Return of the Crimson Guard (134 page)

Aron quickly set out his most expensive wine and spirits. The man sat at one of his two tables. ‘Yes, sir?’ Aron asked from behind his counter.

‘A drink.’

‘I have Talian winter wine, spirits of juniper berry from Bloor.’

‘The Talian.’

‘Excellent, sir.’ He brought out a glass and the bottle. The man pressed a gold Imperial to the gouged slats of the table. Aron almost tipped the bottle. An Imperial Sun – didn't see too many of those
these days. ‘You don't have anything smaller, do you, sir? We're just a small river station, you know.’

The man leaned back, smiled in a way that Aron knew was meant to reassure him. ‘I know. It's yours for the bottle and a little information.’

Aron allowed his brows to rise as if in dubious surprise. ‘Really, sir? Information, you say? Out here? What could we possibly know out here?’

He gestured vaguely to the river. ‘Oh, travel. Shipments and cargo. People coming and going. That sort of thing.’

Aron's nerves now reached a screaming pitch; he kept his good-natured smile. ‘Really, sir? Such as?’

‘I'm looking for someone who may have come through here about a month ago. During the troubles. A young woman. She would have been travelling alone. You'd remember her if you saw her, if you know what I mean,’ and he winked.

Aron walked back to his counter. ‘A woman, you say …’ He shook his head. ‘What did she look like?’

‘Slim, dark hair. A pretty face. As I said, a woman men notice. Hear anything like that? She may have hired a boat to take her upriver.’

That hired hand who came through on his run south to Cawn – what was his name? Jestan? Jeth? Damn it to Hood!

Aron rubbed his stubbled cheeks; his gaze flicked to the gold Sun shining, winking, on the table. ‘I may have heard something about a female passenger on one of the riverboats …’

The man's hand covered the coin. He lost his smile. Sighing, he pushed himself up from the table.

Jhal! It was Jhal! What had he said? He'd been up at the Falls transferring cargo and he joked about a boatman fawning over some passenger of his
—

The man had come to the counter. He pushed the gold Sun across. ‘Think harder. Because you can stare all you like but this coin won't multiply itself.’

Aron licked his lips, swallowed. He smiled nervously. ‘I'm trying to remember, sir.’

‘Good. Take your time.’ He returned to his table, came back with the glass and bottle, poured another drink and slid it across.

Nodding his thanks Aron took it and tossed the entire glass back.
He had to open his D'rek blasted mouth! Now there was no going back. This one doesn't care about the money. This is about more than coin. No one sends a man like this out when only money is in
question.
And the man was watching him carefully, his eyes lazy, calm … patient.

Aron cleared his throat. He pressed a rag to his face.
Who would have been going upriver then? Oddfoot? No, he's south. Cat? No, idiot! It was a man. Old Pick? He won't go past Heng. Tullen! Must've been Tullen. Been gone for ages now.

‘I heard something about a boatman who'd picked up a woman at about that time …’

‘Yes?’

‘That he'd taken up past Heng.’

The man nodded, frowning his appreciation. ‘And do you have a name for this boatman?’

Ask, man. Those that don't ask don't get!
‘Well, sir. You wouldn't have another of those gold Suns on you somewhere, would you?’ and he tried his easiest smile.

Sighing loudly, the man hung his head. Raising it, he peered about the shop for a time then his gaze returned to Aron's. ‘Tell me, Factor. When was the last time the Imperial assessors came through here?’

Bastard! Aw, no. Not the assessors …

The man gave a slow solemn nod.

‘Tullen. Old Tullen. Boats with his boys. A fine, quiet sort, never made any trouble for anyone.’

‘Thank you … ?’

‘Aron Hul. And you … sir?’

Pausing at the door the man shrugged. ‘Moss. Eustan Moss. Good day to you, Factor.’

Aron went to the oiled hide that served as his one window. The man, Moss – as if that was his real name – mounted, gently heeled his mount and rode off upriver.
Oh, Tullen, what have I sent your way? I'm sorry, old fellow.
Then he remembered the coin. He went back to the counter, snatched it up and examined it. Looked authentic. He bit at it, as he'd heard you could tell the purity of the gold by its softness. Problem was he'd only ever bitten one other. He quickly thrust it away in the pouch around his neck. Briefly, his thoughts touched on this woman. Who might she be? A runaway wife or daughter of some noble? Imagine that! Some noblewoman on Tullen's leaky old boat! How unlikely. No, probably just someone who knew something or had heard something she shouldn't have, and so she ran. Some serving girl probably, or governor's mistress. Best he keep his nose out of business like that.

Thinking of serving girls
… Aron corked the Talian and brought out a bottle of cheap Kanese red, filled the glass. Maybe he could
swing one of them now. A young one. Not so bright and easy to intimidate. He drank the wine, smiling. With long hair.

* * *

Hand on the gunwale, feet spread for balance, Jemain made his way to the bow, a cup of steaming tea in one hand. The
Ardent
pitched suddenly in the savage high seas and the boiling liquid seared his hand but he carried on, teeth clamped against pain. He came to crouch next to a man who sat hunched, head in hands, fingers pushed through his dark filthy hair.

‘Drink this, Bars!’ Jemain shouted over the roar of waves and gusting wind. ‘It's hot! Come, you must have
something!’

But the man still would not look up, would not even drink, let alone eat. Three days and three nights now. How long could one of these Avowed go without food or water? Corlo had speculated perhaps forever.

Jemain lowered his head once more. ‘We've entered the Cut, you know! A Westerly has taken us. Corlo says we may meet the demons who live in these waters!’

No response, just slow anguished rocking.

Shaking his head, Jemain set the cup down between the man's bare feet. He retreated to the companionway, went to talk to Corlo. He found him smoking a pipe in a hammock. ‘Still won't answer.’

Corlo took the pipe from his mouth. ‘No. He won't.’

‘You're a mage – why don't you do something? Ease his madness?’

A snort. ‘Not without his permission.’

‘So we can do nothing for him?’

‘We might pray for the Riders to come. That would bring him out of it.’

Jemain couldn't tell if the man was serious or not. ‘No, thank you.’ He stared upwards for a time at the timbers overhead, listened to the storm batter the
Ardent.
‘I don't understand. What happened?’

‘We're too late. Missed what we'd come all this way for. All we'd endured …’ He frowned, studied his white clay pipe. ‘We lost a lot of friends. He thinks he should've been there to help. Blames himself.’

‘And you?’

A shrug from Corlo. ‘It's different for me. I'm not Avowed. The connection's not so strong.’

‘I thought you were – Avowed.’

‘No. Next best thing, though. I'm First Investiture. First round of recruiting after the Vow.’

Oh, I see.’ Or thought he did – he wasn't sure, though he suspected that recruitment probably happened far longer ago than this man's seeming forty or so years would imply.

Another of Bars’ party, Garren, thumped down the companion-way, shouted, ‘Ship sighted!’

It was a vessel of a cut and design Jemain had never seen before – which wasn't surprising, given that he'd never sailed these seas before. But he was surprised at the ease with which it rode the high, steep waves here in the Sea of Storms – the Cut, Corlo called it. Long and low, hull tarred black. Square-sailed, single-masted, bearing a brutal ram below the waterline that breasted each wave, sloughing water and foam, as the vessel pitched. And, incredibly, the galley boasted four ranks of oarsmen. Surely it would've keeled over in such a sea.

‘Who are they?’ he shouted to Corlo.

The mage's face was grim. ‘Looks like a ship out of Mare. We have to run.’

Jemain almost laughed, but wouldn't show the despair that vessel struck in his heart.
No chance of outrunning that.
He yelled: ‘Hard larboard! Put the stern to them, Watt!’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Man the deck! Ready crossbows!’

The crew lurched from side to side, stowing equipment, distributing what few weapons they possessed. Jemain made his way to the stern; Corlo followed. There, he watched through the waves where the vessel appeared in glimpses between the grey waters and the equally grey overcast sky. It was swinging around them, nimble as a gull, while the
Ardent, a
single-banked slave galley, so battered by its long ocean crossing, wallowed like a log.

It was going to ram.

‘Brace yourselves!’ To Watt: ‘Ready to swing to port.’

The old tillerman clamped his toothless gums together, his lips wrinkling. ‘We'll give it a go, sir.’

Corlo tapped his shoulder, gestured to the bow. Bars was now standing, his hands clamped on the gunwale, gaze fixed upon the closing vessel. ‘Pity the Marese, maybe, hey?’ he said.

Pity us first.
Jemain, a lifelong seaman, could only stare in awful appreciation of the skill and seamanship as the vessel bore down upon them, cresting the last wave just in time to lurch downward, adding the impetus of its weight to the thrust of the blunt bronze-sheathed ram cutting the water and throwing a curled wake higher than the vessel itself.

Beautiful.
‘Port!’ Watt threw the arm sideways; the
Ardent
only began to respond before the ship was upon them.
Too slow
–
no chance. No chance at all.

The blow drove the
Ardent
sideways. It snatched Jemain from where he stood to throw him against the gunwale and over. The frigid water stung as if it were boiling. It stole what little breath he possessed. Vision and sensations came in glimpses as his head broached the surface. The
Ardent
wallowing, side caved in. Men tumbling overboard. Bars at the canted bow, fists raised in rage. Then frothed grey water as he spun in the waves. Frigid, life-sapping water numbing his arms, face and legs. And he sinking, weakening in the all-embracing cold. The numbness spreading to take his vision and thoughts.

He awoke coughing and spluttering on hard decking. Limp. Limbs useless. Other crewmen from the
Ardent
lay about like gaffed fish. Mare crewmen in dark leather armour were gathered around one particular netted man, truncheons rising and falling, beating and beating. Seeing him awake, one crewman came over, wiped his brow, panting. ‘You are of Genabaris, yes?’ he asked in a strange mangling of the South Confederacy dialect.

Jemain nodded mutely.

‘We usually capture ships – except Malazan – but yours was such an insult we had to sink it.’ He smiled as if that somehow made up for it. ‘My apology.’ He wiped his brow again, taking a deep breath, and gestured his truncheon to the netted, now limp, crewman from the
Ardent,
whose identity Jemain could guess. ‘You are all going to the Korelri. Especially that one. He would not go down – good thing the waters had done half our work, hey? We should get a good price for him.’ He smiled his white teeth again. ‘I think he would do well upon the wall.’