Return of the Crimson Guard (31 page)

‘Your, ah,
influence,
is known. You will speak for us. We mean no disloyalty. We merely wish to defend our own. All costs to Imperial coffers will be redeemed.’

‘Very well. I shall humbly bow before her as spokesman and beg our case. There may be complications though, you understand. The arsenal is guarded.’

Illata swept his cloak over his shoulder. ‘We understand. It is to be regretted, yet it is unavoidable.’

Mallick gave the slightest of bows. ‘Then the chaff is cast upon the waters. We each have our assigned fates. Let us go see what the currents may bring.’

After the men had left the chamber a woman in a dark plain tunic and leggings entered by a side-door. ‘Your orders?’ she asked. Mallick refilled his glass then turned. At the woman's chest the small silver sigil of a bird's foot grasping a pearl glimmered in the lamplight; Mallick studied that one bright point of light.

‘Send word to all the – well, the glove has become the hand now, has it not? Send word to our Hands. Corrupt officials will be
attempting to steal munitions from the arsenal this night. Assassinate them all, enslave their families and confiscate all assets and possessions to the Throne. All in the name of the Empress, of course.’

‘And the Empress?’

‘The matter is too small to concern her.’

The woman inclined her head. ‘So it shall be.’ At the door, she turned. ‘Strange that none of us visited Imry on any night. What make you of that, Mallick?’

The priest's thick lips turned down as he examined the liquid gold in his glass. ‘Laseen must still have her loyal followers among the Claw, Coil. They must be rooted out.’

‘Yes. We have our suspicions.’

Mallick's gaze rose, his round face bright in the lantern light. ‘Oh? Who?’

‘Possum, among others.’

Smiling, Mallick set the glass down. ‘Ah, yes. Possum. Your superior now that Pearl is gone.
He
remains.’

The woman stood motionless while the lanterns sputtered and flickered at the centre of the room. Finally, she allowed herself a stiff half bow. ‘So be it – for the time.’ Yet she did not leave; Mallick pushed his hands into the sash across his wide stomach.
‘Yes,
Coil?’

‘It occurs to us, Mallick, that with this night you will be in control of the Imperial Assembly. You perforce command the Claw. Therefore, there are those among us who wonder – when will you … act?’

‘Past failures in Seven Cities and elsewhere have impressed upon me the harsh lesson of patience, Coil. Instruction I, more than any, ought to have appreciated long ago. But, as you say, I command already. Why then act at all?’

‘She
would not show such restraint.’

He waved Coil away. ‘Her chance missed. Now none remain. Go!’

* * *

In the doldrums of the Southern Rust Sea, a slave galley, the
Ardent,
came across a sodden raft. The galley's master, Hesalt, ordered the lashed fragments brought alongside. A sailor searched among the sprawled bodies.

‘How many live?’ Hesalt called down.

The sailor straightened and even from far to the bow Hesalt could see the wonder on his upturned face. ‘The God of the Deep's mercy. Every one! Eleven living souls!’

The Twins smiled upon them, whoever they are, Hesalt reflected. But he considered himself lucky as well – eleven warm bodies for the shackles. ‘Give them water and food then throw them below.’

‘Aye, Master.’

The nine men and two women, whoever they were, recovered with amazing speed. One, a burly scarred fellow – a veteran obviously – even pulled himself upright when a sailor came with a ladle of sweet water. ‘I demand to see the captain,’ he rasped in a passable north Genabackan dialect of the East Coast.

‘The captain is nothing to you now, friend,’ whispered the sailor. ‘You live, but the price is your freedom.’

The man knew to take only a small sip to wet his throat. ‘Tell your captain I demand that he set sail for Stratem at once.’

Those nearby laughed. The sailor took in the castaway's cracked and oozing skin, burnt almost black across his shoulders. How many weeks marooned under this pitiless sun! Amazing the fellow was even conscious. No wonder he was delirious. ‘Lay back, heal. Thank Oponn for your life.’

‘What is your name, sailor?’

‘Jemain.’

‘You are a compassionate man, Jemain. Therefore, I warn you – stand aside.’

Something in the man's eyes quelled Jemain's laugh. The castaway pushed himself to his feet, staggered but, with a groan, righted himself. ‘See to my men,’ he croaked.

The crew watched amused while the castaway made his laborious way to the stern. There, he stopped and stood swaying before the gaze of an old man at the tiller flanked by guards in leather armour who watched him, arms crossed, mouths downturned. ‘Who is the captain of this slave-scow?’ he asked of the old man.

‘That would be Master Hesalt of the Southern Confederacies.’

‘That's enough from you,’ said one of the guards. ‘Turn around or we'll whip the burnt flesh off your back.’

‘How many guards does he travel with?’

Brows rising, the tillerman replied, ‘Eight.’

The guards pulled truncheons from their belts – no edged weapons that might damage the merchandise. The first to swing had his head grasped in both of the castaway's hands and twisted until a wet noise announced the neck breaking. The second guard beat the man about his shoulders, tearing the burnt skin and raising a sluggish flow of dark blood. But the man ignored the blows until he managed to grasp one forearm, which he twisted, snapping. Then he drove his
fingers up under the guard's chin to crush his throat. The guard fell to the deck gagging and thrashing.

All this the tillerman watched without shifting his stance. ‘There's six more,’ he observed, laconically.

‘Think they'll surrender?’ the castaway gasped, drawing in great shuddering breaths.

‘Don't think that's likely.’

‘I fear you're right.’

The yells brought the remaining six stamping up the deck. They surrounded the man, beat him down to the blood-slick timbers. Yet somehow he would not stop struggling. One by one he dragged the guards down. He bashed heads to the decking, throttled necks, clawed eyes from sockets, until the last one flinched away, his face pale with superstitious dread.

‘Back off!’ shouted a new voice.

The man pulled himself to his feet. Blood ran from him, his skin hung in cracked ribbons down his back and shoulders. Master Hesalt stood covering him with a levelled crossbow. ‘Who
are
you?’ he asked.

The man felt about in his mouth, pulled out a bloodied tooth. ‘My name wouldn't mean a damn thing to you. You going to shoot that, or not?’

‘I thought I would do you the courtesy first.’

‘Well, to the Abyss with courtesy. Just shoot.’

Hesalt paused.
What a price such a fighting man would bring! What a shame to have to kill him like a rabid dog. Still, he had earned death many times over and the hired crew were watching
… He fired. The quarrel took the man low in the chest throwing him back against the gunwale where he slumped. Hesalt lowered the crossbow.
What a loss! Still, if the other ten were anything like this one he might yet squeeze some profit from this debacle.

A low groan brought the slave master's attention around. Incredibly, impossibly, the man was now struggling to rise. An arm grasped the side, pulled, and he stood, quarrel jutting obscenely from his chest. Hesalt backed away, his throat tightening in horror. What magery was this? Did some God favour this man?

‘It never,’ the castaway ground out, ‘gets any easier.’ Ignoring the quarrel, he addressed Hesalt. ‘Now, yield this ship to me and no more need be hurt. What say you?’

The slave master could only stare. He'd heard stories of such horrors … But he'd never believed …

The castaway lurched a step closer. ‘Speak, man! For once act to save lives!’

‘I … That is … Who?
What
… are you?’

Snarling, the man grasped Hesalt by the front of his shirts and yanked him to the gunwale. ‘Too late.’ In one swing he lifted the slave master and tossed him, screaming, over the side. He turned to face the stunned sailors. ‘I am Bars. Iron Bars. I claim this vessel in the name of the Crimson Guard. Tillerman!’

‘Aye?’

Make southwest round the Cape for Stratem.’

‘Aye, Captain. Sou'west.’

‘Jemain!’

The sailor straightened, dread stealing the breath from him. ‘Aye?’

‘You are first mate.’

Jemain wiped the cold sweat from his face, swallowed. ‘Aye, sir. Your orders?’

A cough took the man and he grimaced at the agony of the convulsion. One hand a claw on the gunwale, he pushed back his shoulders. ‘Get my men conscious. The slaves can row for their freedom.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Now help me get this damned thing from my chest.’

* * *

From the top of the frontier fort Lieutenant Rillish watched the mob of would-be settlers, squatters and plain shiftless land-rush opportunists surrounding his command grow each day. By the fifth they must have judged their sprawling strength great enough because they sent an envoy to discuss terms. At the Lieutenant's side his sergeant spat a great stream of brown juice from the rustleaf jammed into a cheek and raised his crossbow.

‘Skewer the bastards?’

‘No, not yet. Let's see who's taken charge of that mess out there.’

They waited, watching, while a gang of twenty approached the gate.

‘Close enough,’ Rillish yelled down.

‘This is parley!’ a man in a bearskin cloak answered. ‘Come and talk.’

‘I do not negotiate with bandits.’

‘Bandits!’ The men laughed. ‘You should get out more often, Lieutenant. Haven't you heard? But then no, you wouldn't have,
would you? No messenger has come in – how long has it been now – almost a month?’

So, there it is. This man is more than he seems, or speaks for someone who is. Rillish decided to cut to the heart. ‘Your terms?’

The man waved the matter aside and Rillish caught a clutter of rings at his fingers. His thick black hair was greased as was his beard. ‘Simplicity itself. You and your men, the entire garrison, are free to go. March away west. You are of course welcome to keep your weapons.’

Rillish rested his hands upon the sharpened tips of the palisade. Yes, free to go. Free to walk away … He turned to the fort compound. There, filling the dirt square, sitting and standing, faces peering back up at him, waited more than a hundred Wickan elders and children. He returned his gaze to the envoy and the mob of would-be besiegers beyond. Sour bile rose in his mouth like iron from a stomach thrust.
Damn these scum to Hood's darkest path.

‘Come now, Lieutenant, surely you must see your situation is untenable. You are surrounded, without hope of succour. Low on provisions and without water. Come, Lieutenant, throw your own life away if you must, but think of your men.’

His sergeant spat over the wall. ‘Skewer the bastard
now!’

Rillish raised a hand to stay his sergeant. ‘Who do you speak for?’

The envoy's smile convinced Rillish that his probe had worked. The man pointed off to the low hills of the Wickan territory. ‘How does North Unta sound to you?’