knew that almost any other Fist in his place would resent and hate this young usurper of his or her authority, but older now, and a father, certain this was his last command, he could not muster the energy for seething bitterness. Quite the opposite: he always found himself wanting to offer the young man advice.
Which, surprisingly enough, this young Adjunct seemed to listen to, or at least he could hide his own resentment and contempt.
An aide offered Kyle tea, which he accepted. ‘How many should we take?’ he asked.
‘About five, perhaps.’
The Adjunct raised his glass to the far crest. ‘And how many hiding beyond that high land?’
‘Good question. Do we really have to talk to them, hey?’
The Adjunct picked up a hardtack biscuit, dipped it in the tea. ‘I think so.’
‘I agree. And the High Fist did not say who he’d be sending.’
Kyle grunted his understanding: hard to set a trap when you don’t know who’s coming. ‘Who do we take?’
‘A couple of sergeants, I suppose.’
‘If you don’t mind… there’re some hands with us I’ve been out with before.’
Rillish nodded his agreement. ‘And that sergeant — Goss. I’ll find them.’
Kyle set down his glass. ‘Don’t bother yourself, Fist. I’ll hunt them up.’
‘I-’ Rillish bit down the rest of his objection. The Adjunct turned back to him, frowning behind his long moustache.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
Inclining his head in an informal salute, the young man left.
There it was again. Interference or consideration? What would the men and women of the cohort see now? The Adjunct active, giving orders, in command, while I stand aside apparently useless? Was this how the Adjunct wished it? Or had the youth interpreted such message duties as beneath the Fist? Did he not mind them seeing him acting as an aide? Or was he one not to give any thought to that at all?
He didn’t know enough of the man to be sure either way. So far, however, it appeared that the foreign plains youth really didn’t give a damn about any of these issues of rank or prerogatives of command. If true, it would be a relief to Rillish not to have to worry about such trivial things.
*
In the morning the Adjunct came by and spoke to Goss. The squad watched sidelong from their places hunched round the fire, warming their hands and stamping their feet. Len ladled out a broth from their cookpot. Blowing into his fists, Goss approached, gestured to Suth. ‘Kit up. You ’n’ me are goin’ for a walk.’ Suth nodded. ‘The rest of you… gear up and keep watch. We don’t know how many of the bastards there are.’ He gave Len a hard stare. ‘Corporal. You’re in charge till I get back.’
Len saluted. Yana, Suth saw, was eyeing Pyke, who seemed to be ignoring everyone.
Goss glanced at Suth. ‘What’re you doing still here?’
Suth downed his broth and went to get ready.
Six of them came walking down the overgrown farmers’ trail into the valley. The Adjunct and the Fist led, followed by Sergeant Coral of the 20th and Goss, then Suth and Tolat. While a small woman, Coral was rumoured to be lethally quick with her longsword, which she could wield in one or both hands.
The pennants were Roolian brown. The tent front was wide open to reveal a carpeted floor, a brazier with a tea service, and some foodstuffs. Four guards stood outside. Inside sat three men, waiting. Two were obviously guards while the third wore thick rich sleeveless robes over leather armour set with rings and studs.
The three stood and the fat one came forward. ‘Greetings. Thank you for answering my invitation. I am Baron Karien’el.’
Rillish bowed. ‘Fist Rillish Jal Keth.’ Turning to the Adjunct he paused, said, ‘My aide, Kyle.’
Suth was surprised to hear that bit of misdirection, but decided that there was no point in letting the man know just who was with him. And the Adjunct made no objection.
The Baron bowed and invited them in. ‘Sit, please.’
Goss and Coral motioned that they four should remain outside. They spread out in a broad arc. Suth tried not to overhear but he couldn’t help it — the Baron had a very loud voice.
‘I am honoured, Fist, and… encouraged… that the High Fist would send such a high-ranking officer.’
‘It is nothing,’ answered Rillish. ‘The High Fist is keen to see an end to hostilities.’
‘Would you like some tea?’ the Baron asked.
‘Thank you, yes.’ One of the guards readied the tea. Rillish continued, his voice uncertain: ‘Baron Karien’el, did you say? I do not recall hearing of you before — you are Roolian, yes?’
The man waved to himself, his swarthy face, black beard. ‘Yes, I am Roolian, as you see. Not Malazan stock. I am recently come into my title.’
‘Congratulations. But it was my understanding that the aristocracy were of Malazan descent, as a rule.’
‘Only among you foreign invaders.’
The Fist was quiet for some time. He sipped his tea. Tolat, Suth noted, was watching the field of tall grass surrounding the tent and that reminded Suth that he too ought to be keeping a lookout. Rillish cleared his throat. ‘Am I to understand then, that I am not addressing a representative of Overlord Yeull?’
The fellow stroked his thick rich beard, smiling. ‘Correct, Fist.’
Suth glanced about, alarmed. Thesorma Raadil! An insurgency! These Roolians see the chance to rid themselves of all of us! But why announce this?
‘And you have a proposal?’ Rillish asked, his tone expressing dry disinterest.
The Baron held up his open hands. ‘I will be frank. We Roolians wish to see the last of all of you Malazans-’ The man waved a hand at some reaction from Rillish. ‘Now, now. If I said otherwise you would know me for a liar, yes?’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Very good. On these grounds of candour let me offer a gesture of our neutrality. May I?’
Rillish nodded his agreement.
The Baron snapped his fingers and one of the guards waved to the far valley slope. Goss, Coral, Tolat and Suth all stood in alarm. Rillish and Kyle remained seated with Karien’el. A small party started down the far valley side. A file of figures escorted by a few others. It did not have the look of an ambush.
‘What is it, Sergeant?’ Rillish called.
Goss answered, ‘Looks like prisoners, Fist.’
‘Yes, Fist,’ said the Baron. And he stood, grunting and rubbing his legs. He invited Rillish and Kyle to the front of the tent. ‘Please accept these officers of the Overlord as a gesture of our goodwill,’ and he smiled once more.
In that bared-tooth savage grin Suth read the message:… that you will kill each other off and save us the trouble.
Rillish offered a slight bow. ‘Our thanks, Baron. Until we meet again, then.’
The grin broadened. ‘Yes. Until then.’
Corlo lay against the cold dank wall of his pen, legs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tight, not caring whether he lived or died. He’d done his shameful job — done what the Stormguard wanted of him — and now he lay cast aside, apparently forgotten. It was probable that the only reason he lived and was not chained along some frontier of the Stormwall was his prudent captors’ awareness that he may be needed again.
Gods, not again. Surely not. His lie would see Bars through this season. Of that he was sure. After that… all that was too far away to care any more. He had betrayed too egregiously. The lie burned too virulently in his chest. Yet surely some of them must still survive! Somewhere!
Now he lay jammed in with the worst of the Stormguard’s cullings. Dumped among those imprisoned within what was itself one immense prison. The murderers, the incurably rebellious, and the just plain mad. He was dying of starvation. Food came on plates shoved through a narrow slit. The strongest fell upon it and wolfed it down, leaving none for the rest. And since Corlo chose not to rouse himself he went without. Such was life without rules beyond individual gratification.
