Now they were attacking without him! And he exhausted and without his armour. He was never going to live this down. Footsore, his head throbbing, he went to find his gear.
*
Devaleth thanked the squad that had carried in the Adjunct, yet wasted no time in hurrying them out. Closing the flaps, she turned to the young man lying on the pallet. It was far worse than she’d imagined. She cut away the leather and cloth around savage bites in thigh and arm — already they festered. A compound of leaves steeped in a tincture that cleaned wounds went on those. As to his mind — she pressed a hand to his hot brow and reached out, ever so tentatively, to his thoughts, then yanked her hand away as if stung.
Chaos and confusion, yes, but not shattered. Astounding. His mind ought to be irrevocably crushed — so much so that it would be a mercy to let him slip away. Perhaps it was because the man was no mage. No talent, as they said among these Malazans. Not cursed, as she’d say herself.
Yet… something else. Something deeper, more troubling. Her brow furrowing, she bent closer to the man’s eyes. Reaching, she lifted one lid with a finger then flinched away. Ancient One protect her! For an instant… but no. Impossible. It must have been the light. That could not have been an amber glow.
*
They’d left his gear at their camp. Wincing and hissing his pain, he pulled on his long padded gambeson then laced up his hauberk and grieves. Helmet high on his head, he limped down to the bridge. A mounted officer, an unattached lieutenant acting for Command, thundered past then reared, halting.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
Suth saluted. ‘Just returned from scouting up north, sir.’
The officer grunted, accepting this. ‘You’re wounded.’
Suth wiped his face, finding a layer of flaking dried blood. ‘It’s nothing, sir. I can fight…’
‘Report to the infirmary.’
‘Sir, no. I-’
‘No?’ The officer wheeled his mount to face him directly. ‘I order you to the infirmary!’
Suth bit his tongue. Fuck! Should’ve just saluted, dumbass! ‘Yes… sir.’
Nodding a warning, the officer kicked his mount and raced off, dirt flying. Suth glared at the ash-grey overcast sky then headed for the infirmary tents.
*
Envoy Enesh-jer watched the engagement from a narrow window in the top floor of the Three Sisters stone tower. Some time ago he’d summoned the field commander, Duke Kherran, and now impatiently awaited the man’s arrival.
Far later than he expected, the man appeared, helmet in hand, cloak dragging in dirt behind. His round moon face gleamed with sweat. Mud spattered his fine mail and Roolian brown surcoat. ‘With all due respect, Envoy, it is unadvisable to summon me from the-’
‘Duke Kherran!’ Enesh-jer cut in. ‘Last I knew I was the Overlord’s chosen and so you shall treat me as such.’
Stiffening, the Duke clamped his lips shut. He knelt on one knee, bowed, then straightened.
Enesh-jer nodded. ‘That is better. Now… I have been watching the engagement and I am rather surprised to see that our lines have in fact retreated. Why is that, Duke, when I gave strict orders that these invaders were to be swept from the bridge?’
The Duke blinked at Enesh-jer, utterly at a loss. At last he cleared his throat and said, ‘Of course, Envoy. I will see to it myself.’
‘Good. Do so. And Duke…’ Enesh-jer bent closely to him. ‘If you cannot fulfil my expectations then remember — there are many others here awaiting their chance.’
Duke Kherran bowed again, his face held rigid. ‘Envoy.’ He marched out. Enesh-jer eyed the mud the man had tramped into the room, his mouth sour, then returned to the window.
Behind him the thick doors swung closed and the lock rattled shut. The Envoy whirled round. ‘Hello? Is someone there?’
A man all in black stepped out from behind a display of carved ivory icons of the Lady. He was quite short and he smiled with small pointed teeth. The Envoy backed away. The man plucked an icon from a shelf, studied it. ‘You remember enough, don’t you, Enesh-jer, to know who I am.’
The Envoy reached behind him to touch a wall, pressed his back to it. ‘I will call for the guards.’
The man waved the icon towards the entrance. ‘Those doors are built to resist a siege.’
The Envoy raised his chin, ran a hand down the front of his robes, straightening their folds. ‘I am not afraid to die. The Lady will welcome me.’
‘A true believer.’ The man tossed the icon over a shoulder to shatter on the flagstones. The Envoy winced. ‘You come across them… now and then.’ The man walked to one of the slit windows, peered out. ‘Ah! He’s broken through. Took him longer than I thought.’ He offered a wink. ‘Guess he’s out of practice.’
Enesh-jer slid along the wall to a window, glanced out. His face paled even further. It was the invaders who had broken through. Leading the charge came an armoured giant. Even as the Envoy watched, the man heaved aside an overturned cart, knocked soldiers from their feet with raking blows.
‘In a rare fury, he is,’ the assassin commented.
‘Both his swords are broken,’ Enesh-jer said, wonder in his voice.
‘Breaks all his swords, he does.’ The man glanced at him again and bared his pointed teeth. ‘All ’cept one.’
The Envoy raised a hand to clutch at his throat. ‘No. I refuse to believe it. Lies.’
The little man’s smile was a leer. ‘Yes, it’s him. Your old friend, Greymane. I hear he carries a grudge for all you betrayers. Voted to oust him, didn’t you?’
Enesh-jer was shaking his head in denial. ‘Yeull would have told me.’
‘Or not.’ The man leaned back against the window slit. ‘Question is then… do I kill you or not? Who’s it going to be? Me or him?’
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.’
