* * *
Ghelel wanted to curry her own mount. It was an eager mare she'd grown quite fond of, but Molk had warned against it saying that the regulars took care of such things and that she, as a Prevost, ought not to lower herself. She personally saw nothing odd in an officer caring for his or her own horse; Molk, however, was insistent. And so she found herself facing another empty evening of waiting – waiting for intelligence from Li Heng on any development in the siege, which appeared to have settled into a sullen stalemate despite the early victories. Or waiting for intelligence from the east on the progress of the Empress's armada. Or of a new development: the coastal raids of a significant pirate navy that had coalesced to take advantage of the chaos, pillaging Unta and now Cawn. Just two days ago word reached them that these raiders had become so emboldened they were actually marching inland. The betting around the tents was on how far they dared go. Raids on Telo or Ipras were the odds-on favourites.
She therefore faced the same choice that wasn't really a choice this last week since General Urko's army had marched through: lie staring at the roof of her tent, sitting at the main campfire or visiting the command tent. Spending another useless evening at the campfire meant watching the Falaran cavalrymen led by their fat captain, Tonley, share barbs and boasts with the Seti while swilling enormous quantities of whatever alcohol his men had most recently ‘liberated’. Most often beer, though the occasional cask of distilled spirits appeared, and even skins of mead. Visiting the command tent meant, well, getting even closer to Commander Ullen. Something she found frighteningly easy to do.
What would the Marquis think? Or Choss? Would they approve? Ghelel pulled her gloves tighter against the chill night air, glanced to the east where the land fell away into the Idryn's flat, rich floodplain. Somewhere there just days away marched a ragged horde of pirate raiders. Idly, she wondered why Ullen didn't simply uproot his rearguard battalion together with the Falaran lancers, the Seti scouts and the Marshland cavalry and wipe the brigands from the face of the continent. Well, damn them anyway; they maintained she was the heir of the Talian Hegemony, the Tali of Quon Tali. Therefore she outranked the Marquis and Choss wasn't here. She headed to the command tent.
Reaching a main alley in the encampment, she saw ahead the torches and the posted guards, Malazan regulars of the Falaran brigades, and she slowed. If the League should win the coming confrontation and she were installed as the Tali of Quon Tali … how would her behaviour here now come to reflect upon her in the eyes of these regulars everywhere? The thought of their mockery burned upon her face.
The eyes of those guards had her now, glittering in the dark beneath their helmets, and she forced herself to keep moving. Well, damn them too; right now she was nothing more than a lowly cavalry captain, a Prevost. Lowly, and lonely.
As she approached, the guards inclined their heads in acknowledgement and one pushed aside the flap. Ghelel gave as courteous a response as she dared and ducked within. It was warm inside. The golden light of lanterns lit a cluttered table, a scattering of chairs and a low table littered with fruit, meats and carafes of wine. Commander Ullen straightened from pouring wine at the table and bowed. The Marquis Jhardin straightened and bowed as well, though more slowly and perfunctorily – a mere observance of aristocratic courtesy. For her part, Ghelel saluted two superior officers.
Ullen waved the salute aside. ‘Please, Alil. How many times must I ask?’
‘Every time, sir.’ Ghelel drew off her gloves and cloak, draped them over a chair.
‘We were just talking of this pirate army,’ the Marquis said, easing himself back down. ‘They say that at Unta they must have tried to rob the Imperial Arsenal. Blew up half the city and themselves for their trouble.’
‘There's enough of them left,’ Ullen growled into his cup, and sat, stretching out his legs. Ghelel liked the way he did that; and liked the way he watched her from the corner of his pale-blue eyes, almost shyly. She sat at the table, picked up a carafe. ‘I quite understand why we aren't swatting them. I mean, since they number so many …’
A smile from Ullen. One that held no mockery at all, only a bright amusement shared by his eyes. ‘How gigantic have they become now?’
‘I overheard one trooper swear them to be at least thirty thousand.’
The Marquis whistled. ‘Prodigious multiplying indeed. Forget them, Alil. They're just a mob of looters. We don't care about the vultures. We've come for a lioness.’
But Ullen frowned, the lines of care around his mouth deepening. Ghelel caught his eye, arched a questioning brow. ‘We aren't ignoring them, Alil. I have Seti scouts watching from a distance. There have been some rather disturbing, admittedly contrary, rumours about them. But they are – how shall I put it? Difficult to credit. And our mage with Urko, Bala, has sent the message that she is troubled. She suspects powerful mages shielding themselves from her questings.’
‘There must be one or two forceful personalities keeping the horde together,’ the Marquis opined. ‘We'll spot them and eliminate them and the mob will evaporate. They should not have come inland – they are obviously overconfident.’
‘Was Kellanved overconfident?’ Ullen mused aloud, eyeing his glass, ‘when he marched inland with his pirate raiders from Malaz? And Heng was one of his first conquests.’
Neither the Marquis nor Ghelel spoke for a time. The Marquis inclined his head to concede the point. ‘I suppose you could say he was the exception that proves the rule.’
Ghelel studied her wine glass. ‘Speaking of the Throne … why don't we go to meet her? Excuse me for asking, but as new to the command – could we not stop her in the narrow plains west of Cawn?’
Another smile from Ullen. ‘True.’ He stretched, ran both hands through his short blond hair. ‘But then she would simply withdraw to Cawn and wait for us. That we cannot have. As an advocate would say, the burden of proof lies with us. We have to beat her; she merely has to stand back and wait for our support to erode.’
For all Ghelel knew Ullen was patronizing her just as Choss and Amaron had, only his manners were smoother. But there was nothing in it that felt that way to her; they were merely talking through the options together and he was giving the benefit of his greater experience. She wondered again just how much the man knew of her, how much Urko or the Marquis had told him. It could mean a great deal to know that. ‘Why should our support be eroding – not hers?’
‘Because if we can't take Heng, how can we take anything?’
Ghelel pursed her lips at the truth of that sobering evaluation. Indeed. Why should any of the League's supporters stay with them if they should fail here? They would face wholesale desertions. A return to independent kingdoms with the old war of all against all not far behind. Continent-wide strife, the inevitable dissolution into chaos with starvation, brutality and petty warlordism. Something Ghelel would do anything to avoid.
The Marquis drained his glass and stood. ‘If the Empress commits to the field then Heng can hang itself.’ He saluted Ullen: ‘Commander.’ Bowed to Ghelel: ‘Prevost. I will leave you two to sort out the rest of the problems facing our army and will expect appropriate orders tomorrow. Good night.’
Laughing, Ullen waved the Marquis out. When the heavy canvas flap closed Ghelel faced Ullen alone. For a time neither spoke. Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Did the Marquis tell you I am new to his command?’
Ullen nodded. ‘Yes … Your family goes back quite far in Tali?’
Ghelel felt her face reddening and damned the reaction. To cover it, she shrugged. ‘Rich in ancestry, poor in cash. Yourself?’
An edge of his mouth crooked up. ‘Like you. Rich in experience, poor in cash. I have served in the military all my life.’
‘Then you have been overseas? Genabackis? Seven Cities?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’ A mischievous smile. ‘Unless Falar counts?’
She answered his smile. ‘Oh, I suppose we could allow that – just for this one night.’
Ullen raised his glass. ‘My thanks. Now I possess a more soldierly exotic flair.’
But Ghelel was troubled. The man looked to be in his late forties, yet had never served overseas. Where had he been all these years?
Had he seen only garrison duty for the last twenty years? Yet Urko seemed to have every confidence in him; could he be nothing more than a competent manager, more clerk than soldier?
A knock at the front post. ‘Yes?’ Ullen called.
A guard edged aside the thick canvas. ‘Seti scout here, sir, with word from the raiders.’
Sighing, Ullen pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the work table. ‘Send him in, sergeant.’
A slight wisp of a figure slipped through the opening and Ghelel stared. A child! What had they come to, sending children into the field? The girl-child's deerskin trousers were torn and muddied, her moccasins worn through. A sleeveless leather jerkin was all else she wore despite the bitter cold night. Her long hair hung in a tangle of sweat, knots and lengths of leather and beads, and a sheathed long-knife hung from a rope tied round one shoulder. Despite her bedraggled and hard-travelled appearance the girl-child surveyed the contents of the tent with the scorn of a princess.
‘Ullar yesh ‘ap?’ she addressed Ullen in obvious disapproval.
‘Aya,’ he replied easily in Seti. ‘Tahian heshar?’
‘Nyeh.’
Ullen looked to Ghelel. ‘Excuse us, please.’ To the girl-child, ‘Bergar, sho.’
The child launched into a long report in Seti. When she gestured Ghelel was wrenched to see that her fingertips were blue with cold, as were her lips. Gods! This child was half-frozen with exposure from riding through the night. The Seti youth tossed a fold of torn cloth on to Ullen's table and turned to go. Ghelel intervened, ‘Wait! Please!’
A hand went to the grip of the long-knife and the girl glared an accusation at Ullen. ‘What is it?’ he asked of Ghelel.
‘Ask her to stay. To warm herself – anything.’
He spoke to her and the tone of the girl's reply told Ghelel all she needed to know. She offered her own cloak. ‘She can take this.’
Ullen translated; the girl responded, shooting Ghelel a glare of ferocious pride that would be humorous if it were not so obviously heartfelt. Ullen translated, ‘She thanks you but says she would only be burdened by such a possession.’
Ghelel squeezed the thick rich cloth in both hands. ‘Then will she not stay?’
‘No. I'm sure she means to return immediately to her scouting party.’
‘She'll die of exposure! Can't you order her to stay until tomorrow?’
Ullen passed a hand through his hair, sighing. ‘Alil … her party probably consists of her own brothers, sisters and cousins.’
Ghelel leant her weight into the chair, let the cloak fall over its back. ‘I … see. Tell her … tell her, I'm sorry.’
In answer the girl reached out a hand to cover Ghelel's who hissed, shocked, so cold was the girl's grip. She left then, and Ghelel could not raise her head to watch her go.
After some moments Ullen cleared his throat and came around the table. He squeezed Ghelel's arm. ‘Your concern does you credit, Alil. But it is misplaced. She was born to this. Grew up with it, and is used to it.’
Ghelel flinched away, shocked by the man's words. ‘So they are less than us, are they? Coarser? They feel less than we do?’
Ullen's face froze. He dropped his arm. ‘That is not what I meant at all.’ He returned to the table, picked up the scrap of cloth the messenger had left. ‘Ehra – that's her name by the way. Named for a tiny blue flower you can find everywhere here – she reports that her party captured a runaway from the raiders. And since they're under my orders to find out what they can about these pirates, they questioned him. The fellow claimed the sigil they wear is important.’ Ullen waved the fold of cloth. ‘He sketched it here.’
Sitting heavily, Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Commander … I'm sorry. I forgot myself. No doubt you meant that she was used to such privation; that she's grown up riding in such weather all year round. You are no doubt right. I'm sorry. It's just that we Talians border on the Seti. There is a long history of antagonism and I have grown up hearing much that is … how shall I put it – bigoted – against them. You have my apology, commander.’ Hearing nothing from him, she glanced up, ‘Commander?’
Ullen had backed away from the table. His gaze was fixed upon the opened cloth. He appeared to have had a vision of Hood himself; his face was sickly pale from shock. His hands had fisted white. Ghelel threw aside her glass and came to his side. ‘What is it?’
‘Gods no … it's true,’ he breathed.
She picked up the scrap. Sketched in charcoal and ochre dust was a long rust smear bearing a weaving undulating line. ‘What is it?’
Ullen swallowed, wiped a hand across his glistening brow. ‘Something I prayed I'd never see again. Sergeant!’
The guard stepped in. ‘Sir?’
‘Summon the Marquis and Captain Tonley, quickly.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Ullen went to the low table and poured himself a glass of wine.
‘What is it?’ Ghelel asked again.
Downing the drink, Ullen said, ‘It means nothing to you? A red field, a long sinuous beast – a dragon perhaps?’
‘No.’
He spoke into the depths of his empty glass. ‘How quickly so much is forgotten.’
The Marquis threw open the tent flap; he wore only an open felt shirt, trousers and boots. ‘What news?’
Ullen nodded to Ghelel, who held out the torn strip. The Marquis took it. ‘Surely you are versed in liveries, Marquis. What do you make of that insignia?’
‘A red field, a long beast or perhaps a weapon – it could be any number of things.’
‘And if the thing were a dragon?’
‘What would that mean?’ Ghelel asked.
‘Then—’ Snorting, he tossed the cloth to the table. ‘Imposture, surely. An empty boast.’
‘I think not. This confirms rumours out of Unta.’
‘What rumours?’ Ghelel asked more loudly.
‘You cannot be certain though,’ said the Marquis.
‘No, but certain enough to treat them more warily. I ask that you return to your command south of the Idryn.’
‘Agreed.’
Captain Tonley pushed aside the canvas flap. Wincing, he shielded his eyes from the bright lantern light. ‘What is it – ah, sirs?’
‘Yes!’ Ghelel added. ‘What is it, damn it to Hood!’
‘The sigil of the Crimson Guard,’ Ullen said.
Ghelel stared, her brows rising. The Crimson Guard? That hoary old-woman's bogeyman? Mere mercenaries? Was this what so unnerved Ullen? Only her tact stopped her from laughing out loud.
Captain Tonley scratched his auburn beard. His face betrayed an utter lack of recognition. ‘The Crimson Guard, you say? That so, sir? Amazing.’ He took a great deep breath, noticed the carafes of wine and scooped one up. ‘Orders, sir?’
Ullen either didn't notice or was inured to the man's manners – or lack thereof. ‘Send your best rider to Urko at Command.’ He scratched a message on a scrap of vellum, handed it to Tonley. ‘The invading army confirmed as Crimson Guard.’
‘Anyone could use that symbol,’ Ghelel objected.
‘No one would dare,’ the Marquis answered. ‘Come, Prevost. We leave immediately.’ He bowed to Ullen. Ghelel did not move. She watched Ullen who bowed his farewell to her while, she thought, keeping his face carefully empty of emotion. The Marquis took her arm. ‘Prevost.’
Outside, the Marquis said low, ‘Change quickly, we ride within the hour,’ and he was off to his tent. Feeling somehow drunk, stunned by these quick developments, Ghelel walked slowly away. Inside her tent, she found Molk lying across the entrance, an arm over his face. ‘Get up. We're going.’
He moved his arm to blink up at her. ‘Going? So soon?’
‘Yes. And hurry – you have to pack.’ She began changing to dress in her armour.
He sat up quickly. ‘What's the news? Is it her?’
Pulling off her shirt, Ghelel paused. Her? Oh, yes, her, ‘No. Not her.’
‘Who then?’
A laugh from Ghelel. ‘Yes, who indeed.’ She shook out a silk undershirt, pulled it on. ‘Apparently our glorious commander believes these raiders are the Crimson Guard returned. Can you believe that?’ She straightened the front lacings, looked up. ‘Molk?’
She turned full circle, peering around the tent. The fool had disappeared. Well, damn the man. Now who was going to pack?
It was not until the column started off south for the Pilgrim road that Ghelel had an opportunity to speak in relative privacy with the Marquis. Side by side just behind the column's van riding with lit torches, she leaned to him. ‘So you believe him then? That this is the Guard, returned?’
Helmet under an arm and reins in one hand, the Marquis turned to examine her. His eyes were dark pits in the night and his black curly hair blew unbounded about his face. ‘I believe Ullen,’ he called back.
‘Why should Ullen be so certain? And why so fearful? They are only mercenaries. Famous, yes. But just a band of hireswords.’
The Marquis's mouth straightened in a cold humourless smile. ‘Have you not heard the stories then?’
Ghelel thought of the bedtime tales her nanny had told of the Guard and how they opposed the emperor. Romantic heroics of great champions and fanciful unbelievable deeds. ‘I've heard them. Troubadours’ tales and romances. But that was all long ago. Why should Ullen fear them now?’
It was now the Marquis's turn to look confused. ‘Do you not know who he is, was?’
Ghelel stared, taken aback, then cut off a snarled reply. She pulled her mount closer to the Marquis. ‘How in the Queen's own Mysteries am I to know anything if no one tells me anything!’
The Marquis raised a hand in surrender. ‘Apologies. I thought you knew. The man served on Dassem's staff! Was Choss's adjutant for a time. That's why I believe him.’
Astonished, Ghelel relaxed and fell behind the Marquis. Ranks of her cavalry thundered past while her mount slowed. Served with Dassem! Served all his life yet had never left the continent – the man had fought during the wars of consolidation! Damn the fellow! She was half tempted to turn her horse around and confront him. Why didn't he just out and say so? Yet why should he have to? Why shouldn't she have faith in him regardless? Urko chose him for a reason, didn't he? Didn't she accept his competence unquestioned?
She slowed her mount to a canter, gazed back to the encampment, a distant glow in the clear starry night. Her and her mount's breath steamed in the frigid air and Ghelel thought of a bony Seti girl riding east dressed far more poorly than she. Ahead, four of her cavalry had held back from the column, awaiting her. Idly, she wondered where Molk had got himself off to and whether she'd ever see the man again. The stars blazed down with a hard cold light from horizon to horizon and suddenly new ones appeared in the east. Ghelel squinted, surprised. No, not stars, yellow flickering lights, torches. A handful appearing and disappearing in the dark above the horizon where …
Gods turn from her! Ghelel raked her spurs, leaning high and forward. Ride! ‘Haugh!’ She dashed between her startled guard, racing for the column. When she reached the van, the Marquis took one glance at her face and raised an arm in the halt.
His mount rearing, he called, ‘What is it?’
Also struggling to control her own mount, she pointed, ‘Look! Lights! It must be them. They're taking the ruins of the monastery.’
The Marquis studied the east. His mouth twisted his disgust. ‘Trake take us, we'll never lever them out of there! It's a rat warren.’ Then he stared at Ghelel as if seeing her for the first time, his eyes widened, and he yanked on his helmet, securing the strap one-handed. ‘Outriders! Form up! We ride for the bridge!’
A guard of the cavalry formed around Ghelel and the Marquis. Scouts stormed ahead. The Marquis signalled the advance. The column gathered speed to a gallop into absolute darkness.
*
They met no one, though fires burned fitfully beside the road where bands of travellers lay sleeping. Down toward the Idryn dogs rushed out of the dark, snarling at the mounts. Fires burned before the black openings of caves. Ghelel's face was numb with cold, her hands frozen claws around her reins.
Before they reached the bridge their scouts emerged from the dark, barring their way. ‘Armed men at the bridge.’
‘Hood bugger them!’ the Marquis exploded. Then he inclined his head to Ghelel. ‘Pardon me, Prevost.’ To the scouts, ‘Can you identify them?’
‘No, sir. No colours.’
‘It's them,’ Ghelel said, feeling oddly like laughing. Strange how she was the one to deny even the Guard's existence yet now she felt completely certain of their presence ahead. She thought of those stories from her youth; of the romantic yet tragic figure of Duke, then Prince, K'azz. ‘We should go to meet them. Parley.’
‘Parley?’ the Marquis answered, annoyed. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Passage south, of course.’
‘Passage? Why in Fanderay's name should they grant us passage?’
‘Why ever should they not, Marquis?’
He studied her for a time, his head cocked to one side. Then he raised a hand in consent. ‘Very well, Prevost. Let us go down and speak with these mercenaries. I admit to no small curiosity myself.’
They took a guard of four men. With torches held high they advanced slowly on the bridge. Four figures, that they could see, awaited them, blocking the way across. Torches on poles stood to either side where the flagged way met the broad granite blocks of the bridge. The figures themselves stood far back from the light.
‘Far enough!’ a man called in Talian as the Marquis and Ghelel entered the flickering light.
‘Who are you? And how dare you block this way?’ the Marquis called. ‘This is a pilgrim road, open to all.’
‘It's still open to pilgrims,’ the man responded. ‘Well armed for devotions, you are.’
‘Come forward,’ Ghelel invited. ‘Let's discuss passage.’
A tall man and a very short and broad woman came forward into the light. Both wore helmets wrapped in dark cloth that wove around under their chins and surcoats of a thick dark cloth over blackened mail shirts that hung to their knees. Gauntlets covered their hands. The man bore a shield at his back, a longsword at his side, while the hilts of two curved blades jutted forward from the woman's wide sash.
‘Identify yourselves,’ the Marquis demanded again. ‘Are you part of a legitimate army or mere brigands?’
‘Questionable distinction,’ the woman said, a dark brow arching.
‘It's just a matter of scale, really,’ the man said to her.
‘Or success,’ Ghelel added.
Both looked up, surprised. ‘Hello,’ the man said. ‘I am Cole, this is Lean.’
‘Prevost Alil, the Marquis Jhardin of the Marchland Sentries.’ While they had been talking, Ghelel's sight had been adjusting to the light and she could now see that the cloth wrapped around the helmets and the jupons as well was of a very dark, almost black, crimson.
‘Prevost, Marquis, greetings,’ the man said. ‘That you have chosen not to charge down here with your cavalry to overrun us means that you already know who we are. I congratulate you on your intelligence services. We've tried to keep as low a profile as possible.’
‘Obliterating half of Unta?’ the Marquis snapped. ‘Burning Cawn to the ground?’
The man smiled, baring sharp teeth. ‘As I said – a low profile.’
Ghelel leaned forward, crossing her arms on the tall pommel of her saddle. ‘Cole, we formally request passage south for our detachment.’
Waving an invitation, Cole bowed. ‘Granted, Prevost. All, ah, combatants wishing to withdraw south are invited to do so. But none may come north. Spread the word if you would, please.’
The Marquis glared his disgust. ‘Expecting a flow of desertions, are you?’
‘In the near future, to be brief … yes.’
With a curt nod the Marquis sent a man back with word to advance. ‘I suppose we should thank you for our passage.’
Cole and Lean stood aside. ‘Just doing our job.’