‘Where is he?’ she grated.
‘I know.’
‘Come to me.’
‘Get a move on,’ the Stormguard ordered.
Pulling away, he murmured, ‘I’ll try.’
She let him go, forcing her burning hands to open, then shuffled on. The Malazan veteran, she noted, also gave the trustee a long hard stare as he passed.
So this Jemain knew Bars. But then, here on the wall, who did not? Perhaps it was nothing. But the Malazan appeared close to guessing her identity as well. And she was now paired with him. Well, as before… she may be better off alone…
Esslemont, Ian Cameron
Stonewielder
BOOK III
AND ALL THE SHORES BETWEEN
He stands watching the Chosen on the wall
Gripping the stone in both hands
Staring down into the blur of sickle blades,
Clouds of spray and snow blow behind
And all to the horizon, to the curve
Of wall that marks the shore,
Nothing but men swinging.
When the sea fills the gap
His cousins raise their spears.
For twelve hours the sun strives
And the reaper reaps.
The boy stares down into that sweep
Of hot oiled blade and tempered ice,
And I hope he will not fall.
CHAPTER IX
Looking back is a flame in the eyes.
Best not to linger like flies on the refuse we have made.
No, I know nothing of what came before.
Nor do I care.
It is much easier to worship the future that will never come.
Bakune sat in the High Chair of the Banith Courts Civil and listened to the advocate for the aggrieved finish his argument. It was all he could do to force himself to pay attention. Outside, an occupying army patrolled the streets and blockaded the harbour, while here within these walls advocates and agents connived and conspired with as much unashamed greed as before.
Something within the Assessor wanted to scream. Under his robes he pinched his fingers into his palms to force himself to follow the advocate’s unlikely, and contrived, line of reasoning. After the summing up Bakune quickly hammered his desk. ‘Advocate, I see no clear and compelling evidence here to support your claims of collaboration and war profiteering.’
The advocate rose anew, swept his robes back from his arms. ‘Assessor… it is clear from this merchant’s sale of goods to the enemy…’
‘Sir, if I were to prosecute every merchant who has dealt with these Moranth then the Carceral Quarters would be full to bursting. That alone is no evidence of collusion or traitorous behaviour as your client contends. Meanwhile the accused, your client’s main rival in the timber concession, I understand, suffers under this cloud of doubt, his reputation stained, his business eviscerated. I suggest you work towards assembling compelling and material evidence to support your charges. Until then — case dismissed.’ Bakune hammered the desk again, and the foremost of the crowd jamming the court rose, half of them relieved, the other half muttering their dissatisfaction.
The Assessor turned to the next packet of documents, but somehow he could not muster the energy to face them. He hammered the desk a third time. ‘Court closed for the morning.’
An eruption of protest, shouting, papers waved in fists, the court bailiffs struggling to hold back the mob. Bakune swept out of the court; he simply no longer gave a damn. Where were these urgent calls to action, the public outrage, when youths were disappearing from the streets? He frankly had no sympathy for this sudden new passion for litigation. Our country is invaded by a foreign power, alien troops walk our streets, and our reaction? We attempt to sue them and each other. Bakune was ashamed that his countrymen would see in all this nothing more than an opportunity to make a quick profit.
He gathered up a few files then headed out to return to his offices. His guards took up positions around him — a precaution pressed upon him by Hyuke, now Captain Hyuke of the City Watch. The surviving members of the Lady’s priesthood had damned him for meeting with the enemy — as if they could just ignore them and hope they’d go away.
It was so frustrating he was tempted to walk away. Damn them all for their sudden newfound concern for ‘justice’ and the self-righteous aggrieved umbrage only the selfish can muster. At least no new murder following the characteristics of all those that had come before had yet surfaced. Certainly there had been killings: drunken stabbings, crimes of passion, spousal murders — oddly enough from those most vocally concerned with ‘traditional Roolian values’, it seemed. But no bodies of youths turning up in the tide. For that Bakune was grateful, and chose to take some small measure of credit. He’d even had a word with Boneyman, and Soon, the young servant girl, now worked as an apprentice cook in the kitchens.
He found Hyuke awaiting him outside his office, looking no different from before with his ridiculous fat moustache and lazy manner. Only his uniform had changed; Bakune did not think much of the epaulettes. He opened the door and waved him in. ‘What is it?’
The new Watch captain slumped in a chair, his eyes sleepy. ‘Them Blues want a warehouse and grounds to set up quarters on the waterfront. No one’s volunteering.’
‘Surely that’s a matter for the Lord Mayor’s office.’
A tired nod. ‘True enough. Except the Lord Mayor’s scarpered.’
‘What?’
‘Last night. Run off. City treasury’s empty too.’
‘You’re implying a connection?’
The man rolled his eyes. ‘What’re we gonna do?’
‘What do you mean “we”? The Vice-Mayor must step in.’
