‘But then the fourth Guard came staggering out of the fire and wreckage — seemed she was an Avowed. She must've been on an upper floor when the blast went off so she didn't get the worst of it. But dropping a four-floor stone tower on her was slowing her down some in any case. She wasn't walking so good — maybe a broken hip — and one arm was all mangled. Our Barghast circled her and thrust her full of javelins and spears. Must've been near ten spears pinning her down on the ground but she was still squirmin’, pulling them out, one by one. That impressed the Barghast no end. Their shamaness called off her boys. Yelled something about spirits and pacts and made it clear they weren't gonna have anything more to do with the Avowed. By this time she was sittin’ up. Only the javelins through her legs were holding her down.’
Storo took a drink, raised and lowered his beefy shoulders. ‘So it was up to me. I charged in and though all she had with her was a knife I nearly got my leg sliced off for my trouble. I went down. She went back to tuggin’ at the javelins. Time was passing, so I limped over to the side of her bad arm and got a few good two-handed licks in. These slowed her down some even more and I was able to tag her head a few times. After that I could really step in and I managed to chop away until her head came away from her neck. And so she died.
‘Later someone told me her name: Sarafa Lenesh.’
While Storo talked Harmin's smile had melted away into an expression of disgust. He let out a low hissed breath. ‘So, you attacked a wounded woman. Cut her head off while she was pinned down.’
Storo nodded. ‘That's about the bare bones of it.’
Harmin seemed at a loss for words; he shook his head in mute denial. ‘You are a barbarian. You destroyed something irreplaceable. Unique in all the world.’
‘They're the goddamned enemy,’ Sunny growled.
Harmin found his smile once more. He stood. ‘Thank you for the story, Storo. Though it does you no credit.’
‘The message?’ Storo asked, and took a drink.
His eyes thinning to slits, Harmin pulled a slip of folded paper from his belt. He tossed it on to the table. ‘Fist Rheena requested I deliver this. It arrived through Imperial administrative channels.’ The smile quirked up. ‘Perhaps it's a notice of retirement. One can always hope.’ After a shallow bow, he turned from the table. The two who had entered with him stood. Just short of the entrance, he paused as he caught sight of two men sitting to either side of the door. Both he knew by sight as the muscle of Storo's under-strength command: Jalor, a Seven Cities tribesman, bearing a tightly trimmed and oiled beard that did little to disguise the scars crisscrossing his dark face; and a fellow named Rell, from Genabackis, slouched in his chair, his greasy black hair hanging down over his face. These two Harmin couldn't be bothered to smile at, and chose to ignore. They returned the favour.
Once Harmin left, Jalor and Rell crossed to the squad's table. Silk caught Storo's eye, glanced significantly to the door.
Storo frowned a negative. ‘Let them go.’ He sat rubbing his fingers over the folded slip.
‘Do you think he read it?’ Shaky asked.
‘A’ course,’ said Sunny.
Hurl blew the hair from her brow. ‘Why'd Rheena send him of all the garrison?’
‘She probably sent someone else,’ offered Silk, ‘but he stepped in.’
Storo grunted his agreement. He opened the paper, stared for a very long time then crumpled it in his hand. He took a drink. His command exchanged glances. Sunny nudged Silk who shifted uncomfortably then finally asked, ‘So. What did it say?’
Storo did not answer. He offered the slip to Shaky who took it and smoothed it out. He read aloud: ‘ “Storo Matash, we regret to inform you that the Graven Heart sank in a storm off Gull Rocks.”’ Shaky looked up. ‘Did you know someone on board?’
‘No. It's code. An old smuggler's code shared by Strike, and Malaz, and Nap, and a few other isles. It's an offer of a meeting from a man I knew when I was young. A friend of my father. A man I'd thought dead a long time ago.’
Sometime later that night Hurl offered to the table, ‘Hey, that guy, Harmin, I think from now on we should call him Smiley’
The ruins of the shore temple were half-submerged in the waters west of Unta Bay. Its broken columns stood in the waves as mere barnacle-encrusted humps. Though an easy day's ride from Unta, this shore was a deserted stretch of rearing cliff-sides home to no more than water-birds and sea otters. A short fat man in a dark ocean-blue cloak carefully picked his way down the treacherous turning footpath that traced a way to the base of the cliff.
Reaching the rocky shore, he dabbed the sheen of sweat from his wide face then pulled a folding camp stool of wood and leather from under his cloak and sat with a weary sigh just short of the misting sea-spray.
Fanning himself, the man addressed the surf: ‘Come now! This coyness achieves nothing.’
Though the waves had been pounding the tumbled rocks at the base of the cliff, the surf stilled, subsiding. The water seemed almost to withdraw. The man cocked his head as if listening to the splashing as one might a voice. And a voice spoke, though few else living would have understood it. ‘You compelled, Mallick?’ came the response sounding from the gurgle and murmur of the waves.
Mallick Rel wiped spots of spray from his cloak. ‘Indeed. What news of the mercenaries?’
‘Their ships converge.’
‘And upon those ships — there are Avowed, yes?’
‘Yes. I sense their presence. What will you do, Mallick, when they come for you?’
‘They will not live long enough.’
A chuckled response, ‘Perhaps it is you who will not live long enough.’
‘I have my guardians, and you have no idea what they are capable of.’
‘You are transparent to me, Mallick. It is you who has no idea of what your guardians are capable. I know this for should you have the slightest inkling you would have come begging for deliverance.’
‘Kellanved had his army of undead, the Imass.’
‘A common misconception — they never died. They were… preserved. Regardless, even they would not tolerate either them — or you.’
‘Fortunately, these Imass are no threat to anyone any longer.’
The voice of splashing and whispering water was silent for a time, then came a wondering ‘How brief the memory of humans.’
Mallick gave a languid wave. ‘Yes, yes. In any case, we were discussing the mercenaries. Do not attempt to deflect me.’
‘Of the Guard, their end has not yet been foreseen.’
‘Do not lie to your High Priest, Mael. It is only through the rituals of Jhistal that you yet have a presence here in the world.’
The water stilled, smoothing to glass. A bulge rose swelling to a broad pillar of water. It wavered, fighting to lean forward towards the seated man, then burst in a great rushing crash. ‘And so the bindings hold,’ came the voice again. ‘Rituals so awful, Mallick, even Kellanved was revolted. Regrettable that some of you escaped.’