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.
His answer was a dubious scowl. Malle turned to Tyvar. ‘The only leader out there is a retired Letherii military officer named Teal. However, new soldiers and veterans are arriving all the time.’
‘I thank you,’ he replied. ‘You are uncommonly well informed.’
Her smile turned thin, almost acerbic. ‘That is my business. Also, I have in my hire two ex-cadre mages who are pledged to the defence.’
Jute shot Cartheron a glance, the obvious inference being Lady Orosenn. The old Malazan commander shook his head.
Tyvar no doubt caught the look, as did Malle, probably. He peered about, then lowered his head. ‘We need not worry on that front,’ he assured her.
Malle raised an expressive brow. She glanced back to the bay. ‘The fourth ship? A mage?’
Tyvar nodded. ‘She has granted me permission to speak of her. However, she prefers to remain … anonymous.’
‘I see. Thank you, commander.’ She inclined her head fractionally. ‘If that is all, I can be found at the main table … where I busy myself listening to all of Ronal’s relatives’ offers to support them against him.’
Tyvar drew himself straight and bowed once more. ‘Affairs of statehood. I quite understand. Until later, madam.’
Jute quickly sketched a bow.
Cartheron merely raised his chin in a lazy see-you-later farewell. After she was gone, he turned to Jute. ‘About that lady there …’
‘Don’t get in her way — yes, I gathered that.’
Cartheron gave a very serious nod. ‘You’re a quick study.’ He turned to Tyvar and crossed his arms. ‘So … what do you think?’
‘I think that if these defenders can hold on, then this rabble will just wander off.’ He pulled at his beard thoughtfully. ‘That is, unless someone out there can give the besiegers some sort of spine.’
‘Riches — loot — is a great motivator,’ Cartheron supplied.
Jute frowned his confusion at that. ‘How do you know there are any riches here?’
Cartheron gave him a look that, back in the tent in Wrongway, he’d given one of his crew who’d asked a particularly stupid question. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said, as if explaining something to some new recruit. ‘What matters is what someone out there tells them.’
Jute felt his brows rising. ‘Ah. I see.’ Such a ploy as actually lying — deliberately or innocently — to one’s people hadn’t even occurred to him. However, if it got the job done … well, never mind, hey?
‘And you, Tyvar?’ Cartheron continued. ‘Is this your fight?’
The big man frowned at the question. ‘I do not know. Here is a battle. Yet … we’ve been forbidden from participating. I feel that this is not it. However, best remain hopeful, eh?’ And he slapped Cartheron on the back, almost toppling him from the wall.
For his part, Jute did not like being the object of so many hostile and evaluative eyes as he stood there exposed upon the defences. ‘Perhaps we should retire?’ he offered. Cartheron and Tyvar agreed, and they descended the beaten dirt rampart.
They crossed to the cliffs, and, in despair, Jute realized he’d have to descend the damned stairs in order to return to the Dawn. Only that could possibly have convinced him to set foot once more on the rickety construction. He managed it, but he had his eyes closed for most of the descent.
Back on board, he immediately went to Ieleen. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘they’re under siege. But they don’t want our help.’
Her hands resting on her walking stick, she nodded her understanding. ‘They’re proud. This is their land. They don’t want us here.’
‘However,’ Jute added, ‘Tyvar pledged our support … and our vessels.’