Stonewielder Read Free

tribesman. Of the Drenn?’
    ‘You know your tribes. That is unusual for you invaders.’
    Bakune peered up once again, his eyes narrowed. ‘Invaders? The Malazans are the invaders.’
    A smile empty of any humour pulled at the edge of the old man’s lips. ‘There are invaders and then there are invaders.’
    Straightening, Bakune dropped the stick and regarded the old man directly. As a trained Assessor he knew when he himself was being … examined . He crossed his arms. ‘What is your name?’
    Again the patient smile. ‘In your language? Gheven.’
    ‘Very well, Gheven. What is your – assessment – here?’
    ‘I’m just an itinerant tribal, vaunted sir. What should my opinion matter?’
    ‘It matters to me.’
    The lips hardened into a straight tight line; the eyes almost disappeared into their nests of wrinkles. ‘Does it? Really?’
    For some odd reason Bakune felt himself almost faltering. ‘Well, yes. Of course. I am the Assessor. It is my duty.’
    A shrug and the hardened lines eased back into the distant, flat watchfulness. ‘It’s more and more common now,’ he began, ‘but it goes far back. You all blame the Malazan troops, of course. These Malazans, they’ve been here for what, ten years now? They walk your streets, billet themselves in your houses and inns. Visit your taverns. Hire your prostitutes. Your women take up with them. Often these girls are killed for such mixing. Usually by their own fathers or brothers for smearing what they call their “honour”—’
    ‘That’s a damned lie, tribal scum! It’s the Malazans!’
    Bakune almost jumped – he’d forgotten the Watch lieutenant. He raised a placating hand to the man who stood seething, knuckles white on the grip of his shortsword. ‘You said usually … ?’
    The man’s lined face had knotted in uncompromising distaste; his gnarled hands remained loose at his sides. He seemed unaware of, or indifferent to, how close he was to being struck down. Luckily for him Bakune shared his disgust, and, generally, his assessment as well. Gheven nodded his craggy head up and down, and the tightened lips unscrewed. ‘Yes. Usually . But not this time. Much of the flesh is gone but note the design high on the right shoulder.’
    Bakune knelt, and, dispensing with the niceties of any stick, used his own hands to shift the body. The henna swirls were old and further faded by the bleaching of the seawater, but among the unremarkable geometric abstracts one particular symbol caught his eye … a broken circle. A sign of one of the new foreign cults outlawed by their native Korel and Fistian church of their Saviour, their Lady of Deliverance. He tried to recall which one among the bewildering numbers of all those foreign faiths, then he remembered: a minor one, the cult of the ‘Fallen God’.
    ‘What of it? You are not suggesting that just because of one such tattoo the Guardians of Our Lady—’
    ‘I am suggesting worse. Note the bruises at the throat. The cuts at the wrists. It has been a long time, has it not, Assessor, since the one who you claim protects you from the sea-demons, the Riders, has demanded her payment, yes?’
    ‘Drenn filth!’ Karien’el grasped the man by the neck. Iron scraped wood as his sword swung free of its scabbard.
    ‘ Lieutenant! ’ The man froze, panting his fury. ‘You forget yourself. Release him. I am assessing here.’
    Slowly, reluctantly, the officer peeled his fingers free and slammed home the blade, pushing the man backwards. ‘Same old lies. Always defaming Our Lady despite her protection. She protects even you, you know. You tribals. From the sea-demons. You should stay in your mountains and woods and consider yourselves blessed.’
    Gheven said nothing, but in the old man’s taut, almost rigid, mien Bakune saw a fierce unbowed pride. The dark eyes shifted their challenge to him. ‘And what is your judgement here … Assessor? ’
    Bakune retreated from the shoreline where stronger waves now