could not provide you with adequate materiel to sufficiently defend your command. I am sorry.’
Felis appeared stricken to the bone. ‘Sir! I take full responsibility! The inspection-’
‘Was more than thorough, I’m sure. No, do not blame yourself, Marshal. Please convey my regrets to the rest of the Theftian crew and commend them for their efforts.’
The Section Marshal saluted smartly, her eyes fairly shining. ‘Yes, Lord Protector.’
Hiam answered the salute. ‘Dismissed.’ He invited Quint onward. ‘Since we’re here, let’s have a look at the Tower of Ruel’s Tears.’
‘Yes, Lord Protector.’
Wall Marshal Quint walked quietly at the side of his commander. Once more the man had shaken him by his seeming casual disregard for tradition and the hard-won wisdom of their predecessors. Was he not aware that thousands had died for the priceless knowledge of where best to place their defences and how best to deploy for every situation? Yet of course Hiam knew, perhaps better than he did himself; the man was, after all, a student of history. A reader of scrolls and books, unlike him.
He was a man of the spear. He had but two answers for all that existence could possibly throw his way: either the butt or the blade. Nothing need be more complicated than that.
Yet the protectorship had not come to him. Despite five seasons’ seniority. Was he not the Spear of the Wall? Was his service not storied? Now lately he wondered: was there something he lacked? Some quality unfathomable to him? On days such as this Hiam would make him think. That woman, Section Marshal Felis — a woman! Were they in truth that short of men? Yet by his words of support the Lord Protector had won her, helm to sandals. She was his now, would do anything for him. He saw it in her eyes. Hiam could do that with just a word or a glance — what was this the indefinite quality? And most important, was it what was needed by the Chosen at this time?
Or was it the butt or the blade?
They entered the Tower of Ruel’s Tears. Guard chambers on the first floor, beds to double as an infirmary. Up the circular stairs they came to dormitories. Chosen jumped to attention. Hiam and Quint answered their salutes.
‘All well here?’ Hiam asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ the ranking Chosen present responded, a Wall Provost, or sergeant, by the look of him.
Hiam pointed to a guard across the low-ceilinged room. ‘Allan, yes?’
The guard smiled, pleased. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ramparts of the Stars, three seasons ago. That was quite the scuffle, yes?’
‘Yes, Lord Protector. A cold one.’
‘Good to see you. Carry on.’ Hiam brought his fist to his heart in salute.
‘Sir!’ rang the shouted response.
They continued up the stairway past further levels of dormitories, these empty, awaiting the arrival of the season’s contingents from abroad. Beyond these they came to an armoury jammed with racks of spears, swords, and a few sets of spare armour — boiled leather cuirasses mainly. At the walls stood barrels of the weapon of last resort: tar, pitch and rare alchemicals for a barrier of flame. Above this the stairs ended at a trapdoor to the uppermost chamber. Hiam pushed it open and stepped up. Quint followed.
Here broad windows faced all directions, all closed now by sturdy wood shutters bracketed in iron. At the centre of the small open chamber stood a stone pillar topped by an iron sleeve that could be raised and lowered by a lever. Hiam bent down, examining it. ‘This was tested this summer?’
‘Yes. Tested and inspected.’
‘Good. If there is one thing we mustn’t stint on, this is it.’
‘Yes.’ Their communication system. An oil flame within could be made to burn exceedingly bright with the addition of certain mineral powders. Raising and lowering the sleeve allowed them to send coded messages up and down the length of the wall. Simple communiques: attack, help, all-clear.
Quint examined his tall commander: grey coming into the beard and in the unkempt mane of thick hair. Yet seemingly young in his mannerisms. Not an outstanding spearman, it had to be said. But there was a certain something about his eyes and expression. Quint had always felt comfortable around the man, though he rarely felt comfortable around anyone. He crossed his arms under his cloak. ‘You didn’t drag me up here to discuss our communication system.’
A wry smile. ‘No. And direct as ever. Reassuring, Quint. You’ve been quiet of late.’ He went to the shuttered window facing north, unlatched it and stood peering out. ‘No, word has come via my ever-efficient Staff Marshal Shool of the Jourilan and Dourkan contingent.’ He turned, leaning back against the window ledge, hands clasping the edges of his thick cloak. ‘They have been halved.’
‘Halved. Halved? Well, what’s the point of that? Do they want to be overrun? They might as well send no one for all the use!’
Hiam raised a hand in agreement. ‘Yes, Quint. Yes. But what’s done is done. We cannot conjure up any further men or women. We can expect only some three thousand spears from Jourilan and Dourkan. That puts our strength for the coming season at some twenty thousand spears of active-service men and women. Twenty-five, if we pressed every possible standing body. Including, I suppose, even our Master Engineer Stimins.’
Despite the news, Quint barked a laugh at that vision. ‘It may be all worth it just to see that. But,’ and he slid a hand up from within his cloak to stroke his gouged chin between thumb and forefinger, ‘as you say, there seems nothing to discuss in all this. What’s done is done.’
‘Yes. There’s nothing to discuss,’ and the Lord Protector’s expression hardened, ‘save how we will respond to the fact that we are now below half-strength for the coming season.’
Quint shrugged easily. ‘Then there is nothing to discuss. We will defend. We are the Chosen, the Stormguard. Ours is a sacred responsibility to defend all the lands.’
Hiam pushed himself from the wall, nodding. ‘Very good, Quint. I knew that would be your answer. I merely wanted to have this out in the open between us. We are in complete agreement. We fight. We defend to the last man and woman. There is no alternative.’ He squeezed Quint’s shoulder, peered about the chamber. ‘You know this tower is named Ruel’s Tears because a millennium ago the Lord Protector of the time, Ruel, was said to have thrown himself from this very window after having been overcome by some terrible vision?’
Quint nodded; he’d heard the legend.
‘Some say his vision was of the ultimate defeat of the Stormguard. Had you heard that?’
Quint could only pinch his chin savagely; he’d heard that whispered a time or two.
Looking off as if he could see beyond the walls of the small chamber, Hiam said softly, ‘I never could understand such a reaction, Quint. All I feel is admiration. I sometimes think that if I were to die of anything, it would be of unbearable pride…’ He smiled then, looking away. ‘Very good, Wall Marshal. We are in accordance.’ And he started down the stairs.
Only later, long after he and Hiam had walked in silence completing the day’s inspection tour, did it occur to Quint that the discussion of Ruel’s Tears in truth had not at all been for Hiam to test his reaction to the news of this season’s shorthandedness; rather, it had been to reassure him, Quint, of Hiam’s own steadfast resolve in the face of such news.
For it was not in Quint’s nature ever to bend or to waver — neither the butt nor the blade allowed for that. However, in the months ahead he may come to wonder on the like determination of his Lord Protector. And Hiam had just neatly anticipated and eliminated any such misgivings on the part of his second in command. As he hung his cloak and sat watching the fire in the common room of the Tower of Kor, it occurred to Quint that perhaps there was more than met the eye to the indefinable quality that made Hiam the Lord Protector.
Rillish was playing with his toddler, Halgin, in the courtyard of his house just outside the hamlet of Halas when a column of Malazan cavalry came up the dirt road from the village. Straightening, he motioned the nanny to take the lad then walked out to meet them. They took their time. The grey dust of west Cawn coated their travelling cloaks and the sweaty flanks of their mounts. As they drew closer Rillish could see by the torc high on the leader’s arm that the commander was a captain, which was unusual for such a small detachment. His wife, Talia, broad with child, appeared at his side. ‘You needn’t come out,’ he told her. ‘It’s nothing, I’m sure.’
‘They wouldn’t be here for nothing,’ she said grimly.
The captain motioned a halt and nodded a greeting. She pulled off her gloves and batted the dust from her cloak. ‘Fist Rillish Jal Keth?’
