Stonewielder (69 page)

The Envoy straightened, adjusted his rich silver-threaded robes yet again, jerked his chin to the assassin. ‘You.’

The man smiled. Long thin daggers slid into his hands. ‘Good.’

*

Devaleth reached the end of her options quite quickly with the wounded Adjunct. She’d cleaned the wounds as best she could and studied the man to diagnose what afflicted him. The problem was that what had happened to him was far beyond her own quite minor expertise. Some sort of fever coursed through his blood, probably inflicted by the animal bites. As to what his contact with the apparition of the Lady might have done to his mind – she had no hope of ameliorating that.

Someone spoke from the front of the tent. ‘Mage of Ruse. May I enter?’

She straightened, reached out to her Warren. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Carfin, of the Synod of Stygg.’

The Synod of Stygg? She’d thought that mere legend, stories. An association of mages who met despite the Lady’s best efforts to stamp them out. She relaxed, slightly, calling out, ‘You may enter.’

‘My thanks.’

Devaleth flinched, spinning: the mage had spoken behind her.

He was tall and skeletally thin, wearing tattered dark finery: trousers, vest and shirt. Arms clasped behind his back, he was studying the Adjunct. ‘You seek to heal him.’

‘Yes.’

‘We in the Synod agree that he must be healed. Certain of us foresee a role for him.’

‘A role? In what?’

His gaze had not left the Adjunct. He pursed his lips distastefully. ‘This one is foreign indeed.’

‘What do you mean? Foreign – how?’

‘Unfortunately … what ails him cannot be treated in any mundane way.’

She let out a long breath. ‘I see.’

He lowered his head to study her from under his stringy black hair. ‘Yes. One or both of us must access our Warren.’

‘Ah.’ And bring down the Lady upon them. They may heal the Adjunct, but then one or both of them would be dead or no better off than the Adjunct was now. ‘I don’t know if I’m ready for that.’

‘No one is,’ said someone from the flaps and both Carfin and Devaleth jumped sideways to regard the newcomer. He was an older man, bearded, in battered, travel-stained clothes.

‘Totsin?’ Carfin said, his gaze narrowed. ‘What in the name of the ancients are you doing here?’

The man entered, pulling the flaps closed behind him. ‘I’ve come to see what I can do here.’

Carfin returned his gaze to the Adjunct. ‘Well. Damned late, but welcome, I suppose.’

The man, Totsin, bowed to Devaleth. ‘Mage of Ruse. Not many of the Marese have joined the invaders, I presume?’

Devaleth offered him a thin smile. ‘Not many. You are with this Synod?’

‘From very far back, yes.’ He gestured to the Adjunct. ‘What do you intend?’

‘He must be healed by Warren.’

‘Ah …’

Devaleth nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Who?’ Totsin asked.

‘We are … considering,’ Carfin answered. He sniffed the Adjunct and wrinkled his nose. ‘Terribly foreign.’

Totsin smoothed his greying beard. ‘If it must be done, then, well, no option to flee exists for me. As to our host, well, we are not at sea …’

Carfin cocked his head, looking like a tall emaciated crow. ‘You are suggesting … ?’

The older man raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘Well – if now is the time to commit fully, as the Synod appears to have voted …’

The tall mage ran a hand down the edge of the pallet, the other
going to his chest. ‘True enough, Totsin. Though coming from you that is a surprise.’

Devaleth cast a look between the two. ‘What are you getting at?’ she demanded.

Totsin bowed. ‘Carfin here is a mage of Darkness – Rashan, I believe the Malazans name it.’

‘I see.’ So, Carfin could heal the Adjunct then flee into the Warren of Rashan, hoping to shake off the Lady. Seemed straightforward enough. ‘Yet … you are reluctant … you fear the Lady’s attack, of course …’

Carfin was shaking his head, almost blushing.
The man’s not afraid – he actually looks embarrassed!
He cleared his throat. ‘Unlike Ruse, madam, we here under the thumb of the Lady rarely dare to exercise our, ah, talent. The truth is – though I know how to do it – I have never actually
entered
Rashan …’

Oh. Oh dear
.

‘And so having entered …’ Carfin continued, ‘I have no way of knowing whether I’ll ever be able to
return –
if you see the dilemma.’

‘Yes,’ Devaleth breathed. She touched his arm. ‘I understand fully.’ She regarded Totsin. ‘What of you? You seem ready enough to push others forward.’

He raised his hands apologetically. ‘My talents run in, ah, other directions.’

The tall pale mage took Devaleth’s hand, kissed the back of it. ‘Madam, it is of no concern. I will do this. It is something I should have done long ago, in any case.’ He looked to the older man. ‘Totsin. My thanks. You, of all of us, stepping forward has emboldened me. My thanks.’

The older mage was dragging his fingers through his ragged beard, his gaze fixed on the Adjunct. ‘Yes. Now is certainly the time to act.’

‘You should both wait outside.’

Devaleth nodded. She clasped the man’s hands in hers. ‘My thanks.’ He bowed very formally.

Outside, Devaleth focused on emptying her mind of all concern for what was going on within. She turned her back to watch the engagement on the far shore. It appeared that the infantry, even with the aid of Greymane, had yet to break through. Just as before. Too narrow a front to assault. And they were all so weak – famished, sick.

Totsin had walked off to one side and was kicking at the dirt, hands clasped at his front.

Though Devaleth was prepared for it subconsciously, the sudden levelling of the Lady’s awareness and ferocity left her staggered. Behind her the tent cloth billowed and tore as if a silent explosion of munitions had been unleashed within. One pole yanked free, falling crooked. She sent an alarmed glance to Totsin, who had turned, his gaze hooded. He raised his thin shoulders in a shrug.

She closed on the tent while making a strong effort to withhold any sensing outwards. ‘Carfin?’ she called. No one answered. She edged aside the cloth, peered into the darkness. ‘Carfin?’ Totsin entered after her. She found the Adjunct as before: lying supine, undisturbed. But he was alone and her possessions had been reduced to wreckage. Either the Lady had snapped up the mage of Darkness, or he had escaped. Made his own leap of faith.

She quickly laid a hand upon the young Adjunct’s brow, let out a long breath of relief. ‘The fever has lessened. His mind is … calm. He sleeps.’

‘He actually did it,’ Totsin mused from the entrance. ‘I am astonished.’

Something in the mage’s manner irked Devaleth. ‘You should be grateful.’

‘And … he is gone.’ The man studied her now, hands loose at his sides. ‘What of you, mage of Ruse? It must be hard – being so far from the open sea, from the source of your power.’

Searching for a clean cloth and water, Devaleth said, distracted, ‘I do not have to be on the sea to call upon it.’

‘Ah. Yet you are weakened, yes? By such separation?’

She looked up from digging among the scattered pots and boxes to where he stood at the entrance, his eyes oddly bright in the gloom. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

The man appeared about to say something. He raised his hands to her.

Then someone threw open the tent flap behind him.

*

Suth sat in the grass outside a tent in the infirmary area waiting to be seen by one of the bonecutters who had been sent along with the expeditionary force. Personally, he had no faith in them, though he understood the use of herbs and poultices and such to cure sicknesses and fever and cleanse wound-rot. He also accepted the need to drain
the black-blood that can sometimes come to even the smallest cuts. All these mundane healings and procedures he would grudgingly go along with – all except head wounds. From what he’d seen growing up on the Dal Hon plains, head wounds were a mystery to everyone, even these self-professed healers. They’d prescribe the strangest things, from temple-bashings to drilling holes in the skull to remove ‘pressure’.

He swore that if they tried anything like that he’d be out of the tent quicker than shit from one of these gut-sick soldiers around him. From the fighting across the river a great roar reached him and he bolted upright. There appeared to be movement at the front; a breakthrough? Dammit! And he was stuck here!

A man joined him. His shirt-front was sodden, blood dripping to the ground, and he was wiping his hands on a dirty rag. ‘What is it?’ the fellow asked.

‘Might be an advance.’

A grunt and the man eyed him up and down. ‘What in Togg’s name are you doing here?’

Suth pointed to his head. ‘Fell on a rock.’

‘You can walk, talk – you’re fine. Bugger off. There’s enough to handle.’

Suth jerked a salute. ‘Yes, sir!’ He dashed down the slope.

On his way to the bridge he noticed the High Mage’s tent. It leaned drunkenly aside, the cloth torn in places as if it had been attacked.
Where they said they were taking the Adjunct!
He ran for the tent.

He threw open the flap and an old man he’d never seen before turned upon him. The fellow gestured, his mouth opening. Suth reacted automatically and his sword leapt to the man’s throat.

The man snapped his mouth shut. ‘It’s all right, trooper!’ a woman called from within. ‘Relax.’ The High Mage came forward, pushing the sagging cloth out of her way.

Suth inclined his head. ‘High Mage.’ He sheathed his sword.

‘
High Mage
…’ the man breathed, something catching in his voice.

‘Honorary only,’ she told him.

He touched a quavering hand to his throat, said, ‘Perhaps I had best be going.’

‘If you must,’ the High Mage answered, her gaze narrow.

‘Yes. In case
she
should return. Until we meet again, then,’ and he bowed.

The High Mage lowered her head ever so slightly. ‘Until then.’

The man gave Suth a wide berth and walked off down the slope. Suth watched him go, then remembered why he’d come. ‘The Adjunct – how is he?’

The High Mage pulled her gaze from the retreating figure. A frown turned into a smile, her plump cheeks dimpling. ‘I believe he is well, trooper. I do believe he will recover.’

Suth let out a great breath. ‘My thanks, High Mage.’

‘Don’t thank me. Though perhaps I should thank you,’ she added musingly.

‘I’m sorry, High Mage?’

‘Nothing. Now, no doubt you wish to return to the fighting, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well.’ She shooed him away. ‘Go, go.’

Bowing, Suth turned and ran down the slope as best he could. He jogged, hand on his helmet, wincing where it dug into his wound, and he wondered whether he should have told the High Mage that for an instant he could have sworn he’d seen murder in that fellow’s eyes. But that was not something you would mention to a High Mage based upon a fleeting impression, was it? Not if you didn’t want to make a lot of trouble for yourself. And he’d already missed enough of the damned fighting.

*

The Malazan guards posted at the doors to the Envoy’s chambers saluted and stood aside for Greymane. He entered, pulling off his helm, which he slammed down on a convenient table, scattering icons and small reliquary boxes. He pulled off his bloodied gauntlets and scanned the room. A man dressed all in black – black trousers, black cotton shirt, and black vest – sat in a plush chair, smoking. Something that might be a body lay on the floor, hidden under a rich silk bedsheet.

Greymane slapped the gauntlet into his helm, then pulled a white scarf draped over a tall statue of the Lady and wiped away the sweat sheathing his face and the blood smearing his hands. ‘How many more of you are there, hidden away like lice?’ he asked.

The man smiled, revealing tiny white teeth. ‘I’m more of a freelance.’

The High Fist only exhaled noisily through his nostrils. He raised his chin to the body. ‘Is this him?’

‘In the flesh.’

Still wiping his hands, Greymane used a muddied boot to pull the cloth away. He stared at the pale face for some time. ‘Enesh-jer,’ he breathed.

‘You knew him?’

The High Fist scowled at the question. ‘Yes. I knew him well enough.’

The man was studying his thin kaolin pipe. ‘What do you want done with him?’

Greymane stared down at the body for a time. ‘I used to want that head on a pike. Now, I don’t care. Burn him with the rest.’

The man coughed slightly, covering his mouth. He eyed the High Fist anew. ‘These Roolians don’t burn their dead. They bury them.’

‘We don’t have the time.’ He tossed the bloodied scarf on to the body. ‘See to it.’

The man offered a vague bow as the High Fist picked up his helm and stalked out. He sat for a time, tapping the pipe in a palm, frowning.