The troopers groaned, protesting, but the galley picked up speed. The Malazan sailors with them adjusted the sail to cut closer to the weak wind. Rillish watched for a time then turned on the sailing master. ‘We’re barely gaining. Can’t you do more?’
‘Your soldiers row like retards. They are not in time. It takes years of training. Still,’ and he shrugged, ‘we are gaining.’
Rillish shaded his gaze to look behind. The other captured galley was following, but at a great distance. The sailing master saw his gaze. ‘He is cursing you very much right now, I think.’
‘Yes. I expect so.’
He found Captain Peles at the bows. She eyed him, puzzled. ‘A prize of war, Fist?’
‘A hunch. We’re going to board. Do not charge ahead. Form a line, shields out. Yes?’
She saluted. ‘As you order, sir.’
‘Very good.’
Their progress was agonizing. A pale pre-dawn glow gathered to the east. Arrow-fire flew from the cargo ship but it was thin and uninspired. As they drew aside, Rillish saw that he’d been right. Three men in dark armour, silver-detailed, awaited them at mid-deck. Three Korelri Chosen — veterans of the wall. He was glad to have more than a hundred heavy infantry backing him up.
Eventually, the sailing master was content with their relative positions and the bow of the galley swung over towards the bow of the cargo vessel, cutting it off. ‘Toss grapnels,’ he called. ‘Ship oars!’
Marines threw the pronged iron grapnels, heaved on the ropes. The vessels swung together. Oars that were slow to be drawn were snapped. Their ends swung, hammering troopers flat.
‘Board!’ Rillish yelled, stepping up on to the railing and leaping. The troopers followed, shields at their backs. Rillish fell, rolling, then jumped up to retreat to the infantry now lining the ship’s side. The sailors of the cargo vessel stood empty-handed, surrendering. The three armoured men calmly faced them alone, weapons undrawn. ‘Ready shields,’ Rillish ordered. The troopers complied, forming line. He drew his duelling swords, pointed to one of the Korelri Stormguard. ‘Surrender and you will be spared.’
‘Do you know who we are?’ the man asked from behind the narrow slit of his chased blue-black helm.
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Then you know our answer.’
‘Yes.’
‘We cannot allow you to boast of our defeat, invader. You will not have our swords or armour to spit upon as spoils of war. It would be an insult to Our Lady. That cannot be permitted. And so-’
Rillish took a breath to shout, lurched forward. ‘NO!’
The three turned and vaulted over the side. Rillish threw himself to the rail, staring down. Three dark shapes sinking from sight, blades drawn, glinting in the slanting light, held upright before their helms. Gods! It was inconceivable. Such fervour. Such dedication. Such waste. He found tears starting from his eyes and he turned away.
Captain Peles was there, peering down, troubled. ‘So those were Korelri, yes?’
Rillish cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice thick.
‘And we are to invade their lands?’
Rillish almost laughed at the thought. ‘Yes.’
The woman said nothing; her sceptical look was enough.
‘Captives, sir!’ A trooper ran up, saluted. ‘The cargo — human captives. Hundreds jammed in down there.’
Rillish answered the salute. ‘Thank you, soldier.’
‘Slaves?’ Peles said, surprised. ‘They are slavers?’
‘Of a kind, Captain. Bodies. Hundreds of bodies destined for the wall. Warm bodies to man it and defend it against the Stormriders.’ Rillish could see that the woman was shaken. ‘We’ll sail the vessel for Aamil. We’ll free them there — if we have the port. Have the master send over what sailors he can spare.’
Captain Peles saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’
*
Just after the sun cleared the horizon Rillish’s captured Skolati vessel bumped up against the stone pier at Aamil in one of the last available berths. Malazan sailors threw down ropes. The mage of Ruse, Devaleth, was there waiting to greet him. After last orders to the ship’s master, he went to the gangway and found Captain Peles there with a detachment of Malazan heavies. ‘No need, Captain.’
‘Every need, sir.’ She saluted. ‘You are an Imperial Fist. You should be treated as such.’
Rillish answered the salute, nodded his exhausted acquiescence. ‘Very well, Captain.’ He climbed the gangway to bow to Devaleth, who gave wry, but pleased, acknowledgement.
‘Good to see you made it,’ he said.
‘And you.’ She gestured up the pier. ‘This way.’
She led him to a tall thick gateway. Peles followed with his guard. The detritus of war was piled high here and teams came and went, still pulling bodies from the heaped wreckage and carting them off to be buried or burned. Rillish was surprised that the broad stone archway was still intact. As they walked beneath it, the stones marred by dark stains, Rillish observed, ‘Why didn’t the Blues just blow the gate?’
Devaleth walked with her hands clasped at her back. She was frowning at the ground, her face drawn, her eyes bruised. ‘Yes, why not? They’ve burned and blown up everything else.’
Rillish cleared his throat. ‘I’m… sorry for your countrymen, Devaleth.’
She nodded absently as they walked. ‘I never thought I’d see it happen. The blockade broken. Do not get me wrong — I am glad, of course. It is necessary. Still…’ she gave him a wintry smile, ‘a shock to one’s pride.’
A squad posted at an intersection straightened, saluting. Rillish answered the salute. Devaleth led him round the corner. ‘I understand,’ she said, ‘the Blues fear a counter-assault from Mare. And so they left the defences as intact as possible.’
‘Ah. I see. How are the Skolati?’
‘Quiet. Just as shocked, perhaps. Staying indoors. No doubt they hope we will just go away.’
‘You were here for the attack?’
‘No. I was with the Admiral. After we broke through the blockade he sent me on with some last messages for the High Fist.’
Rillish felt his chest tighten. ‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’ The stink of smoke that hung over the city now made Rillish sick. He’d known, of course, that he would be reporting to the man, but he’d somehow managed to keep it all out of mind.
Devaleth gestured up the narrow cobbled road to an inn where Malazan troopers stood guard. ‘Here we are.’
As Rillish entered, two squads lounging in the common room straightened to their feet, saluted. Rillish answered, nodding to them. He motioned for Captain Peles to wait here with his guard, then followed Devaleth up the stairs.
Two troopers stood guard at a door on the third floor. Devaleth knocked and it was opened by the young Adjunct, Kyle. His thick black hair was a mess, his wide dark face smudged with soot, and he still wore his armoured hauberk — he’d not even cleaned up from the fight yet. He inclined his head in greeting. ‘Fist Rillish,’ he called out, opening the door wide.
The High Fist was within, facing a man in rich-looking robes, bearded and sweating, flanked by Malazan troopers. Greymane waved the man away. ‘That’s all for now, Patriarch Thurell. I want everything gathered at the main square. Supplies, all mounts, cartage.’
‘Yes, yes. Certainly.’ The man bowed jerkily, hands clasped at his front. He seemed terrified. The troopers marched him past Rillish and out of the door.
Greymane peered down at Rillish. His eyes seemed a brighter blue than usual, glittering from under the wide shelf of his brow. Rillish bowed. ‘Congratulations upon your victory, High Fist.’
Greymane leaned against a table, crossed his arms. ‘Here at last, Fist Rillish Jal Keth. Now that the fighting is over.’
Rillish clamped his teeth against the urge to laugh the comment off, cleared his throat. ‘We saw much action at sea.’
‘No doubt.’
Swallowing, Rillish squeezed a gloved hand until it ached. He felt Devaleth there at his side, her own stiffness, but he dared not look to her. ‘You have orders, sir?’