‘I get the idea,’ Rillish offered, turning away to clear his own throat of the itching dust. Gods, what pleasant companionship. This was to be his cadre mage? ‘So, you are of Fist?’
‘Yes. From Mare.’
Rillish eyed her anew. Mare! A sea-witch of Mare, adept of Ruse! What could possibly have turned her against her own people? ‘I am a veteran of the invasion, you know.’
‘Yes. Su told me.’
‘And… if I may be so indelicate…’
The woman eyed him sidelong. ‘Why am I here now with you Malazans?’
‘Yes.’
She shrugged her rounded shoulders. ‘Travel broadens the mind, my Fist.’
Rillish was about to prod for further clarification but she was staring off into the distance, her mouth tight. He decided to wait, thereby granting the time for her to work through what appeared a natural — and to him understandable — reluctance to speak.
‘Having all you know or have ever been taught overturned as a deep pit of lies is a humbling experience,’ she eventually said, still staring away. ‘It is no wonder no one is allowed to travel from our homelands.’ The thick lips turned upwards in a humourless smile. ‘We were told it was because ours was the happiest and richest of all lands, and that anyone leaving would return to corrupt it with inferior ideologies and ways.’ She eyed the dull leaden sky, pensive. ‘And I suppose that is true — at least the half of it.’
‘I see.’ The woman’s views agreed with what little intelligence Rillish had gathered from interviewing natives of the archipelago. He hoped he could count on her. She would be an invaluable asset. Though she would not last long once exposed as a traitor. She would be marked for death, just as Greymane was for his heresies against their local cult.
He glanced to her as she walked along: head down as if studying the dust, hands clasped at her back.
She knows this far better than I.
Arrival was an anticlimax, even after the dull monotonous walk. The cadre mages merely re-enacted their ritual then curtly waved them through. No doubt in a hurry themselves to quit this unnerving, enervating realm. They stepped into an empty stone-flagged room, torchlit, disconcertingly similar to the one they’d just left. Rillish’s perplexity was eased by the entrance of an unfamiliar Malazan cadre mage, this one a cadaverous old man.
‘Welcome to Kartool, sir,’ the fellow wheezed. ‘The fleet is assembling. You are just in time.’
‘My thanks.’ Kartool. Vile place. Never did like it. ‘By any chance, would you know who is commanding the force?’
The old mage blinked his rheumy eyes, surprised. ‘Why, yes, Fist. Have you not heard? It is all the talk.’
Rillish waited for the man to continue, then cleared his throat. ‘Yes? Who?’
‘Why, the Emperor has pardoned the old High Fist, Greymane. Reinstated him. Is that not amazing news?’
Rillish was stunned, but he forgot his shock at the grunt of surprise and alarm from Devaleth. The woman had gone white and staggered as if about to faint. Despite his own reeling amazement — his old commander! Whom he had turned his back on! — Rillish caught the woman’s arm, steadying her.
Devaleth shook him off. ‘My apologies. It is one thing to join the enemy. But it is quite another to find oneself serving under a man condemned as the greatest fiend of the age. The Betrayer, they named him, the Korelri. The Great Betrayer.’
Betrayer? Gods! Wouldn’t the man regard him, Rillish, as just that? Didn’t they know at Command? No. They couldn’t have, could they? How the Twins must be helpless with laughter. For was it not his own silence that damned him now?
A mad laugh almost burst from him then as he contemplated the utter ruin he had prepared for himself.
No sooner did one of Bakune’s clerks appear at the door of his office to hurriedly announce, ‘Karien’el, Captain of the Watch,’ than the man himself entered and closed the door gently, but firmly, behind him.
Bakune sat staring, quill upraised, his surprise painfully obvious. Recovering, the Assessor returned the quill to the inkwell and opened his mouth to invite the man to sit, but the Watch captain thumped down heavily before Bakune could speak.
Clamping his mouth shut, Bakune nodded a neutral greeting, which the newcomer ignored, peering about the office, studying the many shelves groaning beneath their burdens of scrolls and heaped files.
‘Might I offer some Styggian wine?’ Bakune suggested, motioning to a side table.
‘No.’ The man still hadn’t glanced at him. ‘Have anything stronger?’
‘No.’
‘Pity.’ The small hard eyes swung to Bakune. ‘How long have we known each other, Assessor?’
Oh dear, very bad news. ‘A long time, Captain.’
Karien’el nodded, his neck bulging. Studying the man, it occurred to Bakune that all those intervening years had not been good to him. He’d put on weight, was unshaven, and generally looked unhealthy, with red-shot narrowed eyes, grey teeth, and a pasty complexion. Drank far too much as well. He, on the other hand, was wasting away with his thinning hair, constant stomach pains, and stiffening of the joints.
‘What can I do for you?’
An amused snort followed by a one-eyed calculating gaze. ‘Ever wonder why you’ve been here at Banith all this time… not one promotion while so many others went on from Homdo or Thol to the capital?’
Bakune pushed himself back from his desk. ‘I suppose I’m just not one to curry favour or agitate for consideration.’
‘Obviously.’
Bakune could not keep his irritation from tightening his face. ‘What is it you want, Captain?’
‘And your wife left you, didn’t she?’
‘Captain! I consider this interview finished. Please leave.’
But the man did not move; he just sat there, his wide blunt hands tucked into his belt at his stomach. He cocked his head aside as if evaluating the effects of his comments. Bakune had a flash of insight that raised the hair on his neck: just as he must when interrogating a suspect.
Swallowing, Bakune steadied his voice to ask, cautiously, ‘What is this about?’
A satisfied nod from the captain. ‘Truth be told, Assessor, I really shouldn’t be here at all. I’m here as a favour because of all the years we’ve worked together. It’s about your investigation.’
‘And which investigation would that be?’
The man cocked his gaze to the locked cabinet.
Dizzied, Bakune felt the blood draining from his face. ‘Your men have searched my office.’
An indifferent shrug from the captain. ‘Just doing my job.’
‘Your job is to enforce the law.’
The unshaven, pale moon face moved from side to side. ‘No, Assessor. Here is where you have failed to question far enough. I enforce the will of those who decide what is the law.’
So, there it was. The brutal truth of power. Was this why I failed to question further? A selective self-serving blindness? An inability, or a reluctance, to admit to this unflattering truth behind everything I stood for, or believed in? Or was it simply the everyday pedestrian distaste of peeling back the mask and revealing the ugliness behind?
‘In any case,’ Karien’el said, ‘we have our suspect.’
‘You do?’
A slow firm nod. ‘Oh yes. We’ve had our eye on him for some time now. A foreigner, and a priest of one of those degenerate foreign gods as well.’
Bakune pressed his hands to his cluttered desk. ‘And how long has the man been in the city?’
Again the man hunched his shoulders in an uncaring shrug. ‘A few years now.’
Bakune did not have to say that the killings went back decades.
Sighing, Karien’el straightened, pushed himself to his feet. ‘So, Assessor. You need not continue your investigation. We have our man. As soon as he makes a mistake we’ll bring him in.’
Meaning when the next body surfaces you’ll arrest him, trot out a few paid witnesses, then execute the man before anyone can pause to think.