TELLER OF TALES
FASSTAN OF KOLANSE
Abject misery lies not in what the blanket reveals, but in what it hides.
KING TEHOL THE ONLY OF LETHER
War had come to the tangled, overgrown grounds of the dead Azath tower in the city of Letheras. Swarms of lizards had invaded from the river’s shoreline. Discovering a plethora of strange insects, they began a feeding frenzy.
Oddest among the arcane bugs was a species of two-headed beetle. Four lizards spied one such creature and closed in, surrounding it. The insect noted threats from two directions and made a careful half-turn, only to find two additional threats, whereupon it crouched down and played dead.
This didn’t work. One of the lizards, a wall-scampering breed with a broad mouth and gold-flecked eyes, lunged forward and gobbled up the insect.
This scene was played out throughout the grounds, a terrible slaughter, a rush to extinction. The fates, this evening, did not appear kind to the two-headed beetles.
Not all prey, however, was as helpless as it might initially seem. The role of the victim in nature is ephemeral, and that which is fed upon might in time feed upon the feeders in the eternal drama of survival.
A lone owl, already engorged on lizards, was the sole witness to the sudden wave of writhing deaths on the rumpled earth below, as from the mouths of dying lizards, grotesque shapes emerged. The extinction of the two-headed beetles proved not as imminent a threat as it had seemed only moments earlier.
But owls, being among the least clever of birds, are unmindful of such lessons. This one watched, wide-eyed and empty. Until it felt a strange stirring in its own gut, sufficient to distract it from the wretched dying below, that array of pale lizard bellies blotting the dark ground. It did not think of the lizards it had eaten. It did not take note, even in retrospect, of the sluggish efforts some of them had displayed at escaping its swooping talons.
The owl was in for a long night of excruciating regurgitation. Dimwitted as it was, from that moment on and for ever more, lizards were off its menu.
The world delivers its lessons in manners subtle or, if required, cruel and blunt, so that even the thickest of subjects will comprehend. Failing that, they die. For the smart ones, of course, incomprehension is inexcusable.
A night of heat in Letheras. Stone dripped sweat. The canals looked viscid, motionless, the surface strangely flattened and opaque with swirls of dust and rubbish. Insects danced over the water as if seeking their reflections, but this smooth patina yielded nothing, swallowing up the span of stars, devouring the lurid torchlight of the street patrols, and so the winged insects spun without surcease, as though crazed with fever.
Beneath a bridge, on stepped banks buried in darkness, crickets crawled like droplets of oozing oil, glistening, turgid, haplessly crunched underfoot as two figures drew together and huddled in the gloom.
‘He never would’ve went in,’ one of them said in a hoarse whisper. ‘The water reeks, and look, no ripples, no nothing. He’s scarpered to the other side, somewhere in the night market where he can get lost fast.’
‘Lost,’ grunted the other, a woman, lifting up the dagger in one gloved hand and examining the edge, ‘that’s a good one. Like he could get lost. Like any of us could.’
‘You think he can’t wrap himself up like we done?’
‘No time for that. He bolted. He’s on the run. Panicked.’
‘Looked like panic, didn’t it,’ agreed her companion, and then he shook his head. ‘Never seen anything so… disappointing.’
The woman sheathed her dagger. ‘They’ll flush him out. He’ll come back across, and we jump him then.’
‘Stupid, thinking he could get away.’
After a few moments, Smiles unsheathed her dagger again, peered at the edge.
Beside her, Throatslitter rolled his eyes but said nothing.
Bottle straightened, gestured for Koryk to join him, then watched, amused, as the broad-shouldered half-blood Seti shoved and elbowed his way through the crowd, leaving a wake of dark glares and bitten-off curses-there was little risk of trouble, of course, since clearly the damned foreigner was looking for just that, and instincts being what they were the world over, no one was of a mind to take on Koryk.
Too bad. It’d be a thing worth seeing, Bottle smiled to himself, if a mob of irate Letherii shoppers descended on the glowering barbarian, pummelling him into the ground with loaves of crusty bread and bulbous root-crops.
Then again, such distractions wouldn’t do. Not right now, anyway, when they’d found their quarry, with Tarr and Corabb moving round back of the tavern to cover the alley bolt-hole, and Maybe and Masan Gilani up on the roof by now, in case their target got imaginative.
Koryk arrived, in a sweat, scowling and grinding his teeth. ‘Miserable turds,’ he muttered. ‘What’s with this lust to spend coin? Markets are stupid.’
‘Keeps people happy,’ said Bottle, ‘or if not exactly happy, then… temporarily satiated. Which serves the same function.’
‘Which is?’
‘Keeping them outa trouble. The disruptive kind of trouble,’ he added, seeing Koryk’s knotted forehead, his darting eyes. ‘The kind that comes when a population finds the time to think, really think, I mean-when they start realizing what a piece of shit all this is.’
‘Sounds like one of the King’s speeches-they put me to sleep, like you’re doing right now, Bottle. Where exactly is he, then?’
‘One of my rats is crouching at the foot of a banister-’
‘Which one?’
‘Baby Smiles-she’s the best for this. Anyway, she’s got her beady eyes fixed right on him. He’s at a table in the corner, just under a shuttered window-but it doesn’t look like the kind anyone could actually climb through. Basically,’ Bottle concluded, ‘he’s cornered.’
Koryk’s frown deepened. ‘That’s too easy, isn’t it?’
Bottle scratched at his stubble, shifted from one foot to the other, and then sighed. ‘Aye, way too easy.’
‘Here come Balm and Gesler.’
The two sergeants arrived.
‘What are we doing here?’ Balm asked, eyes wide.
Gesler said, ‘He’s in his funk again, never mind him. We got us a fight ahead, I figure. A nasty one. He won’t go down easy.’
‘What’s the plan, then?’ Koryk asked.
‘Stormy leads the way. He’s going to spring him loose-if he heads for the back door your friends will take him down. Same for if he goes up. My guess is, he’ll dodge round Stormy and try for the front door-that’s what I’d do. Stormy’s huge and mean but he ain’t fast. And that’s what we’re counting on. The four of us will be waiting for the bastard-we’ll take him down. With Stormy coming up behind him and holding the doorway to stop any retreat.’
‘He’s looking nervous and in a bad mood in there,’ Bottle said. ‘Warn Stormy-he just might stand and fight.’
‘We hear a scrap start and in we go,’ said Gesler.
The gold-hued sergeant went off to brief Stormy. Balm stood beside Koryk, looking bewildered.
People were rolling in and out of the tavern like it was a fast brothel. Stormy then appeared, looming over almost everyone else, his visage red and his beard even redder, as if his entire face was aflame. He tugged loose the peace-strap on his sword as he lumbered towards the door. Seeing him, people scattered aside. He met one more customer at the threshold and took hold of the man by the front of his shirt, then threw him into his own wake-the poor fool yelped as he landed face first on the cobbles not three paces from the three Malazans, where he writhed, hands up at his bloodied chin.
As Stormy plunged into the tavern, Gesler arrived, stepping over the fallen citizen, and hissed, ‘To the door now, all of us, quick!’
Bottle let Koryk take the lead, and held back even for Balm who almost started walking the other way-before Gesler yanked the man back. If there was going to be a scrap, Bottle preferred to leave most of the nasty work to the others. He’d done his job, after all, in tracking and finding the quarry.
Chaos erupted in the tavern, furniture crashing, startled shouts and terrified screams. Then something went thump! And all at once white smoke was billowing out from the doorway. More splintering furniture, a heavy crash, and then a figure sprinted out from the smoke.
An elbow cracked hard on Koryk’s jaw and he toppled like a tree.
Gesler ducked a lashing fist, just in time to meet an upthrust knee, and the sound the impact made was of two coconuts in collision. The quarry’s leg spun round, taking the rest of the man with it in a wild pirouette, whilst Gesler rocked back to promptly sit down on the cobbles, his eyes glazed.
Shrieking, Balm back-stepped, reaching for his short sword-and Bottle leapt forward to pin the sergeant’s arm-as the target lunged past them all, running hard but unevenly for the bridge.
Stormy stumbled out from the tavern, his nose streaming blood. ‘You didn’t get him? You damned idiots-look at my face! I took this for nothing!’
Other customers pushed out round the huge Falari, eyes streaming and coughing.
Gesler was climbing upright, wobbly, shaking his head. ‘Come on,’ he mumbled, ‘let’s get after him, and hope Throatslitter and Smiles can slow him down some.’
Tarr and Corabb showed up and surveyed the scene. ‘Corabb,’ said Tarr, ‘stay with Koryk and try bringing him round.’ And then he joined Bottle, Gesler, Stormy and Balm as they set out after their target.
Balm glared across at Bottle. ‘I coulda had him!’
‘We need the fool alive, you idiot,’ snapped Bottle.
The sergeant gaped. ‘We do?’
‘Look at that,’ hissed Throatslitter. ‘Here he comes!’
‘Limping bad, too,’ observed Smiles, sheathing her dagger once more. ‘We come up both sides and go for his ankles.’
‘Good idea.’
Throatslitter went left, Smiles went right, and they crouched at either end of the landing on this side of the bridge. They listened to the step-scruff of the limping fugitive as he reached the span, drawing ever closer. From the edge of the market street on the opposite side, shouts rang through the air. The scuffling run on the bridge picked up pace.
At the proper moment, as the target reached the end and stepped out on to the street’s cobbles, the two Malazan marines leapt out from their hiding places, converging, each wrapping arms round one of the man’s legs.
The three went down in a heap.
Moments later, amidst a flurry of snarled curses, gouging thumbs and frantic kicking, the rest of the hunters arrived, and finally succeeded in pinning down their quarry.
Bottle edged closer to gaze down at their victim’s bruised, flushed visage. ‘Really, Sergeant, you had to know it was hopeless.’
Fiddler glared.
‘Look what you did to my nose!’ Stormy said, gripping one of Fiddler’s arms and apparently contemplating breaking it in two.
‘You used a smoker in the tavern, didn’t you?’ Bottle asked. ‘What a waste.’
‘You’ll all pay for this,’ said Fiddler. ‘You have no idea-’
‘He’s probably right,’ said Gesler. ‘So, Fid, we gonna have to hold you down here for ever, or will you come peacefully now? What the Adjunct wants, the Adjunct gets.’
‘Easy for you,’ hissed Fiddler. ‘Just look at Bottle there. Does he look happy?’
Bottle scowled. ‘No, I’m not happy, but orders are orders, Sergeant. You can’t just run away.’
‘Wish I’d brought a sharper or two,’ Fiddler said, ‘that would’ve settled it just fine. All right now, you can all let me up-I think my knee’s busted anyway. Gesler, you got a granite jaw, did you know that?’
‘And it cuts me a fine profile besides,’ said Gesler.
‘We was hunting Fiddler?’ Balm suddenly asked. ‘Gods below, he mutiny or something?’
Throatslitter patted his sergeant on the shoulder. ‘It’s all right now, Sergeant. Adjunct wants Fiddler to do a reading, that’s all.’
Bottle winced. That’s all. Sure, nothing to it. I can’t wait.
They dragged Fiddler to his feet, and wisely held on to the man as they marched him back to the barracks.
Grey and ghostly, the oblong shape hung beneath the lintel over the dead Azath’s doorway. It looked lifeless, but of course it wasn’t.
‘We could throw stones,’ said Sinn. ‘They sleep at night, don’t they?’
‘Mostly,’ replied Grub.
‘Maybe if we’re quiet.’
‘Maybe.’
Sinn fidgeted. ‘Stones?’
‘Hit it and they’ll wake up, and then out they’ll come, in a black swarm.’
‘I’ve always hated wasps. For as long as I can remember-I must’ve been bad stung once, do you think?’
‘Who hasn’t?’ Grub said, shrugging.
‘I could just set it on fire.’
‘No sorcery, Sinn, not here.’
‘I thought you said the house was dead.’
‘It is… I think. But maybe the yard isn’t.’
She glanced round. ‘People been digging here.’
‘You ever gonna talk to anybody but me?’ Grub asked.
‘No.’ The single word was absolute, immutable, and it did not invite any further discussion on that issue.
He eyed her. ‘You know what’s happening tonight, don’t you?’
‘I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere near that.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Maybe, if we hide inside the house, it won’t reach us.’
‘Maybe,’ Grub allowed. ‘But I doubt the Deck works like that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well, I don’t. Only, Uncle Keneb told me Fiddler talked about me last time, and I was jumping into the sea around then-I wasn’t in the cabin. But he just knew, he knew exactly what I was doing.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘I went to find the Nachts.’
‘But how did you know they were there? You don’t make sense, Grub. And anyway, what use are they? They just follow Withal around.’
‘When they’re not hunting little lizards,’ Grub said, smiling.
But Sinn was not in the mood for easy distraction. ‘I look at you and I think… Mockra.’
To that, Grub made no reply. Instead, he crept forward on the path’s uneven pavestones, eyes fixed on the wasp nest.
Sinn followed. ‘You’re what’s coming, aren’t you?’
He snorted. ‘And you aren’t?’
They reached the threshold, halted. ‘Do you think it’s locked?’
‘Shh.’
Grub crouched down and edged forward beneath the huge nest. Once past it, he slowly straightened and reached for the door’s latch. It came off in his hand, raising a puff of sawdust. Grub glanced back at Sinn, but said nothing. Facing the door again, he gave it a light push.
It crumpled like wafer where his fingers had prodded. More sawdust sifted down.
Grub raised both hands and pushed against the door.
The barrier disintegrated in clouds and frail splinters. Metal clunked on the floor just beyond, and a moment later the clouds were swept inward as if on an indrawn breath.
Grub stepped over the heap of rotted wood and vanished in the gloom beyond.
After a moment, Sinn followed, ducking low and moving quickly.
From the gloom beneath a nearly dead tree in the grounds of the Azath, Lieutenant Pores grunted. He supposed he should have called them back, but to do so would have revealed his presence, and though he could never be sure when it came to Captain Kindly’s orders-designed and delivered as they were with deliberate vagueness, like flimsy fronds over a spike-filled pit-he suspected that he was supposed to maintain some sort of subterfuge when following the two runts around.
Besides, he’d made some discoveries. Sinn wasn’t mute at all. Just a stubborn little cow. What a shock. And she had a crush on Grub, how sweet-sweet as tree sap, twigs and trapped insects included-why, it could make a grown man melt, and then run down a drain into that depthless sea of sentimentality where children played, and, occasionally, got away with murder.
Well, the difference was Pores had a very good memory. He recalled in great detail his own childhood, and could he have reached back, into his own past, he’d give that snot-faced jerk a solid clout to the head. And then look down at that stunned, hurt expression, and say something like ‘Get used to it, little Pores. One day you’ll meet a man named Kindly…’
Anyway, the mice had scurried into the Azath House. Maybe something would take care of them in there, bringing to a satisfying conclusion this stupid assignment. A giant, ten-thousand-year-old foot, stomping down, once, twice. Splat, splot, like stinkberries, Grub a smear, Sinn a stain.
Gods no, I’d get blamed! Growling under his breath, he set out after them.
In retrospect, he supposed he should have remembered that damned wasp nest. At the very least, it should have caught his attention as he leapt for the doorway. Instead, it caught his forehead.
Sudden flurry of enraged buzzing, as the nest rocked out and then back, butting his head a second time.
Recognition, comprehension, and then, appropriately enough, blind panic.
Pores whirled and ran.
A thousand or so angry black wasps provided escort.
Six stings could drop a horse. He shrieked as a fire ignited on the back of his neck. And then again, as another stinger stabbed, this time on his right ear.
He whirled his arms. There was a canal somewhere ahead-they’d crossed a bridge, he recalled, off to the left.
Another explosion of agony, this time on the back of his right hand.
Never mind the canal! I need a healer-fast!
He could no longer hear any buzzing, but the scene before him had begun to tilt, darkness bleeding out from the shadows, and the lights of lanterns through windows blurred, lurid and painful in his eyes. His legs weren’t working too well, either.
There, the Malazan Barracks.
Deadsmell. Or Ebron.
Staggering now, struggling to fix his gaze on the compound gate-trying to shout to the two soldiers standing guard, but his tongue was swelling up, filling his mouth. He was having trouble breathing. Running…
Running out of time-
‘Who was that?’
Grub came back from the hallway and shook his head. ‘Someone. Woke up the wasps.’
‘Glad they didn’t come in here.’
They were standing in a main chamber of some sort, a stone fireplace dominating one wall, framed by two deep-cushioned chairs. Trunks and chests squatted against two other walls, and in front of the last one, opposite the cold hearth, there was an ornate couch, above it a large faded tapestry. All were little more than vague, grainy shapes in the gloom.
‘We need a candle or a lantern,’ said Sinn. ‘Since,’ she added with an edge to her tone, ‘I can’t use sorcery-’
‘You probably can,’ said Grub, ‘now that we’re nowhere near the yard. There’s no one here, no, um, presence, I mean. It really is dead.’
With a triumphant gesture Sinn awakened the coals in the fireplace, although the flames flaring to life there were strangely lurid, spun through with green and blue tendrils.
‘That’s too easy for you,’ Grub said. ‘I didn’t even feel a warren.’
She said nothing, walking up to study the tapestry.
Grub followed.
A battle scene was depicted, which for such things was typical enough. It seemed heroes only existed in the midst of death. Barely discernible in the faded weave, armoured reptiles of some sort warred with Tiste Edur and Tiste Andii. The smoke-shrouded sky overhead was crowded with both floating mountains-most of them burning-and dragons, and some of these dragons seemed enormous, five, six times the size of the others even though they were clearly more distant. Fire wreathed the scene, as fragments of the aerial fortresses broke apart and plunged down into the midst of the warring factions. Everywhere was slaughter and harrowing destruction.
‘Pretty,’ murmured Sinn.
‘Let’s check the tower,’ said Grub. All the fires in the scene reminded him of Y’Ghatan, and his vision of Sinn, marching through the flames-she could have walked into this ancient battle. He feared that if he looked closely enough he’d see her, among the hundreds of seething figures, a contented expression on her round-cheeked face, her dark eyes satiated and shining.
They set off for the square tower.
Into the gloom of the corridor once more, where Grub paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. A moment later green flames licked out from the chamber they had just quit, slithering across the stone floor, drawing closer.
In the ghoulish glow, Sinn smiled.
The fire followed them up the saddled stairs to the upper landing, which was bare of all furnishings. Beneath a shuttered, web-slung window was slumped a desiccated corpse. Leathery strips of skin here and there were all that held the carcass together, and Grub could see the oddity of the thing’s limbs, the extra joints at knee, elbow, wrist and ankle. The very sternum seemed horizontally hinged midway down, as were the prominent, birdlike collarbones.
He crept forward for a closer look. The face was frontally flattened, sharpening the angle where the cheekbones swept back, almost all the way to the ear-holes. Every bone he could see seemed designed to fold or collapse-not just the cheeks but the mandibles and brow-ridges as well. It was a face that in life, Grub suspected, could manage a bizarre array of expressions-far beyond what a human face could achieve.
The skin was bleached white, hairless, and Grub knew that if he so much as touched the corpse, it would fall to dust.
‘Forkrul Assail,’ he whispered.
Sinn rounded on him. ‘How do you know that? How do you know anything about anything?’
‘On the tapestry below,’ he said, ‘those lizards. I think they were K’Chain Che’Malle.’ He glanced at her, and then shrugged. ‘This Azath House didn’t die,’ he said. ‘It just… left.’
‘Left? How?’
‘I think it just walked out of here, that’s what I think.’
‘But you don’t know anything! How can you say things like that?’
‘I bet Quick Ben knows, too.’
‘Knows what?’ she hissed in exasperation.
‘This. The truth of it all.’
‘Grub-’
He met her gaze, studied the fury in her eyes. ‘You, me, the Azath. It’s all changing, Sinn. Everything-it’s all changing.’
Her small hands made fists at her sides. The flames dancing from the stone floor climbed the frame of the chamber’s entranceway, snapping and sparking.
Grub snorted, ‘The way you make it talk…’
‘It can shout, too, Grub.’
He nodded. ‘Loud enough to break the world, Sinn.’
‘I would, you know,’ she said with sudden vehemence, ‘just to see what it can do. What I can do.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
She grimaced as she turned away. ‘You might shout back.’
Tehol the Only, King of Lether, stepped into the room and, arms out to the sides, spun in a circle. Then beamed at Bugg. ‘What do you think?’
The manservant held a bronze pot in his battered, blunt hands. ‘You’ve had dancing lessons?’
‘No, look at my blanket! My beloved wife has begun embroidering it-see, there at the hem, above my left knee.’
Bugg leaned forward slightly. ‘Ah, I see. Very nice.’
‘Very nice?’
‘Well, I can’t quite make out what it’s supposed to be.’
‘Me neither.’ He paused. ‘She’s not very good, is she?’
‘No, she’s terrible. Of course, she’s an academic.’
‘Precisely,’ Tehol agreed.
‘After all,’ said Bugg, ‘if she had any skill at sewing and the like-’
‘She’d never have settled for the scholarly route?’
‘Generally speaking, people useless at everything else become academics.’
‘My thoughts inexactly, Bugg. Now, I must ask, what’s wrong?’
‘Wrong?’
‘We’ve known each other for a long time,’ said Tehol. ‘My senses are exquisitely honed for reading the finest nuances in your mood. I have few talents but I do assert, howsoever immodestly, that I possess exceptional ability in taking your measure.’
‘Well,’ sighed Bugg, ‘I am impressed. How could you tell I’m upset?’
‘Apart from besmirching my wife, you mean?’
‘Yes, apart from that.’
Tehol nodded towards the pot Bugg was holding, and so he looked down, only to discover that it was no longer a pot, but a mangled heap of tortured metal. Sighing again, he let it drop to the floor. The thud echoed in the chamber.
‘It’s the subtle details,’ said Tehol, smoothing out the creases in his Royal Blanket. ‘Something worth saying to my wife… casually, of course, in passing. Swift passing, as in headlong flight, since she’ll be armed with vicious fishbone needles.’
‘The Malazans,’ said Bugg. ‘Or, rather, one Malazan. With a version of the Tiles in his sweaty hands. A potent version, and this man is no charlatan. He’s an adept. Terrifyingly so.’
‘And he’s about to cast the Tiles?’
‘Wooden cards. The rest of the world’s moved on from Tiles, sire. They call it the Deck of Dragons.’
‘Dragons? What dragons?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Well, is there nowhere you can, um, hide, O wretched and miserable Elder God?’
Bugg made a sour face. ‘Not likely. I’m not the only problem, however. There’s the Errant.’
‘He’s still here? He’s not been seen for months-’
‘The Deck poses a threat to him. He may object to its unveiling. He may do something… precipitous.’
‘Hmm. The Malazans are our guests, and accordingly if they are at risk, it behoves us to protect them or, failing that, warn them. If that doesn’t work, we can always run away.’
‘Yes, sire, that might be wise.’
‘Running away?’
‘No, a warning.’
‘I shall send Brys.’
‘Poor Brys.’
‘Now, that’s not my fault, is it? Poor Brys, exactly. It’s high time he started earning his title, whatever it is, which at the moment escapes me. It’s that bureaucratic mindset of his that’s so infuriating. He hides in the very obscurity of his office. A faceless peon, dodging this way and that whenever responsibility comes a-knocking at his door. Yes, I’ve had my fill of the man, brother or not-’
‘Sire, you put Brys in charge of the army.’
‘Did I? Of course I did. Let’s see him hide now!’
‘He’s waiting for you in the throne room.’
‘Well, he’s no fool. He knows when he’s cornered.’
‘Rucket is there, too,’ said Bugg, ‘with a petition from the Rat Catchers’ Guild.’
‘A petition? For what, more rats? On your feet, old friend, the time has come to meet our public. This whole kingship thing is a real bother. Spectacles, parades, tens of thousands of adoring subjects-’
‘You’ve not had any spectacles or parades, sire.’
‘And still they adore me.’
Bugg rose and preceded King Tehol across the chamber, through the door, and into the throne room.
The only people awaiting them were Brys, Rucket and Queen Janath. Tehol edged closer to Bugg as they ascended the dais. ‘See Rucket? See the adoration? What did I tell you?’
The King sat down on the throne, smiled at the Queen who was already seated in a matching throne to his left, and then leaned back and stretched out his legs-
‘Don’t do that, brother,’ advised Brys. ‘The view from here…’
Tehol straightened. ‘Oops, most royally.’
‘About that,’ said Rucket.
‘I see with relief that you’ve shed countless stones of weight, Rucket. Most becoming. About what?’
‘That adoration bit you whispered to Bugg.’
‘I thought you had a petition?’
‘I want to sleep with you. I want you to cheat on your wife, Tehol. With me.’
‘That’s your petition?’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
Queen Janath spoke. ‘It can’t be cheating. Cheating would be behind my back. Deceit, deception, betrayal. I happen to be sitting right here, Rucket.’
‘Precisely,’ Rucket replied, ‘let’s do without such grim details. Free love for all,’ and she smiled up at Tehol. ‘Specifically, you and me, sire. Well, not entirely free, since I expect you to buy me dinner.’
‘I can’t,’ said Tehol. ‘Nobody wants my money any more, now that I actually have some, and isn’t that always the way? Besides, a public dalliance by the King? What sort of example would that set?’
‘You wear a blanket,’ Rucket pointed out. ‘What kind of example is that?’
‘Why, one of airy aplomb.’
Her brows lifted. ‘Most would view your aired aplomb with horror, sire. But not,’ she added with a winning smile, ‘me.’
‘Gods below,’ Janath sighed, rubbing at her brow.
‘What sort of petition is this?’ Tehol demanded. ‘You’re not here representing the Rat Catchers’ Guild at all, are you?’
‘Actually, I am. To further cement our ties. As everyone knows, sex is the glue that holds society together, so I figured-’
‘Sex? Glue?’ Tehol sat forward. ‘Now I’m intrigued. But let’s put that aside for the moment. Bugg, prepare a proclamation. The King shall have sex with every powerful woman in the city, assuming she can be definitively determined to actually be a woman-we’ll need to devise some sort of gauge, get the Royal Engineers on it.’
‘Why stop with powerful women?’ Janath asked her husband. ‘Don’t forget the power that exists in a household, after all. And what about a similar proclamation for the Queen?’
Bugg said, ‘There was a tribe once where the chief and his wife had the privilege of bedding imminent brides and grooms the night before the marriage.’
‘Really?’
‘No, sire,’ admitted Bugg, ‘I just made that up.’
‘I can write it into our histories if you like,’ said Janath in barely concealed excitement.
Tehol made a face. ‘My wife becomes unseemly.’
‘Just tossing my coin into this treasure trove of sordid idiocy, beloved. Rucket, you and I need to sit down and have a little talk.’
‘I never talk with the other woman,’ pronounced Rucket, standing straighter and lifting her chin.
Tehol slapped his hands. ‘Well, another meeting done! What shall we do now? I’m for bed.’ And then, with a quick glance at Janath, ‘In the company of my dearest wife, of course.’
‘We haven’t even had supper yet, husband.’
‘Supper in bed! We can invite-oh, scratch that.’
Brys stepped forward. ‘About the army.’
‘Oh, it’s always about the army with you. Order more boots.’
‘That’s just it-I need more money.’
‘Bugg, give him more money.’
‘How much, sire?’
‘Whatever he needs for the boots and whatnot.’
‘It’s not boots,’ said Brys. ‘It’s training.’
‘They’re going to train without boots? Extraordinary.’
‘I want to make use of these Malazans quartered in our city. These “marines.” And their tactics. I want to reinvent the entire Letherii military. I want to hire the Malazan sergeants.’
‘And does their Adjunct find this acceptable?’
‘She does. Her soldiers are getting bored and that’s not good.’
‘I imagine not. Do we know when they’re leaving?’
Brys frowned. ‘You’re asking me? Why not ask her?’
‘Ah, the agenda is set for the next meeting, then.’
‘Shall I inform the Adjunct?’ Bugg asked.
Tehol rubbed his chin, and then nodded. ‘That would be wise, yes, Bugg. Very wise. Well done.’
‘What about my petition?’ demanded Rucket. ‘I got dressed up and everything!’
‘I will take it under advisement.’
‘Great. How about a Royal Kiss in the meantime?’
Tehol fidgeted on his throne.
‘Airy aplomb shrinking, husband? Clearly, it knows better than you that there are limits to my forbearance.’
‘Well,’ said Rucket, ‘what about a Royal Squeeze?’
‘There’s an idea,’ said Bugg, ‘raise the taxes. On guilds.’
‘Fine,’ snapped Rucket, ‘I’m leaving. Another petition rejected by the King. Making the mob ever more restive.’
‘What mob?’ Tehol asked.
‘The one I’m about to assemble.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘A woman scorned, ’tis a dangerous thing, sire.’
‘Oh, give her a kiss and squeeze, husband. I’ll avert my eyes.’
Tehol leapt to his feet, and then quickly sat back down. ‘In a moment,’ he gasped.
‘Gives a new meaning to regal bearing,’ commented Bugg.
But Rucket was smiling. ‘Let’s just take that as a promissory note.’
‘And the mob?’ asked Bugg.
‘Miraculously dispersed in a dreamy sigh, O Chancellor, or whatever you are.’
‘I’m the Royal Engineers-yes, all of them. Oh, and Treasurer.’
‘And Spittoon Mangler,’ Tehol added.
The others frowned.
Bugg scowled at Tehol. ‘I’d been pleasantly distracted until you said that.’
‘Is something wrong?’ Brys asked.
‘Ah, brother,’ Tehol said, ‘we need to send you to the Adjunct-with a warning.’
‘Oh?’
‘Bugg?’
‘I’ll walk you out, Brys.’
After the two had left, Tehol glanced at Janath, and then at Rucket, and found them both still frowning. ‘What?’
‘Something we should know?’ Janath asked.
‘Yes,’ added Rucket, ‘on behalf of the Rat Catchers’ Guild, I mean.’
‘Not really,’ Tehol replied. ‘A minor matter, I assure you. Something to do with threatened gods and devastating divinations. Now, I’m ready to try for my kiss and squeeze-no, wait. Some deep breathing first. Give me a moment-yes, no, wait.’
‘Shall I talk about my embroidery?’ Janath asked.
‘Yes, that sounds perfect. Do proceed. Be right there, Rucket.’
Lieutenant Pores opened his eyes. Or tried to, only to find them mostly swollen shut. But through the blurry slits he made out a figure hovering over him. A Nathii face, looking thoughtful.
‘You recognize me?’ the Nathii asked.
Pores tried to speak, but someone had bound his jaw tight. He nodded, only to find his neck was twice the normal size. Either that, he considered, or his head had shrunk.
‘Mulvan Dreader,’ the Nathii said. ‘Squad healer. You’ll live.’ He leaned back and said to someone else, ‘He’ll live, sir. Won’t be much use for a few days, though.’
Captain Kindly loomed into view, his face-consisting entirely of pinched features-its usual expressionless self. ‘For this, Lieutenant Pores, you’re going up on report. Criminal stupidity unbecoming to an officer.’
‘Bet there’s a stack a those,’ muttered the healer as he moved to depart.
‘Did you say something, soldier?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Must be my poor hearing, then.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you suggesting I have poor hearing, soldier?’
‘No, sir!’
‘I am certain you did.’
‘Your hearing is perfect, Captain, I’m sure of it. And that’s, uh, a healer’s assessment.’
‘Tell me,’ said Captain Kindly, ‘is there a cure for thinning hair?’
‘Sir? Well, of course.’
‘What is it?’
‘Shave your head. Sir.’
‘It looks to me as though you don’t have enough things to do, Healer. Therefore, proceed through the squads of your company to mend any and every ailment they describe. Oh, delouse the lot besides, and check for blood blisters on the testicles of the men-I am certain that’s a dread sign of something awry.’
‘Blood blisters, sir? On the testicles?’
‘The flaw in hearing seems to be yours, not mine.’
‘Uh, nothing dread or awry, sir. Just don’t pop ’em, they bleed like demons. Comes with too much riding, sir.’
‘Indeed.’
…
‘Healer, why are you still standing there?’
‘Sorry, sir, on my way!’
‘I shall expect a detailed report on the condition of your fellow soldiers.’
‘Aye, sir! Testicular inspection, here I go.’
Kindly leaned forward again and studied Pores. ‘You can’t even talk, can you? Unexpected mercy there. Six black wasp stings. You should be dead. Why aren’t you? Never mind. Presumably, you’ve lost the two runts. Now I’ll need to unchain that cattle-dog to find them. Tonight of all nights. Recover quickly, Lieutenant, so I can thrash your hide.’
Outside the dormitory, Mulvan Dreader paused for a moment, and then set off at a swift pace to rejoin his companions in an adjoining dorm. He entered the chamber, scanned the various soldiers lounging on cots or tossing knuckles, until he spied the wizened black face of Nep Furrow barely visible between two cots,
whereupon he marched up to the Dal Honese shaman, who was sitting crosslegged with a nasty smile on his lips.
‘I know what you done, Nep!’
‘Eh? Eggit’way fra meen!’
‘You’ve been cursin’ Kindly, haven’t you? Blood blisters on his balls!’
Nep Furrow cackled. ‘Black blibbery spoots, hah!’
‘Stop it-stop what you’re doing, damn you!’
‘Too laber! Dey doan gee’way!’
‘Maybe he should find out who’s behind it-’
‘Doan deedat! Pig! Nathii frup pahl! Voo booth voo booth!’
Mulvan Dreader stared down at the man, uncomprehending. He cast a beseeching glance over at Strap Mull the next cot along. ‘What did he just say?’
The other Dal Honese was lying on his back, hands behind his head. ‘Hood knows, some shaman tongue, I expect.’ And then added, ‘Curses, I’d wager.’
The Nathii glared back down at Nep Furrow. ‘Curse me and I’ll boil your bones, y’damned prune. Now, leave off Kindly, or I’ll tell Badan.’
‘Beedan nar’ere, izzee?’
‘When he gets back.’
‘Pahl!’
No one could claim that Preda Norlo Trumb was the most perceptive of individuals, and the half-dozen Letherii guards under his command, who stood in a twitching clump behind the Preda, were now faced with the very real possibility that Trumb’s stupidity was going to cost them their lives.
Norlo was scowling belligerently at the dozen or so riders. ‘War is war,’ he insisted, ‘and we were at war. People died, didn’t they? That kind of thing doesn’t go unpunished.’
The black-skinned sergeant made some small gesture with one gloved hand and crossbows were levelled. In rough Letherii he said, ‘One more time. Last time. They alive?’
‘Of course they’re alive,’ Norlo Trumb said with a snort. ‘We do things properly here. But they’ve been sentenced, you see. To death. We’ve just been waiting for an officer of the Royal Advocate to come by and stamp the seal on the orders.’
‘No seal,’ said the sergeant. ‘No death. Let them go. We take now.’
‘Even if their crimes were commuted,’ the Preda replied, ‘I’d still need a seal to release them.’
‘Let them go now. Or we kill you all.’
The Preda stared, and then turned back to his unit. ‘Draw your weapons,’ he snapped.
‘Not a chance,’ said gate-guard Fifid. ‘Sir. We even twitch towards our swords and we’re dead.’
Norlo Trumb’s face darkened in the lantern light. ‘You’ve just earned a court-martial, Fifid-’
‘At least I’ll be breathing, sir.’
‘And the rest of you?’
None of the other guards spoke. Nor did they draw their swords.
‘Get them,’ growled the sergeant from where he sat slouched on his horse. ‘No more nice.’
‘Listen to this confounded ignorant foreigner!’ Norlo Trumb turned back to the Malazan sergeant. ‘I intend to make an official protest straight to the Royal Court,’ he said. ‘And you will answer to the charges-’
‘Get.’
And to the left of the sergeant a young, oddly effeminate warrior slipped down from his horse and settled hands on the grips of two enormous falchions of some sort. His languid, dark eyes looked almost sleepy.
At last, something shivered up Trumb’s spine to curl worm-like on the back of his neck. He licked suddenly dry lips. ‘Spanserd, guide this Malazan, uh, warrior, to the cells.’
‘And?’ the guard asked.
‘And release the prisoners, of course!’
‘Yes, sir!’
Sergeant Badan Gruk allowed himself the barest of sighs-not enough to be visible to anyone-and watched with relief as the Letherii guard led Skulldeath towards the gaol-block lining one wall of the garrison compound.
The other marines sat motionless on their horses, but their tension was a stink in Badan’s nostrils, and under his hauberk sweat ran in streams. No, he’d not wanted any sort of trouble. Especially not a bloodbath. But this damned shrew-brained Preda had made it close. His heart thumped loud in his chest and he forced himself to glance back at his soldiers. Ruffle’s round face was pink and damp, but she offered him a wink before angling her crossbow upward and resting the stock’s butt on one soft thigh. Reliko was cradling his own crossbow in one arm while the other arm was stretched out to stay Vastly Blank, who’d evidently realized-finally-that there’d been trouble here in the compound, and now looked ready to start killing Letherii-once he was pointed in the right direction. Skim and Honey were side by side, their heavy assault crossbows aimed with unwavering precision at the Preda’s chest-a detail the man seemed too stupid to comprehend. The other heavies remained in the background, in ill mood for having been rousted from another drunken night in Letheras.
Badan Gruk’s scan ended on the face of Corporal Pravalak Rim, and sure enough, he saw in that young man’s features something of what he himself felt. A damned miracle. Something that’d seemed impossible to ever have believed-they’d all seen-
A heavy door clunked from the direction of the gaol.
Everyone-Malazan and Letherii-now fixed gazes on the four figures slowly approaching. Skulldeath was half-carrying his charge, and the same was true of the Letherii guard, Spanserd. The prisoners they’d just helped from their cells were in bad shape.
‘Easy, Blank,’ muttered Reliko.
‘But that’s-they-but I know them two!’
‘Aye,’ the heavy infantryman sighed. ‘We all do, Vastly.’
Neither prisoner showed any signs of having been beaten or tortured. What left them on the edge of death was simple neglect. The most effective torture of all.
‘Preda,’ said Badan Gruk, in a low voice.
Norlo Trumb turned to face him. ‘What is it now?’
‘You don’t feed them?’
‘The condemned received reduced rations, I am afraid-’
‘How long?’
‘Well, as I said, Sergeant, we have been awaiting the officer of the Royal Advocate for some time. Months and-’
Two quarrels skimmed past the Preda’s head, one on either side, and both sliced the man’s ears. He shrieked in sudden shock and fell back, landing heavily on his behind.
Badan pointed at the now cowering garrison guards. ‘No move now.’ And then he twisted in his saddle to glare at Honey and Skim. In Malazan he said, ‘Don’t even think about reloading! Shit-brained sappers!’
‘Sorry,’ said Skim, ‘I guess we both just sort’ve… twitched.’ And she shrugged.
Honey handed her his crossbow and dropped down from his horse. ‘I’ll retrieve the quarrels-anybody see where they ended up?’
‘Bounced and skittered between them two buildings there,’ Reliko said, pointing with his chin.
The Preda’s shock had shifted into fury. Ears streaming blood, he now staggered to his feet. ‘Attempted murder! I will see those two arrested! You’ll swim the canal for this!’
‘No understand,’ said Badan Gruk. ‘Pravalak, bring up the spare horses. We should’ve brought Dreader. I don’t think they can even ride. Flank ’em close on the way back-we’ll take it slow.’
He studied the stumbling figures leaning on their escorts. Sergeant Sinter and her sister, Kisswhere. Looking like Hood’s own soiled loincloth. But alive. ‘Gods below,’ he whispered. They are alive.
‘Aaii! My leg’s fallen off!’
Banaschar sat motionless in the chair and watched the small skeletal lizard lying on its side and spinning now in circles on the floor, one leg kicking.
‘Telorast! Help me!’
The other reptile perched on the window sill and looked down, head tilting from one side to the other, as if seeking the perfect angle of regard. ‘It’s no use, Curdle,’ it finally replied. ‘You can’t get anywhere like that.’
‘I need to get away!’
‘From what?’
‘From the fact that my leg’s fallen off!’
Telorast scampered along the sill until it was as close as it could get to Banaschar. ‘Sodden priest of wine, hssst! Look over here-the window! It’s me, the clever one. Stupid one’s down on the floor there, see her? She needs your help. No, of course you can’t make her any less stupid-we’re not discussing that here. Rather, it’s one of her legs, yes? The gut binding or whatever has broken. She’s crippled, helpless, useless. She’s spinning in circles and that’s far too poignant for us. Do you understand? O Wormlet of the Worm Goddess, O scurrier of the worship-slayer eyeless bitch of the earth! Banaschar the Drunk, Banaschar the Wise, the Wisely Drunk. Please be so kind and nimble as to repair my companion, my dear sister, the stupid one.’
‘You might know the answer to this,’ said Banaschar. ‘Listen, if life is a joke, what kind of joke? The funny ha ha kind? Or the “I’m going to puke” kind? Is it a clever joke or a stupid one that’s repeated over and over again so that even if it was funny to begin with it’s not funny any more? Is it the kind of joke to make you laugh or make you cry? How many other ways can I ask this simple question?’
‘I’m confident you can think of a few hundred more, good sir. Defrocked, detached, essentially castrated priest. Now, see those strands there? Near the unhinged leg-oh, Curdle, will you stop that spinning?’
‘I used to laugh,’ said Banaschar. ‘A lot. Long before I decided on becoming a priest, of course. Nothing amusing in that decision, alas. Nor in the life that followed. Years and years of miserable study, rituals, ceremonies, the rigorous exercises of magery. And the Worm of Autumn, well, she did abide, did she not? Delivered our just reward-too bad I missed out on the fun.’
‘Pitiful wretch of pointless pedantry, would you be so kind-yes, reach out and down, out and down, a little further, ah! You have it! The twine! The leg! Curdle, listen-see-stop, right there, no, there, yes, see? Salvation is in hand!’
‘I can’t! Everything’s sideways! The world pitches into the Abyss!’
‘Never mind that-see? He’s got your leg. He’s eyeing the twine. His brain stirs!’
‘There used to be drains,’ said Banaschar, holding up the skeletal leg. ‘Under the altar. To collect the blood, you see, down into amphorae-we’d sell that, you know. Amazing the stuff people will pay for, isn’t it?’
‘What’s he doing with my leg?’
‘Nothing-so far,’ replied Telorast. ‘Looking, I think. And thinking. He lacks all cleverness, it’s true. Not-Apsalar Apsalar’s left earlobe possessed more cleverness than this pickled grub. But never mind that! Curdle, use your forelimbs, your arms, I mean, and crawl closer to him-stop kicking in circles! Stop it!’
‘I can’t!’ came the tiny shriek.
And round and round Curdle went.
‘Old blood out, shiny coins in. We’d laugh at that, but it wasn’t the happy kind of laugh. More like disbelief, and yes, more than a little cynicism regarding the inherent stupidity of people. Anyway, we ended up with chests and chests of riches-more than you could even imagine. Vaults filled to bursting. You could buy a lot of laughs with that, I’m sure. And the blood? Well, as any priest will tell you, blood is cheap.’
‘Please oh please, show the mercy your ex-goddess so despised. Spit in her face with a gesture of goodwill! You’ll be amply rewarded, yes, amply!’
‘Riches,’ Banaschar said. ‘Worthless.’
‘Different reward, we assure you. Substantial, meaningful, valuable, timely.’
He looked up from his study of the leg and eyed Telorast. ‘Like what?’
The reptile’s skeleton head bobbed. ‘Power, my friend. More power than you can imagine-’
‘I doubt that most sincerely.’
‘Power to do as you please, to whomever or whatever you please! Power gushing out, spilling down, bubbling up and leaving potent wet spots! Worthy reward, yes!’
‘And if I hold you to that?’
‘As surely as you hold that lovely leg, and the twine, as surely as that!’
‘The pact is sealed,’ said Banaschar.
‘Curdle! You hear that!’
‘I heard. Are you mad? We don’t share! We never share!’
‘Shhh! He’ll hear you!’
‘Sealed,’ repeated Banaschar, sitting up.
‘Ohhh,’ wailed Curdle, spinning faster and faster. ‘You’ve done it now! Telorast, you’ve done it now! Ohhh, look, I can’t get away!’
‘Empty promises, Curdle, I swear it!’
‘Sealed,’ said Banaschar again.
‘Aaii! Thrice sealed! We’re doomed!’
‘Relax, lizard,’ said Banaschar, leaning over and reaching down for the whirling creature, ‘soon you’ll dance again. And,’ he added as he snatched up Curdle, ‘so will I.’
Holding the bony reptile in one hand, the leg in the other, Banaschar glanced over at his silent guest-who sat in shadows, lone eye glittering. ‘All right,’ said Banaschar, ‘I’ll listen to you now.’
‘I am pleased,’ murmured the Errant, ‘for we have very little time.’
Lostara Yil sat on the edge of her cot, a bowl filled with sand on her lap. She dipped her knife’s blade into the topped gourd to her right, to coat the iron in the pulp’s oil, and then slid the blade into the sand, and resumed scouring the iron.
She had been working on this one weapon for two bells now, and there had been other sessions before this one. More than she could count. Others swore that the dagger’s iron could not be cleaner, could not be more flawless, but she could still see the stains.
Her fingers were rubbed raw, red and cracked. The bones of her hands ached. They felt heavier these days, as if the sand had imparted something to her skin, flesh and bones, beginning the process of turning them to stone. There might come a time when she lost all feeling in them, and they would hang from her wrists like mauls. But not useless, no. With them she could well batter down the world-if that would do any good.
The pommel of a weapon thumped on her door and a moment later it was pushed open. Faradan Sort leaned in, eyes searching until she found Lostara Yil. ‘Adjunct wants you,’ she said tonelessly.
So, it was time. Lostara collected a cloth and wiped down the knife-blade. The captain stood in the doorway, watching without expression.
She rose, sheathed the weapon, and then collected her cloak. ‘Are you my escort?’ she asked as she approached the door.
‘We’ve had one run away already this night,’ Faradan replied, falling in step beside Lostara as they made their way up the corridor.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Not really, but I am to accompany you this evening.’
‘Why?’
Faradan Sort did not reply. They’d reached the pair of ornate, red-stained double doors that marked the end of the corridor, and the captain drew them open.
Lostara Yil strode into the chamber beyond. The ceiling of the Adjunct’s quarters-the command centre in addition to her residence-was a chaotic collection of corbels, vaults and curved beams. Consequently it was enwreathed in cobwebs from which shrivelled moths dangled down, mocking flight in the vague draughts. Beneath a central, oddly misshapen miniature dome stood a huge rectangular table with a dozen high-backed chairs. A series of high windows ran across the wall opposite the door, reached by a raised platform that was lined with a balustrade. In all, to Lostara’s eyes, one of the strangest rooms she had ever seen. The Letherii called it the Grand Lecture Medix, and it was the largest chamber in the college building that temporarily served as the officers’ quarters and HQ.
Adjunct Tavore stood on the raised walkway, intent on something beyond one of the thick-glassed windows.
‘You requested me, Adjunct.’
Tavore did not turn round as she said, ‘There is a tablet on the table, Captain. On it you will find the names of those who will attend the reading. As there may be some resistance from some of them, Captain Faradan Sort will accompany you to the barracks.’
‘Very well.’ Lostara walked over and collected the tablet, scanned the names scribed into the golden wax. Her brows rose. ‘Adjunct? This list-’
‘Refusals not permitted, Captain. Dismissed.’
Out in the corridor once again, the two women paused upon seeing a Letherii approaching. Plainly dressed, an unadorned long, thin-bladed sword scabbarded at his hip, Brys Beddict possessed no extraordinary physical qualities, and yet neither Lostara nor Faradan Sort could take their eyes off him. Even a casual glance would slide past only to draw inexorably back, captured by something ineffable but undeniable.
They parted to let him by.
He halted to deliver a deferential half-bow. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, addressing Lostara, ‘I would speak with the Adjunct, if that is possible.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, reaching to open one of the double doors. ‘Just step inside and announce yourself.’
‘Thank you.’ A brief smile, and then he entered the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Lostara sighed.
‘Yes,’ agreed Faradan Sort.
After a moment they set out once more.
As soon as the Adjunct turned to face him, Brys Beddict bowed, and then said, ‘Adjunct Tavore, greetings and salutations from the King.’
‘Be sure to return the sentiments, sir,’ she replied.
‘I shall. I have been instructed to deliver a caution, Adjunct, with respect to this session of divination you intend this night.’
‘What manner of caution, and from whom, if I may ask?’
‘There is an Elder God,’ said Brys. ‘One who traditionally chose to make the court of Letheras his temple, if you will, and did so for an unknown number of generations. He acted, more often than not, as consort to the Queen, and was known to most as Turudal Brizad. Generally, of course, his true identity was not known, but there can be no doubt that he is the Elder God known as the Errant, Master of the Tiles, which, as you know, is the Letherii corollary to your Deck of Dragons.’
‘Ah, I begin to comprehend.’
‘Indeed, Adjunct.’
‘The Errant would view the divination-and the Deck-as an imposition, a trespass.’
‘Adjunct, the response of an Elder God cannot be predicted, and this is especially true of the Errant, whose relationship with fate and chance is rather intense, as well as complicated.’
‘May I speak with this Turudal Brizad?’
‘The Elder God has not resumed that persona since before the Emperor’s reign; nor has he been seen in the palace. Yet I am assured that once more he has drawn close-probably stirred awake by your intentions.’
‘I am curious, who in the court of your king is capable of discerning such things?’
Brys shifted uneasily. ‘That would be Bugg, Adjunct.’
‘The Chancellor?’
‘If that is the capacity in which you know him, then yes, the Chancellor.’
Through all of this she had remained standing on the platform, but now she descended the four steps at one end and walked closer, colourless eyes searching Brys’s face. ‘Bugg. One of my High Mages finds him… how did he put it? Yes. “Adorable.” But then, Quick Ben is unusual and prone to peculiar, often sardonic assessments. Is the Chancellor a Ceda-if that is the proper term for High Mage?’
‘It would be best to view him as such, yes, Adjunct.’
She seemed to consider the matter for a time, and then she said, ‘While I am confident in the abilities of my mages to defend against most threats… that of an Elder God is likely well beyond their capacities. What of your Ceda?’
‘Bugg? Uh, no, I do not think he’s much frightened by the Errant. Alas, he intends to take refuge tonight should you proceed with the reading. As I stated earlier, I am here to give caution and convey King Tehol’s genuine concern for your safety.’
She seemed to find his words discomforting, for she turned away and walked slowly round to halt at one end of the rectangular table, whereupon she faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Brys Beddict,’ she said with stilted formality. ‘Unfortunately, I have delayed this reading too long as it is. Guidance is necessary and, indeed, pressing.’
He cocked his head. What were these Malazans up to? A question often voiced in the Royal Court, and no doubt everywhere else in the city, for that matter. ‘I understand, Adjunct. Is there any other way we can assist?’
She frowned. ‘I am not sure how, given your Ceda’s aversion to attending, even as a spectator.’
‘He does not wish his presence to deliver undue influence on the divination, I suspect.’
The Adjunct opened her mouth to say something, stopped, closed it again. And it was possible her eyes widened a fraction before she looked away. ‘What other form of assistance is possible, then?’
‘I am prepared to volunteer myself, as the King’s Sword.’
She shot him a glance, clearly startled. ‘The Errant would hesitate in crossing you, sir?’
He shrugged. ‘At the very least, Adjunct, I can negotiate with him from a position of some knowledge-with respect to his history among my people, and so on.’
‘And you would risk this for us?’
Brys hesitated, never adept at lying. ‘It is no risk, Adjunct,’ he managed.
And saw his abysmal failure in her narrowed gaze. ‘Courtesy and decency demand that I reject your generous offer. However,’ she added, ‘I must descend to rudeness and say to you that your presence would be most appreciated.’
He bowed again.
‘If you need to report back to your king,’ said the Adjunct, ‘there is still time-not much time, but sufficient for a brief account, I should think.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Brys.
‘Then please, help yourself to some wine.’
He grimaced. ‘Thank you, but I have given up wine, Adjunct.’
‘There is a jug of ale, there, under that side table. Falari, I believe-a decent brew, I’m told.’
He smiled and saw her start, and wondered, although not for long, as women often reacted that way when he smiled. ‘Yes, I would like to give that a try, thank you.’
‘What I can’t tolerate,’ he said, ‘is the very fact of your existence.’
The man sitting opposite him looked up. ‘So it’s mutual.’
The tavern was crowded, the clientele decidedly upscale, smug with privilege. Coins in heaps, dusty bottles and glittering glass goblets, and an eye-dazzling array of ostentatious attire-most of which suggested some version of the Royal Blanket, although this generally involved only a narrow wrap swathing the hips and groin. Here and there, some overscented young man also wore woollen pants with one trouser leg ending halfway down.
In a cage near the table where the two Malazans sat, two strange birds exchanged guttural comments every now and then, in tones singularly unimpressed. Short-beaked, yellow-plumed and grey-hooded, they were the size of starlings.
‘Maybe it is,’ the first man said after taking a mouthful of the heady wine, ‘but it’s still different.’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘It is, you ear-flapped idiot. For one thing, you were dead. You hatched a damned cusser under your butt. Those clothes you’re wearing right now, they were in shreds. Fragments. Flecks of ash. I don’t care how good Hood’s seamstresses might be-or even how many millions of ’em he’s got by now, nobody could have stitched all that back together-of course, there are no stitches, not where they’re not supposed to be, I mean. So, your clothes are intact. Just like you.’
‘What’s your point, Quick? I put myself back together in Hood’s cellar, right? I even helped out Ganoes Paran, and rode with a Trygalle troupe for a time. When you’re dead you can do… stuff-’
‘That depends on your will-power, actually-’
‘The Bridgeburners ascended,’ Hedge pointed out. ‘Blame Fid for that-nothing to do with me.’
‘And you’re their messenger, are you?’
‘Could be. It’s not like I was taking orders from anybody-’
‘Whiskeyjack?’
Hedge shifted uneasily, glanced away, and then shrugged. ‘Funny, that.’
‘What?’
The sapper nodded towards the two caged birds. ‘Those are jaraks, aren’t they?’
Quick Ben tilted his head downward and knuckled his brow with both hands. ‘Some kind of geas, maybe? Some curse of evasiveness? Or just the usual obstinate stupidity we all knew so well?’
‘There you go,’ said Hedge, reaching for his ale, ‘talkin’ to yourself again.’
‘You’re shying from certain topics, Hedge. There’s secrets you don’t want to spill, and that makes me nervous. And not just me-’
‘Fid always gets nervous round me. You all do. It’s just my stunning looks and charm, I figure.’
‘Nice try,’ drawled Quick Ben. ‘I was actually talking about the Adjunct.’
‘What reason’s she got to be nervous about me?’ Hedge demanded. ‘In fact, it’s the other damned way round! There’s no making sense of that woman-you’ve said so yourself often enough, Quick.’ He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. ‘You heard something new? About where we’re going? About what in Hood’s name we’re doing next?’
The wizard simply stared.
Hedge reached under a flap and scratched above his ear, and then settled back, looking pleased with himself.
A moment later two people arrived to halt at their table. Glancing up, Hedge started guiltily.
‘High Mage, sapper,’ said Lostara Yil, ‘the Adjunct requests your immediate presence. If you will follow us.’
‘Me?’ asked Hedge, his voice almost a squeal.
‘First name on the list,’ said Faradan Sort with a hard smile.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ hissed Quick Ben.
As the four foreigners left, one of the jarak birds said, ‘I smell death.’
‘No you don’t,’ croaked the other.
‘I smell death,’ the first one insisted.
‘No. You smell dead.’
After a moment, the first bird lifted a wing and thrust its head underneath, and then withdrew and settled once more. ‘Sorry.’
The matted wicker bars of the pen wall between them, Captain Kindly and the Wickan cattle-dog Bent glared at each other with bared teeth.
‘Listen to me, dog,’ said Kindly, ‘I want you to find Sinn, and Grub. Any funny business, like trying to rip out my throat, and I’ll stick you. Mouth to butt, straight through. Then I’ll saw off your head and sink it in the river. I’ll chop off your paws and sell ’em to ugly witches. I’ll strip your hide and get it cut up and made into codpieces for penitent sex-addicts-turned-priests, the ones with certain items hidden under their cots. And I’ll do all this while you’re still alive. Am I understood?’
The lips on the beast’s scarred, twisted muzzle had if anything curled back even further, revealing blood-red lacerations from the splintered fangs. Crimson froth bubbled out between the gaps. Above that smashed mouth, Bent’s eyes burned like two tunnels into a demon lord’s brain, swirling with enraged madness. At the dog’s back end, the stub of the tail wagged in fits and starts, as if particularly pleasing thoughts spasmed through the beast.
Kindly stood, holding a braided leather leash with one end tied into a noose. ‘I’m going to slip this over your head, dog. Make a fuss and I’ll hang you high and laugh at every twitch. In fact, I’ll devise a hundred new ways of killing you and I’ll use every one of them.’ He lifted the noose into view.
A matted ball of twigs, hair and clumps of mud that had been lying off to one side of the pen-a heap that had been doing its own growling-suddenly launched itself forward in a flurry of bounds until it drew close enough to fling itself into the air-sharp, tiny teeth aiming for the captain’s neck.
He lashed out his left fist, intercepting the lapdog in mid-air. A muted crunching sound, and the clack of jaws snapping shut on nothing, as the Hengese lapdog named Roach abruptly altered course, landing and bouncing a few times behind Bent, where it lay stunned, small chest heaving, pink tongue lolling.
The gazes of Kindly and the cattle-dog had remained locked through all of this.
‘Oh, never mind the damned leash,’ said the captain after a moment. ‘Never mind Grub and Sinn. Let’s make this as simple as possible. I am going to draw my sword and chop you to pieces, dog.’
‘Don’t do that!’ said a voice behind him.
Kindly turned to see Grub and, behind the boy, Sinn. Both stood just inside the stable entrance, wearing innocent expressions. ‘Convenient,’ he said. ‘The Adjunct wants you both.’
‘The reading?’ Grub asked. ‘No, we can’t do that.’
‘But you will.’
‘We thought we could hide in the old Azath,’ said Grub, ‘but that won’t work-’
‘Why?’ Kindly demanded.
Grub shook his head. ‘We don’t want to go. It’d be… bad.’
The captain held up the leash with its noose. ‘One way or the other, maggots.’
‘Sinn will burn you to a crisp!’
Kindly snorted. ‘Her? Probably just wet herself, from the look on her face. Now, will this be nice or will it be my way? Aye, you can guess which way I’m leaning, can’t you?’
‘It’s the Azath-’ began Grub.
‘Not my problem,’ cut in Kindly. ‘You want to whine, save it for the Adjunct.’
They set out.
‘Everyone hates you, you know,’ Grub said.
‘Seems fair,’ Kindly replied.
She rose from her chair, wincing at the ache in her lower back, and then waddled towards the door. She had few acquaintances, barring a titchy midwife who stumbled in every now and then, inside a cloud of eye-watering d’bayang fumes, and the old woman down the lane who’d baked her something virtually every day since she started showing. And it was late, which made the heavy knock at her door somewhat unusual.
Seren Pedac, who had once been an Acquitor, opened the door.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘hello.’
The old man bowed. ‘Lady, are you well?’
‘Well, I’ve no need for any masonry work, sir-’
‘Acquitor-’
‘I am no longer-’
‘Your title remains on the kingdom’s tolls,’ he said, ‘and you continue to receive your stipend.’
‘And twice I have requested that both be terminated.’ And then she paused and cocked her head. ‘I’m sorry, but how do you know about that?’
‘My apologies, Acquitor. I am named Bugg, and my present responsibilities include those of Chancellor of the Realm, among, uh, other things. Your requests were noted and filed and subsequently rejected by me.’ He held up a hand. ‘Be at ease, you will not be dragged from your home to resume work. You are essentially retired, and will receive your full pension for the rest of your life, Acquitor. In any case,’ he added, ‘I am not visiting this night in that capacity.’
‘Oh? Then, sir, what is it you want?’
‘May I enter?’
She stepped back, and once he’d come inside she shut the door, edged past him in the narrow corridor, and led him into the sparsely furnished main room. ‘Please sit, Chancellor. Having never seen you, I’m afraid I made no connection with the kind gentleman who helped me move a few stones.’ She paused, and then said, ‘If rumours are correct, you were once the King’s manservant, yes?’
‘Indeed I was.’ He waited until she’d settled into her chair before seating himself in the only other chair. ‘Acquitor, you are in your sixth month?’
She started. ‘Yes. And which file did you read to discover that?’
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I am feeling unusually clumsy tonight. In, uh, your company, I mean.’
‘It has been some time since I last intimidated anyone, Chancellor.’
‘Yes, well, perhaps… well, it’s not quite you, Acquitor.’
‘Should I be relieved that you have retracted your compliment?’
‘Now you play with me.’
‘I do. Chancellor, please, what is all this about?’
‘I think it best you think of me in a different capacity, Acquitor. Rather than “chancellor”, may I suggest “Ceda”.’
Her eyes slowly widened. ‘Ah. Very well. Tehol Beddict had quite the manservant, it seems.’
‘I am here,’ said Bugg, eyes dropping momentarily to the swell of her belly, ‘to provide a measure of… protection.’
She felt a faint twist of fear inside. ‘For me, or my baby? Protection from what?’
He leaned forward, hands entwined. ‘Seren Pedac, your child’s father was Trull Sengar. A Tiste Edur and brother to Emperor Rhulad. He was, however, somewhat more than that.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he was my love.’
His gaze shied away and he nodded. ‘There is a version of the Tiles, consisting of Houses, a kind of formal structure imposed on various forces at work in the universe. It is called the Deck of Dragons. Within this Deck, the House of Shadow is ruled, for the moment, not by the Tiste Edur who founded that realm, but by new entities. In the House, there is a King, no Queen as yet, and below the King of High House Shadow there are sundry, uh, servants. Such roles find new faces every now and then. Mortal faces.’
She watched him, her mouth dry as sun-baked stone. She watched as he wrung his hands, as his eyes shifted away again and again. ‘Mortal faces,’ she said.
‘Yes, Acquitor.’
‘Trull Sengar.’
‘The Knight of Shadow.’
‘Cruelly abandoned, it would seem.’
‘Not by choice, nor neglect, Acquitor. These Houses, they are engaged in war, and this war escalates-’
‘Trull did not choose that title, did he?’
‘No. Choice plays little part in such things. Perhaps even the Lords and Ladies of the Houses are in truth less omnipotent than they would like to believe. The same, of course, can be said for the gods and goddesses. Control is an illusion, a deceptive one that salves thin-skinned bluster.’
‘Trull is dead,’ Seren said.
‘But the Knight of Shadow lives on,’ Bugg replied.
The dread had been building within her, an icy tide rising to flood every space within her, between her thoughts, drowning them one by one, and now cold fear engulfed her. ‘Our child,’ she whispered.
Bugg’s eyes hardened. ‘The Errant invited the murder of Trull Sengar. Tonight, Acquitor, the Deck of Dragons will be awakened, in this very city. This awakening is in truth a challenge to the Errant, an invitation to battle. Is he ready? Is he of sufficient strength to counter-attack? Will this night end awash in mortal blood? I cannot say. One thing I mean to prevent, Seren Pedac, is the Errant striking his enemies through the child you carry.’
‘That’s not good enough,’ she whispered.
His brows rose. ‘Acquitor?’
‘I said it’s not good enough! Who is this King of High House Shadow? How dare he claim my child! Summon him, Ceda! Here! Now!’
‘Summon? Acquitor, even if I could, that would be… please, you must understand. To summon a god-even if naught but a fragment of its spirit-will be to set afire the brightest beacon-one that will be seen by not just the Errant, but other forces as well. On this night, Acquitor, we must do nothing to draw attention to ourselves.’
‘It is you who needs to understand, Ceda. If the Errant wants to harm my child… you may well be a Ceda, but the Errant is a god. Who has already murdered the man I loved-a Knight of Shadow. You may not be enough. My child is to be the new Knight of Shadow? Then the High King of Shadow will come here-tonight-and he will protect his Knight!’
‘Acquitor-’
‘Summon him!’
‘Seren-I am enough. Against the Errant. Against any damned fool who dares to come close, I am enough.’
‘That makes no sense.’
‘Nevertheless.’
She stared at him, unable to disguise her disbelief, her terror.
‘Acquitor, there are other forces in the city. Ancient, benign ones, yet powerful nonetheless. Would it ease your concern if I summon them on your behalf? On your unborn son’s behalf?’
Son. The red-eyed midwife was right, then. ‘They will listen to you?’
‘I believe so.’
After a moment, she nodded. ‘Very well. But Ceda, after tonight-I will speak to this King of Shadow.’
He flinched. ‘I fear you will find the meeting unsatisfactory, Acquitor.’
‘I will decide that for myself.’
Bugg sighed. ‘So you shall, Seren Pedac.’
‘When will you summon your friends, Ceda?’
‘I already have.’
Lostara Yil had said there’d be eleven in all not counting Fiddler himself. That was madness. Eleven players for the reading. Bottle glanced across at Fiddler as they marched up the street in the wake of the two women. The man looked sick, rings under his eyes, mouth twisted in a grimace. The darker roots of his hair and beard made the silvered ends seem to hover like an aura, a hint of chaos.
Gesler and Stormy clumped along behind them. Too cowed for their usual arguing with each other about virtually everything. As bad as a married couple, they were. Maybe they sensed the trouble on the way-Bottle was sure those two marines had more than just gold-hued skin setting them apart from everyone else. Clearly, whatever fates existed displayed a serious lack of discrimination when choosing to single out certain people from the herd. Gesler and Stormy barely had one brain between them.
Bottle tried to guess who else would be there. The Adjunct and Lostara Yil, of course, along with Fiddler himself, and Gesler and Stormy. Maybe Keneb-he’d been at the last one, hadn’t he? Hard to remember-most of that night was a blur now. Quick Ben? Probably. Blistig? Well, one sour, miserable bastard might settle things out some. Or just make everything worse. Sinn? Gods forbid.
‘This is a mistake,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Bottle-what’re you sensing? Truth now.’
‘You want the truth? Really?’
‘Bottle.’
‘Fine, I’m too scared to edge out there-this is an old city, Sergeant. There’s… things. Mostly sleeping up until now. I mean, for as long as we’ve been here.’
‘But now they’re awake.’
‘Aye. Noses in the air. This reading, Sergeant, it’s about as bad an idea as voicing a curse in Oponn’s name while sitting in Hood’s lap.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘Can you spike the whole thing, Sergeant? Just say it won’t go, you’re all closed up inside or something?’
‘Not likely. It just… takes over.’
‘And then there’s no stopping it.’
‘No.’
‘Sergeant.’
‘What?’
‘We’re going to be exposed, horribly exposed. Like offering our throats to whoever-and they’re probably not merciful types. So, how do we defend ourselves?’
Fiddler glanced across at him, and then edged closer. Ahead was the HQ-they were running out of time. ‘I can’t do nothing, Bottle. Except take the head off, and with luck some of those nasties will go down with it.’
‘You’re going to be sitting on a cusser, aren’t you?’
Fiddler shifted the leather satchel slung from one shoulder, and that was confirmation enough for Bottle.
‘Sergeant, when we get into the room, let me try one last time to talk her out of it.’
‘Let’s hope she at least holds to the number.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Eleven is bad, twelve is worse. But thirteen would be a disaster. Thirteen’s a bad number for a reading. We don’t want thirteen, anything but-’
‘Lostara said eleven, Sergeant. Eleven.’
‘Aye.’ And Fiddler sighed.
When another knock sounded at the door, Bugg raised a hand. ‘Permit me, please, Acquitor.’ And he rose at her nod and went to let in their new guests.
She heard voices, and looked up to see the Ceda appear with two bedraggled figures: a man, a woman, dressed in rags. They halted just inside the main room and a roiling stink of grime, sweat and alcohol wafted towards Seren Pedac. She struggled against an impulse to recoil as the pungent aroma swept over her. The man grinned with greenish teeth beneath a massive, red-veined, bulbous nose. ‘Greetings, Mahybe! Whachoo got t’drink? Ne’er mind,’ and he flourished a clay flask in one blackened hand. ‘Lovey dear moogins, find us all some cups, willya?’
Bugg was grimacing. ‘Acquitor, these are Ursto Hoobutt and Pinosel.’
‘I don’t need a cup,’ Seren said to the woman who was rummaging through a cupboard.
‘As you like,’ replied Pinosel. ‘But you won’t be no fun at this party. Tha’s typical. Pregnant women ain’t no fun at all-always struttin’ around like a god’s gift. Smug cow-’
‘I don’t need this rubbish. Bugg, get them out of here. Now.’
Ursto walked up to Pinosel and clopped her on the side of the head. ‘Behave, you!’ Then he smiled again at Seren. ‘She’s jealous, y’see. We bin tryin and, uh, tryin. Only, she’s this wrinkled up bag and I ain’t no better. Soft as a teat, I am, and no amount a lust makes no diff’rence. All I do is dribble dribble dribble.’ He winked. ‘O’course, iffin it wuz you now, well-’
Pinosel snorted. ‘Now that’s an invitation that’d make any woman abort. Pregnant or not!’
Seren glared at the Ceda. ‘You cannot be serious.’
‘Acquitor, these two are the remnants of an ancient pantheon, worshipped by the original inhabitants of the settlement buried in the silts beneath Letheras. In fact, Ursto and Pinosel are the first two, the Lord and the Lady of Wine and Beer. They came into being as a consequence of the birth of agriculture. Beer preceded bread as the very first product of domesticated plants. Cleaner than water, and very nutritious. The first making of wine employed wild grapes. These two creations are elemental forces in the history of humanity. Others include such things as animal husbandry, the first tools of stone, bone and antler, the birth of music and dance and the telling of tales. Art, on stone walls and on skin. Crucial, profound moments one and all.’
‘So,’ she asked, ‘what’s happened to them?’
‘Mindful and respectful partaking of their aspects have given way to dissolute, careless excess. Respect for their gifts has vanished, Acquitor. The more sordid the use of those gifts, the more befouled become the gift-givers.’
Ursto belched. ‘We don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Far worse if we wuz outlawed, becuz that’d make us evil and we don’t wanna be evil, do we, sweet porridge?’
‘We’s unber attack alla time,’ snarled Pinosel. ‘Here, les fill these cups. Elder?’
‘Half measure, please,’ said Bugg.
‘Excuse me,’ said Seren Pedac. ‘Ceda, you have just described these two drunks as the earliest gods of all. But Pinosel just called you “Elder”.’
Ursto cackled. ‘Ceda? Mealyoats, y’hear that? Ceda!’ He reeled a step closer to Seren Pedac. ‘O round one, blessed Mahybe, we may be old, me and Pinosel, compared to the likes a you. But against this one ’ere, we’re just babies! Elder, yes, Elder, as in Elder God!’
‘Time to party!’ crowed Pinosel.
Fiddler halted just within the entrance. And stared at the Letherii warrior standing near the huge table. ‘Adjunct, is this one a new invite?’
‘Excuse me, Sergeant?’
He pointed. ‘The King’s Sword, Adjunct. Was he on your list?’
‘No. Nonetheless, he will stay.’
Fiddler turned a bleak look on Bottle, but said nothing.
Bottle scanned the group awaiting them, did a quick head count. ‘Who’s missing?’ he asked.
‘Banaschar,’ Lostara Yil said.
‘He is on his way,’ said the Adjunct.
‘Thirteen,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Gods below. Thirteen.’
Banaschar paused in the alley, lifted his gaze skyward. Faint seepage of light from various buildings and lantern-poled streets, but that did not reach high enough to devour the spray of stars. He so wanted to get out of this city. Find a hilltop in the countryside, soft grass to lie on, wax tablet in his hands. The moon, when it showed, was troubling enough. But that new span of stars made him far more nervous, a swath like sword blades, faintly green, that had risen from the south to slash through the old familiar constellations of Reacher’s Span. He could not be certain, but he thought those swords were getting bigger. Coming closer.
Thirteen in all-at least that was the number he could make out. Perhaps there were more, still too faint to burn through the city’s glow. He suspected the actual number was important. Significant.
Back in Malaz City, the celestial swords would not even be visible, Banaschar surmised. Not yet, anyway.
Swords in the sky, do you seek an earthly throat?
He glanced over at the Errant. If anyone could answer that, it would be this one. This self-proclaimed Master of the Tiles. God of mischance, player of fates. A despicable creature. But no doubt powerful. ‘Something wrong?’ Banaschar asked, for the Errant’s face was ghostly white, slick with sweat.
The one eye fixed his gaze for a moment and then slid away. ‘Your allies do not concern me,’ he said. ‘But another has come, and now awaits us.’
‘Who?’
The Errant grimaced. ‘Change of plans. You go in ahead of me. I will await the full awakening of this Deck.’
‘We agreed you would simply stop it before it can begin. That was all.’
‘I cannot. Not now.’
‘You assured me there would be no violence this night.’
‘And that would have been true,’ the god replied.
‘But now someone stands in your way. You have been outmanoeuvred, Errant.’
A flash of anger in the god’s lone eye. ‘Not for long.’
‘I will accept no innocent blood spilled-not my comrades’. Take down your enemy if you like, but no one else, do you understand me?’
The Errant bared his teeth. ‘Then just keep them out of my way.’
After a moment, Banaschar resumed his journey, emerging along one side of the building and then walking towards the entrance. Ten paces away he halted once more, for a final few mouthfuls of wine, before continuing on.
But that’s the problem with the Bonehunters, isn’t it?
Nobody can keep them out of anyone’s way.
Standing motionless in the shadows of the alley-after the ex-priest had gone inside-waited the Errant.
The thirteenth player in this night’s game.
Had he known that-had he been able to pierce the fog now thickening within that dread chamber and so make full count of those present-he would have turned round, discarding all his plans. No, he would have run for the hills.
Instead, the god waited, with murder in his heart.
As the city’s sand clocks and banded wicks-insensate and indifferent to aught but the inevitable progression of time-approached the sounding of the bells.
To announce the arrival of midnight.
BRIDGE OF THE SUN
FISHER KEL TATH
He stood amidst the rotted remnants of ship timbers, tall yet hunched, and if not for his tattered clothes and long, wind-tugged hair, he could have been a statue, a thing of bleached marble, toppled from the Meckros city behind him to land miraculously upright on the colourless loess. For as long as Udinaas had been watching, the distant figure had not moved.
A scrabble of pebbles announced the arrival of someone else coming up from the village, and a moment later Onrack T’emlava stepped up beside him. The warrior said nothing for a time, a silent, solid presence.
This was not a world to be rushed through, Udinaas had come to realize; not that he’d ever been particularly headlong in the course of his life. For a long time since his arrival here in the Refugium, he had felt as if he were dragging chains, or wading through water. The slow measure of time in this place resisted hectic presumptions, forcing humility, and, Udinaas well knew, humility always arrived uninvited, kicking down doors, shattering walls. It announced itself with a punch to the head, a knee in the groin. Not literally, of course, but the result was the same. Driven to one’s knees, struggling for breath, weak as a sickly child. With the world standing, looming over the fool, slowly wagging one finger.
There really should be more of that. Why, if I was the god of all gods, it’s the only lesson I would ever deliver, as many times as necessary.
Then again, that’d make me one busy bastard, wouldn’t it just.
The sun overhead was cool, presaging the winter to come. The shoulder-women said there would be deep snow in the months ahead. Desiccated leaves, caught in the tawny grasses of the hilltop, fluttered and trembled as if shivering in dread anticipation. He’d never much liked the cold-the slightest chill and his hands went numb.
‘What does he want?’ Onrack asked.
Udinaas shrugged.
‘Must we drive him off?’
‘No, Onrack, I doubt that will be necessary. For the moment, I think, there’s no fight left in him.’
‘You know more of this than me, Udinaas. Even so, did he not murder a child? Did he not seek to kill Trull Sengar?’
‘He crossed weapons with Trull?’ Udinaas asked. ‘My memories of that are vague. I was preoccupied getting smothered by a wraith at the time. Well, then, friend, I can understand how you might want to see the last of him. As for Kettle, I don’t think any of that was as simple as it looked. The girl was already dead, long dead, before the Azath seeded her. All Silchas Ruin did was crack the shell so the House could send down its roots. In the right place and at the right time, thus ensuring the survival of this realm.’
The Imass was studying him, his soft, brown eyes nested in lines of sorrow, in lines that proved that he felt things too deeply. This fierce warrior who had-apparently-once been naught but leathery skin and bones was now as vulnerable as a child. This trait seemed true of all the Imass. ‘You knew, then, all along, Udinaas? The fate awaiting Kettle?’
‘Knew? No. Guessed, mostly.’
Onrack grunted. ‘You rarely err in your guesses, Udinaas. Very well, go then. Speak with him.’
Udinaas smiled wryly. ‘Not bad at guessing yourself, Onrack. Will you wait here?’
‘Yes.’
He was glad of that, for despite his conviction that Silchas Ruin did not intend violence, with the White Crow there was no telling. If Udinaas ended up cut down by one of those keening swords, at least his death would be witnessed, and unlike his son, Rud Elalle, Onrack was not so foolish as to charge out seeking vengeance.
As he drew closer to the albino Tiste Andii, it became increasingly evident that Silchas Ruin had not fared well since his sudden departure from this realm. Most of his armour was shorn away, leaving his arms bare. Old blood stained the braided leather collar of his scorched gambeson. He bore new, barely healed gashes and cuts, and mottled bruises showed below skin like muddy water beneath ice.
His eyes, alas, remained hard, unyielding, red as fresh blood in their shadowed sockets.
‘Longing for that old Azath barrow?’ Udinaas asked as he halted ten paces from the gaunt warrior.
Silchas Ruin sighed. ‘Udinaas. I had forgotten your bright gift with words.’
‘I can’t recall anyone ever calling it a gift,’ he replied, deciding to let the sarcasm pass, as if his stay in this place had withered his natural acuity. ‘A curse, yes, all the time. It’s amazing I’m still breathing, in fact.’
‘Yes,’ the Tiste Andii agreed, ‘it is.’
‘What do you want, Silchas Ruin?’
‘We travelled together for a long time, Udinaas.’
‘Running in circles, yes. What of it?’
The Tiste Andii glanced away. ‘I was… misled. By all that I saw. An absence of sophistication. I imagined the rest of that world was no different from Lether… until that world arrived.’
‘The Letherii version of sophistication is rather narcissistic, granted. Comes with being the biggest lump of turd on the heap. Locally speaking.’
Ruin’s expression soured. ‘A turd thoroughly crushed under heel, now.’
Udinaas shrugged. ‘Comes to us all, sooner or later.’
‘Yes.’
Silence stretched between them, and still Ruin would not meet his gaze. Udinaas understood well enough, and knew too that it would be unseemly to show any pleasure at the White Crow’s humbling.
‘She will be Queen,’ Silchas Ruin said abruptly.
‘Who?’
The warrior blinked, as if startled by the question, and then fixed his unhuman attention once more upon Udinaas. ‘Your son is in grave danger.’
‘Is he now?’
‘I thought, in coming here, that I would speak to him. To offer what meagre advice of any worth I might possess.’ He gestured at the place where he stood. ‘This is as far as I could manage.’
‘What’s holding you back?’
Ruin’s expression soured. ‘To the Blood of the Eleint, Udinaas, any notion of community is anathema. Or of alliance. If in spirit the Letherii possess an ascendant, it is the Eleint.’
‘Ah, I see. Which was why Quick Ben managed to defeat Sukul Ankhadu, Sheltatha Lore and Menandore.’
Silchas Ruin nodded. ‘Each intended to betray the others. It is the flaw in the blood. More often than not, a fatal one.’ He paused, and then said, ‘So it proved with me and my brother Anomander. Once the Draconic blood took hold of us, we were driven apart. Andarist stood between us, reaching with both hands, seeking to hold us close, but our newfound arrogance surpassed him. We ceased to be brothers. Is it any wonder that we-’
‘Silchas Ruin,’ Udinaas cut in, ‘why is my son in danger?’
The warrior’s eyes flashed. ‘My lesson in humility very nearly killed me. But I survived. When Rud Elalle’s own lesson arrives, he may not be so fortunate.’
‘Ever had a child, Silchas? I thought not. Giving advice to a child is like flinging sand at an obsidian wall. Nothing sticks. The brutal truth is that we each suffer our own lessons-they can’t be danced round. They can’t be slipped past. You cannot gift a child with your scars-they arrive like webs, constricting, suffocating, and that child will struggle and strain until they break. No matter how noble your intent, the only scars that teach them anything are the ones they earn themselves.’
‘Then I must ask you, as his father, for a boon.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘I am, Udinaas.’
Fear Sengar had tried to stab this Tiste Andii in the back, had tried to step into Scabandari Bloodeye’s shadow. Fear had been a difficult man, but Udinaas, for all his jibes and mockery, his bitter memories of slavery, had not truly disliked him. Nobility could be admired even when not met eye to eye. And he had seen Trull Sengar’s grief. ‘What would you ask of me, then?’
‘Give him to me.’
‘What?’
The Tiste Andii held up a hand. ‘Make no answer yet. I will explain the necessity. I will tell you what is coming, Udinaas, and when I am done, I believe you will understand.’
Udinaas found he was trembling. And as Silchas Ruin continued to speak, he felt the once-solid ground inexorably shifting beneath his feet.
The seemingly turgid pace of this world was proved an illusion, a quaint conceit.
The truth was, everything was pitching headlong, a hundred thousand boulders sliding down a mountainside. The truth was, quite simply, terrifying.
Onrack stood watching the two figures. The conversation had stretched on much longer than the Imass had anticipated, and his worry was burgeoning along with it. Little good was going to come of this, he was certain. He heard a coughing grunt behind him and turned to see the two emlava crossing his trail a hundred or so paces back. They swung their massive, fanged heads in his direction and eyed him warily, as if seeking permission-but he could see by their loping gait and ducked tail-stubs that they were setting out on a hunt. The guilt beneath their intent seemed instinctive, as did their wide-eyed belligerence. They might be gone a day, or weeks. In need of a major kill, with winter fast approaching.
Onrack turned his attention back to Udinaas and Silchas Ruin, and saw that they were now walking towards him, side by side, and the Imass could read well enough Udinaas’s battered spirit, his fugue of despair.
No, nothing good was on its way here.
He heard the scrabble behind him as the emlava reached the point where the trail they’d taken would move them out of Onrack’s line of sight, and both animals bolted to escape his imagined attention. But he had no interest in calling them back. He never did. The beasts were simply too stupid to take note of that.
Intruders into this realm rode an ill tide, arriving like vanguards to legions of chaos. Change stained the world the hue of fresh blood more often than not. When the truth was, the one thing all Imass desired was peace, affirmed in the ritual of living, secure and stable and exquisitely predictable. Heat and smoke from the hearths, the aromas of cooking meats, tubers, melted marrow. The nasal voices of the women singing as they went about their day’s modest demands. The grunts and gasps of love-making, the chants of children. Someone might be working an antler tine, the spiral edge of a split long-bone, or a core of flint. Another kneeling by the stream, scraping down a hide with polished blades and thumbnail scrapers, and nearby there was the faint depression marking a pit of sand where other skins had been buried. When anyone needed to urinate they would squat over the pit to send their stream down. To cure the hides.
Elders sat on boulders and watched the camp and all their kin going about their tasks, and they dreamed of the hidden places and the pathways that opened in the fever of droning voices and drumming and swirling scenes painted on torch-lit stone, deep in the seethe of night when spirits blossomed before the eyes in myriad colours, when the patterns rose to the surface and floated and flowed in the smoky air.
The hunt and the feast, the gathering and the shaping. Days and nights, births and deaths, laughter and grief, tales told and retold, the mind within unfolding to reveal itself like a gift to every kin, every warm, familiar face.
This, Onrack knew, was all that mattered. Every appeasement of the spirits sought the protection of that precious peace, that perfect continuity. The ghosts of ancestors hovered close to stand sentinel over the living. Memories wove strands that bound everyone together, and when those memories were shared, that binding grew ever stronger.
In the camp behind him, his beloved mate, Kilava, reclined on heaps of soft furs, only days away from giving birth to their second child. Shoulder-women brought her wooden bowls filled with fat, delicious grubs still steaming from the hot flat-rocks lining the hearths. And cones of honey and pungent teas of berry and bark. They fed her continuously and would do so until her labour pains began, to give her the strength and reserves she would need.
He recalled the night he and Kilava went to the home of Seren Pedac, in that strange, damaged city of Letheras. To hear of Trull Sengar’s death had been one of the hardest moments of Onrack’s life. But to find himself standing before his friend’s widow had proved even more devastating. Setting eyes upon her, he had felt himself collapse inside and he had wept, beyond any consolation, and he had-some time later-wondered at Seren’s fortitude, her preternatural calm, and he had told himself that she must have gone through her own grief in the days and nights immediately following her love’s murder. She had watched him weep with sorrow in her eyes but no tears. She’d made tea, then, methodical in its preparation, while Onrack huddled inside the embrace of Kilava’s arms.
Only later would he rail at the injustice, the appalling senselessness of his friend’s death. And for the duration of that night, as he struggled to speak to her of Trull-of the things they had shared since that moment of frail sympathy when Onrack elected to free the warrior from his Shorning-he was reminded again and again of fierce battles, defiant stands, acts of breathtaking courage, any one of which would have marked a worthy end, a death swollen with meaning, shining with sacrifice. And yet Trull Sengar had survived those, every one of them, fashioning a kind of triumph in the midst of pain and loss.
Had Onrack been there, in the blood-splashed arena of sand, Trull’s back would not have been unguarded. The murderer would never have succeeded in his act of brutal treachery. And Trull Sengar would have lived to see his own child growing in Seren Pedac’s belly, would have witnessed, in awe and wonder, that glow of focused inwardness in the expression of the Acquitor. No male could know such a sense of completeness, of course, for she had become a vessel of that continuity, an icon of hope and optimism for the future world.
Oh, if Trull could have witnessed that-no one deserved it more, after all the battles, the wounds, the ordeals and the vast solitude that Onrack could never pierce-so many betrayals and yet he had stood unbowed and had given of himself all that he could. No, there had been nothing fair in this.
Seren Pedac had been kind and gracious. She had permitted Kilava’s ritual ensuring a safe birth. But she had also made it clear that she desired nothing else, that this journey would be her own, and indeed, she was strong enough to make it.
Yes, women could be frightening. In their strengths, their capacity to endure.
As much as Onrack would have treasured being close to Kilava now, to treat her with gifts and morsels, any such attempt would have been met with ridicule from the shoulder-women and a warning snarl from Kilava herself. He had learned to keep his distance, now that the birthing was imminent.
In any case, he had grown fond of Udinaas. True, a man far more inclined to edged commentary than Trull had been, prone to irony and sarcasm, since these were the only weapons Udinaas could wield with skill. Yet Onrack had come to appreciate his wry wit, and more than that, the man had displayed unexpected virtues in his newfound role as father-ones that Onrack noted and resolved to emulate when his time arrived.
He had missed such an opportunity the first time round, and the man who was his first son, Ulshun Pral, had been raised by others, by adopted uncles, brothers, aunts. Even Kilava had been absent more often than not. And so, while Ulshun was indeed of their shared blood, he belonged more to his people than he did to his parents. There was only faint sorrow in this, Onrack told himself, fragments of regret that could find no fit in his memories of the Ritual’s deathless existence.
So much had changed. This world seemed to rush past, ephemeral and elusive, days and nights slipping through his hands. Time and again he was almost paralysed by a sense of loss, overwhelmed with anguish at the thought of another moment gone, another instant dwindling in his wake. He struggled to remain mindful, senses bristling to every blessed arrival, to absorb and devour and luxuriate in its taste, and then would come a moment when everything flooded over him and he would be engulfed, flailing in the blinding, deafening deluge.
Too many feelings, and it seemed weeping was his answer to so much in this mortal life-in joy, in sorrow, in gifts received and in the losses suffered. Perhaps he had forgotten all the other possible ways of responding. Perhaps they were the first to go once time became meaningless, cruel as a curse, leaving tears as the last thing to dry up.
Udinaas and Silchas Ruin drew closer.
And once more, Onrack felt like weeping.
The D’rhasilhani coast looked gnawed and rotted, with murky silt-laden rollers thrashing amidst pitted limestone outcrops and submerged sandbars overgrown with mangroves. Heaps of foam the hue of pale flesh lifted and sagged with every breaker, and through the eyeglass Shield Anvil Tanakalian could see, above the tideline where crescent pockets of sand and gravel were visible, mounds of dead fish, swarmed by gulls and something else-long, low and possibly reptilian-that heaved and bulled through the slaughter every now and then, sending the gulls flapping and screeching.
He was relieved he was not standing on that shore, so alien from the coast he had known almost all of his life-where the water was deep, clear and deathly cold; where every inlet and reach was shrouded in the gloom of black cliffs and thick forests of pine and fir. He had not imagined that such shorelines as he was seeing now even existed. Squalid, fetid, like some overripe pig slough. Northeastward along the coastline, at the base of a young range of mountains angling south, what must be a huge river emptied out into this vast bay, filling the waters with its silts. The constant inflow of fresh water, thick and milky-white, had poisoned most of the bay, as far as Tanakalian could determine. And this did not seem right. He felt as if he was looking upon the scene of a vast crime of some sort, a fundamental wrongness spreading like sepsis.
‘What is your wish, sir?’
The Shield Anvil lowered the eyeglass and frowned at the coast filling the view to the north. ‘Make for the river mouth, Captain. I gauge the outflow channel lies upon the other side, closest to that eastern shore-the cliffs seem sheer.’
‘Even from here, sir,’ said the captain, ‘the barely submerged banks upon this side are plain to our sight.’ He hesitated. ‘It is the ones we cannot see that concern me, Shield Anvil. I am not even appeased should we await the tide.’
‘Can we not withdraw, further out to sea, and then make our approach closer to the eastern coastline?’
‘Into the head of the river’s current? Possibly, although in the clash with the tide, that current will be treacherous. Shield Anvil, this delegation we seek-not a seafaring people, I assume?’
Tanakalian smiled. ‘A range of virtually impassable mountains blocks the kingdom from the coast, and even on the landward side of that range a strip of territory is claimed by pastoral tribes-there is peace between them and the Bolkando. Nonetheless, to answer you, sir, no, the Bolkando are not a seafaring people.’
‘Thus, this river mouth…’
‘Yes, Captain. By gracious agreement with the D’rhasilhani, the Bolkando delegation is permitted an encampment on the east side of the river.’
‘The threat of invasion can make lifelong enemies into the closest allies,’ observed the captain.
‘So it seems,’ agreed Tanakalian. ‘What is extraordinary is that the alliances seem to be holding, even now when there will be no invasion from the Lether Empire. I suspect certain benefits from peace became evident.’
‘Profitable, you mean.’
‘Mutually so, yes, Captain.’
‘I must attend to the ship now, sir, if we are to revise our approach to the place of landing.’
The Shield Anvil nodded and, as the captain departed, Tanakalian raised the eyeglass once more, leaning for support against the starboard figurehead as he steadied himself. The seas were not especially rough this far inside the nameless bay, but in moments the Throne of War would begin to come about, and he was intent on making use of the hard pitch to scan further along the sheer cliffs of the eastern shoreline.
The Mortal Sword Krughava remained in her cabin. Since his return from visiting the Adjunct, Destriant Run’Thurvian had elected to begin an extended period of secluded meditation, and was also below decks. The presence of either one would have imposed a degree of formality that Tanakalian found increasingly chafing. He understood the necessity for propriety, and the burden of tradition that ensured meaning to all that they did-and all that they were-but he had spent time on the command ship of the Adjunct, in the company of Malazans. They displayed an ease in shared hardship that had at first shocked the Shield Anvil, until he comprehended the value of such behaviour. There could be no challenging the discipline of the Bonehunters when battle was summoned. But the force that truly held them together was found in the camaraderie they displayed during those interminably long periods of inactivity, such as all armies were forced to endure. Indeed, Tanakalian had come to delight in their brash lack of decorum, their open irreverence and their strange penchant for revelling in the absurd.
Perhaps an ill influence, as Run’Thurvian’s faintly disapproving frowns implied, whenever Tanakalian attempted his own ironic commentary. Of course, the Destriant possessed no shortage in his list of disappointments regarding the Order’s new Shield Anvil. Too young, woefully inexperienced, and dismayingly inclined to rash judgement-this last flaw simply unacceptable in one bearing the title of Shield Anvil.
‘Your mind is too active, sir,’ the Destriant had said once. ‘It is not for the Shield Anvil to make judgement. Not for you to decide who is worthy of your embrace. No, sir, but you have never disguised your predilections. I give you that.’
Generous of the man, all things considered.
As the ship lost headway in its long, creaking coming-about, Tanakalian studied that forbidding coast, the tortured mountains-many of them with cones shrouded in smoke and foul gases. It would not do to find themselves thrown against that deadly shoreline, although given the natural inclination of outflow currents, the risk was very real. Leading the Shield Anvil to one of those ghastly judgements, and in this case, even the Destriant could not find fault.
With a faint smile, Tanakalian lowered the eyeglass once more and returned it to its sealskin sheath slung beneath his left arm. He descended from the forecastle and made his way below decks. They would require Run’Thurvian and his sorcery to ensure safe passage into the river mouth, and this, Tanakalian concluded, was fair justification for interrupting the Destriant’s meditation, which had been going on for days now. Run’Thurvian might well cherish his privilege of solitude and unmitigated isolation, but certain necessities could not be avoided even by the Order’s Destriant. The old man could do with the fresh air, besides.
The command ship was alone in this bay. The remaining twenty-four serviceable Thrones of War held position far out to sea, more than capable of weathering whatever the southern ocean could muster, barring a typhoon, of course, and that season had passed, according to local pilots.
Since they had relinquished the Froth Wolf to the Adjunct, the Listral now served as the Order’s flagship. The oldest ship in the fleet-almost four decades since the laying of the keels-the Listral was the last survivor of the first line of trimarans, bearing antiquated details in style and decoration. This lent the ship a ferocious aspect, with every visible span of ironwood carved into the semblance of a snarling wolf’s head, and the centre hull was entirely shaped as a lunging wolf, three-quarters submerged so that the crest of foam at the bow churned from the beast’s gaping, fanged mouth.
Tanakalian loved this ship, even the archaic row of inside-facing cabins lining the corridor of the first level below deck. Listral could manage but half as many passengers as could the second and third lines of Thrones of War. At the same time, each cabin was comparatively spacious, indeed, almost luxurious.
The Destriant’s abode encompassed the last two cabins of this, the starboard hull. The wall between them now bore a narrow, low door. The stern chamber served as Run’Thurvian’s private residence, whilst the forward cabin had been sanctified as a temple of the Wolves. As expected, Tanakalian found the Destriant kneeling, head bowed, before the twin-headed altar. Yet something was wrong-the air reeked of charred flesh, burnt hair, and Run’Thurvian, his back to Tanakalian, remained motionless as the Shield Anvil swung in through the corridor hatch.
‘Destriant?’
‘Come no closer,’ croaked Run’Thurvian, his voice almost unrecognizable, and Tanakalian now heard the old man’s desperate wheezing of breath. ‘There is not much time, Shield Anvil. I had… concluded… that none would disturb me after all, no matter how overlong my absence.’ A hacking, bitter laugh. ‘I had forgotten your… temerity, sir.’
Tanakalian drew a step closer. ‘Sir, what has happened?’
‘Stay back, I beg you!’ gasped the Destriant. ‘You must take my words to the Mortal Sword.’
Something glittered on the polished wooden floor around the kneeling form, as if the man had leaked out on all sides-but the smell was not one of urine, and the liquid, while thick as blood, seemed almost golden in the faint lantern light. Real fear flowed through Tanakalian upon seeing it, and the Destriant’s words barely reached him over the thumping of his own heart. ‘Destriant-’
‘I travelled far,’ Run’Thurvian said. ‘Doubts… a growing unease. Listen! She is not as we believed. There will be… betrayal. Tell Krughava! The vow-we have made a mistake!’
The puddle was spreading, thick as honey, and it seemed the robed shape of the Destriant was diminishing, collapsing into itself.
He is dying. By the Wolves, he is dying. ‘Destriant,’ Tanakalian said, forcing his terror down, swallowing against the horror of what he was witnessing, ‘will you accept my embrace?’
The laugh that made its way out sounded as if it had bubbled up through mud. ‘No. I do not.’
Stunned, the Shield Anvil staggered back.
‘You… you are… insufficient. You always were-another one of Krughava’s errors in… in judgement. You fail me, and so you shall fail her. The Wolves shall abandon us. The vow betrays them, do you understand? I have seen our deaths-this one here before you, and the ones to come. You, Tanakalian. The Mortal Sword too, and every brother and sister of the Grey Helms.’ He coughed, and something gushed out in the convulsion, spraying the altar with liquid and shapeless gobbets that slid down into the folds of stone fur, traversing the necks of the Wolves.
The kneeling figure slumped, folded in the middle at an impossible angle. The sound made when Run’Thurvian’s forehead struck the floor was that of a hen’s egg breaking, and that span of bone offered little resistance, so that the man’s face collapsed as well.
As Tanakalian stared, drawn forward once more, he saw watery streams leaking out from the Destriant’s ruined head.
The man had simply… melted. He could see that greyish pulp boiling, thinning down into clear streams of fat.
And he so wanted to scream, to unleash his horror, but a deeper dread had claimed him. He would not accept my embrace. I have failed him, he said. I will fail them all, he said.
Betrayal?
No, that I cannot believe.
I will not.
Although he knew Run’Thurvian was dead, Tanakalian spoke to him nonetheless. ‘The failure, Destriant, was yours, not mine. You journeyed far, did you? I suggest… not far enough.’ He paused, struggling to quell the trembling that had come to him. ‘Destriant. Sir. It pleases me that you rejected my embrace. For I see now that you did not deserve it.’
No, he was not simply a Shield Anvil, in the manner of all those who had come before, all those who had lived and died beneath the burden of that title. He was not interested in passive acceptance. He would take upon himself mortal pain, yes, but not indiscriminately.
I too am mortal, after all. It is my essence that I am able to weigh my judgement. Of what is worthy. And what is not.
No, I shall not be as other Shield Anvils. The world has changed-we must change with it. We must change to meet it. He stared down at the heaped mess that was all that remained of Destriant Run’Thurvian.
There would be shock. Dismay and faces twisted into distraught fear. The Order would be flung into disarray, and it would fall to the Mortal Sword, and to the Shield Anvil, to steady the rudder, until such time as a new Destriant was raised among the brothers and sisters.
Of more immediate concern, however, as far as Tanakalian was concerned, was that there would be no sorcerous protection in traversing the channel. In his assessment-shaky as it might be at the moment-he judged that news to be paramount.
The Mortal Sword would have to wait.
He had nothing to tell her in any case.
‘Did you embrace our brother, Shield Anvil?’
‘Of course, Mortal Sword. His pain is with me, now, as is his salvation.’
The mind shaped its habits and habits reshaped the body. A lifelong rider walked with bowed legs, a seafarer stood wide no matter how sure the purchase. Women who twirled strands of their hair would in time come to sit with heads tilted to one side. Some people prone to worry might grind their teeth, and years of this would thicken the muscles of the jaws and file the molars down to smooth lumps, bereft of spurs and crowns.
Yedan Derryg, the Watch, wandered down to the water’s edge. The night sky, so familiar to one who had wrapped his life about this late stretch of time preceding the sun’s rise, was now revealed to him as strange, jarred free of the predictable, the known, and the muscles of his jaw worked in steady, unceasing rhythm.
The reflected smear of vaguely green comets rode the calm surface of the inlet, like slashes of luminous glow-spirits, as were wont to gather in the wake of ships. There were strangers in the sky. Drawing closer night after night, as if summoned. The blurred moon had set, which was something of a relief, but Yedan could still observe the troubled behaviour of the tide-the things that had once been certain were certain no longer. He was right to worry.
Suffering was coming to the shore, and the Shake would not be spared. This was a knowledge he shared with Twilight, and he had seen the growing fear in the rheumy eyes of the witches and warlocks, leading him to suspect that they too had sensed the approach of something vast and terrible. Alas, shared fears did not forge any renewed commitment to co-operation-for them the political struggle remained, had indeed intensified.
Fools.
Yedan Derryg was not a loquacious man. He might well possess a hundred thousand words in his head, open to virtually infinite rearrangement, but that did not mean he laboured under the need to give them voice. There seemed to be little point in that, and in his experience comprehension diminished as complexity deepened-this was not a failing of skills in communication, he believed, but one of investment and capacity. People dwelt in a swamp of feelings that stuck like gobs of mud to every thought, slowing those thoughts down, making them almost shapeless. The inner discipline demanded in order to cleanse such maladroit tendencies was usually too fierce, too trying, just too damned hard. This, then, marked the unwillingness to make the necessary investment. The other issue was a far crueller judgement, in that it had to do with the recognition that in the world there were numerically far more stupid people than there were smart ones. The difficulty was in the innate cleverness of the stupid in disguising their own stupidity. The truth was rarely displayed in an honest frown or a sincere knotting of the brow. Instead, it was revealed in a flash of suspicion, the hint of diffidence in an offhand dismissal, or, perversely, muteness offered up to convey a level of thoughtful consideration which, in truth, did not exist.
Yedan Derryg had little time for such games. He could smell an idiot from fifty paces off. He watched their sly evasions, listened to their bluster, and wondered again and again why they could never reach that essential realization, which was that the amount of effort engaged in hiding their own stupidity would serve them better used in cogent exercise of what little wits they possessed. Assuming, of course, that improvement was even possible.
There were too many mechanisms in society designed to hide and indeed coddle its myriad fools, particularly since fools generally held the majority. In addition to such mechanisms, one could also find various snares and traps and ambushes, one and all fashioned with the aim of isolating and then destroying smart people. No argument, no matter how brilliant, can defeat a knife in the groin, after all. Nor an executioner’s axe. And the bloodlust of a mob was always louder than a lone, reasonable voice.
The true danger, Yedan Derryg understood, was to be found in the hidden deceivers-those who could play the fool yet possessed a kind of cunning that, while narrowly confined to the immediate satisfaction of their own position, proved of great skill in exploiting the stupid and the brilliant alike. These were the ones who hungered for power and more often than not succeeded in acquiring it. No genius would willingly accept true power, of course, in full knowledge of its deadly invitations. And fools could never succeed in holding on to it for very long, unless they were content as figureheads, in which case the power they held was an illusion.
Gather a modest horde of such hidden deceivers-those of middling intelligence and clever malice and avaricious ambition-and serious trouble was pretty much assured. A singular example of this was found in the coven of witches and warlocks who, until recently, had ruled the Shake-inasmuch as a scattered, dissolute and depressed people could be ruled.
Jaws bunching, Yedan Derryg crouched down. Ripples from the faint waves rolled round the toes of his boots, gurgled into the pits they made in the soft sand. His arms trembled, every muscle aching with exhaustion. The brine from the shoreline could not wash the stench from his nostrils.
Behind him, in the squalid huddle of huts beyond the berm, voices had awakened. He heard someone come on to the shore, staggering it seemed, drawing closer in fits and starts.
Yedan Derryg reached down his hands until the cold water flowed over them, and what was clear suddenly clouded in dark blooms. He watched as the waves, sweeping out so gently, tugged away the stains, and in his mind uttered a prayer.
This to the sea
This from the shore
This I give freely
Until the waters run clear
She came up behind him. ‘In the name of the Empty Throne, Yedan, what have you done?’
‘Why,’ he replied to his sister’s horrified disbelief, ‘I have killed all of them but two, my Queen.’
She stepped round, splashed into the water until she faced him, and then set a palm against his forehead and pushed until she could see his face, until she could stare into his eyes. ‘But… why? Did you think I could not handle them? That we couldn’t?’
He shrugged. ‘They wanted a king. One to control you. One they could control in turn.’
‘And so you murdered them? Yedan, the longhouse has become an abattoir! And you truly think you can just wash your hands of what you have done? You’ve just butchered twenty-eight people. Shake. My people! Old men and old women! You slaughtered them!’
He frowned up at her. ‘My Queen, I am the Watch.’
She stared down at him, and he could read her expression well enough. She believed her brother had become a madman. She was recoiling in horror.
‘When Pully and Skwish return,’ he said, ‘I will kill them, too.’
‘You will not.’
He could see that a reasonable conversation with his sister was not possible, not at this moment, with the cries of shock and grief rising ever higher in the village. ‘My Queen-’
‘Yedan,’ she gasped. ‘Don’t you see what you have done to me? Don’t you realize the wound you have delivered-that you would do such a thing in my name…’ She seemed unable to finish the statement, and he saw tears in her eyes now. And then that gaze iced over and her tone hardened as she said, ‘You have two choices left, Yedan Derryg. Stay and be given to the sea. Or accept banishment.’
‘I am the Watch-’
‘Then we will be blind to the night.’
‘That cannot be permitted,’ he replied.
‘You fool-you’ve left me no choice!’
He slowly straightened. ‘Then I shall accept the sea-’
She turned round, faced the dark waters. Her shoulders shook as she lowered her head. ‘No,’ she managed in a grating voice. ‘Get out of here, Yedan. Go north, into the old Edur lands. I will not accept one more death in my name-not one. No matter how deserved it is. You are my brother. Go.’
She was not one of the deceivers, he knew. Nor was she a fool. Given the endless opposition from the coven, she had possessed less power than her title proclaimed. And perhaps, intelligent as Yan Tovis was, she had been content to accept that limitation. Had the witches and warlocks been as wise and sober in their recognition of the deadly lure of ambition, he could well have left things as they were. But they had not been interested in a balance. They wanted what they had lost. They had not shown the intelligence demanded by the situation.
And so he had removed them, and now his sister’s power was absolute. Understandable, then, that she was so distraught. Eventually, he told himself, she would come to comprehend what was now necessary. Namely, his return, as the Watch, as the balance to her potentially unchecked power.
He would need to be patient.
‘I shall do as you say,’ he said to her.
She would not turn round, and so, with a nod, Yedan Derryg set out, northward along the shoreline. He’d left his horse and pack-mount tethered two hundred paces along, just above the high-water mark. One sure measure of intelligence, after all, was in the accurate anticipation of consequences. Emotions stung to life could drown one as easily as a riptide, and he had no desire to deepen her straits.
Soon the sun would rise, although with rain on the way its single glaring eye would likely not be visible for long, and that too was well. Leave the cloud’s tears to wash away all the blood, and before too long the absence of over a score of brazen, incipient tyrants would rush in among the Shake like a sudden fresh and bracing wind.
Strangers rode the night sky, and if the Shake had any hope of surviving what was coming, the politics of betrayal must be swept away. With finality.
It was his responsibility, after all. Perhaps his sister had forgotten the oldest vows that bound the Watch. But he had not. And so he had done what was necessary.
There was no pleasure in the act. Satisfaction, yes, as would be felt by any wise, intelligent person who succeeds in sweeping aside a multitude of shortsighted sharks, thus clearing the water. But no pleasure.
To his right, as he walked the shoreline, the land was growing light.
But the sea to his left remained dark.
Sometimes the verge between the two grew very narrow indeed.
Shifting weight from one foot to the other, Pully stared down into the pit. Snakes swarmed by the hundred in that hole, sluggish at first but now, as the day warmed, they writhed like worms in an open wound. She tugged at her nose, which had a tendency to tingle whenever she fell back into the habit of chewing her lips, but the tingling wouldn’t leave. Which meant, of course, that she was gnawing away at those wrinkled flaps covering what was left of her teeth.
Getting old was a misery. First the skin sagged. Then aches settled into every place and places that didn’t even exist. Pangs and twinges and spasms, and all the while the skin kept sagging, lines deepening, folds folding, and all beauty going away. The lilt of upright buttocks, the innocence of wide, shallow tits. The face still able to brave the weather, and lips still sweet and soft as pouches of rendered fat. All gone. What was left was a mind that still imagined itself young, its future stretching out, trapped inside a sack of loose meat and brittle bones. It wasn’t fair.
She yanked at her nose again, trying to get the feeling back. And that was another thing. The wrong parts kept on growing. Ears and nose, warts and moles, hairs sprouting everywhere. The body forgot its own rules, the flesh went senile and the bright mind within could wail all it wanted, but nothing that was real ever changed except for the worse.
She widened her stance and sent a stream of piss down into the stony earth. Even simple things got less predictable. Oh, what a misery ageing was.
Skwish’s head popped up amidst seething snakes, eyes blinking.
‘Yah,’ said Pully, ‘I’m still here.’
‘How long?’
‘Day and a night and now it’s morning. Y’amby get what yer needed? I got aches.’
‘An’ I got reck’lections I ain’t ever wanted.’ Skwish started working herself free of the heaps of serpents, none of which minded much or even noticed, busy as they were, breeding in a frenzy that seemed to last for ever.
‘T’which we might want, iyerplease?’
‘Mebee.’
Skwish reached up and, grunting, Pully helped her friend out of the pit. ‘Yee, y’smell ripe, woman. Snake piss and white smear, there’ll be onward eggs in yer ears.’
‘It’s a cold spirit t’travel on, Pully, an’ I ain’t ever doin it agin, so’s if I rank it’s the leese of our perbems. Gaf, I need a dunk in the sea.’
They set off for the village, a half day’s journey coastward.
‘An ya tervilled afar, Skwish, did yee?’
‘It’s bad an’ it’s bad, Pully. Cold blood t’the east no sun could warm. I seen solid black clouds rollin down, an’ iron rain an gashes in th’geround. I see the stars go away an’ nothing but green glows, an’ them green glows they is cold, too, cold as th’east blooding. All stems but one branch, y’see. One branch.’
‘So’s we guessed right, an’ next time Twilight goes an’ seal barks on ’bout a marchin’ the Shake away from the shore, you can talk up an’ cut er down and down. An’ then we vote and get er gone. Er and the Watch, too.’
Skwish nodded, trying to work globs of snake sperm out of her hair, without much success. ‘Comes to what’s d’served, Pully. The Shake did ever ’ave clear eyes. Y’ can’t freck on an’ on thinkin’ th’world won’t push back. It’ll push awright. Till the shore breaks an’ breaks it will an’ when it does, we ever do drown. I saw dust, Pully, but it wasn’t no puffy earth. T’was specks a bone an’ skin an’ dreams an’ motes a surprise, hah! We’s so freckered, sister, it’s all we can do is laughter an prance into the sea.’
‘Goo’ anough fra me,’ Pully grumbled. ‘I got so many aches I might be the def’nition a ache irrself.’
The two Shake witches-the last left alive, as they were soon to learn-set out for the village.
Take a scintillating, flaring arm of the sun’s fire, give it form, a life of its own, and upon the faint cooling of the apparition, a man such as Rud Elalle might emerge, blinking with innocence, unaware that all he touched could well explode into destructive flames-had he been of such mind. And to teach, to guide him into adulthood, the singular aversion remained: no matter what you do, do not awaken him to his anger.
Sometimes, Udinaas had come to realize, potential was a force best avoided, for the potential he sensed in his son was not a thing for celebration.
No doubt every father felt that flash of blinding, burning truth-the moment when he sensed his son’s imminent domination, be it physical or something less overtly violent in its promise. Or perhaps such a thing was in fact rare, conjured from the specific. After all, not every father’s son could veer into the shape of a dragon. Not every father’s son held the dawn’s golden immanence in his eyes.
Rud Elalle’s gentle innocence was a soft cloak hiding a monstrous nature, and that was an unavoidable fact, the burning script of his son’s blood. Silchas Ruin had spoken to that, with knowing, with the pained truth in his face. The ripening harvest of the Eleint, a fecund brutality that sought only to appease itself-that saw the world (any world, every world) as a feeding ground, and the promise of satisfaction waited in the bloated glut of power.
Rare the blood-fouled who managed to overcome that innate megalomania. ‘Ah, Udinaas,’ Silchas Ruin had said. ‘My brother, perhaps, Anomander. Osserc? Maybe, maybe not. There was a Bonecaster, once… and a Soletaken Jaghut. A handful of others-when the Eleint blood within them was thinner-and that is why I have hope for Rud Elalle, Udinaas. He is third-generation-did he not clash with his mother’s will?’
Well, it was said that he had.
Udinaas rubbed his face. He glanced again at the tusk-framed hut, wondering if he should march inside, put an end to that parley right now. Silchas Ruin, after all, had not included himself among those who had mastered their Draconean blood. A sliver of honesty from the White Crow, plucked from that wound of humility, no doubt. It was all that was holding Udinaas back.
Crouched beside him, shrouded by gusts of smoke from the hearth, Onrack released a long sigh that whistled from his nostrils-break a nose enough times and every breath was tortured music. At least it was so with this warrior. ‘He will take him, I think.’
Udinaas nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
‘I am… confused, my friend. That you would permit this… meeting. That you would excuse yourself and so provide no counter to the Tiste Andii’s invitation. That hut, Udinaas, may be a place filled with lies. What is to stop the White Crow from offering your son the sweet sip of terrible power?’
There was genuine worry in Onrack’s tone, deserving more than bludgeoning silence. Udinaas rubbed again at his face, unable to determine which was the more insensate: his features or his hands; and wondering why an answer seemed to important to him. ‘I have walked in the realm of Starvald Demelain, Onrack. Among the bones of countless dead dragons. At the gate itself, the corpses were heaped like glitter flies along a window sill.’
‘If it is indeed in the nature of the Eleint to lust for self-destruction,’ ventured Onrack, ‘would it not be better to guide Rud away from such a flaw?’
‘I doubt that would work,’ Udinaas said. ‘Can you turn nature aside, Onrack? Every season the salmon return from the seas and heave their dying bodies upstream, to find where they were born. Ancient tenag leave the herds to die amid the bones of kin. Bhederin migrate into the heart of the plains every summer, and return to forest fringes every winter-’
‘Simpler creatures one and all-’
‘And I knew slaves in the Hiroth village-ones who’d been soldiers once, and they withered with the anguish of knowing that there were places of battle-places of their first blooding-that they would never again see. They longed to return, to walk those old killing grounds, to stand before the barrows filled with the bones of fallen friends, comrades. To remember, and to weep.’ Udinaas shook his head. ‘We are not much different from the beasts sharing our world, Onrack. The only thing that truly sets us apart is our talent for rejecting the truth-and we’re damned good at that. The salmon does not question its need. The tenag and the bhederin do not doubt what compels them.’
‘Then you would doom your son to his fate?’
Udinaas bared his teeth. ‘The choice isn’t mine to make.’
‘Is it Silchas Ruin’s?’
‘It may seem, Onrack, that we are protected here, but that’s an illusion. The Refugium is a rejection of so many truths it leaves me breathless. Ulshun Pral, you, all your people-you have willed yourself this life, this world. And the Azath at the gate-it holds you to your convictions. This place, wondrous as it is, remains a prison.’ He snorted. ‘Should I chain him here? Can I? Dare I? You forget, I was a slave.’
‘My friend,’ said Onrack, ‘I am free to travel the other realms. I am made flesh. Made whole. This is a truth, is it not?’
‘If this place is destroyed, you will become a T’lan Imass once more. That’s the name for it, isn’t it? That immortality of bones and dried flesh? The tribe here will fall to dust.’
Onrack was staring at him with horror-filled eyes. ‘How do you know this?’
‘I do not believe Silchas Ruin is lying. Ask Kilava-I have seen a certain look in her eyes, especially when Ulshun Pral visits, or when she sits beside you at the fire. She knows. She cannot protect this world. Not even the Azath will prevail against what is coming.’
‘Then it is we who are doomed.’
No. There is Rud Elalle. There is my son.
‘And so,’ said Onrack after a long pause, ‘you will send your son away, so that he may live.’
No, friend. I send him away… to save you all. But he could not say that, could not reveal that. For he knew Onrack well now; and he knew Ulshun Pral and all the others here. And they would not accept such a potential sacrifice-they would not see Rud Elalle risk his life in their name. No, they would accept their own annihilation, without a second thought. Yes, Udinaas knew these Imass. It was not pride that made them what they were. It was compassion. The tragic kind of compassion, the kind that sacrifices itself and sees that sacrifice as the only choice and thus no choice at all, one that must be accepted without hesitation.
Better to take the fear and the hope and all the rest and hold it inside. What could he give Onrack now, at this moment? He did not know.
Another pause, and then the Imass continued, ‘It is well, then. I understand, and approve. There is no reason that he must die with us. No reason, indeed, that he must witness such a thing when it comes to pass. You would spare him the grief, as much as such a thing is possible. But, Udinaas, it is not acceptable that you share our fate. You too must depart this realm.’
‘No, friend. That I will not do.’
‘Your son’s need for you remains.’
Oh, Rud loves you all, Onrack. Almost as much as he seems to love me. I will stay nonetheless, to remind him of what he fights to preserve. ‘Where he and Silchas Ruin will go, I cannot follow,’ he said. And then he grunted and managed to offer Onrack a wry smile. ‘Besides, here and only here, in your company-in the company of all the Imass-I am almost content. I’ll not willingly surrender that.’ So many truths could hide inside glib lies. While the reason was a deceit, the sentiments stacked so carefully within it were not.
So much easier, he told himself, to think like a tenag, or a bhederin. Truth from surface to core, solid and pure. Yes, that would indeed be easier than this.
Rud Elalle emerged from the hut, followed a moment later by Silchas Ruin.
Udinaas could see in his son’s face that any formal parting would prove too fraught. Best this was done with as little gravitas as possible. He rose, and Onrack did the same.
Others stood nearby, watchful, instincts awakened that something grave and portentous was happening. Respect and courtesy held them back one and all.
‘We should keep this… casual,’ Udinaas said under his breath.
Onrack nodded. ‘I shall try, my friend.’
He is no dissembler, oh no. Less human than he looks, then. They all are, damn them. ‘You feel too much,’ Udinaas said, as warmly as he could manage, for he did not want the observation to sting.
But Onrack wiped at his cheeks and nodded, saying nothing.
So much for making this casual. ‘Oh, come with me, friend. Even Rud cannot withstand your gifts.’
And together, they approached Rud Elalle.
Silchas Ruin moved off to await his new charge, and observed the emotional farewells with eyes like knuckles of blood.
Mortal Sword Krughava reminded Tanakalian of his childhood. She could have stridden out from any of a dozen tales of legend he had listened to curled up beneath skins and furs, all those breathtaking adventures of great heroes pure of heart, bold and stalwart, who always knew who deserved the sharp end of their sword, and who only ever erred in their faith in others-until such time, at the tale’s dramatic climax, when the truth of betrayal and whatnot was revealed, and punishment soundly delivered. His grandfather always knew when to thicken the timbre of his voice, where to pause to stretch out suspense, when to whisper some awful revelation. All to delight the wide-eyed child as night drew in.
Her hair was the hue of iron. Her eyes blazed like clear winter skies, and her face could have been carved from the raw cliffs of Perish. Her physical strength was bound to a matching strength of will and neither seemed assailable by any force in the mortal world. It was said that, even though she was now in her fifth decade of life, no brother or sister of the Order could best her in any of a score of weapons: from skinning knife to mattock.
When Destriant Run’Thurvian had come to her, speaking of fraught dreams and fierce visions, it was as tinder-dry kindling to the furnace of Krughava’s inviolate sense of purpose, and, it turned out, her belief in her own imminent elevation to heroic status.
Few childhood convictions survived the grisly details of an adult’s sensibilities, and although Tanakalian accounted himself still young, still awaiting the temper of wisdom, he had already seen enough to comprehend the true horror waiting beneath the shining surface of the self-avowed hero known to all as the Mortal Sword of the Grey Helms of Perish. Indeed, he had come to suspect that no hero, no matter what the time or the circumstance, was anything like the tales told him so many years ago. Or perhaps it was his growing realization that so many so-called virtues, touted as worthy aspirations, possessed a darker side. Purity of heart also meant vicious intransigence. Unfaltering courage saw no sacrifice as too great, even if that meant leading ten thousand soldiers to their deaths. Honour betrayed could plunge into intractable insanity in the pursuit of satisfaction. Noble vows could drown a kingdom in blood, or crush an empire into dust. No, the true nature of heroism was a messy thing, a confused thing of innumerable sides, many of them ugly, and almost all of them terrifying.
So the Destriant, in his last breaths, had made a grim discovery. The Grey Helms were betrayed. If not now, then soon. Words of warning to awaken in the Mortal Sword all those blistering fires of outrage and indignation. And Run’Thurvian had expected the Shield Anvil to rush into Krughava’s cabin to repeat the dire message, to see the fires alight in her bright blue eyes.
Brothers and sisters! Draw your swords! The streams must run crimson in answer to our besmirched honour! Fight! The enemy is on all sides!
Well.
Not only had Tanakalian found himself unwilling to embrace the Destriant and his mortal pain, he was reluctant to launch such devastating frenzy upon the Grey Helms. The old man’s explanations, his reasons-the details-had been virtually non-existent. Essential information was lacking. A hero without purpose was like a blinded cat in a pit of hounds. Who could predict the direction of Krughava’s charge?
No, this needed sober contemplation. The private, meditative kind.
The Mortal Sword had greeted the dreadful news of the Destriant’s horrid death in pretty much the expected manner. A hardening of already hard features, eyes glaring like ice, the slow, building rise of questions that Tanakalian either could not hope to answer, or, as it turned out, was unwilling to answer. Questions and unknowns were the deadliest foes for one such as Mortal Sword Krughava, who thrived on certainty regardless of its relationship to reality. He could see how she was rocked, all purchase suddenly uncertain beneath her boots; and the way her left hand twitched-as if eager for the grip of her sword, the sure promise of the heavy iron blade; and the way she instinctively straightened-as if awaiting the weight of her chain surcoat-for this surely was news that demanded she wear armour. But he had struck her unawares, in her vulnerability, and this might well constitute its own version of betrayal, and he knew to be careful at that moment, to display for her a greater helplessness than she herself might be feeling; to unveil in his eyes and in his seemingly unconscious gestures enormous measures of need and need for reassurance. To, in short, fling himself like a child upon her stolid majesty.
If this made him into something despicable, a dissembler, a creature of intrigue and cunning manipulation, well, these were dire charges indeed. He would have to consider them, as objectively as possible, and withhold no judgement no matter how self-damning, no matter how condign.
The Shield Anvils of old, of course, would not have bothered. But absence of judgement in others could only emerge from absence of judgement in oneself, a refusal to challenge one’s own assumptions and beliefs. Imagine the atrocities such inhuman postures invited! No, that was a most presumptuous game and not one he would play.
Besides, giving the Mortal Sword what she needed most at that moment-all his apparently instinctive nudges to remind her of her noble responsibilities-was in fact the proper thing to do. It would serve no one to have Krughava display extreme distress or, Wolves forbid, outright panic. They were sailing into war, and they had lost their Destriant. Matters were fraught enough in bare facts alone.
She needed to steel herself, and she needed to be seen doing so by her Shield Anvil in this moment of privacy, and in the wake of presumed success she would then find the necessary confidence to repeat the stern ritual before the brothers and sisters of the Order.
But that latter scene must wait, for the time had come to greet the Bolkando emissaries, and Tanakalian was comforted in the solid crunch of his and her boots on the strand of crushed coral that served as a beach in this place of landing. One pace behind the Mortal Sword-and while curiosity and wonder at the Destriant’s absence might trouble the crew of the skiff and the captain and all the others aboard the Listral, now firmly anchored in the broad disc of a slow eddy in the river mouth, neither Krughava nor her Shield Anvil seemed to be displaying anything untoward as they set out for the elaborate field tent of the Bolkando. And such was their faith in their commanders that minds settled back into peaceful repose.
Could such observations be seen as cynical? He thought not. Comportment had value at times like these. There was no point in distressing the members of the Order, only to pointedly delay resolution until after this parley.
The air was sultry, heat seething up from the blinding white strand. The shattered carapaces of crabs were baked red by the sun, forming a ragged row at the fringe of the high-water line. Even the gulls looked beaten half-senseless where they perched on the bones of uprooted mangrove trunks.
The two Perish worked their way up the verge and set out across a silted floodplain that spread away in a broad fan from the river on their left. Bright green tufts of seasonal grasses dotted the expanse. A long column of Bolkando sentries stood lining the bank of the river, about twenty paces back from row upon row of short, tapering logs stacked in the mud. Oddly, those sentries, tall, dark-skinned and barbaric in their spotted hide cloaks, were all facing the river and so presenting their backs to the two Perish guests.
A moment later Tanakalian was startled to see some of those logs explode into thrashing motion. He tugged the eyeglass from its holster and slowed to examine the river bank through the magnifying lenses. Lizards. Enormous lizards-no wonder the Bolkando warriors have their backs to us!
If Krughava had noticed anything of the scene at the river bank, she gave no sign.
The Bolkando pavilion sprawled vast enough to encompass scores of rooms. The flaps of the main entrance were drawn back and bound to ornate wooden poles with gilt crow-hook clasps. The sunlight, filtering in through the weave of the canopy, transformed the spaces within into a cool, soft world of cream and gold, and both Tanakalian and Krughava halted once inside, startled by the blessed drop in temperature. The air, fanning across their faces, carried the scents of exotic, unknown spices.
Awaiting them was a functionary of some sort, dressed in deerskin and silvered mail so fine it wouldn’t stop a child’s dagger. The man, his face veiled, bowed from the waist and then gestured the two Perish through a corridor walled in silks. At the far end, perhaps fifteen paces along, stood two guards, again bedecked in long surcoats of the same ephemeral chain. Tucked into narrow belts were throwing knives, two on each hip. Leather sheaths, trimmed in slivers of bone, slung under the left arm, indicated larger weapons, cutlasses perhaps, but these were pointedly empty. The soldiers wore skullcap helms but no face-guards, and as he drew closer, Tanakalian was startled to see a complex skein of scarification on those grim faces, every etched seam stained with deep red dye.
Both guards stood at attention, and neither seemed to take any notice of the two guests. Tanakalian followed a step behind Krughava as she passed between them.
The chamber beyond was spacious. All the furniture within sight-and there was plenty of it-appeared to consist of articulating segments, as if capable of being folded flat or dismantled, yet this did nothing to diminish their delicate beauty. No wood within sight was bare of a glossy cream lacquer that made the Shield Anvil think of polished bone or ivory.
Two dignitaries awaited them, both seated along one side of a rectangular table on which wrought silver goblets had been arrayed, three before each chair. Servants stood behind the two figures, and two more were positioned beside the seats intended for the Perish.
The walls to the right and left held tapestries, each one bound to a wooden frame, although not tightly. Tanakalian’s attention was caught when he saw how the scenes depicted-intimate gardens devoid of people-seemed to flow with motion, and he realized that the tapestries were of the finest silks and the images themselves had been designed to awaken to currents of air. And so, to either side as they walked to the chairs, water flowed in stony beds, flower-heads wavered in gentle, unfelt breaths of wind, leaves fluttered, and now all the pungent scents riding the air brought to him in greater force this illusion of a garden. Even the light reaching down through the canopy was artfully dappled.
One such as Mortal Sword Krughava, of course, was inured, perhaps even indifferent, to these subtleties, and he was reminded, uncharitably, of a boar crashing through the brush as he followed her to the waiting seats.
The dignitaries both rose, the gesture of respect exquisitely timed to coincide with the arrival of their armoured, clanking guests.
Krughava was the first to speak, employing the trader tongue. ‘I am Krughava, Mortal Sword of the Grey Helms.’ Saying this, she tugged off her heavy gauntlets. ‘With me is Shield Anvil Tanakalian.’
The servants were all pouring a dark liquid from one of three decanters. When the two Bolkando representatives picked up their filled goblets, Krughava and Tanakalian followed suit.
The man on the left, likely in his seventh decade, his dark face etched with jewel-studded scars on brow and cheeks, replied in the same language. ‘Welcome, Mortal Sword and Shield Anvil. I am Chancellor Rava of Bolkando Kingdom, and I speak for King Tarkulf in this parley.’ He then indicated the much younger man at his side. ‘This is Conquestor Avalt, who commands the King’s Army.’
Avalt’s martial profession was plain to see. In addition to the same chain surcoat as worn by the guards in the corridor, he wore scaled vambraces and greaves. His brace of throwing knives, plain-handled and polished by long use, was accompanied by a short sword scabbarded under his right arm and a sheathed cutlass under his left. Strips of articulated iron spanned his hands from wrist to knuckle, and then continued on down the length of all four fingers, while an oblong piece of rippled iron protected the upper half of his thumbs. The Conquestor’s helm rested on the table, the skullcap sporting flared cheek-guards as well as a nose-bridge wrought in the likeness of a serpent with a strangely broad head. A plethora of scars adorned the warrior’s face, the pattern ruined by an old sword slash running diagonally down his right cheek, ending at the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. That the blow had been a vicious one was indicated by the visible dent in his cheekbone.
Once the introductions and acknowledgements had been made, the Bolkando raised their goblets, and everyone drank.
The liquid was foul and Tanakalian fought down a gag.
Seeing their expressions, the Chancellor smiled. ‘Yes, it is atrocious, is it not? Blood of the King’s fourteenth daughter, mixed with the sap of the Royal Hava tree-the very tree that yielded the spike thorn that opened her neck vein.’ He paused, and then added, ‘It is the Bolkando custom, in honour of a formal parley, that he sacrifice a child of his own to give proof to his commitment to the proceedings.’
Krughava set the goblet down with more force than was necessary, but said nothing.
Clearing his throat, Tanakalian said, ‘While we are honoured by the sacrifice, Chancellor, our custom holds that we must now grieve for the death of the King’s fourteenth child. We Perish do not let blood before parley, but I assure you, our word, when given, is similarly honour-bound. If you now seek some gesture of proof of that, then we are at a loss.’
‘None is necessary, my friends.’ Rava smiled. ‘The virgin child’s blood is within us now, is it not?’
When the servants filled the second of the three goblets arrayed before each of them, Tanakalian could sense Krughava stiffening. This time, however, the liquid ran clear, and from it wafted a delicate scent of blossoms.
The Chancellor, who could not have been blind to the sudden awkwardness in the reactions of the Perish, renewed his smile. ‘Nectar of the sharada flowers from the Royal Garden. You will find it most cleansing of palate.’
They drank and, indeed, the rush of sweet, crisp wine was a palpable relief.
‘The sharada,’ continued the Chancellor, ‘is fed exclusively from the still-births of the wives of the King, generation upon generation. The practice has not been interrupted in seven generations.’
Tanakalian made a soft sound of warning, sensing that Krughava-her comportment in blazing ruins-was moments from flinging the silver goblet into the Chancellor’s face. Quickly setting his own goblet down he reached for hers and, with only a little effort, pried it from her hand and carefully returned it to the tabletop.
The servants poured the last offering, which to Tanakalian’s eyes looked like simple water, although of course by now that observation was not as reassuring as he would have preferred. A final cleansing, yes, from the Royal Well that holds the bones of a hundred mouldering kings! Delicious!
‘Spring water,’ said the Chancellor, his gentle tones somewhat strained, ‘lest in our many words we should grow thirsty. Please, now, let us take our seats. Once our words are completed, we shall dine on the finest foods the kingdom has to offer.’
Sixth son’s testicles! Third daughter’s left breast!
Tanakalian could almost hear Krughava’s inner groan.
The sun was low when the final farewells were uttered and the two barbarians marched back down to their launch. Chancellor Rava and Conquestor Avalt escorted the Perish for precisely half the distance, where they waited until that clumsy skiff was pushed off the sands where it wallowed about before the rowers found their rhythm, and then the two dignitaries turned about and walked casually back towards the pavilion.
‘Curious, wasn’t it?’ Rava murmured. ‘This mad need of theirs to venture east.’
‘All warnings unheeded,’ Avalt said, shaking his head.
‘What will you say to old Tarkulf?’ the Chancellor asked.
The Conquestor shrugged. ‘To give the fools whatever they need, of course, with a minimum of haggling on price. I will also advise we hire a salvage fleet from Deal, to follow in the wake of their ships. At least as far as the edge of the Pelasiar Sea.’
Rava grunted. ‘Excellent notion, Avalt.’
They strolled into the pavilion, made their way down the corridor and returned to the main chamber, secure once more in the presence of servants whose eardrums had been punctured and tongues carved out-although there was always the chance of lip-reading spies, meaning of course that these four hapless creatures would have to die before the sun had set.
‘This land-based force of theirs to cross the kingdom with,’ Rava said, sitting down once more, ‘do you foresee any problem?’
Avalt collected the second decanter and poured some more wine. ‘No. These Perish place much value in honour. They will stay true to their word, at least on the march out. Those that make it back from the Wastelands-assuming any do-will be in no position to do much besides submitting to our will. We will strip the survivors of any valuables and sell them on as castrated slaves to the D’rhesh.’
Rava made a face. ‘So long as Tarkulf never finds out. We were caught completely unawares when those allies of the Perish ran headlong into our forces.’
Avalt nodded, recalling the sudden encounter during the long march towards the border of the Lether Empire. If the Perish were barbaric, then the Khundryl Burned Tears were barely human. But Tarkulf-damn his scaly crocodile hide-had taken a liking to them, and that was when this entire nightmare began. Nothing worse, in Avalt’s opinion, than a king deciding to lead his own army. Every night scores of spies and assassins had waged a vicious but mostly silent war in the camps. Every morning the nearby swamps were filled with corpses and squalling carrion birds. And there stood Tarkulf, breathing deep the night-chilled air and smiling at the cloudless sky-the raving, blessedly thick-headed fool.
Well, thank the nine-headed goddess the King was back in his palace, sucking the bones of frog legs, and the Burned Tears were encamped across the river-bed just beyond the northeast marches, dying of marsh fever and whatnot.
Rava drained his wine and then poured some more. ‘Did you see her face, Avalt?’
The Conquestor nodded. ‘Still-births… fourteenth daughter’s blood… you always had a fertile, if vaguely nasty imagination, Rava.’
‘Belt juice is an acquired taste, Avalt. Strangers rarely take to it. I admit, I was reluctantly impressed that neither one actually gagged on the vile stuff.’
‘Wait until it shows up in any new scars they happen to suffer.’
‘That reminds me-where was their Destriant? I fully expected their High Priest would have accompanied them.’
Rava shrugged. ‘For the moment, we cannot infiltrate their ranks, so that question cannot yet be answered. Once they come ashore and enter our kingdom, we’ll have plenty of camp followers and bearers and we will glean all we need to know.’
Avalt leaned back, and then shot the Chancellor a glance. ‘The fourteenth? Felash, yes? Why her, Rava?’
‘The bitch spurned my advances.’
‘Why didn’t you just steal her?’
Rava’s wrinkled face twisted. ‘I tried. Heed this warning, Conquestor, do not try getting past a Royal blood’s handmaidens-the cruellest assassins this world has ever seen. Word got back to me, of course… three days and four nights of the most despicable torture of my agents. And the bitches had the temerity to send me a bottle of their pickled eyeballs. Brazen!’
‘Have you retaliated?’ Avalt asked, taking a drink to disguise his shiver of horror.
‘Of course not. I overreached, casting my lust upon her. Lesson succinctly delivered. Heed that as well, my young warrior. Not every slap of the hand should ignite a messy feud.’
‘I heed everything you say, my friend.’
They drank again, each with his own thoughts.
Which was just as well.
The servant standing behind and to the right of the Chancellor was making peace with his personal god, having worked hard at exchanging the blink code with his fellow spy across the table from him, and well knowing that he was about to have his throat slit wide open. In the interval when the two snakes were escorting the Perish down to their boat, he had passed on to a plate-bearer a cogent account of everything that had been said in the chamber, and that woman was now preparing to set out this very night on her perilous return journey to the capital.
Perhaps Chancellor Rava, having overreached, was content to accept the grisly lesson of his temerity, as delivered by Lady Felash’s torturers upon his clumsy agents. The Lady, alas, was not.
It was said that Rava’s penis had all the lure of an eviscerated snake belly. The very thought of that worm creeping up her thigh was enough to send the fourteenth daughter of the King into a sizzling rage of indignation. No, she had only begun delivering her lessons to the hoary old Chancellor.
In the tiny kingdom of Bolkando, life was an adventure.
Yan Tovis was of a mind to complete the ghastly slaughter her brother had begun, although it was questionable whether she’d succeed, given the blistering, frantic fury of Pully and Skwish as they spat and cursed and danced out fragments of murder steps, sending streams of piss in every direction until the hide walls of the hut were wine-dark with the deluge. Twilight’s own riding boots were similarly splashed, although better suited to shed such effrontery. Her patience, however, was not so immune.
‘Enough of this!’
Two twisted faces snapped round to glare at her. ‘We must hunt him down!’ snarled Pully. ‘Blood curses! Rat poisons, thorn fish. Nine nights in pain! Nine an’ nine amore!’
‘He is banished,’ said Yan Tovis. ‘The matter is closed.’
Skwish coughed up phlegm and, snapping her head round, sent it splatting against the wall just to the left of Twilight. Growling, Yan Tovis reached for her sword.
‘Accident!’ shrieked Pully, lunging to collide with her sister, and then pushing the suddenly pale witch back.
Yan Tovis struggled against unsheathing the weapon. She hated getting angry, hated that loss of control, especially since once it was awakened in her, it was almost impossible to rein in. At this moment, she was at the very edge of rage. One more insult-by the Errant, an unguarded expression-and she would kill them both.
Pully had wits enough to recognize the threat, it was clear, since she continued pushing Skwish back, until they were both against the far wall, and then she pitched round, head bobbing. ‘R’grets, Queen, umbeliss r’grets. Grief, an’ I’m sure, grief, Highness, an’ it may be that shock has the sting a venom in these old veins. Pologies, fra me and Skwish. Terrible tale, terrible tale!’
Yan Tovis managed to release the grip of her longsword. In bleak tones she said, ‘We have no time for all this. The Shake has lost its coven, barring you two. And it has lost its Watch. There are but the three of us now. A queen and two witches. We need to discuss what we must do.’
‘An’ it says,’ said Pully, vigorously nodding, ‘an’ it says the sea is blind t’the shore an’ as blind to the Shake, and the sea, it does rises. It does rises, Highness. The sixth prophecy-’
‘Sixth prophecy!’ hissed Skwish, pushing her way round her sister and glaring at Yan Tovis. ‘What of th’fifteenth prophecy? The Night of Kin’s Blood! “And it rises and the shore will drown, all in a night tears into water and the world runs red! Kin upon kin, slaughter marks the Shake and the Shake shall drown! In the unbreathing air.” And what could be more unbreathing than the sea? Your brother has killed us all an us all!’
‘Banished,’ said Twilight, her tone flat. ‘I have no brother.’
‘We need a king!’ wailed Skwish, pulling at her hair.
‘We do not!’
The two witches froze, frightened by her ferocity, shocked by her words.
Yan Tovis drew a deep breath-there was no hiding the tremble in her hands, the extremity of her fury. ‘I am not blind to the sea,’ she said. ‘No-listen to me, both of you! Be silent and just listen! The water is indeed rising. That fact is undeniable. The shore drowns-even as half the prophecies proclaim. I am not so foolish as to ignore the wisdom of the ancient seers. The Shake are in trouble. It falls to us, to me, to you, to find a way through. For our people. Our feuding must end-but if you cannot set aside all that has happened, and do it now, then you leave me no choice but to banish you both.’ Even as she uttered the word ‘banish’ she saw-with no little satisfaction-that both witches had heard something different, something far more savage and final.
Skwish licked her withered lips, and then seemed to sag against the hut’s wall. ‘We muss flee th’shore, Queen.’
‘I know.’
‘We muss leave. Pu’a’call out t’the island, gather all the Shake. We muss an’ again we muss begin our last journey.’
‘As prophesized,’ whispered Pully. ‘Our lass journey.’
‘Yes. Now the villagers are burying the bodies-they need you to speak the closing prayers. And then I shall see to the ships-I will go myself back out to Third Maiden Isle-we need to arrange an evacuation.’
‘Of the Shake only y’mean!’
‘No, Pully. That damned island is going to be inundated. We take everyone with us.’
‘Scummy prizzners!’
‘Murderers, slackers, dirt-spitters, hole-plungers!’
Yan Tovis glared at the two hags. ‘Nonetheless.’
Neither one could hold her gaze, and after a moment Skwish started edging towards the doorway. ‘Prayers an’ yes, prayers. Fra th’dead coven, fra all th’Shake an’ th’shore.’
Once Skwish had darted out of sight, Pully sketched a ghastly curtsy and then hastened after her sister.
Alone once more, Yan Tovis collapsed down into the saddle-stool that passed for her throne. She so wanted to weep. In frustration, in outrage and in anguish. No, she wanted to weep for herself. The loss of a brother-again-again.
Oh. Damn you, Yedan.
Even more distressing, she thought she understood his motivations. In one blood-drenched night, the Watch had obliterated a dozen deadly conspiracies, each one intended to bring her down. How could she hate him for that?
But I can. For you no longer stand at my side, brother. Now, when the Shore drowns. Now, when I need you most.
Well, it served no one for the Queen to weep. True twilight was not a time for pity, after all. Regrets, perhaps, but not pity.
And if all the ancient prophecies were true?
Then her Shake, broken, decimated and lost, were destined to change the world.
And I must lead them. Flanked by two treacherous witches. I must lead my people-away from the shore.
With the arrival of darkness, two dragons lifted into the night sky, one bone-white, the other seeming to blaze with some unquenchable fire beneath its gilt scales. They circled once round the scatter of flickering hearths that marked the Imass encampment, and then winged eastward.
In their wake a man stood on a hill, watching until they were lost to his sight. After a time a second figure joined him.
If they wept the darkness held that truth close to its heart.
From somewhere in the hills an emlava coughed in triumph, announcing to the world that it had made a kill. Hot blood soaked the ground, eyes glazed over, and something that had lived free lived no more.
THE SUN WALKS FAR
RESTLO FARAN
Your kisses make my lips numb.’
‘It’s the cloves,’ Shurq Elalle replied, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
‘Got a toothache?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Scanning the clothing littering the floor, she spied her leggings and reached over to collect them. ‘You marching soon?’
‘We are? I suppose so. The Adjunct’s not one to let us know her plans.’
‘Commander’s privilege.’ She rose to tug the leggings up, frowning as she wriggled-was she getting fat? Was that even possible?
‘Now there’s a sweet dance. I’m of a mind to just lean forward here and-’
‘I wouldn’t do that, love.’
‘Why not?’
You’ll get yourself a numb face. ‘Ah, a woman needs her secrets.’ Well, this one does, at least.
‘I’m also of a mind to stay right here,’ the Malazan said.
Leaning far over to lace up her boots, Shurq scowled. ‘It’s not even midnight, Captain. I wasn’t planning on a quiet evening at home.’
‘You’re insatiable. Why, if I was half the man I’d like to be…’
She smiled. It was hard being annoyed with this one. She’d even grown used to that broad waxed moustache beneath his misshapen nose. But he was right about her in ways even he couldn’t imagine. Insatiable indeed. She tugged on the deerhide jerkin and tightened the straps beneath her breasts.
‘Careful, you don’t want to constrict your breathing, Shurq. Hood knows, the fashions hereabouts all seem designed to emasculate women-would that be the right word? Emasculate? Everything seems designed to imprison you, your spirit, as if a woman’s freedom was some kind of threat.’
‘All self-imposed, sweetie,’ she replied, clasping her weapon belt and then collecting her cape from where it lay in a heap on the floor. She shook it out. ‘Take ten women, all best friends. Watch one get married. Before you know it she’s top of the pile, sitting smug and superior on her marital throne. And before long every woman in that gaggle’s on the hunt for a husband.’ She swung the cape behind her and fastened the clasps at her shoulders. ‘And Queen Perfect Bitch sits up there nodding her approval.’
‘History? My my. Anyway, that doesn’t last.’
‘Oh?’
‘Sure. It’s sweet blossoms until her husband runs off with one of those best friends.’
She snorted and then cursed. ‘Damn you, I told you not to make me laugh.’
‘Nothing will crack the perfection of your face, Shurq Elalle.’
‘You know what they say-age stalks us all, Ruthan Gudd.’
‘Some old hag hunting you down? No sign of that.’
She made her way to the door. ‘You’re lovely, Ruthan, even when you’re full of crap. My point was, most women don’t like each other. Not really, not in the general sense. If one ends up wearing chains, she’ll paint them gold and exhaust herself scheming to see chains on every other woman. It’s our innate nasty streak. Lock up when you leave.’
‘As I said-I intend staying the night.’
Something in his tone made her turn round. Her immediate reaction was to simply kick him out, if only to emphasize the fact that he was a guest, not an Errant-damned member of the household. But she’d heard a whisper of iron beneath the man’s words. ‘Problems in the Malazan compound, Captain?’
‘There’s an adept in the marines…’
‘Adept at what? Should you introduce him to me?’
His gaze flicked away, and he slowly edged up in the bed to rest his back against the headboard. ‘Our version of a caster of the Tiles. Anyway, the Adjunct has ordered a… a casting. Tonight. Starting about now.’
‘And?’
The man shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m just superstitious, but the idea’s given me a state of the nerves.’
No wonder you were so energetic. ‘And you want to stay as far away as possible.’
‘Aye.’
‘All right, Ruthan. I should be back before dawn, I hope. We can breakfast together.’
‘Thanks, Shurq. Oh, have fun and don’t wear yourself out.’
Little chance of that, love. ‘Get your rest,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Come the morning you’ll need it.’
Always give them something before leaving. Something to feed anticipation, since anticipation so well served to blind a man to certain obvious discrepancies in, uh, appetite. She descended the stairs. Cloves. Ridiculous. Another visit to Selush was required. Shurq Elalle’s present level of maintenance was proving increasingly complicated, not to mention egregiously expensive.
Stepping outside, she was startled as a huge figure loomed out from the shadows of an alcove. ‘Ublala! Shades of the Empty Throne, you startled me. What are you doing here?’
‘Who is he?’ the giant demanded. ‘I’ll kill him for you if you like.’
‘No, I don’t like. Have you been following me around again? Listen, I’ve explained all this before, haven’t I?’
Ublala Pung’s gaze dropped to his feet. He mumbled something inaudible.
‘What?’
‘Yes. I said “yes”, Captain. Oh, I want to run away!’
‘I thought Tehol had you inducted into the Palace Guard,’ she said, hoping to distract him.
‘I don’t like polishing boots.’
‘Ublala, you only have to do that once every few days-or you can hire someone-’
‘Not my boots. Everyone else’s.’
‘The other guards’?’
He nodded glumly.
‘Ublala, walk with me-I will buy you a drink. Or three.’ They set off up the street towards the canal bridge. ‘Listen, those guards are just taking advantage of your kindness. You don’t have to polish their boots.’
‘I don’t?’
‘No. You’re a guardsman. If Tehol knew about it… well, you should probably tell your comrades in the Guard that you’re going to have a word with your best friend, the King.’
‘He is my best friend, isn’t he? He gave me chicken.’
They crossed the bridge, waving at swarming sludge flies, and made their way on to an avenue flanking one of the night markets. More than the usual number of Malazan soldiers wandering about, she noted. ‘Exactly. Chicken. And a man like Tehol won’t share chicken with just anyone, will he?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘No no, Ublala, trust me on this. You’ve got friends in high places. The King, the Chancellor, the Ceda, the Queen, the King’s Sword. Any one of them would be delighted to share chicken with you, and you can bet they wouldn’t be so generous with any of your fellow guards.’
‘So I don’t have to polish boots?’
‘Just your own, or you can hire someone to do that.’
‘What about stitching tears in their uniforms? Sharpening their knives and swords? And what about washing their underclothes-’
‘Stop! None of that-and now especially I want you to promise to talk to your friends. Any one of them. Tehol, Bugg, Brys, Janath. Will you do that for me? Will you tell them what the other guards are making you do?’
‘All right.’
‘Good, those bastard comrades of yours in the Guard are in for some serious trouble. Now, here’s a suitable bar-they use benches instead of chairs, so you won’t be getting stuck like last time.’
‘Good. I’m thirsty. You’re a good friend, Shurq. I want to sex you.’
‘How sweet. But just so you understand, lots of men sex me and you can’t let that bother you, all right?’
‘All right.’
‘Ublala-’
‘Yes, all right, I promise.’
Kisswhere sat slumped in the saddle as the troop rode at a slow trot towards the city of Letheras. She would not glance across to her sister, Sinter, lest the guilt she was feeling simply overwhelm her, a clawing, stabbing clutch at her soul, dragging it into oblivion.
She’d known all along Sinter would follow her anywhere, and when the recruiter train rolled into their village in the jungles of Dal Hon, well, it had been just one more test of that secret conviction. The worst of it was, joining the marines had been little more than a damned whim. Spurred by a bit of a local mess, the spiralling inward of suspicions that would find at its heart none other than Kisswhere herself-the cursed ‘other’ woman who dwelt like a smiling shadow unseen on the edge of a family-oh, she could have weathered the scandal, with just one more toss of her head and a few careless gestures. It wasn’t that she’d loved the man-all the forest spirits well knew that an adulterous man wasn’t worth a woman’s love, for he lived only for himself and would make no sacrifice in the name of his wife’s honour, nor that of their children. No, her motives had been rather less romantic.
Boredom proved a cruel shepherd-the switch never stopped snapping. A hunger for the forbidden added yet another dark shade to the cast of her impulses. She’d known all along that there would come a time when they’d drive her from the village, when she’d be outcast for the rest of her life. Such banishment was no longer a death sentence-the vast world beyond the jungle now opened a multitude of escape routes. The Malazan Empire was vast, holding millions of citizens on three continents. Yes, she knew she would have no difficulty vanishing within that blessed anonymity. And besides, she knew she’d always have company. Sinter-so capable, so practical-was the perfect companion for all her adventures. And oh, the White Jackal well knew, her sister was a beauty and together they’d never have to fear an absence of male company.
The recruiters seemed to offer a quick escape, fortuitous in its timing, and were happy to pay all travel expenses. So she’d grasped hold of the hyena’s tail.
And sure enough, sister Sinter was quick to follow.
It should have ended there. But Badan Gruk was whipped into the rushing current of their wake. The fool had fallen for Sinter.
If she’d bothered putting any thought behind her decisions, she would have comprehended the terrible disaster she had dragged them all into. The Malazan marines demanded a service of ten years, and Kisswhere had simply smiled and shrugged and then had signed on for the long count, telling herself that, as soon as she tired of the game, she’d just desert the ranks and, once more, vanish into anonymity.
Alas, Sinter’s nature was a far tighter weave. What she took inside she kept, and a vow once made was held to, right down to her dying breath.
It did not take long for Kisswhere to realize the mistake she’d made. She couldn’t very well run off and abandon her sister, who’d then gone and showed enough of her talents to be made a sergeant. And although Kisswhere was more or less indifferent to Badan Gruk’s fate-the man so wretchedly ill cast as a soldier, still more so as a squad sergeant-it had become clear to her that Sinter had tightened some knots between them. Just as Sinter had followed Kisswhere, so Badan Gruk had followed Sinter. But the grisly yoke of responsibility proved not at the core of the ties between Sinter and Badan Gruk. There was something else going on. Did her sister in fact love the fool? Maybe.
Life had been so much easier back in the village, despite all the sneaking round and frantic hip-locking in the bushes up from the river-at least then Kisswhere was on her own, and no matter what happened to her, her sister would have been free of it. And safe.
Could she take it all back…
This jaunt among the marines was likely to kill them all. It had stopped being fun long ago. The horrid voyage on those foul transports, all the way to Seven Cities. The march. Y’Ghatan. More sea voyages. Malaz City. The coastal invasion on this continent-the night on the river-chains, darkness, rotting cells and no food-
No, Kisswhere could not look across at Sinter, and so witness her broken state. Nor could she meet Badan Gruk’s tortured eyes, all that raw grief and anguish.
She wished she had died in that cell.
She wished they had taken the Adjunct’s offer of discharge once the outlawing was official. But Sinter would have none of that. Of course not.
They were riding in darkness, but Kisswhere sensed when her sister suddenly pulled up. Soldiers immediately behind them veered aside to avoid the horses colliding. Grunts, curses, and then Badan Gruk’s worried voice. ‘Sinter? What’s wrong?’
Sinter twisted in her saddle. ‘Is Nep with us? Nep Furrow?’
‘No,’ Badan replied.
Kisswhere saw real fear sizzle awake in her sister, and her own heart started pounding in answer. Sinter had sensitivities-
‘In the city! We need to hurry-’
‘Wait,’ croaked Kisswhere. ‘Sinter, please-if there’s trouble there, let them handle it-’
‘No-we have to ride!’
And suddenly she drove heels into her horse’s flanks and the beast lunged forward. A moment later and everyone was following, Kisswhere in their company. Her head spun-she thought she might well be flung from her mount-too weak, too weary-
But her sister. Sinter. Her damned sister, she was a marine, now. She was one of the Adjunct’s very own-and though that bitch had no idea, it was soldiers like Sinter-the quiet ones, the insanely loyal ones-who were the iron spine of the Bonehunters.
Malice flashed through Kisswhere, ragged as a flag at midnight. Badan knows it. I know it. Tavore-you’ve stolen my sister. And that, you cold bitch, I will not accept!
I want her back, damn you.
I want my sister back.
‘So where is the fool?’
Fist Keneb shrugged. ‘Arbin prefers the company of heavies. The soldiers with dirt on their noses and dust storms in their skulls. The Fist plays knuckles with them, gets drunk with them, probably sleeps with some of them, for that matter.’
Blistig grunted as he sat down. ‘And this is the proper way to earn respect?’
‘That depends, I suppose,’ Keneb said. ‘If Arbin wins at knuckles, drinks everyone else under the table, and wears out every lover brave enough to share a bed, then maybe it works.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Keneb. A Fist needs to keep distant. Bigger than life, and meaner besides.’ He poured himself another tankard of the foamy local beer. ‘Glad you’re sitting here, I’d imagine.’
‘I didn’t even belong at the last reading. I was there in Grub’s place, that’s all.’
‘Now the boy’s got to swallow his own troubles.’ Blistig leaned forward-they had found an upscale tavern, overpriced and so not likely to draw any Malazan soldiers below the rank of captain, and for a time over the past weeks the Fists had gathered here, mostly to drink and complain. ‘What’s one of those readings like? Y’hear all sorts of rumours. People spitting up newts or snakes slithering out of their ears, and woe betide any baby born at that moment anywhere in the district-three eyes and forked tongues.’ He shook his head, drank down three quick mouthfuls, and then wiped at his mouth. ‘It’s said that whatever happened at that last one-it made up the Adjunct’s mind, about everything that followed. The whole night in Malaz City. All skirling out with the cards. Even Kalam’s murder-’
‘We don’t know he was murdered,’ cut in Keneb.
‘You were there, in that cabin,’ Blistig insisted. ‘What happened?’
Keneb glanced away, suddenly wanting something stronger than beer. He found that he was unaccountably chilled, clammy as if fevered. ‘It’s about to begin,’ he muttered. ‘Touched once…’
‘Anybody with neck hairs has left the barracks, did you know that? The whole damned army has scattered into the city tonight. You’re scaring me, Keneb.’
‘Relax,’ he heard himself reply. ‘I spat up only one newt, as I recall. Here comes Madan.’
Deadsmell had hired a room for the night, fourth floor with a balcony and quick access to the roof. A damned month’s wages, but he had a view of the temporary headquarters-well, its squat dome at any rate, and at the far end of the inn’s roof it was a short drop to an adjoining building, a quick sprint across its length and down to an alley not three streets from the river. Best he could do, all things considered.
Masan Gilani had arrived with a cask of ale and a loaf of bread, though the only function Deadsmell could foresee for the bread was to be used to soak up vomit-gods knew he wasn’t hungry. Ebron, Shard, Cord, Limp and Crump then crowded in, arms loaded with dusty bottles of wine. The mage was deathly pale and shaky. Cord, Shard and Limp looked frightened, while Crump was grinning like a man struck senseless by a fallen tree branch.
Scowling at them all, Deadsmell lifted his own knapsack from the floor and set it with a thump on the lone table. At the sound Ebron’s head snapped round.
‘Hood take you, necromancer, you and your stinking magics. If I’d a known-’
‘You weren’t even invited,’ Deadsmell said in a growl, ‘and you can leave any time. And what’s that ex-Irregular doing with that driftwood?’
‘I’m going to carve something!’ Crump said with a bright toothy smile, like a horse begging an apple. ‘Maybe a big fish! Or a troop of horse-soldiers! Or a giant salamander-though that could be dangerous, oh, too dangerous, unless’n I give its tail a plug so you can pull it off-and a hinged jaw that goes up and down and makes laughing sounds. Why I could-’
‘Stuff it in your mouth, is what you could do,’ Deadsmell cut in. ‘Better yet, I’ll do it for you, sapper.’
The smile faltered. ‘No need to be mean and all. We all come here to do stuff. Sergeant Cord and Corporal Shard are gonna drink, they said, and pray to the Queen of Dreams. Limp’s gonna sleep and Ebron’s gonna make protection magics and all.’ His equine eyes swivelled to Masan Gilani-who was slumped in the lone cushy chair, legs outstretched, lids lowered, fingers laced together on her lap-and Crump’s long jaw slowly sagged. ‘And she’s gonna be beautiful,’ he whispered.
Sighing, Deadsmell untied the pack’s leather strings and began lifting out various small dead creatures. A flicker bird, a black-furred rat, an iguana, and a strange blue-skinned, big-eyed thing that might be a bat or a shell-less turtle-he’d found the fox-sized creature hanging by its three-tipped tail on a stall in the market. The old woman had cackled when he’d purchased it, a rather ominous reaction, as far as Deadsmell was concerned. Even so, he had a decent enough-
Glancing up, he saw that everyone was staring at him. ‘What?’
Crump’s frown was darkening his normally insipid face into something… alarming. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You’re not, by any chance, you’re not a… a… a necromancer? Are you?’
‘I didn’t invite you here, Crump!’
Ebron was sweating. ‘Listen, sapper-you, Crump Bole or whatever your name is. You’re not a Mott Irregular no longer, remember that. You’re a soldier. A Bonehunter. You take orders from Cord, Sergeant Cord, right?’
Clearing his throat, Cord spoke up, ‘That’s right, Crump. And, uh, I’m ordering you to, uh, to carve.’
Crump blinked, licked his lips, and then nodded at his sergeant. ‘Carve, right. What do you want me to carve, Sergeant? Go on, anything! Except’n not no necromancers, all right?’
‘Sure. How about everybody here in this room, except Deadsmell, of course. But everyone else. Uhm, riding horses, galloping horses. Horses galloping over flames.’
Crump wiped at his lips and shot Masan Gilani a shy glance. ‘Her, too, Sergeant?’
‘Go ahead,’ Masan Gilani drawled. ‘Can’t wait to see it. Don’t forget to include yourself, Crump. On the biggest horse.’
‘Yah, with a giant sword in one hand and a cusser in the other!’
‘Perfect.’
Deadsmell returned to his menagerie of dead animals, arranging them in a circle, head to tail, on the tabletop.
‘Gods, those stink,’ Limp said. ‘Can’t you dip ’em in scented oils or something?’
‘No, I can’t. Now shut up everyone. This is about saving all our skins, right? Even yours, Ebron, as if Rashan’s going to help one whit tonight. To keep Hood from this room is down to me. So, no more interruptions, unless you want to kill me-’
Crump’s head bobbed up. ‘That sounds perfect-’
‘And everyone else, too, including you, Crump.’
‘That doesn’t sound so perfect.’
‘Carve,’ Cord ordered.
The sapper bent his head back down to the task once more, the tip of his tongue poking out like a botfly grub coming up for air.
Deadsmell fixed his attention on the array of carcasses. The fox-sized bat turtle thing seemed to be staring up at him with one giant doe eye. He fought down a shiver, the motion becoming a flinch when the dead iguana languidly blinked. ‘Gods below,’ he moaned. ‘High House Death has arrived.’
Corks started popping.
‘We’re being followed.’
‘Wha? Now Urb, tha’s your shadow, is all. We’re the ones doin’ th’folloan, right? I ain’t ’lowing no two-faced corporal a mine t’go awol-now, we turn leff ’ere-’
‘Right, Hellian. You just turned right.’
‘Tha’s only cos we’re side by side, meanin’ you see it diffren. It was leff for me and if it’s right for you tha’s your probbem. Now look, izzat a broffle? He went up a broffle? Wha kinda corporal o’ mine iz he? Whas wrong wi’ Mlazan women, hey? We get ’im an’ I wan you t’cut off his balls, okay? Put an end t’this onct and ferawl.’
When they arrived at the narrow stairs tucked between two broad, antiquated entrances, Hellian reached out with both hands, as if to grasp the rails. But there were no rails and so she fell flat on to the steps, audibly cracking her chin. ‘Ow! Damn reels broke right off in my hands!’ And she groped and clutched with her fingers. ‘Turned t’dust too, see?’
Urb leaned closer to make sure her sodden brains weren’t leaking out-not that Hellian would notice-and was relieved to see nothing more than a minor scrape on the underside of her chin. While she struggled to her feet, patting at her bleached hair, he glanced back once more up the street they had just come down. ‘It’s Skulldeath doing the lurking, Hellian-’
She reeled round, blinking owlishly. ‘Squealdeath? Him agin?’ She made more ineffectual adjustments to her hair. ‘Oh, he’s a darling thing, izzn’t he? Wants to climb inta my knickers-’
‘Hellian,’ Urb groaned. ‘He’s made that desire plain enough-he wants to marry you-’
She glared. ‘No no, ijit. He wants to wear ’em. All th’rest he don’t know nuffin about. He’s only done it wi’boys, y’see. Kept trying t’get on his stomach under me or me doin’ th’same under ’im wi’ the wrong ’ole showin’ an’ we end up wrasslin’ instead a other more fun stuff. Anyway, les go an’ get our corporal, affore he d’scends into cruption.’
Frowning to hide his discomfiture, Urb followed Hellian’s swaying behind up the stairs. ‘Soldiers use whores all the time, Hellian-’
‘It’s their innocence, Urb, that a right an’ proper sergeant needs t’concern ’erself wiff.’
‘They’re grown men, Hellian-they ain’t so innocent-’
‘Who? I wuz talkin’ bout my corporal, bout Touchy Breffless. The way he’s always talking wi’imself no woman’s gong go near ’im. Bein’ insane ain’t a quality women look for, y’know. In their men, I mean.’ She waved vaguely at the door in front of her. ‘Which iz why they’s now tryin’ whores, an’ I ain’t gonna allow it.’ She tried a few times to grasp the latch, finally succeeded, and then twisted it in both directions, up and down, up and down. ‘Gor b’low! Who invented this piece a crud?’
Urb reached past her and pushed open the door.
Hellian stepped in, still trying to work the latch. ‘Don’t worry, Urb, I’ll get it right-jus’ watch an’ learn.’
He edged past her and paused in the narrow hallway, impressed by the extraordinary wallpaper, which seemed to consist of gold leaf, poppy-red velvet and swaths of piebald rabbit skins all in a crazed pattern that unaccountably made him want to empty his coin purse. And the black wooden floor, polished and waxed until it seemed almost liquid, as if they were walking upon glass beneath which waited the torment of unending oblivion-he wondered if the whole thing weren’t ensorcelled.
‘Where you goin?’ Hellian demanded.
‘You opened the door,’ Urb said. ‘And asked me to take point.’
‘I did? I did? Take point-in a broffle?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Okay, then get your weapon out, Urb, in case we get jumped.’
He hesitated, and then said, ‘I’m a fast draw, Hellian.’
‘Not what I seen,’ she said behind him.
Confused, he paused again. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Meanin’ you need some lessons in cruption, I’d say.’ She straightened up, but that wasn’t so straight, since she used a wall to manage the posture. ‘Unless o’course it’s Squatdeath y’want. Not that you’d fit in my knickers, though. Hey, are these baby pelts?’
‘Rabbit. I ain’t interested in Skulldeath, Hellian. And no, I don’t want to wear your knickers-’
‘Listen you two-’ someone snapped from behind a door to one side, ‘quit that foreign jabbering and find a room!’
Face darkening, Hellian reached for her sword, but the scabbard was empty. ‘Who stole-you, Urb, gimme your sword, damn you! Or bust down this door-yah, this one ’ere. Bust it down the middle. Use your head-smash it!’
Instead of attempting any of that, Urb took Hellian’s arm and guided her farther down the corridor. ‘They’re not in that one,’ he said, ‘that man was speaking Letherii.’
‘That was Letherii? That foreign jabber? No wonder this city’s fulla ijits, talking like that.’
Urb moved up alongside another door and leaned close to listen. He grunted. ‘Voices. Negotiating. This could be the one.’
‘Kick it down, bash it, find us a battering ram or a cusser or an angry Napan-’
Urb flipped the latch and shoved the door back and then he stepped inside.
Two corporals, mostly undressed, and two women, one stick thin, the other grossly fat, all staring at him with wide eyes. Urb pointed at Brethless and then at Touchy. ‘You two, get your clothes on. Your sergeant’s in the corridor-’
‘No I ain’t!’ and Hellian reeled into the room, eyes blazing. ‘He hired two of ’em! Cruption! Scat, hags, afore I cut my leg off!’
The thin one spat something and suddenly had a knife in a hand, waving it threateningly as she advanced on Hellian. The fat prostitute picked up a chair and lumbered forward a step behind her.
Urb chopped one hand down to crack on the knife-wielder’s wrist-sending the weapon clattering on the floor-and used his other to grasp the fat woman’s face and push her back. Squealing, the monstrous whore fell on to her ample backside-the room shook with the impact. Clutching her bruised forearm, the skinny one darted past and out the door, shrieking.
The corporals were scrambling with their clothes, faces frantic with worry.
‘Get a refund!’ Hellian bellowed. ‘Those two should be paying you! Not t’other way round! Hey, who called in the army?’
The army, as it turned out, was the establishment’s six pleasure guards, armed with clubs, but the fight in the room only turned nasty when the fat woman waded back in, chair swinging.
Standing near the long table, Brys Beddict took a cautious sip of the foreign ale, bemused at the motley appearance of the reading’s participants, the last of whom arrived half-drunk with a skittish look to his eyes. An ex-priest of some sort, he surmised.
They were a serious, peculiar lot, these Malazans. With a talent for combining offhand casual rapport with the grimmest of subject matter, a careless repose and loose discipline with savage professionalism. He was, he admitted, oddly charmed.
At the same time, the Adjunct was somewhat more challenging in that respect. Tavore Paran seemed virtually devoid of social graces, despite her noble ancestry-which should have schooled her in basic decorum; as indeed her high military rank should have smoothed all the jagged edges of her nature. The Adjunct was awkward in command and clumsy in courtesy, as if consistently distracted by some insurmountable obstacle.
Brys could imagine that such an obstacle might well be found in the unruliness of her legions. And yet her officers and soldiers displayed not a flicker of insubordination, not a single eye-roll behind her back, nor the glare of daggers cast sidelong. There was loyalty, yes, but it was strangely flavoured and Brys was still unable to determine its nature.
Whatever the source of the Adjunct’s distraction, she was clearly finding no release from its strictures, and Brys thought that the burden was slowly overwhelming her.
Most of the others were strangers to him, or at best vaguely familiar faces attesting to some past incidental encounter. He knew the High Mage, Ben Adaephon Delat, known to the other Malazans as Quick Ben-although to Brys that name seemed a version lacking in the respect a Ceda surely deserved. He knew Hedge and Fiddler as well, both of whom had been among the soldiers first into the palace.
Others in the group startled him. Two children, a boy and a girl, and a Tiste Andii woman, mature in years and manner and clearly put out by her inclusion in this ragged assembly. All the rest, with the exception of the ex-priest, were officers or soldiers in the Adjunct’s army. Two gold-skinned, fair-haired marines-neither young-named Gesler and Stormy. A nondescript man named Bottle who couldn’t be much older than two decades; and Tavore’s aide, the startlingly beautiful, tattooed officer, Lostara Yil, who moved with a dancer’s grace and whose exotic features were only tempered by an air of ineffable sorrow.
Soldiers lived difficult lives, Brys well knew. Friends lost in horrible, sudden ways. Scars hardening over the years, ambitions crushed and dreams set aside. The world of possibilities diminished and betrayals threatened from every shadow. A soldier must place his or her trust in the one who commands, and by extension in that which the commander serves in turn. In the case of these Bonehunters, Brys understood that they and their Adjunct had been betrayed by their empire’s ruler. They were adrift, and it was all Tavore could do to hold the army together: that they had launched an invasion of Lether was in itself extraordinary. Divisions and brigades-in his own kingdom’s history-had mutinied in response to commands nowhere near as extreme. For this reason alone, Brys held the Adjunct in true respect, and he was convinced that she possessed some hidden quality, a secret virtue, that her soldiers well recognized and responded to-and Brys wondered if he would come to see it for himself, perhaps this very night.
Although he stood at ease, curious and moderately attentive, sipping his ale, he could well sense the burgeoning tension in the room. No one was happy, least of all the sergeant who would awaken the cards-the poor man looked as bedraggled as a dog that had just swum the breadth of River Lether, his eyes red-shot and bleak, his face battered as if he had been in a brawl.
The young soldier named Bottle was hovering close to Fiddler, and, employing-perhaps for Brys’s benefit-the trader tongue, he spoke to the sergeant in a low tone. ‘Time for a Rusty Gauntlet?’
‘What? A what?’
‘That drink you invented last reading-’
‘No, no alcohol. Not this time. Leave me alone. Until I’m ready.’
‘How will we know when you’re ready?’ Lostara Yil asked him.
‘Just sit down, in any order, Captain. You’ll know.’ He shot the Adjunct a beseeching look. ‘There’s too much power here. Way too much. I’ve no idea what I’ll bring down. This is a mistake.’
Tavore’s pinched features somehow managed to tauten. ‘Sometimes, Sergeant, mistakes are necessary.’
Hedge coughed abruptly, and then waved a hand. ‘Sorry, Adjunct, but you’re talking to a sapper there. Mistakes mean we turn into red mist. I take it you’re referring to other kinds, maybe? I hope?’
The Adjunct swung to Gesler’s oversized companion. ‘Adjutant Stormy, how does one turn an ambush?’
‘I ain’t no adjutant any more,’ the bearded man growled.
‘Answer my question.’
The huge man glared, then, seeing as it elicited no reaction whatsoever from the Adjunct, he grunted and then said, ‘You spring it and then charge ’em, hard and fast. Y’climb down the bastards’ throats.’
‘But first the ambush must be sprung.’
‘Unless y’can sniff ’em out beforehand, aye.’ His small eyes fixed on her. ‘We gonna sniff or charge tonight, Adjunct?’
Tavore made no reply to that, facing the Tiste Andii woman instead. ‘Sandalath Drukorlat, please sit. I understand your reluctance-’
‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ Sandalath snapped.
‘History,’ muttered the ex-priest.
A long moment of silence, and then the girl named Sinn giggled, and everyone jumped. Seeing this, Brys frowned. ‘Excuse me for interrupting, but is this the place for children?’
Quick Ben snorted. ‘The girl’s a High Mage, Brys. And the boy’s… well, he’s different.’
‘Different?’
‘Touched,’ said Banaschar. ‘And not in a good way, either. Please, Adjunct, call it off. Send Fiddler back to the barracks. There’s too many here-the safest readings involve a few people, not a mob like this one. Your poor reader’s gonna start bleeding from the ears halfway through.’
‘He’s right,’ said Quick Ben, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘Fid’s ugly enough without earrings of blood and whatnot.’
The Adjunct faced Fiddler. ‘Sergeant, you know my desire in this-more than anyone else here, you also know my reasons. Speak now honestly, are you capable of this?’
All eyes fixed on the sapper, and Brys could see how everyone-excepting perhaps Sinn-was silently imploring Fiddler to snap shut the lid on this dread box. Instead, he grimaced, staring at the floor, and said, ‘I can do it, Adjunct. That’s not the problem. It’s… unexpected guests.’
Brys saw the ex-priest flinch at that, and a sudden, hot flood of alarm rose through the King’s Sword. He stepped forward-
But the Deck was in Fiddler’s hands and he was standing at one end of the table-even though not everyone had taken seats-and three cards clattered and slid on the polished surface.
The reading had begun.
Standing in the gloom outside the building, the Errant staggered back, as if buffeted by invisible fists. He tasted blood in his mouth, and hissed in fury.
In the main room of her small home, Seren Pedac’s eyes widened and then she shouted in alarm as Pinosel and Ursto Hoobutt ignited into flames where they sat-and she would have lunged forward if not for Bugg’s staying hand. A hand sheathed in sweat.
‘Do not move,’ the old man gasped. ‘Those fires burn nothing but them-’
‘Nothing but them? What does that mean?’
It was clear that the two ancient gods had ceased being aware of their surroundings-she could see their eyes staring out through the blue flames, fixed upon nothing.
‘Their essence,’ Bugg whispered. ‘They are being devoured… by the power-the power awakened.’ He was trembling as if close to incapacitation, sweat streaming like oil down his face.
Seren Pedac edged back and placed her hands upon her swollen belly. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding hard. ‘Who assails them?’
‘They stand between your child and that power-as do I, Acquitor. We… we can withstand. We must-’
‘Who is doing this?’
‘Not malign-just vast. Abyss below, this is no ordinary caster of the Tiles!’ She sat, terrified now, her fear for her unborn son white-hot in her soul, and stared at Pinosel and Ursto Hoobutt-who burned and burned, and beneath the flames they were melting like wax.
In a crowded room on the top floor of an inn, a flurry of once-dead beasts now scampered, snarled and snapped jaws. The black-furred rat, trailing entrails, had suddenly fallen upward to land on the ceiling, claws digging into the plaster, intestines dangling like tiny sausages in a smoke-house. The blue bat-turtle had bitten off the iguana’s tail and that creature escaped in a slithering dash and was now butting at the window’s shutters as if desperate to get out. The flicker bird, shedding oily feathers, flapped in frantic circles over the heads of everyone-none of whom had time to notice, as bottles smashed down, wine spilling like thinned blood, and the barely begun carving of riders on charging horses now writhed and reared on Crump’s lap, whilst he stared bug-eyed, mouth gaping-and moments later the first tiny horse dragged itself free and leapt down from the sapper’s thigh, wooden hoofs clopping across the floor, misshapen lump of rider waving a splinter.
Bellowing, shouts, shrieks-Ebron vomited violently, and, ducking to avoid that gush, Limp slipped in a puddle of wine and shattered his left knee. He howled.
Deadsmell started crawling for a corner. He saw Masan Gilani roll under the fancy bed as the flicker bird cracked headlong into a bedpost, exploding in a cloud of rank feathers.
Smart woman. Now, if only there was room under there for me, too.
In another section of the city, witnesses would swear in the Errant’s name, swear indeed on the Empty Throne and on the graves of loved ones, that two dragons burst from the heart of an inn, wreckage sailing out in a deadly rain of bricks, splinters, dust and fragments of sundered bodies that cascaded down into streets as far as fifty paces away-and even in the aftermath the next morning no other possible explanation sufficed to justify that shattered ruin of an entire building, from which no survivors were pulled.
The entire room trembled, and even as Hellian drove her elbow into a bearded face and heard a satisfying crunch, the wall opposite her cracked like fine glass and then toppled into the room, burying the figures thrashing about in pointless clinches on the floor. Women screamed-well, the fat one did, and she was loud enough and repetitive enough in those shrieks to fill in for everyone else-all of whom were too busy scrabbling out from the wreckage.
Hellian staggered back a step, and then, as the floor suddenly heaved, she found herself running although she could not be sure of her precise direction, but it seemed wise to find the door wherever that might be.
When she found it, she frowned, since it was lying flat on the floor, and so she paused and stared down for a time.
Until Urb stumbled into her. ‘Something just went up across the street!’ he gasped, spitting blood. ‘We got to get out of here-’
‘Where’s my corporal?’
‘Already down the stairs-let’s go!’But, no, it was time for a drink-
‘Hellian! Not now!’
‘Gare away! If not now, when?’
‘Spinner of Death, Knight of Shadow, Master of the Deck.’ Fiddler’s voice was a cold, almost inhuman growl. ‘Table holds them, but not the rest.’ And he started flinging cards, and each one he threw shot like a plate of iron to a lodestone, striking one person after another-hard against their chests, staggering them back a step, and with each impact-as Brys stared in horror-the victim was lifted off the floor, chair tumbling away, and slammed against the wall behind them no matter the distance.
The collisions cracked bones. Backs of heads crunched bloodily on the walls.
It was all happening too fast, with Fiddler standing as if in the heart of a maelstrom, solid as a deep-rooted tree.
The first struck was the girl, Sinn. ‘Virgin of Death.’ As the card smacked into her chest it heaved her, limbs flailing, up to a section of wall just beneath the ceiling. The sound she made when she hit was sickening, and she went limp, hanging like a spiked rag doll.
‘Sceptre.’
Grub shrieked, seeking to fling himself to one side, and the card deftly slid beneath him, fixing on to his chest and shoving him bodily across the floor, up against the wall just left of the door.
Quick Ben’s expression was one of stunned disbelief as Fiddler’s third card slapped against his sternum. ‘Magus of Dark.’ He was thrown into the wall behind him with enough force to send cracks through the plaster and he hung there, motionless as a corpse on a spike.
‘Mason of Death.’ Hedge bleated and made the mistake of turning round. The card struck his back and hammered him face first into the wall, whereupon the card began pushing him upward, leaving a red streak below the unconscious man.
The others followed, quick as a handful of flung stones. In each, the effect was the same. Violent impact, walls that shook. Sandalath Drukorlat, Queen of Dark. Lostara Yil, Champion of Life.
‘Obelisk.’ Bottle.
Gesler, Orb.
Stormy, Throne.
And then Fiddler faced Brys. ‘King of Life.’
The card flashed out from his hand, glittering like a dagger, and Brys snatched a breath the instant before it struck, eyes closing-he felt the blow, but nowhere near as viciously as had the others, and nothing touched his breast. He opened his eyes to see the card hovering, shivering, in the air before him.
Above it, he met Fiddler’s flat eyes.
The sapper nodded. ‘You’re needed.’
What?
Two remained untouched, and Fiddler turned to the first and nearest of these. ‘Banaschar,’ he said. ‘You keep poor company. Fool in Chains.’ He drew a card and snapped out his hand. The ex-priest grunted and was flung back over his chair, whereupon he shot upward to the domed ceiling. Dust engulfed the man at the impact.
Fiddler now faced the Adjunct. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’
Staring, pale as snow, she said nothing.
‘For you, Tavore Paran… nothing.’
She flinched.
The door suddenly opened, hinges squealing in the frozen silence.
Turudal Brizad stepped into the chamber and then halted. Turudal… no, of course not. The Errant. Who stands unseen behind the Empty Throne. I wondered when you would show yourself. Brys realized he had drawn his sword; realized, too, that the Errant was here to kill him-a deed without reason, a desire without motive-at least none fathomable to anyone but the Errant himself.
He will kill me.
And then Fiddler-for his audacity.
And then everyone else here, so that there be no witnesses.
Fiddler slowly turned to study the Errant. The Malazan’s smile was chilling. ‘If that card was for you,’ he said, ‘it would have left the table the moment you opened the door. I know, you think it belongs to you. You think it’s yours. You are wrong.’
The Errant’s lone eye seemed to flare. ‘I am the Master of the Tiles-’
‘And I don’t care. Go on then. Play with your tiles, Elder. You cannot stand against the Master of the Deck-your time, Errant, is past.’
‘I have returned!’
As the Errant, raw power building round him, took another stride into the chamber, Fiddler’s low words cut into his path. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’
The Elder God sneered. ‘Do you think Brys Beddict can stop me? Can stop what I intend here?’
Fiddler’s brows lifted. ‘I have no idea. But if you take one more step, Errant, the Master of the Deck will come through. Here, now. Will you face him? Are you ready for that?’
And Brys glanced to that card lying on the table. Inanimate, motionless. It seemed to yawn like the mouth of the Abyss itself, and he suddenly shivered.
Fiddler’s quiet challenge had halted the Errant, and Brys saw uncertainty stirred to life on the once-handsome features of Turudal Brizad.
‘For what it is worth,’ Brys Beddict said then, ‘you would not have made it past me anyway, Errant.’
The single eye flicked to him. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘I have lived in stone, Elder One. I am written with names beyond counting. The man who died in the throne room is not the man who has returned, no matter what you see.’
‘You tempt me to crush you,’ the Errant said in a half-snarl.
Fiddler swung round, stared down at the card on the table. ‘He is awakened.’ He faced the Elder God. ‘It may be too late… for you.’
And Brys saw the Errant suddenly step back, once, twice, the third time taking him through the doorway. A moment later and he vanished from sight.
Bodies were sliding slowly towards the floor. As far as Brys could see, not one was conscious. Something eased in the chamber like the release of a breath held far too long.
‘Adjunct.’
Tavore’s attention snapped from the empty doorway back to the sapper.
Spring the ambush. Find your enemy.
‘This wasn’t a reading,’ Fiddler said. ‘No one here was found. No one was claimed. Adjunct, they were marked. Do you understand?’
‘I do,’ she whispered.
‘I think,’ Fiddler said, as grief clenched his face, ‘I think I can see the end.’
She nodded.
‘Tavore,’ said Fiddler, his voice now ragged. ‘I am so sorry.’
To that, the Adjunct simply shook her head.
And Brys knew that, while he did not understand everything here, he understood enough. And if it could have meant anything, anything at all, he would have repeated Fiddler’s words to her. To this Adjunct, this Tavore Paran, this wretchedly lonely woman.
At that moment, the limp form of Banaschar settled on to the tabletop, like a corpse being lowered on a noose. As he came to rest, he groaned.
Fiddler walked over and collected the card called the Master of the Deck. He studied it for a moment, and then returned it to the deck in his hands. Glancing over at Brys, he winked.
‘Nicely played, Sergeant.’
‘Felt so lifeless… still does. I’m kind of worried.’
Brys nodded. ‘Even so, the role did not feel… vacant.’
‘That’s true. Thanks.’
‘You know this Master?’
‘Aye.’
‘Sergeant, had the Errant called your bluff-’
Fiddler grinned. ‘You would’ve been on your own, sir. Still, you sounded confident enough.’
‘Malazans aren’t the only ones capable of bluffing.’
And, as they shared a true smile, the Adjunct simply stared on, from one man to the other, and said nothing.
Bugg stood at the back window, looking out on Seren Pedac’s modest garden that was now softly brushed with the silvery tones reflected down from the dusty, smoky clouds hanging over the city. There had been damage done this night, far beyond one or two knocked-down buildings. The room had been silent behind him for some time now, from the moment that the reading had ended a short while ago. He still felt… fragile, almost fractured.
He heard her stir into motion behind him, the soft grunt as she climbed upright, and then she was beside him. ‘Are they dead, Bugg?’
He turned and glanced at the now conjoined, colourless puddles on the floor beneath the two chairs. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, and then added, ‘I think so.’
‘Th-that was not… expected-please tell me, Ceda, that such a fate was not in the plans tonight.’
‘No, Acquitor.’
‘Then… what happened?’
He rubbed at the bristles on his chin, and then sighed and shook his head. ‘She chooses a narrow path-gods, the audacity of it! I must speak with the King. And with Brys-we need to decide-’
‘Ceda! Who killed Pinosel and Ursto?’
He faced her, blinked. ‘Death but passed through. Even the Errant was… dismissed.’ He snorted. ‘Yes. Dismissed. There is so much power in this Deck of Dragons. In the right hands, it could drain us all dry. Every god, new and elder. Every ascendant cast into a role. Every mortal doomed to become a face on a card.’ He resumed his gaze out the window. ‘He dropped one on to the table. Your son’s. The table would hold it, he said. Thus, he made no effort to claim your son. He let it be. He let him be.’ And then he shivered. ‘Pinosel and Ursto-they just sat too close to the fire.’
‘They… what?’
‘The caster held back, Acquitor. No one attacked Ursto and Pinosel. Even your unborn son’s card did not try for him. The caster locked it down. As would a carpenter driving a nail through a plank of wood. Abyss take me, the sheer brazen power to do that leaves me breathless. Acquitor, Ursto and Pinosel were here to defend you from the Errant. And yes, we felt him. We felt his murderous desire. But then he was thrown back, his power scattered. What arrived in its place was like the face of the sun, ever growing, becoming so vast as to fill the world-they were pinned there, trapped in those chairs, unable to move…’ He shook himself. ‘We all were.’ He looked down at the puddles. ‘Acquitor, I truly do not know if they are dead. The Lord of Death fed on no one this night, beyond a few hapless souls in a destroyed inn. They may be simply… reduced… and after a time they will reconstitute themselves, find their shapes-their flesh and bone-once more. I do not know, yet I will hope.’
He saw her studying his face, and wondered if he’d managed to hide any of his anxiety, his grief. The look in her eyes spoke of his failure.
‘Speak with this caster,’ she said. ‘And… ask him… to refrain. Never again in this city. Please.’
‘He was unwilling, Acquitor. He did what he could. To protect… everyone.’ Except, I think, himself. ‘I do not think there will be another reading.’
She stared out the window. ‘What awaits him? My… son,’ she asked in a whisper.
He understood her question. ‘He will have you, Seren Pedac. Mothers possess a strength, vast and strange-’
‘Strange?’
Bugg smiled. ‘Strange to us. Unfathomable. Also, your son’s father was much loved. There will be those among his friends who would not hesitate-’
‘Onrack T’emlava,’ she said.
Bugg nodded. ‘An Imass.’
‘Whatever that is.’
‘Acquitor, the Imass are many things, and among those things, one virtue stands above all the others. Their loyalty cannot be sundered. They feel such forces with a depth vast and-’
‘Strange?’
Bugg said nothing for a moment, knowing that he could, if he so chose, be offended by the implication in that lone word she had added to his sentence. Instead, he smiled. ‘Even so.’
‘I am sorry, Ceda. You are right. Onrack was… remarkable, and a great comfort to me. Still, I do not expect him to visit again.’
‘He will, when your son is born.’
‘How will he know when that happens?’
‘Because his bonecaster wife, Kilava, set a blessing upon you and your child. By this means she remains aware of you and your condition.’
‘Oh. Would she have sensed tonight, then? The risk? The danger?’
‘Perhaps,’ Bugg replied. ‘She would have been… attentive. And had some form of breach occurred to directly threaten you, then I suspect that yes, she would have… intervened.’
‘How could she have hoped to defend me,’ Seren said, ‘if three ancient gods had already failed?’
Bugg sighed. ‘A conviction I am slowly coming to accept. People do not understand power. They view it exclusively as a contest, this against that; which is the greater? Which wins, which fails? Power is less about actual conflict-recognizing as it does the mutual damage conflict entails, with such damage making one vulnerable-less about actual conflict, then, than it is about statements. Presence, Acquitor, is power’s truest expression. And presence is, at its core, the occupation of space. An assertion, if you will. One that must be acknowledged by other powers, lesser or greater, it matters not.’
‘I am not sure I understand you.’
‘Kilava would have invoked her presence, Acquitor. One that embraced you. Now, if you still insist on simplistic comparisons, then I tell you, she would have been as a stone in a stream. The water may dream of victory, may even yearn for it, but it had best learn patience, yes? Consider every dried stream bed you have seen, Acquitor, and judge who was the ultimate victor in that war of patience.’
The woman sighed, and Bugg heard her exhaustion.
He bowed to her. ‘I shall leave-matters remain pressing for me-but the danger to you and your unborn son has passed.’
She glanced back at the puddles. ‘Do I just… mop that up?’
‘Leave it for the morning-it may be that you will find little more than a stain by then.’
‘I can point to it when I have guests and say: “This is where two gods melted.” ’
Yes, she had need to defend herself against the events of this night. No room in her thoughts, for the moment, for anything but the child within her. Despite her words, she was not indifferent to the sundering of Pinosel and Ursto. Everything right now was about control-and this, Bugg understood, came from that ineffable strength within a woman who was or would be a mother. ‘They are stubborn, those two. I would not discount them quite yet.’
‘I hope you are right. Thank you, Ceda-even if the threat did not come to pass, I do appreciate your willingness to protect us. Please do not be offended if I add that I hope I never experience another night like this.’
‘I take no offence. Goodnight, Acquitor.’
Beyond the moment’s heat, in the cool trickle that was the aftermath of a confrontation, bleak realizations shook free in the mind of the Errant. While he did not know if indeed the Master of the Deck had awakened-as the Malazan had claimed-the risk of such a premature clash had been too great. As for Brys Beddict and his bold arrogance, ah, that was a different matter.
The Errant stood in an alley, not far from the Malazan headquarters, and he trembled with rage and something else, something that tasted delicious. The promise of vengeance. No, Brys Beddict would not survive his return journey to the palace. It did not matter the fool’s skills with a sword. Against the raw assault of the Errant’s sorcery, no flickering blade could defend.
True, this would be no gentle, unseen nudge. But old habits, by their very predictability, could be exploited. Defended against. Besides, at times, the subtle did not satisfy. He recalled, with a rush of pleasure, holding Feather Witch’s head under the water, until her feeble struggles ceased. Yes, there was glory in being so forceful, so direct in the implementation of one’s own will.
It could become addictive, and indeed, he welcomed the invitation.
So much gnawed at him at the moment, however, that he was anxious and wary about doing much of anything. The caster had been… frightening. The ones who were made miserable by the use of their own power ever disturbed the Errant, for he could not fathom such creatures, did not understand their reluctance, the self-imposed rules governing their behaviour. Motives were essential-one could not understand one’s enemy without a sense of what they wanted, what they hungered for. But that caster, all he had hungered for was to be left alone.
Perhaps that in itself could be exploited. Except that, clearly, when the caster was pushed, he did not hesitate to push back. Unblinking, smiling, appallingly confident. Leave him for now. Think of the others-any threats to me?
The Acquitor’s child had guardians assembled to defend it. Those squalid drunks. Mael. Other presences, as well. Something ancient, black-furred with glowing eyes-he’d heard its warning growl, like a rumble of thunder-and that had been enough to discourage the Errant’s approach.
Well, the child could wait.
Oh, this was a vicious war indeed. But he had potential allies. Banaschar. A weak man, one he could use again. And Fener, the cowering god of war-yes, he could feed on the fool’s power. He could take what he wanted, all in exchange for the sanctuary he offered. Finally, there were other forces, far to the east, who might well value his alliance.
Much still to do. But for now, this night, he would have his vengeance against that miserable heap of armour, Brys Beddict.
And so he waited for the fool to depart the headquarters. No nudge this time. No, only his hands on the bastard’s throat would appease the depth of the Errant’s malice. True enough, the man who had died was not the same man who returned. More to Brys Beddict than just an interminable skein of names written into the stone of his soul. There was something else. As if the man cast more than one shadow. If Brys was destined for something else, for something more than he was now, then it behoved the Errant to quell the threat immediately.
Remove him from the game, and this time make certain he stayed dead.
Nothing could be worse than to walk into a room in a middling inn, stride up to the bed, and fling back the woollen blanket, only to find a dragon. Or two. All unwillingly unveiled. And in a single miserable instant, the illusions of essential, mutual protection, are cast off. Violent transformation and lo, it turns out, one small room in an inn cannot hold two dragons.
It is the conviction of serving staff the world over that they have seen everything. The hapless maid working at the inn in question could now make claim to such an achievement. Alas, it was a shortlived triumph.
Telorast and Curdle, sembled once more into their quaint, tiny skeletal forms-which had become so much a part of them, so preciously adorable, that neither could bear to part with the lovely lizards-were now on a hilltop a few leagues north of the city. Once past the indignity of the unexpected event and their panicked flight from Letheras, they had spent the last bell or so howling in laughter.
The expression on the maid’s face was truly unforgettable, and when Curdle’s draconic head had smashed through the wall to fill the corridor, why, every resident guest had then popped out from their rooms for a look at the source of the terrible ruckus, my, such consternation-Curdle squealed in gut-busting hilarity, or would have, had she a gut.
Telorast’s tiny fangs still glistened with blood, although when she’d last used them they had been much, much larger. An instinctive snap-no one could blame her, not really-had collected up a fat merchant in the street below, a moment before she herself landed to fill it amidst crashing bricks and quarried limestone, and was it not essential among carnivores to indulge in blubber on occasion? It must be so, for some scholar had said it, once, somewhere. In any case, he had been delicious!
Could one blame the shark that takes a swimmer’s leg? The coiling serpent that devours a toddler? The wolves that run down an old woman? Of course not. One might decry the deed and weep for the slain victims, but to then track and hunt the killer down-as if it was some kind of evil murderer-was simply ridiculous. Indeed, it was hubris of the worst sort. ‘It’s the way of the world that there are hunters and the hunted, Curdle. And to live in the world is to accept that as a truth. Beasts eat other beasts, and the same is true for all these precious humans-do they not thrive and preen as hunters? Of course they do. But sometimes the hunter becomes the hunted, yes? Consider if you will and you will: some bow-legged yokel traps a hare for supper-should the rest of the hares all gather and incite themselves into deadly vengeance against that yokel? Would this be proper and just?’
‘I dare say the hares would think so!’ cried Curdle, spiny tail lashing the short grasses.
‘No doubt, no doubt, but think of the outrage among the yokel’s family and friends! Why, there’d be a war, a feud! Soldiers would be called in, slit-eyed scouts and master hunters wearing green floppy hats, the king would raise taxes and a thousand whores would follow in the baggage train! Poets would sing rousing ballads to fan the flames of righteousness! Entire epics would be penned to recount the venal escapades!’
‘They’re just puffed up on themselves, Telorast. That’s all. They’re all emperors and empresses in their own puny minds, don’t you see? With all in the domain theirs to do with as they will. How dare some dumb beast bite back!’
‘We’ll get them in the end, Curdle.’
‘Us and the hares!’
‘Exactly! Rule the domain, will you? No, my friends, the domain rules you!’
Telorast fell silent then, as grim thoughts whispered through her. ‘Curdle,’ she ventured, lifting her small reptilian skull. ‘We’ll need to act soon.’
‘I know. It’s awful!’
‘Someone in the city’s causing trouble. We don’t like trouble, do we? At least, I don’t think we do.’
‘Unless it’s ours, Telorast. If we’re the ones causing trouble, that’s just fine. Perfect, in fact.’
‘Until it all goes wrong, like last time. And wasn’t that your fault? That’s how I remember it, Curdle. All your fault. This time round, watch yourself. Do as I say, everything I say.’
‘Should we tear him apart then?’
‘Who?’
‘The one who likes keeping the throne empty. In out in out in out, just shuffle them through. Nobody get comfortable! Chaos and confusion, civil wars and betrayals and blood everywhere! What a creep!’
‘You think we should tear him apart, Curdle?’
‘I thought I was supposed to be following your lead. So lead, Telorast! Do we rend him into little messy pieces or don’t we?’
‘That depends.’ Telorast leapt to her taloned feet and began pacing, tiny forearms twitching. ‘Is he the enemy?’
‘Is he-what? Sweetness, aren’t they all our enemies?’
‘Agh! You’re right! What got into me?’
‘Simple, he just thought to ignore us. We don’t like being ignored. People who ignore us die. That’s the rule we’ve always lived by. Snub us and we’ll chew you into mangled flaps of skin and hair! Chips of bone, things that drip and leak!’
‘Should we go and kill him then?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Oh, tell me what to do! I can’t tell you to follow my lead unless I get guidance from you first!’
‘It’s a partnership all right,’ agreed Curdle. ‘Let me think.’
Telorast paused, head lifting yet higher. ‘Gah! What’s those green blobs in the sky?’
‘Don’t come near me.’
Withal eyed his wife, decided he’d seen this before, and so kept his distance. ‘Why did she want you there at all? That’s what I can’t figure.’
Sandalath sat down, the effort a protracted procedure measured in winces, grunts and cautious sighs. ‘I didn’t anticipate a physical assault, that’s for sure.’
Withal almost stepped forward then, but managed to restrain his instinctive gesture. ‘She beat you up? Gods below, I knew the Adjunct was a hard woman, but that’s going too far!’
‘Oh, be quiet. Of course she didn’t beat me up. Let’s just say the cards were assigned with some, uh, force. As if that would convince us of anything. The whole sorcery surrounding the Deck of Dragons is an affront to sensible creatures-like me.’
Sensible? Well, I suppose. ‘The caster found you a card, then. Which one?’
He watched as she weighed the value of answering him. ‘It threw me into a wall.’
‘What did?’
‘The card, you idiot! Queen of Dark! As if I could be anything like that-stupid deck, what does it know of High House Dark? The past is dead, the thrones abandoned. There is no King and certainly no Queen! It’s senseless-how can Quick Ben be Magus of Dark? He’s not even Tiste Andii. Bah, all nonsense, all of it-gods, I think my ribs are cracked. Make some tea, love, be useful.’
‘Glad I waited up for you,’ Withal muttered, setting off to brew a pot. ‘Any preferences?’
‘No, but add a drop of d’bayang oil, will you? Next time, I’ll wear armour. Is it cold in here? Feed the hearth, I don’t want to get a chill. Throw me those furs. Is that water pipe just ornamental? Do we have any durhang? Gods, it hurts to talk.’
News to me, darling.
The dead iguana’s last animate act had been to clamp its jaws on Limp’s right ear. The soldier was weeping softly as Deadsmell knelt beside him and tried to prise loose the lizard’s savage grip. Blood flowed and it looked as if Limp was going to be left with half an ear on that side.
Ebron was sitting on the bed, head in his hands. ‘It’ll be all right, Limp. We’ll get the knee fixed up. Maybe sew that bit of ear back on-’
‘No we won’t,’ said Deadsmell. ‘That’ll go septic for sure and then spread out. Iguana saliva, especially a dead iguana’s saliva, is bound to be nasty stuff. As it is, I’ll need to work a ritual to purge whatever toxins have already slipped into him.’ He paused. ‘Masan, you can crawl out from under the bed now.’
‘So you say,’ the woman replied, then coughed. ‘Hood-damned hairballs-I’ll never be clean again.’
Limp squealed when Deadsmell worked a knife-blade between the iguana’s jaws and, failing to open them, simply started cutting at the tendons and muscle tissue at the hinges. A moment later and the creature fell away, startling everyone when it whistled an exhalation through its slitted nostrils.
‘I thought you said it was dead!’ Cord accused, walking over to slam his boot heel down on the iguana’s head. Things splatted out to the sides.
‘Now it is,’ Deadsmell affirmed. ‘Lie still, Limp. Let’s get the healing started-’
‘You should never let necromancers heal people,’ Crump complained, glowering from the corner of the room. The various components of his wood carving, shapeless riders on shapeless horses, had all vanished out into the corridor after breaching the door, which seemed to have been achieved by a combination of chewing and hacking and who knew what else.
Deadsmell scowled over at the sapper. ‘You wouldn’t be saying that if you were dying of some wound and I was your only hope.’
‘Yes I would.’
The necromancer offered him a nasty smile. ‘We’ll see some day, won’t we?’
‘No we won’t. I’ll kill you first before I get wounded.’
‘And then we’d both be dead.’
‘That’s right, so there! Just what I was saying-nothing good comes of no necromancers no how!’
The flicker bird was a mashed heap of feathers on the floor. The bat-turtle had fled through the hole in the door, possibly in pursuit of the wooden troop. The black-furred rat still clung on all fours to the ceiling.
Shard moved to stand opposite Ebron. ‘Was Deadsmell right, mage? Did the Lord of Death show up here?’
‘No. Not as such. Why don’t you ask him yourself-’
‘Because he’s busy healing. I want to hear from you, Ebron.’
‘More like all the warrens woke up all at once. Corporal, I don’t know what the Adjunct’s playing at, but it won’t be fun. We’re gonna march soon-I think tonight’s decided it. The roles are set, only I doubt anybody-even Tavore-knows all the players. Noses are gonna get bloodied.’
Deadsmell had of course been listening. Working on the wreck that was Limp’s knee had become rote for the healer-as it was for virtually every healer in the company, not one of whom had escaped delivering ministrations to the hapless fool. ‘Ebron’s right. I don’t envy your squad, if you end up as Sinn’s escort again-she’s right in the middle of it.’
‘I don’t like her neither,’ said Crump.
Ebron sneered at Deadsmell. ‘How close we happen to be with anybody won’t make any difference. We’re all in trouble.’
An odd, frothy, bubbling sound drew everyone’s attention, and all eyes fixed on the crushed head of the iguana, as it exhaled yet again.
A snort came from under the bed. ‘I ain’t leaving here until the sun comes up.’
The others had left, their departure more a headlong flight than a solemn dismissal, until only the Adjunct, Lostara Yil and Brys Beddict remained. Plaster dust hazed the light from the lanterns, and the floor ground and crunched underfoot.
Brys watched as the Adjunct slowly sat down in the chair at the head of the table, and it was hard to determine which woman was more shaken or distraught. Whatever sorrow was buried within Lostara Yil now seemed much closer to the surface, and she had said not a word since Fiddler’s exit, standing with arms crossed-a gesture that likely had as much to do with aching ribs as anything else.
‘Thank you,’ said the Adjunct, ‘for being here, sir.’
Startled, Brys frowned. ‘I may well have been the reason for the Errant’s attention, Adjunct. You would perhaps be more justified in cursing me instead.’
‘I do not believe that,’ she replied. ‘We are in the habit of acquiring enemies.’
‘This is the Errant’s back yard,’ Brys pointed out. ‘Naturally, he resents intruders. But even more, he despises the other residents who happen to share it with him. People like me, Adjunct.’
She glanced up at him. ‘You were dead, once. Or so I understand. Resurrected.’
He nodded. ‘It is extraordinary how little choice one has in such matters. If I mull on that overlong I become despondent. I do not appreciate the notion of being so easily manipulated. I would prefer to think of my soul as my own.’
She looked away, and then settled her hands flat on the table before her-a strange gesture-whereupon she seemed to study them. ‘Fiddler spoke of the Errant’s… rival. The Master of the Deck of Dragons.’ She hesitated, and then added, ‘That man is my brother, Ganoes Paran.’
‘Ah. I see.’
She shook her head but would not look up, intent on her hands. ‘I doubt that. We may share blood, but in so far as I know, we are not allies. Not… close. There are old issues between us. Matters that cannot be salved, not by deed, not by word.’
‘Sometimes,’ Brys ventured, ‘when nothing can be shared except regret, then regret must serve as the place to begin. Reconciliation does not demand that one side surrender to the other. The simple, mutual recognition that mistakes were made is in itself a closing of the divide.’
She managed a half-smile. ‘Brys Beddict, your words, however wise, presume communication between the parties involved. Alas, this has not been the case.’
‘Perhaps, then, you might have welcomed the Master’s attention this night. Yet, if I did indeed understand Fiddler, no such contact was in truth forthcoming. Your soldier bluffed. Tell me, if you would, is your brother aware of your… predicament?’
She shot him a look, sharp, searching. ‘I do not recall sharing any details of my predicament.’
Brys was silent. Wondering what secret web he had just set trembling.
She rose, frowned over at Lostara for a moment, as if surprised to find her still there, and then said, ‘Inform the King that we intend to depart soon. We will be rendezvousing with allies at the border to the Wastelands, whereupon we shall march east.’ She paused. ‘Naturally, we must ensure that we are well supplied with all necessities-of course, we shall pay in silver and gold for said materiel.’
‘We would seek to dissuade you, Adjunct,’ said Brys. ‘The Wastelands are aptly named, and as for the lands east of them, what little we hear has not been promising.’
‘We’re not looking for promises,’ the Adjunct replied.
Brys Beddict bowed. ‘I shall take my leave now, Adjunct.’
‘Do you wish an escort?’
He shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary. Thank you for the offer.’
The roof would have to do. He’d wanted a tower, something ridiculously high. Or a pinnacle and some tottering, ragged keep moments from plunging off the cliff into the thrashing seas below. Or perhaps a cliff-side fastness on some raw mountain, slick with ice and drifts of snow. An abbey atop a mesa, with the only access through a rope and pulley system with a wicker basket to ride in. But this roof would have to do.
Quick Ben glared at the greenish smear in the south sky, that troop of celestial riders not one of whom had any good news to deliver, no doubt. Magus of Dark. The bastard! You got a nasty nose, Fid, haven’t you just. And don’t even try it with that innocent look. One more disarming shrug from you and I’ll ram ten warrens down your throat.
Magus of Dark.
There was a throne once… no, never mind.
Just stay away from Sandalath, that’s all. Stay away, ducked out of sight. It was just a reading, after all. Fiddler’s usual mumbo jumbo. Means nothing. Meant nothing. Don’t bother me, I’m busy.
Magus of Dark.
Fiddler was now drunk, along with Stormy and Gesler, badly singing old Napan pirate songs, not one of which was remotely clever. Bottle, sporting three fractured ribs, had shuffled off to find a healer he could bribe awake. Sinn and Grub had run away, like a couple of rats whose tails had just been chopped off by the world’s biggest cleaver. And Hedge… Hedge was creeping up behind him right now, worse than an addled assassin.
‘Go away.’
‘Not a chance, Quick. We got to talk.’
‘No we don’t.’
‘He said I was the Mason of Death.’
‘So build a crypt and climb inside, Hedge. I’ll be happy to seal it for you with every ward I can think of.’
‘The thing is, Fid’s probably right.’
Eyes narrowing, Quick Ben faced the sapper. ‘Hood’s been busy of late.’
‘You’d know more of that than me, and don’t deny it.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with us.’
‘You sure?’
Quick Ben nodded.
‘Then why am I the Mason of Death?’
The shout echoed from the nearby rooftops and Quick Ben flinched. ‘Because you’re needed,’ he said after a moment.
‘To do what?’
‘You’re needed,’ Quick Ben snarled, ‘to build us a road.’
Hedge stared. ‘Gods below, where are we going?’
‘The real question is whether we’ll ever get there. Listen, Hedge, she’s nothing like you think. She’s nothing like any of us thinks. I can’t explain-I can’t get any closer than that. Don’t try anticipating. Or second-guessing-she’ll confound you at every turn. Just look at this reading-’
‘That was Fid’s doing-’
‘You think so? You’re dead wrong. He knows because she told him. Him and no one else. Now, you can try to twist Fiddler for details all you like-it won’t work. The truth as much as cut out his tongue.’
‘So what’s made you the Magus of Dark? What miserable piss-sour secret you holding back on now, Quick?’
The wizard turned away once more, stared out over the city, and then stiffened. ‘Shit, what now?’
The sorcery erupted from an alley mouth, striking Brys Beddict from his left side. The impact sent him sprawling, grey tendrils writhing like serpents about his body. In the span of a single heartbeat, the magic had bound him tight, arms trapped. The coils began constricting.
Lying on his back, staring up at the night sky-that had at last begun to pale-Brys heard footsteps and a moment later the Errant stepped into the range of his vision. The god’s single eye gleamed like a star burning through mist.
‘I warned you, Brys Beddict. This time, there will be no mistakes. Yes, it was me who nudged you to take that mouthful of poisoned wine-oh, the Chancellor had not anticipated such a thing, but he can be forgiven that. After all, how could I have imagined that you’d found a guardian among Mael’s minions?’ He paused, and then said, ‘No matter. I am done with subtlety-this is much better. I can look into your eyes and watch you die, and what could be more satisfying than that?’
The sorcery tautened, forcing Brys’s breath from his lungs. Darkness closed in round his vision until all he could see was the Errant’s face, a visage that had lost all grace as avid hunger twisted the features. He watched as the god lifted one hand and slowly clenched the fingers-and the pressure around Brys’s chest built until his ribs creaked.
The new fist that arrived hammered like a maul against the side of the Errant’s head, snapping it far over. The gleaming eye seemed to wink out and the god crumpled, vanishing from Brys’s dwindling vision.
All at once the coils weakened, and then frayed into dissolving threads.
Brys drew a ragged, delicious breath of chill night air.
He heard horse hoofs, a half dozen beasts, maybe more, approaching at a canter from up the street. Blinking sweat from his eyes, Brys rolled on to his stomach and then forced himself to his knees.
A hand closed on his harness and lifted him to his feet.
He found himself staring up at a Tarthenal-a familiar face, the heavy, robust features knotted absurdly into a fierce frown.
‘I got a question for you. It was for your brother and I was on my way but then I saw you.’
The riders arrived, horses skidding on the dew-slick cobbles-a Malazan troop, Brys saw, weapons unsheathed. One of them, a dark-skinned woman, pointed with a sword. ‘He crawled into that alley-come on, let’s chop the bastard into stewing meat!’ She made to dismount and then seemed to sag and an instant later she collapsed on to the street, weapon clattering.
Other soldiers dropped down from their mounts. Three of them converged on the unconscious woman, while the others fanned out and advanced into the alley.
Brys was still having difficulty staying upright. He found himself leaning with one forearm against the Tarthenal. ‘Ublala Pung,’ he sighed, ‘thank you.’
‘I got a question.’
Brys nodded. ‘All right, let’s hear it.’
‘But that’s the problem. I forgot what it was.’
One of the Malazans crowded round the woman now straightened and faced them. ‘Sinter said there was trouble,’ he said in heavily accented trader tongue. ‘Said we needed to hurry-to here, to save someone.’
‘I believe,’ Brys said, ‘the danger has passed. Is she all right, sir?’
‘I’m a sergeant-people don’t “sir” me… sir. She’s just done in. Both her and her sister.’ He scowled. ‘But we’ll escort you just the same, sir-she’d never forgive us if something happened to you now. So, wherever you’re going…’
The other soldiers emerged from the alley, and one said something in Malazan, although Brys needed no translation to understand that they’d found no one-the Errant’s survival instincts were ever strong, even when he’d been knocked silly by a Tarthenal’s fist.
‘It seems,’ Brys said, ‘I shall have an escort after all.’
‘It is not an offer you can refuse, sir,’ said the sergeant.
Nor will I. Lesson learned, Adjunct.
The soldiers were attempting to heave the woman named Sinter back into her saddle. Ublala Pung stepped up to them. ‘I will carry her,’ he said. ‘She’s pretty.’
‘Do as the Toblakai says,’ said the sergeant.
‘She’s pretty,’ Ublala Pung said again, as he took her limp form in his arms. ‘Pretty smelly, too, but that’s okay.’
‘Perimeter escort,’ snapped the sergeant, ‘crossbows cocked. Anybody steps out, nail ’em.’
Brys prayed there would be no early risers between here and the palace. ‘Best we hurry,’ he ventured.
On a rooftop not far away, Quick Ben sighed and then relaxed.
‘What was all that about?’ Hedge asked beside him.
‘Damned Toblakai… but that’s not the interesting bit, though, is it? No, it’s that Dal Honese woman. Well, that can all wait.’
‘You’re babbling, wizard.’
Magus of Dark. Gods below.
Alone in the cellar beneath the dormitories, Fiddler stared down at the card in his hand. The lacquered wood glistened, dripped as if slick with sweat. The smell rising from it was of humus, rich and dark, a scent of the raw earth.
‘Tartheno Toblakai,’ he whispered.
Herald of Life.
Well, just so.
He set it down and then squinted at the second card he had withdrawn to close this dread night. Unaligned. Chain. Aye, we all know about those, my dear. Fret naught, it’s the price of living.
Now, if only you weren’t so… strong. If only you were weaker. If only your chains didn’t reach right into the heart of the Bonehunters-if only I knew who was dragging who, why, I might have reason to hope.
But he didn’t, and so there wasn’t.
PENDULUMS WERE ONCE TOYS
BADALLE OF KORBANSE SNAKE
To journey into the other worlds, a shaman or witch of the Elan would ride the Spotted Horse. Seven herbs, softened with beeswax and rolled into a ball and then flattened into an oblong disc that was taken into the mouth and held between lip and gum. Coolness slowly numbing and saliva rising as if the throat was the mouth of a spring, a tingling sensation lifting to gather behind the eyes in coalescing colours and then, in a blinding flash, the veil between worlds vanished. Patterns swirled in the air; complex geometries played across the landscape-a landscape that could be the limitless wall of a hide tent, or the rolling plains of a cave wall where ran the beasts-until the heart-stains emerged, pulsing, blotting the scene in undulating rows, sweet as waves and tasting of mother’s milk.
So arrived the Spotted Horse, a cascade of heart-stains rippling across the beast, down its long neck, sweeping along its withers, flowing like seed-heads from its mane and tail.
Ride into the alien world. Ride among the ancestors and the not-yet-born, among the tall men with their eternally swollen members, the women with their forever-filled wombs. Through forests of black threads, the touch or brush of any one of them an invitation to endless torment, for this was the path of return for all life, and to be born was to pass through and find the soul’s fated thread-the tale of a future death that could not be escaped. To ride the other way, however, demanded a supple traverse, evading such threads, lest one’s own birth-fate become entangled, knotted, and so doom the soul to eternal prison, snared within the web of conflicted fates.
Prophecies could be found among the black threads, but the world beyond that forest was the greatest gift. Timeless, home to all the souls that ever existed; this was where grief was shed, where sorrow dried up and blew away like dust, where scars vanished. To journey into this realm was to be cleansed, made whole, purged of all regrets and dark desires.
Riding the Spotted Horse and then returning was to be reborn, guiltless, guileless.
Kalyth knew all this, but only second-hand. The riders among her people passed on the truths, generation upon generation. Any one of the seven herbs, if taken alone, would kill. The seven mixed in wrong proportions delivered madness. And, finally, only those chosen as worthy by the shamans and witches would ever know the gift of the journey.
For one such as Kalyth, mired in the necessary mediocrity so vital to the maintenance of family, village and the Elan way of living, to take upon herself such a ritual-to even so much as taste the seven herbs-was a sentence to death and damnation.
Of course, the Elan were gone. No more shamans or witches to be found. No families, no villages, no clans, no herds-every ring of tipi stones, spanning the rises tucked at the foot of yet higher hilltops, now marked the motionless remnant of a final camp, a camp never to be returned to, the stones destined to sink slowly where they lay, the lichen on their undersides dying, the grasses so indifferently crushed beneath them turning white as bone. Such boulder rings were now maps of extinction and death. They held no promises, only the sorrow of endings.
She had suffered her own damnation, one devoid of any crime, any real culpability beyond her cowardly flight: her appalling abandonment of her family. There had been no shamans left to utter the curse, but that hardly mattered, did it?
She sat, as the sun withered in the west and the grasses surrounding her grew wiry and grey, staring down at the disc lying in the palm of her hand.
Elan magic. As foreign to her world now as the Che’Malle machines in Ampelas Rooted had been when she’d first set eyes upon them. To ride the Spotted Horse through the ashes of her people invited… what? She did not know, could not know. Would she find the spirits of her kin-would they truly look upon her with love and forgiveness? Was this her secret desire? Not a quest into the realms of prophecy seeking hidden knowledge; not searching for a Mortal Sword and a Shield Anvil for the K’Chain Che’Malle?
Dire confusion-her motivations were suspect-hah, rotted through and through!
And might there not be another kind of salvation she was seeking here? The invitation into madness, into death itself? Possibly.
‘Beware the leader who has nothing to lose.’
Her people were proud of their wise sayings. And yet now, in their mortal silence, wisdom and pride proved a perfect match in value. Namely: worthless.
The Che’Malle were camped-if one could call it that-behind the rise at her back. They had built a fire inviting Kalyth’s comfort, but this night she was not interested in comfort.
The Shi’gal Assassin still circled high in the darkening sky above them-their nightly sentinel who never tired and never spoke and yet was known to all (she suspected) as their potential slayer, should they fail. Blessings of the spirits, that was a ghastly creature, a demon to beggar her worst nightmares. Oh, how it sailed the night winds, a cold-eyed raptor, a conjuration of singular purpose.
Kalyth shivered. Then, squeezing shut her eyes as the sun’s sickle of fire dipped below the horizon, she slid the disc into her mouth.
Stinging like a snake’s bite, and then numbness, spreading, spreading…
‘Never trust a leader who has nothing to lose.’
At these muttered words from the human female, drifting over the hummock down to where stood the K’Chain Che’Malle, the K’ell Hunter Sag’Churok swung round his massive, scarred head. Over his eyes, three distinct lids blinked in succession, reawakening the camp’s reflected firelight in a wet gleam. The Matron’s daughter, Gunth Mach, seemed to flinch, but she remained closed to Sag’Churok’s tentative query.
The other two K’ell Hunters, indifferent to anything the human might say, were half-crouched and facing away from the ring of stones that surrounded a half-dozen bricks of burning bhederin dung, away from the flames that could steal their night vision. The enormous cutlasses at the ends of their wrists rested point-down, their arms stretched out to the sides. By nature, K’ell disliked such menial tasks as sentry duty. They existed to pursue quarry, after all. But the Matron had elected to send them out without J’an Sentinels; further proof that in keeping all her guardians close, Gunth’an Acyl feared for her own life.
Senior among these K’ell, Sag’Churok was Gunth Mach’s protector, and should the time come when the Destriant found a Mortal Sword and a Shield Anvil, then he would also assume the task of escorting them on the return to Acyl Nest.
Errors in judgement plagued Ampelas Rooted. A flawed Matron produced flawed spawn. This was a known truth. It was not a thing that could be defeated or circumvented. The spawn must follow. Even so, Sag’Churok knew an abiding sense of failure, a dull, persistent anguish.
Beware the leader…
Yes. The one they had chosen, known as Redmask, had proved as flawed as any K’Chain Che’Malle of the Hive, and the cruel logic of that still stung. Perhaps the Matron was correct in electing a human to undertake the search this time.
Visions bound with intent whispered through Sag’Churok. The Shi’gal Assassin, wheeling in the darkness far above them, had thrust a sending into the brain of the K’ell Hunter. Cold, rough-skinned, careless of the pain the sending delivered-indeed, it was of such power that Gunth Mach’s head snapped up, eyes fixing on Sag’Churok as ripples overflowed to brush her senses.
Intruders in vast herd, countless fires.
‘Perhaps, then, among these ones?’ Sag’Churok sent in return.
The one who leads is not for us.
A bestial scent followed that statement, one that Sag’Churok recognized. Glands awakened beneath the heavy armoured scales along the K’ell’s spine, the first of the instinctive preparations for hunting, for battle, and as those scales seemed to lift and float on the thickening layer of oil, the innermost lids closed over his eyes, rising from below to entirely sheathe his vision. Boulders on a distant hill suddenly glowed, still bearing the heat of the sun. Small creatures moved in the grasses, revealed by their breaths, their rapidly beating hearts.
K’ell Rythok and Kor Thuran both caught the bitter signature of the oil, and they straightened from their crouches, swinging free their swords.
A final thought reached Sag’Churok. Too many to slay. Best avoid.
‘How do we avoid, Shi’gal Gu’Rull? Do they bestride our chosen path?’
But the Assassin did not deem such questions worth an answer, and Sag’Churok felt the Shi’gal’s contempt.
Gunth Mach sent her guardian a private thought. He wishes that we fail.
‘If he so hungers to slay, then why not these strangers?’
It is not for me to say, she replied. Gu’Rull spoke not to me, after all, but to you. He would admit to nothing, but he holds you in respect. You have Hunted and like me you have borne wounds and tasted your own blood and in that taste we both saw our mortality. This, Gu’Rull shares with you, while Rythok and Kor Thuran do not.
‘And yet in his careless power his thoughts leak to you-’
Does he know of my growth? I think not. Only you know the truth, Sag’Churok. To all others I reveal nothing. They believe me still little more than a drone, a promise, a possibility. I am close, first love, so very close.
Yes, he had known, or thought he had. Now, shock threatened to reveal itself and the K’ell struggled to contain it. ‘Gunth’an Acyl?’
She cannot see past her suffering.
Sag’Churok was not certain of that, but he sent nothing. It was not for him to counsel Gunth Mach, after all. Also, the notion that the Shi’gal Assassin sought to share anything with him was troubling. The taste of mortality was the birth of weakness, after all.
Rythok addressed him suddenly, gruffly pushing through his inner turmoil. ‘You waken to threat, yet we sense nothing. Even so, should we not quench this useless fire?’
Yes, Rythok. The Destriant sleeps and we have no need.
‘Do you hunt?’
No. But we are not alone in this land-human herds move to the south.
‘Is this not what Acyl desires? Is this not what the Destriant must find?’
Not these ones, Rythok. Yet, we shall pass through this herd… you will, I think, taste your own blood soon. You and Kor Thuran. Prepare yourselves.
And, with faint dismay, Sag’Churok saw that they were pleased.
The air thickened, clear as the humour of an eye, and all that Kalyth could see through it shimmered and shifted, swam and blurred. The sweep of stars flowed in discordant motion; the grasses of the undulating hills wavered, as if startled by wayward winds. Motes of detritus drifted about, shapeless and faintly pulsing crimson, some descending to roll across the ground, others wandering skyward as if on rising currents.
Every place held every memory of what it had once been. A plain that had been the bottom of a lake, the floor of a shallow sea, the lightless depths of a vast ocean. A hill that had been the peak of a young mountain, one of a chain of islands, the jagged fang of the earth buried in glacial ice. Dust that had been plants, sand that had been stone, stains that had been bone and flesh. Most memories, Kalyth understood, remain hidden, unseen and beneath the regard of flickering life. Yet, once the eyes were awakened, every memory was then unveiled, a fragment here, a hint there, a host of truths whispering of eternity.
Such knowledge could crush a soul with its immensity, or drown it beneath a deluge of unbearable futility. As soon as the distinction was made, that separation of self from all the rest, from the entire world beyond-its ceaseless measure of time, its whimsical game with change played out in slow siege and in sudden catastrophe-then the self became an orphan, bereft of all security, and face to face with a world now become at best a stranger, at worst an implacable, heartless foe.
In arrogance we orphan ourselves, and then rail at the awful solitude we find on the road to death.
But how could one step back into the world? How could one learn to swim such currents? In self-proclamation, the soul decided what it was that lay within in opposition to all that lay beyond. Inside, outside, familiar, strange, that which is possessed, that which is coveted, all that is within grasp and all that is forever beyond reach. The distinction was a deep, vicious cut of a knife, severing tendons and muscles, arteries and nerves.
A knife?
No, that was the wrong weapon, a pathetic construct from her limited imagination. Indeed, the force that divided was something… other.
It was, she now believed, maybe even alive.
The multilayered vista before her was suddenly transformed. Grasses withered and blew away. High dunes of sand humped the horizon, and in a basin just ahead of her she saw a figure, its back to her as it knelt in the hard-edged shadow of a monolith of some sort. The stone-if that was what it was-was patinated with rust, the mottled stains looking raw, almost fresh against the green-black rock.
She found herself drawing closer. The figure was not simply kneeling in worship or obeisance, she realized. It was digging, hands thrust deep into the sands, almost up to the elbows.
He was an old man, his skin blue-black. Bald, the skin covering the skull scarred. If he heard her approaching, he gave no sign.
Was this some moment of the past? Millennia unfolding as all those layers fleeted away? Was she now witness to a memory of the Wastelands?
The monolith, Kalyth suddenly comprehended, was carved in the likeness of a finger. And the stone that she had first seen as green and black was growing translucent, serpentine green, revealing inner flaws and facets. She saw seams like veins of deep emerald, and masses that might be bone, the colour of true jade, deep within the edifice.
The old man-whose skin was not blue and black as she had first believed, but so thickly tattooed in swirling fur that nothing of its natural tone remained-now spoke, though he did not cease thrusting his hands into the sand at the base of the monolith. ‘There is a tribe in the Sanimon,’ he said, ‘that claims it was the first to master the forging of iron. They still make tools and weapons in the traditional manner-quenching blades in sand, just as I’m doing right now, do you see?’
Though she did not know his language, she understood him, and at his question she squinted once more at his arms-if his hands gripped weapons, then he had pushed them deep into the sands indeed.
Yet she saw no forge-not even a firepit-anywhere in sight.
‘I do not think,’ the man continued, gasping every now and then, as if in pain, ‘I do not think, however, that I have it exactly right. There must be some other secrets involved. Quenching in water or manure piles-I have no experience in such things.’ He paused. ‘At least, I don’t think I do. So much… forgotten.’
‘You are not Elan,’ Kalyth said.
He smiled at her words, although instead of looking at her he fixed his gaze on the monolith. ‘But here is a thing,’ he said. ‘I can name, oh, a hundred different tribes. Seven Cities tribes, Quon Talian tribes, Korel tribes, Genabackan-and they all share one thing and one thing only and do you know what that is?’
He waited, as if he had addressed the monolith rather than Kalyth, who stood beside him, close enough to reach out and touch. ‘I will tell you,’ he then said. ‘Every one of them is or is about to be extinct. Melted away, in the fashion of all peoples, eventually. Sometimes some semblance of their blood lives on, finds new homes, watered down, forgetful. Or they’re nothing but dust, even their names gone, for ever gone. No one to mourn the loss… and all that.’
‘I am the last Elan,’ she told him.
He resumed pushing his hands deep into the sand, as deep as he could manage. ‘I am readying myself… to wield a most formidable weapon. They thought to hide it from me. They failed. Weapons must be tempered and tempered well, of course. They even thought to kill it. As if such a thing is remotely possible’-he paused-‘then again, perhaps it is. The key to everything, you see, is to cut clean, down the middle. A clean cut-that’s what I dream of.’
‘I dream of… this,’ she said. ‘I have ridden the Spotted Horse. I have found you in the realms beyond-why? Have you summoned me? What am I to you? What are you to me?’
He laughed. ‘Now that amuses me! I see where you’re pointing-you think I don’t? You think I am blind to this, too?’
‘I ride the-’
‘Oh, enough of that! You took something. That’s how you get here, that’s how everyone gets here. Or they dance and dance until they fall into and out from their bodies. Whatever you took just eased you back into the rhythm that exists in all things-the pulse of the universe, if you like. With enough discipline you don’t need to take anything at all-which is a good thing, since after ten or twenty years of eating herbs or whatever, most shamans are inured to their effects anyway. So the ingesting serves only as ritual, as permission to journey.’ He suddenly halted all motions. ‘Spotted Horse… yes, visual hallucinations, patterns floating in front of the eyes. The Bivik called it Wound Drumming-like blossoming bloodstains, I suppose they meant. Thump thump thump… And the Fenn-’
‘The Matron looks to our kind,’ she cut in. ‘The old ways have failed.’
‘The old ways ever fail,’ the old man said. ‘So too the new ways, more often than not.’
‘She is desperate-’
‘Desperation delivers poison counsel.’
‘Have you nothing worthwhile to tell me?’
‘The secret lies in the tempering,’ he said. ‘That is a worthwhile thing to tell you. Your weapon must be well tempered. Soundly forged, ingeniously annealed, the edges honed with surety. The finger points straight towards them, you see-well, if this were a proper sky, you’d see.’ His broad face split in a smile that was more a grimace than a signature of pleasure-and she thought that, despite his words suggesting otherwise, he might be blind.
‘It is a flaw,’ he continued, ‘to view mortals and gods as if they were on opposite sides. A flaw. An error most fundamental. Because then, when the blade comes down, why, they are for ever lost to each other. Now, does she understand? Possibly, but if so, then she terrifies me-for such wisdom seems almost… inhuman.’ He shook himself and leaned back, withdrawing his arms from the sand.
She stared, curious and wondering at the weapons he held-only to find he held none. And that his hands, the hue of rust, gleamed as if polished.
He held them up. ‘Expected green, did you? Green jade, yes, and glowing. But not this time, not for this, oh no. Are they ready? Ready to grasp that most deadly weapon? I think not.’
And down went those hands, plunging into the sands once more.
A foot troop of human scouts, ranging well north of the main herd, had caught sight of the lone campfire. They now moved towards it-even as the distant flickering flames winked out-and, spreading out into a crescent formation, they displayed great skill in stealth, moving virtually unseen across the plain.
One of the scouts, white-painted face covered in dark cloth, came near a motionless hare and the creature sensed nothing of the warrior edging past, no more than five paces away.
Few plains were truly flat or featureless. Dips and rises flowed on all sides; stretches tilted and in so doing mocked all sense of distance and perspective; burrow mounds hid beneath tufts of grass; gullies ran in narrow, treacherous channels that one could not see until one stumbled into them. To move unseen across this landscape was to travel as did the four-legged hunters and prey, from scant cover to scant cover, in fits and starts, eloquent as shadows. Even so, the Wastelands were aptly named, for much of the natural plain had been scoured away, and spans of little more than broken rock and windblown sand challenged any measure of skill.
Despite such restrictions, these scouts, eighteen in number, betrayed not a breath as they closed in on where that campfire had been. Although all bore weapons-javelins and odd single-edged cutlasses-the former remained slung across their broad backs, while the swords were strapped tight, bound and muffled at their sides.
Clearly, then, curiosity drove them to seek out the lone camp, to discover with whom they shared this land.
Two thousand paces and closing, the scouts slipped into a broad basin, and all that lit them now was the pale jade glow of the mysterious travellers in the night sky.
The crescent formation slowly inverted, the central scout moving ahead to form its apex. When the troop reached a certain distance, the lead scout would venture closer on his own.
Gu’Rull stood awaiting him. The towering K’Chain Che’Malle should have been clearly visible, but not a single human saw him. When it was time to kill, the Shi’gal Assassin could cloud the minds of his victims, although this was generally only effective while such targets were unsuspecting; and against other Shi’gal, J’an Sentinels and senior Ve’Gath Soldiers, no such confusion was possible.
These humans, of course, were feeble, and for all their stealth, the heat of their bodies made them blaze like beacons in Gu’Rull’s eyes.
The lead scout padded directly towards the Assassin, who waited, wings folded and retracted. The hinged claws on his narrow, long fingers slowly emerged from their membrane sheaths, slick with neural venom-although in the case of these soft-skinned humans, poison was not necessary.
When the warrior came into range, Gu’Rull saw the man hesitate-as if some instinct had awakened within him-but it was too late. The Assassin lashed out one hand. Claws sliced into the man’s head from one side, through flesh and bone, and the strength of the blow half tore the scout’s head from his neck.
Long before the first victim fell, Gu’Rull was on the move, an arching scythe of night rushing to the next warrior. Claws plunged into the man’s midsection, hooked beneath the rib cage, and the assassin lifted him from his feet and then flung the flailing, blood-spewing body away.
Daggers flashed in the air as the rest of the scouts converged. Two of the thrown weapons struck Gu’Rull, both skidding off his thick, sleek scales. Javelins were readied, poised for the throw-but the Shi’gal was already amongst them, batting aside panicked thrusts, claws raking through bodies, head snapping out on its long neck, jaws crushing skulls, chests, biting through shoulders. Blood spattered like sleet on the rough, stony ground, and burst in dark mists in the wake of the Assassin’s deadly blows.
Two scouts pulled back, sought to flee, and for the moment Gu’Rull let them go, occupied as he was with the last warriors surrounding him. He understood that they were not cowards-the two now running as fast as they could southward, each choosing his own path-no, they sought to bring word of the slaughter, the new foe, to the ruler of the herd.
This was unacceptable, of course.
Moments later and the Assassin stood alone, tail lashing, hands shedding long threads of blood. He drew a breath into his shallow lungs, and then into his deep lungs, restoring strength and vigour to his muscles.
He unfolded his wings.
The last two needed to die.
Gu’Rull launched himself into the air, wings flapping, feather-scales whistling a droning dirge.
Once aloft, the bright forms of the two scouts shone like pyres on the dark plain. While, in the Assassin’s wake as he swept towards the nearer of the two, sixteen corpses slowly cooled, dimming like fading embers from a scattered hearth.
Sag’Churok could smell blood in the air. He heard, as well, the frustrated snorts from the two unblooded Hunters who stood, limbs quivering with the sweet flood of the Nectar of Slaying that now coursed through their veins and arteries, their tails lashing the air. They had indeed lost control of their fight glands, a sign of their inexperience, their raw youth, and Sag’Churok was both amused and disgusted.
Although, in truth, he himself struggled against unleashing the full flow of the nectar, forcing open his sleep glands to counteract the ferocious fires within.
The Shi’gal had hunted this night, and in so doing, he had mocked the K’ell, stealing their glory, denying them the pleasure they sought, the pleasure they had been born to pursue.
Come the dawn, Sag’Churok would lead the Seeking well away from that scene of slaughter. Destriant Kalyth need not know anything of it-the frame of her mind was weak enough as it was. The Seeking would work eastward, further out into the wastes, where no food could be found for the strangers. Of course, this caution would likely fail, if the herd was as vast as Gu’Rull had intimated.
And so Sag’Churok knew that his fellow Hunters would find their blood before too long.
They hissed and snorted, quivered and yawned with their jaws. The heavy blades thumped and grated over the ground.
It did not occur to Gu’Rull that the scores upon scores of dogs plaguing the human herd were anything but scavengers, such as the beasts that had once tracked the K’Chain Che’Malle Furies in times of war. And so the Assassin paid no attention whatsoever to the six beasts that had moved parallel to the scouts, and had made no effort to cloud their senses. And even as these beasts now fled south, clearly making for the human herd, Gu’Rull attributed no special significance to their peregrinations. Scavengers were commonplace, their needs singular and far from complex.
The Assassin killed the scouts, both times descending from above, tearing their heads from their shoulders when they each halted upon hearing the moan of Gu’Rull’s wings. Task completed, the Shi’gal rose high into the dark sky, seeking the strong flows of air that he would ride through the course of the day to come-air cold enough to keep him from overheating, for he had discovered that during the day his wings, when fully outstretched, absorbed vast amounts of heat, which in turn strained his equanimity and naturally calm repose.
And that would not do.
Kalyth watched the scene before her fragment and then vanish as if blown away in a gust of wind she could not feel. The old man, the monolith, his polished hands and all his words-they had been a distraction, proof of her ignorance that she had so easily been snared by something-and someone-not meant for her.
But it seemed that willpower alone was not enough, particularly when she had no real destination in mind-she had but mentally reached out for a notion, a vague feeling of the familiar-was it any wonder she stumbled about, aimless, lost, pathetically vulnerable?
Faintly, as if from the ether, she heard the old man say, ‘It ever appears dead, spiked so cruelly and no, you will see no motion, not a twitch. Even the blood does not drip. Do not be deceived. She will be freed. She must. It is necessary.’
She thought he might have said something more, but his voice dwindled, and the landscape before her found a new shape. Wreckage or pyres burned across an unnaturally flat plain. Smoke rolled black and hot, stinging her eyes. She could make no sense of what she saw; the horizons seethed, as if armies contended on all sides but nowhere close.
Heavy shadows scudded over the littered ground and she looked up, but beyond the columns of smoke rising from the pyres, the sky was empty, colourless. Something about those untethered shadows frightened Kalyth, the way they seemed to be converging, gathering speed, and she could feel herself drawn after them, swept into their wake.
It seemed then that she truly left her body behind, and now sailed on the same currents, casting her own paltry, shapeless shadow, and she saw that the wreckage looked familiar-not pyres as such, after all, but crushed and twisted pieces of the kinds of mechanism she had seen in Ampelas Rooted. Her unease deepened. Was this a vision of the future? Or some frayed remnant of the distant past? She suspected that the K’Chain Che’Malle had fought vast wars centuries ago, yet she also knew that a new war was coming.
The horizon drew closer, at a point where the massive shadows seemed destined to converge. Its seething edge was indeed armies locked in battle, yet she could make out little detail. Humans? K’Chain Che’Malle? She could not tell, and even as she swept towards them, they grew indistinct, as if swallowed in dust.
There would be nothing easy in any of this, Kalyth realized. No gifts delivered with simple clarity, with unambiguous meaning. She floundered in sudden panic, trying to pull herself back as the shadows swarmed to a single point, only to vanish, as if plunging through a gate-she did not want to follow. She wanted none of this.
Twin suns blazed to life, blinding her. Searing heat washed over her, building, and she screamed as she withered in the firestorm-but it was too late-
She awoke lying on the damp grasses, lids fluttering open, to find herself staring up at a paling sky. Dull motes still drifted across her vision, but she could feel their loss of strength. Kalyth had returned, no wiser, no surer of the path ahead.
Groaning, she rolled on to her side, and then to her hands and knees. Every bone in her body ached; twinges speared every muscle, and she shivered, chilled right down to the roots of her soul. Lifting her head, she saw that Sag’Churok stood beside her, the Hunter’s terrible eyes fixed on her as if contemplating a hare trapped under his talons.
She looked away and then climbed to her feet. The thin odour of dung smoke reached her and she turned to see Gunth Mach hunkered down before the campfire, her huge hands deftly turning skewers of dripping meat.
The damned creatures had been obsessed with meat from the moment they departed the Nest-on this journey she’d yet to see them unwrap a single root crop or lump of bread (or what passed for bread, for although on the tongue it possessed the consistency of a fresh mushroom, she had seen loaves in countless shapes and sizes). Meat to break the night’s fast, meat at the mid-morning rest stop, meat whilst on the move at afternoon’s waning, and meat at the final meal well after the sun’s setting. She suspected that, if not for her, it would have been eaten raw. The Wastelands offered little else, she had discovered-even the grasses, berries and tubers that had once been common on the plains of the Elan were entirely absent here.
Feeling miserable, and terribly alone, she went over to collect her breakfast.
Stavi looked to her sister and saw, as ever, her own face, although the expression was never a match to her own. Twins they might be, but they were also two sides of a coin, and took turns in what they offered to the world. Hetan knew as much, and had observed more than once how, when one of her first daughters set eyes upon the other, there grew a look of surprise and something like guilt in the child’s face-as if in seeing an unexpected attitude displayed in her other self, she had perhaps ambushed her own innermost feelings.
Not surprisingly, Stavi and Storii were in the habit of avoiding one another’s regard, as much as was possible, as if neither welcomed that flash of confusion. They much preferred to sow confusion in everyone else, particularly, Hetan noted yet again, their adopted father.
Although not within hearing range of the conversation, Hetan could well see how it was proceeding. The girls had stalked the poor man, wicked as a pair of hunting cats, and whatever it was that they wanted from him, they would get. Without fail.
Or so it would be, each and every time, if not for their cruel and clever mother, who, when she took it upon herself, could stride into the midst of the ambush and, with a bare word or gesture, send the two little witches scampering. Knowing this, of course, at least one of the twins would have her attention fixed on Hetan’s location, measuring distances and the intensity of their mother’s attention. Hetan knew that, should she so much as turn towards them, the girls would break off the wheedling, crassly manipulative assault on their father, and, flicking dark, sharp glares her way, scuttle off in the manner of frustrated evil imps the world over.
Oh, they could be lovable enough, when it suited them, and, in sly gift from their true father, both possessed a natural talent for conveying innocence, so pure and so absolute it verged on the autistic, guaranteed to produce nausea in their mother, and other mothers besides. Why, Hetan had seen great-aunts-normally indulgent as befitted their remote roles-narrow their gazes when witnessing the display.
Of course, it was no easy thing to measure evil, or even to be certain that the assignation was appropriate. Was it not a woman’s gift to excel in the entirely essential guidance of every aspect of her chosen man’s life? It most certainly was. Accordingly, Hetan pitied the future husbands of Storii and Stavi. At the same time, however, she was not about to see her own man savaged by the two creatures. The issue was down to simple possession. And the older the twins grew, the more brazen their efforts at stealing him away from her.
Yes, she understood all of this. It was not anything direct, or even conscious on the part of the girls. They were simply trying out their skills at capturing, rending and devouring. And it was also natural that they would decide upon their own mother as competition. There were times, Hetan reflected, when she wished she could track down their distant, wayward and diabolical father, and thrust both rotters on to his plump lap-yes, Kruppe of Darujhistan was indeed welcome to his inadvertent get.
Alas, she could well see that the man who now stood in Kruppe’s stead would not have accepted such a gesture, no matter how just Hetan might deem it. Such were the myriad miseries of parenthood. And her bad luck in choosing an honourable mate.
He was vulnerable, apt to descend into indulgence, and the twins knew it and like piranhas they had closed in. It wasn’t that Stavi and Storii were uniquely insensitive-like all girls of their age, they just didn’t care. They wanted whatever they wanted and would do whatever was necessary to get it.
Long before their coming of age, of course, tribal life among the White Face Barghast would beat that out of them, or at least repress its more vicious impulses, all of which were necessary to a proper life.
Storii was the first to note Hetan’s approach, and the dark intent in her mother’s eyes was reflected in a sudden flash of terror and malice in the girl’s sweet, rounded face. She flicked her fingertips against her sister’s shoulder and Stavi flinched at the stinging snap and then caught sight of Hetan. In a heartbeat the twins were in full flight, bounding away like a pair of stoats, and their adopted father stared after them in surprise.
Hetan arrived. ‘Beloved, you have all the wit of a bhederin when it comes to those two.’
Onos Toolan blinked at her, and then he sighed. ‘I am afraid I was frustrating them nonetheless. It is difficult to concentrate-they speak too fast, so breathless-I lose all sense of what they mean, or want.’
‘You can be certain that whatever it was, its function was to spoil them yet further. But I have broken their siege, Tool, to tell you that the clan chiefs are assembling-well, those who managed to heed the summons.’ She hesitated. ‘They are troubled, husband.’
Even this did little to penetrate the sorrow that he had folded round him since the brutal death of Toc the Younger. ‘How many clans sent no one?’ he asked.
‘Almost a third.’
He frowned at that, but said nothing.
‘Mostly from the southern extremes,’ Hetan said. ‘That is why those here are now saying that they must have mutinied-lost their way, their will. That they have broken up and wandered into the kingdoms, the warriors hiring on as bodyguards and such to the Saphin and the Bolkando.’
‘You said “mostly”, Hetan. What of the others?’
‘All outlying clans, those who travelled farthest in the dispersal-except for one. Gadra, which had found a decent bhederin herd in a pocket between the Akryn and the Awl’dan, enough to sustain them for a time-’
‘The Gadra warchief-Stolmen, yes? I sensed no disloyalty in him. Also, what chance of mutiny in that region? They would have nowhere to go-that makes no sense.’
‘You are right, it doesn’t. We should have heard from them. You must speak to the clan chiefs, Tool. They need to be reminded why we are here.’ She studied his soft brown eyes for a moment, and then looked away. The crisis, she knew, dwelt not just in the minds of the Barghast clan chiefs, but also in the man standing beside her. Her husband, her love.
‘I do not know,’ said Tool, slowly, as if searching for the right words, ‘if I can help them. The shoulder-seers were bold in their first prophecies, igniting the fires that have brought us here, but with each passing day it seems their tongues wither yet more, their words dry up, and all I can see in them is the fear in their eyes.’
She took him by the arm and tugged until he followed her out from the edge of the vast encampment. They walked beyond the pickets and then the ring-trench dry-latrines, and still further, on to the hard uneven ground where the herds had tracked not so long ago, in the season of rains.
‘We were meant to wage war against the Tiste Edur,’ Tool said as they drew up atop a ridge and stared northward at distant dust-clouds. ‘The shoulder-seers rushed their rituals in finding pathways through the warrens. The entire White Face Barghast impoverished itself to purchase transports and grain. We hurried after the Grey Swords.’ He was silent for a moment longer, and then he said, ‘We sought the wrong enemy.’
‘No glory to be found in crushing a crushed people,’ Hetan observed, tasting the bitterness of her own words.
‘Nor a people terrorized by one of their own.’
There had been fierce clashes over this. Despite his ascension to Warchief, a unanimous proclamation following the tragic death of her father, Onos Toolan had almost immediately found himself at odds with all the clan chiefs. War against the Lether Empire would be an unjust war, the Edur hegemony notwithstanding. Not only were the Letherii not their enemy, even these Tiste Edur, crouching in the terrible shadow of their emperor, likely bore no relationship whatsoever to those ancient Edur who had preyed upon the Barghast so many generations past. The entire notion of vengeance, or that of a war resumed, suddenly tasted sour, and for Tool, an Imass who felt nothing of the old festering wounds in the psyche of the Barghast-who was indeed deaf to the fury of the awakened Barghast gods… well, he’d shown no patience with those so eager to shed blood.
The shoulder-seers had by this time lost all unity of vision. The prophecy, which had seemed so simple and clear, was all at once mired in ambiguity, seeding such discord among the seers that even their putative leader, Cafal, brother to Hetan, failed in his efforts to quell the schisms among the shamans. Thus, they had been no help in the battle of wills between Tool and the chiefs; and they were no help now.
Cafal persisted in travelling from tribe to tribe-she had not seen her brother in months. If he had succeeded in repairing any damage, she’d not heard of it; even among the shoulder-seers in this camp, she sensed a pervasive unease, and a sour reluctance to speak with anyone.
Onos Toolan had been unwilling to unleash the White Faces upon the Lether Empire-and his will had prevailed, until that one fated day, when the last of the Awl fell-when Toc the Younger had died. Not only had Hetan’s own clan, the Senan, been unleashed, so too had the dark hunger of Tool’s own sister, Kilava.
Hetan missed that woman, and knew that her husband’s grief was complicated by her departure-a departure that he might well see as her abandoning him in the moment of his greatest need. Hetan suspected, however, that in witnessing Toc’s death-and the effect it had had upon her brother, Kilava had been brutally reminded of the ephemeral nature of love and friendship-and so she had set out to rediscover her own life. A selfish impulse, perhaps, and an unfair wounding of a brother already reeling from loss.
Yes, Kilava deserved a good hard slap to the side of that shapely head, and Hetan vowed that she would be the one to deliver it, when next they met.
‘I see no enemy,’ her husband said now.
She nodded. Yes, this was the crisis afflicting her people, and so they looked to their Warchief. In need of a direction, a purpose. Yet he gave them nothing. ‘We have too many young warriors,’ she said. ‘Trained in the ancient ways of fighting, eager to see their swords drink blood-slaughtering a half-broken, exhausted Letherii army did little to whet the appetites of those in our own clan-yet it was enough to ignite envy and feuding with virtually everyone else.’
‘Things were simpler among the Imass,’ said Tool.
‘Oh, rubbish!’
He shot her a glare, and then looked away once more, shoulders slumping. ‘Well, we had purpose.’
‘You had a ridiculous war against a foe that had no real desire to fight you. And so, instead of facing the injustice you were committing, you went and invoked the Ritual of Tellann. Clever evasion, I suppose, if rather insane. What’s so frightening about facing your own mistakes?’
‘Dear wife, you should not ask that question.’
‘Why not?’
He met her eyes again, not with anger this time, but bleak despair. ‘You may find that mistakes are all you have.’
She grew very still, chilled despite the burgeoning heat of the morning. ‘Oh, and for you, does that include me?’
‘No, I speak to help you understand an Imass who was once a T’lan.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘With you, with our children, I had grown to believe that such things were at last behind me-those dread errors and the burden of all they yielded. And then, in an instant… I am reminded of my own stupidity. It does no good to ignore one’s own flaws, Hetan. The delusion comforts, but it can prove fatal.’
‘You’re not dead.’
‘Am I not?’
She snorted and turned away. ‘You’re just as bad as your sister!’ Then wheeled back to him. ‘Wake up! Your twenty-seven clans are down to nineteen-how many more will you lose because you can’t be bothered to make a decision?’
His eyes narrowed on her. ‘What would you have me decide?’ he asked quietly.
‘We are White Face Barghast! Find us an enemy!’
The privilege of being so close to home was proving too painful, even as Torrent-the last warrior of the Awl-sought to exult in the anguish. Punishment for surviving, for persisting, like one last drop of blood refusing to soak into the red mud; he did not know what held him upright, breathing, heart pounding on and on, thoughts clawing through endless curtains of dust. Somewhere, deep inside, he prayed he would find his single, pure truth, squeezed down into a knucklebone, polished by all the senseless winds, the pointless rains, the spiralling collapse of season upon season. A little knot of something like bone, to stumble over, to roll across, to send him sprawling.
He might find it, but he suspected not. He did not possess the wit. He was not sharp in the way of Toc Anaster, the Mezla who haunted his dreams. Thundering hoofs, a storm-wracked night sky, winds howling like wolves, and the dead warrior’s single eye fixed like an opal in its shadowed socket. A face horrifying in its red, glistening ruin-the skin cut away, smeared teeth exposed in a feral grin-oh, perhaps indeed the Mezla rode into Torrent’s dreams, a harbinger of nightmares, a mocker of his precious, fragile truth. One thing seemed clear-the dead archer was hunting Torrent, fired by hatred for the last Awl warrior, and the pursuit was relentless, Torrent’s steps dragging even as he ran for his life, gasping, shrieking-until with a start he would awaken, sheathed in sweat and shivering.
It seemed that Toc Anaster was in no hurry to bring the hunt to its grisly conclusion. The ghost’s pleasure was in the chase. Night after night after night.
The Awl warrior no longer wore a copper mask. The irritating rash that had mottled his face was now gone. He had elected to deliver himself and the children into the care of the Gadra clan, camped as they were at the very edge of the Awl’dan. He had not wished to witness the devastating grief of the strange warrior named Tool, over Toc Anaster’s death.
Shortly after joining the clan, and with the fading of his rash, Gadra women had taken an interest in him, and they were not coy, displaying a boldness that almost frightened Torrent-he had fled a woman’s advance more than once-but of late the dozen or so intent on stalking and trapping him had begun cooperating with one another.
And so he took to his horse, riding hard out from the camp, spending the entire span of the sun’s arc well away from their predations. Red-eyed with exhaustion, miserable in his solitude, and at war with himself. He had never lain with a woman, after all. He had no idea what it involved, beyond those shocking childhood memories of seeing, through the open doorways of huts, adults clamped round one another grunting and moaning and sighing. But they had been Awl-not these savage, terrifying Barghast who coupled with shouts and barks of laughter, the men bellowing like bears and the women clawing and scratching and biting.
No, none of it made any sense. For, even as he endeavoured to escape these mad women with their painted faces and bright eyes, he wanted what they offered. He fled his own desire, and each time he did so the torture he inflicted upon himself stung all the worse.
Such misery as no man deserves!
He should have rejoiced in his freedom, here on the vast plains so close to the Awl’dan. To see the herds of bhederin-which his own people had never thought to tame-and the scattering of rodara, too, that the surviving children of the Awl now cared for-and to know that the cursed Letherii were not hunting them, not slaughtering them… he should be exulting in the moment.
Was he not alive? Safe? And was he not the Clan Leader of the Awl? Undisputed ruler of a vast tribe of a few score children, some of whom had already forgotten their own language, and now spoke the barbaric foreign tongue of the Barghast, and had taken to painting their bodies with red and yellow ochre and braiding their hair?
He rode his horse at a slow canter, already two or more leagues from the Gadra encampment. The herds had swung round to the southeast the night before, so he had seen no one on his journey out. When he first caught sight of the Barghast dogs, he thought they might be wolves, but upon seeing Torrent they altered their route straight towards him-something no pack of wolves would do-and as they drew closer he could see their short-haired, mottled hides, their shortened muzzles and small ears. Larger than any Awl or Letherii breed, the beasts were singularly savage. Until this moment, they had ignored Torrent, beyond the occasional baring of fangs as they trotted past in the camp.
He slipped his lance from its sling and anchored it in the stirrup step just inside his right foot. Six dogs, loping closer-they were, he realized, exhausted.
Torrent reined in to await them, curious.
The beasts slowed, and then encircled the warrior and his horse. He watched as they sank down on to their bellies, jaws hanging, tongues lolling and slick with thick threads of saliva.
Confused, Torrent settled back in the saddle. Could he just ride through this strange circle, continue on his way?
If these were Awl dogs, what would their behaviour signify? He shook his head-maybe if they were drays, then he would imagine that an enemy had drawn near. Frowning, Torrent stood in his stirrups and squinted to the north, whence the dogs had come. Nothing… and then he shaded his eyes. Yes, nothing on the horizon, but above that horizon-circling birds? Possibly.
What to do? Return to the camp, find a warrior and tell him or her of what he had seen? Your dogs found me. They laid themselves down. Far to the north… some birds. Torrent snorted. He gathered the reins and nudged his mount between two of the prone dogs, and then swung his horse northward. Birds were not worth reporting-he needed to see what had drawn them.
Of the six dogs he left behind him, two fell into his wake, trotting. The remaining four rose and set out for the camp to the south.
In the time of Redmask, Torrent had known something close to contentment. The Awl had found someone to follow. A true leader, a saviour. And when the great victories had come-the death of hundreds of Letherii invaders in fierce, triumphant battles-they were proof of Redmask’s destiny. He could not be certain when things began to go wrong, but he recalled the look in Toc Anaster’s eye, the cynical set of his foreign face, and with every comment the man uttered, the solid foundations of Torrent’s faith seemed to reverberate, as if struck deadly blows… until the first cracks arrived, until Torrent’s very zeal was turned upon itself, jaded and mocking, and what had been a strength became a weakness.
Such was the power of scepticism. A handful of words to dismantle certainty, like seeds flung at a stone wall-tender greens and tiny roots, yes, but in time they would take down that wall.
Contentment alone should have made Torrent suspicious, but it had reared up before him like a god of purity and willingly he had knelt, head bowed, to take comfort in its shadow. In any other age, Redmask could not have succeeded in commanding the Awl. Without the desperation, without the succession of defeats and mounting losses, without extinction itself looming before them like a cliff’s edge, the tribes would have driven him away-as they had done once before. Yes, they had been wiser, then.
Some forces could not be defeated, and so it was with the Letherii. Their hunger for land, their need to possess and rule over all that they possessed-these were terrible desires that spread like the plague, poisoning the souls of the enemy. Once the fever of seeing the world as they did erupted like fire in one’s brain, the war was over, the defeat absolute and irreversible.
Even these Barghast-his barbaric saviours-were doomed. Akrynnai traders set up camps up against the picket lines. D’rhasilhani horse sellers drove herd after herd in a mostly futile parade past the encampment, and every now and then a Barghast warrior would select one of the larger animals, examine it for a time, and then, with a dismissive bark of laughter, send it back to the herd. Before too long, Torrent believed, a breed of sufficient height and girth would arrive, and that would be that.
Invaders did not stay invaders for ever. Eventually, they became no different from every other tribe or people in a land. Languages muddied, blended, surrendered. Habits were exchanged like currency, and before too long everyone saw the world the same way as everyone else. And if that way was wrong, then misery was assured, for virtually everyone, for virtually ever.
The Awl should have bowed to the Letherii. They would be alive now, instead of lying in jumbled heaps of mouldering bones in the mud of a dead sea.
Redmask had sought to stop time itself. Of course he failed.
Sometimes, belief was suicide.
Torrent had cast away his faiths, his certainties, his precious beliefs. He did nothing to resist the young ones losing their language. He saw the ochre paint on their faces, the spiked hair, and was indifferent to it. Yes, he was the leader of the Awl, the last there would ever be, and it was his task to oversee the peaceful obliteration of his culture. Ways will pass. He vowed he would not miss them.
No, Torrent wore no copper mask. Not any more. And his face was clear as his eyes.
He slowed his horse’s canter as soon as he made out the corpses, the bodies scattered about. Crows and gold-beaked vultures moved here and there in the carrion dance, whilst rhinazan flapped about, disturbing capemoths into flight-sudden blossoms of white petals that settled almost as quickly as they appeared. A scene of the plains that Torrent knew well.
A troop of Barghast had been ambushed. Slaughtered.
He rode closer.
No obvious tracks, neither foot nor hoof, led away from the killing ground. He saw how the Barghast had been in close formation-and that was odd, contrary to what Torrent had seen of their patrols. Perhaps, he thought, they had contracted defensively, which suggested an enemy in overwhelming numbers. But then… there was no sign of that. And whoever had murdered these warriors must have taken their own dead with them-he walked his horse in a circuit round the bodies-saw no trailing smears of blood, no swaths through the grasses to mark dragged heels.
The bodies, he realized then, had not been looted. Their beautiful weapons were scattered about, the blades devoid of blood.
Torrent felt his nerves awaken, as if brushed by something unholy. He looked once more at the corpses-not a contraction, but a converging… upon a single foe. And the wounds-despite the efforts of the scavengers-displayed nothing of what one would expect. As if they closed upon a beast, and see how the blows struck downward upon them. A plains bear? No, there are none left. The last surviving skin of one of those beasts-among my people-was said to be seven generations old. He remembered the thing, vast, yes, but tattered. And the claws had been removed and since lost. Still…
Torrent glanced at the two dogs as they trotted up. The beasts looked preternaturally cowed, stubby tails ducked, the glances they sent him beseeching and frightened. If they had been Awl drays, they would now be moving on to the enemy’s trail, eager, hackles raised. He scowled down at the quivering beasts.
He swung his horse back round and set off for the Gadra camp. The dogs hurried after him.
A beast, yet one that left no trail whatsoever. A ghost creature.
Perhaps his solitary rides had come to an end. He would have to surrender to those eager women. They could take away his unease, he hoped.
Leave the hunt to the Barghast. Give their shamans something worthwhile to do, instead of getting drunk on D’ras beer every night. Report to the chief, and then be done with it.
He already regretted riding out to find the bodies. For all he knew the ghost creature was close, had in fact been watching him. Or something of its foul sorcery lingered upon the scene, and now he was marked, and it would find him no matter where he went. He could almost smell that sorcery, clinging to his clothes. Acrid, bitter as a snake’s belly.
Setoc, who had once been named Stayandi, and who in her dreams was witness to strange scenes of familiar faces speaking in strange tongues, of laughter and love and tenderness-an age in the time before her beasthood-stood facing the empty north.
She had seen the four dogs come into the camp, in itself an event unworthy of much attention, and if the patrol was late in returning, well, perhaps they had surprised a mule deer and made a kill, thus explaining the absence of two dogs from the pack, as the beasts would have been strapped to a travois to carry back the meat. Explanations such as these served for the moment, despite the obvious flaws in logic (these four would have remained with the patrol in such a case, feeding on the butchered carcass and its offal and whatnot); although the truth of it was Setoc spared few thoughts for what interpretations the nearby Barghast might kick up in small swirls of agitated dust, as they tracked with their eyes the sweat-lathered beasts, or for their growing alarm when the dogs then sank down on to their bellies.
So, she watched as a dozen or so warriors gathered weapons and slowly converged on the exhausted beasts, and then returned her attention to the north.
Yes, the animals stank of death.
And the wild wolves in the emptiness beyond, who had given her life, had howled with the dawn their tale of terror.
Yes, her first family ever remained close by, accorded a kind of holy protection in the legend that was the girl’s finding-no Barghast would hunt the animals, and now even the Akrynnai had been told the story of her birth among the pack, of the lone warrior’s discovery of her. Spirit-blessed, they now all said when looking upon her. The holder of a thousand hearts.
At first, that last title had confused Setoc, but her memories slowly awakened, with each day that she grew older, taller, sharper-eyed. Yes, she held within herself a thousand hearts, even more. Wolf gifts. Milk she had suckled, milk of blood, milk of a thousand slain brothers and sisters. And did she not recall a night of terror and slaughter? A night fleeing in the darkness?
They spoke of her legend, and even the shoulder-seers made her offerings and would come up and touch her to ease their troubled expressions.
And now the Great Warlock, the Finder of the Barghast Gods, the one named Cafal, had come to the Gadra, to speak with her, to search her soul if she so permitted it.
The wild wolves cried out to her, their minds a confused tumult of fear and worry. Anxious for their child, yes, and for a future time when storms gathered from every horizon. They understood that she would be at the very heart of that celestial conflagration. They begged to sacrifice their own lives so that she might live. And that, she would not permit.
If she was spirit-blessed, then the wolves were the spirits that had so blessed her. If she was a thing to be worshipped here among the Barghast, then she was but a symbol of the wild and it was this wild that must be worshipped-if only they could see that.
She glanced back at the cowering dogs, and felt a rush of sorrowful regret at what such beasts could have been, if their wildness was not so chained, so bound and muzzled.
God, my children, does not await us in the wilderness. God, my children, is the wilderness.
Witness its laws and be humbled.
In humility, find peace.
But know this: peace is not always life. Sometimes, peace is death. In the face of this, how can one not be humble?
The wild laws are the only laws.
She would give these words to Cafal. She would see in his face their effect.
And then she would tell him that the Gadra clan was going to die, and that many other Barghast clans would follow. She would warn him to look to the skies, for from the skies death was coming. She would warn him against further journeys-he must return to his own clan. He must make peace with the spirit of his own kin. The peace of life, before the arrival of the peace of death.
Warriors had gathered round the dogs, readying weapons and such. Tension flowed out from them in ripples, spreading through the camp. In moments a warleader would be selected from among the score or so milling about. Setoc pitied them all, but especially that doomed leader.
A wind was blowing in from the east, scratching loose her long sun-bleached hair until it whispered across her face like withered grass. And still the stench of death filled her senses.
Cafal’s heavy features had broadened, grown more robust since his youth, and there were deeply etched lines of stress between his brows and framing his mouth. Years ago, in a pit beneath a temple floor, he had spoken with the One Who Blesses, with the Malazan captain, Ganoes Paran. And, seeking to impress the man-seeking to prove that, somehow, his wisdom belied his few years-he had uttered words he had heard his father use, claiming them as his own.
‘A man possessing power must act decisively… else it trickle away through his fingers.’
The observation, while undoubtedly true, now echoed sourly. The voice that made that pronouncement, back then, was all wrong. It had no right to the words. Cafal could not believe his own pretensions uttered by that younger self, that bold, clear-eyed fool.
A pointless, stupid accident had stolen away his father, Humbrall Taur. For all that the huge, wise warrior had wielded his power, neither wisdom nor that power availed him against blind chance. The lesson was plain, the message bleak and humbling. Power was proof against nothing, and that was the only wisdom worth recognizing.
He wondered what had happened to that miserable Malazan captain, chosen and cursed (and was there any real difference between the two?), and he wondered, too, why he now longed to speak with Ganoes Paran, to exchange a new set of words, these ones more honest, more measured, more knowing. Yes, the young were quick with judgement, quick to chastise their torpid elders. The young understood nothing about the value of sober contemplation.
Ganoes Paran had been indecisive, in Cafal’s eyes back then. Pitifully, frustratingly so. But to the Cafal of this day, here on this foreign plain under foreign skies, that Malazan of years ago had been rightly cautious, measured by a wisdom to which young Cafal had been woefully blind. And this is how we gauge a life, this is how we build the bridge from what we were to what we are. Ganoes Paran, do you ever look down? Do you ever stand frozen in place by that depthless chasm below?
Do you ever dream of jumping?
Onos Toolan had been given all the power Cafal’s own father had once commanded, and there was nothing undeserved in that. And now, slowly, inexorably, it was trickling away through the fingers of that ancient warrior. Cafal could do nothing to stop it-he was as helpless as Tool himself. Once again, blind chance had conspired against the Barghast.
When word reached him that wardogs had returned to the camp-beasts bereft of escort and therefore mutely announcing that something ill had befallen a scouting troop-and that a war-party was forming to set out on the back-trail, Cafal drew on his bhederin-hide cloak, grunting beneath its weight, and kicked at the ragged, tufted doll crumpled on the tent floor near the foot of his cot. ‘Wake up.’
The sticksnare spat and snarled as it scrambled upright. ‘Very funny. Respect your elders, O Great Warlock.’
The irony oozing like pine sap from the title made Cafal wince, and then he cursed himself when Talamandas snorted in amusement upon seeing the effect of his mockery. He paused at the entrance. ‘We should have burned you on a pyre long ago, sticksnare.’
‘Too many value me to let you do that. I travel the warrens. I deliver messages and treat with foreign gods. We speak of matters of vast importance. War, betrayals, alliances, betrayals-’
‘You’re repeating yourself.’
‘-and war.’
‘And are the Barghast gods pleased with your efforts, Talamandas? Or do they snarl with fury as you flit this way and that at the behest of human gods?’
‘They cannot live in isolation! We cannot! They are stubborn! They lack all sophistication! They embarrass me!’
Sighing, Cafal stepped outside.
The sticksnare scrambled after him, skittish as a stoat. ‘If we fight alone, we will all die. We need allies!’
Cafal paused and looked down, wondering if Talamandas was, perhaps, insane. How many times could they repeat this same conversation? ‘Allies against whom?’ he asked, as he had done countless times before.
‘Against what comes!’
And there, the same meaningless answer, the kind of answer neither Cafal nor Tool could use. Hissing under his breath, the Great Warlock set off once more, ignoring Talamandas who scrambled in his wake.
The war-party had left the camp. At a trot, the warriors were already reaching the north ridge. Once over the crest, they would vanish from sight.
Cafal saw the wolf-child, Setoc, standing at the camp’s edge, evidently watching the warriors, and something in her stance suggested she longed to lope after them, teeth bared and hackles raised, eager to join in the hunt.
He set out in that direction.
There was no doubt that she was Letherii, but that legacy existed only on the surface-her skin, her features, the traits of whatever parents had given her birth and then lost her. But that nascent impression of civilization had since faded, eroded away. She had been given back to the wild, a virgin sacrifice whose soul had been devoured whole. She belonged to the wolves, and, perhaps, to the Wolf God and Goddess, the Lord and Lady of the Beast Throne.
The Barghast had come to find the Grey Swords, to fight at their side-believing that Toc Anaster and his army knew the enemy awaiting them. The Barghast gods had been eager to serve Togg and Fanderay, to run with the bold pack in search of blood and glory. They had been, Cafal now understood, worse than children.
The Grey Swords were little more than rotting meat when the first scouts found them.
So much for glory.
Was Setoc the inheritor of the blessing once bestowed upon the Grey Swords? Was she now the child of Togg and Fanderay?
Even Talamandas did not know.
‘Not her!’ the sticksnare now snarled behind him. ‘Cast her out, Cafal! Banish her to the wastes where she belongs!’
But he continued on. When he was a dozen paces away, she briefly glanced back at him before returning her attention upon the empty lands to the north. Moments later, he reached her side.
‘They are going to die,’ she said.
‘What? Who?’
‘The warriors who just left. They will die as did the scout troop. You have found the enemy, Great Warlock… but it is the wrong enemy. Again.’
Cafal swung round. He saw Talamandas squatting in the grasses five paces back. ‘Chase them down,’ he told the sticksnare. ‘Bring them back.’
‘Believe nothing she says!’
‘This is not a request, Talamandas.’
With a mocking cackle the sticksnare darted past, bounding like a bee-stung hare on to the trail of the war-party.
‘There is no use in doing that,’ Setoc said. ‘This entire clan is doomed.’
‘Such pronouncements weary me,’ Cafal replied. ‘You are like a poison thorn in this clan’s heart, stealing its strength, its pride.’
‘Is that why you’ve come?’ she asked. ‘To… pluck out this thorn?’
‘If I must.’
‘Then why are you waiting?’
‘I would know the source of your pronouncements, Setoc. Are you plagued with visions? Do spirits visit your dreams? What have you seen? What do you know?’
‘The rhinazan whisper in my ear,’ she said.
Was she taunting him? ‘Winged lizards do not whisper anything, Setoc.’
‘No?’
‘No. Is nonsense all you can give me? Am I to be nothing but the object of your contempt?’
‘The Awl warrior, the one so aptly named Torrent, has found the war-party. He adds to your doll’s exhortations. But… the warleader is young. Fearless. Why do the fools choose one such as that?’
‘When older warriors see a pack of wardogs drag themselves into the camp,’ said Cafal, ‘they hold a meeting to discuss matters. The young ones clutch their weapons and leap to their feet, eyes blazing.’
‘It is a wonder,’ she observed, ‘that any warrior ever manages to get old.’
Yes. It is.
‘The Awl has convinced them.’
‘Not Talamandas?’
‘No. They say dead warlocks never have anything good to say. They say your sticksnare kneels at the foot of the Death Reaper. They call it a Malazan puppet.’
By the spirits, I cannot argue against any of that!
‘You sense all that takes place on these plains, Setoc. What do you know of the enemy that killed the scouts?’
‘Only what the rhinazan whisper, Great Warlock.’
Winged lizards again… spirits below! ‘In our homeland, on the high desert mesas, there are smaller versions that are called rhizan.’
‘Smaller, yes.’
He frowned. ‘Meaning?’
She shrugged. ‘Just that. Smaller.’
He wanted to shake her, rattle loose her secrets. ‘Who killed our scouts?’
She bared her teeth but did not face him. ‘I have already told you, Great Warlock. Tell me, have you seen the green spears in the sky at night?’
‘Of course.’
‘What are they?’
‘I don’t know. Things have been known to fall from the sky, whilst others simply pass by like wagons set ablaze, crossing the firmament night after night for weeks or months… and then vanishing as mysteriously as they arrived.’
‘Uncaring of the world below.’
‘Yes. The firmament is speckled with countless worlds no different from ours. To the stars and to the great burning wagons, we are as motes of dust.’
She turned to study him as he spoke these words. ‘That is… interesting. This is what the Barghast believe?’
‘What do the wolves believe, Setoc?’
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘when a hunter throws a javelin at a fleeing antelope, does the hunter aim at the beast?’
‘Yes and no. To strike true, the hunter must throw into the space in front of the antelope-into the path it will take.’ He studied her. ‘Are you saying that these spears of green fire are the javelins of a hunter, and that we are the antelope?’
‘And if the antelope darts this way, dodges that?’
‘A good hunter will not miss.’
The war-party had reappeared on the ridge, and accompanying it was the Awl warrior on his horse, along with two more dogs.
Cafal said, ‘I will find Stolmen, now. He will want to speak with you, Setoc.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘Perhaps the Gadra warchief can glean clearer answers from you, for in that I have surely failed.’
‘The wolves are clear enough,’ she replied, ‘when speaking of war. All else confuses them.’
‘So you indeed serve the Lady and Lord of the Beast Throne. As would a priestess.’
She shrugged.
‘Who,’ Cafal asked again, ‘is the enemy?’
Setoc looked at him. ‘The enemy, Great Warlock, is peace.’ And she smiled.
The ribbers had dragged Visto’s body a dozen or so paces out into the flat, until something warned them against eating the wrinkled, leathery flesh of the dead boy. With the dawn, Badalle and a few others walked out to stand round the shrunken, stomach-burst thing that had once been Visto.
The others waited for Badalle to find her words.
Rutt was late in arriving as he had to check on Held and make adjustments to the baby’s wrap. By the time he joined them, Badalle was ready. ‘Hear me, then,’ she said, ‘at Visto’s deading.’
She blew flies from her lips and then scanned the faces arrayed round her. There was an expression she wanted to find, but couldn’t. Even remembering what it looked like was hard, no, impossible. She’d lost it, truth be told. But wanted it, and she knew she would recognize it as soon as she saw it again. An expression… some kind of expression… what was it? After a moment, she spoke,
‘We all come from some place
And Visto was no different
He come
From some
Place
And it was different and
It was the same no different
If you know what I mean
And you do
You have to
All you standing here
The point is that Visto
He couldn’t remember
Anything about that place
Except that he come from it
And that’s like lots of you
So let’s say now
He’s gone back there
To that place
Where he come from
And everything he sees
He remembers
And everything he remembers
Is new’
They always waited, never knowing if she was finished until it became obvious that she was, and in that time Badalle looked down at Visto. The eggs of the Satra Riders clung like crumbs to Visto’s lips, as if he had been gobbling down cake. The adult riders had chewed out through his stomach and no one knew where they went, maybe into the ground-they did all that at night.
Maybe some of the ribbers had been careless, with their eager jaws and all, which was good since then there’d be fewer of them strong enough to launch attacks on the ribby snake. It wasn’t as bad having them totter along in the distance, keeping pace, getting weaker just as the children did, until they lay down and weren’t trouble any more. You could live with that, no different from the crows and vultures overhead. Animals showed, didn’t they, how to believe in patience.
She lifted her head and as if that was a signal the others turned away and walked slowly back to the trail where the ones who could were standing, getting ready for the day’s march.
Rutt said, ‘I liked Visto.’
‘We all liked Visto.’
‘We shouldn’t have.’
‘No.’
‘Because that makes it harder.’
‘The Satra Riders liked Visto too, even more than we did.’
Rutt shifted Held from the crook of his right arm into the crook of his left arm. ‘I’m mad at Visto now.’
Brayderal, who had showed up to walk at the snake’s head only two days ago-maybe coming from back down the snake’s body, maybe coming from somewhere else-walked out to stand close to them, as if she wanted to be part of something. Something made up of Rutt and Held and Badalle. But whatever that something was, it had no room for Brayderal. Visto’s deading didn’t leave a hole. The space just closed up.
Besides, something about the tall, bony girl made Badalle uneasy. Her face was too white beneath all this sun. She reminded Badalle of the bone-skins-what were they called again? Quisiters? Quitters? Could be, yes, the Quitters, the bone-skins who stood taller than anyone else and from that height they saw everything and commanded everyone and when they said Starve and die, why, that’s just what everyone did.
If they knew about the Chal Managal, they would be angry. They might even chase after it and find the head, find Rutt and Badalle, and then do that quitting thing with the hands, the thing that broke the necks of people like Rutt and Badalle.
‘We would be… quitted unto deading.’
‘Badalle?’
She looked at Rutt, blew flies from her lips, and then-ignoring Brayderal as if she wasn’t there-set off to rejoin the ribby snake.
The track stretched westward, straight like an insult to nature, and at the distant end of the stony, lifeless ground, the horizon glittered as if crusted with crushed glass. She heard Rutt’s scrabbling steps coming up behind her, and then veering slightly as he made for the front of the column. She might be his second but Badalle wouldn’t walk with him. Rutt had Held. That was enough for Rutt.
Badalle had her words, and that was almost too much.
She saw Brayderal follow Rutt. They were almost the same height, but Rutt looked the weaker, closer to deading than Brayderal, and seeing that, Badalle felt a flash of anger. It should have been the other way round. They needed Rutt. They didn’t need Brayderal.
Unless she was planning on stepping into Rutt’s place when Rutt finally broke, planning on being the snake’s new head, its slithery tongue, its scaly jaws. Yes, that might be what Badalle was seeing. And Brayderal would take up Held all wrapped tight and safe from the sun, and they’d all set out on another day, with her instead of Rutt leading them.
That made a kind of sense. No different than with the ribber packs-when the leader got sick or lame or just wasn’t strong enough any more, why, that other ribber that showed up and started trotting alongside it, it was there just for this moment. To take over. To keep things going.
No different from what sons did to fathers and daughters did to mothers, and princes to kings and princesses to queens.
Brayderal walked almost at Rutt’s side, up there at the head. Maybe she talked with Rutt, maybe she didn’t. Some things didn’t need talking about, and besides, Rutt wasn’t one to say much anyway.
‘I don’t like Brayderal.’
If anyone nearby heard her, they gave no sign.
Badalle blew to scatter the flies. They needed to find water. Even half a day without it and the snake would get too ribby, especially in this heat.
On this morning, she did as she always did. Eating her fill of words, drinking deep the spaces in between, and mad-so mad-that none of it gave her any strength.
Saddic had been Rutt’s second follower, the first being Held. He now walked among the four or so moving in a loose clump a few paces behind Rutt and the new girl. Badalle was a little way back, in the next clump. Saddic worshipped her, but he would not draw close to her, not yet, because there would be no point. He had few words of his own-he’d lost most of them early on in this journey. So long as he was in hearing range of Badalle, he was content.
She fed him. With her sayings and her seeings. She kept Saddic alive.
He thought about what she had said for Visto’s deading. About how some of it wasn’t true, the bit about Visto not remembering anything about where he’d come from. He’d remembered too much, in fact. So, Badalle had knowingly told an untruth about Visto. At his deading. Why had she done that?
Because Visto was gone. Her words weren’t for him because he was gone. They were for us. She was telling us to give up remembering. Give it up so when we find it again it all feels new. Not the remembering itself but the things we remembered. The cities and villages and the families and the laughing. The water and the food and full stomachs. Is that what she was telling us?
Well, he had his meal for the day, didn’t he? She was generous that way.
The feet at the ends of his legs were like wads of leather. They didn’t feel much and that was a relief since the stones on the track were sharp and so many others had bleeding feet making it hard to walk. The ground was even worse to either side of the trail.
Badalle was smart. She was the brain behind the jaws, the tongue. She took what the snake’s eyes saw. She made sense of what the tongue tasted. She gave names to the things of this new world. The moths that pretended to be leaves and the trees that invited the moths to be leaves so that five trees shared one set of leaves between them, and when the trees got hungry off went the leaves, looking for food. No other tree could do that, and so no other tree lived on the Elan.
She talked about the jhaval, the carrion birds no bigger than sparrows, that were the first to swarm a body when it fell, using their sharp beaks to stab and drink. Sometimes the jhaval didn’t even wait for the body to fall. Saddic had seen them attacking a wounded ribber, even vultures and crows. Sometimes each other, too, when the frenzy was on them.
Satra Riders, as what did in poor Visto, and flow-worms that moved in a seething carpet, pushing beneath a corpse to squirm in the shade. They bit and drenched themselves in whatever seeped down and as the ground softened down they went, finally able to pierce the skin of the blistered earth.
Saddic looked in wonder at this new world, listened in awe as Badalle gave the strange things names and made for them all a new language.
Close to noon they found a waterhole. The crumbled foundations of makeshift corrals surrounded the shallow, muddy pit.
The snake halted, and then began a slow, tortured crawl into and out of the churned-up mud. The wait alone killed scores, and even as children emerged from the morass, slathered black, some fell to convulsions, curling round mud-filled guts. Some spilled out their bowels, fouling things for everyone that came after.
It was another bad day for the Chal Managal.
Later in the afternoon, during the worst of the heat, they spied a greyish cloud on the horizon ahead. The ribbers began howling, dancing in terror, and as the cloud rushed closer, the dogs finally fled.
What looked like rain wasn’t rain. What looked like a cloud wasn’t a cloud.
These were locusts, but not the normal kind of locusts.
Wings glittering, the swarm filling half the sky, and then all the sky, the sound a clicking roar-the rasp of wings, the snapping open of jaws-each creature a finger long. Out from within the cloud, as it engulfed the column, lunged buzzing knots where the insects massed almost solid. When one of these hammered into a huddle of children, shrieks of pain and horror erupted-the flash of red meat, and then bone-and then the horde swept on, leaving behind clumps of hair and heaps of gleaming bone.
These locusts ate meat.
This was the first day of the Shards.
A POEM THAT SERVES
ASTATTLE POHM
Corporal Tarr’s memory of his father could be entirely summed up inside a single recollected quote, ringing like Talian death bells across the breadth of Tarr’s childhood. A raw, stentorian pronouncement battering down on the flinching son. ‘Sympathy? Aye, I have sympathy-for the dead and no one else! Ain’t nobody in this world deserves sympathy unless they’re dead! You understanding me, son?’
‘You understanding me, son?’
Yes, sir. Good words for making a soldier. Kept the brain from getting too… cluttered. With things that might get in the way of holding his shield just so, stabbing out with his short sword right there. It was a kind of discipline, what others might call obstinate stupidity, but that simply showed that lots of people didn’t understand soldiering.
Teaching people to be disciplined, he was discovering, wasn’t easy. He walked the length of Letherii soldiers-and aye, that description was a sorry stretch-who stood at what passed for attention for these locals. A row of red faces in the blazing sunlight, dripping like melting wax.
‘Harridict Brigade,’ Tarr said in a snarl, ‘what kind of name is that? Who in Hood’s name was Harridict-no, don’t answer me, you damned fool! Some useless general, I’d imagine, or worse, some merchant house happy to kit you all in its house colours. Merchants! Businesses got no place in the military. We built an empire across three continents by keeping ’em outa things! Businesses are the vultures of war, and maybe those beaks look like smiles, but take it from me, they’re just beaks.’
He halted then, his repertoire of words exhausted, and gestured to Cuttle, who stepped up with a hard grin-the idiot loved this Braven role, as it was being called now (‘Letherii got master sergeants; we Malazans got Braven Sergeants, and say it toothy when you say it, lads, and be sure to keep the joke private’-so said Ruthan Gudd and that, Tarr had decided then and there, was a soldier).
Cuttle was wide and solid, a perfect fit to the role. Wider than Tarr but shorter by half a head, which meant that Tarr was an even better fit. Not one of these miserable excuses for soldiers could stand toe to toe with either Malazan for anything past twenty heartbeats, and that was the awful truth. They were soft. ‘This brigade,’ Cuttle now said, loud and contemptuous, ‘is a waste of space!’ He paused to glare at the faces, which were slowly hardening under the assault.
About time. Tarr watched on, thumbs hooked now in his weapon belt.
‘Aye,’ Cuttle went on, ‘I’ve listened to your drunken stories-’ and his tone invited them to sit at his table: knowing and wise and damned near… sympathetic. ‘And aye, I’ve seen for myself that raw, ugly pig you call magic hereabouts. Undisciplined-no finesse-brutal power but nothing clever. So, for you lot, battle means eating dirt, and a battlefield is where hundreds die for no good reason. Your mages have made war a miserable, useless joke-’ and he spun round and stepped up to one soldier, nose to nose. ‘You! How many times has this brigade taken fifty per cent or more losses in a single battle?’
The soldier-and Cuttle had chosen well-almost bared his teeth. ‘Seven times, Braven Sergeant!’
‘Seventy-five per cent losses?’
‘Four, Braven Sergeant!’
‘Losses at ninety?’
‘Once, Braven Sergeant, but not ninety-one hundred per cent, Braven Sergeant.’
Cuttle let his jaw drop. ‘One hundred?’
‘Yes, Braven Sergeant!’
‘Wiped out to the last soldier?’
‘Yes, Braven Sergeant!’
And Cuttle leaned even closer, his face turning crimson. In a bellowing shout, he said, ‘And has it not once occurred to you-any of you-that you might do better by murdering all your mages at the very start of the battle?’
‘Then the other side would-’
‘You parley with ’em first, of course-you all agree to butcher the bastards!’ He reeled back and threw up his hands. ‘You don’t fight wars! You don’t fight battles! You just all form up and make new cemeteries!’ He wheeled on them. ‘Are you all idiots?’
On a balcony overlooking the parade grounds, Brys Beddict winced. Beside him, standing in the shade, Queen Janath grunted and then said, ‘You know, he has a point.’
‘It is, for the moment,’ Brys said, ‘almost irrelevant. We have few mages of any stature left, and even those ones have gone to ground-it seems there is a quiet revolution under way, and I suspect that when the dust has settled, the entire discipline of sorcery will be transformed.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘In any case, that wasn’t what alarmed me-listening to that soldier down there. It’s their notion of taking matters into their own hands.’
‘An invitation to mutiny,’ Janath was nodding, ‘but you could look at it another way. Their kind of thinking in turn keeps their commanders in check-following orders is one thing, but if those orders are suicidal or just plain stupid…’
‘The thought of my soldiers second-guessing me at every turn hardly inspires confidence. I am beginning to regret employing these Malazans in the reshaping of the Letherii military. Perhaps the way they do things works for them, but it does not necessarily follow that it will work for us.’
‘You may be right, Brys. There is something unusual about the Malazans. I find them fascinating. Imagine, an entire civilization that does not suffer fools.’
‘From what I have heard,’ Brys pointed out, ‘that did not protect them from betrayal-their very own Empress was prepared to sacrifice them all.’
‘But they did not kneel to the axe, did they?’
‘I see your point.’
‘There exists an exchange of trust between the ruler and the ruled. Abuse that from either direction and all mutual agreements are nullified.’
‘Civil war.’
‘Unless one of the aggrieved parties has the option of simply leaving. Assuming it’s not interested in retribution or vengeance.’
Brys thought about that for a time, watching the relentless bullying of his Letherii soldiers by those two Bonehunters in the yard below. ‘Perhaps they have things to teach us after all,’ he mused.
Cuttle stepped close to Tarr and hissed, ‘Gods below, Corporal, they’re worse than sheep!’
‘Been thrashed too many times, that’s their problem.’
‘So what do we do with them?’
Tarr shrugged. ‘All I can think of is thrash ’em again.’
Cuttle’s small eyes narrowed on his corporal. ‘Somehow, that don’t sound right.’
Grimacing, Tarr looked away. ‘I know. But it’s all I’ve got. If you’ve a better idea, feel free, sapper.’
‘I’ll get ’em marching round-that’ll give us time to think.’
‘There must be some clever strategy at work down there,’ Brys concluded after a time, and then he turned to the Queen. ‘We should probably attend to Tehol-he said something about a meeting in advance of the meeting with the Adjunct.’
‘Actually, that was Bugg. Tehol proposed a meeting to discuss Bugg’s idea of the meeting in advance-oh, listen to me! That man is like an infection! Yes, let us march with solemn purpose upon my husband-your brother-and at least find out whatever needs finding out before the Malazans descend upon us. What must they think? Our King wears a blanket!’
Lostara Yil’s hand crept to the knife at her hip and then drew back once more. A muttering whisper in her head was telling her the blade needed cleaning, but she had just cleaned and honed it not a bell ago, and even the sheath was new. None of this was logical. None of this made sense. Yes, she understood the reasons for her obsession. Twisted, pathetic reasons, but then, driving a knife through the heart of the man she loved was bound to leave an indelible stain on her soul. The knife had become a symbol-she’d be a fool not to see that.
Still, her hand itched, desperate to draw forth the knife.
She sought to distract herself by watching Fist Blistig pacing along the far wall, measuring out a cage no one else could see-yet she knew its dimensions. Six paces in length, about two wide, the ceiling low enough to make the man hunch over, the floor worn smooth, almost polished. She understood that kind of invention, all the effort in making certain the bars fit tightly, that the lock was solid and the key flung into the sea.
Fist Keneb was watching the man as well, doing an admirable job of keeping his thoughts to himself. He was the only one seated at the table, seemingly relaxed, although Lostara well knew that he was probably as bruised and battered as she was-Fiddler’s cursed reading had left them all in rough shape. Being bludgeoned unconscious was never a pleasant experience.
The three of them looked over as Quick Ben walked into the chamber. The High Mage carried an air of culpability about him, which was nothing new. For all his bravado, accusations clung to him like gnats on a web. Of course he was hiding secrets. Of course he was playing unseen games. He was Quick Ben, the last surviving wizard of the Bridgeburners. He thought outwitting gods was fun. But even he had taken a beating at Fiddler’s reading, which should have humbled the man.
She squinted as he sauntered up to the table, pulled out the chair beside Keneb, and sat, whereupon he began drumming his fingers on the varnished surface.
No, not much humility there.
‘Where is she?’ Quick Ben asked. ‘We’re seeing the King in a bell’s time-we need to settle on what we’re doing.’
Blistig had resumed pacing, and at the wizard’s words he snorted and then said, ‘She’s settled already. This is just a courtesy.’
‘Since when is the Adjunct interested in decorum?’ Quick Ben retorted. ‘No, we need to discuss strategies. Everything has changed-’
Keneb straightened at that. ‘What has, High Mage? Since the reading? Can you be specific?’
The wizard grinned. ‘I can, but maybe she doesn’t want me to.’
‘Then the rest of us should just leave you and her to it,’ said Blistig, his blunt features twisting with disgust. ‘Unless your egos demand an audience, in which case, why, we wouldn’t want those bruised, would we?’
‘Got a dog house in there, Blistig? You could always take a nap.’
Lostara made sure to glance away, amused. She had none of their concerns on her mind. In fact, she didn’t care where this pointless army ended up. Maybe the Adjunct would simply dissolve the miserable thing, cashier them all out. Letheras was a nice enough city, although a little too humid for her tastes-it was probably drier inland, away from this sluggish river.
She knew that such an outcome was unlikely, of course. Impossible, in fact. Maybe Tavore Paran didn’t possess the nobility’s addiction to material possessions. The Bonehunters were the exception. This was her army. And she didn’t want it sitting pretty on a shelf like some prized bauble. No, she wanted to use it. Maybe even use it up.
Which was where everyone else came in. Blistig and Keneb, Quick Ben and Sinn. Ruthan Gudd-not that he ever bothered attending briefings-and Arbin and Lostara herself. Add to that eight and a half thousand soldiers in Tavore’s own command, along with the Burned Tears and the Perish, and that, Lostara supposed, more than satisfied whatever noble acquisitiveness the Adjunct might harbour.
It was no wonder these men here were nervous. Something was driving the Adjunct, her very own fierce, cruel obsession. Quick Ben might have some idea about it, but she suspected the man was mostly bluff and bluster. The one soldier who might well know wasn’t even here. Thank the gods above and below for that one mercy.
‘We’re marching into the Wastelands,’ said Keneb. ‘We know that much, I suppose. Just not the reasons why.’
Lostara Yil cleared her throat. ‘That is a rumour, Fist.’
His brows lifted. ‘I understood it to be more certain than that.’
‘Well,’ said Quick Ben, ‘it’s imprecise, as most rumours turn out to be. More specifically, it’s incomplete. Which is why most of the speculation thus far has been useless.’
‘Go on,’ said Keneb.
The wizard drummed the tabletop once more, and then said, ‘We’re not marching into the Wastelands, my friends. We’re marching through them.’ He smiled but it wasn’t a real smile. ‘See how that added detail makes all the difference? Because now the rumours can chew hard on possibilities. The notion of goals, right? Her goals. What she needs us to do to meet them.’ He paused and then added, ‘What we need to do to convince ourselves and our soldiers that meeting them is even worth it.’
Well, that was said plainly enough. Here, chew hard on this mouthful of glass.
‘Unwitnessed,’ Keneb muttered.
Quick Ben fluttered a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t think we have a problem with that. She’s already said what she needed to say on that subject. It’s settled. Her next challenge will come when she finally spills out precisely what she’s planning.’
‘But you think you’ve already figured that out.’
Lostara wasn’t fooled by the High Mage’s coy smile. The idiot hasn’t a clue. He’s just like the rest of us.
Adjunct Tavore made her entrance then, dragging Sinn by one skinny arm-and the expression on the girl’s face was a dark storm of indignation and fury. The older woman pulled out the chair opposite Keneb and sat Sinn down in it, then walked to position herself at one end, where she remained standing. When she spoke, her tone was uncharacteristically harsh, as if rage seethed just beneath the surface. ‘The gods can have their war. We will not be used, not by them, not by anyone. I do not care how history judges us-I hope that’s well understood.’
Lostara found herself captivated; she could not take her eyes off the Adjunct, seeing at last a side of her that had remained hidden for so long-that indeed might never before have revealed itself. It was clear that the others were equally shocked, as not one spoke to fill the silence when Tavore paused-showing them all the cold iron of her eyes.
‘Fiddler’s reading made it plain,’ she resumed. ‘That reading was an insult. To all of us.’ She began drawing off her leather gloves with a kind of ferocious precision. ‘No one owns our minds. Not Empress Laseen, not the gods themselves. In a short time we will speak with King Tehol of Lether. We will formalize our intention to depart this kingdom, marching east.’ She slapped the first glove down. ‘We will request the necessary permissions to ensure our peaceful passage through the petty kingdoms beyond the Letherii border. If this cannot be achieved, then we will cut our way through.’ Down thumped the second glove.
If there was any doubt in this chamber that this woman commanded the Bonehunters, it had been obliterated. Succinctly.
‘Presumably,’ she went on, her voice a rasp, ‘you wish to learn of our destination. We are marching to war. We are marching to an enemy that does not know we even exist.’ Her icy gaze fixed on Quick Ben and it was a measure of the man’s courage that he did not flinch. ‘High Mage, your dissembling is at an end. Know that I value your penchant for consorting with the gods. You will now report to me what you believe is coming.’
Quick Ben licked his lips. ‘Shall I be specific or will a summary suffice, Adjunct?’
She said nothing.
The High Mage shrugged. ‘It will be war, yes, but a messy one. The Crippled God’s been busy, but his efforts have been, without exception, defensive, for the Fallen One also happens to know what is coming. The bastard’s desperate, probably terrified, and thus far, he has failed more often than succeeded.’
‘Why?’
He blinked. ‘Well, people have been getting in the way-’
‘People, yes. Mortals.’
Quick Ben nodded, eyes narrowing. ‘We have been the weapons of the gods.’
‘Tell me, High Mage, how does it feel?’
Her questions struck from unanticipated directions, Lostara could see, and it was clear that Quick Ben was mentally reeling. This was a sharp talent, a surprising one, and it told Lostara that Adjunct Tavore possessed traits that made her a formidable tactician-but why had none of them seen this before?
‘Adjunct,’ the wizard ventured, ‘the gods have inevitably regretted using me.’
The answer evidently satisfied her. ‘Go on, High Mage.’
‘They will chain him again. This time it will be absolute, and once chained, they will suck everything out of him-like bloodflies-’
‘Are the gods united on this?’
‘Of course not-excuse me, Adjunct. Rather, the gods are never united, even when in agreement. Betrayals are virtually guaranteed-which is why I cannot fathom Shadowthrone’s thinking. He’s not that stupid-he can’t be that stupid-’
‘He has outwitted you,’ Tavore said. ‘You “cannot fathom” his innermost intentions. High Mage, the first god you have mentioned here is one that most of us wouldn’t expect to be at the forefront of all of this. Hood, yes. Togg, Fanderay-even Fener. Or Oponn. And what of the Elder Gods? Mael, K’rul, Kilmandaros. No. Instead, you speak of Shadowthrone, the upstart-’
‘The once Emperor of the Malazan Empire,’ cut in Keneb.
Quick Ben scowled. ‘Aye, even back then-and it’s not easy to admit this-he was a wily bastard. The times I thought I’d worked round him, beat him clean, it turned out he had been playing me all along. He was the ruler of shadows long before he even ascended to that title. Dancer gave him the civilized face, that mask of honest morality-just as Cotillion does now. But don’t be fooled, those two are ruthless-none of us mortals are worth a damned thing, except as a means to an end-’
‘And what, High Mage, would that end be?’
Quick Ben threw up his hands and leaned back. ‘I have little more than rude guesses, Adjunct.’
But Lostara saw something shining in the wizard’s eyes, as if he had been stirred into wakefulness from a long, long sleep. She wondered if this was how he had been with Whiskeyjack, with Dujek Onearm. No wonder they saw him as their shaved knuckle in the hole.
‘I would hear those guesses,’ the Adjunct said.
‘The pantheon comes crashing down-and what emerges from the dust and ashes is almost unrecognizable. The same for sorcery-the warrens-the realm of K’rul. All fundamentally changed.’
‘Yet, one assumes, at the pinnacle… Shadowthrone and Cotillion.’
‘A safe assumption,’ Quick Ben admitted, ‘which is why I don’t trust it.’
Tavore looked startled. ‘Altruism from those two?’
‘I don’t even believe in altruism, Adjunct.’
‘Thus,’ she observed, ‘your confusion.’
The wizard’s ascetic face was pinched, as if he was tasting something unbearably foul. ‘Who’s to say that the changes create something better, something more equitable? Who’s to say that what emerges isn’t even worse than what we have right now? Yes, it might seem a good move-driving that mob of miserable gods off some cliff, or some other place that puts them out of reach, that puts us out of their reach.’ He was musing now, as if unaware of his audience. ‘But consider that eventuality. Without the gods, we’re on our own. And with us on our own-Abyss fend!-what mischief we might do! What grotesque invention to plague the world!’
‘But… not entirely on our own.’
‘The fun would pall,’ Quick Ben said, as if irritated with the objection. ‘Shadowthrone has to realize that. Who would he have left to play with? And with K’rul a corpse, sorcery will rot, grow septic-it will kill whoever dares use it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Tavore with a certain remorselessness, ‘it is not Shadowthrone’s intent to reshape anything. Rather, to end it once and for all. To wipe the world clean.’
‘I doubt that. Kallor tried it and the lesson wasn’t lost on anyone-how could it be? Gods know, Kellanved then went and claimed that destroyed warren for the empire, so he couldn’t be blind…’ His words fell away, but Lostara saw how his thoughts suddenly raced down a new, treacherous track, destination unknown.
Yes, they claimed Kallor’s legacy. But… what does that signify?
No one spoke for a time. Blistig stood rooted-he had not moved from the moment the Adjunct began speaking, and what should have been a confused expression was nowhere to be seen on his rough features. Instead, he was closed up with a kind of obstinate belligerence, as if everything he had heard thus far wasn’t relevant, could not rattle the cage-for even as the cage imprisoned him within it, so it kept everything else at a safe distance.
Sinn sat perched on the oversized chair, glowering at the tabletop, pretending not to listen to anything being said here, but she was paler than usual.
Keneb leaned forward on his elbows, his hands against the sides of his face: the pose of a man wishing to be elsewhere.
‘It comes down to gates,’ Quick Ben muttered. ‘I don’t know how, or even why, but my gut tells me it comes down to gates. Kurald Emurlahn, Kurald Galain, Starvald Demelain-the old ones-and the Azath. No one has plumbed the secrets of the Houses as they have, not even Gothos. Windows on to the past, into the future, paths leading to places no mortal has ever visited. They have crawled up and down the skeleton of existence, eager as bone-grubs-’
‘Too many assumptions,’ Tavore said. ‘Rein yourself in, High Mage. Tell me, have you seen the face of our enemy to the east?’
The look he shot her was bleak, wretched. ‘Justice is a sweet notion. Too bad its practice ends up awash in innocent blood. Honest judgement is cruel, Adjunct, so very cruel. And what makes it a disaster is the way it spreads outward, swallowing everything in its path. Allow me to quote Imperial Historian Duiker: “The object of justice is to drain the world of colour.” ’
‘Some would see it that way-’
Quick Ben snorted. ‘Some? Those cold-eyed arbiters can’t see it any other way!’
‘Nature insists on a balance-’
‘Nature is blind.’
‘Thus favouring the notion that justice too is blind.’
‘Blinkered, not blind. The whole notion is founded on a deceit: that truths are reducible-’
‘Wait!’ barked Keneb. ‘Wait-wait! You’re leaving me behind, both of you! Adjunct, are you saying that justice is our enemy? Making us what, the champions of injustice? How can justice be an enemy-how can you expect to wage war against it? How can a simple soldier cut down an idea?’ His chair rocked back as he suddenly rose. ‘Have you lost your minds? I don’t understand-’
‘Sit down, Fist!’
Shocked by the order, he sank back, looking defeated, bewildered.
Hood knew, Lostara Yil sympathized.
‘Kolanse,’ said Tavore. ‘According to Letherii writings, an isolated confederation of kingdoms. Nothing special, nothing particularly unique, barring a penchant for monotheism. For the past decade, suffering a terrible drought, sufficient to cripple the civilization.’ She paused. ‘High Mage?’
Quick Ben rubbed vigorously at his face, and then said, ‘The Crippled God came down in pieces. Everyone knows that. Most of him, it’s said, fell on Korel, which is what gave that continent its other name: Fist. Other bits fell… elsewhere. Despite the damage done to Korel, that was not where the true heart of the god landed. No, it spun away from the rest of him. It found its very own continent…’
‘Kolanse,’ said Keneb. ‘It landed in Kolanse.’
Tavore said, ‘I mentioned that penchant for monotheism-it is hardly surprising, given what must have been a most traumatic visitation by a god-the visitor who never went away.’
‘So,’ said Keneb through clenched teeth, ‘we are marching to where the gods are converging. Gods that intend to chain the Crippled God one final time. But we refuse to be anyone’s weapon. If that is so, then what in Hood’s name will we be doing there?’
‘I think,’ Quick Ben croaked, ‘we will have the answer to that when we get there.’
Keneb groaned and slumped back down, burying his face in his hands.
‘Kolanse has been usurped,’ said Tavore. ‘Not in the name of the Crippled God, but in the name of justice. Justice of a most terrible kind.’
Quick Ben said, ‘Ahkrast Korvalain.’
Sinn jumped as if stung, then huddled down once more.
Keneb’s hands dropped away, though the impressions of his fingertips remained, mottling his face. ‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘The Elder Warren, Fist,’ said the Adjunct, ‘of the Forkrul Assail.’
‘They are preparing the gate,’ Quick Ben said, ‘and for that, they need lots of blood. Lots.’
Lostara finally spoke. She could not help it. She knew more about the cult of Shadow than anyone here, possibly excepting Quick Ben. ‘Adjunct, you say we march at the behest of no god. Yet, I suspect, Shadowthrone will be most pleased when we strike for Kolanse, when we set out to destroy that unholy gate.’
‘Thank you,’ Tavore said. ‘I take it we now comprehend High Mage Quick Ben’s angst. His fear that, somehow, we are playing into Shadowthrone’s hands.’
I think we are.
‘Even when he was Emperor,’ said Keneb, ‘he learned to flinch from the sting of justice.’
‘The T’lan Imass occupation of Aren,’ said Blistig, nodding.
Tavore flicked a glance at Blistig, and then said, ‘Though we may share an enemy it does not mean we are allies.’
Adjunct, that is too brazen. Fiddler’s reading was anything but subtle. But she was awestruck. By what Tavore had done here. Something blistered in this chamber now, touching like fire everyone present-even Blistig. Even that whelp of nightmare, Sinn. If a god showed its face in this chamber at this moment, six fists would vie to greet it.
‘What is the gate for?’ Lostara asked. ‘Adjunct? Do you know that gate’s purpose?’
‘The delivery of justice,’ Quick Ben offered in answer. ‘Or so one presumes.’
‘Justice against whom?’
The High Mage shrugged. ‘Us? The gods? Kings and queens, priests, emperors and tyrants?’
‘The Crippled God?’
Quick Ben’s grin was feral. ‘They’re sitting right on top of him.’
‘Then the gods might well stand back and let the Forkrul Assail do their work for them.’
‘Not likely-you can’t suck power from a dead god, can you?’
‘So, we could either find ourselves the weapon in the hands of the gods after all, or, if we don’t cooperate, trapped between two bloodthirsty foes.’ Even as she spoke those words, Lostara regretted them. Because, once said, everything points to… points to the worst thing imaginable. Oh, Tavore, now I understand your defiance when it comes to how history will judge us. And your words that what we will do will be unwitnessed-that was less a promise, I think now. More like a prayer.
‘It is time,’ the Adjunct said, collecting her gloves, ‘to speak with the King. You can run away now, Sinn. The rest of you are with me.’
Brys Beddict needed a moment alone, and so he held back when the Queen entered the throne room, and moved a few paces away from the two helmed guards flanking the entrance. The Errant was on his mind, a one-eyed nemesis clutching a thousand daggers. He could almost feel the god’s cold smile, icy and chilling as a winter breath on the back of his neck. Inside and outside, in front of him and behind him, it made no difference. The Errant passed through every door, stood on both sides of every barrier. The thirst for blood was pervasive, and Brys felt trapped like a fly in amber.
If not for a Tarthenal’s mallet fist, Brys Beddict would be dead.
He was still shaken.
Since his return to the mortal world, he had felt strangely weightless, as if nothing in this place could hold him down, could keep him firmly rooted to the earth. The palace, which had once been the very heart of his life, his only future, now seemed but a temporary respite. This was why he had petitioned his brother to be given command of the Letherii army-even in the absence of enemies he could justify travelling out from the city, to wander to the very border marches of the kingdom.
What was he looking for? He did not know. Would he-could he-find it in the reaches beyond the city’s walls? Was something out there awaiting him? Such thoughts were like body-blows to his soul, for they sent him reeling back-into brother Hull’s shadow.
Perhaps he haunts me now. His dreams, his needs, slipping like veils in front of my eyes. Perhaps he has cursed me with his own thirst-too vast to be appeased in a single life-no, he will now use mine.
Ungracious fears, these. Hull Beddict was dead. The only thing that haunted Brys now was his memories of the man, and they belonged to no one else, did they?
Let me lead the army. Let us march into unknown lands-leave me free, brother, to try again, to deliver unto strangers a new meaning to the name ‘Letherii’-not one foul with treachery, not one to become a curse word to every nation we encounter.
Let me heal Hull’s wounds.
He wondered if Tehol would understand any of that, and then snorted-the sound startling both guards, their eyes shifting to him and then away again. Of course Tehol would understand. All too well, in fact, on levels far surpassing Brys’s paltry, shallow efforts. And he would say something offhand, that would cut deep enough to bite bone-or he might not-Tehol was never as cruel as Brys dreaded. And what odd dynamic is that? Only that he’s too smart for me… and if I had his wits, why, I would use them with all the deadly skill I use when wielding a sword.
Hull had been the dreamer, and his dreams were the kind that fed on his own conscience before all else. And see how that blinded him? See how that destroyed him?
Tehol tempered whatever dream he held. It helped having an Elder God at his side, and a wife who was probably a match to Tehol’s own genius. It helps, too, I suppose, that he’s half mad.
What of Brys, then? This brother least of the three? Taking hold of a sword and making it a standard, an icon of adjudication. A weapon master stood before two worlds: the complex one within the weapon’s reach and the simplified one beyond it. I am Hull’s opposite, in all things.
So why do I now yearn to follow in his steps?
He had been interred within stone upon the unlit floor of an ocean. His soul had been a single thread woven into a skein of forgotten and abandoned gods. How could that not have changed him? Perhaps his new thirst was their thirst. Perhaps it had nothing whatsoever to do with Hull Beddict.
Perhaps, indeed, this was the Errant’s nudge.
Sighing, he faced the doors to the throne room, adjusted his weapon belt, and then strode into the chamber.
Brother Tehol, King of Lether, was in the midst of a coughing fit. Janath was at his side, thumping on his back. Bugg was pouring water into a goblet, which he then held at the ready.
Ublala Pung stood before the throne. He swung round at Brys’s approach, revealing an expression of profound distress. ‘Preda! Thank the spirits you’re here! Now you can arrest and execute me!’
‘Ublala, why would I do that?’
‘Look, I have killed the King!’
But Tehol was finally recovering, sufficiently to take the goblet Bugg proffered. He drank down a mouthful, gasped, and then sat back on the throne. In a rasp he said, ‘It’s all right, Ublala, you’ve not killed me… yet. But that was a close one.’
The Tarthenal whimpered and Brys could see that the huge man was moments from running away.
‘The King exaggerates,’ said Janath. ‘Be at ease, Ublala Pung. Welcome, Brys, I was wondering where you’d got to, since I could have sworn you were on my heels only a few moments ago.’
‘What have I missed?’
Bugg said, ‘Ublala Pung was just informing us of, among other things, something he had forgotten. A matter most, well, extraordinary. Relating to the Toblakai warrior, Karsa Orlong.’
‘The slayer of Rhulad Sengar has returned?’
‘No, we are blessedly spared that, Brys.’ And then Bugg hesitated.
‘It turns out,’ explained Janath-as Tehol quickly drank down a few more mouthfuls of water-‘that Karsa Orlong set a charge upon Ublala Pung, one that he had until today entirely forgotten, distracted as he has been of late by the abuses heaped upon him by his fellow guards.’
‘I’m sorry-what abuses?’
Tehol finally spoke. ‘We can get to that later. The matter may no longer be relevant, in any case, since it seems Ublala must leave us soon.’
Brys squinted at the abject Tarthenal. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the islands, Preda.’
‘The islands?’
Ublala nodded solemnly. ‘I must gather all the Tarthenal and make an army. And then we have to go to find Karsa Orlong.’
‘An army? Why would Karsa Orlong want an army of Tarthenal?’
‘To destroy the world!’
‘Of course,’ interjected Bugg, ‘by my last census there are fourteen hundred and fifty-one Tarthenal now settled on the islands. One half of them not yet adults-under seventy years of age by Tarthenal reckoning. Ublala’s potential “army” will amount to around five hundred adults of reasonable maturity and dubious martial prowess.’
‘To destroy the world!’ Ublala shouted again. ‘I need a boat! A big one!’
‘These sound like heady matters,’ Brys said after a moment, ‘which require more discussion. For the moment-forgive me, Ublala-we are soon to entertain the Malazan high command. Should we not begin discussing that impending meeting?’
‘What’s to discuss?’ Tehol asked. He scowled suddenly down at his cup. ‘Gods below, I’ve been drinking water! Bugg, are you trying to poison me or something? Wine, man, wine! Oops, sorry, Brys, that was insensitive of me. Beer, man, beer!’
‘The Malazans will probably petition us,’ Brys said. ‘For some unfathomable reason, they intend to march into the Wastelands. They will seek to purchase writs of passage-which will involve diplomatic efforts on our part-as well as sufficient supplies to satisfy their troops. King Tehol, I admit to having little confidence with respect to those writs of passage-we all know the inherent duplicity of the Bolkando and the Saphii-’
‘You want to provide the Malazans with an escort,’ said Janath.
‘A big one!’ shouted Ublala, as if unaware that the conversation in the throne room had moved on. ‘I want Captain Shurq Elalle. Because she’s friendly and she likes sex. Oh, and I need money for food and chickens, too, and boot polish to make my army. Can I get all that?’
‘Of course you can!’ replied Tehol with a bright smile. ‘Chancellor, see to it, won’t you?’
‘This very day, King,’ said Bugg.
‘Can I go now?’ Ublala asked.
‘If you like.’
‘Sire,’ began Brys, in growing exasperation, ‘I think-’
‘Can I stay?’ Ublala asked.
‘Naturally!’
‘Sire-’
‘Dear brother,’ said Tehol, ‘have you gleaned no hint of my equanimity? Of course you can escort the Malazans, although I think your chances with the Adjunct are pretty minimal, but who am I to crush hopeless optimism under heel? I mean, would I even be married to this lovely woman at my side here, if not for her seemingly unrealistic hopes?’ Bugg delivered a new mug to the King, this one filled with beer. ‘Bugg, thank you! Do you think Ublala’s worked up a thirst?’
‘Undoubtedly, sire.’
‘Then pour away!’
‘Not away!’ cried Ublala. ‘I want some!’
‘It would give me an opportunity to observe the Malazan military in the field, sire,’ explained Brys, ‘and to learn what I can-’
‘Nobody’s objecting, Brys!’
‘I am simply stating the accurate reasons justifying my desire-’
‘Desires should never be justified,’ Tehol said, wagging a finger. ‘All you end up doing is illuminating the hidden reasons by virtue of their obvious absence. Now, brother, you happen to be the most eligible Beddict-legitimately eligible, I mean-so why not cast wide your amorous net? Even if, by some peculiar quirk on your part, the Adjunct is not to your tastes, there is always her aide-what was that foreign-sounding name again, Bugg?’
‘Blistig.’
Tehol frowned. ‘Really?’
Brys rubbed at his brow, and at an odd splashing sound glanced over at Ublala and saw the man guzzling from an enormous pitcher, a brown pool spreading round his bare feet. ‘Her name is Lostara Yil,’ he said, unaccountably weary, almost despondent.
‘Then,’ demanded Tehol, ‘who is Blistig, Bugg?’
‘Sorry, one of the Fists-uhm, Atri-Predas-in her command. My mistake.’
‘Is he pretty?’
‘I’m sure someone exists in the world who might think so, sire.’
‘Tehol,’ said Brys, ‘we need to discuss the motivations of these Malazans. Why the Wastelands? What are they looking for? What do they hope to achieve? They are an army, after all, and armies exist to wage wars. Against whom? The Wastelands are empty.’
‘It’s no use,’ said Janath. ‘I’ve already tried addressing this with my husband.’
‘A most enlightening discussion, dear wife, I assure you.’
She regarded him with raised brows. ‘Oh? That hardly describes my conclusions.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Tehol asked, gaze flicking from Janath to Brys, to Bugg and hence to Ublala, and then back to Brys once more-and then, with a slight widening of his eyes, back again to the Tarthenal who had just consumed most of the contents of the pitcher and was belching golden froth that ran down his chin. Noting the King’s attention, Ublala Pung wiped his chin and smiled.
‘Isn’t what obvious?’ Janath asked.
‘Huh? Oh, they’re not going to the Wastelands, my Queen, they’re going to Kolanse. They’re just passing through the Wastelands since they no longer have the transports to get to Kolanse by sea. Nor have we the ships to accommodate them, alas.’
‘What do they seek in Kolanse?’ Brys asked.
Tehol shrugged. ‘How should I know? Do you think, maybe, we should ask them?’
‘I would wager,’ said Bugg, ‘they’ll rightly tell us it’s none of our business.’
‘Is it?’
‘Sire, your question encourages me to dissemble, and I’d rather not do that.’
‘Entirely understandable, Bugg. Let’s leave it there, then. Are you unwell, Ublala Pung?’
The giant was frowning down at his feet. ‘Did I piddle myself?’
‘No, that’s beer.’
‘Oh. That’s good, then. But…’
‘Yes, Ublala?’
‘Where are my boots?’
Janath reached out and stayed her husband’s hand as he was lifting his goblet to drink. ‘Not again, husband. Ublala, you informed us earlier that you fed your boots to the other guards in your billet.’
‘Oh.’ Ublala belched, wiped foam from his nose, and then smiled again. ‘I remember now.’
Tehol blessed his wife with a grateful look and then said, ‘That reminds me, did we send healers to the palace barracks?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Well done, Bugg. Now then, since I hear the Malazan entourage on its way in the hallway beyond: Brys, how big do you want to make your escort?’
‘Two brigades and two battalions, sire.’
‘Is that reasonable?’ Tehol asked, looking round.
‘I have no idea,’ Janath replied. ‘Bugg?’
‘I’m no general, my Queen.’
‘We need an expert opinion, then,’ said Tehol. ‘Brys?’
Nothing good was going to come of this, Bottle knew, but he also recognized the necessity and so walked uncomplaining in Ebron’s company as they cut across the round with its heaving, shouting throng locked in a frenzy of buying and selling and consuming-like seabirds flocking to a single rock day after day, reliving the same rituals that built up a life in layers of… well, don’t hedge now… of guano. Of course, one man’s shit was another man’s… whatever.
There was a hidden privilege in being a soldier, he decided. He had been pushed outside normal life, protected from the rigours of meeting most basic needs-food, drink, clothes, shelter: all of these were provided to him in some form or other. And family-don’t forget that. All in exchange for the task of delivering terrible violence; only every now and then to be sure, for such things could not be sustained over long periods of time without crushing the capacity for feeling, without devouring a mortal’s humanity.
In that context, Bottle reconsidered-with a dull spasm of anguish deep inside-maybe the exchange wasn’t that reasonable after all. Less a privilege than a burden, a curse. Seeing the faces in this crowd flashing past, a spinning, whirling cascade of masks-each a faintly stunning alternative to his own-he felt himself not simply pushed outside, but estranged. Leaving him bemused, even perturbed, as he witnessed their seemingly mindless, pointless activities, only to find himself envious of these shallow, undramatic lives-wherein the only need was satiation. Possessions, stuffed bellies, expanding heaps of coin.
What do any of you know about life? he wanted to ask. Try stumbling through a burning city. Try cradling a dying friend with blood like tattered shrouds on all sides. Try glancing to an animated face beside you, only to glance a second time and find it empty, lifeless.
A soldier knew what was real and what was ephemeral. A soldier understood how thin, how fragile, was the fabric of life.
Could one feel envy when looking upon the protected, ignorant lives of others-those people whose cloistered faith saw strength in weakness, who found hope in the false assurance of routine? Yes, because once you become aware of that fragility, there is no going back. You lose a thousand masks and are left with but one, with its faint lines of contempt, its downturned mouth only a comment away from a sneer, its promise of cold indifference.
Gods, we’re just going for a walk here. I don’t need to be thinking any of this.
Ebron tugged at his arm and they edged into a narrow, high-walled alley. Twenty paces down, the well-swept corridor broadened out into a secluded open-air tavern shaded by four centuries-old fig trees, one at each corner.
Deadsmell was already sitting at one of the tables, scraping chunks of meat and vegetable from copper skewers with his dagger and with a stab lifting morsels to his grease-stained mouth, a tall cup of chilled wine within reach.
Leave it to necromancers to find pleasure in everything.
He looked up as they arrived. ‘You’re late.’
‘See how you suffered for it?’ Ebron snapped, dragging out a chair.
‘Yes, well, one must make do. I recommend these things-they’re like Seven Cities tapu, though not as spicy.’
‘What’s the meat?’ Bottle asked, sitting down.
‘Something called orthen. A delicacy, I’m told. Delicious.’
‘Well, we might as well eat and drink,’ said Ebron, ‘while we discuss the miserable extinction of sorcery and the beginning of our soon-to-be-useless lives.’
Deadsmell leaned back, eyes narrowing on the mage. ‘If you’re going to steal my appetite, you’re paying for it first.’
‘It was the reading,’ Bottle said, and oh, how that snared their attention, not to mention demolished the incipient argument between the two men. ‘What the reading revealed goes back to the day we breached the city wall and struck for the palace-do you recall those conflagrations? That damned earthquake?’
‘It was the dragon that showed up,’ said Deadsmell.
‘It was munitions,’ countered Ebron.
‘It was neither. It was Icarium Lifestealer. He was here, waiting in line to cross blades with the Emperor, but he never got to him, because of that Toblakai-who was none other than Leoman of the Flails’ old friend back in Raraku, by the way. Anyway, Icarium did something, right here in Letheras.’ Bottle paused and eyed Ebron. ‘What are you getting when you awaken your warren?’
‘Confusion, powers spitting at each other, nothing you can grasp tight, nothing you can use.’
‘And it’s got worse since the reading, hasn’t it?’
‘It has,’ confirmed Deadsmell. ‘Ebron will tell you about the mad house we unleashed the night of the reading-I could have sworn Hood stepped right into our room. But the truth was, the Reaper was nowhere even close. If anything, he was sent sprawling the other way. And now, it’s all… jumpy, twisty. You take hold and everything shudders until it squirms loose.’
Bottle was nodding. ‘That’s the real reason Fid was so reluctant. His reading fed into what Icarium made here all those months back.’
‘Made?’ Ebron demanded. ‘Made what?’
‘I’m not sure-’
‘Liar.’
‘No, Ebron, I’m really not sure… but I have an idea. Do you want to hear it or not?’
‘No, yes. Go on, I need to finish my list of reasons to commit suicide.’
A server arrived, a man older than a Jaghut’s stockings, and the next few moments were spent shouting at the deaf codger-fruitlessly-until Ebron stumbled on to the bright notion of pointing at Deadsmell’s plate and goblet and showing two fingers.
As the man set off, wilful as a snail, Bottle said, ‘It might not be that bad, Ebron. I think what we’re dealing with here is the imposition of a new pattern on to the old, familiar one.’
‘Pattern? What pattern?’
‘The warrens. That pattern.’
Deadsmell dropped his last skewer-scraped clean-on the plate and leaned forward. ‘You’re saying Icarium went and made a new set of warrens?’
‘Swallow what’s in your mouth before you gape, please. Yes, that’s my idea. I’m telling you, Fiddler’s game was insane with power. Almost as bad as if someone tried a reading while sitting in K’rul’s lap. Well, not quite, since this new pattern is young, the blood still fresh-’
‘Blood?’ demanded Ebron. ‘What blood?’
‘Icarium’s blood,’ Bottle said.
‘Is he dead then?’
‘Is he? How should I know? Is K’rul dead?’
‘Of course not,’ Deadsmell answered. ‘If he was, the warrens would have died-that’s assuming all your theories about K’rul and the warrens are even true-’
‘They are. It was blood magic. That’s how the Elder Gods did things-when we use sorcery we’re feeding on K’rul’s blood.’
No one spoke for a time. The server approached with a heavy tray. It was like watching the tide come in.
‘So,’ ventured Ebron once the tray clunked down and the plates and wine and goblets were randomly arrayed on the table by a quivering hand, ‘are things going to settle out, Bottle?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, pouring out some wine as the waiter shuffled away. ‘We may have to do some exploring.’
‘Of what?’
‘The new warrens, of course.’
‘How can they be any different?’ Ebron asked. ‘It’s the fact that they’re mostly the same that’s got things confused-has to be. If they were completely different, there wouldn’t be this kind of trouble.’
‘Good point. Well, we should see if we can nudge things together, until the overlap is precise.’
Deadsmell snorted. ‘Bottle, we’re squad mages, for Hood’s sake. We’re like midges feeding on a herd of bhederin-and here you’re suggesting we try and drive that herd. It’s not going to happen. We haven’t the power-even if we put ourselves together on this.’
‘That’s why I’m thinking we should involve Quick Ben, maybe even Sinn-’
‘Don’t even think that,’ Ebron said, eyes wide. ‘You don’t want her anywhere close, Bottle. I still can’t believe the Adjunct made her High Mage-’
‘Well,’ cut in Deadsmell, ‘since she’s mute she’ll be the only High Mage in history who never complains.’
‘Just Quick Ben, then.’
‘He’ll complain enough for both of them,’ Deadsmell nodded.
‘Just how nasty is he?’ Ebron asked Bottle.
‘Quick? Well, he gave a dragon a bloody nose.’
‘A real dragon or a Soletaken dragon?’
‘It makes no difference, Ebron-you pretty much can’t tell just from looking at them. You’ll only know a Soletaken when it veers. Anyway, don’t forget, he faced down the Edur mages once we quit Seven Cities.’
‘That was illusion.’
‘Ebron, I was in on that-a lot closer than you. Sure, maybe it was illusion, but maybe not.’ He paused, then said, ‘That’s another thing to consider. The local mages. They used raw sorcery, pretty much Chaotic and nothing else. No warrens. But now there’s warrens here. The local mages are in worse shape than we are.’
‘I still don’t like the idea of some kind of collective ritual,’ Deadsmell said. ‘When you’re under siege you don’t pop your head up over the parapet, do you? Unless you want feather eyelashes.’
‘Well, Fiddler went and did just that with the reading, didn’t he? Nobody died-’
‘Rubbish. A whole building went crashing down!’
‘Nothing new there, Ebron. This whole city is on shaky ground.’
‘People died, is what I’m telling you, Bottle. And if that’s not bad enough, there were plenty of witnesses claiming to see two dragons rise out of the rubble.’ He ducked his head and looked round. ‘I don’t like dragons. I don’t like places where dragons show up all the time. Say we try some ritual-what if fifty dragons come blasting down out of the sky, splatting right on top of us? What then, hey?’
‘Well, I don’t know, Ebron. It depends. I mean, are they real or Soletaken?’
Sinn held Grub’s hand in a tight, sweaty grip. They were edging once more on to the grounds of the old Azath tower. The day was hot, steamy, the air above the tortured mounds glittering with whirling insects. ‘Can you smell it?’ she asked.
He didn’t want to reply.
She shot him a wild look, and then tugged him on to the winding stone path. ‘It’s all new, Grub. You can drink it like water. It tastes sweet-’
‘It tastes dangerous, Sinn.’
‘I can almost see it. New patterns, getting stronger-it’s running roots right through this place. This is all new,’ she said again, almost breathless. ‘Just like us-you and me, Grub, we’re going to leave all the old people behind. Feel this power! With it we can do anything! We can knock down gods!’
‘I don’t want to knock anything down, especially gods!’
‘You didn’t have to listen to Tavore, Grub. And Quick Ben.’
‘We can’t just play with this stuff, Sinn.’
‘Why not? No one else is.’
‘Because it’s broken, that’s why. It doesn’t feel right at all-these new warrens, they feel wrong, Sinn. The pattern is broken.’
They halted just outside the tower’s now gaping doorway and its seemingly lifeless wasp nest. She faced him, eyes bright. ‘So let’s fix it.’
He stared at her. ‘How?’
‘Come on,’ she said, pulling him into the gloom of the Azath tower.
Feet crunching on dead wasps, she led him without hesitation to the stairs. They climbed to the empty chamber that had once been the nexus of the Azath’s power.
It was empty no longer.
Blood-red threads sizzled within, forming a knotted, chaotic web that spanned the entire chamber. The air tasted metallic, bitter.
They stood side by side at the threshold.
‘It uses what it finds,’ Sinn whispered.
‘So now what?’
‘Now, we step inside.’
‘They march in circles any longer and they’ll drop.’
Corporal Tarr squinted at the gasping, foot-dragging soldiers. ‘They’re out of shape, all right. Pathetic. Of course, we were supposed to think of something.’
Cuttle scratched at his jaw. ‘So we ended up thrashing them after all. Look, here comes Fid, thank the gods.’
The sergeant scowled upon seeing his two soldiers and almost turned round before Cuttle’s frantic beckoning beat down his defences, or at least elicited the man’s pity. Raking fingers through his red and grey beard, he walked over. ‘What are you two doing to those poor bastards?’
‘We run out of things to make them do,’ Cuttle said.
‘Well, stumbling round inside a compound only takes it so far. You need to get them out of the city. Get them practising entrenchments, redoubts and berms. You need to turn their penchant for wholesale rout into something like an organized withdrawal. You need to stretch their chain of command and see who’s got the guts to step up when it snaps. You need to make those ones squad-leaders. War games, too-set them against one of the other brigades or battalions being trained by our marines. They need to win a few times before they can learn how to avoid losing. Now, if Hedge comes by, you ain’t seen me, right?’
They watched him head off down the length of the colonnade.
‘That’s depressing,’ Cuttle muttered.
‘I’ll never make sergeant,’ Tarr said, ‘not in a thousand years. Damn.’
‘Good point, you just lifted my mood, Corporal. Thanks.’
Hedge pounced on his old friend at the end of the colonnade. ‘What’re you bothering with them for, Fid? These Bonehunters ain’t Bridgeburners and those Letherii ain’t soldiers. You’re wasting your time.’
‘Gods below, stop stalking me!’
Hedge’s expression fell. ‘It’s not that, Fid. Only, we were friends-’
‘And then you died. So I went and got over you. And now you show up all over again. If you were just a ghost then maybe I could deal with it-aye, I know you whispered in my ear every now and then, and saved my skin and all that and it’s not that I ain’t grateful either. But… well, we ain’t squad mates any more, are we? You came back when you weren’t supposed to, and in your head you’re still a Bridgeburner and you think the same of me. Which is why you keep slagging off these Bonehunters, like it was some rival division. But it isn’t, because the Bridgeburners are finished, Hedge. Dust and ashes. Gone.’
‘All right all right! So maybe I need to make some adjustments, too. I can do that! Easy. Watch me! First thing-I’ll get the captain to give me a squad-’
‘What makes you think you deserve to lead a squad?’
‘Because I was a-’
‘Exactly. A damned Bridgeburner! Hedge, you’re a sapper-’
‘So are you!’
‘Mostly I leave that to Cuttle these days-’
‘You did the drum! Without me!’
‘You weren’t there-’
‘That makes no difference!’
‘How can it not make a difference?’
‘Let me work on that. The point is, you were doing sapping stuff, Fid. In fact, the point is, you and me need to get drunk and find us some whores-’
‘Only works the other way round, Hedge.’
‘Now you’re talking! And listen, I’ll get a finger-bone nose-ring so I can fit right in with these bloodthirsty Bonehunters you’re so proud of, how does that sound?’
Fiddler stared at the man. His ridiculous leather cap with its earflaps, his hopeful grin. ‘Get a nose-ring and I’ll kill you myself, Hedge. Fine, then, let’s stir things up. Just don’t even think about asking for a squad, all right?’
‘So what am I supposed to do instead?’
‘Tag along with Gesler’s squad-I think it’s short of a body.’ And then he snorted a laugh. ‘A body. You. Good one.’
‘I told you I wasn’t dead no more, Fid.’
‘If you say so.’
Lieutenant Pores sat in the captain’s chair behind the captain’s desk, and held his hands folded together on the surface before him as he regarded the two women who had, until recently, been rotting in cells in some Letherii fort. ‘Sisters, right?’
When neither replied, Pores nodded. ‘Some advice, then. Should either of you one day achieve higher rank-say, captain-you too will learn the art of stating the obvious. In the meantime, you are stuck with the absurd requirement of answering stupid questions with honest answers, all the while keeping a straight face. You will need to do a lot of this with me.’
The woman on the right said, ‘Aye, sir, we’re sisters.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant Sinter. Wasn’t that satisfying? I’m sure it was. What I will find even more satisfying is watching you two washing down the barracks’ latrines for the next two weeks. Consider it your reward for being so incompetent as to be captured by these local fools. And then failing to escape.’ He scowled. ‘Look at you two-nothing but skin and bones! Those uniforms look like shrouds. I order you to regain your lost weight, in all the right places, within the same fortnight. Failure to do will result in a month on half-rations. Furthermore, I want you both to get your hair cut, down to the scalp, and to deposit said sheared hair on this desk precisely at the eighth bell this evening. Not earlier, not later. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir!’ barked Sergeant Sinter.
‘Very good,’ nodded Pores. ‘Now get out of here, and if you see Lieutenant Pores in the corridor remind him that he has been ordered to a posting on Second Maiden Fort, and the damned idiot should be on his way by now. Dismissed!’
As soon as the two women were gone, Pores leapt up from behind the captain’s desk, scanned the surface to ensure nothing had been knocked askew, and then carefully repositioned the chair just so. With a nervous glance out the window, he hurried out into the reception room and sat down behind his own, much smaller desk. Hearing heavy boots in the corridor he began shuffling the scrolls and wax tablets on the surface in front of him, planting a studious frown on his features in time for his captain’s portentous arrival.
As soon as the door opened, Pores leapt to attention. ‘Good morning, sir!’
‘It’s mid-afternoon, Lieutenant. Those wasp stings clearly rotted what’s left of your brain.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Have those two Dal Honese sisters reported yet?’
‘No, sir, not hide nor… hair, sir. We should be seeing one or both any time now-’
‘Oh, and is that because you intend to physically hunt them down, Lieutenant?’
‘As soon as I’ve done this paperwork, sir, I will do just that, even if it takes me all the way to Second Maiden Fort, sir.’
Kindly scowled. ‘What paperwork?’
‘Why, sir,’ Pores gestured, ‘this paperwork, sir.’
‘Well, don’t dally, Lieutenant. As you know, I need to attend a briefing at half seventh bell, and I want them in my office before then.’
‘Yes, sir!’
Kindly walked past and went inside. Where, Pores imagined, he would spend the rest of the afternoon looking at his collection of combs.
‘Everyone’s right,’ Kisswhere muttered as she and her sister made their back to the dormitory, ‘Captain Kindly is not only a bastard, but insane. What was all that about our hair?’
Sinter shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘Well, there’s no regulations about our hair. We can complain to the Fist-’
‘No we won’t,’ Sinter cut in. ‘Kindly wants hair on his desk, we give him hair on his desk.’
‘Not mine!’
‘Nor mine, Kisswhere, nor mine.’
‘Then whose?’
‘Not whose. What’s.’
Corporal Pravalak Rim was waiting at the entrance. ‘Did you get commendations then?’ he asked.
‘Oh love,’ said Kisswhere, ‘Kindly doesn’t give out commendations. Just punishments.’
‘What?’
Sinter said, ‘The captain ordered us to put on weight,’ and then she stepped past him, ‘among other things.’ And then she paused and turned back to Pravalak. ‘Corporal, find us some shears, and a large burlap sack.’
‘Aye, Sergeant. Shears-how big?’
‘I don’t care, just find some.’
Kisswhere offered the young man a broad smile as he hurried off, and then she went inside, marching halfway down the length of the dormitory. She halted at the foot of a cot where the bedding had been twisted into something resembling a nest. Squatting in the centre of this nest was a wrinkled, scarified, tattooed bad dream with small glittering eyes. ‘Nep Furrow, I need a curse.’
‘Eh? Geen way! Groblet! Coo!’
‘Captain Kindly. I was thinking hives, the real itchy kind. No, wait, that’ll just make him even meaner. Make him cross-eyed-but not so he notices, just everyone else. Can you do that, Nep?’
‘War butt wod i’meen, eh?’
‘How about a massage?’
‘Kissands?’
‘My very own, yes.’
‘Urble ong eh? Urble ong?’
‘Bell to bell, Nep.’
‘Nikked?’
‘Who, you or me?’
‘Bat!’
‘Fine, but we’ll need to rent a room, unless of course you want an audience?’
Nep Furrow was getting excited, in all the wrong ways, she saw. He jumped round, squirmed, his skin glistening with sweat. ‘Blether squids, Kiss, blether squids!’
‘With the door barred,’ she said. ‘I won’t have any strangers walking in.’
‘Hep haw! Curseed?’
‘Aye, cross-eyed, but he can’t know it-’
‘Impable, lees in glusion.’
‘Illusion? A glamour? Oh, that’s very good. Get on it, then, thanks.’
Badan Gruk rubbed at his face as Sinter collapsed on to the cot beside him. ‘What in Hood’s name are we doing here?’ he asked.
Her dark eyes flicked to his-the momentary contact sweet as a caress-and then she looked away. ‘You’re the only kind of soldier a body can trust, Badan, did you know that?’
‘What? No, I-’
‘You’re reluctant. You’re not cut out for violence and so you don’t go looking for it. You use your wits first and that silly bonekisser as a last resort. The dangerous ones do it the other way round and that costs lives every time. Every time.’ She paused. ‘Did I hear right? Some drunk marine sergeant crossed this damned empire from tavern to tavern?’
He nodded. ‘And left a trail of local sympathizers, too. But she wasn’t afraid of spilling blood, Sinter, she just picked out the right targets-people nobody liked. Tax collectors, provosts, advocates.’
‘But she’s a drunk?’
‘Aye.’
Shaking her head, Sinter fell back on to the cot. She stared at the ceiling. ‘How come she doesn’t get busted down?’
‘Because she’s one of the Y’Ghatan Stormcrawlers, that’s why. Them that went under.’
‘Oh, right.’ A moment’s consideration, and then: ‘Well, we’re marching soon.’
Badan rubbed at his face again. ‘But nobody knows where, or even why. It’s a mess, Sinter.’ He hesitated, and then asked, ‘You got any bad feelings about it?’
‘Got no feelings at all, Badan. About anything. And no, I don’t know what took me by the throat the night of Fid’s reading, either. In fact, I don’t even remember much of that night, not the ride, nor what followed.’
‘Nothing followed. Mostly, you just passed out. Some Fenn had already stepped in, anyway. Punched a god in the side of the head.’
‘Good.’
‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?’
‘Well, like the one-eyed hag says, there’s all kinds of worship in the world, Badan.’
‘I don’t…’ but the look she shot him ground the words down to dust in his mouth. He flinched and glanced away. ‘That thing you said about wits, Sinter, was that a joke, too?’
She sighed, closing her eyes. ‘No, Badan. No. Wake me when Rim gets back, will you?’
Trailed by Lostara Yil, Keneb, Blistig and Quick Ben, the Adjunct Tavore strode down the length of the throne room and halted ten paces from the two thrones.
‘Welcome to you all,’ said King Tehol. ‘Adjunct, my Chancellor here informs me that you have a list of requests, most of which will contribute to a happy burgeoning of the royal coffers. Now, if I was the venal sort I would say let’s get right to that. But I am no such sort and so I would like to broach an entirely different matter, one of immense importance.’
‘Of course, sire,’ said Tavore. ‘We are at your disposal and will assist in any way we can.’
The King beamed.
Lostara wondered at the Queen’s sigh, but not for long.
‘Wonderful! Now, as soon as I recall the specific details of what I wanted to ask, why, I will. In the meantime, my Ceda tells me that you have stirred awake a sorcerous nest of trouble. My Chancellor, alas, assures me that the confusion is exaggerated-which of the two am I to believe? Please, if you can, break asunder this dreadful deadlock.’
Frowning, Tavore turned and said, ‘High Mage, can you address this matter, please?’
Quick Ben moved to stand beside the Adjunct. ‘Sire, both your Chancellor and your Ceda are, essentially, correct.’
Lostara saw Bugg smile, and then scowl from where he stood to the right of Tehol’s throne.
‘How fascinating,’ the King murmured, leaning forward to settle his chin in one hand. ‘Can you elaborate, High Mage?’
‘Probably not, but I will try. The situation, terrifying as it is, is probably temporary. The reading of the Deck of Dragons, which Preda Brys Beddict attended, seems to have illuminated a structural flaw in the… uhm… fabric of reality, a wounding of sorts. It seems, sire, that someone-someone very powerful-attempted to impose a new structure upon the already existing warrens of sorcery.’
Brys Beddict, positioned to the left of the Queen, asked, ‘High Mage, can you explain these “warrens” which seem so central to your notions of magic?’
‘Unlike the sorcery that prevailed on this continent until recently, Preda, magic everywhere else exists in a more formalized state. The power, so raw here, is elsewhere refined, aspected, organized into something like themes, and these themes are what we call warrens. Many are accessible to mortals and gods alike; others are’-and he glanced at Bugg-‘Elder. Some are virtually extinct, or inaccessible due to ignorance or deliberate rituals of sealing. Some, in addition, are claimed and ruled over by elements either native to those warrens, or so fundamentally related to them as to make the distinction meaningless.’
King Tehol lifted a finger. ‘A moment, whilst I blink the glaze from my eyes. Now, let’s mull on what has been said thus far-I’m good at mulling, by the way. If I understand you, High Mage, the realm the Tiste Edur called Kurald Emurlahn represents one of these warrens, yes?’
‘Aye,’ Quick Ben responded, and then hastily added, ‘sire. The Tiste warrens-and there are three that we know of-are all Elder. Two of them, by the way, are no longer ruled by the Tiste. One is virtually sealed. The other has been usurped.’
‘And how do these warrens relate to your Deck of Dragons?’
The High Mage flinched. ‘Not my Deck, sire, I assure you. There is no simple answer to your question-’
‘It’s about time! I was beginning to feel very stupid. Please understand, I have no problem about being stupid. Feeling stupid is entirely another matter.’
‘Ah, yes, sire. Well, the Deck of Dragons probably originated as a means of divination-less awkward than tiles, burnt bones, silt patterns, random knots, knucklebones, puke, faeces-’
‘Understood! Please, there are ladies present, good sir!’
‘Forgive me, sire. In some obvious ways, the High Houses of the Deck relate to certain warrens and as such they present a kind of window looking in on those warrens-conversely, of course, things can in turn look out from the other side, which is what makes a reading so… risky. The Deck is indifferent to barriers-in the right hands it can reveal patterns and relationships hidden to mortal eyes.’
‘Even what you describe,’ said Brys, ‘hardly matches what happened at that reading, High Mage.’
‘Aye, Preda, which brings us back to the wound that is this city. Someone drew a knife and carved a new pattern here. New, and yet ancient beyond belief. There was an attempt at a reawakening, but what awoke was broken.’
‘And do you know who that “someone” might have been?’ King Tehol asked.
‘Icarium Lifestealer, sire. A Champion intended to cross blades with Emperor Rhulad Sengar.’
Tehol leaned back and said, ‘Ceda, do you have anything to add at this moment?’
Bugg started and then winced. ‘The High Mage’s knowledge is most impressive, sire. Uncannily so.’
Queen Janath asked, ‘Can this wound be healed, Ceda? And if not, what is the threat to Letheras should it continue to… bleed?’
The old man made a face that suggested he’d just tasted something unpleasant. ‘Letheras is now like a pool of water with all the silts stirred up. We are blinded, groping, and none of us can draw more than a thin, shallow handful of magic. The effect ripples outward and will soon incapacitate the mages throughout the kingdom.’
‘High Mage,’ Janath then said, ‘you said earlier that the effect is temporary. Does this presume a healing is imminent?’
‘Most wounds heal themselves, over time, Highness. I expect that will begin… as soon as we Malazans get the Hood out of here. The reading gave that wound a sharp poke. Blood flowed out, and in this instance, blood is power.’
‘Well now,’ mused the King. ‘How fascinating, how curious, how alarming. I think we had best proceed with haste to the matter of filling the royal coffers. Adjunct Tavore, you wish to supply a baggage train sufficient to see you into and, presumably, across the Wastelands. This we are happy to provide, at a complimentary, reduced rate-to show our appreciation of your exemplary efforts in ousting the Edur tyranny. Now, my Chancellor has already begun arranging matters from our end, and he informs me that his projected estimate to meet your needs is substantial. It will take us approximately four weeks to assemble such a train and hopefully only moments for you to pay for it. Of course, Brys will arrange his escort’s resupply, so you need not worry about that.’
He paused then, noting the Adjunct’s involuntary start. ‘Ah, your escort. Yes, my brother insists that he accompany you through the neighbouring kingdoms. Quite simply, neither Saphinand nor Bolkando can be trusted to do anything but betray and undermine you at every turn. Depressing neighbours-but then, so were we to them not so long ago. I am considering announcing a Royal Project to construct the world’s highest fence for ever separating our respective territories, with some fine hedging to soften the effect. Yes yes, dear wife, I am now rambling and yes, it was fun!’
‘Sire,’ said Tavore, ‘thank you for the offer of an escort, but I assure you, there is no need. Those kingdoms we seek to pass through may well be treacherous, but I doubt they can succeed in surprising us.’ Her tone was flat and though she couldn’t see, Lostara was certain that the Adjunct’s eyes were if anything even flatter.
‘They are thieves,’ said Brys Beddict. ‘Your baggage train, Adjunct, will be enormous-the lands you seek are bereft-it may be that even Kolanse itself is unable to accommodate you.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Tavore. ‘I do not recall stating our intended destination.’
‘There’s little else out there,’ said Brys, shrugging.
The Adjunct said nothing and all at once the atmosphere was tense.
‘Preda Brys,’ said the King, ‘will be assisting in policing your train as you pass through two entire nations of pickpockets.’
Still Tavore hesitated. ‘Sire, we have no desire to embroil your kingdom in a war, should Saphinand or Bolkando attempt to betray the passage agreements.’
‘It will be our very presence,’ said Brys, ‘that will ensure nothing so overt on their part, Adjunct. Please understand, if we do not escort you and you subsequently find yourselves in a vicious war with no retreat possible, then we in turn will have no choice but to march to your rescue.’
‘Just so,’ agreed the King. ‘So accept the escort, Adjunct, or I shall hold my breath until I achieve a most royal shade of purple.’
Tavore bowed her head in acquiescence. ‘I withdraw all objections, sire. Thank you for the escort.’
‘That’s better. Now, I must now seek reassurance from my staff on three distinct issues. Chancellor, are you content with everything pertaining to outfitting the Adjunct’s forces?’
‘I am, sire,’ said Bugg.
‘Excellent. Royal Treasurer, are you confident that the Malazans have sufficient funds for this enterprise?’
‘So I am assured, sire,’ said Bugg.
‘Good. Ceda, do you concur that the departure of the Malazans will hasten the healing that has befallen the city?’
‘I do, sire,’ said Bugg.
‘Consensus at last! How delightful! Now what should we do?’
Queen Janath stood. ‘Food and wine awaits us in the dining hall. Allow me to lead our guests.’ And she stepped down from the dais.
‘Darling wife,’ said Tehol, ‘for you I make all manner of allowances.’
‘I am relieved that you so willingly assume such a burden, husband.’
‘So am I,’ he replied.
The beetle that walks slowly has nothing to fear.
SAPHII SAYING
Coated in dust-spattered blood, Vedith rode out of the billowing smoke, in his wake piteous screams and the raucous roar of flames as they engulfed the three-storey government building in the town’s centre. Most of the other structures lining the main street were already gutted, although fires still licked the blackened frames and the foul smoke lifted pillars skyward.
Four other riders emerged behind Vedith, scimitars unsheathed, the Aren steel blades streaked with gore.
Hearing their wild whoops, Vedith scowled. The mangled round shield strapped to his right forearm had driven splinters through the wrist and that hand could not grip the reins. In his left hand he held his own scimitar, the blade snapped a hand’s-width above the hilt-he would have thrown it away but he valued the hilt, grip and pommel too much to part with it.
His horse’s reins dragged between the beast’s front legs and at any moment the galloping mount, in her fear and pain, might slam a hoof down on them, which would snap her neck down and send her rider tumbling.
He rose in his stirrups, leaned forward-pounded by the horse’s pitching neck-and bit the animal’s left ear, tugging backwards. Squealing, the beast’s head lifted, her plunging hoofs slowing, drawing up. This gave Vedith time to sheathe what was left of his father’s sword and then slip his arm round the horse’s neck, easing the pressure of his teeth.
Moments later, the wounded mare pitched and wobbled down off the cobbled road into the high grasses of the ditch and clumped to a halt, body trembling.
Murmuring calming words, the warrior released the animal’s ear and settled back on the saddle, collecting the reins with his one usable hand.
His four companions rode up and, beasts jostling on the road, they held their swords high in triumph, even as they spat dust and blood from their mouths.
Vedith felt sick. But he understood. The growing list of proscriptions, the ever-dwindling freedom, the indignities and undisguised contempt. Each day in the past week more Bolkando soldiers had arrived, fortlets springing up round the Khundryl encampment like mushroom knuckles on dung. And tensions twisted ever tighter. Arguments burst to life like spotfires, and then, all at once-
He guided his horse back on to the road and glared back at the burning town. And then scanned the horizons to either side. Columns of coiling black smoke rose everywhere like crooked spears-yes, the patience of the Burned Tears was at an end, and he knew that a dozen villages, twice as many hamlets, scores of farms and, now, one town, had felt the wrath of the Khundryl.
Vedith’s raiding party, thirty warriors-most of them barely into their third decade-had clashed with a garrison. The fighting had been ferocious. He’d lost most of his troop, and this had been fuel enough to set ablaze the Khundryl fury, inflicting wrathful vengeance upon wounded soldiers and the civilian inhabitants of the town.
The taste of that slaughter left a bitter, toxic stain, inside and out.
His horse could not hold still. Her slashed flank still bled freely. She circled, head tossing, kicking with the wounded hind leg.
They’d left scores of corpses in that nameless town. This very morning it had been a peaceful place, life awakening and crawling on to the old familiar trails, a slow beating heart. Now it was ruin and charred meat-they’d not even bothered looting, so fierce upon them was the lust for slaughter.
To a proud people, the contempt of others drives the deepest wound. These Bolkando had thought the Khundryl knives were dull. Dull knives, dull minds. They had thought they could cheat the savages, mock them, ply them with foul liquor and steal their wealth.
We are Seven Cities-did you think you were the first to try to play such games with us?
Stragglers were still emerging-three, two, a lone wounded warrior slumped over his saddle, two more.
The soldiers of the garrison had not understood how to meet a cavalry charge. It was as if they had never before seen such a thing, gaping at the precise execution, the deadly timing of the javelins launched when the two sides were but a dozen paces apart. The Bolkando line-formed up across the main street-had crumpled as the barbed javelins punched through shield and scale armour, as figures reeled, buckled and fouled others.
The Khundryl warhorses and their howling, scimitar-slashing riders then smashed into that tattered formation.
A slaughter. Until the rear sections of the Bolkando dispersed, scattering into clumps, pelting into the side avenues, the alleys, the sheltered mouths of stone-faced shops. The battle broke up then, knots spinning away. Khundryl warriors were forced to dismount, unable to press into the narrower alleys, or draw back out into the open soldiers crouched behind drawn-up shields in the niches of doorways. Still outnumbered, warriors of the Burned Tears began falling.
It had taken most of the morning to hunt down and butcher the last garrison soldier. And barely a bell to murder the townsfolk who had not fled-who had, presumably, imagined that seventy-five soldiers would prevail against a mere thirty savages-and then set fire to the town, roasting alive the few who had successfully hidden themselves.
Such scenes, Vedith knew, were raging across the entire countryside now. No one was spared, and to deliver the message in the clearest way imaginable, every Bolkando farm was being stripped of anything and everything edible or otherwise useful. The revolt had been ignited by the latest Bolkando price hike-a hundred per cent, applicable only to the Khundryl-on all necessities, including fodder for the horses. Revile us, yes, even as you take our silver and gold.
He had a dozen warriors with him now, one of them likely to die soon-well before they reached the encampment. And thick splinters rode up his forearm like extra longbones, pain throbbing.
Yes, the losses had been high. But then, what other troop had attacked a garrisoned town?
Still, he wondered if, perhaps, the Burned Tears had kicked awake the wrong nest.
‘Bind Sidab’s wounds,’ he now said in a growl. ‘Has he his sword?’
‘He has, Vedith.’
‘Give it to me-mine broke.’
Although he was dying and knew it, Sidab lifted his head at this and showed Vedith a red smile.
‘It shall weight my hand as did my father’s sword,’ Vedith said. ‘I shall wield it with pride, Sidab.’
The man nodded, smile fading. He coughed out a gout of blood and then slid out of his saddle, thumping heavily on to the cobbled road.
‘Sidab stays behind.’
The others nodded and spat to make a circle round the corpse, thus sanctifying the ground, completing the only funeral ceremony needed for Khundryl warriors on the path of war. Vedith reached out and took up the reins of Sidab’s horse. He would take the beast as well, and ride it, to ease his own mount’s discomfort. ‘We return to Warleader Gall. Our words shall make his eyes shine.’
Warleader Gall sagged back into his antler and rope throne, the knots creaking. ‘Coltaine’s sweet breath,’ he sighed, squeezing shut his eyes.
Jarabb, Tear Runner to the warleader and the only other occupant of Gall’s tent, removed his helmet, and then the padded doeskin cap, and raked thick fingers through his hair, before stepping forward and dropping to one knee. ‘Command me,’ he said.
Gall groaned. ‘Not now, Jarabb. The time for play’s over-my Fall-damned young braves have given us a war. Twenty raids have howled back into camp, sacks filled with hens and pups and whatnot. I’d wager nigh on a thousand innocent farmers and villagers already dead-’
‘And hundreds of soldiers, Warleader,’ reminded Jarabb. ‘The fortlets burn-’
‘And I’ve been coughing from the smoke all morning-we didn’t need to torch them-that timber would have been useful. So we spit and snarl like a desert lynx in her lair, and what do you think King Tarkulf is going to do? Wait, never mind him-the man’s got fungi for brains-it’s the Chancellor and his cute Conquestor we have to worry about. Let me tell you what they’ll do, Jarabb. They won’t demand we return to this camp. They won’t insist on reparations and blood-coin. No, they’ll raise an army and march straight for us.’
‘Warleader,’ Jarabb said, straightening, ‘wildlands beckon us north and east-once out on the plains, no one can catch us.’
‘All very well, but these Bolkando aren’t our enemy. They were supplying us-’
‘We loot all we can before fleeing.’
‘And won’t the Adjunct be thrilled by how we’ve smoothed the sand before her. This is a mess, Jarabb. A mess.’
‘What, then, will you do, Warleader?’
Gall finally opened his eyes, blinked, and then coughed. After a moment he said, ‘I won’t try to mend what cannot be undone. This aids the Adjunct nothing. No, we need to seize the bull’s cock.’ He surged to his feet, collected up his crow-feather cloak. ‘Break this camp-kill all livestock and start curing the meat. It will be weeks before the Bolkando muster the numbers they need against us. To ensure safe passage of the Bonehunters-not to mention the Grey Helms-we’re going to march on the capital. We’re going to pose such a threat that Tarkulf voids his bladder and overrules his advisors-I want the King thinking he might be facing a three-pronged invasion of his piss-ass latrine pit of a kingdom.’
Jarabb smiled. He could see the embers glowing in his warleader’s dark eyes. Which meant that, once all the orders were barked and all the other runners were scrambling dust-trails, Gall’s mood would be much improved.
Sufficient, perhaps, to once more invite some… play.
All he need do was make sure the old man’s wife was nowhere close.
Shield Anvil Tanakalian shifted uncomfortably beneath his chain surcoat. The quilted underpadding had worn through on his right shoulder-he should have patched it this morning and would have done so had he not been so eager to witness the landing of the first cohort of Grey Helms on this wretched ground.
For all his haste he found Mortal Sword Krughava already positioned on the rise overlooking the shoreline, red-faced beneath her heavy helm. Though the sun was barely above the mountain peaks to the east, the air was stifling, oppressive, swarming with sand flies. As he approached he could see in her eyes the doom of countless epic poems, as if she had devoted her life to absorbing the tragedies of a thousand years’ worth of fallen civilizations, finding the taste savagely pleasing.
Yes, she was a holy terror, this hard, iron woman.
Upon arriving at her side, he bowed in greeting. ‘Mortal Sword. This is a portentous occasion.’
‘Yet but two of us stand here, sir,’ she rumbled in reply, ‘when there should be three.’
He nodded. ‘A new Destriant must be chosen. Who among the elders have you considered, Mortal Sword?’
Four squat, broad-beamed avars-the landing craft of the Thrones of War-were fast closing on the channel wending through the mud flats, oar blades flashing. The tide wasn’t cooperating at all. The bay should be swelling with inflow; instead the water churned, as if confused. Tanakalian squinted at the lead avar, expecting it to run aground at any moment. The heavily burdened brothers and sisters would have to disembark and then slog on foot-he wondered how deep the mud was out there.
‘I am undecided,’ Krughava finally admitted. ‘None of our elders happens to be very old.’
True enough. This long sea voyage had worn through the lives of a score or more of the most ancient brothers and sisters. Tanakalian swung round to study the two encampments situated two thousand paces inland, one on this side of the river and the other on the opposite, west side. As yet there had been no direct contact with the Akrynnai delegation-if the mob of spike-haired, endlessly singing, spear-waving barbarians truly justified such an honorific. So long as they stayed on the other side of the river, the Akrynnai could sing until the mountains sank into the sea.
The Bolkando camp, an ever burgeoning city of gaudy tents, was already aswarm-as if the imminent landing of the Perish had sent them into a frenzy. Strange people, these Bolkando. Scar-faced yet effete, polite yet clearly bloodthirsty. Tanakalian did not trust them, and it looked as if their escort through the mountain passes and into the kingdom amounted to an entire army-three or four thousand strong-and though he didn’t think the average Bolkando soldier could hope to match a Grey Helm, still their sheer numbers were cause for concern. ‘Mortal Sword,’ he said, facing her once more, ‘do we march into betrayal?’
‘This journey must be considered one through hostile territory, Shield Anvil. We will march in armour, weapons at hand. Should the Bolkando escort precede us into the pass, then I shall have no cause for worry. Should they divide to form advance and rear elements, I will be forced to take measure of the strength of that rearguard. If it is modest then we need have little concern. If it is overstrength relative to the advance element, then one must consider the possibility that a second army awaits us at the far end of the pass. Given,’ she added, ‘that we must travel in column, such an ambush would put us at a disadvantage, initially at least.’
‘We had best hope,’ observed Tanakalian, ‘that they intend treating with us honourably.’
‘If not, they will regret their temerity, sir.’
Three legions, eighteen cohorts and three supply companies. Five thousand brothers and sisters in the land force. The remaining legions would accompany the Thrones of War on the ill-mapped sea-lanes south of the coast, seeking the Pelasiar Sea. It had been the judgement of both the Adjunct and Krughava that the Burned Tears needed support. Given the reported scarcity of resources in the Wastelands, the Bonehunters would travel independent of the more southerly forces consisting of the Khundryl mounted and the Perish foot legions. The two elements would march eastward on parallel tracks, with perhaps twenty leagues between them, until reaching the borders of the first kingdom beyond the Wastelands.
In Krughava’s mind, Tanakalian well knew, a holy war awaited them, the singular purpose of their existence, and upon that foreign soil the Grey Helms would find their glory, their heroic triumph in service to the Wolves of Winter. He shared with her that sense of purpose, fate’s bold promise, and like her he did not fear war. They were trained in the ways of violence, sworn to those cusps of history hacked into shape on battlefields. With sword and will, they could change the world. Such was the truth of war, for all that soft fools might wish otherwise, might dream of peace and harmony between strangers.
Romantics with their wishful notions invariably delivered the asp’s bite, whether they sought to or not. Hope and faith seeped through like the sweetest nectar, only to sour into vile poison. Most virtues, Tanakalian well knew, were defenceless. Abused and corrupted with ease, ever made to turn in the wielder’s hand. It took a self-deluded mind to force justice upon a world when that world cared for nothing; when all reality mocked the righteous with its indifference.
War swept such games aside. It was pure, unapologetic in its brutality. Justice arrived with the taste of blood, both sweet and bitter and that too was as it should be.
No, he would tell the Mortal Sword nothing of the Destriant’s final words of terror, of his unmanned panic, the shrill clangour of his warnings. Such failings served no one, after all.
Even so, Tanakalian vowed to remain watchful, wary, trusting nothing and expecting betrayal from every stranger.
Run’Thurvian was too old for war. Fear took his life-I could see that clearly enough. He was blind, driven to madness. Babbling. It was all so… undignified.
The avars had run aground over a hundred paces from the high-tide mark. Burdened soldiers stumbled shin-deep in fly-swarmed mud, whilst the crews struggled to drag the boats free to retrace their route back to the anchored Thrones.
They were in for a long day.
‘Well now,’ muttered Chancellor Rava as he perused the coded missive, ‘our dear King seems to have led our precious kingdom into a royal mess.’
Avalt paced in front of the old man, from one side of the tent’s shrouded chamber to the other. He could guess at most of the details hidden on the parchment in Rava’s hands. The Chancellor’s comment was, if the truth was laid bare, entirely inaccurate. The ‘mess’ didn’t come from King Tarkulf. In fact, it was without question the product of certain excesses among servants of the Chancellor and, indeed, of Conquestor Avalt himself. ‘What we now need to determine,’ he said, his voice still cracking from the tirade he had delivered a short time earlier to a select company of merchant agents and spies, ‘is the nature of the relationship between our Perish friends and these Khundryl bandits.’
‘True,’ Rava replied. ‘However, do recall that the Perish seem to hold to an absurdly elevated notion of honour. Once we present to them our version of the Khundryl’s sudden, inexplicable rampage… once we speak of the atrocities and the slaughter of hundreds, if not thousands of innocents…’ he smiled, ‘I believe we shall see, to our blessed relief, a most stern disavowal from the Mortal Sword.’
Avalt’s nod was sharp. ‘Which will permit me to concentrate my forces on crushing the Khundryl without having to worry about the Perish.’
Rava’s watery eyes seemed to slide from Avalt as he asked, ‘Is there cause for worry, Conquestor? Do we not possess the military might to obliterate both forces if necessary?’
Avalt stiffened. ‘Of course, Chancellor. But have you forgotten our latest intelligence from Lether? The third element in this foreign alliance intends to march through our kingdom. Perhaps, even then, we could crush all three forces. But at a dreadful cost. Furthermore, we do not know yet what agreements have been fashioned between the Letherii and these Malazans-we could well end up with the very war we did everything we could to avoid-’
‘Resulting in the exposure of our deceptions with regard to our putative allies, the Saphii and the Akrynnai.’
‘Said deceptions making obvious the betrayals we intended-yet with us suddenly incapable of backing them with force. It is one thing to make promises only to abandon our allies in the field-if we cannot then occupy the lands of those allies once their armies have been annihilated, then the entire enterprise fails.’
‘Let us assume, for the moment,’ said Rava, ‘that the Letherii threat no longer exists, and so the great Bolkando Alliance need never show its paper fangs. What we presently face, at its worst, is three disconnected armies marching every which way across our kingdom. One of those has now given us a bloody nose, but it is likely that the Khundryl will beat a hasty retreat, now that they’ve satisfied their bloodlust. They will take their loot and flee into the Wastelands. Naturally, that will be a fatal error-we need only move a few legions of your Third Regulars to occupy the border forts and trenchworks-so that whatever remnants of the Khundryl come crawling back will not present any sort of threat.’ He raised a finger. ‘We must be sure to have our own commanders in charge, to profit from enslaving the Khundryl refugees.’
‘Of course.’
‘To continue, then, we are left with the Perish and the Malazans, and both, by all counts, appear eminently civilized. Of a sort to deplore the Khundryl excesses, and indeed they may end up feeling somewhat responsible. They may, in fact, offer reparations.’
Avalt had ceased pacing and he now stood, staring down at the Chancellor. ‘What, then, of the ambush we were planning in the pass?’
‘I would advise that it remain in place, for the moment, Conquestor. At least until we are able to gauge the Mortal Sword’s reaction when we deliver the news of the Khundryl and their unwarranted depredations.’
‘I assume you will assure the Mortal Sword of our faith in her and her Grey Helms,’ said Avalt. ‘And that we recognize that the actions of barbarians-allies or not-cannot be predicted, and that we in no way hold the Perish responsible.’
Rava was nodding. ‘And so, having said just that, the fact that we are observed to array our escort in a defensive posture will simply indicate our… cautious natures.’
‘Thus encouraging the Mortal Sword to make allowances, in her desire to alleviate our newfound uncertainty.’
‘Precisely. Well said, Conquestor.’
Avalt resumed pacing. ‘So, we drive the Khundryl into the Wastelands, and then enslave whoever makes it back. We ambush the Perish, resulting in a treasure trove of exquisite weaponry and armour-sufficient to outfit a new elite element-’
‘Two units,’ Rava reminded him. ‘Your private guard and one for me as well.’
‘As agreed, Chancellor. To resume, we are then facing one remaining army. The Malazans.’
‘We must assume that word will reach them of the fate of their allies.’
‘To which they will react, either with a perception of sudden vulnerability, in which case they will beat a retreat, or with anger, inciting aggression on their part.’
‘Less than ten thousand of the fools,’ observed Rava. ‘If we invite our allies among the Akrynnai and Saphii, we can divide the spoils-’
‘I want those crossbows of theirs,’ Avalt said. ‘I cannot tell you how frustrating it has been to fail again and again in stealing one thus far. With a legion or two armed with those weapons I could overrun Saphinand in a month.’
‘All in due course,’ Rava said.
‘All of this assumes the Letherii do not get involved.’
The Chancellor sighed, and then made a face. ‘My finest spies fall one after another in that court, and those few who have managed to escape are convinced that King Tehol is even worse than Tarkulf. A useless, bumbling idiot.’
‘But you are not convinced, Chancellor?’
‘Of course not.’ He paused, and then said, ‘most of the time. We may be dealing with a situation there uncannily identical to our own.’
Avalt caught his breath, frozen in place once again. ‘Errant’s nudge, can it be, Rava?’
‘I wish I knew. Tehol Beddict’s wife remains an unknown entity.’
‘But surely not in a position to match Queen Abrastal?’
Rava shrugged. ‘On the face of it, it seems unlikely. She possesses no private army. No elite units like Abrastal’s Evertine Legion or anything comparable. If she has spies-and what queen doesn’t-they seem to be engaged in intelligence gathering only, rather than active sabotage.’
‘Yet,’ said Avalt, ‘someone is clearly hunting down your spies-’
‘Even there, I cannot be certain. Each has died in mysterious circumstances-well, ones that I find mysterious. Tragic mishaps, each and every one. As if the Errant himself was giving each one his personal… attention.’
‘Now that is an alarming thought, Chancellor.’
‘Well, blessedly, not one has been exposed or captured. The accidents that have befallen them invariably resulted in sudden death.’
Avalt frowned. ‘The only situation I can imagine that fits the situation, Chancellor, is that our own networks have been so compromised by the Letherii that neither public exposure nor torture is deemed necessary. Such a notion chills me to the bone.’
‘You assume the Letherii have managed that infiltration,’ said Rava. ‘Is it not more likely that the compromise originates from within our own kingdom?’
‘Surely not Tarkulf’s spies-’
‘No, we have them all in hand. No, my friend, is it truly inconceivable that the Queen has her own agents ensconced in Tehol’s palace?’
‘Actively eliminating rivals, yes, that seems terrifyingly possible,’ conceded Avalt. ‘Then, what is she planning?’
‘I wish I knew.’ And Rava sat forward, fixing Avalt with a hard stare. ‘Assure me, Conquestor, that at no time will this situation force the Queen into the fore-at no time, Avalt, will we give her reason to shove her useless husband aside and sound the call.’
Avalt was suddenly trembling. The thought of the Evertine Legion stirred awake, actually on the march to clean up whatever mess the kingdom had been plunged into… no, that must not be. ‘Surely,’ he said, voice breaking, ‘this present game is too small to concern Queen Abrastal.’
Rava’s face was grave. He lifted the parchment note and fluttered it like a tiny white flag. ‘An addendum informs me, Conquestor, that the King’s fourteenth daughter and her handmaiden are no longer resident in the palace.’
‘What? Where have they gone?’
To that, the Chancellor had no answer.
And that silence filled Avalt with dread.
The Bolkando commanders took their time to emerge from their encampment and ascend, with great ceremony, to the rise where Tanakalian and the Mortal Sword stood. It was late afternoon. The Perish legions, in full kit, had formed up and were now marching to the floodplain a thousand paces inland, where the supply units had already begun staking out the tent rows and service blocks. The insects swarming over the brothers and sisters formed sunlit, glittering clouds that spun and whirled even as orange-winged martins flickered through them.
The river lizards that had been basking on the banks for most of the day had begun rising up on their stubby legs and slinking their way into the water, warily eyed by the herons and storks stalking the reedy shallows.
Nights in this country, Tanakalian suspected, would not be pleasant. He could imagine all manner of horrid, poisonous creatures creeping, crawling and flying in the sweltering, steamy darkness. The sooner they climbed into the mountain passes the better he would feel. This notion of insanely inimical nature was new to him, and most unwelcome.
His attention was drawn back to Chancellor Rava and Conquestor Avalt as the unlikely pair-both riding chairs affixed to the saddled shoulders of four burly slaves slowly climbing the slope-rocked back and forth, like kings on shaky thrones. Others flanked them with feather fans, keeping insects at bay. A train of a dozen more trailed the two men. This time, at least, there were no armoured guards-nothing so obvious, although Tanakalian suspected that more than a few of those supposed slaves were in fact bodyguards.
‘Solemn greetings!’ called the Chancellor, waving one limp hand. He then snapped something to his porters and they set down his chair. He stepped daintily on to the ground, adjusting his silken robes, and was joined moments later by Avalt. They strode up to the Perish.
‘A flawlessly executed landing-congratulations, Mortal Sword. Your soldiers are indeed superbly trained.’
‘Kind words, Chancellor,’ Krughava rumbled in reply. ‘Strictly speaking, however, they are not my soldiers. They are my brothers and sisters. We are as much a priesthood as we are a military company.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Rava, ‘and this is certainly what makes you unique on this continent.’
‘Oh?’
Conquestor Avalt smiled and provided explanation, ‘You arrive possessing a code of conduct unmatched by any native military force. We seek to learn much from you-matters of discipline and behaviour that we can apply to our own people to the benefit of all.’
‘It distresses me,’ said Krughava, ‘that you hold your own soldiers in such low opinion, Conquestor.’
Tanakalian squinted as if he’d caught a glare of sunlight from some distant weapon, and hoped that this seemingly unconscious expression hid his smile.
When he looked back he saw Avalt’s own eyes widening within their cage of dyed scars, and then thinning. ‘You misunderstand, Mortal Sword.’
Rava said, ‘You have perchance already sensed something of the incessant intrigue compounding alliances and agreements of mutual protection between the border nations, Mortal Sword. Such things, while regrettable, are necessary. The Saphii do not trust the Akrynnai. The Akrynnai do not trust the Awl nor the D’rhasilhani. And the Bolkando trust none of them. Foreign armies, we have all long since learned, cannot be held to the same high comportment as one holds one’s own forces.’ He spread his hands. ‘Conquestor Avalt was simply expressing our unexpected pleasure in finding in you such unimpeachable honour.’
‘Ah,’ said Krughava, with all the percipient wit of a cliff goat.
Avalt was struggling to master his anger, and Tanakalian knew that the Mortal Sword-for all her seemingly oblivious insensitivity-was well taking note of this interesting flaw in the commander overseeing Bolkando Kingdom’s combined military might. A commander with a temper and, evidently, poor discipline in mastering it-particularly in front of strangers and potential enemies-was one who would squander his soldiers to answer some insult, real or imagined. He was, therefore, both more dangerous and less threatening, the former for the risk of his doing the unexpected, the precipitous; and the latter for what would likely be a blunt, unsubtle execution, fuelled by an overwhelming need for satisfaction.
Tanakalian ran through these details in his mind, forcing himself to inwardly articulate the lessons that he knew Krughava had comprehended in an instant. Now that the Destriant was gone, it fell to the Shield Anvil to seek a path as close as possible to the Mortal Sword, to find a way into her mind, to how she thought and those duties that drove her.
During these moments of reflection, Chancellor Rava had been speaking: ‘… unexpected tragedies, Mortal Sword, which have put us in a most awkward position. It is necessary, therefore, that we take measured pause here, whilst your formidable forces are poised outside the kingdom’s boundaries.’
Krughava had cocked her head. ‘Since you have not yet described these tragedies, Chancellor, I can only observe that, from my experience, most tragedies are unexpected, and invariably lead to awkwardness. Since it seems that the fact that we have not yet crossed into your kingdom is, for you, a salient point, am I to assume that your “unexpected tragedies” have in some way jeopardized our agreement?’
Now it was the Chancellor’s turn to fail in disguising his irritation. ‘You Perish,’ he now said, tone brittle, ‘have acknowledged a binding alliance with the Khundryl Burned Tears who are guests of the kingdom at the moment-guests who have ceased to behave in a civilized fashion.’
‘Indeed? What leads you to this assessment, Chancellor?’
‘This-this assessment?’
As Rava spluttered, speechless, Conquestor Avalt spoke sardonically: ‘How might you assess the following, Mortal Sword? The Khundryl have broken out of their settlement and are now raiding throughout the countryside. Burning and looting farms, stealing herds, putting to the torch forts and hamlets and indeed an entire town. But I am remiss in speaking only of material depredations. I forgot to mention scores of murdered soldiers and thousands of slaughtered civilians. I failed in citing the rapes and butchering of children-’
‘Enough!’ Krughava’s bellow sent all the Bolkando flinching back.
The Chancellor was first to recover. ‘Is this to be the manner of your vaunted honour, Mortal Sword?’ he demanded, red-faced, eyes bright. ‘Can you not comprehend our newfound caution-nay, our distrust? Have we been led to expect such treachery-’
‘You go too far,’ said Krughava, and Tanakalian saw the faint curl of a smile on her lips-a detail that took his breath away.
It seemed to exert a similar effect upon the Bolkando dignitaries, as Rava paled and Avalt settled a mailed hand on his sword.
‘What,’ demanded Rava in a rasp, ‘does that mean?’
‘You describe a local history of internecine treachery and incessant betrayal, sirs, so much so as to be part of your very natures, and then you express horror and outrage at the supposed betrayal of the Khundryl. Your protestations are melodramatic, sirs. False in their extremity. I begin to see in you Bolkando a serpent delighting in the cleverness of its own forked tongue.’ She paused in the shocked silence, and then added, ‘When I invited you into the illusion of my ignorance, sirs, you slithered with eager glee. Who here among us, then, is the greater fool?’
Tanakalian gave credit to both men as he saw the rapid reassessment betrayed in their features. After a tense moment, Krughava continued in a quieter tone, ‘Sirs, I have known Warleader Gall of the Khundryl Burned Tears for some time now. In the course of a long ocean voyage, no duplicities of character remain hidden. You assert the uniqueness of the Grey Helms, and in this you clearly reveal to me your lack of understanding with respect to the Khundryl. The Burned Tears, sirs, are in fact a warrior cult. Devoted to the very heart of their souls to a legendary warleader. This warleader, Coltaine, was of such stature, such honour, that he earned worship not among his allies, but among his putative enemies. Such as the Khundryl Burned Tears.’ She paused, and then said, ‘I am assured, therefore, that Warleader Gall and his people were provoked. Possessed of admirable forbearance, as I know him to be, Gall would have bowed as a sapling to the wind. Until such time as the insults demanded answer.
‘They have raided and conducted wholesale looting? From this detail I conclude Bolkando merchants and the King’s agents sought to take advantage of the Khundryl, imposing usurious increases in the price of essential supplies. Furthermore, you state that they broke out of their settlement. What manner of settlement requires a violent exit? The only one that comes to mind is one under siege. Accordingly, and in consideration of such provocation, I reaffirm the alliance between the Khundryl Burned Tears and the Grey Helms. If enemies to us you choose to be, sirs, then we must consider that we are now at war. Attend to your brigade, Conquestor-it is tactically imperative that we obliterate your presence here prior to invading your kingdom.’
For all his doubt and suspicions and, indeed, fears, Tanakalian was not averse to revelling in pride at this moment; seeing the effect of the Mortal Sword’s words upon the Chancellor and the Conquestor he felt savage pleasure. Play games with us, will you? The Khundryl may sting, but the Perish shall rend and tear.
They would not call Krughava’s bluff, for it was no bluff, and they both clearly knew it.
Nor, Tanakalian knew, would they accede to a state of war-not here against the Perish, and not, by extension, against the Burned Tears. The fools had miscalculated, badly miscalculated.
And now would begin the desperate renewal of negotiations, and the footing that had heretofore been on a matching level-as courtesy demanded-was level no longer.
After all, you may at this moment face two bridling, angry armies, my friends, and find yourselves shaking with terror.
Wait until you meet the Bonehunters.
He watched as, following hasty reiterations of a desire to work things through peacefully, the Chancellor and the Conquestor retreated back down the slope-not even bothering with the ridiculous chairs. The slaves stumbled after them in a fan-waving mob.
Beside him, Krughava sighed, and then said, ‘It occurs to me, sir, that the Bolkando expected the Khundryl to prove little more than a minor irritant, confined to the region surrounding their settlement. Easily contained, or, indeed, quickly driven over the border into the Wastelands. That notion led, inevitably, to the conceit that we here could be isolated and dealt with at their leisure.’
‘Then an ambush was intended all along?’
‘Or the threat thereof, to win further concessions.’
‘Well,’ said Tanakalian, ‘if the Khundryl will neither remain close to their settlement nor retreat over the border, then it follows that but one course remains.’
She nodded. ‘As a barbed spear,’ she said, ‘Gall will lead his people into the very heart of the kingdom.’ She rolled her shoulders in a rustle of chain and buckles. ‘Shield Anvil, inform the legion commands that we are to march two bells before dawn-’
‘Even if that means we are pursued by the Bolkando escort?’
She bared her teeth. ‘Have you gauged those troops, sir? They could be naked and not keep up with us. Their baggage train alone is thrice the size of their combatants in column. That,’ she pronounced, ‘is an army used to going nowhere.’
She set off, then, to beat down the two Bolkando delegates, from flickering daggers to misshapen lumps of lead.
Tanakalian, on the other hand, made his way to the Perish camp.
The insects were maddening, and from the rushes lining the river birds screamed.
The rain thrashed down, making the world grey and turning the stony track into a foaming stream. The tall black boles of the trees to either side loomed into view and then receded in rippling waves as Yan Tovis guided her horse down the now treacherous trail. Her waxed cloak was drawn tight about her, the hood pulled over her helm. Two days and three nights of this and she was chilled and soaked through. Ever since she had departed the Cities Road, five leagues from Dresh, cutting northward to where she had left her people, league after league of this forest had begun to weigh upon her. Her descent to the coast was also a journey into the past, civilization fading into ghostly hopes in her wake. Patches of clear-cut meadow, bordered by snarled bomas of cut branches, hacked brush and root stumps, the triple ruts of log-tracks wending in and out; the rubbish of old camps and the ash heaps and trenches of charcoal makers: these marked the brutal imposition of Dresh’s hunger and need.
As with the islands of Katter Bight, desolation was the promise. As she had ridden through the old timber camps, she had seen the soil erosion, the deep rocky channels cutting through every clearing. And when in Dresh, resigning her commission, she had noted the nervousness among the garrison troops. Following a royal decree halting logging operations, there had been riots-much of the city’s wealth came from the forest, after all, and while the prohibition was a temporary one, during which the King’s agents set about devising a new system-one centred on sustainability-the stink of panic clogged the city streets.
Yan Tovis was not surprised that King Tehol had begun challenging the fundamental principles and practices of Lether, but she suspected that he would soon find himself a solitary, beleaguered voice of reason. Even common sense was an enemy to the harvesters of the future. The beast that was civilization ever faced forward, and in making its present world it devoured the world to come. It was an appalling truth that one’s own children could be so callously sacrificed to immediate comforts, yet this was so and it had always been so.
Dreamers were among the first to turn their backs on historical truths. King Tehol would be swept aside, drowned in the inexorable tide of unmitigated growth. No one, after all, can stand between the glutton and the feast.
She wished him well, even as she knew he would fail.
In the midst of pelting rain she had left the camps behind, taking one of the old wood-bison migration routes through virgin forest. The mud of the ancient track swarmed with leeches and she was forced to dismount every bell or so to tug the mottled black and brown creatures from her horse’s legs, until the path led down on to a sinkhole basin that proved to be a salt-trap-the plague of leeches ended abruptly and, as she continued down-slope, did not return.
Signs of the old dwellers began to appear-perhaps they were Shake remnants, perhaps they belonged to a people now forgotten. She saw the slumping humps of round huts covered in wax-leaved vines. She saw on the massive trunks of the most ancient trees crumbled visages, carved by hands long since rotted to nothing. The wooden faces were smeared in black-slime, moss and lumps of sickly fungi. She halted her mount beside one such creation and stared at it through the rain for a long time. She could think of no finer symbol of impermanence. The blunted expression, its pits of sorrow that passed for eyes: these things haunted her long after she had left the ruined settlement.
The track eventually merged with a Shake road that had once joined two coastal villages, and this was the path she now took.
The rain had become a deluge, and its hissing rose to a roar on her hood, a curtain of water sheeting down in front of her eyes.
Her horse halted suddenly and she lifted her head to see a lone rider blocking her path.
He seemed a figure sculpted in flowing water. ‘Listen to me,’ she said, loud, unexpectedly harsh. ‘Do you truly imagine that you can follow us, brother?’
Yedan Derryg made no reply-his typical statement of obstinacy.
She wanted to curse him, but knew that even that would be useless. ‘You killed the witches and warlocks. Pully and Skwish are not enough. Do you understand what you have forced upon me, Yedan?’
He straightened in his saddle at that. Even in the gloom she saw his jaws bunching as he chewed for a time on his reply, before saying, ‘You cannot. You must not. Make the journey, sister, upon the mortal path.’
‘Because it is the only one you can follow, banished as you are.’
But he shook his head. ‘The road you seek is but a promise. Never attempted. A promise, Yan Tovis. Will you risk the lives of our people upon such a thing?’
‘You have left me no choice.’
‘Take the mortal path, as you said you would. Eastward to Bluerose and thence across the sea-’
She wanted to scream at him. Instead, she bared her teeth. ‘You damned fool, Yedan. Have you seen the camp of our-my-people? The population of the whole island-old prisoners and their families, merchants and hawkers, cut-throats and pirates-everyone joined us! Not even including the Shake, there are close to ten thousand Letherii refugees in my camp! What am I to do with them all? How do I feed them?’
‘They are not your responsibility, Twilight. Disperse them-the islands are very nearly under water now-this crisis belongs to King Tehol-to Lether.’
‘You forget,’ she snapped, ‘Second Maiden proclaimed its independence. And made me Queen. The moment we arrived on the mainland, we became invaders.’
He cocked his head. ‘It is said the King is a compassionate man-’
‘He may well be, but how will everyone else think-all those people whose lands we must cross? When we beg for food and shelter? When our hunger grasps tight our souls, so that begging becomes demands? The northern territories have not yet recovered from the Edur War-fields lie fallow; the places where sorcery was unleashed now seethe with nightmare creatures and poisonous plants. I will not descend upon King Tehol’s most fragile subjects with fifteen thousand desperate trespassers!’
‘Take me back, then,’ Yedan said. ‘Your need for me-’
‘I cannot! You are a Witchslayer! You would be torn to pieces!’
‘Then find a worthy mate-a king-’
‘Yedan Derryg, move aside. I will speak with you no longer.’
He collected his reins and made way for her to pass. ‘The mortal path, sister. Please.’
Coming alongside, she raised a gloved hand as if to strike him, then lowered it and kicked her horse forward. Feeling his gaze upon her back was not enough to twist her round in her saddle. The weight of his disapproval settled on her shoulders, and with a faint shock she discovered that it was not entirely unfamiliar. Perhaps, as a child… well, some traits refused to go away, no matter the span of years. The notion made her even more miserable.
A short time later she caught the rank smell of cookfires dying in the rain.
My people, my realm, I am home.
Pithy and Brevity sat on a rolled-up, half-buried log at what used to be the high-water mark, their bare feet in the lukewarm water of the sea’s edge. The story went that this precious, magical mix of fresh rain and salty surf was a cure for all manner of foot ailments, including bad choices that sent one walking in entirely the wrong direction. Of course, life being what it is, you can’t cure what you ain’t done yet, though it never hurts to try.
‘Besides,’ said Brevity, her short dark hair flattened on to her round cheeks, ‘if we didn’t swing the vote, you and me, why, we’d be swimming to the nearest tavern right about now.’
‘Praying that there’s still some beer on tap,’ Pithy added.
‘It was the ice melt, dearie, that done in the island, and sure, maybe it would’ve subsided some, maybe even enough, but who wanted to hold their breaths waiting for that?’ She pulled a sodden rustleaf stick from some fold in her cloak and jammed it in the corner of her mouth. ‘Anyway, we got us a Queen now and a government-’
‘A divided government, Brevity. Shake on one side, Forters on the other, and the Queen hogtied and stretched in between-I can hear her creaking day and night. What we’re looking at here is an impasse and it won’t hold that way for much longer.’
‘Well, with only two witches left, it’s not like the Shake can do nothing but wave a bony fist our way.’ Pithy kicked her feet, making desultory splashes quickly beaten down by the rain. ‘We need to make our move soon. We need to swing the Queen over to our side. You and me, Brev, we should be leading the contingent to King Tehol, with a tidy resettlement scheme that includes at least three chests heaped with coins.’
‘One for you, one for me, and one for Twilight’s treasury.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Think she’ll go for it?’
‘Why not? We can’t stay here on this rotten coast much longer, can we?’
‘Good point. She saved us from drowning on the island, didn’t she? No point in then having us drown here in the Errant’s endless piss. Fent’s Toes, what a miserable place this is.’
‘You know,’ said Pithy after a time, ‘you and me, we could just abandon ’em all. Make our way to Letheras. How long do you think it’d take us to get reestablished?’
Brevity shook her head. ‘We’d get recognized, dearie. Worse, our scheme ain’t going to work a second time-people will see the signs and know it for what it is.’
‘Bah, every five years by my count you can find another crop of fools with too much money. Happy to hand it over.’
‘Maybe, but it’s not the marks I was thinking about-it’s the authorities. I ain’t in no mood to get arrested all over again. Twice offending means the Drownings for sure.’
Pithy shivered. ‘Got a point there. All right, then we go the honest politician route, we climb the ladder of, uh, secular power. We soak and scam legitimately.’
Brevity sucked on the stick and then nodded. ‘We can do that. Popularity contest. We divide up our rivals in the Putative Assembly. You bed one half, I bed the other, we set ourselves up as bitter rivals and make up two camps. Get voted as the Assembly’s official representatives to the court of the Queen.’
‘And then we become the choke-point.’
‘Information and wealth, up and down, down and up. Neither side knowing anything but what we decide to tell ’em.’
‘Precisely. No real difference from being the lying, cheating brokers we once were.’
‘Right, only even more crooked.’
‘But with a smile.’
‘With a smile, always, dearie.’
Yan Tovis rode down into the camp. The place stank. Figures stumbled in the mud and rain. The entire shallow bay offshore was brown with churned-up runoff. They were short of food. All the boats anchored in the bay sat low, wallowing in the rolling waves.
The mortal path. Twilight shook her head.
Unmindful of the countless eyes finding her as she rode into the makeshift town, she continued on until she reached the Witch’s Tent. Dismounting, she stepped over the drainage trench and ducked inside.
‘We’s in turble,’ croaked Skwish from the far end. ‘People getting sick now-we’s running outa herbs and was’not.’ She fixed baleful eyes on Twilight.
At her side, Pully smacked her gums for a moment, and then asked, ‘What you going t’do, Queenie? Nafore everone dies?’
She did not hesitate. ‘We must journey. But not on the mortal path.’
Could two ancient women be shocked?
Seemed they could.
‘By my Royal Blood,’ Twilight said, ‘I will open the Road to Gallan.’ She stared down at the witches, their gaping mouths, their wide eyes. ‘To the Dark Shore. I am taking us home.’
He wished he could remember his own name. He wished for some kind of understanding. How could such a disparate collection of people find themselves stumbling across this ravaged landscape? Had the world ended? Were they the last ones left?
But no, not quite, not quite accurate. While none of his companions, bickering and cursing, showed any inclination to glance back on their own trail, he found his attention drawn again and again to that hazy horizon whence they had come.
Someone was there.
Someone was after them.
If he could find out all the important things, he might have less reason to fear. He might even discover that he knew who hunted them. He might find a moment of peace.
Instead, the others looked ahead, as if they had no choice, no will to do otherwise. The edifice they had set out towards-what seemed weeks ago-was finally drawing near. Its immensity had mocked their sense of distance and perspective, but even that was not enough to account for the length of their trek. He had begun to suspect that his sense of time was awry, that the others measured the journey in a way fundamentally different from him-for was he not a ghost? He could only slip into and through them like a shadow. He felt nothing of the weight of each step they took. Even their suffering eluded him.
And yet, by all manner of reason, should he not be the one to have found time compacted, condensed to a thing of ephemeral ease? Why then the torture in his soul? The exhaustion? This fevered sense of crawling along every increment inside each of these bodies, one after another, round and round and round? When he first awoke among them, he had felt himself blessed. Now he felt trapped.
The edifice reared into the scoured blue sky. Grey and black, carved scales possibly rent by fractures and mottled with rusty stains, it was a tower of immense, alien artistry. At first, it had seemed little more than wreckage, a looming, rotted fang rendered almost shapeless by centuries of abandonment. But the closing of distance had, perversely, altered that perception. Even so… on the flat land spreading out from its base, there was no sign of settlement, no ancient, blunted furrows betraying once-planted fields, no tracks, no roads.
They could discern the nature of the monument now. Perhaps a thousand reaches tall, it stood alone, empty-eyed, a dragon of stone balanced on its hind limbs and curling tail. One of its forelimbs reached down to sink talons into the ground; the other was drawn up and angled slightly outward, as if poised to swipe some enemy from its path. Even its hind limbs were asymmetrically positioned, tensed, coiled.
No real dragon could match its size, and yet as they edged closer-mute now, diminished-they could see the astonishing detail of the creation. The iridescence of the whorls in each scale, lightly coated in dust; the folded-back skin encircling the talons-talons which were at least half again as tall as a man, their polished, laminated surfaces scarred and chipped. They could see creases in the hide that they had first taken to be fractures; the weight of muscles hanging slack; the seams and blood vessels in the folded, arching wings. A grainy haze obscured the edifice above its chest height, as if it was enwreathed in a ring of suspended dust.
‘No,’ whispered Taxilian, ‘not suspended. That ring is moving… round and round it swirls, do you see?’
‘Sorcery,’ said Breath, her tone oddly flat.
‘As might a million moons orbit a dead sun,’ Rautos observed. ‘Countless lifeless worlds, each one no bigger than a grain of sand-you say magic holds it in place, Breath-are you certain?’
‘What else?’ she snapped, dismissive. ‘All we ever get from you. Theories. About this and that. As if explanations meant anything. What difference does knowing make, you fat oaf?’
‘It eases the fire in my soul, witch,’ Rautos replied.
‘The fire is the reason for living.’
‘Until it burns you up.’
‘Oh, stop it, you two,’ moaned Asane.
Breath wheeled on her. ‘I’m going to drown you,’ she pronounced. ‘I don’t even need water to do it. I’ll use sand. I’ll hold you under and feel your every struggle, your every twitch-’
‘It’s not just a statue,’ said Taxilian.
‘Someone carved down a mountain,’ said Nappet. ‘Means nothing. It’s just stupid, useless. We’ve walked for days and days. For this. Stupid. I’m of a mind to kick you bloody, Taxilian. For wasting my time.’
‘Wasting your time? Why, Nappet, what else were you planning to do?’
‘We need water. Now we’re going to die out here, just so you could look at this piece of stone.’ Nappet lifted a battered fist. ‘If I kill you, we can drink your blood-that’ll hold us for a time.’
‘It will kill you in turn,’ Rautos said. ‘You will die in great pain.’
‘What do you know about it? We’ll cook you down and drink all that melted fat.’
‘It’s not just a statue,’ Taxilian repeated.
Last, who was not much for talking, surprised everyone when he said, ‘He’s right. It was alive, once, this dragon.’
Sheb snorted. ‘Errant save us, you’re an idiot, Last. This thing was never anything but a mountain.’
‘It was no mountain,’ Last insisted, brow darkening. ‘There are no mountains here and there never were-anybody can see that. No, it was alive.’
‘He’s right, I think,’ said Taxilian, ‘only maybe not in the way you think, Sheb. This was built, and then it was lived in.’ He spread his hands. ‘It is a city. And we’re going to find a way inside.’
The ghost, who had been hovering, swept this way and that, impatient and fearful, anxious and excited, now wanted to cry out with joy, and would have, had he a voice.
‘A city?’ Sheb stared at Taxilian for a long moment, and then spat. ‘But abandoned now, right? Dead, right?’
‘I would say so,’ Taxilian replied. ‘Long dead.’
‘So,’ and Sheb licked his lips, ‘there might be… loot. Forgotten treasure-after all, who else has ever come out here? The Wastelands promise nothing but death. Everyone knows that. We’re probably the first people to have ever seen this-’
‘Barring its inhabitants,’ murmured Rautos. ‘Taxilian, can you see a way inside?’
‘No, not yet. But come, we’ll find one, I’m certain of it.’
Breath stepped in front of the others as if to block their way. ‘This place is cursed, can’t you feel that? It doesn’t belong to people-people like you and me-we don’t belong here. Listen to me! If we go inside, we’ll never leave!’
Asane whimpered, shrinking back. ‘I don’t like it either. We should just go, like she says.’
‘We can’t!’ barked Sheb. ‘We need water! How do you think a city this size can survive here? It’s sitting on a source of water-’
‘Which probably dried up and that’s why they left!’
‘Dried up, maybe, for ten thousand thirsty souls. Not seven. And who knows how long ago? No, you don’t understand-if we don’t find water in there, we’re all going to die.’
The ghost was oddly baffled by all this. They had found a spring only two evenings back. They all carried waterskins that still sloshed-although, come to think of it, he could not recall where they had found them-did his companions always have those skins? And what about the broad hats they wore, shielding them from the bright, hard sunlight? The walking sticks? Taxilian’s rope-handled scribe box? Rautos’s map-case that folded out into a desktop? Breath’s cloak of sewn pockets, each pocket carrying a Tile? Nappet and his knotted skull-breaker tucked into his belt? Sheb’s brace of daggers? Asane’s spindle and the bag of raw wool from which she spun out her lacy webs? Last’s iron pot and fire kit; his hand-sickle and collection of cooking knives-where, the ghost wondered-in faint horror-had all these things come from?
‘No food, no water,’ Nappet was saying, ‘Sheb’s right. But, most importantly, if we find a door, we can defend it.’
The words hung in the silence that followed, momentarily suspended and then slowly rising like grit-the ghost could see them, the way they lost shape but not meaning, definition but not dread import. Yes, Nappet had spoken aloud the secret knowledge. The words that terror had carved bloody on their souls.
Someone was hunting them.
Asane began weeping, softly, sodden hitches catching in her throat.
Sheb’s hands closed into fists as he stared at her.
But Nappet had turned to face Last, and was eyeing the huge man speculatively. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘you’re a thick-skulled farmer, Last, but you look strong. Can you handle a sword? If we need someone to hold the portal, can you do that?’
The man frowned, and then nodded. ‘Maybe I ain’t never used a sword, but nobody will get past. I swear it. Nobody gets past me.’
And Nappet was holding a sheathed sword, which he now offered to Last.
The ghost recoiled upon seeing that weapon. He knew it, yet knew it not. A strange, frightening weapon. He watched as Last drew the sword from its sheath. Single-edged, dark, mottled iron, its tip weighted and slightly flaring. The deep ferule running the length of the blade was a black, nightmarish streak, like an etching of the Abyss itself. It stank of death-the whole weapon, this terrible instrument of destruction.
Last hefted the sword in his hand. ‘I would rather a spear,’ he said.
‘We don’t like spears,’ Nappet hissed. ‘Do we?’
‘No,’ the others chorused.
Last’s frown deepened. ‘No, me neither. I don’t know why I… why I… wanted one. An imp’s whisper in my head, I guess.’ And he made a warding gesture.
Sheb spat to seal the fend.
‘We don’t like spears,’ Rautos whispered. ‘They’re… dangerous.’
The ghost agreed. Fleshless and yet chilled, shivering. There had been a spear in his past-yes? Perhaps? A dreadful thing, lunging at his face, his chest, slicing the muscles of his arms. Reverberations, shivering up through his bones, rocking him back, one step, then another-
Gods, he did not like spears!
‘Come on,’ Taxilian said. ‘It is time to find a way in.’
There was a way in. The ghost knew that. There was always a way in. The challenge was in finding it, in seeing it and knowing it for what it was. The important doors stayed hidden, disguised, shaped in ways to deceive. The important doors opened from one side only, and once you were through they closed in a gust of cold air against the back of the neck. And could never be opened again.
Such was the door he sought, the ghost realized.
Did it wait in this dead city?
He would have to find it soon. Before the hunter found him-found them all. Spear Wielder, slayer, the One who does not retreat, who mocks in silence, who would not flinch-no, he’s not done with me, with us, with me, with us.
We need to find the door.
The way in.
They reached the dragon’s stone forelimb with its claws that stood arrayed like massive, tapering pillars of marble, tips sunk deep into the hard earth. Everywhere surrounding the foundations the ground was fissured, fraught with cracks that tracked outward. Rautos grunted as he crouched down to peer into one such rent. ‘Deep,’ he muttered. ‘The city is settling, suggesting that it has indeed sucked out the water beneath it.’
Taxilian was scanning the massive tower that comprised the limb in front of them, tilting his head back, and back. After a moment he staggered, cursing. ‘Too much,’ he gasped. ‘This one leg could encompass a half-dozen Ehrlii spires-if it is indeed hollow, it could hold a thousand inhabitants all by itself.’
‘And yet,’ Rautos said, coming up alongside him, ‘look at the artistry-the genius of the sculptors-have you ever seen such skill, on such a scale, Taxilian?’
‘No, it surpasses… it surpasses.’
Sheb stepped in between two of the talons, slipped into shadows and out of sight.
There were no obvious entranceways, no formal portals or ramps, no gates; no windows or apertures higher up.
‘It seems entirely self-contained,’ said Taxilian. ‘Did you notice-no evidence of outlying farms or pasture land.’
‘None that survived the interval of abandonment,’ Rautos replied. ‘For all we know, after all, this could be a hundred thousand years old.’
‘That would surprise me-yes, the surface is eroded, worn down, but if it was as old as you suggest, why, it would be little more than a shapeless lump, a giant termite tower.’
‘Are you certain of that?’
‘No,’ Taxilian admitted. ‘But I recall once, in a scriptorium in Erhlitan, seeing a map dating from the First Empire. It showed a line of rugged hills inland of the city. They ran like a spine parallel to the coast. Elevations had been noted here and there. Well, those hills are still there, but not as bold or as high as what was noted on the map.’
‘And how old was the map?’ Rautos asked.
Taxilian shrugged. ‘Twenty thousand? Fifty? Five? Scholars make a career of not agreeing on anything.’
‘Was the map on hide? Surely, no hide could last so long, not even five thousand years-’
‘Hide, yes, but treated in some arcane way. In any case, it had been found in a wax-sealed container. Seven Cities is mostly desert. Without moisture, nothing decays. It just shrinks, dries up.’ He gestured with one hand at the stone façade before them. ‘Anyway, this should be much more weathered if it was so old as to outlast signs of farming.’
Rautos nodded, convinced by Taxilian’s reasoning.
‘Haunted,’ said Breath. ‘You’re going to get us all killed, Taxilian. So I now curse your name, your soul. I will make you pay for killing me.’
He glanced at her, said nothing.
Rautos spoke. ‘See that hind foot, Taxilian? It is the only one on a pedestal.’
The two men headed off in that direction.
Breath walked up to Asane. ‘Spin that cocoon, woman, make yourself somewhere you can hide inside. Until you’re nothing but a rotted husk. Don’t think you can crawl back out. Don’t think you can show us all your bright, painted wings. Your hopes, Asane, your dreams and secrets-all hollow.’ She held up a thin spidery hand. ‘I can crush it all, so easily-’
Last stepped up to her, then pushed her back so that she stumbled. ‘I grow tired of listening to you,’ he said. ‘Leave her alone.’
Breath cackled and danced away.
‘Thank you,’ said Asane. ‘She is so… hurtful.’
But Last faced her and said, ‘This is not a place for fears, Asane. Conquer yours, and do it soon.’
Nearby, Nappet snickered. ‘Dumb farmer’s maybe not so dumb after all. Doesn’t make him any less ugly though, does it?’ He laughed.
As Rautos and Taxilian drew closer to the hind limb they could see that the pedestal was rectangular, like the foundation of a temple. The vertical wall facing them, as tall as they were, bore the faint remnants of a frieze, framed in an elaborate border. All too eroded to interpret. But no sign of an entranceway.
‘We are confounded again,’ Rautos said.
‘I do not think so,’ Taxilian replied. ‘You look wrongly, friend. You search out what rises in front of you. You scan right and left, you crane your sight upward. Yes, the city encourages such deception. The dragon invites it, perched as it is. And yet…’ He pointed.
Rautos followed the line of that lone finger, and grunted in surprise. At the base of the pedestal, wind-blown sands formed a hollow. ‘The way in is downward.’
Sheb joined them. ‘We need to dig.’
‘I think so,’ agreed Taxilian. ‘Call the others, Sheb.’
‘I don’t take orders from you. Errant piss on you highborn bastards.’
‘I’m not highborn,’ said Taxilian.
Sheb sneered. ‘You make like you are, which is just as bad. Get back down where you belong, Taxilian, and if you can’t manage on your own then I’ll help and that’s a promise.’
‘I just have some learning, Sheb-why does that threaten you so?’
Sheb rested a hand on one of his daggers. ‘I don’t like pretenders and that’s what you are. You think big words make you smarter, better. You like the way Rautos here respects you, you think he sees you as an equal. But you’re wrong in that-you ain’t his equal. He’s just humouring you, Taxilian. You’re a clever pet.’
‘This is how Letherii think,’ said Rautos, sighing. ‘It’s what keeps everyone in their place, upward, downward-even as people claim they despise the system they end up doing all they can to keep it in place.’
Taxilian sighed in turn. ‘I do understand that, Rautos. Stability helps remind you of where you stand. Affirms you’ve got a legitimate place in society, for good or ill.’
‘Listen to you two shit-eaters.’
By this time the others had arrived. Taxilian pointed at the depression. ‘We think we’ve found a way in, but we’ll have to dig.’
Last approached with a shovel in his hands. ‘I’ll start.’
The ghost hovered, watching. Off to the west, the sun was settling into horizon’s lurid vein. When Last needed a rest, Taxilian took his place. Then Nappet, followed by Sheb. Rautos tried then, but by this point the pit was deep and he had difficulty making his way down, and an even harder time flinging the sand high enough to keep it from sifting back. His stint did not last long before, with a snarl, Sheb told him to get out and leave the task to the lowborns who knew this business. Last and Taxilian struggled to lift Rautos out of the pit.
In the dusty gloom below, the excavation had revealed one edge of stone facing, the huge blocks set without mortar.
The argument from earlier disturbed the ghost, although he was not sure why it was so. He was past such silly things, after all. The games of station, so bitter, so self-destructive-it all seemed such a waste of time and energy, the curse of people who could look outward but never inward. Was that a measure of intelligence? Were such hapless victims simply dimwitted, incapable of introspection and honest self-judgement? Or was it a quality of low intelligence that its possessor instinctively fled the potentially deadly turmoil of knowing too many truths about oneself?
Yes, it was this notion-of self-delusion-that left him feeling strangely anxious, exposed and vulnerable. He could see its worth, after all. When the self was a monster-who wouldn’t hide from such a thing? Who wouldn’t run when it loomed close? Close enough to smell, to taste? Yes, even the lowest beast knew the value of not knowing itself too well.
‘I’ve reached the floor,’ announced Sheb, straightening. When the others crowded to the uncertain edge, he snarled, ‘Keep your distance, fools! You want to bury me?’
‘Tempting,’ said Nappet. ‘But then we’d have to dig out your miserable corpse.’
The shovel scraped on flagstones. After a time Sheb said, ‘Got the top of the doorway here in front of me-it’s low… but wide. There’s a ramp, no steps.’
Yes, thought the ghost, that is as it should be.
Sheb wasn’t interested in handing off the task, now that he could see the way in. He dug swiftly, grunting with every upward heave of heavy, damp sand. ‘I can smell the water,’ he gasped. ‘Could be the tunnel’s flooded-but at least we won’t die of thirst, will we?’
‘I’m not going down there,’ said Breath, ‘if there’s water in the tunnel. I’m not. You’ll all drown.’
The ramp angled downward for another six or seven paces, enough to leave Sheb exhausted. Nappet took over and a short time later, with dusk gathering at their backs, a thrust of the shovel plunged into empty space. They were through.
The tunnel beyond was damp, the air sweet with rotting mould and sour with something fouler. The water pooled on the floor was less than a finger’s width deep, slippery underfoot. The darkness was absolute.
Everyone lit lanterns. Watching this, the ghost found himself frightened yet again. As with all the other accoutrements; as with the sudden appearance of the shovel, he was missing essential details-they could not simply veer into existence as needed, after all. Reality didn’t work that way. No, it must be that he was blind to things, a vision cursed to be selective, yielding only that which was needed, that which was relevant to the moment. For all he knew, he suddenly realized, there might be a train of wagons accompanying this group. There might be servants. Bodyguards. An army. The real world, he comprehended with a shock, was not what he saw, not what he interacted with instant by instant. The real world was unknowable.
He thought he might howl. He thought he might give voice to his horror, his abject revelation. For, if indeed the world was unknowable, then so too were the forces acting upon him, and how could one guard against that?
Frozen, unable to move. Until the group descended into the tunnel, and then yet another discovery assailed him, as chains dragged him down into the pit, pulling him-shrieking now-into the passageway.
He was not free.
He was bound to the lives of these strange people, not one of whom knew he even existed. He was their slave, yet rendered so useless that he had no voice, no body, no identity beyond this fragile mockery of self-and how long could such a entity survive, when it was invisible to everyone else? When even the stone walls and pools of slimy water did not acknowledge his arrival?
Was this, then, the torment of all ghosts?
The possibility was so terrible, so awful, that he recoiled. How could mortal souls deserve such eternal penitence? What vast crime did the mere act of living commit? Or had he been personally consigned to this fate? By some god or goddess cruel in judgement, devoid of all mercy?
At that thought, even as he flailed about in the wake of his masters, he felt a sudden rage. A blast of indignation. What god or goddess dares to presume the right to judge me? That is arrogance too vast to have been earned.
Whoever you are, I will find you. I swear it. I will find you and I will cut you down. Humble you. Down to your knees. How dare you! How dare you judge anyone, when you ever hide your face? When you strip away all possible truth of your existence? Your wilful presence?
Hiding from me, whoever-whatever-you are, is a childish game. An unworthy game. Face your child. Face all your children. Show me the veracity of your right to cast judgement upon me.
Do this, and I will accept you.
Remain hidden, even as you consign my soul to suffering, and I will hunt you down.
I will hunt you down.
The ramp climbed until it reached a broad, low-ceilinged chamber.
Crowded with reptilian corpses. Rotting, reeking, in pools of thick ichor and rank blood. Twenty, perhaps more.
K’Chain Che’Malle. The makers of this city.
Each one throat-cut. Executed like goats on an altar.
Beyond them, a spiralling ramp climbed steeply upward. No one said a thing as they picked careful, independent paths through the slaughter. Taxilian in the lead, they began the ascent.
The ghost watched as Breath paused to bend down and run a finger through decaying blood. She slipped that finger into her mouth, and smiled.