Ganoes scowled. «You're not like the other soldiers I've talked to. You sound more like my father.»
«But I'm not your father,» the man growled.
«The world,» Ganoes said, «doesn't need another Izrine merchant.» The commander's eyes narrowed, gauging. He opened his mouth to make the obvious reply, then shut it again.
Ganoes Paran looked back down at the burning quarter, pleased with himself. Even a boy, Commander, can make a point.
Mock's Vane swung once more. Hot smoke rolled over the wall, engulfing them. A reek of burning cloth, scorched paint and stone, and now of something sweet. «An abattoir's caught fire,» Ganoes said. «Pigs.»
The commander grimaced. After a long moment he sighed and leaned back down on the merlon. «As you say, boy, as you say.»
In the eighth year the Free Cities of Genabackis established contracts with a number of mercenary armies to oppose the Imperium's advance; prominent among these were the Crimson Guard, under the command of Prince K'azz D'Avore (see Volumes III & V); and the Tiste And? regiments of Moon's Spawn, under the command of Caladan Brood and others.
The forces of the Malazan Empire, commanded by High Fist Dujek Onearm, consisted in that year of the 2nd, 5th and 6th Armies, as well as legions of Moranth.
In retrospect two observations can be made. The first is that the Moranth alliance of 1156 marked a fundamental change in the science of warfare for the Malazan Imperium, which would prove efficacious in the short term. The second observation worth noting is that the involvement of the sorcerous Tiste And? of Moon's Spawn represented the beginning of the continent's Sorcery Enfilade, with devastating consequences.
In the Year of Burn's Sleep 1163, the Siege of Pale ended with a now legendary sorcerous conflagration. .
Imperial Campaigns II S8-
Volume IV, Genabackis Imrygyn Tallobant (b.1151)
CHAPTER ONE
The old stones of this road have rung with iron black-shod hoofs and drums -
where I saw him walking up from the sea between the hills soaked red in sunset -
he came, a boy among the echoes sons and brothers all in ranks of warrior ghosts -
he came to pass where I sat on the worn final league-stone at day's end -
his stride spoke loud all I needed know of him on this road of stone —
the boy walks another soldier, another one -
bright heart not yet cooled to hard iron —
Mother's Lament Anonymous 1161st Year of Burn's Sleep 103rd Year of the Malazan Empire 7th Year of Empress Laseen's Rule
«Prod and pull,» The old woman was saying, «Its the way of the Empress, as like the gods themselves.» She leaned to one side and spat, then brought a soiled cloth to her wrinkled lips. «Three husbands and two sons I saw off to war.»
The fishergirl's eyes shone as she watched the column of mounted soldiers thunder past, and she only half listened to the hag standing beside her. The girl's breath had risen to the pace of the magnificent horses. She felt her face burning, a flush that had nothing to do with the heat. The day was dying, the sun's red smear over the trees on her right, and the sea's sighing against her face had grown cool.
«That was in the days of the Emperor,» the hag continued. «Hood roast the bastard's soul on a spit. But look on, lass. Laseen scatters bones with the best of them. Heh, she started with his, didn't she, now?»
The fishergirl nodded faintly. As befitted the lowborn, they waited by the roadside, the old woman burdened beneath a rough sack filled with turnips, the girl with a heavy basket balanced on her head. Every minute or so the old woman shifted the sack from one bony shoulder to the other.
With the riders crowding them on the road and the ditch behind them a steep drop to broken rocks, she had no place to put down the sack.
«Scatters bones, I said. Bones of husbands, bones of sons, bones of wives and bones of daughters. All the same to her. All the same to the Empire.» The old woman spat a second time. «Three husbands and two sons, ten coin apiece a year. Five of ten's fifty. Fifty coin a year's cold company, lass. Cold in winter, cold in bed.»
The fishergirl wiped dust from her forehead. Her bright eyes darted among the soldiers passing before her. The young men atop their highbacked saddles held expressions stern and fixed straight ahead. The few women who rode among them sat tall and somehow fiercer than the men. The sunset cast red glints from their helms, flashing so that the girl's eyes stung and her vision blurred.
«You're the fisherman's daughter,» the old woman said. «I seen you afore on the road, and down on the strand. Seen you and your dad at market. Missing an arm, ain't he? More bones for her collection is likely, eh?» She made a chopping motion with one hand, then nodded. «Mine's the first house on the track. I use the coin to buy candles. Five candles I burn every night, five candles to keep old Rigga company. It's a tired house, full of tired things and me one of them, lass. What you got in the basket there?» Slowly the fishergirl realized that a question had been asked of her. She pulled her attention from the soldiers and smiled down at the old woman. «I'm sorry,» she said, «the horses are so loud.»
Rigga raised her voice. «I asked what you got in your basket, lass?»
«Twine. Enough for three nets. We need to get one ready for tomorrow. Dadda lost his last one-something in the deep waters took it and a whole catch, too. 11grand Lender wants the money he loaned us and we need a catch tomorrow. A good one.» She smiled again and swept her gaze back to the soldiers. «Isn't it wonderful?» she breathed.
Rigga's hand shot out and snagged the girl's thick black hair, yanked it hard.
The girl cried out. The basket on her head lurched, then slid down on to one shoulder. She grabbed frantically for it but it was too heavy. The basket struck the ground and split apart. «Aaai!» the girl gasped, attempting to kneel. But Rigga pulled and snapped her head around.
«You listen to me, lass!» The old woman's sour breath hissed against the girl's face. «The Empire's been grinding this land down for a hundred years. You was born in it. I wasn't. When I was your age Itko Kan was a country. We flew a banner and it was ours. We were free, lass.»
The girl was sickened by Rigga's breath. She squeezed shut her eyes.
«Mark this truth, child, else the Cloak of Lies blinds you for ever.»
Rigga's voice took on a droning cadence, and all at once the girl stiffened. Rigga, Riggalai the Seer, the wax-witch who trapped souls in candles and burned them. Souls devoured in flame- Rigga's words carried the chilling tone of prophecy. «Mark this truth. I am the last to speak to you. You are the last to hear me. Thus are we linked, you and I, beyond all else.»
Rigga's fingers snagged tighter in the girl's hair. «Across the sea the Empress has driven her knife into virgin soil. The blood now comes in a tide and it'll sweep you under, child, if you're not careful. They'll put a sword in your hand, they'll give you a fine horse, and they'll send you across that sea. But a shadow will embrace your soul. Now, listen! Bury this deep! Rigga will preserve you because we are linked, you and I. But it is all I can do, understand? Look to the Lord spawned in Darkness; his is the hand that shall free you, though he'll know it not-»
«What's this?» a voice bellowed.
Rigga swung to face the road. An outrider had slowed his mount. The Seer released the girl's hair.
The girl staggered back a step. A rock on the road's edge turned underfoot and she fell. When she looked up the outrider had trotted past.
Another thundered up in his wake.
«Leave the pretty one alone, hag,» this one growled, and as he rode by he leaned in his saddle and swung an open, gauntleted hand. The ironscaled glove cracked against Rigga's head, spinning her around. She toppled.
The fishergirl screamed as Rigga landed heavily across her thighs. A bead of crimson spit spattered her face. Whimpering the girl pushed herself back across the gravel, then used her feet to shove away Rigga's body. She climbed to her knees.
Something within Rigga's prophecy seemed lodged in the girl's head, heavy as a stone and hidden from light. She found she could not retrieve a single word the Seer had said. She reached out and grasped Rigga's woollen shawl. Carefully, she rolled the old woman over. Blood covered one side of Rigga's head, running down behind the ear. More blood smeared her lined chin and stained her mouth. The eyes stared sightlessly.
The fishergirl pulled back, unable to catch her breath. Desperate, she looked about. The column of soldiers had passed, leaving nothing but dust and the distant tremble of hoofs. Rigga's bag of turnips had spilled on to the road. Among the trampled vegetables lay five tallow candles.
The girl managed a ragged lungful of dusty air. Wiping her nose, she looked to her own basket.
«Never mind the candles,» she mumbled, in a thick, odd voice. «They're gone, aren't they, now? just a scattering of bones. Never mind.» She crawled towards the bundles of twine that had fallen from the breached basket, and when she spoke again her voice was young, normal. «We need the twine. We'll work all night and get one ready. Dadda's waiting. He's right at the door, he's looking up the track, he's waiting to see me.
She stopped, a shiver running through her. The sun's light was almost gone. An unseasonal chill bled from the shadows, which now flowed like water across the road.
«Here it comes, then,» the girl grated softly, in a voice that wasn't her own.
A soft-gloved hand fell on her shoulder. She ducked down, cowering. «Easy, girl,» said a man's voice. «It's over. Nothing to be done for her now.»
The fishergirl looked up. A man swathed in black leaned over her, his face obscured beneath a hood's shadow. «But he hit her,» the girl said, in child's voice. «And we have nets to tie, me and Dadda-»
«Let's get you on your feet,» the man said, moving his long-fingered hands down under her arms. He straightened, lifting her effortlessly. Her sandalled feet dangled in the air before he set her down.
Now she saw a second man, shorter, also clothed in black. This one stood on the road and was turned away, his gaze in the direction the soldiers had gone. He spoke, his voice reed-thin. «Wasn't much of a life,» he said, not turning to face her. «A minor talent, long since dried up the Gift. Oh, she might have managed one more, but we'll never know will we?»
The fishergirl stumbled over to Rigga's bag and picked up a candle. She straightened, her eyes suddenly hard, then deliberately spat on to the road.
The shorter man's head snapped towards her. Within the hood seemed the shadows played alone.
The girl shrank back a step. «It was a good life,» she whispered. «She had these candles, you see. Five of them. Five for-»
«Necromancy,» the short man cut in.
The taller man, still at her side, said softly, «I see them, child. I understand what they mean.»
The other man snorted. «The witch harboured five frail, weak souls. Nothing grand.» He cocked his head. «I can hear them now. Calling for her.»
Tears filled the girl's eyes. A wordless anguish seemed to well up from that black stone in her mind. She wiped her cheeks. «Where did you come from?» she asked abruptly. «We didn't see you on the road.»
