crossed to the closed doors of the stable and used the point of his parrying blade to open one a slit.

‘What is it? Father come to frown at you again for training me?’ The stamp of many hooves reached her and she straightened, rolling one shoulder, wincing. ‘Who is it? The Adal family early from Tali? I should change.’

‘Quiet – m'Lady.’

She sheathed her parrying gauche and slim longsword, pushed back the long black hair pasted to her face. The front of her laced leather jerkin was dark with sweat. She picked up a rag to wipe her face. How properly horrified they would be to see her all dishevelled like this. But then, in the final count, her reputation didn't really matter; she was only a ward of the Sellaths, not blood-related. She dropped the rag when raised voices sounded from the main house. Shouts? ‘What is it, Quinn?’

He turned from the main doors. Dust curled in the narrow shaft of light streaming into the stables. The horses nickered behind Ghelel, uneasy. He hadn't sheathed either his narrow Kanian fencing longsword or his parrying weapon. Beneath the man's mop of grey-shot hair his gaze darted about the stable, still ignoring her.

A crash of wood being kicked, hooves stamping, a clash of metal – swordplay! She started for the doors. Through the gap she glimpsed soldiers of the Malazan garrison. Damned Malazans! What could they want here? She took breath to yell but Quinn dropped his dagger and slapped a hand to her mouth.

How dare the man! What was this? Was he in league with them?
She fought to force an elbow beneath his chin.

Somehow he twisted her around, lifted her at the waist and began backing down the length of the stable. All the while he was murmuring, ‘Quiet lass, m'Lady. Quiet now.’

Kidnapping! Was this all some kind of Malazan plot? But why her? What could they possibly want with her? Struggling, she managed to free a hand and drew her dagger. The man did something at her elbow – a pinch or thrust of his thumb – and the blade fell from her numb hand.
How did he do that?
He snapped up the blade and kept going.

He carried her to a stall, gently shushed the mare within, then kicked aside the straw and manure. Both her wrists in one hand he began feeling about the wood slats of the floor. ‘We have to hide,’ he whispered. ‘Hide from them. Do you understand?’

‘Hide?
We have to help! Are you some kind of coward?’

He winced at her tone. ‘Lower your voice, Burn curse you! Or I'll use this on you.’ He raised her dagger, pommel first.

‘I don't have to hide. I'm not important.’

The sturdy blade of the gauche caught at an edge. A hidden trapdoor, no wider than a man's shoulders, swung up. ‘Yes you are.’

Ghelel stared, bewildered.
What?
In that instant Quinn pushed her headfirst into the darkness.

She landed face down into piled damp rags that stank of rot. ‘Aw, Gods! Hood take you, you blasted oaf! Help! Anyone!’

Darkness as the trapdoor shut, a thump of Quinn jumping down. ‘Yell again and I'll knock you out,’ he hissed, his voice low. ‘Your choice.’

‘Knock me out? Neither of us can see a thing!’

‘Your eyes will adjust.’

Silence, her own breath panting. ‘What's going on?’

‘Shhh …’ The gentle slide of metal on leather and wood as he raised his longsword.

She could make out faint streams of light now slanting down from between the slats. ‘Are you going to … murder me?’

‘No, but I'll stick whoever opens that trap.’

‘What's going on?’

‘Looks like the local Fist is rounding up hostages from all the first families.’

‘Hostages! Why?’

She could just make out the pale oval of his face studying her. ‘Not
been paying attention to things, hey?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, why should you have, I suppose …’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Insurrection. Secession. Call it what you will. The Talian noble houses never accepted Kellanved's rule – certainly not Laseen's.’

‘My father

‘Stepfather.’

‘Yes, I'm a ward! But he might as well be my father! Is he safe? What about Jhem? Little Darian?’

‘They may all have been taken.’

Ghelel threw herself at the ladder she could now just see. He pulled her down. She punched and kicked him while he held her to him. As he had to the mare above, he made soft shushing noises. Eventually she relaxed in his arms. ‘Quiet now, m'Lady,’ he whispered. ‘Or they'll take you too.’

‘I'm not important.’

‘Yes you are.’

‘What—’

He put his finger to her mouth. She stilled. Listening, she kept her body motionless, but relaxed, not straining, worked to remain conscious of her breath which she kept deep, not shallowing – techniques Quinn himself had taught her.

A step above. A booted foot pressing down on straw. The scratching of a blade on wood. Quinn raised his longsword. He held her dagger out to her, which she took.

A pause of silence then boots retreating, distant muted talk. Quinn relaxed. ‘We'll wait for night,’ he breathed. She felt awful about it but she nodded.

A nudge woke Ghelel to absolute darkness and she started, panicked. ‘Shhh,’ someone said from the dark and, remembering, she relaxed.

‘Gods, it's dark.’

‘Yes. Let's have a peek.’

She listened to him carefully ascending the ladder, push at the trapdoor. Starlight streamed down. Ghelel checked her sheathed weapons, adjusted her leather jerkin and trousers. Quinn stepped up out of sight. A moment later his hand appeared waving her up.

Someone had ransacked the stable but most of the horses remained. The double doors hung open. A light shone from the kitchens of the main house. Ghelel strained to listen but heard only the wind brushing through trees. It was more quiet this night at the country house than she could ever remember. Quinn
signalled that he would go ahead for a look. She nodded.

Weapons ready, Quinn edged up to one door, leaned out. He was still for a long moment, then he gave a disdainful snort. ‘I can smell you,’ he called to the night.

Movement from all around: a scrape of gravel, a creak of leather armour. ‘Send the girl out,’ someone called, ‘Quinn, or whatever your name really is. She's all we want. Walk out right now and keep walking.’

‘I'll just go get her,’ and he hopped back inside, ducking. Crossbow bolts slammed into the timbers of the door, sending it swinging.

‘Cease fire, damn your hairless crotches! He's only one man!’

Hunched, Quinn took her arm, nodded to the rear. They retreated as far back as was possible. ‘Now what?’ she whispered.

‘If this fellow knows what he's doing this could get very ugly very quick. We'll have to make a run for it – out the back.’

Something crashed just inside the front of the barn then three flaming brands arced through the doors. Blue flames spread like animals darting across the straw-littered floor. ‘Damn,’ said Quinn, ‘he knows what he's doing.’ He clenched Ghelel's arm. ‘Whatever you do, do
not
stop! Keep going, cut and run! Into the woods, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Now, we dive out then come up running.’

He kicked open the rear door, waited an instant, then dived out, rolling. Ghelel followed without a thought as if this was just another exercise in all the years she'd spent training in swordplay and riding – there'd been little else for her to do as a mere ward. Something sang through the air above her, thudding into wood. Ahead, Quinn exchanged blows with two Malazan soldiers. Then he was off again even though the two men still stood. Coming abreast of them Ghelel raised her weapons but neither paid her any attention. One had a hand clenched to his neck where blood jetted between his fingers; the other was looking down and holding his chest as if pressing in his breath. Ghelel ran past them.