Thankfully, the wave subsided, rolling on. She sank to her knees, cradling her numb hand to her chest. Damn them all! Stupid fucking waste!
Still no relief came. She knelt, panting; blood froze in a sheath on her hands. She felt so sluggish, utterly numb. Strangely, there was no pain. It was as if she were floating. Maybe if I just lie down for a moment…
Rattling shook her to wakefulness. Someone was hammering at the ice-encrusted ring and pin imprisoning her. Her chains came free and he reached for her. Standing, she straight-armed the man from her. She swore at him but her lips were numb and she could only mumble. He seemed to study her for a time through the narrow vision slit of his helm, then he grasped the chains and dragged them, pulling her and the corpse off the wall.
They knocked the fetters from her in the tiny marshalling room, then she was prodded back down the stairs. A guard kept her moving, a bared blade levelled against her. In the prison chamber she was reattached to the main gang-chain and she allowed herself to slide down the wall in what felt like the most luxurious warmth imaginable.
Almost immediately she fell asleep. Some time later she awoke to a touch on her foot. It was the prisoner who’d fed them earlier, Jemain. He knelt to rub a greasy unguent on her face, arms, legs and hands. ‘It will prevent infection and aid healing,’ he told her.
She saw his bare ankles. ‘You’re not chained,’ she noted belatedly.
‘I’m a trustee.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘That was quite a show you put on. Be careful or they will move you to a hot spot.’
She laughed, hurting her cracked lips. ‘That wasn’t hot?’
He smiled. ‘Oh no. First they put you on a slow station — see what you can do.’
A new Chosen entered the chamber, blue cloak wrapped tight about him. He spoke in low tones with the two Stormguard. Jemain lowered his head to mutter, ‘Too late.’
The two posted guards marched down the line to Shell. While one watched, hand on swordgrip, the other struck her from the chain. This one then freed the older Malazan soldier as well, and linked her and him together.
‘She needs time to heal,’ Jemain told them. ‘Her hands-’
The nearest Stormguard struck him a blow that sent him tumbling. Shell lashed out but the Chosen slipped the blow, drawing his weapon to strike her in the gut with the pommel. She grunted without falling and the man fell back one step, his eyes widening behind the narrow vision slit. The old Malazan veteran threw an arm across Shell to draw her back as well.
She knocked his arm aside. ‘Don’t you dare touch me, Malazan scum.’
The veteran let his arm fall to look her up and down, wonder on his face. ‘Togg take me…’ he breathed. The trustee, Jemain, also stared up at her — he looked about to say something. The Stormguard drew his blade, gestured to the exit.
Glaring her fury, Shell gave the faintest of nods. She edged her way through the narrow chamber. The eyes of all those chained along both walls watched her pass. As she came to Jemain he raised an arm and she helped him up. Hugging her close, he whispered, ‘Do you know Bars?’ Then he gasped as her grip tightened convulsively.
‘Where is he?’ she grated.
‘I know.’
‘Come to me.’
‘Get a move on,’ the Stormguard ordered.
Pulling away, he murmured, ‘I’ll try.’
She let him go, forcing her burning hands to open, then shuffled on. The Malazan veteran, she noted, also gave the trustee a long hard stare as he passed.
So this Jemain knew Bars. But then, here on the wall, who did not? Perhaps it was nothing. But the Malazan appeared close to guessing her identity as well. And she was now paired with him. Well, as before… she may be better off alone…
Esslemont, Ian Cameron
Stonewielder
BOOK III
AND ALL THE SHORES BETWEEN
He stands watching the Chosen on the wall
Gripping the stone in both hands
Staring down into the blur of sickle blades,
Clouds of spray and snow blow behind
And all to the horizon, to the curve
Of wall that marks the shore,
Nothing but men swinging.
When the sea fills the gap
His cousins raise their spears.
For twelve hours the sun strives
And the reaper reaps.
The boy stares down into that sweep
Of hot oiled blade and tempered ice,
And I hope he will not fall.
CHAPTER IX
Looking back is a flame in the eyes.
Best not to linger like flies on the refuse we have made.
No, I know nothing of what came before.
Nor do I care.
It is much easier to worship the future that will never come.
Bakune sat in the High Chair of the Banith Courts Civil and listened to the advocate for the aggrieved finish his argument. It was all he could do to force himself to pay attention. Outside, an occupying army patrolled the streets and blockaded the harbour, while here within these walls advocates and agents connived and conspired with as much unashamed greed as before.
Something within the Assessor wanted to scream. Under his robes he pinched his fingers into his palms to force himself to follow the advocate’s unlikely, and contrived, line of reasoning. After the summing up Bakune quickly hammered his desk. ‘Advocate, I see no clear and compelling evidence here to support your claims of collaboration and war profiteering.’
The advocate rose anew, swept his robes back from his arms. ‘Assessor… it is clear from this merchant’s sale of goods to the enemy…’
‘Sir, if I were to prosecute every merchant who has dealt with these Moranth then the Carceral Quarters would be full to bursting. That alone is no evidence of collusion or traitorous behaviour as your client contends. Meanwhile the accused, your client’s main rival in the timber concession, I understand, suffers under this cloud of doubt, his reputation stained, his business eviscerated. I suggest you work towards assembling compelling and material evidence to support your charges. Until then — case dismissed.’ Bakune hammered the desk again, and the foremost of the crowd jamming the court rose, half of them relieved, the other half muttering their dissatisfaction.
The Assessor turned to the next packet of documents, but somehow he could not muster the energy to face them. He hammered the desk a third time. ‘Court closed for the morning.’
An eruption of protest, shouting, papers waved in fists, the court bailiffs struggling to hold back the mob. Bakune swept out of the court; he simply no longer gave a damn. Where were these urgent calls to action, the public outrage, when youths were disappearing from the streets? He frankly had no sympathy for this sudden new passion for litigation. Our country is invaded by a foreign power, alien troops walk our streets, and our reaction? We attempt to sue them and each other. Bakune was ashamed that his countrymen would see in all this nothing more than an opportunity to make a quick profit.
He gathered up a few files then headed out to return to his offices. His guards took up positions around him — a precaution pressed upon him by Hyuke, now Captain Hyuke of the City Watch. The surviving members of the Lady’s priesthood had damned him for meeting with the enemy — as if they could just ignore them and hope they’d go away.
It was so frustrating he was tempted to walk away. Damn them all for their sudden newfound concern for ‘justice’ and the self-righteous aggrieved umbrage only the selfish can muster. At least no new murder following the characteristics of all those that had come before had yet surfaced. Certainly there had been killings: drunken stabbings, crimes of passion, spousal murders — oddly enough from those most vocally concerned with ‘traditional Roolian values’, it seemed. But no bodies of youths turning up in the tide. For that Bakune was grateful, and chose to take some small measure of credit. He’d even had a word with Boneyman, and Soon, the young servant girl, now worked as an apprentice cook in the kitchens.