He eyed Ipshank. ‘Should we let the man out?’
The priest shook his bullet head from side to side. ‘No. He’s already damned as a collaborator. If you release him you’ll only confirm those suspicions and he’ll be killed, or completely discredited. Every day he stays in the gaol is another day of rehabilitation for him.’
‘Rehabilitation? I don’t want to create a local leader here.’
One eye cracked open. ‘Just who do you want as one?’
Rillish grunted, conceding the point. He stretched, yawning. ‘So. What was it you wanted me to see? The Cloister and Hospice have been destroyed. Burned to the ground.’ He eyed the priest anew. ‘You didn’t
…’
Again, the head shake. ‘No. Local adherents to the Lady. They wanted to incite hatred against you Malazans, so they torched it. Where else would the blame fall?’ The man set his thick arms over his knees. ‘No. Mainly, I wanted you to see evidence. Proof. Mixed in there are a series of interviews with minor workers for the Hospice: grounds keepers, cleaners and such. In those interviews are reports of a chest, a kind of box, brought out of the Cloister and loaded on to a wagon about a month ago.’
‘Around the time of the landings.’
‘Yes. I believe I know what was on that wagon, and where it went.’
‘Yes?’
The priest took out a skin of water, tossed it to Rillish. ‘Let me tell you a story, Fist. An old story whose particulars I have spent most of my life tracking down. Legends of this region tell of the three most precious relics of the Lady — the Holy Trilogy. Three sacred icons housed in chests. One, according to tradition, was lost in the great sinkhole, the Ring, far back during the attacks of the Stormriders. The greatest, as most know, was reportedly used to bless and sanctify the foundations of the wall itself. After which it was hidden away by the Korelri Stormguard. Most consider it to be housed in the great tower on Remnant Isle, the Sky Tower, guarded by hundreds of Stormguard. And they would be right.
‘The third was the most difficult. After eliminating countless holy shrines, sacred cairns, monasteries and temples, I narrowed down its location to here, the great Cloister of Banith. It has since been moved — and I know where.’
‘Paliss?’ Rillish said, rousing himself from the hypnotic tale. He took a drink of the warm water.
‘No. The caves of the mountain ascetics at Thol on the shores of Fist Sea.’
‘Thol? That’s more than ten days’ journey by horse. You can’t be asking me to pack up the army and march across the country to besiege Thol.’
The man shook his head, unperturbed by how outrageous Rillish made the request sound. ‘No. This is for a small party only. And we must be there within the next few days, or so I believe.’
‘Impossible. You know that. Only a mage travelling through Warren could manage that.’
‘Or a shaman. And there’s one here, nearby. A descendant of the native peoples of this region, tribes that can trace their roots to the ancient Imass themselves. The Lady scorns them, views their practices as beneath her. But all this time they have maintained their ancient ways, employed their Warren — a version of Tellann, I believe — quietly, without notice. Him we have to convince to help us.’
Rillish stared, amazed. Gods, the man’s actually thought all this through. Outrageous. ‘And,’ he began, his mouth dry, ‘what would you require of me?’
‘Select a small party. Some twenty or so. And be ready for me.’
Rillish slowly shook his head in denial. An expression almost of horror clenched his face. ‘Ipshank. Greymane ordered me to remain here. I cannot abandon my command. If I go I would be…’ He could not finish the thought. ‘Hood forgive me. I cannot betray his trust again.’
The priest displayed no sympathy. ‘You have to. You have no choice.’
The Liosan were, if anything, rigidly formal and strict observers of manners and rules. Tight-arses, Jheval called them. Good to their word, they’d allowed the three of them the freedom of the camp. Kiska wanted to get away, of course, but not without her equipment. And so far their tiny guide had yet to show itself; that was either very reassuring, or very worrying. The huge lumbering ravens, however, were quite insolent in showing themselves, depositing great white smears as indelible signs of their presence.
After two days, or what large hourglasses housed in a main mess tent artificially dictated to be two days, they were invited to dine with the army’s commander, Jayashul. They were escorted to her private quarters, and she met her at the hangings that separated off the rooms. A Liosan man waited within, sour-faced, his expression openly hostile. Jayashul invited Kiska to sit, then Warran, then Jheval. The Liosan male, introduced as Brother Jorrude, sat last.
Dinner came in numerous small courses of soup, bread and vegetables, none of which struck Kiska as particularly tasty or well prepared. Bland, serious and practical. Like these people themselves. She longed to escape this encampment and return to her mission. The only amusement of the night came from the faces Jheval made when tasting the food.
An after dinner tea was served, a watery green infusion utterly without flavour, and Jayashul announced: ‘We are now prepared to mount an assault upon the Devourer.’
Kiska thrust aside her tea, spilling it. ‘An assault? Shouldn’t we determine just… what it is, first?’
Jayashul was undeterred. ‘We know it is a powerful magus, or what some would name an Ascendant. No doubt quite mad. Perhaps brought on by exposure to your otataral dust, or some form of mental attack or breakdown. Merely visiting Chaos can induce such a reaction — it is not uncommon.’ She turned to Warran. ‘What say you, priest of Shadow?’
The priest had been very eager for dinner, and now he sat looking quite defeated by what had appeared on his plate. Kiska imagined he’d been expecting fish. ‘It would be best, would it not, to examine this anomaly more closely first to determine all its particulars, before striking?’
Jayashul shook her head rather condescendingly. ‘My dear priest… if one of our white hounds were to launch itself upon you with an intent to consume you utterly, would you take the time to enquire as to his pedigree or antecedents? No, you would strike! Defend yourself!’
Warran offered a thin smile. ‘The hound would find in me a rather insubstantial meal.’
Jayashul thought nothing of the comment but Kiska shot the little man a sharp look. Insubstantial? Was the fellow playing games? Mocking this Liosan Ascendant. Perhaps mocking everyone, the entire situation?
A guard brushed aside the cloth hanging, and Jayashul looked up. ‘He is here?’ The guard nodded. ‘Good.’ She stood and everyone followed suit. ‘The one we have been waiting for has arrived.’ A man entered. He wore his long pale hair loose, and layered green robes. ‘My brother. L’oric.’
The man’s gaze swept them all. Then, as he was about to bow to Jayashul, he straightened, stunned surprise almost comical on his face, and his eyes returned to Jheval. ‘Blood of my father…’ he breathed. ‘Leoman?’
Jheval’s mouth twisted his chagrin and embarrassment. He bowed ironically. ‘L’oric. As soon as I saw these Liosan I was afraid you would show up.’
‘Show up?’ L’oric echoed, disbelief in his voice. ‘Leoman, your arrogance remains undiluted, I see.’
Leoman? The name was familiar to Kiska but she couldn’t quite place it. L’oric turned his attention to her. Brother to Jayashul, but at first Kiska saw almost no similarity. His face was thin, but there was a certain haughtiness in its expression in which she saw the relationship. This man should speak of arrogance! It marches emblazoned across his face completely unbeknownst to him.
‘Malazan, I see,’ he mused. ‘Claw, no doubt. Come to spy.’ He turned to Warran. ‘And a priest of that Shadow usurper. He is worried about the integrity of his stolen Realm, yes?’
Warran arched a brow. ‘Stolen? The house was empty, unclaimed.’
L’oric’s mouth pursed with distaste. ‘The problem, I should think, is that by far too many claim that house.’