He swore that if they tried anything like that he’d be out of the tent quicker than shit from one of these gut-sick soldiers around him. From the fighting across the river a great roar reached him and he bolted upright. There appeared to be movement at the front; a breakthrough? Dammit! And he was stuck here!
A man joined him. His shirt-front was sodden, blood dripping to the ground, and he was wiping his hands on a dirty rag. ‘What is it?’ the fellow asked.
‘Might be an advance.’
A grunt and the man eyed him up and down. ‘What in Togg’s name are you doing here?’
Suth pointed to his head. ‘Fell on a rock.’
‘You can walk, talk — you’re fine. Bugger off. There’s enough to handle.’
Suth jerked a salute. ‘Yes, sir!’ He dashed down the slope.
On his way to the bridge he noticed the High Mage’s tent. It leaned drunkenly aside, the cloth torn in places as if it had been attacked. Where they said they were taking the Adjunct! He ran for the tent.
He threw open the flap and an old man he’d never seen before turned upon him. The fellow gestured, his mouth opening. Suth reacted automatically and his sword leapt to the man’s throat.
The man snapped his mouth shut. ‘It’s all right, trooper!’ a woman called from within. ‘Relax.’ The High Mage came forward, pushing the sagging cloth out of her way.
Suth inclined his head. ‘High Mage.’ He sheathed his sword.
‘High Mage…’ the man breathed, something catching in his voice.
‘Honorary only,’ she told him.
He touched a quavering hand to his throat, said, ‘Perhaps I had best be going.’
‘If you must,’ the High Mage answered, her gaze narrow.
‘Yes. In case she should return. Until we meet again, then,’ and he bowed.
The High Mage lowered her head ever so slightly. ‘Until then.’
The man gave Suth a wide berth and walked off down the slope. Suth watched him go, then remembered why he’d come. ‘The Adjunct — how is he?’
The High Mage pulled her gaze from the retreating figure. A frown turned into a smile, her plump cheeks dimpling. ‘I believe he is well, trooper. I do believe he will recover.’
Suth let out a great breath. ‘My thanks, High Mage.’
‘Don’t thank me. Though perhaps I should thank you,’ she added musingly.
‘I’m sorry, High Mage?’
‘Nothing. Now, no doubt you wish to return to the fighting, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well.’ She shooed him away. ‘Go, go.’
Bowing, Suth turned and ran down the slope as best he could. He jogged, hand on his helmet, wincing where it dug into his wound, and he wondered whether he should have told the High Mage that for an instant he could have sworn he’d seen murder in that fellow’s eyes. But that was not something you would mention to a High Mage based upon a fleeting impression, was it? Not if you didn’t want to make a lot of trouble for yourself. And he’d already missed enough of the damned fighting.
*
The Malazan guards posted at the doors to the Envoy’s chambers saluted and stood aside for Greymane. He entered, pulling off his helm, which he slammed down on a convenient table, scattering icons and small reliquary boxes. He pulled off his bloodied gauntlets and scanned the room. A man dressed all in black — black trousers, black cotton shirt, and black vest — sat in a plush chair, smoking. Something that might be a body lay on the floor, hidden under a rich silk bedsheet.
Greymane slapped the gauntlet into his helm, then pulled a white scarf draped over a tall statue of the Lady and wiped away the sweat sheathing his face and the blood smearing his hands. ‘How many more of you are there, hidden away like lice?’ he asked.
The man smiled, revealing tiny white teeth. ‘I’m more of a freelance.’
The High Fist only exhaled noisily through his nostrils. He raised his chin to the body. ‘Is this him?’
‘In the flesh.’
Still wiping his hands, Greymane used a muddied boot to pull the cloth away. He stared at the pale face for some time. ‘Enesh-jer,’ he breathed.
‘You knew him?’
The High Fist scowled at the question. ‘Yes. I knew him well enough.’
The man was studying his thin kaolin pipe. ‘What do you want done with him?’
Greymane stared down at the body for a time. ‘I used to want that head on a pike. Now, I don’t care. Burn him with the rest.’
The man coughed slightly, covering his mouth. He eyed the High Fist anew. ‘These Roolians don’t burn their dead. They bury them.’
‘We don’t have the time.’ He tossed the bloodied scarf on to the body. ‘See to it.’
The man offered a vague bow as the High Fist picked up his helm and stalked out. He sat for a time, tapping the pipe in a palm, frowning.
Ivanr chose to walk rather than riding in the large two-wheeled cart that had carried Beneth. The conveyance was his now, holding the tent and brazier and few simple goods belonging to the spiritual leader of the Army of Reform. He’d set aside his sword and armour, wearing instead layered plain clothes and a cloak against the winter. He used a walking stick, yes, but other than a shortsword hidden under his cloak he appeared weaponless. His self-appointed bodyguard surrounded him as before, but at a greater, more respectful — and less visible — distance.
Walking in this manner he felt he now had a much better feel for the army. Infantry, men and women, would call out or bow for his attention and he would listen to their comments. Often they were only looking for reassurance that they were doing the right thing — a reassurance he had no reservations in providing. As the days passed he saw an ever greater need for such comfort… or, dare he say, hope. Was this the great secret of leading any revolution? That really all anyone needed was the assurance, the faith, that they were doing the right thing? At least Ivanr felt in his heart that their goal was desirable. Perhaps that was all he needed.
At night Martal, and sometimes the cavalry commander Hegil, visited after the evening meal. These informal command meetings were quiet and uncomfortable, the memory of Beneth still too raw. Mainly Ivanr asked Martal questions about the strategic aim of the campaign. Apparently this amounted to marching on Ring and defeating the Imperial Army before its walls.
‘Very… ambitious,’ was Ivanr’s comment. ‘You know you will be facing the flower of the Jourilan aristocracy. Hundreds of heavy cavalry who fight with lance and sword. They will mow down these pike formations just by weight and shock.’
‘They may,’ Martal allowed.
‘What of you, Hegil? You know what we’ll be facing.’
The aristocrat leaned back on the cushions, sipped his cup of honeyed tea. The man was nearly bald, his hair all rubbed off from wearing his helmet for most of his adult life. ‘Yes, Ivanr. These won’t be lights, or lancers. But we’ve known what it would come down to. From the beginning Beneth knew. He and Martal worked up a strategy to support the pike squares.’
‘And that is?’ He regarded Martal.
Her short black hair gleamed with sweat and oil. She shrugged, her mouth turned down. ‘We’ll be bringing our own fortress.’
He eyed her, waiting for more, but she would not raise her gaze. Was this all he was to get? Should he push now, in front of Hegil? She may think nothing of outright refusing him… Very well. He’d wait. Push again tomorrow.