Return of the Crimson Guard (24 page)

Ereko was startled. How could this boy know that? Then he chided himself. If a true Talent, the boy knew more than he now spoke even if his poor deck had no cards of the new house.

‘I … that is,‘ something struggled on the face of the boy. ‘So many wrestle here, drawn by the one close to you! I see the ancient past threatening to prove a future preordained. I see fear promising blindness to opportunities – as ever, self-interest threatens to prevent natural fulfilment. For you: only one card remains. Tell him, tell the Soldier of Light – fear none but the Chained.’ These last words rushed out, stopping abruptly as the boy drew one last card that he held up before his face, silenced by its appearance.
‘No,’
he breathed.
‘It cannot be
…’ He pitched forward, scattering the cards.

The old woman came and picked up the insensate boy and carried him to a pallet. She crooned over him, caressed his gleaming face. Lying face-up on the beaten earth was the last card: King of Night – the most ill-omened of all stations and attributes. Ereko left without a word. It was as he'd suspected, the fates were done with him; scarcely any of the reading regarded him. He was close now – one card could only mean one remaining path for his future. As he walked back to the keel lain on its rollers and set with its ribs, he wondered: who was the Soldier of Light? And King of Night? That card had always carried symbolic meaning only. How could it have become active? What could it mean? Were they related? And what, if anything, had it all to do with him or Traveller?

* * *

The clanging of the iron bar suspended over the mine-head roused Ho from his mid-afternoon doze. Wincing at joints stiff and swollen, he swung his feet down from the sleeping ledge and fumbled about for his tunic and leggings. New arrivals. Surprising, that. Shipments of prisoners to the Otataral mines had thinned to a trickle these last few years. Seemed Laseen was at last running out of enemies. He snorted: not too bloody likely.

Though decades had passed since he'd been the Pit's unofficial mayor and inmate spokesman to the Warder – and who was the damned Warder these days anyway? – Ho still felt obliged to put in a showing at the welcoming ceremony.

He nodded to familiar faces as he tramped the twisting narrow tunnels – shafts themselves once – each following a promising vein of Otataral. Most of those he met returned his nod; it was a small world down here among those exiled for life in these poisonous mines. Poison indeed, for Otataral is anathema to Warren manipulation and magery, and they were all of them down here mages. Each condemned by the emperor, or the Empress in her turn. And Ho had been among the first.

Mine-head was the ragged base of an open cylinder hacked from the rock, about forty paces in diameter and more than twenty man-heights deep. Harsh blue sky glared above, traced by wisps of cloud. A wood platform, cantilevered out over the opening and suspended from rope, was noisily creaking its way up. It was drawn and lowered from above by oxen and a winch at the surface.

The new arrivals stood in a ragged line, four men and one female. The man at one end carried the look of a scholar, emaciated, bearded, blinking at his surroundings in stunned disbelief. The woman was older and dumpy, her mouth tight with disgust. The next man shared her sour disapproval, though tinged with apprehension. All three were older individuals and all three conformed to the norm of those consigned to the Pit: all Talents who have garnered the displeasure of the Throne. The remaining two stood slightly apart, however; their appearance sent alarm bells ringing through Ho's thoughts. Younger, fit men, scarred and tanned – one even carrying the faint blue skin hue of the island of Nap. Battle mages, army cadre possibly. Veterans no doubt. The community would not like this.

The current mayor of the Pit, a Seven Cities mage named
Yathengar, swept up before the arrivals, his long robes tattered and rust-stained in Otataral dust. He leaned on a staff trimmed down from a shoring timber.

‘Greetings, newcomers,’ he said in Talian. ‘We speak the Malazan tongue down here as a common language between us Seven Cities natives, Genabackans, Falarans and others. Perversely,’ he added, sliding a glance to Ho, ‘there are precious few Malazans left down here.’

Ho gave the man a thin smile – ex-Faladan of Ehrlitan.
Never did forgive us for that. Never did explain why he failed to die defending his city-god, either.
Ho watched the newcomers take in the tall bearded patriarch, how their gazes lingered on the stains of his robes. Yath noted the fascination as well; one hand, knotted, dark as the stave's wood, brushed at the cloth.

‘Oh yes, newcomers. It cannot be avoided. It is in the air you are breathing now. The water you will drink, the food you will eat. Your hair, every wrinkle.’

‘Queen protect me,’ breathed the scholar at the far end, appalled.

Yath turned on him. ‘No, she won't.’

‘So what now?’ the woman demanded in strongly accented Talian. ‘You beat us? Search us for valuables? Are we newcomers to be slaves to you thug survivors down here?’

Yath gave a bow of his head. ‘Good points. No, no. No rule of violence here – unlike Skullcap – or Unta, for that matter. We are all scholars and mages here, educated men and women. We have a council. Food is distributed evenly. The sick are cared for—’

‘Sounds like paradise.’ This from the tall veteran cadre mage at the opposite end.

The wood of the stave creaked in Yath's hands. He paced to stand before the two. ‘You three,’ he said to the others, ‘can go.’

Members of the welcoming committee took these three aside to be assigned quarters, receive food bowls and such. Ho remained. Yath held his stave lengthwise across his front, silent until distance from the other newcomers allowed some privacy. The two remained motionless as well, waiting without discussion between them. Companions, Ho decided. Very unusual. Counter to prison procedure, in fact.

‘Do not think that because we are learned men and women down here we will be helpless before you,’ said Yath, his voice low. ‘There are exiles here who do not need the Warrens to kill.’

‘Those stains,’ said the shorter of the two, the Napan, ‘we'd heard the Pit was all mined out.’

Ho swore he could hear Yath's teeth grinding. ‘A few live veins remain,’ he allowed.

‘And let me guess,’ continued the Napan. ‘Everyone gets a turn.’

Straightening, Yath stamped the stave to the sandy ground. He thrust his face forward, his long grey beard bristling. ‘And do you refuse?’

The muscles around the Napan cadre mage's mouth bunched. He examined his hands. ‘No.’

Yath slowly nodded. ‘Good. Your names then?’

‘Grief,’ gave the Napan.

‘Treat,’ said the tall one.

‘Very well. Go and get quarters assigned.’

Ho watched the two leave, guided by old exiles. He'd keep an eye on them; why send two obvious fighting men down here among all us fossils? To dig up information, Ho answered himself. Yath's gaze followed the two as well. Ho translated the man's glower: more damned Malazans.

* * *

Amaron was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs beneath the old Tayliin fortress.
My family's ancestral keep. My keep.
Ghelel still had trouble believing it. Yet all agreed. She was the third generation in hiding of the old Tayliin family. The clan that hundreds of years ago had extended Quon Talian hegemony across the continent. The troika that had taken power invoked her name; General Choss had been granted command –
in her name.
Yet she had no illusions: still a puppet. A figurehead needed to lend the veneer of legitimacy to their insurrection. That was all. Yet strings go both ways and even a puppet, should it gather enough strength to itself, can reverse the pull. Or even cut the strings if need be. In any event, she certainly intended to find the full extent of their slack.

Such as now; demanding to see the captive she'd heard languished within her keep. A true Claw captured by Amaron's counter-intelligence. A Claw such as those who slew her family so long ago. All great aunts, uncles, nephews and nieces; all except her grandfather, then a boy, who escaped. She had to meet this murderer. Had to see who it was,
what it was
, she faced.

The tall and, Ghelel could now see, rather wide around the middle Amaron bowed. ‘M'Lady. I am against this. It's an unnecessary danger.’

‘Surely the Claw didn't get himself captured on the chance of getting to me.’

‘That is not my suggestion. A tiger, though captured, is still a danger.’

‘Perhaps instead you could reassign Quinn to me.’

In the dark the man's deep-blue Napan face was almost unreadable. He shook his head. ‘No, m'Lady. He has duties elsewhere. His work with you is done.’

‘Then at least assign someone other than this Molk fellow. He is completely inappropriate.’

A low rumbling chuckle. ‘I assure you he is completely appropriate.’

Ghelel allowed herself a sigh of exasperation. ‘If this is your idea of negotiation, Amaron, I am not impressed.’

‘I am greatly saddened, m'Lady.’

‘Let's see him.’

‘Please, m'Lady, reconsider. He will only take the opportunity to lie and undermine your trust and confidence.’

‘I understand, Amaron.’

The man was silent, thinking. His presence before her in the dark gave her the impression of a wall of stone; many she'd met in the fortress were in awe of Choss's reputation and were elated to have a military commander of such standing. But those same people were also obviously wary, if not fearful, of this man. Amaron let out a long hard breath. ‘Very well. Do
not
approach him, yes?’

‘Yes.’

He turned, walked up the dark stone corridor. She followed wondering whether she'd just won a victory of a sort, or had just expended vital goodwill on a useless whim. Amaron unlocked a door and preceeded her into the surprisingly large chamber within. A man sat fettered to a chair at the room's centre.

‘Ghelel Rhik Tayliin!’ the fellow announced once Amaron stood aside. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

Ghelel strove to suppress a shudder – of fear or disgust – she didn't know. Or the cold: the room was damp and chilly. She took a slow step forward. ‘So you know my name. What is
your
name?’

The man shrugged, or made a show of it to reveal that his wrists were secured behind his back. ‘What matter names? For example, Claw or Talon? All the same, hey, Amaron?’

Ghelel slid her gaze between the two. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘M'Lady …’ Amaron began.

‘I mean that Laseen instituted the Claws, yes, but who was in charge of Dancer's own killers, the Talons, way back then? Hmm?’

Ghelel settled her attention on Amaron. ‘So you are a murderer as well.’

The big man rested his hands at his belt. ‘I prefer the term political agent.’

‘There you are,’ the Claw said. ‘You have picked up the very knives that wiped out – or very nearly wiped out – your own family.’

‘We had nothing to do with those killings.’

‘So you say, Amaron … So you say.’

Ghelel again glanced from one to the other, shocked. Why had Amaron allowed her to interview this man knowing what he would no doubt reveal? Was this some sort of a test? But why bother? She suddenly found she could not draw breath; the cell felt as if it had slammed shut upon her. She backed away to the door, searching blindly behind her for the jamb. ‘I will not allow such things,’ she managed, her voice hardly audible to her.

The Claw arched a brow. ‘Not even for those who deserve it? Laseen, perhaps? Be assured, Tayliin, that list, once begun, will grow long and long …’

‘Never.’

‘So be it. You will fail then. And all those soldiers who will die for your cause will have died in vain.’

Ghelel felt as if the man had stabbed her then and there. ‘What are you doing?’ She wiped wetness from her eyes.