Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(203)

Jute pulled away, but not because of the rearing head of imperial politics. ‘We don’t speak of him in Falar.’

‘No? Why not?’

Jute straightened from the stacked chests, glanced about. ‘You have been frank, and I thank you. That is a rare gift. I am only a ship’s captain, a small-time recovering raider. But we of the sea trade in Falar know of the old blood-cult, the Jhistal. Its followers terrorized our islands for generations. He—’ Jute broke off as a gang of Malle’s guards arrived to carry the chests up to the top of the wall. Once they were gone, he turned back to Giana and lowered his voice: ‘You speak of limited horizons. We in Falar had squirmed in the grip of those priests for generations. To speak up was to find one’s children selected as the next sacrifices to the sea. The Malazans broke that grip and for that I will be for ever grateful, despite the cost. But the new emperor … he tries to rewrite the history of it, but there are those who still dare to whisper that he came out of that hierarchy. That he was once a priest of the Jhistal. And so as long as he may rule we will never speak his name.’

The lieutenant blew out a long ragged breath and held out her hand. He took it in a tight grip. ‘Honesty is a rare gift among strangers,’ she said with feeling.

‘An easy gift, since we may not see the morrow.’

She lowered her gaze to the chest at their feet. ‘Well then … let’s get to it.’

They each took a handle, and together they carried it up to the top of the wall.

Lady Orosenn was on the catwalk speaking to Voti and Malle. Beyond, up the valley, the fog appeared to be breaking up. The rumbling was not diminishing, however. Even atop the wall, Jute felt the vibrations hammering through his boots.

‘This is your people’s last chance,’ Lady Orosenn was saying. ‘There will be no escape once it is upon us.’

The young king’s mouth pulled down, accentuating his long jaw. ‘We will not abandon what is ours.’

Lady Orosenn simply dipped her head in acceptance. ‘Very well. I have to confess – I hold little hope.’

Voti bowed. ‘Thank you for that frank admission. I will go to tell my council.’

Lady Orosenn answered the bow and he descended the ramp, followed by his bodyguard of ten spears. Malle remained; she leaned against the shaking stone blocks of the wall, peering out.

Cartheron arrived and nodded to Lieutenant Jalaz. ‘Time,’ he said. She gave a curt bob of her head. ‘You’ll need eight veterans.’

Malle turned from the wall. ‘Riley and his boys are up for it.’

Cartheron gave his assent.

‘Time for what?’ Jute asked, feeling a strange sort of growing unease.

Lieutenant Jalaz squeezed his shoulder, grinning. ‘Wish me luck, Jute of Delanss.’ She jogged off down the ramp. Malle leaned out over the catwalk and snapped her fingers. The majority of her remaining guards rose where they’d been squatting below among the chests.

‘What is going on?’ Jute asked everyone.

Cartheron shouted down: ‘Open the gates!’

‘Open the gates? What for?’

But Cartheron ignored him, going to the wall to lean out, peering down. Jute went to his side. Below, the gates of bronze-sheathed timber swung open and Lieutenant Jalaz appeared, jog-trotting north at the head of a train of four munition chests, each carried by two men and piled with shovels and picks.

‘What is this?’ Jute demanded.

Cartheron finally turned to him. He was rubbing a hand over his balding pate. ‘A gamble.’

‘A gamble? What sort of gamble?’

‘Orosenn assures me that all the soil and dirt ’n’ such is going to be scraped up, so no point in burying a charge. But there’s rock crevices and cracks where the bedrock comes mounding up. They’re gonna look for some of those at our maximum range. Push a few munitions down there for a little extra oomph.’

Jute snapped his gaze to where Lieutenant Jalaz and her team were disappearing into the banners of ground fog. ‘There’s no time for that!’

Cartheron just brushed his fingers down his jaw. ‘It’s a good throw. Worth four chests.’

Jute could not believe such callousness. ‘Four chests! What of nine people?’

That must have stung, as the old commander’s gaze flicked to him and he grated, his voice tight: ‘Don’t lecture me, son. They’re good people doing what they do best, so leave them to it.’ He walked off, unsteady, looking bowed. Jute moved to follow, but Malle caught his arm.

‘Let him go. Do not add to his pain. Nine lives, you say? Well, what of all of us?’

‘But—’

The hardened old woman stopped him with a look. ‘There will always be buts, captain. The important thing is that choices be made. Now comes the hard part.’

‘The hard part?’

‘Yes.’ Her gaze shifted to the north. ‘Now we wait.’

The walls became crowded as the evening passed. Everyone wanted to watch; perhaps out of a kind of perverse fascination to see the end. Conversation was almost impossible: one had to press one’s mouth to anyone’s ear to be heard over groaning earth, the rumbling avalanche, and the growing thunderous grinding of tonnes upon tonnes of moiling rock and earth.

To make it worse, it was now blowing snow. The fat flakes came out of the heights, driven by a cutting wind that only grew in intensity. Far to the east and west, all along the uplands as far as Jute could see, the thinning clouds hinted at a wall of white covering the heights – an unbroken sheath of snow that was utterly featureless except where tall ridges of black rock poked through like knife-edges.