And she, hardly able to breathe, terrified, nodded back.
Leoman kicked her staff over the edge. Yathengar turned. ‘What?’
Kiska leapt into the black emptiness. A surprised roar burst behind her. Then, a bellow of pure outrage: ‘Leoman!’
It seemed Leoman could not help but remain true to his character.
Bakune imagined himself the most coddled prisoner in the history of Banith’s Carceral Quarters. Guards smuggled food and wine to him; guards’ wives whispered news from the countryside through the grate of his door. Even the commander of the quarters, Ibarth, a man who once openly scorned his judgements from the bench, appeared at his door to express his horror at the Malazans’ treatment of him.
‘Imagine,’ the man had huffed, ‘after all your efforts to be civil. These Malazans are barbarians!’ He assured Bakune that he’d have him out in an instant if it was up to him — but that the Malazans had his hands tied.
Bakune gave his understanding and the man fairly fainted his relief; he wiped his flushed sweating face and bowed his gratitude. News came only later via a guard’s wife that the Roolian resistance had named Bakune a patriot of the freedom struggle — a title he personally could not make any sense of.
The next night he was startled awake by a rattling at his door. A guard holding a lantern gently swung it open to wink and touch the side of his nose in a sort of comical pantomime. Bakune stared sleepily at the man. Whatever was he up to?
Another fellow slipped inside, wrapped in a cloak, hood up, a heavyset great lump of a fellow who sat on the end of his pallet. The guard set the lantern on a hook and backed away.
Bakune eyed the figure. ‘And who are you?’
The man threw back his hood. ‘Really, Assessor. Don’t you recognize old friends?’
It was Karien’el, just as fat, nose just as swollen, if a touch more tanned. Bakune jumped up. ‘Whatever are you doing here? You’re a wanted man!’
‘I was here in town so I thought I’d break you out.’
That silenced Bakune for a moment. He flexed his arm, massaging it and wincing. ‘Here? In town? Why? I told Hyuke there was to be no trouble here.’
Chuckling, Karien’el raised his hands. ‘Granted. The Malazans can have this pimple.’ He pointed to Bakune. ‘It’s you I want.’
‘Me?’
Karien’el chuckled again, shaking his head. ‘From anyone else I would take that as false modesty — but not you. I know you. That’s why I want you. I need an administrator. One I can trust.’
‘An administrator? What for?’
Karien’el lost his grin. ‘Gods you’re dense, man! For the bloody kingdom, that’s what!’
Bakune sat heavily. ‘There are others much more qualified…’
Karien made a farting noise. ‘Lady forgive you, but you’re taking all this fairness too damned far. Why them? Why not you? No, at this point it’s all about relationships. I know you. For example, I know you won’t waste both our time by scheming against me. Or trying to undermine my power to further your own.’ The man raised his eyes to the ceiling, sighing. ‘You have no idea what a relief that would be.’
Bakune couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. ‘But the Malazans…’
‘Neither the new Malazans nor the old Malazans have the men to hold the kingdom. And they both know it. It’s ours for the meantime — and we’re already fighting over it. Oh, they can try to retake it. But until then someone has to enforce order.’
Bakune looked him up and down. ‘And that would be you?’
If the man was offended he didn’t show it. ‘Or the next lucky bastard in line.’ Leaning over, he tapped a knuckle on the door.
Four armoured soldiers crowded the hall. Karien’el nodded to them and stood, letting out a long tired breath. ‘Welcome to the struggle, Chancellor, and Lord High Assessor of Rool.’
The guards bowed. One gestured up the hall. ‘This way, if you please, m’lord.’
Outside, it was a dark overcast night. Snow lay gathered against walls, melting, the streets glistening with water. He was hurried into a covered carriage. Two of the guards sat with him. Karien’el excused himself, saying he still had other business. Bakune did not like the sound of that, but he could hardly show such ingratitude now after the man had broken him out of prison.
As they rattled through the streets he peered out at lit windows. The town appeared just as it had, if a touch quieter, if not anxious. The garrison, he noted, sat completely black without sentries or watchfires. ‘The garrison is dark,’ he said to a guard.
‘They moved out. They’re building a fort outside the town.’
‘Ah. And us? Where are we headed?’
‘To Paliss, m’lord.’
Paliss? The capital? He sat back astounded. Karien’el controlled the capital? All the gods sustain him! He’d imagined a tent camp near some front, not the High Court itself! And without any interference from Karien’el, as well. Just as Karien’el said he knew him, so too did he know Karien’el. Just as he had no interest in ruling, so did Karien’el have no interest in the law itself.
But he mustn’t get ahead of himself. He found a horse blanket under the seat and pulled it over his legs. He flexed his hand — still a touch numb. Karien’el would have to win out, after all. And if he did… then he would have his chance to put his stamp on the laws of the land.
And he most certainly intended to.
For some reason the city of Ring made Ivanr uneasy. He preferred to stay out in the field, occupying his tent in Martal’s fortress, with a view of the city walls. He and the wrapped bodies of Martal and the Priestess. Many flocked to him now, begging for his blessing, hounding him. Inside the city it would be ten times worse.
He was the inheritor of a polytheistic movement nurtured and prepared by Beneth, inflamed by the Priestess, directed by Martal, and now in control of over half of Jourilan — and it terrified him. He had no idea what to do, or how to proceed. What next? March on the capital, Jour? Already Orman was harassing him with intelligence from the Dourkan border: news of Imperial loyalists negotiating for an alliance against the Reformist movement. He was no politician! Orman could handle that; he seemed to relish it.
He rested a hand on the cloth-wrapped body of the Priestess, the head and body reverently brought together, packed in salt, and lovingly bound. Such a small frame to have brought about such enormous change! Yet, as the churgeon said, nothing happened. Why did you allow it? Did you see, in the end, that nothing short of your complete sacrifice to the cause could assure their complete devotion as well?
‘Deliverer!’ a young girl’s voice called from without. Ivanr stirred from what was perhaps the closest he’d come to prayer in many years. Gods! Not another one!
He tossed aside the flap to see a young girl lying prone, hands out before her. ‘Stand up!’ he grated, much more ferociously than he meant. She stood, quivering her fear. ‘It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. Worship as you wish. There are no proscriptions now. The paths to the Divine are infinite.’
She nodded, gulping. ‘Yes, Deliverer. My father sent me. He is too old to come. He believes in your message of forgiveness.’ The girl visibly gathered her nerve to plunge on: ‘My lord, with the death of the Black Queen there is such anger among the troops. They thirst for revenge… M’lord, in the city they are rounding people up. People accused of worshipping the Lady. They are killing them all.’
‘What!’
The girl flinched, falling prone once more. ‘No! Not you!’ He glanced about the tent, found his staff. ‘Show me.’
The streets were utterly deserted but for roving bands of Reformist troops, drunk, breaking into shops, looting. Along the narrow streets of two-storey shops and houses many gaped empty, ransacked from the rioting. Looted broken furniture and private belongings littered the street along with the burned remains of bonfires and street barricades.
After a few blocks, the girl leading, it became easy to find the source of the trouble as the echoing roar of shouting and cheering reached him. They came on to a market square. A great crowd of Reform troops mixed with Ring citizens, obvious victors in the bloody street-to-street civil clashes, choked the square. Some had even climbed
