Return of the Crimson Guard (65 page)

‘Well, sir, they seem to think the youth carries the spirit of Coltaine, reborn.’

The name impressed Rillish no end. Coltaine. Leader of the last Wickan challenge to Malazan rule. Through negotiation he had then become one of the Empire's most feared commanders, and had died battling a rebellion in Seven Cities – though some claimed he had actually led it himself. That news had come four days ago. Plenty of time to ruminate on the truth, or suspicious convenience, of the timing of such a manifestation. After mulling it over – Nil and Nether seemed to accept it explicitly – he decided that it wasn't a
truth
for him to judge. He wasn't a Wickan. Not that he would endorse just any culture's practices – slavery of women, for example. Sure, it was a tradition among many peoples not to allow women access to power. Fine, so long as the ‘tradition’ was recognized for what it was: just another form of slavery.

So he would go along with the story. Never mind, whispered that scoffing sceptic's voice within him, how convenient it might prove for
him.

Five days of wending up and down steep defiles and crossing rocky rushing streams brought them to a high broad plateau dotted with encampments of yurts and surging herds of horses. A great exulting war call went up from the column followed by a ululation of singing from the many camps. Mounted youths charged back and forth, spears raised. Some climbed to stand on the bare backs of their mounts; others leapt side to side, running alongside their horses, hands wrapped in manes.

‘You'll have your hands full with this lot,’ Rillish said to Nether who happened to be at his side. Her answer was a long, amused look, then she kneed her mount ahead.

A bivouac was set aside for Rillish and his command. He set to its ordering along with Sergeant Chord. ‘Now what do you think, sir?’ Chord asked while they inspected the soldiers’ work, some raising tents, others assembling imitations of the yurts in blankets and cloaks over a framework of branches. Fires were going and water was heating in clay pots over the flames.

‘Don't know for certain, of course. Some kind of an army will be organized, I imagine. They obviously intend to swoop down and
clear the invaders out.’ Rillish caught the eye of the soldier who had helped him escape from the fort and nodded his greeting. Smiling broadly, she saluted.

As they walked along, Rillish asked his sergeant, ‘What is her name, anyway, Chord?’

‘Ah, that would be Corporal Talia, sir. Designated instructor in swordsmanship. The lads, they don't care a fart for technique. They think a thick arm and a thick head will see them through. But the lasses, sir, they know it's their edge.’

‘True enough, Chord. Thank you.’

‘Perhaps we could arrange some training, sir. While we rest and regroup. You've been on your back for some time now.’

‘Thank you, Chord. But you know regulations. Only commissioned ranks can spar together.’ Rillish rubbed the side of his nose. ‘Too many officers found run through, if I remember correctly.’

‘As you say, sir. But it seems to me that command is far away now, and there's some as might question whether we're really even in the army now, sir, if you follow my thinking.’

Rillish stopped outside the yurt the Wickans had given for his use – though obviously desperately short of shelter themselves. ‘Thank you, Chord. But the day I follow your thinking is the day I tear off all my clothes and jump into the ice of the Cut.’

‘I blame the drink, sir.’

‘You wouldn't have any of it left, would you?’

‘Used it to poison the enemy, sir.’

‘And a sad waste it was too.’

‘The bottle got a promotion out of it though, sir.’

‘True enough – wait, don't tell me – it's now known as Korbottle Dom.’

Looking away, Chord grinned. ‘Heard that one before have you, sir?’

‘Many times. And about this yurt…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Give it back to the Wickans tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Later that night Chord stopped beside Corporal Talia's bedroll. He tapped her awake with a foot. She opened an eye. He produced a bottle from under his cloak. ‘Why don't you go offer to share this with the lieutenant?’

‘Why isn't
he
here instead of sorry-arsed you?’

‘All traditional, he is. Thinks rank's a problem.’

She sat up on one elbow.
‘Oho,
so that's the way of it. Questions of coercion.’ She took the bottle from Chord. ‘Well, we'll just have to hammer that out.’

Chord offered a mock salute. ‘Don't take too long. That yurt's disappearing tomorrow.’ He walked away thinking that it was good to see the lieutenant up on his feet again, but that it was the duty of any sergeant to see to the fullest recovery of his commanding officer … at least those worth saving.

Over the next few days Rillish saw little of any of the Wickan youths he'd got to know during the march. They had all been adopted into families of their clans while Mane, Nil and Nether were absorbed in the furious debates that swirled night and day around the central ring of yurts as participants came and went, sometimes sleeping then returning to pick up old arguments where they'd left off. He was glad to have no part in it. What part awaited him now troubled him enough. Resignation seemed increasingly the compelling path. Especially now with his new-found intimacy with Corporal Talia. To his mind it was too complicated for the command structure. What if an opening for promotion came up and he gave the sergeancy to her? Grumblings of favouritism? What if he did not? Unfairly penalizing her? There was no way either of them could win. Unless he was no longer her superior officer.

That settled it then; problem was, there was no one to resign before.

Sitting cross-legged on his bedding, Untan duelling swords across his lap, Rillish wrapped his sharpening stone in a rag and sheathed the blades. Unless he could report to someone who – technically – outranked him. He stood, gestured a soldier to him. ‘Find Nil or Nether and tell them I wish to speak with them.’ The soldier saluted, jogged off.

A formal letter might be necessary. Rillish picked up his kitbag of bits and pieces that he'd pulled together since losing everything at the fort. Perhaps he had a scrap of vellum or two.

The soldier returned. ‘Sir, Nil and Nether wish to speak to you at the central ring.’

‘Thank you.’

Rillish straightened his torn and faded surcoat, belted on his swords, pushed back his hair that had grown too wild and long of late and carried more grey in it than he wished. He crossed to the main ring. As he went, the constitution of the population of Wickans here in the plateau impressed him once again – so many youths and elders and almost no one of middle age. All those had gone away to
fight in foreign wars and precious few had returned. As he neared the ring he noticed the quiet; things had apparently finally been settled. Only Wickan elders faced him – no youths had the stomach, or patience, for these sorts of interminable disputes. Or perhaps
they
had things to do with their time. Many of the elders wore torn and dirty leathers, and many betrayed the gaunt and ashen pallor of hunger, that grim companion of all refugees. They parted to let him pass. Some glared open hostility. Fists even rested near the bone handles of long-knives.

So fares the reputation of the Malazans now in the company of Wickans. And deservedly so, too. He found the twins next to that special youth's yurt. Here he got his first good look at the child who sat cross-legged on a blanket, a small sheep's wool cap high on his domed head. It was true that the youth's black eyes held an unusual amount of self-awareness for one of his age.

‘Rillish Jal Keth,’ began Nil, ‘it has been decided. My sister and I are now guardians and councillors to this youth who since his birth has been unquestionably recognized as Coltaine reborn. In this capacity we wish to enlist you as captain and military adviser to the Head of All Clans. Do you accept?’

Rillish stared. Had he correctly understood? He came to offer his resignation and this is what he hears? Shocked outrage had taken the crowd – everyone was awaiting his reply. Many now glared open hatred. Rillish struggled to find his voice. ‘Adviser? I? Surely there must be a Wickan officer among you—’

‘There are a number. But we have chosen you.’

As the moments passed, a wall of objections now firmed up in his mind. ‘With all due respect, a Wickan would be more suitable, would know the land better—’

‘That is all true, assuming we intend to fight a war of defence,’ said Nether. ‘We do not. Foreigners have invaded our lands and brought war to us and so we intend to return the favour. We will not ride down into the steppes to drive them off. No, that we leave to Temul who commands on the steppes. We, instead, will lead the counter-offensive. We shall ride south into Untan lands bringing war and invasion to them. What say you to that, Malazan?’

Rillish felt as if he couldn't breathe. Good Gods, the two mean it. Could it be done? How many could they muster? A few thousand at least, many old veterans to steady and instruct the young bloods. The finest skirmishers and horse raiders anyone knew of. And last he'd heard there weren't enough soldiers left in Unta to hold a drinking
party. Still, there remained questions of loyalty. ‘To what end, Nether? Nil? To what end?’

Angry calls sounded from all around. ‘He spits in our faces!’ someone shouted in Talian. Nil raised his arms for silence. The twins exchanged glances, their eyes glittering like sharp stones. ‘To force a renegotiation of our treaties with the Empire.’

‘I see. Then I can only answer in one way – I offer my resignation. Do you, Nil or Nether, as senior officers, accept?’

A roar as the crowd of enraged elders surged inward, raised blades flashed orange in the afternoon light. A clot of dirt struck Rillish's chest. Both twins threw their arms up for silence, shouting down the crowd.

‘Yes,’ sounded a piping voice that cut through the din like a whistle. The elders were silenced instantly, almost as if abashed. The twins stared down, astonished.

‘Accepted,’ said the toddler, grinning up at Rillish.

It occurred to Rillish then that in the view of many, the twins were
not
the senior officers present. ‘Very good,’ he stammered, shaken despite his scepticism. ‘Then I, Rillish Jal Keth, accept your commission.’

The child clapped his hands, clearly delighted. The twins quickly, and loudly, swore their confidence. After a long tense silence, the surrounding elders shuffled forward one by one, taking turns to bow and acknowledge his selection.

At the end of the ceremony Rillish was left with the twins, an old woman and the toddler, who had fallen asleep. The old woman picked him up and nestled him in her arms. As she did so his eyes popped open and he said something to her. She gestured Rillish to her with an impatient twist of her wrist.

‘Yes?’

She was looking down at the child who now rested, eyes closed. ‘He said, “Turn their swords. Turn them.’”

‘Turn their swords?’

‘Yes.’

Turn their swords?
Had the old woman heard correctly? Perhaps he'd just babbled some gibberish. But she had ducked into the yurt, taking the child with her, and pulled the flap shut. He turned to Nil. The young man had pressed both hands to his face as if to cool it.

‘That went better than I'd hoped,’ the youth said through his fingers.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. No one was hurt.’ He tucked his hands under his arms, grinning.

‘You set high standards.’ ‘I know my people. We're a fractious lot.‘ ‘Well, now it's my turn.’ ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Now I have to explain to my people why and how we've just switched armies.’

* * *

When his worthless nephew stuck his head between the cloth hangings of his palanquin shouting, ‘Ships, Uncle! Hundreds of ships!’ Nevall Od’ Orr, Chief Factor of Cawn, nearly had a heart attack. Not from the prospect of Cawn being sacked by some fleet out of nowhere – invaders can be milked just as easily as anyone – but rather from the fact that his nephew had managed to get within arm's reach of him.