Reaper's Gale

  What did it mean?

  Cord and Shard had gone up to Sinn, but she wasn’t talking which was a shock to them all. And all Grub said was something that nobody afterwards could even agree on, and since Balm hadn’t heard it himself he concluded that Grub probably hadn’t said anything at all, except maybe ‘I got to pee’ which explained all that dancing.

  ‘Could it be that Letherii magic turned them all into dust?’ Throatslitter wondered now as he walked on the dew-laden field.

  ‘And left the grasses growing wild?’ Masan Gilani countered.

  ‘Something over here,’ Deadsmell said from ten or so paces on.

  Balm and Throatslitter dismounted and joined Masan Gilani – slightly behind her to either side. And the three of them set off after Deadsmell, who was now fast disappearing in the gloom.

  ‘Slow up there, Corporal!’ It’s not like the Universal Lodestone is bouncing up there with you, is it?

  They saw that Deadsmell had finally halted, standing before a grey heap of something.

  ‘What did you find?’ Balm asked.

  ‘Looks like a shell midden,’ Throatslitter muttered.

  ‘Hah, always figured you for a fisher’s spawn.’

  ‘Spawn, ha ha, that’s so funny, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yeah? Then why ain’t you laughing? On second thought, don’t – they’ll hear it in the city and get scared. Well, scareder than they already are.’

  They joined Deadsmell.

  ‘It’s a damned barrow,’ said Throatslitter. ‘And look, all kinds of Malazan stuff on it. Gods, Sergeant, you don’t think all that’s left of all those marines is under this mound?’

  Balm shrugged. ‘We don’t even know how many made it this far. Could be six of ‘em. In fact, it’s a damned miracle any of ‘em did in the first place.’

  ‘No no,’ Deadsmell said. ‘There’s only one in there, but that’s about all I can say, Sergeant. There’s not a whisper of magic left here and probably never will be. It’s all been sucked dry.’

  ‘By the Letherii?’

  The corporal shrugged. ‘Could be. That ritual was a bristling pig of a spell. Old magic, rougher than what comes from warrens.’

  Masan Gilani crouched down and touched a badly notched Malazan shortsword. ‘Looks like someone did a lot of hacking with this thing, and if they made it this far doing just that, well, beat-up or not, a soldier doesn’t just toss it away like this.’

  ‘Unless the dead one inside earned the honour,’ Deadsmell said, nodding.

  ‘So,’ Masan concluded, ‘a Malazan. But just one.’

  ‘Aye, just the one.’

  She straightened. ‘So where are the rest of them?’

  ‘Start looking for a trail or something,’ Balm said to Masan Gilani.

  They all watched her head off into the gloom.

  Then smiled at each other.

  * * *

  Lostara Yil walked up to where stood the Adjunct. ‘Most of the squads are back,’ she reported. ‘Pickets are being set now.’

  ‘Has Sergeant Balm returned?’

  ‘Not yet, Adjunct.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Fist Keneb would have sent a runner.’

  Tavore turned slightly to regard her. ‘Would he?’

  Lostara Yil blinked. ‘Of course. Even at full strength – which we know would be impossible – he doesn’t have the soldiers to take Letheras. Adjunct, having heard nothing, we have to anticipate the worst.’

  During the battle, Lostara Yil had remained close to her commander, although at no point was the Adjunct in any danger from the Letherii. The landing had been quick, professional. As for the battle, classic Malazan, even without the usual contingent of marines to augment the advance from the shoreline. Perfect, and brutal.

  The Letherii were already in poor shape, she saw. Not from any fight, but from a fast march from well inland – probably where the wave of sorcery had erupted. Disordered in their exhaustion, and in some other, unaccountable way, profoundly rattled.

  Or so had been the Adjunct’s assessment, after watching the enemy troops form ranks.

  And she had been proved right. The Letherii had shattered like thin ice on a puddle. And what had happened to their mages? Nowhere in sight, leading Lostara to believe that those mages had used themselves up with that terrible conflagration they’d unleashed earlier.

  Moranth munitions broke the Letherii apart – the Letherii commander had sent archers down the slope and the Bonehunters had had to wither a hail of sleeting arrows on their advance. There had been three hundred or so killed or wounded but there should have been more. Malazan armour, it turned out, was superior to the local armour; and once the skirmishers drew within range of their crossbows and sharpers, the enemy archers took heavy losses before fleeing back up the slope.

  The Malazans simply followed them.

  Sharpers, a few cussers sailing over the heads of the front Letherii ranks. Burners along the slope of the far left flank to ward off a modest cavalry charge. Smokers into the press to sow confusion. And then the wedges struck home.

  Even then, had the Letherii stiffened their defence along the ridge, they could have bloodied the Malazans. Instead, they melted back, the lines collapsing, writhing like a wounded snake, and all at once the rout began. And with it, unmitigated slaughter.

  The Adjunct had let her soldiers go, and Lostara Yil understood that decision. So much held down, for so long – and the growing belief that Fist Keneb and all his marines were dead. Murdered by sorcery. Such things can only be answered one sword-swing at a time, until the arm grows leaden, until the breaths are gulped down ragged and desperate.

  And now, into the camp, the last of the soldiers were returning from their slaughter of Letherii. Faces drawn, expressions numbed – as if each soldier had but just awakened from a nightmare, one in which he or she – surprise – was the monster.

  She hardens them, for that is what she needs.

  The Adjunct spoke, ‘Grub does not behave like a child who has lost his father.’

  Lostara Yil snorted. ‘The lad is addled, Adjunct. You saw him dance. You heard him singing about candles.’

  ‘Addled. Yes, perhaps.’

  ‘In any case,’ Lostara persisted, ‘unlike Sinn, Grub has no talents, no way of knowing the fate of Fist Keneb. As for Sinn, well, as you know, I have little faith in her. Not because I believe her without power. She has that, Dryjhna knows.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Adjunct, they were on their own – entirely on their own – for so long. Under strength to conduct a full-scale invasion.’ She stopped then, realizing how critical all of this sounded. And isn’t it just that? A criticism of this, and of you, Adjunct. Didn’t we abandon them?

  ‘I am aware of the views among the soldiers,’ Tavore said, inflectionless.

  ‘Adjunct,’ Lostara said, ‘we cannot conduct much of a siege, unless we use what sappers we have and most of our heavier munitions – I sense you’re in something of a hurry and have no interest in settling in. When will the rest of the Perish and the Khundryl be joining us?’

  ‘They shall not be joining us,’ Tavore replied. ‘We shall be joining them. To the east.’

  The other half of this campaign. Another invasion, then. Damn you, Adjunct, I wish you shared your strategies. With me. Hood, with anyone! ‘I have wondered,’ she said, ‘at the disordered response from the Tiste Edur and the Letherii.’

  The Adjunct sighed, so low, so drawn out that Lostara Yil barely caught it. Then Tavore said, ‘This empire is unwell. Our original assessment that the Tiste Edur were unpopular overseers was accurate. Where we erred, with respect to Fist Keneb’s landing, was in not sufficiently comprehending the complexities of that relationship. The split has occurred, Captain. It just took longer.’

  At the expense of over a thousand marines.

  ‘Fist Keneb would not send a runner,’ Tavore said. ‘He would, in fact, lead his marines straight for Letheras. “First in, last out,” as Sergeant Fiddler might say.’

  ‘Last i
n, looking around,’ Lostara said without thinking, then winced. ‘Sorry, Adjunct—’

  ‘The Bonehunters’ motto, Captain?’

  She would not meet her commander’s eyes. ‘Not a serious one, Adjunct. Coined by some heavy infantry soldier, I am told—’

  ‘Who?’

  She thought desperately. ‘Nefarrias Bredd, I think.’

  And caught, from the corner of her eye, a faint smile twitch Tavore’s thin lips. Then it was gone and, in truth, might never have been.

  ‘It may prove,’ the Adjunct said, ‘that Fist Keneb will earn us that ironic motto – those of us here, that is, in this camp.’

  A handful of marines to conquer an imperial capital? ‘Adjunct—’

  ‘Enough. You will command for this night, Captain, as my representative. We march at dawn.’ She turned. ‘I must return to the Froth Wolf.’

  ‘Adjunct?’

  Tavore grimaced. ‘Another argument with a certain weaponsmith and his belligerent wife.’ Then she paused, ‘Oh, when or if Sergeant Balm returns, I would hear his report.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lostara Yil replied. If?

  She watched the Adjunct walk away, down towards the shore.

  Aboard the Froth Wolf, Shurq Elalle leaned against the mainmast, her arms crossed, watching the three black, hairless, winged ape-like demons fighting over a shortsword. The scrap, a tumbling flurry of biting, scratching and countless inadvertent cuts and slices from the weapon itself, had migrated from the stern end of the mid-deck and was now climbing up onto the foredeck.

  Sailors stood here and there, keeping well clear, and trading wagers on which demon would win out – an issue of some dispute since it was hard to tell the three beasts apart.

  ‘—with the cut across the nose – wait, Mael’s salty slick! Now another one’s got the same cut! Okay, the one without—’

  ‘—which one just lost that ear? Cut nose and missing ear, then!’

  Close beside Shurq Elalle, a voice said, ‘None of it’s real, you know.’

  She turned. ‘Thought she had you chained below.’

  ‘Who, the Adjunct? Why—’

  ‘No. Your wife, Withal.’

  The man frowned. ‘That’s how it looks, is it?’

  ‘Only of late,’ Shurq replied. ‘She’s frightened for you, I think.’

  To that he made no response.

  ‘A launch is returning,’ Shurq observed, then straightened.

  ‘I hope it’s the Adjunct – I’m ready to leave your blessed company. No offence, Withal, but I’m nervous about my first mate and what he might be doing with the Undying Gratitude.’

  The Meckros weaponsmith turned to squint out into the darkness of the main channel. ‘Last I saw, he’d yet to drop anchor and was just sailing back and forth.’

  ‘Yes,’ Shurq said. ‘Sane people pace in their cabin. Skorgen paces with the whole damned ship.’

  ‘Why so impatient?’

  ‘I expect he wants to tie up in Letheras well before this army arrives. And take on panicky nobles with all their worldly goods. Then we head back out before the Malazan storm, dump the nobles over the side and share out the spoils.’

  ‘As any proper pirate would do.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Do you enjoy your profession, Captain? Does it not get stale after a time?’

  ‘No, that’s me who gets stale after a time. As for the profession, why yes, I do enjoy it, Withal.’

  ‘Even throwing nobles overboard?’

  ‘With all that money they should have paid for swimming lessons.’

  ‘Belated financial advice.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

  A sudden outcry from the sailors. On the foredeck, the demons had somehow managed to skewer themselves on the sword. The weapon pinned all three of them to the deck. The creatures writhed. Blood poured from their mouths, even as the bottom-most one began strangling from behind the one in the middle, who followed suit with the one on top. The demon in the middle began cracking the back of its head into the bottom demon’s face, smashing its already cut nose.

  Shurq Elalle turned away. ‘Errant take me,’ she muttered. ‘I nearly lost it there.’

  ‘Lost what?’

  ‘You do not want to know.’

  The launch arrived, thumping up against the hull, and moments later the Adjunct climbed into view. She cast a single glance over at the pinned demons, then nodded greeting to Shurq Elalle as she walked up to Withal.

  ‘Is it time?’ he asked.

  ‘Almost,’ she replied. ‘Come with me.’

  Shurq watched the two head below.

  Withal, you poor man. Now I’m frightened for you as well.

  Damn, forgot to ask permission to leave. She thought to follow them, then decided not to. Sorry, Skorgen, but don’t worry. We can always outsail a marching army. Those nobles aren’t going anywhere, after all, are they?

  A short time later, while the sailors argued over who’d won what, the three nachts – who had been lying motionless as if dead – stirred and deftly extricated themselves from the shortsword. One of them kicked the weapon into the river, held its hands over its ears at the soft splash.

  The three then exchanged hugs and caresses.

  Amused and curious from where he sat with his back to a rail on the foredeck, Banaschar, the last Demidrek of the Worm of Autumn, continued watching. And was nevertheless caught entirely by surprise when the nachts swarmed over the side and a moment later there followed three distinct splashes.

  He rose and went to the rail, looking down. Three vague heads bobbed on their way to the shore.

  ‘Almost time,’ he whispered.

  Rautos Hivanar stared down at the crowded array of objects on the tabletop, trying once more to make sense of them. He had rearranged them dozens of times, sensing that there was indeed a pattern, somewhere, and could he but place the objects in their proper position, he would finally understand.

  The artifacts had been cleaned, the bronze polished and gleaming. He had assembled lists of characteristics, seeking a typology, groupings based on certain details – angles of curvature, weight, proximity of where they had been found, even the various depths at which they had been buried.

  For they had indeed been buried. Not tossed away, not thrown into a pit. No, each one had been set down in a hole sculpted into the clays – he had managed to create moulds of those depressions, which had helped him establish each object’s cant and orientation.

  The array before him now was positioned on the basis of spatial location, each set precisely in proper relation to the others – at least he believed so, based on his map. The only exception was with the second and third artifacts. The dig at that time – when the first three had been recovered – had not been methodical, and so the removal of the objects had destroyed any chance of precisely specifying their placement. And so it was two of these three that he now moved, again and again. Regarding the third one – the very first object found – he well knew where it belonged.

  Meanwhile, outside the estate’s high, well-guarded walls, the city of Letheras descended into anarchy.

  Muttering under his breath, Rautos Hivanar picked up that first artifact. Studied its now familiar right angle bend, feeling its sure weight in his hands, and wondering anew at the warmth of the metal. Had it grown hotter in the last few days? He wasn’t sure and had no real way of measuring such a thing.

  Faint on the air in the room was the smell of smoke. Not woodsmoke, as might come from a hundred thousand cookfires, but the more acrid reek of burnt cloth and varnished furniture, along with – so very subtle – the sweet tang of scorched human flesh.

  He had sent his servants to their beds, irritated with their endless reports, the fear in their meek eyes. Was neither hungry nor thirsty, and it seemed a new clarity was taking hold of his vision, his mind. The most intriguing detail of all was that he had now found twelve full-scale counterparts throughout the city; and each of these corresponded perfec
tly with the layout before him – excepting the two, of course. So, what he had on this table was a miniature map, and this, he knew, was important.

  Perhaps the most important detail of all.

  If he only knew why.

  Yes, the object was growing warmer. Was it the same with its much larger companion, there in the back yard of his new inn?

  He rose. No matter how late it was, he needed to find out. Carefully replacing the artifact onto the tabletop map, matching the position of the inn, he then made his way to his wardrobe.

  The sounds of rioting in the city beyond had moved away, back into the poorer districts to the north. Donning a heavy cloak and collecting his walking stick – one that saw little use under normal circumstances, but there was now the possible need for self-protection – Rautos Hivanar left the room. Made his way through the silent house. Then outside, turning left, to the outer wall.

  The guards standing at the side postern gate saluted.

  ‘Any nearby trouble?’ Rautos asked.

  ‘Not of late, sir.’

  ‘I wish to go out.’

  The guard hesitated, then said, ‘I will assemble an escort—’

  ‘No no. I intend to be circumspect.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘Open the door.’

  The guard complied.

  Passing through, he paused in the narrow avenue, listening to the guard lock the door behind him. The smell of smoke was stronger here, a haze forming haloes round those few lamps still lit atop their iron poles. Rubbish lined the gutters, a most unpleasant detail evincing just how far all order and civil conduct had descended. Failure to keep the streets clean was symbolic of a moribund culture, a culture that had, despite loud and public exhortations to the contrary, lost its sense of pride, and its belief in itself.

  When had this happened? The Tiste Edur conquest? No, that defeat had been but a symptom. The promise of anarchy, of collapse, had been whispered long before then. But so soft was that whisper that none heard it. Ah, that is a lie. We were just unwilling to listen.

  He continued looking round, feeling a heavy lassitude settle on his shoulders.