Shadow is ever besieged, for that is its nature. Whilst darkness devours, and light steals. And so one sees shadow ever retreat to hidden places, only to return in the wake of the war between dark and light.
Observations of the Warrens
THE ROPE HAD VISITED THE EDUR SHIPS. CORPSES LAY EVERYWHERE, already rotting on the deck beneath squabbling, shrieking gulls and crows. Cutter stood near the prow and watched in silence as Apsalar walked among the bodies, pausing every now and then to examine some detail or other, her measured calm leaving the Daru chilled.
They had drawn the sleek runner up alongside, and Cutter could hear its steady bumping against the hull as the morning breeze continued to freshen. Despite the enlivening weather, lassitude gripped them both. They were to sail away, but precisely where had not been specified by the patron god of assassins. Another servant of Shadow awaited them… somewhere.
He tested his left arm once more, lifting it out to the side. The shoulder throbbed, but not as badly as yesterday. Fighting with knives was all very well, until one had to face an armoured sword-wielder, then the drawbacks to short-bladed, close-in stickers became all too apparent.
He needed, he concluded, to learn the use of the bow. And then, once he’d acquired some competence, perhaps a long-knife-a Seven Cities weapon that combined the advantages of a knife with the reach of a three-quarter-length longsword. For some reason, the thought of using a true longsword did not appeal to him. Perhaps because it was a soldier’s weapon, best used in conjunction with a shield or buckler. A waste of his left hand, given his skills. Sighing, Cutter looked down at the deck and, fighting revulsion, scanned the corpses beneath the jostling birds.
And saw a bow. Its string had been cut through, and the arrows lay scattered out from a quiver still strapped to an Edur’s hip. Cutter stepped over and crouched down. The bow was heavier than it looked, sharply recurved and braced with horn. Its length was somewhere between a longbow and a horse warrior’s bow-probably a simple short bow for these Edur. Unstrung, it stood at a height matching Cutter’s shoulders.
He began collecting the arrows, then, waving to drive back the gulls and crows, he dragged the archer’s corpse clear and removed the belted quiver. He found a small leather pouch tied near it containing a half-dozen waxed strings, spare fletching, a few nuggets of hard pine sap, a thin iron blade and three spare barbed arrowheads.
Selecting one of the strings, Cutter straightened. He slipped one of the cord-bound ends into the notch at the bow’s base end, then anchored the weapon against the outside of his right foot and pushed down on the upper rib.
Harder than he’d expected. The bow shook as he struggled to slip the loop into the notch. Finally succeeding, Cutter lifted the bow for a more gauging regard, then drew it back. The breath hissed between his teeth as he sought to hold the weapon taut. This would, he realized as he finally relaxed the string, prove something of a challenge.
Sensing eyes on him, he turned.
Apsalar stood near the main mast. Flecks and globules of dried blood covered her forearms.
‘What have you been doing?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Looking around.’
Inside someone’s chest? ‘We should go.’
‘Have you decided where yet?’
‘I’m sure that will be answered soon enough,’ he said, bending down to collect the arrows and the belt holding the quiver and kit pouch.
‘The sorcery here is… strange.’
His head snapped up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I am not sure. My familiarity with warrens is somewhat vicarious.’
I know.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘if this is Kurald Emurlahn, then it is tainted in some way. Necromantically. Life and death magicks, carved directly into the wood of this ship. As if warlocks and shoulder-women had done the consecrating.’
Cutter frowned. ‘Consecrating. You make it sound as if this ship was a temple.’
‘It was. Is. The spilling of blood has done nothing to desecrate it, which is precisely my point. Perhaps even warrens can sink into barbarity.’
‘Meaning the wielders of a warren can affect its nature. My late uncle would have found the notion fascinating. Not desecration, then, but denigration.’
She slowly glanced around. ‘Rashan. Meanas. Thyr.’
He comprehended the thought. ‘You think all warrens accessible to humans are in fact denigrations of Elder Warrens.’
She raised her hands then. ‘Even blood decays.’
Cutter’s frown deepened. He was not sure what she meant by that, and found himself disinclined to ask. Easier, safer, to simply grunt and make his way to the gunnel. ‘We should make use of this breeze. Assuming you’re done here.’
In answer she walked to the ship’s side and clambered over the rail.
Cutter watched her climb down to the runner, taking her place at the tiller. He paused for a final look around. And stiffened.
On the distant strand of Drift Avalii, there stood a lone figure, leaning on a two-handed sword.
Traveller.
And Cutter now saw that there were others, squatting or seated around him. A half-dozen Malazan soldiers. In the trees behind them stood Tiste Andu, silver-haired and ghostly. The image seemed to burn in his mind, as of a touch so cold as to feel like fire. He shivered, pulling his gaze away with an effort, and quickly joined Apsalar in the runner, taking the mooring line with him.
He set the oars in their locks and pushed the craft away from the ship’s black hull.
‘I believe they intend to commandeer this Edur dromon,’ Apsalar said.
‘What about protecting the Throne?’
‘There are demons from Shadow on the island now. Your patron god has clearly decided to take a more active role in defending the secret.’
‘Your patron god.’ Thank you for that, Apsalar. And who was it who held your soul cupped in his two hands? A killer’s hands. ‘Why not just take it back to the Shadow Realm?’
‘No doubt if he could, he would,’ she replied. ‘But when Anomander Rake placed his kin here to guard it, he also wrought sorcery around the Throne. It will not be moved.’
Cutter shipped the oars and began preparing the sail. ‘Then Shadowthrone need only come here and plant his scrawny arse on it, right?’
He disliked her answering smile. ‘Thus ensuring that no-one else could claim its power, or the position of King of High House Shadow. Unless, of course, they killed Shadowthrone first. A god of courage and unassailable power might well plant his scrawny arse on that throne to end the argument once and for all. But Shadowthrone did just that, once before, as Emperor Kellanved.’
‘He did?’
‘He claimed the First Throne. The throne of the T’lan Imass.’
Oh.
‘Fortunately,’ Apsalar continued, ‘as Shadowthrone, he has shown little interest in making use of his role as Emperor of the T’lan Imass.’
‘Well, why bother? This way, he negates the chance of anyone else finding and taking that throne, while his avoidance of using it himself ensures that no-one takes notice he has it in the first place-gods, I’m starting to sound like Kruppe! In any case, that seems clever, not cowardly.’
She studied him for a long moment. ‘I had not thought of that. You are right, of course. Unveiling power invites convergence, after all. It seems Shadowthrone has absorbed well his early residence in the Deadhouse. More so, perhaps, than Cotillion has.’
‘Aye, it’s an Azath tactic, isn’t it? Negation serves to disarm. Given the chance, he’d probably plant himself in every throne in sight, then, with all the power accrued to him, he would do nothing with it. Nothing at all.’
Her eyes slowly widened.
He frowned at her expression. Then his heart started pounding hard. No. I was only kidding. That’s not just ambitious, it’s insane. He could never pull it off… but what if he did? ‘All the games of the gods…’
‘Would be seriously… curtailed. Crokus, have you stumbled onto the truth? Have you just articulated Shadowthrone’s vast scheme? His prodigious gambit to achieve absolute domination?’
‘Only if he is truly mad, Apsalar,’ the Daru replied, shaking his head. ‘It’s impossible. He would never succeed. He would not even get close.’
Apsalar settled back on the tiller as the sails filled and the runner leapt forward. ‘For two years,’ she said, ‘Dancer and the Emperor vanished. Left the empire for Surly to rule. My stolen memories are vague of that time, but I do know that both men were changed, irrevocably, by all that happened to them during those two years. Not just the play for the Shadow Realm, which no doubt was central to their desires. Other things occurred… truths revealed, mysteries uncovered. One thing I know for certain, Crokus, is that, for most of those two years, Dancer and Kellanved were not in this realm.’
‘Then where in Hood’s name were they?’
She shook her head. ‘I cannot answer that question. But I sense that they were following a trail, one that wound through all the warrens, and to realms where even the known warrens do not reach.’
‘What kind of trail? Whose?’
‘Suspicions… the trail had something to do with, well, with the Houses of the Azath.’
Mysteries uncovered indeed. The Azath-the deepest mystery of them all.
‘You should know, Crokus,’ Apsalar continued, ‘that they knew that Surly was waiting for them. They knew what she had planned. Yet they returned none the less.’
‘But that makes no sense.’
‘Unless she proceeded to do precisely what they wanted her to do. After all, we both know that the assassinations failed-failed in killing either of them. The question then becomes: what did that entire mess achieve?’
‘A rhetorical question?’
She cocked her head. ‘No.’ Surprised.
Cutter rubbed at the bristle on his jaw, then shrugged. ‘All right. It left Surly on the Malazan throne. Empress Laseen was born. It stripped from Kellanved his secular seat of power. Hmm. Let’s ask it another way. What if Kellanved and Dancer had returned and successfully reclaimed the imperial throne? But, at the same time, they had taken over the Shadow Realm. Thus, there would be an empire spanning two warrens, an empire of Shadow.’ He paused, then slowly nodded. ‘They wouldn’t have stood for that-the gods, that is. Ascendants of all kinds would have converged on the Malazan Empire. They would have pounded the empire and the two men ruling it into dust.’
‘Probably. And neither Kellanved nor Dancer was in any position to mount a successful resistance to such a protracted assault. They’d yet to consolidate their claim on the Shadow Realm.’
‘Right, so they orchestrated their own deaths, and kept their identity as the new rulers of Shadow a secret for as long as they could, whilst laying out the groundwork for a resumption of their grand schemes. Well, that’s all very cosy, if more than a little diabolical. But does it help us answer the question of what they’re up to right now? If anything, I’m more confused than ever.’
‘Why should you be? Cotillion recruited you to see to the true Throne of Shadow on Drift Avalii, the outcome of which could not have proved more advantageous to him and Shadowthrone. Darist dead, the sword Vengeance removed and in the hands of a darkly fated wanderer. The Edur expedition wiped out, the secret thus resurrected and likely to remain unviolated for some time to come. True, it ended up demanding Cotillion’s direct, most personal intervention, which he would have liked to have avoided, no doubt.’
‘Well, I doubt he would have bothered had not the Hound balked.’
‘What?’
‘I called upon Blind-you were already down. And one of the Edur mages made the Hound cower with a single word.’
‘Ah. Then Cotillion has learned yet another vital fact-he cannot rely upon the Hounds when dealing with the Tiste Edur, for the Hounds remember their original masters.’
‘I suppose so. No wonder he was disgusted with Blind.’
They would have continued, Cutter taking full advantage of Apsalar’s lapse in taciturnity, had not the sky suddenly darkened, shadows rising on all sides, closing and swallowing them-
A thunderous crash-
The huge tortoise was the only object to break the flat plain, lumbering with the infinite patience of the truly mindless across the ancient seabed. Twin shadows grew to flank it.
‘Too bad there’s not two of them,’ Trull Sengar said, ‘then we could ride in style.’
‘I would think,’ Onrack replied, as they slowed their pace to match that of the tortoise, ‘that it feels the same.’
‘Hence this grand journey… indeed, a noble quest, in which I find a certain sympathy.’
‘You miss your kin, then, do you, Trull Sengar?’
‘Too general a statement.’
‘Ah, the needs of procreation.’
‘Hardly. My needs have nothing to do with engendering whelps with my hairline, nor, gods forbid, my ears.’ He reached down and tapped the tortoise’s dusty shell. ‘Like this fellow here, there’s no time to think of eggs it won’t even lay. Singular intent, disconnected from time-from those messy consequences that inevitably follow, if only to afflict whatever lass tortoise our dogged friend here happens to pounce upon.’
‘They are not wont to pounce, Trull Sengar. Indeed, the act is a far more clumsy endeavour-’
‘Aren’t they all?’
‘My own memories-’
‘Enough of that, Onrack. Do you think I want to hear of your supple prowess? I will have you know that I have yet to lie with a woman. Thus, I am left with naught but my sparsely seeded imagination. Inflict no luscious details upon me, I beg you.’
The T’lan Imass slowly turned its head. ‘It is your people’s custom to withhold such activities until marriage?’
‘It is. It wasn’t among the Imass?’
‘Well, yes, it was. But the custom was flouted at every opportunity. In any case, as I explained earlier, I had a mate.’
‘Whom you gave up because you fell in love with another woman.’
‘Gave up, Trull Sengar? No. Whom I lost. Nor was that loss solitary. They never are. From all you have said, I assume then that you are rather young.’
The Tiste Edur shrugged. ‘I suppose I am, especially in my present company.’
‘Then let us leave this creature’s side, so as to spare you the reminder.’
Trull Sengar shot the T’lan Imass a look, then grinned. ‘Good idea.’
They increased their pace, and within a few strides had left the tortoise behind. Glancing back, Trull Sengar gave a shout.
Onrack halted and swung round.
The tortoise was turning back, stumpy legs taking it in a wide circle.
‘What is it doing?’
‘It has finally seen us,’ Onrack replied, ‘and so it runs away.’
‘Ah, no fun and games tonight, then. Poor beast.’
‘In time it will judge it safe to resume its journey, Trull Sengar. We have presented but a momentary obstacle.’
‘A humbling reminder, then.’
‘As you wish.’
The day was cloudless, heat rising from the old seabed in shimmering waves. The odhan’s grassy steppes resumed a few thousand paces ahead. The salt-crusted ground resisted signs of passages, though Onrack could detect the subtle indications left behind by the six renegade T’lan Imass, a scrape here, a scuff there. One of the six dragged a leg as it walked, whilst another placed more weight on one side than the other. They were all no doubt severely damaged. The Ritual, despite the cessation of the Vow itself, had left residual powers, but there was something else as well, a vague hint of chaos, of unknown warrens-or perhaps familiar ones twisted beyond recognition. There was, Onrack suspected, a bonecaster among those six.
Olar Ethil, Kilava Onas, Monok Ochem, Hentos Urn, Tern Benasto, Ulpan Nodost, Tenag Ilbaie, Ay Estos, Absin Tholai… the bonecasters of the Logros T’lan Imass. Who among them are lost? Kilava, of course, but that is as it has always been. Hentos Ilm and Monok Ochem have both in their turn partaken of the hunt. Olar Ethil seeks the other armies of the T’lan Imass-for the summons was heard by all.
Benasto and Ulpan remain with Logros. Ay Estos was lost here on the Jhag Odhan in the last war. I know naught of the fate of Absin Tholai. Leaving Tenag Ilbaie, whom Logros sent to the Kron, to aid in the Laederon Wars. Thus. Absin Tholai, Tenag Ilbaie or Ay Estos.
Of course, there was no reason to assume that the renegades were from the Logros, although their presence here on this continent suggested so, since the caves and the weapons caches were not the only ones to exist; similar secret places could be found on every other continent. Yet these renegades had come to Seven Cities, to the very birthplace of the First Empire, in order to recover their weapons. And it was Logros who was tasked with the holding of the homeland.
‘Trull Sengar?’
‘Yes?’
‘What do you know of the cult of the Nameless Ones?’
‘Only that they’re very successful.’
The T’lan Imass cocked its head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, their existence has remained hidden from me. I’ve never heard of them.’
Ah. ‘Logros commanded that the First Throne be removed from this land, because the Nameless Ones were drawing ever closer to discovering its location. They had come to realize that its power could be claimed, that the T’lan Imass could be made to bow in service to the first mortal to seat him or herself upon it.’
‘And Logros didn’t want one of these Nameless Ones to be that mortal. Why? What terrible purpose drives them? And before you answer, Onrack, I should tell you that as far as I am concerned, “terrible purpose” has rather dire measure, given both your kind and my own.’
‘I understand, Trull Sengar, and it is a valid point you make. The Nameless Ones serve the Houses of the Azath. Logros believed that, had a priest of that cult taken the First Throne, the first and only command given to the T’lan Imass would be to voluntarily accept eternal imprisonment. We would have been removed from this world.’
‘So the throne was moved.’
‘Yes, to a continent south of Seven Cities. Where it was found by a mage-Kellanved, the Emperor of the Malazan Empire.’
‘Who now commands all the T’lan Imass? No wonder the Malazan Empire is as powerful as it seems to be-then again, by now, it should have conquered the whole world, since he could have called upon all the T’lan Imass to fight his wars.’
‘The Emperor’s exploitation of our abilities was… modest. Surprisingly constrained. He was then assassinated. The new Empress does not command us.’
‘Why didn’t she just sit on the First Throne herself?’
‘She would, could she find it.’
‘Ah, so you are free once more.’
‘So it seems,’ Onrack replied after a moment. ‘There are other… concerns, Trull Sengar. Kellanved was resident in a House of the Azath for a time…’
They reached the slope beyond the salt flat, began making their way upward. ‘These are matters of which I know very little,’ the Tiste Edur said. ‘You fear that the Emperor was either one of these Nameless Ones, or had contact with them. If so, then why didn’t he issue that one command you so dreaded?’
‘We do not know.’
‘How did he manage to find the First Throne in the first place?’
‘We do not know.’
‘All right. Now, what has all this to do with what we are up to right now?’
‘A suspicion, Trull Sengar, regarding where these six renegade T’lan Imass are heading.’
‘Well, southward, it seems. Oh, I see.’
‘If there are among them kin of Logros, then they know where the First Throne will be found.’
‘Well, is there any reason to believe that you are unique among the T’lan Imass? Do you not think others of your kind may have arrived at the same suspicion?’
‘I am not sure of that. I share something with the renegades that they do not, Trull Sengar. Like them, I am unburdened. Freed from the Ritual’s Vow. This has resulted in a certain… liberation of thought. Monok Ochem and Ibra Gholan pursue a quarry, and the mind of a hunter is ever consumed by that quarry.’
They reached the first rise and halted. Onrack drew out his sword and jammed it point first into the ground, so deep that it remained standing upright when he walked away from it. He took ten paces before stopping once more.
‘What are you doing?’
‘If you do not object, Trull Sengar, I would await Monok Ochem and Ibra Gholan. They, and Logros in turn, must be informed of my suspicion.’
‘And you assume that Monok will spare us the time to talk? Our last moments together were less than pleasant, as I recall. I’d feel better if you weren’t standing so far away from your sword.’ The Tiste Edur found a nearby boulder to sit on, and regarded Onrack for a long moment before continuing, ‘And what about what you did in the cave, where that Tellann Ritual was active?’ He gestured at Onrack’s new left arm and the melded additions to the other places where damage had occurred. ‘It’s… obvious. That arm’s shorter than your own, you know. Noticeably. Something tells me you weren’t supposed to do… what you did.’
‘You are right… or would be, were I still bound by the Vow.’
‘I see. And will Monok Ochem display similar equanimity when he sees what you have done?’
‘I do not expect so.’
‘Didn’t you proclaim a vow to serve me, Onrack?’
The T’lan Imass lifted its head. ‘I did.’
‘And what if I don’t want to see you put yourself-and me, I might add-at such risk?’
‘You make a valid point, Trull Sengar, which I had not considered. However, let me ask you this. These renegades serve the same master as do your kin. Should they lead one of your mortal kin to take the First Throne, thus acquiring mastery over all the T’lan Imass, do you imagine they will be as circumspect in using those armies as was Emperor Kellanved?’
The Tiste Edur said nothing for a time, then he sighed. ‘All right. But you lead me to wonder, if the First Throne is so vulnerable, why have you not set someone of your own choosing upon it?’
‘To command the First Throne, one must be mortal. Which mortal can we trust to such a responsibility? We did not even choose Kellanved-his exploitation was opportunistic. Furthermore, the issue may soon become irrelevant. The T’lan Imass have been summoned-and all hear it, whether bound to the Vow or freed from it. A new, mortal bonecaster has arisen in a distant land.’
‘And you want that bonecaster to take the First Throne.’
‘No. We want the summoner to free us all.’
‘From the Vow?’
‘No. From existence, Trull Sengar.’ Onrack shrugged heavily. ‘Or so, I expect, the Bound will ask, or, perhaps, have already asked. Oddly enough, I find that I do not share that sentiment any more.’
‘Nor would any others who’d escaped the Vow. I would think, then, that this new mortal bonecaster is in grave danger.’
‘And so protected accordingly.’
‘Are you able to resist that bonecaster’s summons?’
‘I am… free to choose.’
The Tiste Edur cocked his head. ‘It would seem, Onrack, that you are already free. Maybe not in the way that this bonecaster might offer you, but even so…’
‘Yes. But the alternative I represent is not available to those still bound by the Vow.’
‘Let’s hope Monok Ochem is not too resentful.’
Onrack slowly turned. ‘We shall see.’
Dust swirled upward from the grasses at the edge of the crest, twin columns that resolved into the bonecaster Monok Ochem and the clan leader, Ibra Gholan. The latter lifted its sword and strode directly towards Onrack.
Trull Sengar stepped into the warrior’s path. ‘Hold, Ibra Gholan. Onrack has information you will want to hear. Bonecaster Monok Ochem-you especially, so call off the clan leader. Listen first, then decide whether Onrack has earned a reprieve.’
Ibra Gholan halted, then took a single step back, lowering its sword.
Onrack studied Monok Ochem. Though the spiritual chains that had once linked them had since snapped, the bonecaster’s enmity-Monok’s fury-was palpable. Onrack knew his list of crimes, of outrages, had grown long, and this last theft of the body parts of another T’lan Imass was the greatest abomination, the most dire twisting of the powers of Tellann thus far. ‘Monok Ochem. The renegades would lead their new master to the First Throne. They travel the paths of chaos. It is their intent, I believe, to place a mortal Tiste Edur upon that throne. Such a new ruler of the T’lan Imass would, in turn, command the new mortal bonecaster-the one who has voiced the summons.’
Ibra Gholan slowly turned to face Monok Ochem, and Onrack could sense their consternation.
Onrack then continued, ‘Inform Logros that I, Onrack, and the one to whom I am now bound-the Tiste Edur Trull Sengar-share your dismay. We would work in concert with you.’
‘Logros hears you,’ Monok Ochem rasped, ‘and accepts.’
The swiftness of that surprised Onrack and he cocked his head. A moment’s thought, then, ‘How many guardians protect the First Throne?’
‘None.’
Trull Sengar straightened. ‘None?’
‘Do any T’lan Imass remain on the continent of Quon Tali?’ Onrack asked.
‘No, Onrack the Broken,’ Monok Ochem replied. ‘This intention you describe was… unanticipated. Logros’s army is massed here in Seven Cities.’
Onrack had never before experienced such agitation, rattling through him, and he identified the emotion, belatedly, as shock. ‘Monok Ochem, why has Logros not marched in answer to the summons?’
‘Representatives were sent,’ the bonecaster replied. ‘Logros holds his army here in anticipation of imminent need.’
Need? ‘And none can be spared?’
‘No, Onrack the Broken. None can be spared. In any case, we are closest to the renegades.’
‘There are, I believe, six renegades,’ Onrack said. ‘And one among them is a bonecaster. Monok Ochem, while we may well succeed in intercepting them, we are too few…’
‘At least let me find a worthy weapon,’ Trull Sengar muttered. ‘I may end up facing my own kin, after all.’
Ibra Gholan spoke. ‘Tiste Edur, what is your weapon of choice?’
‘Spear. I am fair with a bow as well, but for combat… spear.’
‘I will acquire one for you,’ the clan leader said. ‘And a bow as well. Yet I am curious-there were spears to be found among the cache you but recently departed. Why did you not avail yourself of a weapon at that time?’
Trull Sengar’s reply was low and cool. ‘I am not a thief.’
The clan leader faced Onrack, then said, ‘You chose well, Onrack the Broken.’
I know. ‘Monok Ochem, has Logros a thought as to who the renegade bonecaster might be?’
‘Tenag Ilbaie,’ Monok Ochem immediately replied. ‘It is likely he has chosen a new name.’
‘And Logros is certain?’
‘All others are accounted for, barring Kilava Onas.’
Who remains in her mortal flesh and so cannot be among the renegades. ‘Born of Ban Raile’s clan, a tenag Soletaken. Before he was chosen as the clan’s bonecaster, he was known as Haran ’Alle, birthed as he was in the Summer of the Great Death among the Caribou. He was a loyal bonecaster-’
‘Until he failed against the Forkrul Assail in the Laederon Wars,’ Monok Ochem cut in.
‘As we in turn fail,’ Onrack rasped.
‘What do you mean?’ Monok Ochem demanded. ‘In what way have we failed?’
‘We chose to see failure as disloyalty, Bonecaster. Yet in our harsh judgement of fallen kin, we committed our own act of disloyalty. Tenag Ilbaie strove to succeed in his task. His defeat was not by choice. Tell me, when have we ever triumphed in a clash with Forkrul Assail? Thus, Tenag Ilbaie was doomed from the very beginning. Yet he accepted what was commanded of him. Knowing full well he would be destroyed and so condemned. I have learned this, Monok Ochem, and through you shall say to Logros and all the T’lan Imass: these renegades are of our own making.’
‘Then it falls to us to deal with them,’ Ibra Gholan growled.
‘And what if we should fail?’ Onrack asked.
To that, neither T’lan Imass gave answer.
Trull Sengar sighed. ‘If we are to indeed intercept these renegades, we should get moving.’
‘We shall travel by the Warren of Tellann,’ Monok Ochem said. ‘Logros has given leave that you may accompany us on that path.’
‘Generous of him,’ Trull Sengar muttered.
As Monok Ochem prepared to open the warren, the bonecaster paused and looked back at Onrack once more. ‘When you… repaired yourself, Onrack the Broken… where was the rest of the body?’
‘I do not know. It had been… taken away.’
‘And who destroyed it in the first place?’
Indeed, a troubling question. ‘I do not know, Monok Ochem. There is another detail that left me uneasy.’
‘And that is?’
‘The renegade was cut in half by a single blow.’
The winding track that led up the boulder-strewn hillside was all too familiar, and Lostara Yil could feel the scowl settling into her face. Pearl remained a few paces behind her, muttering every time her boots dislodged a stone that tumbled downward. She heard him curse as one such rock cracked against a shin, and felt the scowl shift into a savage smile.
The bastard’s smooth surface was wearing off, revealing unsightly patches that she found cause both for derision and a strange, insipid attraction. Too old to dream of perfection, perhaps, she had instead discovered a certain delicious appeal in flaws. And Pearl had plenty of those.
He resented most the relinquishing of the lead, but this terrain belonged to Lostara, to her memories. The ancient, exposed temple floor lay directly ahead, the place where she had driven a bolt into Sha’ik’s forehead. And, if not for those two bodyguards-that Toblakai in particular-that day would have ended in even greater triumph, as the Red Blades returned to G’danisban with Sha’ik’s head riding a lance. Thus ending the rebellion before it began.
So many lives saved, had that occurred, had reality played out as seamlessly as the scene in her mind. On such things, the fate of an entire subcontinent had irrevocably tumbled headlong into this moment’s sordid, blood-soaked situation.
That damned Toblakai. With that damned wooden sword. If not for him, what would this day be like? We’d likely not be here, for one thing. Felisin Paran would not have needed to cross all of Seven Cities seeking to avoid murder at the hands of frenzied rebels. Coltaine would be alive, closing the imperial fist around every smouldering ember before it rose in conflagration. And High Fist Pormqual would have been sent to the Empress to give an accounting of his incompetence and corruption. All, but for that one obnoxious Toblakai…
She passed by the large boulders they had hidden behind, then the one she had used to draw close enough to ensure the lethality of her shot. And there, ten paces from the temple floor, the scattered remains of the last Red Blade to fall during the retreat.
Lostara stepped onto the flagstoned floor and halted.
Pearl arrived at her side, looking around curiously.
Lostara pointed. ‘She was seated there.’
‘Those bodyguards didn’t bother burying the Red Blades,’ he commented.
‘No, why would they?’
‘Nor,’ the Claw continued, ‘it seems, did they bother with Sha’ik.’ He walked over to a shadowed spot between the two pillars of an old arched gate.
Lostara followed, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.
The form was tiny, wrapped in wind-frayed tent cloth. The black hair had grown, and grown, long after death, and the effect-after Pearl crouched and tugged the canvas away to reveal the desiccated face and scalp-was horrific. The hole the quarrel had punched into her forehead revealed a skull filled with windblown sand. More of the fine grains had pooled in the corpse’s eye sockets, nose and gaping mouth.
‘Raraku reclaims its own,’ Pearl muttered after a moment. ‘And you’re certain this was Sha’ik, lass?’
She nodded. ‘The Book of Dryjhna was being delivered, as I explained. Directly into her hands. From which, it was prophesied, a rebirth would occur, and that in turn would trigger the Whirlwind, the Apocalypse… the rebellion.’
‘Describe for me again these bodyguards.’
‘A Toblakai and the one known as Leoman of the Flails. Sha’ik’s most personal bodyguards.’
‘Yet, it would appear that the rebellion had no need for Sha’ik, or the Whirlwind. It was well under way by the time Felisin arrived at this place. So, what occurred in that time? Are you suggesting that the bodyguards simply… waited? Here? Waited for what?’
Lostara shrugged. ‘For the rebirth, perhaps. The beauty of prophecies is that they are so conveniently open to countless reinterpretations, as the demand presents itself. The fools waited, and waited…’
Frowning, Pearl straightened and looked around. ‘But the rebirth did occur. The Whirlwind rose, to give focus-to provide a raging heart-for the rebellion. It all happened, just as it had been prophesied. I wonder…’
Lostara watched him from beneath half-closed lids. A certain grace to his movements, she conceded. An elegance that would have been feminine in a man less deadly. He was like a flare-neck snake, calm and self-contained… until provoked. ‘But look at her,’ she said. ‘There was no rebirth. We’re wasting time here, Pearl. So, maybe Felisin stumbled here, onto all this, before continuing onward.’
‘You are being deliberately obtuse, dear,’ Pearl murmured, disappointing her that he had not risen to the bait.
‘Am I?’
Her irritation deepened at the smile he flashed her.
‘You are quite right, Lostara, in observing that nothing whatsoever could have been reborn from this corpse. Thus, only one conclusion follows. The Sha’ik alive and well in the heart of Raraku is not the same Sha’ik. Those bodyguards found a… replacement. An impostor, someone they could fit neatly into the role-the flexibility of prophecies you noted a moment ago would have served them well. Reborn. Very well, younger in appearance, yes? An old woman cannot lead an army into a new war, after all. And further, an old woman would find it hard to convince anyone that she’d been reborn.’
‘Pearl.’
‘What?’
‘I refuse the possibility-yes, I know what you are thinking. But it’s impossible.’
‘Why? Nothing else fits-’
‘I don’t care how well it fits! Is that all we mortals are? The victims of tortured irony to amuse an insane murder of gods?’
‘A murder of crows, a murder of gods-I like that, lass. As for tortured irony, more like exquisite irony. You don’t think Felisin would leap at the chance to become such a direct instrument of vengeance against her sister? Against the empire that sent her to a prison mine? Fate may well present itself, but the opportunity still must be embraced, wilfully, eagerly. There was less chance or coincidence in all this-more like a timely convergence of desires and necessities.’
‘We must return to the Adjunct,’ Lostara pronounced.
‘Alas, the Whirlwind stands between us. I can use no warrens to hasten our journey within that sphere of power. And it would take us far too long to go around it. Fear not, we shall endeavour to reach Tavore in time, with our ghastly revelation. But we shall have to pass through the Whirlwind, through Raraku itself, and quietly, carefully. Discovery would prove fatal.’
‘You are delighted with this, aren’t you?’
His eyes widened-a look of his of which she had grown far too fond, she realized with a surge of irritation. ‘Unfair, my dear Lostara Yil. I am satisfied that the mystery has been solved, that our task of ascertaining Felisin’s fate has been concluded. As far as we can take it at the moment, that is.’
‘And what of your hunt for the leader of the Talons?’
‘Oh, I think I will find satisfaction in that area soon, as well. All things are converging nicely, in fact.’
‘See, I knew you were pleased!’
He spread his hands. ‘Would you rather I lacerate my flesh in flagellation?’ At her cocked eyebrow his gaze narrowed suspiciously for a brief moment, then he drew a breath and resumed, ‘We are nearly done, lass, with this mission. And soon we will be able to sit ourselves down in a cool tent, goblets of chilled wine in our hands, and ruminate at leisure over the countless discoveries we have made.’
‘I can’t wait,’ she remarked drily, crossing her arms. He swung about and faced the Whirlwind. The roaring, shrieking maelstrom commanded the sky, spinning out an endless rain of dust.
‘Of course, first we will have to breach the goddess’s defences, undetected. You are of Pardu blood, so she will take no heed of you. I, on the other hand, am one-fourth Tiste Andu-’
She started, breath catching. ‘You are?’
He looked back, surprised. ‘You didn’t know? My mother was from Drift Avalii, a half-blood white-haired beauty-or so I’m told, as I have no direct recollection, since she left me with my father as soon as I’d been weaned.’
Lostara’s imagination conjured up an image of Pearl suckling at his mother’s breast, and found the scene alarming. ‘So you were a live birth?’
And smiled at his offended silence.
They made their way down the trail towards the basin, where the Whirlwind’s fierce storm raged ceaselessly, rising to tower over them the closer they approached. It was nearing dusk. They were short on food, though they had plenty of water, replenished from the spring near the ruined temple. Lostara’s boots were falling apart around her feet, and Pearl’s moccasins were now mostly wrapped rags. The seams of their clothing had frayed and grown brittle beneath the unrelenting sun. Leather had cracked and iron had become pitted and layered in patination and rust-stains from their harrowing passage through the Thyrllan Warren.
She felt worn out and weathered; in appearance, she knew, looking ten years older than she was in truth. All the more reason for her alternating fury and dismay at seeing Pearl’s hale, unlined face and his oddly shaped eyes so clear and bright. The lightness of his step made her want to brain him with the flat of her sword.
‘How do you intend to evade the Whirlwind’s notice, Pearl?’ she asked as they drew closer.
He shrugged. ‘I have a plan. Which may or may not work.’
‘Sounds like most of your plans. Tell me, then, what precarious role do you have in mind for me?’
‘Rashan, Thyr and Meanas,’ he replied. ‘The perpetual war. This fragment of warren before us is not fully comprehended by the goddess herself. Not surprising, since she was likely little more than a zephyr spirit to begin with. I, however, do comprehend… well, better than her, anyway.’
‘Are you even capable of answering succinctly? “Do your feet hurt?” “Oh, the warrens of Mockra and Rashan and Omtose Phellack, from which arise all aches below the knee-” ’
‘All right. Fine. I intend to hide in your shadow.’
‘Well, I’m already used to that, Pearl. But I should point out, that Whirlwind Wall is obscuring the sunset rather thoroughly.’
‘True, yet it exists none the less. I will just have to step carefully. Provided, of course, you make no sudden, unexpected moves.’
‘In your company, Pearl, the thought has yet to occur to me.’
‘Ah, that’s good. I in turn feel I should point out, however, that you persist in fomenting a certain tension between us. One that is anything but, uh, professional. Oddly enough, it seems to increase with every insult you throw my way. A peculiar flirtation-’
‘Flirtation? You damned fool. I’d be much happier seeing you fall flat on your face and get beaten helpless by that damned goddess, if only for the satisfaction I’d receive-’
‘Precisely as I was saying, dear.’
‘Really? So if I was to pour boiling oil all over you, you’d be telling me-in between screams-to get my head out from between your-’ She shut her mouth with an audible snap.
Wisely, Pearl made no comment.
Flat of the sword? No, the edge. ‘I want to kill you, Pearl.’
‘I know.’
‘But for the moment, I’ll settle with having you in my shadow.’
‘Thank you. Now, just walk on ahead, a nice even pace. Straight into that wall of sand. And mind you squint your eyes right down-wouldn’t want those glorious windows of fire damaged…’
She’d expected to meet resistance, but the journey proved effortless. Six steps within a dull, ochre world, then out onto the blasted plain of Raraku, blinking in the dusk’s hazy light. Four more steps, out onto scoured bedrock, then she spun round.
Smiling, Pearl raised both hands, palms upward. Standing a pace behind her.
She closed the distance, one gloved hand reaching up to the back of his head, the other reaching much lower as she closed her mouth on his. Moments later they were tearing at each other’s clothes. No resistance at all.
Less than four leagues to the southwest, as darkness descended, Kalam Mekhar woke suddenly, sheathed in sweat. The torment of his dreams still echoed, even as their substance eluded him. That song again… I think. Rising to a roar that seemed to grip the throat of the world… He slowly sat up, wincing at the various aches from his muscles and joints. Being jammed into a narrow, shadowed fissure was not conducive to restorative sleep.
And the voices within the song… strange, yet familiar. Like friends… who never sang a word in their lives. Nothing to quell the spirit-no, these voices give music to war…
He collected his waterskin and drank deep to wash the taste of dust from his mouth, then spent a few moments checking his weapons and gear. By the time he was done his heart had slowed and the trembling was gone from his hands.
He did not think it likely that the Whirlwind Goddess would detect his presence, so long as he travelled through shadows at every opportunity. And, in a sense, he well knew, night itself was naught but a shadow. Provided he hid well during the day, he expected to be able to reach Sha’ik’s encampment undiscovered.
Shouldering his pack, he set off. The stars overhead were barely visible through the suspended dust. Raraku, for all its wild, blasted appearance, was crisscrossed with countless trails. Many led to false or poisoned springs; others to an equally certain death in the wastes of sand. And beneath the skein of footpaths and old tribal cairns, the remnants of coastal roads wound atop the ridges, linking what would have been islands in a vast, shallow bay long ago.
Kalam made his way in a steady jog across a stone-littered depression where a half-dozen ships-the wood petrified and looking like grey bones in the gloom-had scattered their remnants in the hard-packed clay. The Whirlwind had lifted the mantle of sands to reveal Raraku’s prehistory, the long-lost civilizations that had known only darkness for millennia. The scene was vaguely disturbing, as if whispering back to the nightmares that had plagued his sleep.
And that damned song.
The bones of sea-creatures crunched underfoot as the assassin continued on. There was no wind, the air almost preternatural in its stillness. Two hundred paces ahead, the land rose once more, climbing to an ancient, crumbled causeway. A glance up to the ridge froze Kalam in his tracks. He dropped low, hands closing on the grips of his long-knives.
A column of soldiers was walking along the causeway. Helmed heads lowered, burdened with wounded comrades, pikes wavering and glinting in the grainy darkness.
Kalam judged their numbers as close to six hundred. A third of the way along the column rose a standard. Affixed to the top of the pole was a human ribcage, the ribs bound together by leather strips, in which two skulls had been placed. Antlers rode the shaft all the way down to the bearer’s pallid hands.
The soldiers marched in silence.
Hood’s breath. They’re ghosts.
The assassin slowly straightened. Strode forward. He ascended the slope until he stood, like someone driven to the roadside by the army’s passage, whilst the soldiers shambled past-those on his side close enough to reach out and touch, were they flesh and blood.
‘He walks up from the sea.’
Kalam started. An unknown language, yet he understood it. A glance back-and the depression he had just crossed was filled with shimmering water. Five ships rode low in the waters a hundred sweeps of the oar offshore, three of them in flames, shedding ashes and wreckage as they drifted. Of the remaining two, one was fast sinking, whilst the last seemed lifeless, bodies visible on its deck and in the rigging.
‘A soldier.’
‘A killer.’
‘Too many spectres on this road, friends. Are we not haunted enough?’
‘Aye, Dessimbelackis throws endless legions at us, and no matter how many we slaughter, the First Emperor finds more.’
‘Not true, Kullsan. Five of the Seven Protectors are no more. Does that mean nothing? And the sixth will not recover, now that we have banished the black beast itself.’
‘I wonder, did we indeed drive it from this realm?’
‘If the Nameless Ones speak true, then yes-’
‘Your question, Kullsan, confuses me. Are we not marching from the city? Were we not just victorious?’
The conversation had begun to fade as the soldiers who had been speaking marched onward, but Kalam heard the doubting Kullsan’s reply: ‘Then why is our road lined with ghosts, Erethal?’
More importantly, Kalam added to himself, why is mine?
He waited as the last of the soldiers marched past, then stepped forward to cross the ancient road.
And saw, on the opposite side, a tall, gaunt figure in faded orange robes. Black pits for eyes. One fleshless hand gripping an ivory staff carved spirally, on which the apparition leaned as if it was the only thing holding it up.
‘Listen to them now, spirit from the future,’ it rasped, cocking its head.
And now Kalam heard it. The ghost soldiers had begun singing.
Sweat sprang out on the assassin’s midnight skin. I’ve heard that song before… or no, something just like it. A variation… ‘What in the Abyss… You, Tanno Spiritwalker, explain this-’
‘Spiritwalker? Is that the name I will acquire? Is it an honorific? Or the acknowledgement of a curse?’
‘What do you mean, priest?’
‘I am no priest. I am Tanno, the Eleventh and last Seneschal of Yaraghatan, banished by the First Emperor for my treasonous alliance with the Nameless Ones. Did you know what he would do? Would any of us have guessed? Seven Protectors indeed, but far more than that, oh yes, far more…’ Steps halting, the spectre walked onto the road and began dragging itself along in the wake of the column. ‘I gave them a song, to mark their last battle,’ it rasped. ‘I gave them that at least…’
Kalam watched as the figures disappeared into the darkness. He swung about. The sea was gone, the basin’s bones revealed once more. He shivered. Why am I witness to these things? I’m reasonably certain I’m not dead… although I soon might be, I suppose. Are these death-visions? He had heard of such things, but held little stock in them. Hood’s embrace was far too random to be knotted into the skein of fate… until it had already occurred-or so the assassin’s experience told him.
He shook his head and crossed the road, slipping down the crumbling verge to the boulder-strewn flat beyond. This stretch had once been naught but dunes, before the Whirlwind’s rise. Its elevation was higher-perhaps twice the height of a man-than the ancient seabed he had just traversed, and here, beyond the tumbled stones, lay the gridwork foundations of a city. Deep canals cut through it, and he could make out where bridges had once spanned them here and there. Few of the wall foundations rose higher than the assassin’s shins, but some of the buildings looked to have been large-a match to anything found in Unta, or Malaz City. Deep pits marked where cisterns had been built, where the seawater from the other side of the causeway could, stripped of salt by the intervening sands, collect. The remnants of terraces indicated a proliferation of public gardens.
He set out, and soon found himself walking down what had once been a main thoroughfare, aligned north-south. The ground underfoot was a thick, solid carpet of potsherds, scoured and bleached by sand and salt. And now I am like a ghost, the last to walk these thoroughfares, with every wall transparent, every secret revealed.
It was then that he heard horses.
Kalam sprinted to the nearest cover, a set of sunken stairs that once led to the subterranean level of a large building. The thump of horse hoofs drew closer, approaching from one of the side avenues on the opposite side of the main street. The assassin ducked lower as the first rider appeared.
Pardu.
Drawing rein, cautious, weapons out. Then a gesture. Four more desert warriors appeared, followed by a fifth Pardu, this last one a shaman, Kalam concluded, given the man’s wild hair, fetishes and ratty goat-hide cape. Glaring about, eyes glinting as if raging with some internal fire, the shaman drew out a long bone and began waving it in circles overhead. Then he lifted his head and loudly sniffed the air.
Kalam slowly eased his long-knives from their scabbards.
The shaman growled a few words, then pivoted on the high Pardu saddle and slipped to the ground. He landed badly, twisting an ankle, and spent the next few moments hobbling about, cursing and spitting. His warriors swung down from their horses in a more graceful fashion, and Kalam caught the flash of a quickly hidden grin from one of them.
The shaman began stamping around, muttering under his breath, reaching up with his free hand to tug at his tangled hair every now and then. And in his movements Kalam saw the beginnings of a ritual.
Something told the assassin that these Pardu did not belong to Sha’ik’s Army of the Apocalypse. They were too furtive by far. He slowly sheathed his otataral long-knife and settled back in the deep shadow of the recess, to wait, and watch.
The shaman’s muttering had fallen into a rhythmic cadence, and he reached into a bag of sewn hides at his belt, collecting a handful of small objects which he began scattering about as he walked his endless circle. Black and glittering, the objects crackled and popped on the ground as if they had been just plucked from a hearth. An acrid stench wafted out from the ritual circle.
Kalam never discovered if what occurred next had been intended; without doubt its conclusion was not. The darkness lying heavy on the street seemed to convulsively explode-and then screams tore the air.
Two massive beasts had arrived, immediately attacking the Pardu warriors. As if darkness itself had taken form, only the shimmer of their sleek hides betrayed their presence, and they moved with blurring speed, amidst spraying blood and snapping bones. The shaman shrieked as one of the enormous beasts closed. Huge black head swung to one side, jaws opening wide, and the shaman’s head vanished within the maw. A wet crunch as the jaws ground shut.
The hound-for that, Kalam realized, was what it was-then stepped away, as the shaman’s headless body staggered back, then sat down with a thump.
The other hound had begun feeding on the corpses of the Pardu warriors, and the sickening sound of breaking bones continued.
These, Kalam could well see, were not Hounds of Shadow. If anything, they were larger, bulkier, massing more like a bear than a dog. Yet, as they now filled their bellies with raw human flesh, they moved with savage grace, primal and deadly. Devoid of fear and supremely confident, as if this strange place they had come to was as familiar to them as their own hunting grounds.
The sight of them made the assassin’s skin crawl. Motionless, he had slowed his own breathing, then the pace of his heart. There were no other alternatives available to him, at least until the hounds left.
But they seemed to be in no hurry, both settling down to split the last long bones and gnaw at joints.
Hungry, these bastards. Wonder where they came from… and what they’re going to do now.
Then one lifted its head, and stiffened. With a deep grunt it rose. The other continued crunching through a human knee, seemingly indifferent to its companion’s sudden tension.
Even when the beast turned to stare at the place where Kalam crouched.
It came at him fast.
Kalam leapt up the worn stairs, one hand reaching into the folds of his telaba. He pivoted hard and sprinted, even as he flung his last handful of smoky diamonds-his own cache, not Iskaral Pust’s-into his wake.
A skittering of claws immediately behind him, and he flung himself to one side, rolling over a shoulder as the hound flashed through the place where he had been a moment earlier. The assassin continued rolling until he was on his feet once more, tugging desperately at the whistle looped around his neck.
The hound skidded across dusty flagstones, legs cycling wildly beneath it as it twisted around.
A glance showed the other hound entirely unmindful, still gnawing away in the street beyond.
Then Kalam clamped the whistle between his teeth. He scrambled in a half-circle to bring the scatter of diamonds between himself and the attacking hound.
And blew through the bone tube as hard as he could.
Five azalan demons rose from the ancient stone floor. There seemed to be no moment of disorientation among them, for three of the five closed instantly on the nearer hound, whilst the remaining two flanked Kalam as they clambered, in a blur of limbs, towards the hound in the street. Which finally looked up.
Curious as he might have been to witness the clash of behemoths, Kalam wasted no time in lingering. He ran, angling southward as he leapt over wall foundations, skirted around black-bottomed pits, and set his gaze fixedly on the higher ground fifteen hundred paces distant.
Snaps and snarls and the crash and grind of tumbling stones evinced an ongoing battle in the main street behind him. My apologies, Shadowthrone… but at least one of your demons should survive long enough to escape. In which case, you will be informed of a new menace unleashed on this world. And consider this-if there’s two of them, there’s probably more.
He ran onward through the night, until all sounds behind him vanished.
An evening of surprises. In a jewelmonger’s kiosk in G’danisban. At a sumptuous, indolent dinner shared by a Kaleffa merchant and one of his prized client’s equally prized wives. And in Ehrlitan, among a fell gathering of flesh-traders and murderers plotting the betrayal of a Malazan collaborator who had issued a secret invitation to Admiral Nok’s avenging fleet-which even now was rounding the Otataral Sea on its way to an ominous rendezvous with eleven transports approaching from Genabackis-a collaborator who, it would turn out, would awaken the next morning not only hale, but no longer facing imminent assassination. And on the coastal caravan trail twenty leagues west of Ehrlitan, the quietude of the night would be broken by horrified screams-loud and lingering, sufficient to awaken a maul-fisted old man living alone in a tower overlooking the Otataral Sea, if only momentarily, before he rolled over and fell once more into dreamless, restful sleep.
At the distant, virtually inaudible whistle, countless smoky diamonds that had originated from a trader in G’danisban’s market round crumbled into dust-whether placed for safe-keeping in locked chests, worn as rings or pendants, or residing in a merchant’s hoard. And from the dust rose azalan demons, awakened long before their intended moment. But that suited them just fine.
They had, one and all, appointed tasks that demanded a certain solitude, at least initially. Making it necessary to quickly silence every witness, which the azalan were pleased to do. Proficiently and succinctly.
For those that had appeared in the ruins of a city in Raraku, however, to find two creatures whose existence was very nearly lost to the demons’ racial memory, the moments immediately following their arrival proved somewhat more problematic. For it became quickly apparent that the hounds were not inclined to relinquish their territory, such as it was.
The fight was fierce and protracted, concluding unsatisfactorily for the five azalan, who were eventually driven off, battered and bleeding and eager to seek deep shadows in which to hide from the coming day. To hide, and lick their wounds.
And in the realm known as Shadow, a certain god sat motionless on his insubstantial throne. Already recovered from his shock, his mind was racing.
Racing.
Grinding, splintering wood, mast snapping overhead to drag cordage down, a heavy concussion that shivered through the entire craft, then only the sound of water dripping onto a stone floor.
With a muted groan, Cutter dragged himself upright. ‘Apsalar?’
‘I’m here.’
Their voices echoed. Walls and ceiling were close-the runner had landed in a chamber.
‘So much for subtle,’ the Daru muttered, searching for his pack amidst the wreckage. ‘I’ve a lantern. Give me a moment.’
‘I am not going anywhere,’ she replied from somewhere near the stern.
Her words chilled him, so forlorn did they sound. His groping hands closed on his pack and he dragged it close. He rummaged inside until his hand closed on and retrieved first the small lantern and then the tinder box.
The fire-making kit was from Darujhistan, and consisted of flint and iron bar, wick-sticks, igniting powder, the fibrous inner lining from tree bark, and a long-burning gel the city’s alchemists rendered from the gas-filled caverns beneath the city. Sparks flashed three times before the powder caught with a hiss and flare of flame. The bark lining followed, then, dipping a wick-stick into the gel, Cutter set it alight. He then transferred the flame to the lantern.
A sphere of light burgeoned in the chamber, revealing the crushed wreckage of the runner, rough-hewn stone walls and vaulted ceiling. Apsalar was still seated near the splintered shaft of the tiller, barely illumined by the lantern’s light. More like an apparition than a flesh and blood person.
‘I see a doorway beyond,’ she said.
He swung about, lifting the lantern. ‘All right, at least we’re not in a tomb, then. More like some kind of storage room.’
‘I smell dust… and sand.’
He slowly nodded, then scowled in sudden suspicion. ‘Let’s do some exploring,’ he grated as he began collecting his gear, including the bow. He froze at a chittering sound from the doorway, looked up to see a score of eyes, gleaming with the lantern’s reflected light. Close-set but framing the doorway on all sides, including the arch where, Cutter suspected, they were hanging upside down.
‘Bhok’arala,’ Apsalar said. ‘We’ve returned to Seven Cities.’
‘I know,’ the Daru replied, wanting to spit. ‘We spent most of last year trudging across that damned wasteland, and now we’re back where we started.’
‘So it would seem. So, Crokus, are you enjoying being the plaything of a god?’
He saw little value in replying to that question, and chose instead to clamber down to the puddled floor and approach the doorway.
The bhok’arala scampered with tiny shrieks, vanishing into the darkness of the hallway beyond. Cutter paused at the threshold and glanced back. ‘Coming?’
Apsalar shrugged in the gloom, then made her way forward.
The corridor ran straight and level for twenty paces, then twisted to the right, the floor forming an uneven, runnelled ramp that led upward to the next level. There were no side chambers or passages until they reached a circular room, where sealed doorways lining the circumference hinted at entrances to tombs. In one curved wall, between two such doorways, there was an alcove in which stairs were visible.
And crouched at the base of those stairs was a familiar figure, teeth gleaming in a wide smile.
‘Iskaral Pust!’
‘Missed me, didn’t you, lad?’ He edged forward like a crab, then cocked his head. ‘I should soothe him now-both of them, yes. Welcoming words, a wide embrace, old friends, yes, reunited in a great cause once more. Never mind the extremity of what will be demanded of us in the days and nights to come. As if I need help-Iskaral Pust requires the assistance of no-one. Oh, she might be useful, but she hardly looks inclined, does she? Miserable with knowledge, is my dear lass.’ He straightened, managing something between an upright stance and a crouch. His smile suddenly broadened. ‘Welcome! My friends!’
Cutter advanced on him. ‘I’ve no time for any of this, you damned weasel-’
‘No time? Of course you have, lad! There’s much to be done, and much time in which to do it! Doesn’t that make for a change? Rush about? Not us. No, we can dawdle. Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘What does Cotillion want of us?’ Cutter demanded, forcing his fists to unclench.
‘You are asking me what Cotillion wants of you? How should I know?’ He ducked down. ‘Does he believe me?’
‘No.’
‘No what? Have you lost your mind, lad? You won’t find it here! Although my wife might-she’s ever cleaning and clearing up-at least, I think she is. Though she refuses to touch the offerings-my little bhok’arala children leave them everywhere I go, of course. I’ve become used to the smell. Now, where was I? Oh yes, dearest Apsalar-should you and I flirt? Won’t that make the witch spit and hiss! Hee hee!’
‘I’d rather flirt with a bhok’aral,’ she replied.
‘That too-I’m not the jealous type, you’ll be relieved to hear, lass. Plenty of ’em about for you to choose from, in any case. Now, are you hungry? Thirsty? Hope you brought your own supplies. Just head on up these stairs, and when she asks, you haven’t seen me.’
Iskaral Pust stepped back and vanished.
Apsalar sighed. ‘Perhaps his… wife will prove a more reasonable host.’
Cutter glanced back at her. Somehow I doubt it.