Shell edged back: the ice-webbed surge was almost upon them. She reached behind with one foot, sought a knob or irregularity to brace, found one.
The surge struck the wall; or rather, it began rising up the side of the wall. Shell’s footing rocked backwards beneath her as if fluid itself. The water came on and on, swelling with Shell’s own dread until it washed up over the top and swept her feet out from under her. Frigid glacial waters flowed over her. The shock almost took the life from her, but she straightened, braced against the flow, gasping in air, throwing her head back, to face a Stormrider standing atop the wall. The entity, wearing armour like shells sewn into a coat, thrust at her. She took the blow on her shield, swung a clumsy counter that the rider sidestepped. It circled, attempting to force her to put her back to the inlet. She dodged to forestall that. She shield-bashed but lacked the raw power to drive the Rider back. It slashed at a leg and she dodged back. It glanced behind her but she refused to look. Then it simply sank down into the receding waters to wash away in the flow. Shell was left standing, panting, her flesh in an agony of cold. She risked a quick glance behind: the tripod and block were gone, swept clean off the wall.
A loud high-pitched report, as of iron tearing, sounded from her right and she looked over: the old guy’s post was empty. Where Hands took her throat from behind, lifted her from her feet.
‘I knew I recognized you!’ someone snarled. ‘Skinner sent you, didn’t he?’
With a despairing, almost bizarre feeling that this wasn’t really happening, Shell recognized the voice. ‘Bars!’ she gasped.
‘No torc, I see,’ he hissed. ‘Going to wait for a wave then take me down while I’m busy, yes? Then off to your Warren. Looks like you missed your chance. Now… where is he?’
‘No — you don’t-’
Bars’ frigid hands, like two wedges of ice, throttled her. ‘Raise your Warren and I’ll tear your head off. Now… where is he!’
‘Who?’ she managed, stealing a breath.
‘Quit stalling! Skinner! Damn his betraying soul!’
Deceiving gods! Oponn, you have outdone yourself! Skinner! He was renegade now. His attempt to usurp K’azz failed and he was forced out — disavowed. And Bars thinks he’s sent me! Shell drew upon all the strength those of the Avowed possess and yanked Bars’ own hands a fraction apart while her legs kicked uselessly. ‘Blues is with me!’ she gasped before those iron fingers cinched like vices to cut off her breath utterly. Stars flashed in her vision and a roaring drowned out all sounds.
She came to lying in frigid water. A Korelri Chosen held a spear levelled at Bars while a regular guard helped her up. ‘What is this?’ the Korelri demanded.
‘An old grudge,’ Shell croaked, rubbing her neck.
‘You are both finished then?’
Shell nodded. Bars crossed his arms. Blues, he signed, insistent. She nodded again.
‘Your shift is done,’ the Korelri told Bars, motioning him off. ‘You… you stay as yet.’
Shell continued massaging her neck. Frankly, she would rather face the Riders.
They left her alone, staring out over the slate-grey waves whipped into white caps. After a time it occurred to her that the Stormrider had seemed more interested in damaging the wall itself than in killing anyone.
Suth sat on Banith’s wharf, leaning forward on piled equipment, chin in his arms, watching the battered fleet of Blue dromonds and Quon men-of-war lumbering out of the bay. ‘All the in-bred gods! I can’t damned believe it.’
‘Wish them luck,’ Len said, saluting.
Lying back, eyes closed, Wess saluted the sky. Lard grumbled, ‘Lucky bastards.’
Keri blew out a breath. ‘Someone has to stay behind…’
‘Hood take this Fist,’ Pyke said. ‘’Cause a him we’re missing all the action.’
Yana gave the man a look of contempt. ‘You’re glad we’re staying, so stop your mouth.’
Pyke straightened. ‘I’ll stop your-’
‘Store it!’ Goss cut in.
‘I need a drink,’ Yana said, pushing herself up. ‘Let’s go.’
Suth stood and adjusted his cloak against the cutting wind. ‘Aye. Let’s go.’
‘Your sweetie’s still here,’ Keri told Suth.
‘Who?’
‘That Barghast gal.’ She made a fake grab for Suth’s crotch. ‘I hear once they get hold they don’t let go.’
Suth flinched away. ‘We ain’t doin’ nothing.’
Lard got a dreamy look on his wide face. ‘Too bad. That sounds pretty damn good.’
They walked the near empty streets, heading back to their inn. Snow blew across the cobbles. They passed the occasional burned or boarded-up pillaged building, remnants from the riots and panic of the landings.
Yana flinched abruptly, hissing, a hand going to her side where a crossbow bolt had suddenly sprouted. Goss, Suth and Lard rushed the abandoned building opposite. Lard kicked down the boards covering the broken door. Suth charged the stairs, Goss following. Noise brought him to a rear room where a window gaped open. He leaned out: someone had let himself down, jumping, and now ran up a back alley. A slim gangly figure. A kid. A Queen-damned young kid. Goss arrived, a crossbow in hand: Malazan made. Suth shook his head in disbelief. ‘Did you see him?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I saw him. A kid.’
Suth blew out a breath. This was gonna be ugly. What could they do? They couldn’t let it go unanswered. Everyone and their grandmother would be taking potshots at them. They had to respond. No choice. They went back down to see Yana.
Wess had his shield unslung and was covering her while Keri treated the wound. ‘We have to get back to the inn. Lay her down,’ she said. Goss nodded.
‘Who was it?’ Pyke demanded. ‘Did you get him?’
‘Just a kid,’ said Suth. ‘He got away.’
‘A kid?’ Pyke said, offended. ‘So? Why’d you let him go?’
‘I did not-’
Goss pulled Suth away. ‘Shut that mouth of yours,’ he warned Pyke. ‘Lard, carry Yana. Let’s go.’
Inside, they checked their rooms, laid Yana down and summoned a bonecutter. Goss placed Wess and Lard on guard then sat with Suth, Keri and Len. ‘Started already,’ he told Len, who nodded.
‘What?’ Suth asked.
‘Insurgency. Attacks, killings, fire-bombings an’ such. A vicious mess. Might get orders to pull back into the garrison.’
Len took a deep pull from his stein of beer. ‘I hate occupations. Bad blood all around. Hate. Suspicion. We’ll be prisoners in our own garrison.’
Goss just hunched, depressed. ‘Reminds me of damned Seven Cities.’
*
Captain Betteries and Captain Perin joined Fist Rillish for dinner that evening in the commander’s rooms in the old Malazan Sixth Army garrison. The stone fort was crowded, holding two thousand men and women when normally it would hold less than half that. The rest of the Malazan expeditionary forces were encamped inland, in the hills around Banith. Captain Betteries was a red-haired Falaran native, while Captain Perin hailed from north Genabackis, his skin almost as dark as a Dal Honese, but his face much wider and more brutal in features than the more refined lineaments of the Dal Hon. They had just finished a first course of soup when a steward opened the door to allow Captain Peles to enter. All three officers stood. Captain Peles waved for them to sit.
‘Welcome,’ Rillish said, inviting her to a seat.
Peles sat, as did they. Rillish wondered to see her now without her helm and thick mail coat. Her long silver hair was unbraided to fall loose; she wore a long-sleeved jacket over a pale shirt. And while most would not consider her battle-flattened nose and scarred cheeks beautiful in the narrow, stereotypical image of some floaty, cultured, urban lady, Rillish thought her extraordinarily attractive, even desirable. He discovered her answering his stare.
‘Yes, Fist?’
He swallowed, looking away to pick up his wine glass. ‘How are the security arrangements?’ Captain Peles had been appointed chief of his guard.
‘This garrison is a death trap. There’s no well. The storerooms are too small. The arsenal is as empty as a merchant’s generosity.’