Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(146)

‘First,’ he began, addressing Tyvar, ‘the title is King Ronal the Bastard. And second, what do you expect for this service? Gold, no doubt. Well, you’ll get none of it. If you think I will allow a crowd of armed foreigners into my fortress, you’re a fool!’ He waved Tyvar off. ‘I’m not hiring outlanders. Take your ships and go!’

At the far end of the table a skinny old woman cleared her throat and the king shot her an annoyed glance. ‘If I may, my king,’ she began, and Jute recognized an unmistakable high imperial accent, ‘I will countenance these mercenaries … if I may.’

King Ronal slouched back in his chair. He picked at the carcass of a bird before him. ‘An outlander would vouch for fellow out-landers …’ he mused, rather petulantly. Then, peering from Jute to Cartheron, he straightened. ‘Ah, my apologies. Please know Malle of Gris, an adviser who has proved her value and trustworthiness. She is empowered to speak for the distant Malazan Empire, whose name we are not ignorant of. Her emperor offers his support. He would not see a fellow monarch driven from his lands. And understandably so.’ He tore apart the remains of the bird. ‘Very well. You have liberated the waterfront. It is yours to hold. Remain there. No more than ten of your number may enter Mantle at any one time.’

Tyvar bowed again, even deeper. ‘My thanks, my king. We will defend the harbour to the death. You can be assured—’

King Ronal flicked his greasy fingers. ‘Yes, yes. You may go now.’

Still bowed, Tyvar backed away. Jute followed his lead, backing away, facing forward, until the many spearmen closed the gap before him. He, Cartheron and Tyvar then turned and walked away.

Outside, Tyvar took a great breath of the cool mountain air and brushed his hands together as if to say: and that is that.

Cartheron let out a heavy sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. He muttered, perhaps to himself, ‘For this I quit drinking?’

Tyvar set his wide fists to his waist, turned, and regarded them over the tangle of his russet beard. There was an almost mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Well … let us at least study the competition.’ He started across the bailey. Jute and Cartheron hurried to keep up.

The stones of the wall enclosing the bailey proved as titanic as those of the tower. On the inside, the wall rose some two man-heights, or about half a rod in measure. Tyvar bounded up one of the earthwork ramps inside the wall. His mere presence seemed to bring into existence a path between the many spearmen and women crowding the way. Following more slowly, Jute and Cartheron had to weave through the scowling and suspicious northerners.

When Jute gained the wall he found that it was coarse indeed, archaic even; the huge flat stones merely lay atop one another without shaping or chiselling. At least a wooden catwalk ran behind – a later addition, perhaps. Outside the wall, a deep ditch doubled its height to any attacker. A cold wind buffeted him. The chilled air descended off the Salt range visible above the rising forested foothills.

Beyond the ditch lay the sprawling encampment of the besieging outlanders – his countrymen included. The modest houses of Mantle town, mere shacks and huts, had long been occupied. Tents sprawled in an arc beyond, from cliff edge to cliff edge, in a broad semicircle. Multiple cook-fires sent up thin tendrils of smoke that were swiftly brushed to the south, out over the Sea of Gold. The besiegers sat about the fires, warming themselves, talking and joking. Snatches of laughter reached him, carried by the wind. Jute added up an estimate of just under three thousand. He turned round and studied those within – all of whom were armed – and came up with some five hundred. The usual ratio necessary to take a well-defended position is at least three to one. The attackers outnumbered such figures by far, yet so far they had failed to take the keep. That told him that these defenders were not the usual sort. The way each carried a spear or sword told him that they’d all lived their entire lives fighting already.

‘Who commands these rabble?’ Tyvar asked a northern woman who stood nearby, leaning on a spear.

The woman looked him up and down – Jute noted that she was almost as tall as Tyvar himself – and said, ‘I know not nor do I care.’ She pointedly turned away.

‘Perhaps I may be of assistance …’

Jute turned as he again recognized the accent that belonged in the imperial capital at Unta. It was indeed the wiry old woman from the king’s table. He offered her an Untan bow, which brought a smile to her thin pinched mouth, and she offered her hand, which he brushed with his lips.

‘Very gracious of you, Captain Jute Hernan of Falar,’ she said.

Tvyar imitated Jute’s gesture, though he invested it with far more grace. ‘I am honoured, Tyvar Gendarian,’ the woman, Malle, said, with obvious feeling. Then she turned to Cartheron.

‘Malle,’ Cartheron said. ‘Good to see you again. Been a while.’

She nodded. ‘Crust. Glad you made it.’

‘It weren’t easy, I tell you.’

Jute looked between the two. Well, well. Here’s a turn-up, as his wife would say.

‘Thank you for your help.’

‘So, can I go now?’ Cartheron asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘I was promised I’d be cut loose after this,’ the man growled in the closest note to anger Jute had heard from him.

‘You will,’ Malle assured him.