‘Has a drowned Napan’s body ever surfaced?’
Empress Laseen to High Mage Tayschrenn
(following the Disappearances)
Life of Empress Laseen
THERE WERE VILLAGES ON THE COASTAL ROAD, USUALLY SET ON THE inland side, as if the inhabitants sought nothing from the sea. A scattering of adobe dwellings, flimsy corrals, goats, dogs and dark-skinned figures hidden within swaths of full-length, sun-bleached cloth. Shadowed faces tracked the Teblor and the Daru from doorways but otherwise made no move.
On the fourth day, in the fifth of such villages, they found a merchant’s wagon drawn up in the virtually empty market square, and Torvald managed to purchase, for a handful of silver, an antique sword, top-heavy and sharply curved. The merchant had bolts of cloth for sale as well, but nothing already made into clothing. The sword’s handle fell apart shortly afterwards.
‘I need to find a wood-carver,’ Torvald said after a lengthy and rather elaborate string of curses. They were once more walking down the road, the sun overhead fiercely hot in a cloudless sky. The forest had thinned to either side, low, straggly and dusty, allowing them a view of the turquoise water of the Otataral Sea to their right, and the dun tones of the undulating horizon inland. ‘And I’d swear that merchant understood Malazan-even as bad as I speak it. He just wouldn’t admit to that fact.’
Karsa shrugged. ‘The Malazan soldiers in Genabaris said the Seven Cities was going to rebel against their occupiers. This is why the Teblor do not make conquests. Better that the enemy keeps its land, so that we may raid again and again.’
‘Not the imperial way,’ the Daru responded, shaking his head. ‘Possession and control, the two are like insatiable hungers for some people. Oh, no doubt the Malazans have thought up countless justifications for their wars of expansion. It’s well known that Seven Cities was a rat’s warren of feuds and civil wars, leaving most of the population suffering and miserable and starving under the heels of fat warlords and corrupt priest-kings. And that, with the Malazan conquest, the thugs ended up spiked to the city walls or on the run. And the wilder tribes no longer sweep down out of the hills to deliver mayhem on their more civilized kin. And the tyranny of the priesthoods was shattered, putting an end to human sacrifice and extortion. And of course the merchants have never been richer, or safer on these roads. So, all in all, this land is rife for rebellion.’
Karsa stared at Torvald for a long moment, then said, ‘Yes, I can see how that would be true.’
The Daru grinned. ‘You’re learning, friend.’
‘The lessons of civilization.’
‘Just so. There’s little value in seeking to find reasons for why people do what they do, or feel the way they feel. Hatred is a most pernicious weed, finding root in any kind of soil. It feeds on itself.’
‘With words.’
‘Indeed, with words. Form an opinion, say it often enough and pretty soon everyone’s saying it right back at you, and then it becomes a conviction, fed by unreasoning anger and defended with weapons of fear. At which point, words become useless and you’re left with a fight to the death.’
Karsa grunted. ‘A fight beyond death, I would say.’
‘True enough. Generation after generation.’
‘Are all the people of Darujhistan like you, Torvald Nom?’
‘More or less. Contentious bastards. We thrive on argument, meaning we never go past the stage of using words. We love words, Karsa, as much as you love cutting off heads and collecting ears and tongues. Walk down any street, in any district, and everyone you speak to will have a different opinion, no matter what the subject. Even the possibility of being conquered by the Malazans. I was thinking a moment ago-that shark, choking on Borrug’s body. I suspect, should Darujhistan ever become part of the Malazan Empire, the empire will be like that shark, and Darujhistan like Borrug. We’ll choke the beast that swallows us.’
‘The shark did not choke for very long.’
‘That’s because Borrug was too dead to say anything about it.’
‘An interesting distinction, Torvald Nom.’
‘Well of course. Us Daru are a subtle folk.’
They were approaching another village, this one distinct from the others they had walked through for having a low stone wall encircling it. Three large limestone buildings rose from its centre. Nearby was a pen crowded with goats, loudly complaining in the heat.
‘You’d think they’d be out wandering,’ Torvald commented as they came closer.
‘Unless they are about to be slaughtered.’
‘All of them?’
Karsa sniffed the air. ‘I smell horses.’
‘I don’t see any.’
The road narrowed at the wall, spanning a trench before passing through a crumbling, leaning arch. Karsa and Torvald crossed the bridge and passed under the arch, emerging onto the village’s main street.
There was no-one in sight. Not entirely unusual, as the locals usually retreated into their homes at the Teblor’s arrival, although in this case the doors of those dwellings were firmly shut, the windows shuttered.
Karsa drew his bloodsword. ‘We have walked into an ambush,’ he said.
Torvald sighed. ‘I think you are right.’ He had wrapped his sword’s tang in spare leather strapping taken from the pack-a temporary and not entirely successful effort to make the weapon useful. The Daru now slid the scimitar from its cracked wooden scabbard.
At the far end of the street, beyond the large buildings, horsemen now appeared. A dozen, then two, then three. They were covered from head to toe in loose, dark blue clothing, their faces hidden behind scarves. Short, recurved bows, arrows nocked, were trained on Karsa and Torvald.
Horse hoofs from behind made them turn, to see a score more riders coming through the archway, some with bows, others with lances.
Karsa scowled. ‘How effective are those tiny bows?’ he asked the Daru beside him.
‘Sufficient to punch arrows through chain,’ Torvald replied, lowering his sword. ‘And we’re wearing no armour in any case.’
A year ago and Karsa would have attacked none the less. Now, he simply reslung his bloodsword.
The riders behind them closed, then dismounted. A number approached with chains and shackles.
‘Beru fend,’ Torvald muttered, ‘not again.’
Karsa shrugged.
Neither resisted as the shackles were fitted onto their wrists and ankles. There was some difficulty in dealing with the Teblor in this matter-when the shackles clicked into place, they were so tight as to cut off the blood flow to Karsa’s hands and feet.
Torvald, watching, said in Malazan, ‘Those will need to be changed, lest he lose his appendages-’
‘Hardly a consideration,’ said a familiar voice from the entrance to one of the larger buildings. Silgar, trailed by Damisk, emerged onto the dusty street. ‘You will indeed lose your hands and feet, Karsa Orlong, which should effectively put an end to the threat you pose. Of course, that will do much to diminish your value as a slave, but I am prepared to accept the loss.’
‘Is this how you repay saving your miserable lives?’ Torvald demanded.
‘Why, yes, it is. Repayment. For the loss of most of my men. For the arrest by the Malazans. For countless other outrages which I won’t bother listing, since these dear Arak tribesmen are rather far from home, and, given that they’re somewhat less than welcome in this territory, they are impatient to depart.’
Karsa could no longer feel his hands and feet. As one of the Arak tribesmen pushed him forward he stumbled, then fell to his knees. A thick knout cracked into the side of his head. Sudden rage gripped the Teblor. He lashed out his right arm, ripping the chain from an Arak’s hands, and swung it full into the face of his attacker. The man screamed.
The others closed in then, wielding their knouts-clubs made from black, braided hair-until Karsa fell senseless to the ground.
When he finally regained consciousness, it was dusk. He had been tied to some sort of travois, which was in the process of being unhitched from a train of long-legged, lean horses. Karsa’s face was a mass of bruises, his eyes almost swollen shut, his tongue and the inside of his mouth cut and nicked by his own teeth. He looked down at his hands. They were blue, the fingertips darkening to black. They were dead weights at the ends of his limbs, as were his feet.
The tribesmen were making camp a short distance from the coastal road. To the west, at the horizon’s very edge, was the dull yellow glow of a city.
A half-dozen small, virtually smokeless fires had been lit by the Arak, using some sort of dung for fuel. Karsa saw, twenty paces distant, the slavemaster and Damisk seated among a group of the tribesmen. The hearth closest to the Teblor was being used to cook suspended skewers of tubers and meat.
Torvald sat nearby, working on something in the gloom. None of the Arak seemed to be paying the two slaves any attention.
Karsa hissed.
The Daru glanced over. ‘Don’t know about you,’ he whispered, ‘but I’m damned hot. Got to get out of these clothes. I’m sure you are as well. I’ll come over and help you in a moment.’ There was the faint sound of ripping seams. ‘At last,’ Torvald murmured, dragging his tunic free. Naked, he began edging closer to Karsa. ‘Don’t bother trying to say anything, friend. I’m surprised you can even breathe, with the way they beat you. In any case, I need your clothes.’
He came up alongside the Teblor, spared a glance towards the tribesmen-none of whom had noticed him-then reached up and began tugging at Karsa’s tunic. There was but a single seam, and it had already been stretched and sundered in places. As he worked, Torvald continued whispering. ‘Small fires. Smokeless. Camping in a basin, despite the insects. Talking in mumbles, very quiet. And Silgar’s words earlier, that stupid gloat-had the Arak understood him they would probably have skinned the idiot on the spot. Well, from his stupidity was born my brilliance, as you’ll soon see. It’ll likely cost me my life, but I swear I’ll be here even as a ghost, just to see what comes. Ah, done. Stop shivering, you’re not helping things at all.’
He pulled the tattered tunic from Karsa, then took it with him back to his original position. He then tore handfuls of grasses from the ground, until he had two large piles. Bundling both pieces of tunic, he then stuffed them with the grass. Flashing Karsa a grin, he crawled over to the nearest hearth, bundles in tow.
He pushed them up against the glowing fragments of dung, then retreated.
Karsa watched as first one caught fire, then the other. Flames flared into the night, a roar of sparks and snake-like blades of grass lifting high. Shouts from the Arak, figures rushing over, scrambling for handfuls of earth, but there was little of that in the basin, only pebbles and hard, sun-dried clay. Horse-blankets were found, thrown over the roaring flames.
The panic that then swept through the tribesmen left the two slaves virtually ignored, as the Arak rushed to break camp, repack supplies, saddle their horses. Through it all, Karsa heard a single word repeated numerous times, a word filled with fear. Gral.
Silgar appeared as the Arak gathered their horses. His face was filled with fury. ‘For that, Torvald Nom, you have just forfeited your life-’
‘You won’t make it to Ehrlitan,’ the Daru predicted with a hard grin.
Three tribesmen were approaching, hook-bladed knives in their hands.
‘I will enjoy watching your throat cut,’ Silgar said.
‘The Gral have been after these bastards all this time, Slavemaster. Hadn’t you realized that? Now, I’ve never heard of the Gral, but your Arak friends have one and all pissed onto their hearths, and even a Daru like me knows what that means-they don’t expect to live through the night, and not one of them wants to spill his bladder when he dies. Seven Cities taboo, I gather-’
The first Arak reached Torvald, one hand snapping out to take the Daru by the hair, pushing Torvald’s head back and lifting the knife.
The ridgeline behind the Arak was suddenly swarming with dark figures, silently sweeping down into the camp.
The night was broken by screams.
The Arak crouched before Torvald snarled and tore the knife across the Daru’s throat. Blood spattered the hard clay. Straightening, the tribesman wheeled to run for his horse. He managed not a single step, for a half-dozen shapes came out of the darkness, silent as wraiths. There was a strange whipping sound, and Karsa saw the Arak’s head roll from his shoulders. His two companions were both down.
Silgar was already fleeing. As a figure rose before him, he lashed out. A wave of sorcery struck the attacker, dropped the man to the ground, where he writhed in the grip of crackling magic for a moment, before his flesh exploded.
Ululating cries pealed through the air. The same whipping sound sang in the darkness from all sides. Horses screamed.
Karsa dragged his gaze from the scene of slaughter and looked over at Torvald’s slumped body. To his amazement, the Daru was still moving, feet kicking furrows in the pebbles, both hands up at his throat.
Silgar returned to Karsa’s position, his lean face gleaming with sweat. Damisk appeared behind him and the slavemaster gestured the tattooed guard forward.
Damisk held a knife. He quickly cut at the bindings holding Karsa to the travois. ‘No easy out for you,’ he hissed. ‘We’re leaving. By warren, and we’re taking you with us. Silgar’s decided to make you his plaything. A lifetime of torture-’
‘Enough babbling!’ Silgar snapped. ‘They’re almost all dead! Hurry!’
Damisk cut the last rope.
Karsa laughed, then managed to form words. ‘What would you have me do now? Run?’
Snarling, Silgar moved closer. There was a flare of blue light, then the three of them were plunging into fetid, warm water.
Unable to swim, the weight of his chains dragging him down, Karsa sank into the midnight depths. He felt a tug on his chains, then saw a second flash of lurid light.
His head, then his back, struck hard cobbles. Dazed, he rolled onto his side. Silgar and Damisk, both coughing, knelt nearby. They were on a street, flanked on one side by enormous warehouses, and on the other by stone jetties and moored ships. At the moment, there was no-one else in sight.
Silgar spat, then said, ‘Damisk, get those shackles off him-he bears no criminal brand, so the Malazans won’t see him as a slave. I won’t be arrested again-not after all this. The bastard is ours, but we’ve got to get him off the street. We’ve got to hide.’
Karsa watched Damisk crawl to his side, fumbling with keys. Watched as the Nathii unlocked the shackles on his wrists, then his ankles. A moment later, the pain struck as blood flowed back into near-dead flesh. The Teblor screamed.
Silgar unleashed magic once more, a wave that descended on the Teblor like a blanket-that he tore off with unthinking ease, his shrieks slicing into the night air, echoing back from nearby buildings, ringing out across the crowded harbour.
‘You there!’ Malazan words, a bellow, then the swiftly approaching clash and clatter of armoured soldiers.
‘An escaped slave, sirs!’ Silgar said hastily. ‘We have-as you can see-just recaptured him-’
‘Escaped slave? Let’s see his brand-’
The last words Karsa registered, as the pain in his hands and feet sent him plummeting into oblivion.
He awoke to Malazan words being spoken directly above him. ‘… extraordinary. I’ve never seen natural healing such as this. His hands and feet-those shackles were on for some time, Sergeant. On a normal man I’d be cutting them off right now.’
Another voice spoke, ‘Are all Fenn such as this one?’
‘Not that I’ve ever heard. Assuming he’s Fenn.’
‘Well, what else would he be? He’s as tall as two Dal Honese put together.’
‘I wouldn’t know, Sergeant. Before I was posted here, the only place I knew well was six twisting streets in Li Heng. Even the Fenn was just a name and some vague description about them being giants. Giants no-one’s seen for decades at that. The point is, this slave was in bad shape when you first brought him in. Beaten pretty fierce, and someone punched him in the ribs hard enough to crack bones-wouldn’t want to cross whoever that was. For all that, the swelling’s already down on his face-despite what I’ve just done to it-and the bruises are damned near fading in front of our eyes.’
Continuing to feign unconsciousness, Karsa listened to the speaker stepping back, then the sergeant asking, ‘So the bastard’s not in danger of dying, then.’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Good enough, Healer. You can return to the barracks.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Various movement, boots on flagstones, the clang of an iron-barred door; then, as these echoes dwindled, the Teblor heard, closer by, the sound of breathing.
In the distance there was some shouting, faint and muted by intervening walls of stone, yet Karsa thought he recognized the voice as belonging to the slavemaster, Silgar. The Teblor opened his eyes. A low, smoke-stained ceiling-not high enough to permit him to stand upright. He was lying on a straw-littered, greasy floor. There was virtually no light, apart from a dim glow reaching in from the walkway beyond the barred door.
His face hurt, a strange stinging sensation prickling on his cheeks, forehead and along his jaw.
Karsa sat up.
There was someone else in the small, windowless cell, hunched in a dark corner. The figure grunted and said something in one of the languages of the Seven Cities.
A dull ache remained in Karsa’s hands and feet. The inside of his mouth was dry and felt burnt, as if he’d just swallowed hot sand. He rubbed at his tingling face.
A moment later the man tried Malazan, ‘You’d likely understand me if you were Fenn.’
‘I understand you, but I am not one of these Fenn.’
‘I said it sounds like your master isn’t enjoying his stay in the stocks.’
‘He has been arrested?’
‘Of course. The Malazans like arresting people. You’d no brand. At the time. Keeping you as a slave is therefore illegal under imperial law.’
‘Then they should release me.’
‘Little chance of that. Your master confessed that you were being sent to the otataral mines. You were on a ship out of Genabaris that you’d cursed, said curse then leading to the ship’s destruction and the deaths of the crew and the marines. The local garrison is only half-convinced by that tale, but that’s sufficient-you’re on your way to the island. As am I.’
Karsa rose. The low ceiling forced him to stand hunched over. He made his way, hobbling, to the barred door.
‘Aye, you could probably batter it down,’ the stranger said. ‘But then you’ll be cut down before you manage three steps from this gaol. We’re in the middle of the Malazan compound. Besides, we’re about to be taken outside in any case, to join the prisoners’ line chained to a wall. In the morning, they’ll march us down to the imperial jetty and load us onto a transport.’
‘How long have I been unconscious?’
‘The night you were carried in, the day after, the next night. It’s now midday.’
‘And the slavemaster has been in the stocks all this time?’
‘Most of it.’
‘Good,’ Karsa growled. ‘What of his companion? The same?’
‘The same.’
‘And what crime have you committed?’ Karsa asked.
‘I consort with dissidents. Of course,’ he added, ‘I am innocent.’
‘Can you not prove that?’
‘Prove what?’
‘Your innocence.’
‘I could if I was.’
The Teblor glanced back at the figure crouched in the corner. ‘Are you, by any chance, from Darujhistan?’
‘Darujhistan? No, why do you ask?’
Karsa shrugged. He thought back to Torvald Nom’s death. There was a coldness surrounding the memory, but he could sense all that it held at bay. The time for surrender, however, was not now.
The barred door was set in an iron frame, the frame fixed to the stone blocks with large iron bolts. The Teblor gave it a shake. Dust sifted out from around the bolts, pattered onto the floor.
‘I see you’re a man who ignores advice,’ the stranger observed.
‘These Malazans are careless.’
‘Overconfident, I’d suggest. Then again, perhaps not. They’ve had dealings with Fenn, with Trell, Barghast-a whole host of oversized barbarians. They’re tough, and sharper than they let on. They put an otataral anklet on that slavemaster-no magic from him any more-’
Karsa turned. ‘What is this “otataral” everyone speaks of?’
‘A bane to magic.’
‘And it must be mined.’
‘Yes. It’s usually a powder, found in layers, like sandstone. Resembles rust.’
‘We scrape a red powder from cliffsides to make our blood-oil,’ the Teblor murmured.
‘What is blood-oil?’
‘We rub it into our swords, and into our armour. To bring on battle madness, we taste it.’
The stranger was silent for a moment, though Karsa could feel the man’s eyes on him. ‘And how well does magic work against you?’
‘Those who attack me with sorcery usually reveal surprise on their faces… just before I kill them.’
‘Well now, that is interesting. It is believed that otataral is only found on the single large island east of here. The empire controls its production. Tightly. Their mages learned the hard way during the conquest, in the battles before the T’lan Imass got involved. If not for the T’lan Imass, the invasion would have failed. I have some more advice for you. Reveal nothing of this to the Malazans. If they discover there is another source of otataral, a source they do not control, well, they will send into your homeland-wherever that is-every regiment they possess. They will crush your people. Utterly.’
Karsa shrugged. ‘The Teblor have many enemies.’
The stranger slowly sat straighten ‘Teblor? That is what you call yourselves? Teblor?’ After a moment, he leaned back again, and softly laughed.
‘What do you find so amusing?’
An outer door clanged open, and Karsa stepped back from the barred door as a squad of soldiers appeared. The three at the front had unsheathed their swords, while the four behind them held large, cocked crossbows. One of the swordsmen stepped up to the door. He paused upon seeing Karsa. ‘Careful,’ he called to his companions, ‘the savage has awakened.’ He studied the Teblor and said, ‘Do nothing stupid, Fenn. It matters nothing to us whether you live or die-the mines are crowded enough for them not to miss you. Understand me?’
Karsa bared his teeth, said nothing.
‘You there, in the corner, on your feet. It’s time for some sunshine.’
The stranger slowly straightened. He was wearing little more than rags. Lean and dark-skinned, his eyes were a startling light blue. ‘I demand a proper trial, as is my right under imperial law.’
The guardsman laughed. ‘Give it up. You’ve been identified. We know precisely who you are. Aye, your secret organization is not as seamless as you might think. Betrayed by one of your own-how does that feel? Let’s go, you come out first. Jibb, you and Gullstream keep your crossbows on that Fenn-I don’t like his smile. Especially now,’ he added.
‘Oh look,’ another soldier said, ‘you’ve confused the poor ox. Bet he doesn’t even know his entire face is one big tattoo. Scrawl did good work, though. Best I’ve seen in a long while.’
‘Right,’ another drawled, ‘and how many escaped prisoner tattoos have you seen, Jibb?’
‘Just one, and it’s a work of art.’
The source of the stinging sensation on Karsa’s face was revealed now. He reached up, seeking to feel something of the pattern, and slowly began tracing lines of slightly raised, damp strips of raw skin. They were not contiguous. He could make no sense of what the tattoo portrayed.
‘Shattered,’ the other prisoner said as he walked over to the door, which the first guard unlocked and swung open. ‘The brand makes your face look like it’s been shattered.’
Two guards escorted the man outside, whilst the others, nervously eyeing Karsa, waited for their return. One of the crossbowmen, whose high forehead revealed white blotches-leading the Teblor to speculate that he was the one named Gullstream-leaned back against the opposite wall and said, ‘I don’t know, I’m thinking Scrawl made it too big-he was ugly enough to start with, now he looks damned terrifying.’
‘So what?’ another guard drawled. ‘There’s plenty of hill-grubbing savages that carve up their own faces to frighten weak-kneed recruits like you, Gullstream. Barghast and Semk and Khundryl, but they all break against a Malazan legion just the same.’
‘Well, ain’t none of them being routed these days, though, are they?’
‘That’s only because the Fist’s cowering in his keep and wants us all to put ’im to bed every night. Nobleborn officers-what do you expect?’
‘Might change when the reinforcements arrive,’ Gullstream suggested. ‘The Ashok Regiment knows these parts-’
‘And that’s the problem,’ the other retorted. ‘If this rebellion actually happens this time, who’s to say they won’t turn renegade? We could get smilin’ throats in our own barracks. It’s bad enough with the Red Blades stirrin’ things up in the streets…’
The guards returned.
‘You, Fenn, now it’s your turn. Make it easy for us and it’ll be easy for you. Walk. Slow. Not too close. And trust me, the mines ain’t so bad, considering the alternatives. All right, come forward now.’
Karsa saw no reason to give them trouble.
They emerged onto a sunlit compound. Thick, high walls surrounded the broad parade ground. A number of squat, solid-looking buildings projected out from three of the four walls; along the fourth wall there was a line of prisoners shackled to a heavy chain that ran its entire length, bolted to the foundation stones at regular intervals. Near the heavily fortified gate was a row of stocks, of which only two were occupied-Silgar and Damisk. On the slavemaster’s right ankle there glinted a copper-coloured ring.
Neither man had lifted his head at Karsa’s appearance, and the Teblor considered shouting to attract their attention; instead, he simply bared his teeth at seeing their plight. As the guards escorted him to the line of chained prisoners, Karsa turned to the one named Jibb and spoke in Malazan. ‘What will be the slavemaster’s fate?’
The man’s helmed head jerked up in surprise. Then he shrugged. ‘Ain’t been decided yet. He claims to be rich back in Genabackis.’
Karsa sneered. ‘He can buy his way out from his crimes, then.’
‘Not under imperial law-if they’re serious crimes, that is. Might be he’ll just be fined. He may be a merchant who deals in flesh, but he’s still a merchant. Always best to bleed ’em where it hurts most.’
‘Enough jawing, Jibb,’ another guard growled.
They approached one end of the line, where oversized shackles had been attached. Once more, Karsa found himself in irons, though these were not tight enough to cause him pain. The Teblor noted that he was beside the blue-eyed native.
The squad checked the fittings one more time, then marched away.
There was no shade, though buckets of well-water had been positioned at intervals down the line. Karsa remained standing for a time, then finally settled down to sit with his back against the wall, matching the position of most of the other prisoners. There was little in the way of conversation as the day slowly dragged on. Towards late afternoon shade finally reached them, though the relief was momentary, as biting flies soon descended.
As the sky darkened overhead, the blue-eyed native stirred, then said in a low voice, ‘Giant, I have a proposal for you.’
Karsa grunted. ‘What?’
‘It’s said that the mining camps are corrupt, meaning one can carve out favours-make life easier. The kind of place where it pays to have someone guarding your back. I suggest a partnership.’
Karsa thought about it, then he nodded. ‘Agreed. But if you attempt to betray me, I will kill you.’
‘I could see no other answer to betrayal,’ the man said.
‘I am done talking,’ Karsa said.
‘Good, so am I.’
He thought to ask the man’s name, but there would be time enough for that later. For now, he was content to stretch the silence, to give space for his thoughts. It seemed Urugal was willing him to these otataral mines after all. Karsa would have preferred a more direct-a simpler-journey, such as the one the Malazans had originally intended. Too many blood-soaked digressions, Urugal. Enough.
Night arrived. A pair of soldiers appeared with lanterns and sauntered down the line of prisoners, checking the fetters one more time, before heading off to the barracks. From where he slumped, Karsa could see a handful of soldiers stationed at the gate, whilst at least one patrolled the walkway along each wall. Two more stood outside the steps of the headquarters.
The Teblor settled his head against the stone wall and closed his eyes.
Some time later he opened them again. He had slept. The sky was overcast, the compound a mottled pattern of light and darkness. Something had awoken him. He made to stand but a hand stayed him. He looked over to see the native huddled motionless beside him-head lowered as if still asleep. The hand on the Teblor’s arm tightened a moment, then withdrew.
Frowning, Karsa settled back. And then he saw.
The guards at the gate were gone, as were those outside the headquarters. Along the wall walkways… no-one.
Then, alongside a nearby building-movement, a figure sliding through shadows in silence, followed by another, padding along with far less stealth, one gloved hand reaching up to steady itself every now and then.
The two were making directly for Karsa.
Swathed in black cloth, the lead figure halted a few paces from the wall. The other moved up alongside it, then edged past. Hands lifted, slipped back a black hood-
Torvald Nom.
Bloodstained bandages encircling his neck, the face above it deathly pale and gleaming with sweat, but the Daru was grinning.
He drew up to Karsa’s side. ‘Time to go, friend,’ he whispered, raising something that looked very much like a shackle key.
‘Who is with you?’ Karsa whispered back.
‘Oh, a motley collection indeed. Gral tribesmen here doing the sneaky work, and agents from their main trading partner here in Ehrlitan…’ His eyes glittered. ‘The House of Nom, no less. Oh, aye, the thread of blood between us is thin as a virgin’s hair, but it is being honoured none the less. Indeed, with delighted vigour. Now, enough words-as you are wont to say-we don’t want to wake anyone else-’
‘Too late,’ murmured the man chained beside Karsa.
The Gral behind Torvald moved forward, but halted at a strange, elaborate series of gestures from the prisoner.
Torvald grunted. ‘That damned silent language.’
‘It is agreed,’ the prisoner said. ‘I will be going with you.’
‘And if you wasn’t, you’d be sounding the alarm.’
The man said nothing.
After a moment, Torvald shrugged. ‘So be it. All this talk and I’m surprised everyone else in this line isn’t awake-’
‘They would be, only they’re all dead.’ The prisoner beside Karsa slowly straightened. ‘No-one likes criminals. Gral have a particular hatred for them, it seems.’
A second tribesman, who had been moving along the line, reached them. A large, curved knife was in one hand, slick with blood. More hand gestures, then the newcomer sheathed his weapon.
Muttering under his breath, Torvald crouched to unlock Karsa’s shackles.
‘You are as hard to kill as a Teblor,’ Karsa murmured.
‘Thank Hood that Arak was distracted at the time. Even so, if not for the Gral, I’d have bled to death.’
‘Why did they save you?’
‘The Gral like to ransom people. Of course, if they turn out worthless, they kill them. The trading partnership with the House of Nom took precedence over all that, of course.’
Torvald moved on to the other prisoner.
Karsa stood, rubbing his wrists. ‘What kind of trade?’
The Daru flashed a grin. ‘Brokering the ransoms.’
Moments later they were moving through the darkness towards the front gate, skirting the patches of light. Near the gatehouse a half-dozen bodies had been dragged up against the wall. The ground was soaked black with blood.
Three more Gral joined them. One by one, the group slipped through the gateway and into the street beyond. They crossed to an alley and made their way down to the far end, where they halted.
Torvald laid a hand on Karsa’s arm. ‘Friend, where would you go now? My own return to Genabackis will be delayed awhile. My kin here have embraced me with open arms-a unique experience for me, and I plan on savouring it. Alas, the Gral won’t take you-you’re too recognizable.’
‘He will come with me,’ the blue-eyed native said. ‘To a place of safety.’
Torvald looked up at Karsa, brows rising.
The Teblor shrugged. ‘It is clear that I cannot be hidden in this city; nor will I further endanger you or your kin, Torvald Nom. If this man proves unworthy I need only kill him.’
‘How long until the compound guards are changed?’ the blue-eyed man asked.
‘A bell at least, so you will have plenty-’
Sudden alarms shattered the night, from the direction of the Malazan garrison.
The Gral seemed to vanish before Karsa’s eyes, so quickly did they scatter. ‘Torvald Nom, for all you have done for me, I thank you-’
The Daru scurried over to a pile of rubbish in the alley. He swept it aside, then lifted into view Karsa’s bloodsword. ‘Here, friend.’ He tossed the sword into the Teblor’s hands. ‘Come to Darujhistan in a few years’ time.’
A final wave, then the Daru was gone.
The blue-eyed man-who had collected a sword from one of the dead guards-now gestured. ‘Stay close. There are ways out of Ehrlitan the Malazans know nothing of. Follow, and quietly.’ He set off. Karsa slipped into his wake.
Their route twisted through the lower city, down countless alleys, some so narrow that the Teblor was forced to sidle sideways along their crooked lengths. Karsa had thought that his guide would lead them towards the docks, or perhaps the outer walls facing onto the wasteland to the south. Instead, they climbed towards the single massive hill at Ehrlitan’s heart, and before long were moving through the rubble of countless collapsed buildings.
They arrived at the battered base of a tower, the native not hesitating as he ducked in through the gaping, dark doorway. Following, Karsa found himself in a cramped chamber, its floor uneven with heaved flagstones. A second portal was barely visible opposite the entrance, and at its threshold the man paused. ‘Mebra!’ he hissed.
There was movement, then: ‘Is it you? Dryjhna bless us, I had heard that you had been captured-ah, the alarms down below… well done-’
‘Enough of that. Do the provisions remain in the tunnels?’
‘Of course! Always. Including your own cache-’
‘Good, now move aside. I’ve someone with me.’
Beyond the portal was a rough series of stone steps, descending into even deeper darkness. Karsa sensed the man Mebra’s presence as he edged past, heard his sharp intake of breath.
The blue-eyed man below the Teblor halted suddenly. ‘Oh, and Mebra, tell no-one you have seen us-not even your fellow servants to the cause. Understand?’
‘Of course.’
The two fugitives continued on, leaving Mebra behind. The stairs continued down, until Karsa had begun to think that they were approaching the bowels of the earth. When it finally levelled out, the air was heavy with damp, smelling of salt, and the stones underfoot were wet and streaked in slime. At the tunnel’s mouth a number of niches had been carved into the limestone walls, each one holding leather packs and travel gear.
Karsa watched as his companion strode quickly to one niche in particular. After a moment’s examination, he dropped the Malazan sword he had been carrying and drew forth a pair of objects that moved with the sound of rustling chain.
‘Take that food-pack,’ the man instructed, nodding towards a nearby niche. ‘And you will find a telaba or two-clothes-and weapon-belts and harnesses-leave the lanterns, the tunnel ahead is long but has no branches.’
‘Where does it lead?’
‘Out,’ the man replied.
Karsa fell silent. He disliked the extent to which his life was in this native’s hands, but it seemed that, for the time being, there was nothing he could do about it. Seven Cities was a stranger place than even the Genabackan cities of Malyntaeas and Genabaris. The lowlanders filled this world like vermin-more tribes than the Teblor had thought possible, and it was clear that none liked each other. While that was a sentiment Karsa well understood-for tribes should dislike each other-it was also obvious that, among the lowlanders, there was no sense of any other sort of loyalty. Karsa was Uryd, but he was also Teblor. The lowlanders seemed so obsessed with their differences that they had no comprehension of what unified them.
A flaw that could be exploited.
The pace set by Karsa’s guide was fierce, and though most of the damage done to the Teblor was well along in healing, his reserves of strength and stamina were not what they had once been. After a time, the distance between the two began to lengthen, and eventually Karsa found himself travelling alone through the impenetrable darkness, one hand on the rough-hewn wall to his right, hearing only the sounds of his own passage. The air was no longer damp, and he could taste dust in his mouth.
The wall suddenly vanished under his hand. Karsa stumbled, drew to a halt.
‘You did well,’ the native said from somewhere on the Teblor’s left. ‘Running hunched over as you had to be… not an easy task. Look up.’
He did, and slowly straightened. There were stars overhead.
‘We’re in a gully,’ the man continued. ‘It will be dawn before we climb out of it. Then it’s five, maybe six days across the Pan’potsun Odhan. The Malazans will be after us, of course, so we will have to be careful. Rest awhile. Drink some water-the sun is a demon and will steal your life if it can. Our route will take us from one place of water to the next, so we need not suffer.’
‘You know this land,’ Karsa said. ‘I do not.’ He raised his sword. ‘But know this, I will not be taken prisoner again.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ the lowlander replied.
‘That is not what I meant.’
The man laughed. ‘I know. If you so wish it, once we are clear of this gully you may go in any direction you like. What I have offered you is the best chance of surviving. There is more than recapture by the Malazans to worry about in this land. Travel with me, and you shall learn how to survive. But as I said, the choice is yours. Now, shall we proceed?’
Dawn arrived to the world above before the two fugitives reached the end of the gully. While they could see bright blue sky overhead, they continued walking through chill shadows. The means of exit was marked by a tumbled scree of boulders where a past flood had undercut one wall sufficiently to trigger a collapse.
Clambering up the slope, they emerged onto a heat-blasted land of weathered crags, sand-filled riverbeds, cacti and thorny bushes, the sun blindingly bright, making the air shimmer in all directions. There was no-one in sight, nor was there any sign that the area was inhabited by anything other than wild creatures.
The lowlander led Karsa southwestward, their route circuitous, making use of every form of cover available and avoiding ridges or hilltops that would set them against the sky. Neither spoke, saving their breath in the enervating heat as the day stretched on.
Late in the afternoon, the lowlander halted suddenly and turned. He hissed a curse in his native language, then said, ‘Horsemen.’
Karsa swung round, but could see no-one in the desolate landscape behind them.
‘Feel them underfoot,’ the man muttered. ‘So, Mebra has turned. Well, one day I will answer that betrayal.’
And now Karsa could sense, through the callused soles of his bared feet, the tremble of distant horse hoofs. ‘If you’d suspected this Mebra why did you not kill him?’
‘If I killed everyone I was suspicious about I’d have scant company. I needed proof, and now I have it.’
‘Unless he told someone else.’
‘Then he’s either a traitor or stupid-both lead to the same fatal consequence. Come, we need to make this a challenge for the Malazans.’
They set off. The lowlander was unerring in choosing paths that left no footprints or other signs of passage. Despite this, the sound of the riders drew ever nearer. ‘There’s a mage among them,’ the lowlander muttered as they raced across yet another stretch of bedrock.
‘If we can avoid them until nightfall,’ Karsa said, ‘then I shall become the hunter and they the hunted.’
‘There’s at least twenty of them. We’re better off using the darkness to stretch the distance between us. See those mountains to the southwest? That is our destination. If we can reach the hidden passes, we will be safe.’
‘We cannot outrun horses,’ Karsa growled. ‘Come dark, I will be done running.’
‘Then you attack alone, for it will mean your death.’
‘Alone. That is well. I need no lowlander getting underfoot.’
The plunge into night was sudden. Just before the last light failed, the two fugitives, slipping onto a plain crowded with enormous boulders, finally caught sight of their pursuers. Seventeen riders, three spare horses. All but two of the Malazans were in full armour, helmed and armed with either lances or crossbows. The other two riders were easily recognizable to Karsa. Silgar and Damisk.
Karsa suddenly recalled that, the night of their escape from the compound, the stocks had been empty. He’d thought little of it at the time, assuming that the two prisoners had been taken inside for the night.
The pursuers had not seen the two fugitives, who quickly moved behind the cover of the boulders.
‘I have led them to an old campground,’ the lowlander at Karsa’s side whispered. ‘Listen. They’re making camp. The two who weren’t soldiers-’
‘Yes. The slavemaster and his guard.’
‘They must have taken that otataral anklet off him. He wants you badly, it seems.’
Karsa shrugged. ‘And he will find me. Tonight. I am done with those two. Neither will see the dawn, this I swear before Urugal.’
‘You cannot attack two squads on your own.’
‘Then consider it a diversion and make good your escape, lowlander.’ With that the Teblor swung about and made his way towards the Malazan camp.
He was not interested in waiting for them to settle. The crossbowmen had ridden all day with their weapons cocked. They would probably be replacing the wrapped cords at this very moment, assuming they followed the practice that Karsa had seen among the squads of the Ashok Regiment. Others would be removing saddles and tending to the horses, whilst most of the remaining soldiers would be preparing to cook meals and raise tents. At most, there would be two or three guards establishing a picket around the camp.
Karsa paused behind a huge boulder just beyond the Malazans. He could hear them setting up their position for the night. The Teblor collected a handful of sand and dried the sweat from his palms, then he hefted his bloodsword in his right hand and edged forward.
Three fires had been lit using dung, the hearths ringed with large rocks to cut the light cast out by the flickering flames. The horses stood within a rope corral, three soldiers moving among them. A half-dozen crossbowmen sat nearby, their weapons dismantled on their laps. Two guards stood facing the plain of boulders, one positioned slightly behind the other. The soldier closest to Karsa held a drawn short-sword and a round shield, his companion six paces behind him a short bow, arrow nocked.
There were, in fact, more guards at the pickets than Karsa would have liked, one visible on each other flank of the encampment. The bowman was so positioned as to permit him a field of fire for every one of them.
Crouched before a firepit near the centre of the camp were Silgar, Damisk and a Malazan officer, the latter with his back to Karsa.
The Teblor silently worked his way around the boulder. The guard closest to him was looking to the left at the moment. Five paces to close in a charge. The bowman had turned in his restless scanning towards the guard at the far end of the camp.
Now.
The helmed head was swinging back, the weathered face pale beneath its rim.
And then Karsa was alongside him, his left hand snapping out to close around the man’s throat. Cartilage collapsed with a dry popping sound.
Enough to make the bowman whirl.
Had his attacker the short legs of a lowlander, he would have had a chance to loose his arrow. As it was, he barely had time to draw before the Teblor reached him.
The man’s mouth opened to shout as he tensed to throw himself backward. Karsa’s sword flashed outward, sending the helmed head tumbling from shoulders. Armour clattered behind him as the corpse fell to the ground.
Faces swung round. Shouts rang through the night. Three soldiers rose from a hearth directly in front of the Teblor. Short-swords hissed from scabbards. One Malazan threw himself into Karsa’s path in an effort to give his companions time to find their shields. A brave and fatal gesture, for his weapon’s reach was no match for the bloodsword. The man shrieked as he lost both forearms to a vicious lateral slash.
One of the next two Malazans had managed to ready his round shield, raising it into the path of Karsa’s downward swing. The bronze-banded wood exploded at the impact, the arm holding it shattering beneath it. As the soldier crumpled, the Teblor leapt over him, quickly cutting down the third man.
A blaze of pain along the top of his right thigh as a lance ripped a path to thrum into the dusty ground behind him. Wheeling, he whipped his blade around in time to bat aside another lance which had been about to strike his chest.
Footsteps rushing him from behind and to the left-one of the picket guards-while directly before him, three paces distant, stood Silgar, Damisk and the Malazan officer. The slavemaster’s face was twisted with terror, even as sorcery rose into a writhing wave in front of him, then roared towards Karsa.
The magic struck him at the precise moment that the picket guard arrived. Sorcery engulfed them both. The Malazan’s scream ripped through the air. Grunting at the writhing, ghostly tendrils seeking to snare him in place, Karsa surged through it-and came face to face with the slavemaster.
Damisk had already fled. The officer had thrown himself to one side, deftly ducking beneath Karsa’s side-swing.
Silgar threw his hands up.
Karsa cut them off.
The slavemaster reeled back.
The Teblor chopped down, severing Silgar’s right leg just above the ankle. The man toppled onto his upper shoulders, legs in the air. A fourth swing sent the left foot spinning.
Two soldiers rushed Karsa from his right, a third one trailing.
A bellowed command rang through the night, and the Teblor-weapon readied-was surprised to see the three men peel away. By his count there were five others, as well as the officer and Damisk. He spun, glaring, but there was no-one-just the sounds of boots retreating into the darkness. He looked to where the horses had been corralled-the animals were gone.
A lance darted towards him. Snarling, Karsa splintered it as the back of his bloodsword deflected it to one side. He paused, then padded over to Silgar. The slavemaster had curled into a tight ball. Blood flowed from the four stumps. Karsa picked him up by his silk belt and carried him back to the plain of boulders.
As he moved around the first of the massive rocks a voice spoke low and clear from the shadows. ‘This way.’
The Teblor grunted. ‘You were supposed to have fled.’
‘They will regroup, but without the mage we should be able to elude them.’
Karsa followed his companion deeper into the studded plain, then, after fifty or so paces, the man stopped and turned to the Teblor.
‘Of course, with your prize leaving a trail of blood, there will be little trouble in following us. Do something with him now.’
Karsa dropped Silgar to the ground, kicked him onto his back. The slavemaster was unconscious.
‘He will bleed to death,’ the lowlander said. ‘You have your revenge. Leave him here to die.’
Instead, the Teblor began cutting strips from Silgar’s telaba, tying them tight about the stumps at the ends of his arms and legs.
‘There will still be some leakage-’
‘Which we shall have to live with,’ Karsa growled. ‘I am not yet done with this man.’
‘What value senseless torture?’
Karsa hesitated, then he sighed. ‘This man enslaved an entire tribe of Teblor. The Sunyd’s spirit is broken. The slavemaster is not as a soldier-he has not earned swift death. He is as a mad dog, to be driven into a hut and killed-’
‘So kill him.’
‘I shall… once I have driven him mad.’
Karsa lifted Silgar once more, throwing him over a shoulder. ‘Lead us on, lowlander.’
Hissing under his breath, the man nodded.
Eight days later, they reached the hidden pass through the Pan’potsun Mountains. The Malazans had resumed their pursuit, but had not been seen since two days past, indicating that the efforts to evade them had succeeded.
They ascended the steep, rocky trail through the course of the day.
Silgar was still alive, fevered and only periodically aware. He had been gagged to prevent him making any sounds. Karsa carried him on his shoulder.
Shortly before dusk they reached the summit, and came to the southwest edge. The path wound down into a shadowed plain. At the crest they sat down to rest.
‘What lies beyond?’ Karsa asked as he dropped Silgar to the ground. ‘I see naught but a wasteland of sand below.’
‘And so it is,’ his companion replied in a reverent tone. ‘And in its heart, the one I serve.’ He glanced over at Karsa. ‘She will, I think, be interested in you…’ he smiled, ‘Teblor.’
Karsa scowled. ‘Why does the name of my people amuse you so?’
‘Amuse? More like appals. The Fenn had fallen far from their past glories, yet they remembered enough to know their old name. You cannot even make that claim. Your kind walked this earth when the T’lan Imass were still flesh. From your blood came the Barghast and the Trell. You are Thelomen Toblakai.’
‘These are names I do not know,’ Karsa growled, ‘even as I do not know yours, lowlander.’
The man returned his gaze to the dark lands below. ‘I am named Leoman. And the one I serve, the Chosen One to whom I will deliver you, she is Sha’ik.’
‘I am no-one’s servant,’ Karsa said. ‘This Chosen One, she dwells in the desert before us?’
‘In its very heart, Toblakai. In Raraku’s very heart.’