The Overlord was quiet. Sweat gleamed like a sheath on his face. His gaze was like a heated lance stabbing at Ussu’s brow. After a time he drew a shuddering breath, gulped down his steaming tea. ‘We travel to the real battle, my ignorant adviser.’
A grating snarl sounded from Borun’s helm. ‘They strike at Korel!’
Ussu felt as if he would fall faint. The exhaustion, the heat, these revelations. It was all too much. He wiped a hand across his slick brow. ‘That would be insane. The entire island would rise against him.’ He searched the dim room for an empty chair or a stool.
‘Your faith is a lesson to us all,’ the Overlord commented from the gloom. ‘That must be why she favours you so much.’
But Ussu was not listening. His breath would not come. It was too close, too constraining. He felt as if the ship were suddenly in a storm. Armoured hands gripped him and sat him down on a ledge. A hand forced his head down to his knees. ‘Breathe,’ Borun ordered.
The blackness swallowing Ussu’s vision abated. He panted while his heart slowed its constricted panic. Borun was speaking: ‘You are too quick to abandon Rool. Let me march south. We may yet stop him.’
‘True,’ the Overlord granted, sounding surprisingly tolerant of such questioning. ‘We may. But I have opted to substitute the possibility of victory now for assured success in the summer.’
‘Oh? How so?’
Ussu looked up, blinking. A guard offered him a glass of tea, which he took with gratitude. It was a herbal infusion he recognized, very resuscitating.
‘The Korelri are desperate for manpower. We have struck an agreement to provide it. Further, we will stand with them to repel any Malazan attempt to break them. After this, come spring when the Stormriders have retreated and the Korelri stand idle… well, just imagine what we could accomplish returning to Rool accompanied by the iron might of the grateful Korelri.’
Ussu stared, amazed. Would this work? The Korelri had never before interfered in any of the old internecine warfare and feuds; so long as they received their tribute, they were content. Yet if Greymane struck at their island in an attempt to break their power, and the Roolians stood with them… an alliance! The advantages would be incalculable.
‘And my command?’ Borun rumbled.
Silent, Yeull regarded the Black commander for some time, his eyes slit almost shut. Ussu sensed a dislike bordering on disgust in that gaze — could this be jealousy? ‘They will be last. Ships will be sent back. You may stay to await them.’
Borun bowed.
‘And you, my High Mage…’
Ussu straightened, bowing. ‘Yes, Overlord.’
‘You will accompany me. Have you ever seen the Stormwall?’
‘Ah, no, my lord.’
‘It is a wonder of the world. And quite a sight. Especially this time of year.’
Ussu suddenly no longer felt so unbearably hot. He pulled the sweat-soaked clothes away from his chest. ‘So you say, m’lord. So you say.’
CHAPTER X
There resides just outside Thol a famous anchoress who lives sealed within her prison home, her only communication with the outside world a narrow slit through which food may be passed. Pilgrims from all over the isles visit this sacred woman, who has forsworn the profane world for her contemplation of the sacred. You may sit next to the bricked door with its narrow window and partake of her wisdom earned through five decades of self-imposed exile from the world. Locked within her tiny cell, nothing is beyond the reach of her judgement.
Entering Banith, Greymane established his headquarters in the warehouse the Moranth Blue occupied. Devaleth was pleased to see that when the High Fist and Admiral Swirl met, they shared a long clasp. Admiral Nok, she’d heard, was not present as the man had famously sworn a vow never to set foot on land again. The two immediately sat down to discuss tactics. Orders went out to the Fists, Rillish and Khemet Shul, who were in the field overseeing the disposition of the troops.
While she was pleased by the High Fist’s cheer, what he intended was now absolutely clear to her and the immensity, the audaciousness of it left her reeling.
Kyle noticed, and invited her aside. ‘You are unwell?’
Her voice was shaky as she answered, very low, ‘Do you have any idea what this man is actually going to go through with?’
‘A landing on Korel, yes.’
She stared at him, shocked that he could say that so casually. ‘It is clear you are all from elsewhere. What-’ She stopped herself, searching for the right words. ‘What does he intend regarding… regarding the Stormwall?’
The young man did not look sure himself. He felt his way through it as he spoke: ‘I believe he intends to break the power of the Korelri here in this subcontinent. That he sees that as the only way he can truly win here.’ He was nodding as he finished. ‘And I agree,’ he added half to himself. ‘As to the Stormwall… The Malazans may have to step into the Korelris’ place for a time.’
Devaleth twisted her hands across her stomach where they clenched, knuckles white. ‘If you do that you will be trapped there for ever.’ And she walked away, gaze lowered.
Fist Rillish entered, and saluted. ‘You requested my presence, High Fist?’
Greymane leaned back against his table, which was cluttered with ledgers and curled orders. He pushed back his long iron-grey hair, and for a time eyed the man from under his heavy brows, his blue eyes stormy. ‘Yes. Fist. We are disembarking for Korel with all speed. You know that. However, the worst option is that we may be repulsed. In which case we will need a secure port to return to. Banith, here in Rool, will be that port. Therefore, we cannot entirely abandon Rool.’
Devaleth’s stomach clenched in dread. Oh, no, Greymane — do not do this to him…
The Untan nobleman paled, swaying. ‘High Fist,’ he whispered, his voice cracking, ‘I beg you. Do not separate me from the Fourth.’
‘I will leave four thousand troops with you.’
‘Captain Betteries, or Captain Perin, surely…’
‘A captain cannot be the effective administrative head of a country, Fist. You know that.’
‘Greymane,’ Kyle murmured, ‘perhaps-’
‘You’re staying too.’
Kyle flinched upright. ‘What!’ He stared in disbelief. ‘You will need me for the landing!’
Greymane met his gaze: he seemed to be trying to tell the lad something. ‘With you here, Kyle, I’m confident at least Rool will remain in Malazan hands.’
‘With your permission…’ Fist Rillish grated, turning abruptly and leaving. Kyle glared his confusion but Greymane looked away, lowering his head, mouth clenched. Muttering a curse under his breath, Kyle stormed out to find the Fist. Bowing, Devaleth followed.
She found them down on the wharf. The Fist was staring out over the harbour where the Blue vessels were readying to disembark. Already troops were heading out on launches for the larger men-of-war anchored in the bay. Kyle was standing nearby, also deep in thought. A chilling wind off the bay clawed at all of them and clouds roiled overhead, coasting inland.
‘You must be very angry with me,’ the Fist said, casting Kyle a quick glance.
‘Angry? With you?’
The man shrugged, still staring out over the bay. ‘If it weren’t for me you’d be accompanying him, yes?’
‘I think he is right in keeping you here,’ Devaleth said. ‘If only he’d done it differently…’
A strained smile from Rillish: ‘Diplomacy is not Stonewielder’s strength.’
‘We need to be with him. The landing will be butchery.’
‘No,’ Devaleth snapped, fierce. ‘It could easily go so badly — you will be needed here.’
The Fist took a deep breath of the icy sea air then turned to face them. His face was pale, the lines at the mouth savage. His greying hair blew about, neglected and unkempt. ‘The High Fist has made his choice. We cannot but obey. Even with Yeull fled to Korel with the majority of the Sixth there still remain the Roolian militia, straggling units, renegade companies, and this self-appointed “Baron” to deal with. We will more than have our hands full.’