Stonewielder (84 page)

‘Welcome,’ Rillish said, inviting her to a seat.

Peles sat, as did they. Rillish wondered to see her now without her helm and thick mail coat. Her long silver hair was unbraided to fall loose; she wore a long-sleeved jacket over a pale shirt. And while most would not consider her battle-flattened nose and scarred cheeks beautiful in the narrow, stereotypical image of some floaty, cultured, urban lady, Rillish thought her extraordinarily attractive, even desirable. He discovered her answering his stare.

‘Yes, Fist?’

He swallowed, looking away to pick up his wine glass. ‘How are the security arrangements?’ Captain Peles had been appointed chief of his guard.

‘This garrison is a death trap. There’s no well. The storerooms are too small. The arsenal is as empty as a merchant’s generosity.’

‘I agree,’ Captain Betteries added.

‘What would you suggest?’ Rillish asked Peles.

‘I suggest we withdraw to outside the town. Build our own fortress.’

‘That would cut down on the nuisance sniping,’ Captain Perin commented.

‘What’s the report?’ Rillish asked.

‘Two troopers wounded in separate incidents. Plus the usual vandalism, theft and physical assaults.’

The main course arrived. The news had blunted Rillish’s appetite.
So soon. Occupations breed mutual disgust, harden divisions, and brutalize all parties
. Should they withdraw from town? Perhaps they should. Yet even if they went now, of their own choosing, it would look as if they’d been chased out. And so they were already effectively trapped. ‘You have taken all the usual steps?’ he asked Captain Betteries.

The man nodded, a little worse for drink. ‘Arrested the local leaders. This acting Lord Mayor, who’s also the local magistrate, apparently. A few others.’

‘But I understand Admiral Nok had some sort of agreement with the man.’

‘Better to have him where we can keep an eye on him.’

‘Where is the Adjunct, may I ask?’ Captain Perin enquired.

‘With the troops outside the town.’

‘And you, sir, Fist. I understand you have been here before?’

Rillish’s jaws tightened. ‘Yes, Captain. It was my second posting.’

Captain Perin seemed unaware of Captain Betteries’ not-so-subtle glare for silence. ‘Here, in Rool?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Rillish answered, a touch tartly.

‘Then …’ The captain tailed off as he appreciated the dangerous waters he was entering. ‘Ah … interesting.’ He addressed his dinner. After a time his gaze turned to Peles, where it rested while they ate. ‘You are of Elingarth?’ he asked finally.

The broad-boned woman almost blushed. ‘Around there,’ she muttered into her plate.

‘I am surprised. It is rare for one of the military orders to strike out on his or her own.’

‘There are those of us who are selected to travel, to learn other ways, other philosophies.’

‘A sound strategy,’ Captain Betteries said.

Captain Perin was nodding as well. ‘Yes. You could bring back information, useful knowledge. But you may also bring back dangerous ideas. The contamination of foreign beliefs …’

Peles cut up her fish. ‘We do not follow the philosophy of purity versus pollution. That is a false choice, a false dichotomy. The truth is, nothing is “pure”. Everything is the product of something else.

To name something “pure” is to pretend it has no history, nothing before it, which is obviously false.’

Rillish stared. That had been the longest speech he’d heard from the woman, who now blushed at the silent attention she was receiving from the three men.

‘Well argued,’ Captain Betteries said, and he took another drink.

Later that night Rillish sat in his offices reviewing quartermaster reports. After sorting through the entire pile of paperwork he came to an envelope addressed to him and sealed with wax. An aide’s note said that it had been left by the front gate. He broke the seal and opened the thick folded paper, careful not to touch the inner slip – he knew of some who had been poisoned in this manner.

He read the short message once. Its contents obviously confused him as he frowned, puzzled. Then he read it again. The third time he snatched it up and stood, swearing and cursing. He summoned his aides.

*

The building was unprepossessing. It had the look of long abandonment, of having been looted then occupied by squatters for some time. It was deep into the night when Rillish arrived. He came alone, wrapped in a dark cloak. The name in the note was enough to assure him of the message’s validity and of his safety. He waited in the main room among the rubbish and filth until a light grew above and a man came down the stairs, lamp in hand. The man was squat and muscular and bald. Seeing him, Rillish stared, amazed.

‘All the gods above and below … Ipshank. You still live. I couldn’t believe it.’

The priest appeared uncomfortable. ‘Rillish Jal Keth. I don’t believe we actually met.’

‘No. But I heard much of you. You saw Greymane, then? You must have.’

‘We met.’ The man waved the lamp. ‘Right here. Secretly.’

‘Secretly? There’s no reason for secrecy. All that was a long time ago.’

Ipshank set the lamp on a low table. He rubbed a hand over his bald pate. ‘There are those who still remember. You. Myself … others. And the enemy remains.’

Rillish shook his head. ‘It’s over. Finished. You should have gone with him. How could you not have, knowing what he faces?’

There was a long measured acknowledgement from the man as he
crossed his arms and hung his head. In the dim light the faded boar tattoos gave his face a death-like cast. ‘That was what he said. That I should come with him. But I couldn’t. My work is here.
Our
work is here.’

Rillish found himself a touch frightened of the man. ‘What do you mean, ours?’

‘I mean that Greymane – Stonewielder – goes to face his enemy while we must confront ours here. If we do not, then there can be no victory for us.’

‘This is what you told Greymane?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he agreed?’

‘Yes. He agreed by leaving you here.’

The sudden urge to flee gripped Rillish. He paced instead, his heart hammering. ‘You
asked
that I be left behind?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? Why me?’

The man sat on a low stool – perhaps only to set Rillish at ease. ‘I’m sorry, Fist. I wish I could say that it was because of some innate quality you possess. That you were born to fulfil this role. That there was a prophecy foretelling you would be the one. Or that your father’s father was one of the ousted rightful kings of Rool – one of a series of them, actually. Or some such nonsense.’ He leaned forward on his crossed knees. ‘But no. I’m sorry, there’s nothing special about you. There you are. It’s disappointing, I know, but that’s how it is for everyone.’ His wide, thick-lipped mouth drew down. ‘And that just makes it all the harder, doesn’t it? Not being special. Not having that funny mark or that omen at your birth. Just an ordinary person asked to step up to do the extraordinary.’

Rillish had been pacing the empty room, kicking at the litter. ‘If this is your way of persuading me to help I can well understand your reputation as a difficult fellow. Just what is it you are asking?’

The man pressed his hands together as if praying. He set them to his lips. ‘To help slay the metaphorical dragon, Fist.’

Rillish gaped.
All the gods, no. That was impossible. Yet this man obviously thought there was a chance. And he and Greymane were in agreement – or so he claimed. What evidence has he shown? None. Yet, Ipshank … he was one of those who remained loyal through to the bloody end
. He stopped pacing. ‘I’ll listen. That’s all I can promise right now.’

Ipshank opened his hands wide and bowed his head. ‘Good
enough. That will do for a start.’ He stood, took the lamp to the gaping doorway and shone it out. ‘First, there are some papers here I’d like you to go through.’

Shambling steps approached and two men entered, burdened by the large heavy chest they carried between them. Rillish thought one, a big fellow sporting a ridiculous long moustache, very familiar. An officer of the City Watch? They set the chest down. Ipshank invited Rillish to the low table and stool. He sat and the men opened the chest to hand over the first packet of an intimidating collection.

He read slowly, rather reluctantly. Then, with each document, he sat forward further, scanned each with greater intensity. He read through the entire night.

Come the dawn the guards were gone, and Ipshank sat leaning up against a wall, apparently asleep. Rillish sat back, pinched his gritty eyes and blinked repeatedly.
Gods, he was thirsty. A lifetime’s work and dedication here. An amazing story to be pieced together
.

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.