‘And what of you?’ Kiska asked.
Jheval kept his gaze lowered, his eyes averted. After a long pause he murmured, ‘Another time, perhaps.’ A rather awkward silence followed that, into which Jheval clapped his hands and rose to his feet, bent over. ‘Right. Let’s have a look then.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
He gave her a mad grin. ‘Have to test the waters occasionally, don’t we?’
‘Don’t-’
But he’d jumped out, rolling, and stood, knees bent. ‘Hey, y’shaggy lapdogs! Where are you?’
The answer came with stunning swiftness. A great dun mountain of muscled hide and flashing teeth pounced exactly where Jheval stood — or would have been standing had he not launched himself backwards to land scrambling and kicking his way back into their narrow hole. Kiska helped yank him in while a great blow struck shards of rock from the fissure and the enraged snarling was an avalanche. Jheval lay on top of her, gasping. He sent her a grin over his shoulder. ‘Your turn next time,’ he said, and rolled off.
Kiska just shook her head. The lunatic! He was actually enjoying himself! Still, that grin — so damned boyish.
Every jolt of the narrow launch sent lightning flashes of pain across Rillish’s sight. Wincing, he squeezed his brow while the eighteen-marine crew rowed him and Devaleth across the intervening sea to Admiral Nok’s flagship, the Star of Unta. He’d been drinking far too much Kartoolian spirit these last few days while trying to make sense out of this new posting.
Greymane, reinstated. Who would have thought it possible? He’d heard that the man’s own troops had tried to kill him; that Korelri assassins had cut his heart out; that he’d fled condemned by Malazan High Command. Now he was back after having served for a time in the ranks of the Empire’s most enduring enemy, the mercenary Crimson Guard. Mallick Rel obviously cared nothing for the man’s record under prior rulers — which dovetailed nicely with Rillish’s own evaluation of the Emperor: there was someone who cared nothing for old accepted ways, who would do whatever it took to win. Perhaps Mallick saw something of that quality in Greymane. Who knew? With the grim overcast dawn of this day he’d thrown the last empty bottle out of the window and come to the final conclusion that the best he could hope for was that the man would fail to remember him.
That would be the absolute best possibility. Otherwise… gods, how could he bear to face him?
Devaleth sat across the bows, utterly at ease in the pitching craft; she was, after all, a mage of Ruse, the Warren of Sea-magics. She sent him a narrowed glance, not supportive — nor, thank Burn, pitying — but watchful, coolly evaluating. She knew there was something between him and their High Fist, but either it was not her way to push herself forward, or she simply did not care the least. And, after all, she was in no hurry to meet the man herself, damned as a walking anathema in her own land.
In the end, it was that seeming indifference that brought Rillish to wave her to him. He rested a hand on the gunwale, steadying himself against the rough seas while the marines struggled to make headway. Devaleth merely crouched before him, somehow able to adjust to each pitch and roll. Cold spray splashed his arm and the shock further cleared his head.
‘It was my second command,’ he said, holding his voice low. At least here, unlike on board any crowded troopship, he could be assured of the necessary secrecy. ‘I was part of a contingent of reinforcements. Mare war galleys caught us short of Fist. Hardly a fifth of us made it to shore.’ He shuddered at the memory: the icy waters; the cries of the drowning. His words did not do justice to the hopelessness of seeing one’s command shattered before one’s eyes. ‘We were folded into the Sixth. Soon after, as a noble, I was called in to bear witness to the judgement of Governor Hemel and the court martial against Greymane.’ He could not stop his throat from tightening at the memory. ‘I was new, a mere lieutenant. I knew procedures had been rushed. Testimony was thin, if not fabricated. But I also knew the campaign had fallen apart and that Command was looking for someone to hang it on. I chose not to interfere.’ He glanced up and found her eyes hard and dark and fully on him, studying him rather mercilessly, and he looked away. ‘So that is it. That one time I put my career first. And now, it would seem, I’m to pay for it.’
Her gaze slid aside, to where the tall masts of the Star could be glimpsed beyond the rise and fall of the steel-blue crests and troughs. The wind dashed her unkempt hair. ‘You were young and new to the situation — perhaps that’s precisely why you were chosen. In any case, we shall see what sort of man this Greymane is by how he acts. I will watch — but remember I can be of little use. I am, after all, a traitor.’
As, it seems, am I.
The cabin was warm with the breath and presence of too many bodies in too small a space. He and Devaleth were the last to arrive. Nok, whom Rillish had never met, made the introductions; Rillish’s counterpart, Fist Khemet Shul of the Eighth Army, his bald scarred head resembling a lead sling bullet. The man gave a guarded nod. The Moranth Blue commander, Swirl. His armoured plates shone with the deep blue of open ocean. Kyle, a dark moustached youth resembling a Wickan warrior, though much broader and longer-limbed, who was Greymane’s adjunct. And the High Fist himself, who — thought Rillish — had watched him all this time with a brooding cold gleam in his eyes.
‘High Fist,’ Rillish said, bowing.
The man ignored him to study Devaleth. ‘You are most welcome, mage. As you know, we are short of cadre.’
‘With reason, High Fist. The, ah… influence… of the Blessed Lady will render them useless.’
‘But not you, nor your fellows?’ Nok put in, and he smiled behind his moustache to reassure her that this was no cross-examination.
‘No, Admiral. We in Mare have turned our eyes to the sea, and the mysteries of Ruse. Which, I imagine, brings us to the matter before us.’
The Admiral inclined his head. ‘Indeed.’ He turned to a small table and a map drawn on vellum. With one long pale finger he sketched the line of advance. ‘We anticipate contact in three weeks’ time, off the coast near Gost-’
‘Forgive me,’ Devaleth interrupted, ‘but you will be lucky to reach Fait.’
Nok’s snowy white brows rose, but it was the Moranth Blue commander Swirl who spoke: ‘You are so certain?’
All eyes shifted to Devaleth; Rillish felt like a spectator at his own briefing. The heavy-set woman was in no way intimidated by the weight of both Greymane’s and Nok’s regard and Rillish wondered whether it was because they were currently in the woman’s element.
She merely shrugged her rounded shoulders. ‘The moment your bows turned south, the murmur of those waves reached Mare. Even as we speak their warships are setting out as quickly as they can be readied. The goal will be to reach you as far north as possible.’
The High Fist and the Admiral exchanged glances. ‘Thank you, Devaleth,’ said Greymane. ‘You have been most forthcoming.’
‘We can anticipate, then, some sort of massing of forces, north of Fist?’ Nok asked.
Another shrug. ‘As best can be managed… yes.’
Nok smoothed his moustache. ‘I see. Thank you. Now, Fist Rillish, I have read your debriefing from when you returned from Korel, but I wonder if you might enlighten everyone as to conditions on Fist when you were sent out.’
Rillish acknowledged the request, but he was puzzled. ‘That was nearly ten years ago, Admiral. Surely you have more recent intelligence?’
‘Nothing reliable. Rumours, hearsay. No eyewitnesses, such as yourself.’
Ye gods. A decade of silence? What had been going on all this time? Rillish cleared his throat. ‘Well, Admiral, High Fist. I was under Captain Jalass, 11th Company-’
Greymane grunted, causing Rillish to stop. As all eyes turned to him, the High Fist appeared embarrassed. He cleared his throat, rumbled, ‘I remember her. She was a good officer.’