Return of the Crimson Guard

table. The man reminded Ghelel of a lion, a scarred, battle-hardened veteran of countless scrapes, wiry with a bushy tangled head of curly hair and beard. Choss cleared his throat. ‘That was settled last night, Duchess. We saw no need to wake you.’

‘My presence is requisite at all command meetings.’

‘Ah, well, you see. In the field things don't really hold to any regularly scheduled meetings or such. We have to move quickly.’

‘Then come and get me, dammit!’

Choss's gaze went to Amaron and he smiled faintly. ‘Very well. But please remember — you supported relinquishing command of forces to me and I do not have the time to explain every decision.’

‘You seem to have the time now.’

‘Flanked you,’ said an amused Amaron.

Sighing, Choss poured out a glass of wine from a decanter on the table. He raised it to Ghelel who shook her head. He sat back. ‘Very well. So what is it you want explained?’

‘I have heard that you are leaving some ten thousand men here south of Tali. Gods, man, that's more than a fifth of the entire force! We need every man for the march east! Heng, you say, may have come out against us, or is at least making a bid for independence. We must intimidate Itko Kan and Cawn. We may face pitched battles in Bloor and, finally, Unta. The very capital! Why weaken ourselves before we even meet the enemy?’

Choss moved to speak but a wave of lowing from the throats of countless oxen and cattle overtook them together with the high-pitched whistles and yipping of Seti horsemen. The tent shook with the rumbling of the hooves.

‘What is going on!’ Ghelel yelled through the din.

‘The Seti are driving most of our animals east.’

‘Why!’

Choss raised his voice, ‘Duchess, the resistance of Heng has upset our timetable. We must get there quickly, before Laseen reaches the city with forces loyal to her. If she can stop us there our movement will lose its momentum. Commanders and provinces will begin drifting back to her. That will be the end of us.’

‘But you assured me Laseen has barricaded herself in the capital!’

The two men exchanged glances once more. As the press of cattle passed, the noise fell. ‘Yes, Duchess. However, her agents may make an offer to the Kanese. A privileged position in a new co-dominion rule… who knows? They might be bribed into extending their protection to Heng. Then we would be facing two opponents. We must get there before any such arrangement can be effected.’

Ghelel pointed to the shore. ‘So tell me, how does leaving men here manage that!’

Choss downed his wine, set the glass carefully on the table.

‘Duchess. The old Itko Kan confederacy is not the only principality we must worry about. South of the Idryn is Dal Hon-’

‘Who have sent assurances of neutrality.’

Officially, yes. However, we have drained Quon Tali of every hale man and fit woman able to hold a spear. We dare not leave it completely defenceless. The Dal Hon Council of Elders might decide to dig out their old treaties with Heng and march on Tali. That's why we're leaving ten thousand men between them and Tali.’

‘They wouldn't dishonour themselves after assuring us-’

‘Dishonour!’ Choss's hand slapping down on the table smashed the glass flat. ‘Honour? Glory? All that horseshit those moon-eyed minstrels sing on about — none of that matters here in the field! Here, a man or woman can have personal honour, yes. But no commander or state can afford it. The price is too high. Annihilation of all those who follow you. I intend to win, Duchess. That's the school I was trained in. Winning! Plenty of time afterwards to rewrite the history to make yourself look good.’ He raised his hand and gathered up a handful of reports to wipe the blood away. ‘Right now we're makin’ rafts. And with the help of our few hamlet mages and some Seti shamans we'll barge down the Idryn as if Hood himself was after our behinds.’

‘I'll get a healer,’ said Amaron.

‘Not yet,’ Choss called after him. ‘No, now I think is a good time to let Ghelel know our plans for her.’ He grinned as he wrapped a cloth around his hand.

Ghelel actually felt the short hairs of her neck bristling. ‘Oh yes, do please inform me. Perhaps it involves a royal barge and a hundred slaves rowing?’

Amaron smiled — the first real smile Ghelel could recall from him. ‘Don't worry, m'Lady. The dress and the wagon and the bodyguard are all for show.’ He hooked his hands once more at his taut belt. ‘We have only one real mage worth the name, Lass. That's a joke compared to how things used to be. Our one advantage with you is that no one, absolutely no one, can reliably identify you. We're keeping watch on your old stepfamily, of course, but outside of them there's only a handful who can be used by any mage to get a handle on you — such as Quinn. Thus, the facade of the palanquin,’ he pointed to her white surcoat, ‘and the costume. We plan for you to slip away from all that during the river trip. A new identity has been pulled together for you.’

She eyed the two men — so obviously pleased with themselves. Schemers. She saw it now. These men loved schemes. Who else could have endured to rise as part of the old emperor's staff? ‘A new identity. I see. Pray tell as what…?’

‘An officer,’ Amaron replied. ‘A cavalry leader. Prevost, I believe, is the old rank. In the Marchland Sentries.’

The Marchland Sentries! Under the Marquis Jhardin? They're all veterans — the raiding is constant on the Nom Purge frontier. They'll never accept me.’

‘They accept new recruits all the time. And the Marquis does command.’

‘What does he know?’

‘Only what he needs to know. I leave the rest up to your discretion. I suggest something close to the truth of your upbringing. Such as being of a minor noble family that spent its last coin purchasing your commission.’

She nodded reluctantly — anything was better than the damned painted carriage and this ridiculous costume. ‘When?’

‘Molk will have all the details. He will be posing as your servant.’

Ghelel raised a hand. ‘I'm sorry. Did you say servant?’

Amaron nodded, serious. ‘Oh yes.’

‘Not like I've been hearing about? All these adjuncts and aides and seconds in the Talian forces?’

Choss and Amaron exchanged wry glances. ‘Oh, yes, Duchess. The Talian army has elected to follow the old ways of doing things. Pre-Malazan. Any self-respecting officer must have a servant, even two, or three: a groom for his or her mounts, an aide-de-camp or adjutant for his or her daily duties, even an attendant to go with them into battle. You being poor can only afford one.’

Queen of Mysteries, no. The man's slouched, he stinks and he's wall-eyed to boot. ‘No, not him. Anyone but him!’

Amaron's grin did not waver; he was obviously very pleased with his arrangements. ‘Oh yes, m'Lady. He's perfect.’

In the light of the flames from the burning west palisade wall Lieutenant Rillish could make out figures struggling atop the east. He stood behind the piled sacks and lumber of a last redoubt abutting the stone barracks at the centre of the fort. Already the wounded filled the barracks. The Wickans, Sergeant Chord had informed him, had withdrawn to the large dugout storage vault beneath. Somehow this intelligence disheartened him. But he did not have the energy to think about it; instead, it took all he could muster to stay erect. A javelin lanced out of the dark from the north wall and he threw up both swords to deflect it. The parry staggered him. The two guards Chord had posted with him steadied his back, their large shields raised. Arrows followed, thumping into the shields’ layered wood, leather, and copper sheeting. Damn them, they had the advantage now. Rillish gestured for Sergeant Chord.

The sergeant came jogging across the no-man's-land of the central mustering grounds, whisked by arrows and tossed flaming brands.

‘Not much longer now,’ he bellowed over the inferno of the tarred east timbers, the clashing of swords and