Return of the Crimson Guard (66 page)

‘Groten!’ he bellowed, massaging his chest with one hand and smoothing his beard with the other.

The captain of his bodyguard thrust his shaven blue-black bullet head through the cloth hangings, ‘Yes?’

‘That's “Yes, Chief Factor”.’

A nod of agreement. ‘Yes?’

Nevall stared at Groten; Groten stared back. Sighing, Nevall covered his face. ‘Groten,’ he began, speaking through his hands, ‘how did my idiot nephew get through your oh-so-vigilant cordon of guards?’

‘He's your nephew.’

Nevall threw his arms down to slap his thin crossed legs. ‘I know he's my Lady-damned nephew! I myself hired the mage who through no mistake of mine actually reported honestly on his paternity. Now, because of the egregious oversight of allowing one of my relations near me I penalize you one month's wages.’

Groten's thick brows pressed together. A large meaty hand rubbed his sweaty pate. ‘A month's?’

‘Yes. That is, unless you'd prefer to go back to whipping slaves on one of my merchantmen?’

The hulking Dal-Honese frowned his assent. As he did so the palanquin jerked from side to side and Nevall braced himself with a hand at the low roof. ‘What was that? What's going on out there?’

‘Ah, the crowd, sir. All headed to the waterfront.’

‘Well? Why aren't we?’

The captain of the bodyguard opened his mouth to answer,
thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut. The head withdrew. Soon after that orders sounded and the palanquin rocked as Nevall's bearers started up again. He found the paper fan he'd dropped when the terrifying apparition of his nephew's head had assaulted him and he set to cooling himself. Gods above and below, did any of the smelly populace of Cawn have the least idea of what he had to endure as their Chief Factor?

Comforted by the crack of his bodyguard's whips and the thump of their truncheons clearing the way, Nevall turned his thoughts to this fleet of mystery ships. Could it be the Empress's forces? His sources spoke of her intent to sail after the disastrous assault of those mercenary raiders. And where else would she sail but for Cawn? Port of choice for any inland expedition. Yet how could she have arrived so soon? It would take more than two weeks for a fleet of that size to make its way from Unta – and that barring any of the usual delays. No, logic compelled that this must be some other force. Therefore, eliminating the possible but improbable invasion from Korel, Genabaris, storied Perish, enigmatic Nemill, legendary Assail or that empire his most distant trading partners whisper about – Lethery, or some such absurd name – that left the rumours his field agents had been picking up of a massing of ships in Western Falar. But an invasion fleet from Falar? To what end?

The stink of the waterfront, old sun-rotted fish and human excrement, penetrated the palanquin and Nevall scrambled to find his pomander; he dug it out of one of the small drawers and pressed it to his nose. Dead Poliel! How could anyone live like this? How could he be expected even to think? The palanquin slowed. Voices all around babbled. ‘Groten!’

The captain of the bodyguard stuck his head between the hangings. ‘Yes?’

‘What is it? What's to be seen?’

‘Lots of ships. All kinds. Even Moranth Blue merchantmen.’

‘Moranth Blue vessels? How could you possibly know a Moranth Blue vessel from any other?’

The captain of the bodyguard shrugged his wide shoulders, shaking the palanquin. ‘Because the sails are blue?’

Nevall stroked his beard. ‘Oh, yes. Flags? Any flags? Did you think to look for those?’

An uncertain frown. ‘Well, they're still pretty distant. But there's an old woman here who claims to be a witch. Says she can see though the eyes of birds. Says she'll look for a half-silver.’

‘A half-silver! Tell the hag I'd look through the anus of a mole for
half a silver. No, wait, let me guess what she'd see looking through the eyes of a bird – fish! Fish and water! What else would a blasted bird look at!’

Groten flinched away, hurt. ‘It was just a suggestion. Anyway—’ he looked out, spoke with someone, glanced in again. ‘Tali. They're flying the blue of Tali.’

Nevall hissed a breath while pulling at his beard. Tali. The old hegemonic power itself. So much for these rumours of a return to independent states. Looked like they'd merely be changing one hat for another. So be it. The Cawnese were famous for their pragmatism. They would join – until fortunes changed.

‘Very well. Groten, take me to whoever's in charge down there when they arrive.’

‘Yes, ah, Chief Factor.’

Even as the sullen dockworkers kicked at the mooring ropes thrown from the
Keth's Loss,
a palanquin carried by six extraordinarily tall men and escorted by ten cudgel- and whip-wielding bodyguards bulled its way down to the dockside. At the railing, Ullen clenched his teeth, knowing who that would be: the current Chief Grasper and Extorter of Cawn, whoever that was this year. While he watched, members of the bodyguard stood on the gangway planking where the dockworkers were lazily sifting, and name-calling led to pushing which led to punching and soon a gorgeous, indiscriminate row erupted between labourers, dockhands, general onlookers and the bodyguards. Caught in the brawl the yellow-clothed palanquin pitched about like a ship in a storm while its occupant screeched, ‘Cawn welcomes … its liberators! Long … live the Talian forces! We open our doors … to your noble … warriors!’

Ullen could only hang his head. Gods, Cawn, how he hated the city.

That night Urko rode west with a force on all the horses that had survived the crossing in serviceable health. He claimed to be scouting the trader road to Heng, but Ullen knew he was fleeing any dealings with the Cawnese authorities. He also knew why – Urko would have throttled the lot of them. The warehouses Ullen leased were falling-down ruins awash with a fetid sludge of rotted fish. The wagons he rented fell apart even as they were loaded. The horses were either diseased or broken or both, not one animal among them fit even for light scouting. Meanwhile, the fees, tithes and bills piled up in the wallets of his secretaries, exaggerated, inflated and
outright false. He had bills for material and labour for repair of ships he didn't even recognize.

Meanwhile, V'thell had formed his Moranth Gold into columns and marched off without speaking to anyone and Bala had somehow claimed a fine carriage – probably threatening to curse a family – and attached herself to that brigade. By the time Ullen was organizing the rearguard and supply trains Urko's entire campaign chest was emptied. Toward the end of his stay Ullen was handing out scrip and referring bills to Tali's ruling Troika. Nevall Od’ Orr and Seega Vull, the richest factors in Cawn, sent him on his way with a sneer and the fluttering of handfuls of his scrip to the wind.

It surprised him that he kept his humour through the entire ordeal. Standing with the rearguard, hands at the reins of the scrawny and bruised ex-carthorse he'd purchased for the price of a Grisan war-mount, he bowed an ironic farewell to Cawn – may it rot in the effluvium of its own sour rapaciousness. For what seemed not to have occurred to these factors in their myopic focus on the immediate gain was that once the League had taken Heng, the road to Unta led back this way.

* * *

Shaky had been motionless at an arrow-loop of the westernmost tower of Heng's north wall for some time now. Hurl was glad; she didn't want him bothering her while she worked her calculations.

‘Would you look at that…’ he said, amazement in his voice.

‘What?’ Hurl did not look up from her scratches on the slate board resting on her crossed legs.

‘They're attacking.’

‘I don't hear anything.’

‘Take a look. They're prepping.’

Sighing her annoyance, Hurl pushed her piece of chalk into a pouch and cautiously uncrossed her numb legs. ‘It's almost bloody dark, for Fanderay's sake!’

‘Guess they think they need all the help they can get.’

She looked out, studied the Talian entrenchments, and was displeased to have to admit that Shaky was right. ‘Well, so do we,’ she said absently as she watched the fires lighting down the lines, moveable shield platforms being raised and buckets of water being tossed on hides hung over every piece of wooden siege equipment. The increasing activity of the besiegers extended as far as she could see east around the curve of the outer wall. ‘Looks like a general assault,’ she said, amazed.

‘It's ridiculous. They don't have the men to take the walls.’

‘And
they
know we don't have the men to defend them.’

That silenced Shaky. He glanced up and down the top of the curtain wall. ‘You think maybe they've got a chance?’

‘There's always a chance.’

‘Yeah. Well, maybe someone ought to do something.’ He was looking straight at her. Hurl stared back until she realized that that someone was her. She stepped into the tower archway, leaned out. ‘Ready fires! Prepare for assault!’

‘Aye, Captain!’

Hurl fought the urge to look behind her whenever anyone called ‘Captain’ her way. She heard her orders repeated down the curve of the defences. She adjusted the rank tore at her arm – the damned thing just didn't seem to fit right. ‘Get up top and ready the Beast,’ she told Shaky.

The old saboteur winked, bellowing, ‘Oh, aye, Captain!’

‘Just get up there.’

Laughing at her discomfort, Shaky climbed a ladder affixed to the stone wall and pushed open the roof trap. ‘Stoke the fire!’ he yelled, pulling himself up.

The squat, broad figure of Sergeant Banath entered the stair tower, saluted crisply. ‘Sergeant,’ Hurl greeted him.

‘Orders?’

Hurl eyed the Malazan regular, a red-haired Falaran veteran of the Genabackan campaigns, tanned, always looking as if he needed a shave, even at the morning muster. She'd yet to detect any definite sign either way of his attitude to this new command structure. A careful career soldier, she was coming to think. She said nothing at first. Orders should be blasted obvious, she thought. ‘How do the urban levies look?’ The levies were the majority of their forces: citizens hired, cajoled and plain coerced into the apparently distasteful duty of actually defending their city. She'd been given four hundred to hold this section of the wall. Banath led the three garrison squads that formed the backbone of her command.

The sergeant frowned the usual professional's distaste for amateurs. ‘Nervous and clumsy. Not pissing their pants, yet.’

‘Keep an eye on them.’

‘Aye.’

‘And hold fire until I give the word. Dismissed.’

Another crisp salute, a regimental turn, and exit. Maybe, the thought occurred to her, the exaggerated parade-ground manner was one long extended finger for her to spin on. Well, that was just too
bad. His buddy isn't the Fist. She peered out of the loop to gauge the activity. Metal screeched and ratcheted overhead, vibrating the stones of the tower. The Beast was being wound. Hurl could hear Shaky gleefully cursing the lads he had helping him and she couldn't keep down a smile; Gods, Shaky was never so happy as when he had a machine to pour destruction down on someone. And the Beast was his own special design. A winch had been installed at the rear of the stair-tower to bring up the enormous clay pots, big enough for a kid to bathe in, that were its ammunition. Only you wouldn't want to bathe in these. Sealed they were, and filled with oil. World's biggest munition.

Hurl watched while flagmen signalled out at the lines. Sappers took hold of the broad-wheeled shield platforms, and bowmen were forming up behind their cover. A lot of bowmen. Narrowing her eyes, Hurl tried to penetrate the gathering dusk. They looked like Seti tribals. Dismounted horse bowmen? What in the name of Dessembrae were they up to? Horns sounded in the night, and Talian siege engines, medium-sized catapults and onagers, fired. Burning bundles of oil-soaked rags arched overhead streaking smoke and flames in their wake. Stones cracked from the walls. Hurl ignored it all: the Talians had yet to field a single engine capable of damaging Heng's walls. It was just nuisance fire meant to keep everyone's heads down. A flight of arrows darkened the sky, climbed, then fell full of deadly grace. Though she had cover, Hurl winced at the havoc such salvos would cause along the walkway. While she watched, a staccato of answering fire darted from the lines. Hurl ran to the archway, yelling, ‘Who fired? Hold, I said!’