Bernal curtly nodded his agreement. ‘You and the brothers must go.’
Orman cast a quick glance into the halclass="underline" mist choked it, but he could see that thick layers of icy hoar frost covered the walls and floor, while at the far end sat two figures, immobile, streaming with vapours — no doubt the very source of them. Iceblood magics, obviously. He turned back to Bernal. ‘What? No. All of us. Now.’
Bernal smiled behind his beard as he shook his head. ‘No. I will stay and hold the door. Now go.’
‘Leal and Ham, then.’
The commander’s voice sounded again: ‘I order you to advance!’
Bernal urged him onward with a push of his shoulder. ‘They sit now with the master and mistress. As I shall — so go, quickly. The spell is fading.’ He pushed Kasson off also.
Orman edged back down the stairs; he had his one last duty to perform. ‘Very well. Kasson, let’s find your brother.’ Backing away, he saluted Bernal with Svalthbrul. The fellow raised his great spear in answer and waved them off. Orman and Kasson jogged away round the Greathall.
They found Keth at the rear, the bodies of fallen soldiers all about him. ‘Jaochim has tasked us to bring word of this to Buri,’ Orman said.
Kasson nodded. ‘Bernal told me.’
Characteristically, Keth said nothing. He merely started climbing the thin barrier of logs. Orman joined him.
Vapours slid about the fields, sinking now into pools and depressions, like water. They jogged past fallen soldiers who lay shuddering, their arms clenched to their chests as if against a terrifying cold. Orman headed for the nearest patch of woods and they crashed through. The tree limbs and brush snapped like icicles; Orman reflected that he might be inured to the magics because of his shared blood, but the air was so appallingly frigid it still hurt his nose and lungs with every breath.
They jogged onward, heading north and upland; Orman heard no sounds of pursuit.
* * *
The night watch woke Jute, reporting of strange sights and sounds to the west. Still groggy, but happy to have his cabin back now that the Mare youth had recovered and moved to sleeping in the hammocks with the crew, he pulled on his boots, wrapped himself in a thick fur cloak, and headed out.
The night air shocked him with its bracing cold. His fingers tingled. This didn’t feel like spring at all. Had more of the smell of autumn to it. The sailor motioned to the far shore where it lay barely discernible in the dark overcast night — only the diffuse glow of the moon and stars behind the clouds allowed any visibility. Torches and lanterns swung and bobbed there: movement. A great number of people on the move in the dead of night.
Jute scratched his chin, wondering. Those would have to be the people from Wrongway up the coast. Given up on the goldfields, perhaps. But what would drive them onward through the night?
‘Jute Hernan,’ he heard Ieleen call, and he turned. She stood wrapped in a blanket in the doorway, a hand on the jamb.
‘Hmm? What is it, love? Sorry if I woke you.’
Her blind gaze was on the west and he was surprised to see her brows crimp in worry. ‘Sound the wake up and get dressed. Visitors.’
He stroked his chin. Well, if she insisted … it seemed quiet to him, but he’d lived this long by respecting her instincts. He nodded to the crewman. ‘Sound the alarm. All hands to readiness.’ He returned to their cabin as the hanging bronze alarm was banged and feet pounded the deck.
When he returned, he found the crew at their posts and the ship’s marines at the sides together with the Malazans. Both officers, Letita and Giana, armed and armoured, stood before him. ‘Captain,’ Letita greeted him. ‘Your orders?’
He glanced to Ieleen sitting next to the tiller arm; she had her pipe in her mouth, but it wasn’t lit. The Mare lad, Reuth, sat cross-legged on the deck beside her. She withdrew the pipe and motioned to the bows; he followed the motion to see Cartheron leaning up against the side, peering to the west. He nodded to Letita and Giana to excuse him and went to the captain. His voice low, he asked: ‘What’s going on?’
The old fellow ran a hand over what little of his bristled hair remained. ‘Damned if I know …’
‘Commander Tyvar!’ one of the crewmen called out.
Tyvar came pounding up the gangway. Behind him came another person, startling Jute: the unmistakable tall figure of the foreign sorceress, Lady Orosenn. He bowed to her and she returned the courtesy.
‘Captain,’ she said. ‘I must apologize. I thought that disguising my presence would buy us more time — but I can see now that I need not have bothered.’
Jute blinked his confusion. ‘Your presence?’
Tyvar motioned to the switchback staircase. ‘I must get my men up at once.’
‘Their King Ronal will treat you as just another invader and attack,’ Cartheron warned. ‘Malle has made that clear.’
‘Malle of Gris?’ A new voice spoke up and everyone turned. It was that bedraggled Malazan Khall-head, straightening from where he’d been slouched next to the gangway. Somehow, Jute — everyone — had overlooked him. ‘She’s up there?’ he breathed, and he squinted at the heights.
Cartheron followed the man’s gaze. He started for him: ‘Don’t you dare …’ But the fellow slipped away down the gangplank with a fluid speed that surprised Jute. Cartheron hurried after him, cursing. He reappeared a moment later, rubbing his chest and wincing, winded. ‘He got away, damn his eyes.’
‘Never mind him,’ Jute said, wondering why it should matter if the fellow ran off.
But Cartheron was staring off at the clifftop. ‘The shit will well and truly fly now,’ he announced. Then he lowered his gaze, grinning savagely. ‘Malle will not like this, but she’ll have no choice.’
‘I see no one on the stairs,’ Tyvar said as he scanned the night.
‘He used his Warren,’ Lady Orosenn observed.
Jute felt his brows shoot up. Really? That broken-down derelict? He shuddered in memory of the insults he’d sent the fellow’s way.
‘Our troubles remain,’ Tyvar commented impatiently. ‘We will climb regardless. Now.’
Cartheron raised a hand for a pause. ‘Wait. Give it one glass’s time. If I know my man, this shouldn’t take long.’
‘Who? What?’ Jute demanded, frankly rather irritated with the old Malazan commander.
Cartheron leaned back against the gunwale, crossed his arms and nodded as he accepted the reasonableness of Jute’s annoyance. ‘He is, well, was, an imperial Claw. An assassin,’ he explained, speaking to Lady Orosenn. ‘I recognized him. Seen him around. Rose up through the ranks under, ah, the old emperor’s regime.’
Jute snorted at this. ‘That wreck?’
Cartheron’s lips clenched and he lowered his gaze. ‘Something happened to him. Something that shattered him.’ And he added, softly, as if speaking only for himself: ‘Something that hurt all of us.’
The Blue Shield commander was still scanning the west shore. Jute glanced over: the bobbing torches and lanterns were closer now, waving furiously, as if the people had now broken into a run. Tyvar actually growled as he spun away. ‘Lady Orosenn,’ he demanded, ‘if what you say is true we must go now. My people are ready. We will climb ten at a time. We must prepare.’
The foreign sorceress regarded Cartheron silently. Her almond-shaped amber eyes were narrow, probing and gauging. The Malazan returned the stare without flinching. Jute reflected that the man must have faced down some pretty powerful entities in his time. She slowly nodded her inhumanly long head. ‘You have your time, Cartheron Crust.’
It was not many minutes after that that a crash sounded on the boards of the dock close to the base of the cliff. As if he’d been expecting exactly that, Cartheron nodded to everyone, turned, and jogged down the gangway. Tyvar, Jute and Giana followed.
It was the fellow himself, lying slashed and bloodied amid the broken timbers of the dock. Cartheron knelt and gently cradled his head on his lap. A smile raised the man’s lips as he croaked, ‘Didn’t get the landing right. Got him, though. Damn if those boys aren’t good with their spears.’