When I go in search
The world cries out
And spins away
To walk is to reach
But the world turns
Shied into sublime fend
Flinching to my sting
So innocent a touch
This is what it is to search
The world’s answer
Is a cornered retort
It does not want seeing
Does not suffer knowing
To want is to fail
And die mute
Ever solitary these steps
Yielding what it is
To be alone
Crying out to the world
Spinning away
As in its search
It finds you out.
– Search, Gaullag of the Spring
He might well speak of mystery and show a mask of delighted wonder, but the truth of it was, mystery frightened Beak. He could smell sorcery, yes, and sense its poetic music, so orderly and eloquent, but its heat could so easily burn, right down to a mortal man’s core. He was not much for bravery; oh, he could see it well enough among other soldiers-he could see it in every detail of Captain Faradan Sort, who now sat her horse at his side-but he knew he possessed none of it himself.
Coward and stupid were two words that went together, Beak believed, and both belonged to him. Smelling magic had been a way of avoiding it, of running from it, and as for all those candles within him, well, he was happiest when nothing arrived that might send their flames flickering, brightening, bursting into a conflagration. He supposed it was just another stupid decision, this being a soldier, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
Marching across that desert in that place called Seven Cities (although he’d only seen two cities, he was sure there were five more somewhere), Beak had listened to all the other soldiers complaining. About… well, everything. The fighting. Not fighting. The heat of the day, the cold at night, the damned coyotes yipping in the dark sounding so close you thought they were standing right beside you, mouth at your ear. The biting insects, the scorpions and spiders and snakes all wanting to kill you. Yes, they’d found lots to complain about. That terrible city, Y’Ghatan, and the goddess who’d opened one eye that night and so stolen away that evil rebel, Leoman. And then, when all had seemed lost, that girl-Sinn-showing her own candle. Blindingly bright, so pure that Beak had cowered before it. They’d complained about all of that, too. Sinn should have snuffed that firestorm out. The Adjunct should have waited a few days longer, because there was no way those marines would have died so easily.
And what about Beak? Hadn’t he sensed them? Well, maybe. That mage, Bottle, the one with all the pets. Maybe Beak had smelled him, still alive under all those ashes. But then he was a coward, wasn’t he? To go up to, say, the Adjunct, or Captain Kindly, and tell them-no, that was too much. Kindly was like his own father, who didn’t like to listen whenever it was something he wasn’t interested in hearing. And the Adjunct, well, even her own soldiers weren’t sure of her.
He’d listened with all the rest to her speech after they’d left Malaz City (a most terrifying night, that, and he was so glad he’d been far away from it, out on a transport), and he remembered how she talked about going it alone from now on. And doing things nobody else would ever know about. Unwitnessed, she said. As if that was important. Such talk usually confused Beak, but not this time. His entire life was, he knew, unwitnessed. So, she had made all the other soldiers just like him, just like Beak, and that had been an unexpected gift from that cold, cold woman. Coward or no and stupid as he was, she’d won him that night. Something she wouldn’t think much of, obviously, but it meant a lot to him.
Anyway, his heart had slowed its wild run, and he lifted his head and glanced over at the captain. She sat her horse in the deep shadow, unmoving just as he had been, and yet, in an instant, he thought he caught from her a sound-the hammering of waves against stone, the screams of soldiers in battle, swords and slaughter, lances like ice piercing hot flesh, and the waves-and then all of that was gone.
She must have sensed his attention, for she asked in a low voice: ‘Are they well past, Beak?’
‘Aye.’
‘Caught no scent of us?’
‘None, Captain. I hid us with grey and blue. It was easy. That mage she kneels in front of the Holds. She knows nothing about the grey and blue warrens.’
‘The Letherii were supposed to join us,’ Faradan Sort muttered. ‘Instead, we find them riding with Tiste Edur, doing their work for them.’
All stirred up, aye. Especially round here.’
‘And that’s the problem,’ she replied, gathering her reins and nudging her mount out from beneath the heavy branches where they had hidden-fifteen paces off the trail-while the war-party rode past. ‘We’re well ahead of the other squads. Either Hellian or Urb has lost their mind, or maybe both of them.’
Beak followed on his own horse, a gentle bay he’d named Lily. ‘Like a hot poker, Captain, pushing right to the back of the forge. Do that and you burn your hand, right?’
‘The hand, yes. Keneb. You and me. All the other squads.’
‘Um, your hand, I meant.’
‘I am learning to tell those moments,’ she said, now eyeing him.
‘What moments?’ Beak asked.
‘When you’ve convinced yourself how stupid you are.’
‘Oh.’ Those moments. ‘I ain’t never been so loyal, Captain. Never.’
She gave him a strange look then, but said nothing.
They rode up onto the trail and faced their mounts east. ‘They’re up there somewhere ahead,’ the captain said. ‘Causing all sorts of trouble.’
Beak nodded. They’d been tracking those two squads for two nights now. And it was truly a trail of corpses. Sprung ambushes, dead Letherii and Tiste Edur, the bodies dragged off into cover, stripped down and so naked Beak had to avert his eyes, lest evil thoughts sneak into his mind. All the places his mother liked him to touch that one night-no, all that was evil thinking, evil memories, the kind of evil that could make him hang himself as his brother had done.
‘We have to find them, Beak.’
He nodded again.
‘We have to rein them in. Tonight, do you think?’
‘It’s the one named Balgrid, Captain. And the other named Bowl-who’s learned magic real fast. Balgrid’s got the white candle, you see, and this land ain’t had no white candle for a long time. So he’s dragging the smell off all the bodies they’re leaving and that’s muddying things up-those ears they’re cutting off, and the fingers and stuff that they’re tying to their belts. That’s why we’re going from ambush to ambush, right? Instead of straight to them.’
‘Well,’ she said after a moment and another long, curious look, ‘we’re on damned horses, aren’t we?’
‘So are they now, Captain.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so. Just tonight. It’s the Holds. There’s one for beasts. And if the Letherii mages figure things out, they could turn with that and find them real fast.’
‘Hood’s breath, Beak. And what about us?’
‘Us too. Of course, there’s plenty of people riding horses round here, bad stirrups or no. But if they get close, then maybe even grey and blue candles won’t work.’
‘You might end up having to show a few more, then.’
Oh, he didn’t like that idea. ‘I hope not. I really hope not.’
‘Let’s get going then, Beak.’
Don’t burn me down to the core, Captain. Please. It won’t he nice, not for anyone. I can still hear their screams and there’s always screams and I start first. My screams scare me the most, Captain. Scare me stupid, aye.
‘Wish Masan Gilani was with us,’ Scant said, pulling up clumps of moss to wash the blood from his hands.
Hellian blinked at the fool. Masan who?
‘Listen, Sergeant,’ Balgrid said again.
He was always saying that and so she’d stopped listening to him. It was like pissing in the fire, the way men could do when women couldn’t. Just a hiss into sudden darkness and then that awful smell. Listen, Sergeant and hiss, she stopped listening.
‘You’ve got to,’ Balgrid insisted, reaching out to prod her with a finger. ‘Sergeant?’
She glared down at that finger. ‘Want me t’cut off my left cheek, soldier? Touch me again and you’ll be sorry ‘s what I’m sayin’.’
‘Someone’s tracking us.’
She scowled. ‘For how long?’
‘Two, maybe three nights going,’ Balgrid replied.
‘So you decide to tell me now7. All my soljers are idiots. How they trackin’ us? You and Bowl said you had it covered, had something covered, anyway. What was it you had covered? Right, you been pissing all over our trail or something.’ She glared at him. ‘Hiss.’
‘What? No. Listen, Sergeant-’
And there it went again. She rose to her feet, wobbling on the soft, loamy ground. Where one could fall at every damned step if one wasn’t careful. ‘Someone-you, Corporal, drag them bodies away.’
‘Aye Sergeant.
‘Right away, Sergeant.’
‘And you two. Maybe. Louts-’
‘Lutes.’
‘Help the corporal. You all made a mess killing these ones.’ And that was right enough, wasn’t it? This one had been nasty. Sixteen Letherii and four Edur. Quarrels to the heads did for them Edur what it does for normal people. Like sacks of stones on a big drop, whoo, toppling right off them horses. Then a pair of sharpers, one front of the Letherii column, the other at the tail end. Boom boom and the dusk was nothing but screaming and thrashing limbs human and horse and some couldn’t tell which.
Damned Letherii had recovered a little too fast for her liking. Dead sure too fast for Hanno’s liking, since Hanno went down with only half a skull left after one of the meanest sword swings she’d ever seen. Threw the soldier right off balance, though, with those stupid stirrups, and so it’d been easy for Urb to reach up one of those giant hands of his, grasp a belt or something and drag the fool right off. Throwing him down with such force that all wind rushed out of him both ends. At which point Urb pushed a mailed fist so hard into the face under the helmet that Urb hurt his knuckles on the back of the man’s skull-low, just above the vertables or whatever they were called. Teeth and bone splinters and meat spurting out everywhere.
The first loss in the squads, that’d been. All because Hanno jumped in close thinking the Letherii were still confused and useless. But no, these soldiers, they’d been veterans. They’d come round damned quick.
Saltlick was bad cut up, though Balgrid had worked on him and he wasn’t bleeding out and unconscious any more. And Corporal Reem went and got two fingers of his left hand cut off-a bad fend with his shield. Poor Urb wasn’t doing too well as sergeant.
Hellian worked round carefully until she faced another direction, and could see Urb sitting on a rotting log, looking miserable. She drank down a mouthful of rum then ambled over. ‘We’re both sergeants now, right? Let’s go find some bushes t’crawl under. I’m in the mood for sweat and grunts with somebody, and since we’re the same rank an’ all it’s only obvious and ain’t nobody here gonna c’mplain.’
He blinked up at her, wide-eyed as an owl.
‘Wha’s your probbem, Urb? I ain’t as ugly as you, am I?’
‘Urb ain’t ugly,’ Reem said with an incredulous laugh. ‘Masan couldn’t think straight around him! Probably why she let herself get shifted over to Balm’s squad.’
Hellian grunted, then said, ‘Be quiet, Reem. You’re a corporal. This is sergeant business.’
‘You want a roll with Urb, Sergeant,’ Reem said. ‘Got nothing to do with you two being sergeants and everything t’do with Urb looking like some goddamned god and you drunk enough to get hungry for the sweats and grunts.’
‘Still ain’t your business.’
‘Maybe not, but we gotta listen to those grunts. Like Scant said, if Masan was around we could all of us dream those dreams and maybe even try, hoping she’d be so frustrated trying to get anywhere with Urb she just might-’
‘Since when you find that runaway mouth of yours, Reem?’ Balgrid demanded. ‘You was better being silent and mysterious. So now you lose a couple fingers and what happens?’
‘Quiet allaya,’ Hellian said. ‘You want another patrol coming down on us and us not ready for ‘em this time? Now, the rest of you, not countin’ Urb here, check your gear and get your trophies and all that and if you wanna listen then just don’t make too many groanin’ noises. Of envy and the like.’
‘We won’t be groaning outa envy, Hellian. More like-’
‘Silent and mysterious, damn you, Reem!’
‘I feel like talking, Balgrid, and you can’t stop me-’
‘But I can, and you won’t like it at all.’
‘Damned necromancer.’
‘Just the other side of Denul, Reem, like I keep telling you. Denul’s giving, Hood’s taking away.’
Hellian closed in on Urb, who suddenly looked terrified. ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘I ain’t gonna cut anything off. Not any-thing of yours, anyway. But if I get clobbered with terrible rejection here…’
‘Nice bed of moss over here,’ Scant said, straightening and moving away with a gesture in his wake.
Hellian reached down and tugged Urb to his feet.
Balgrid was suddenly beside him. ‘Listen, Sergeant-’
She dragged Urb past the mage.
‘No, Sergeant! Those ones tracking us-I think they’ve found us!’
All at once weapons were drawn, figures scattering to defensive positions-a rough circle facing outward with Hellian and Urb in the centre.
‘Balgrid,’ she hissed. ‘You coulda said-’
Horse hoofs, the heavy breath of an animal, then a voice called out, low, in Malazan: ‘Captain Faradan Sort and Beak. We’re coming in so put your damned sharpers away.’
‘Oh, that’s just great,’ Hellian sighed. ‘Ease down, everyone, it’s that scary captain.’
Marines all right. Beak didn’t like the look of them. Mean, hungry, scowling now that the captain had found them. And there was a dead one, too.
Faradan Sort guided her horse into their midst, then dismounted. Beak remained where he was for the moment, not far from where two soldiers stood, only now sheathing their swords. He could see the necromancer, the man’s aura white and ghostly. Death was everywhere here, the still air heavy with last breaths, and he could feelthis assault of loss like a tight fist in his chest.
It was always this way where people died. He should never have become a soldier.
‘Hellian, Urb, we need to talk. In private.’ Cool and hard, the captain’s voice. ‘Beak?’
‘Captain?’
‘Join us.’
Oh no. But he rode forward and then slipped down from the saddle. Too much attention on him all at once, and he ducked as he made his way to the captain’s side.
Faradan Sort in the lead, the group set off into the wood.
‘We ain’t done nothin’ wrong,’ Sergeant Hellian said as soon as they halted twenty or so paces from the others. She seemed to be weaving back and forth like a flat-headed snake moments from spitting venom.
‘You were supposed to pace yourselves, not get too far ahead of the other squads. At any moment now, Sergeant, we won’t be running onto patrols of twenty, but two hundred. Then two thousand.’
‘Tha’s not the probbem,’ Hellian said-an accent Beak had never heard before. ‘The probbem is, Cap’in, the Letherii are fightin’ alongside them Edur-’
‘Have you attempted to make contact with those Letherii?’
‘We have,’ Urb said. ‘It got messy.’ He shook his head. ‘There’s no sign, Captain, that these people want to be liberated.’
‘Like Urb said,’ Hellian added, nodding vigorously.
The captain looked away. ‘The other squads have said much the same.’
‘Maybe we can convince them or something,’ Urb said.
Hellian leaned against a tree. ‘Seems t’me, Cap’in, we got two things we can do and ony two. We can retreat back t’the coast. Build ten thousand rafts and paddle away ‘s fast as we can. Or we go on. Fast, vicious mean. And iffin they come at us two thousand at once, then we run an’ hide like we was trained t’do. Fast and vicious mean, Cap’in, or a long paddle.’
‘There is only one thing worse than arguing with a drunk,’ Faradan Sort said, ‘and that’s arguing with a drunk who’s right.’
Hellian beamed a big smile.
She was drunk? She was drunk. A drunk sergeant, only, as the captain had just said, no fool either.
Faradan Sort continued, ‘Do you have enough horses for your squads?’,
Aye, sir,’ Urb replied. ‘More than enough.’
‘I still want you to slow down, for a few days at least. I intend to contact the other squads and get them to start doing what you’re doing, but that will take some time-’
‘Captain,’ Urb said. ‘I got a feeling they’re learning already. There’s lots more patrols now and they’re getting bigger and a lot more wary. We’ve been expecting to walk into an ambush at any time, and that’s what’s got us worried. Next time you ride to find us you might find a pile of corpses. Malazan corpses. We ain’t got the munitions to carry us all the way-no-one has-so it’s going to start getting a lot harder, sir.’
‘I know, Sergeant. You lost one in that fight, didn’t you?’
‘Hanno.’
‘Got careless,’ Hellian said.
Urb frowned, then nodded. Aye, that’s true.’
‘Then let us hope that one hard lesson is enough,’ the captain said.
‘Expect it is,’ Urb confirmed.
Faradan Sort faced Beak. ‘Tell them about the Holds, Beak.’
He flinched, then sighed and said, ‘Letherii mages-they might be able to find us by the horses, by smelling them out, I mean.’
‘Balgrid’s covering our trail,’ Urb said. ‘Are you saying it won’t work?’
‘Might be,’ Beak said. ‘Necromancy’s one thing they can’t figure. Not Letherii. Not Tiste Edur. But there’s a Beast Hold, you see.’
Hellian withdrew a flask and drank down a mouthful, then said, ‘We need to know for certain. Next time, Urb, we get us one of them Letherii mages alive. We ask some questions, and in between the screams we get answers.’
Beak shivered. Not just drunk but bloodthirsty, too.
‘Be careful,’ the captain said. ‘That could go sour very quickly.’
‘We know all about careful, sir,’ Hellian said with a bleary smile.
Faradan Sort studied the sergeant the way she sometimes studied Beak himself, then she said, ‘We’re done. Slow down some, and watch out for small patrols-they might be bait.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘We’re in this, now. Understand?’
‘No rafts?’
‘No rafts, Hellian.’
‘Good. If’n I never see another sea I’m going to die happy.’
She would, too, Beak knew. Die happy. She had that going for her.
‘Back to your squads,’ the captain said. ‘Set your nervous soldiers at ease.’
‘It’s not the smell,’ Beak said.
The others turned inquiringly.
‘That’s not what’s making them nervous, I mean,’ Beak explained. ‘The death smell-they’re carrying all that with them, right? So they’re used to it now. They’re only nervous because they’ve been sitting around too long. In one place. That’s all.’
‘Then let us not waste any more time,’ Faradan Sort said.
Good idea. That was why she was a captain, of course. Smart enough to make her ways of thinking a mystery to him-but that was one mystery he was happy enough with. Maybe the only one.
They flung themselves down at the forest’s edge. Edge, aye-too many damned edges. Beyond was a patchwork of farmland and hedgerows. Two small farms were visible, although no lantern-or candle-light showed through the tiny, shuttered windows. Heart pounding painfully in his chest, Fiddler rolled onto his side to see how many had made it. A chorus of harsh breaths from the scatter of bodies in the gloom to either side of the sergeant. All there. Thanks to Corabb and the desert warrior’s impossible luck.
The ambush had been a clever one, he admitted. Should have taken them all down. Instead, half a league back, in a small grassy glade, there was the carcass of a deer-a deer that Corabb had inadvertently flushed out-with about twenty arrows in it. Cleverly planned, poorly executed.
The Malazans had quickly turned it. Sharpers cracking in the night, crossbows thudding, the flit of quarrels and the punch of impact. Shrieks of agony. A rush from Gesler’s heavies had broken one side of the ambush-
And then the sorcery had churned awake, something raw and terrible, devouring trees like acid. Grey tongues of chaotic fire, heaving into a kind of standing wave. Charging forward, engulfing Sands-his scream had been mercifully short. Fiddler, not ten paces away from where Sands had vanished, saw the Letherii mage, who seemed to be screaming with his own pain, even as the wave hurled forward. Bellowing, he’d swung his crossbow round, felt the kick in his hands as he loosed the heavy quarrel.
The cusser had struck a bole just above and behind the mage’s head. The explosion flattened nearby trees, shredded a score of Letherii soldiers. Snuffed the sorcery out in an instant. As more trees toppled, branches thrashing down, the Malazans had pulled back, fast, and then they ran.
Movement from Fiddler’s left and a moment later Gesler dragged himself up alongside. ‘Hood’s damned us all, Fid. We’re running out of forest-how’s Cuttle?’
‘Arrow’s deep,’ Fiddler replied, ‘but not a bleeder. We can dig it out when we get a chance.’
‘Think they’re tracking us?’
Fiddler shook his head. He had no idea. If there were enough of them left. He twisted round. ‘Bottle,’ he hissed, ‘over here.’
The young mage crawled close.
‘Can you reach back?’ Fiddler asked. ‘Find out if they’re after us?’
‘Already did, Sergeant. Used every damned creature in our wake.’
‘And?’ Gesler wanted to know.
‘That cusser did most of them, Sergeant. But the noise brought others. At least a dozen Tiste Edur and maybe a few hundred Letherii. Are they tracking us now? Aye, but still a way behind-they’ve learned to be cautious, I guess.’
‘We’re losing the dark,’ Gesler said. ‘We need a place to hide, Fid-only that’s probably not going to work this time, is it? They’re not going to rest.’
‘Can we lose them?’ Fiddler asked Bottle.
‘I’m pretty tired, Sergeant-’
‘Never mind. You’ve done enough. What do you think, Gesler? Time to get messy?’
‘And use up our few cussers?’
‘Don’t see much choice, to be honest. Of course, I always hold one back. Same for Cuttle.’
Gesler nodded. ‘We had ours distributed-good thing, too, the way Sands went up. Still, he had munitions on him, yet they didn’t ignite-’
‘Oh, but they did,’ Fiddler said. ‘Just not in this realm.
Am I right, Bottle? That sorcery, it’s like a broken gate, the kind that chews up whoever goes through it.’
‘Spirits below, Fid, you smelled it out about dead right. That magic, it started as one thing, then became another-and the mage was losing control, even before you minced him.’
Fiddler nodded. He’d seen as much. Or thought he had. ‘So, Bottle, what does that mean?’
The young mage shook his head. ‘Things are getting out of hand… somewhere. There was old stuff, primitive magic, at first. Not as ancient as spirit-bound stuff. Still, primitive. And then something chaotic grabbed it by the throat
A short distance away, Koryk rolled onto his back. He was bone tired. Let Bottle and the sergeants mutter away, he knew they were neck-deep in Hood’s dusty shit.
‘Hey, Koryk.’
‘What is it, Smiles?’
‘You damned near lost it back there, you know.’
‘I did, did I?’
‘When them four came at you all at once, oh, you danced quite a jig, half-blood.’ She laughed, low and brimming with what sounded like malice. ‘And if I hadn’t come along to stick a knife in that one’s eye-the one who’d slipped under your guard and was ready to give you a wide belly smile-well, you’d be cooling fast back there right now.’
‘And the other three?’ Koryk asked, grinning in the gloom. ‘Bet you never knew I was that quick, did you?’
‘Something tells me you didn’t either.’
He said nothing, because she was right. He’d been in something like a frenzy, yet his eye and his hand had been cold, precise. Through it all it had been as if he had simply watched, every move, every block, every shift in stance and twist, every slash of his heavy blade. Watched, yes, yet profoundly in love with that moment, with each moment. He’d felt some of this at the shield wall on the dock that night in Malaz City. But what had begun as vague euphoria was now transformed into pure revelation. 1 like killing. Gods below, I do like it, and the more 1 like it, the better at it I get. He never felt more alive, never more perfectly alive.
‘Can’t wait to see you dance again,’ Smiles murmured.
Koryk blinked in the gloom, then shifted to face her. Was she stirred? Had he somehow kissed her awake between those muscled legs of hers? Because he’d killed well? Did 1 dance that jig, Smiles? ‘You get scarier, woman, the more I know you.’
She snorted. ‘As it should be, half-blood.’
Tarr spoke from Koryk’s other side: ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
A slightly more distant laugh from Cuttle, ‘Aye, Tarr, it’s what happens when your entire world view collapses. Of course,’ he added, ‘if you could manage to dance like poetry when killing people, who knows-’
‘Enough of that. Please.’
‘No worries,’ Cuttle persisted. ‘You ain’t the dancing kind. You’re as rooted as a tree, and just about as slow, Tarr.’
‘I may be slow, Cuttle, but the fools go down eventually, don’t they?’
‘Oh aye, that they do. Not suggesting otherwise. You’re a one-man shield-wall, you are.’
Corporal Stormy was spitting blood. A damned elbow had cracked his mouth, and now two teeth were loose and he’d bitten his tongue. The elbow might have been his own-someone had collided hard with him in the scrap and he’d had his weapon arm lifted high with the sword’s point angled downward. Nearly wrenched his shoulder out of its damned socket.
A savage back-swing with the pommel had crunched the attacker’s temple and he’d reeled away, one eye half popped out. Shortnose had then cut the Letherii down.
That had been some charge, him and his heavies, Shortnose and the trio of dread ladies each one of whom could both stare down a rutting bhederin bull and beat it into a pulp if it came to that. Making Stormy a very happy sergeant. Bad luck about Sands, though. But we ain’t gonna lose any more. Not one. 1 got my heavies and we can take down whatever they throw at us.
And not just us neither. That Tarr and Koryk… Fid’s got a good mean pair in those. And that Smiles, she’s got the hlackrock heart of a Claw. Good squads here, for this kinda work. And now we’re gonna turn round and kick ‘em dead in the jaw, 1 can feel it. Fid and Gesler, cooking in Kellanved’s old cauldron.
He was delighted the Adjunct had finally cut them loose. In just this way, too. To Hood with damned marching in column. No, cut in fast and low and keep going, aye, and keep their heads spinnin’ every which way. So the fools on their trail were coming for them, were they? And why not? just two puny squads. And them probably in the hundreds by now.
‘Kellanved’s curse,’ he muttered with a grin.
Flashwit’s round face loomed into view, ‘Say something, Corporal?’
‘Malazan marines, my dear, that’s us.’
‘Not heavies? I thought-’
‘You’re both, Flash. Relax. It’s this, you see-the Malazan marines haven’t done what they was trained to do in years, not since before Kellanved died. Trained, y’see. To do exactly what we’re doing right now, praise Fener. Them poor bastards Letherii and Edur, gods below, them poor ignorant fools.’
‘Smart enough to ambush us,’ Uru Hela said from beyond Flashwit.
‘Didn’t work though, did it?’
‘Only because-’
‘Enough from you, Uru Hela. I was talking here, right? Your corporal. So just listen.’
‘I was just askin’-’
‘Another word and you’re on report, soldier.’
If she snorted she fast turned it into a cough. From Gesler up with Fiddler: ‘Quiet down there!’ Point proved. Stormy nodded. Malazan marines. Hah.
Fiddler nodded at the narrow, wending track snaking towards the nearest farmhouse and its meagre outbuildings. ‘We jog good and heavy, dragging our wounded, down there. Straight for the farmhouse along that cart path.’
‘Like we was still running scared, panicked,’ Gesler said. ‘Aye. Of course, we got to clear that farmhouse, which means killing civilians, and I have to say, Fid, I don’t like that.’
‘Maybe we can figure a way round that,’ Fiddler replied. ‘Bottle?’
‘Aye, Sergeant. I’m tired, but I could probably glamour them. Maybe even throw some false ideas in their heads. Like, we went north when we really went south. Like that.’
‘Don’t ever die on us, Bottle,’ Gesler said. To Fiddler, he added, ‘I’ll go collect munitions from my squad, then.’
‘Me and Cuttle,’ Fiddler said, nodding again.
‘Trip wires?’
‘No, it’ll be daylight by then. No, we’ll do the drum.’
‘Hood take me,’ Gesler breathed. ‘You sure? I mean, I’ve heard about it-’
‘You heard because me and Hedge invented it. And perfected it, more or less.’
‘More or less?’
Fiddler shrugged. ‘It either works or it doesn’t. We’ve got Bottle’s deception, in case it doesn’t-’
‘But there’ll be no coming back to retrieve those cussers, though, will there?’
‘Not unless you want to see the bright white light, Gesler.’
‘Well,’ the amber-hued man said with a grin, ‘since there’s a chance at seeing the legend come real, with the genius who invented it right here… I ain’t gonna talk you out of it, Fid.’
‘Half the genius, Gesler. Hedge was the other.’
‘Second thoughts?’
‘Second, ninth and tenth, friend. But we’re doing it anyway. When everyone’s ready, you lead them ahead, excepting me and Cuttle. To that farmhouse-the near one. I think the far one’s abandoned. Could be the owner rebuilt. The fields look damned well kept, don’t they?’
‘Yeah, especially given how small the homestead is.’
‘Let Bottle sniff it out before you go charging in.’
‘Aye. You hear that, mage?’
‘What? Sorry, I think I fell asleep.’
Gesler glared across at Fiddler. ‘Our lives are in this man’s hands? Hood help us.’
Orders were given, passed down the ragged row of supine soldiers. Dawn was just tingeing the air when Gesler, Bottle at his side and trailed by Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, led his now oversized squad onto the cart path. Scuffing the ground, dragging furrows here and there-not too obvious, just enough-as they made their way towards the modest farmhouse.
Fiddler and Cuttle watched them for a time, until they were well enough away from the place they’d decided was best for the trap. Shrubs running close to the cart path, narrowing lines of sight for that span. Beyond the bushes, two middle-aged trees on the left and one old ancient on the right.
Four cussers for this. Two close together, then one, and then the last.
Cuttle, his face sheathed in sweat from the arrow-head lodged in his shoulder, was strangely lacking in commentary as Fiddler directed the sapper to pace the track from this side of the narrowing to twenty strides beyond it, and set sticks in the ground when Fiddler so commanded. Once this was done, Cuttle’s task was to dig holes in the packed earth where the sticks had been. Shallow holes.
A sapper who trusted to Oponn’s pull might have left it at that, praying to the fickle Twins that a horse hoof would descend on at least one of the planted cussers. But that was not how the drum worked. All that was needed was vibration. If the cussers were thinned on one side just right; if the sharp stone against that spot was sharp enough and angled just right so that the reverberation would drive its tip into the clay shell. The real challenge, Fiddler and Hedge had discovered, was down to shaving the cusser-right down to eggshell thin-without breaking it and so painting leaves in the highest trees with one’s own blood and guts.
As soon as Cuttle finished the first scooped-out hole, Fiddler headed towards it with a cusser cradled in his hands. Setting it down carefully on the ground, he drew a knife and made some minute adjustments to the hole. Then he turned his attention to the cusser. This one, furthest down along the track, would be the one to go first. Which would trigger the others, in the midst of the troop, with two at the back end in case die column was especially long.
He set the cusser into the hole, then settled down onto his stomach and brought his knife close to one side of the mine. And began scraping clay.
The sun had risen, and although the air was still cool sweat streamed down Fiddler’s face as he shaved away minute slivers of the fine-grained clay. He wished for direct sunlight on the cusser, the side he was working on, s.o he could work until he saw that faint glow reaching through to the bright yellow incendiary powder with its shards of iron. But no such luck. All remained in shadow.
Finally, one last scrape, then he carefully edged the blade away. Found the sharp stone and set it down beside the thinned shell. Point against the clay, he made a half-twist-breath held, eyes squeezed shut-then slowly withdrew his hand. Opened his eyes. Studied his handiwork.
A few more deep breaths to settle his nerves, then he began filling the hole with small handfuls of earth. Then scattered detritus over the spot.
Fiddler belly-crawled away, until he reached the edge of the track where he’d left the other cussers. Glancing up the path, he saw Cuttle waiting at the far end, arms wrapped about his torso, looking like he’d just pissed himself. Aye, he knows why we’re a dying breed-Taking the second cusser, Fiddler made his way-lightly
– to the second hole. Not as thin this time, but thin enough. Each one in turn slightly easier, which made shaving each of them increasingly dangerous-the risk of getting careless, sloppy, just in that wash of relief at having managed the first one… well, he knew all the dangers in all this, didn’t he?
Teeth gritted, he arrived at the second hole in the path, slowly sank to his knees. Set the cusser down, and reached for his knife.
Cuttle was as close to pissing himself as he had ever been. Not at the prospect of dying-he was fine enough with that and had been ever since finding himself in the Fourteenth
– but at what he was witnessing here.
The last great Malazan sapper. No-one else came close. Imagine, shaving cusser shells. With a knife. Eggshell thin. Cuttle had watched, unable to make out much from this distance, as Fiddler had set to work on the first one, the deadliest one of all. And he had prayed, to every god he could think of, to gods he didn’t even know the names of, to spirits and ghosts and every sapper living or dead, each name-a benediction to one man’s brilliance. Praying that the one man he truly worshipped wouldn’t… wouldn’t what?
Let me down.
How pathetic. He knew that. He kept telling himself that, in between the breathed-out beseechings. As if he’d have time to rue the failing of his faith.
So there was Fiddler, closer now, at the second hole, doing it all over again. Imagine, Fid and Hedge, the way they must have been together. Gods, those Bridgeburners must have been holy terrors. But now… just Fiddler, and Cuttle here poorer than a shadow of the famous Hedge. It was all coming to an end. But so long as Fiddler stayed alive, well then, damn them all, it was worth holding on. And this arrow lodged in his left shoulder, well, true he’d seen it coming, but he hadn’t exactly leaned into it, had he? Might have looked that way. Might have at that. As if he’d had time to even think, with everything going on around him. He wasn’t superhuman, was he?
Edging back from the second set mine, Fiddler glanced over at Cuttle. The man’s face was white as death. Well, thinking on it, he didn’t need the man that close any more, did he?
He hand-signalled Leave, rejoin the squads.
Cuttle shook his head.
Shrugging-this was no time to argue and if Cuttle had a death-wish it wasn’t news to Fiddler-he rose and set off to collect the third cusser. Even footfalls were now risky, forcing him to move slowly along the verge of the track. There was plenty of superstition about where to stash munitions when working. Hedge would have insisted the cussers be ahead of the work at all times, but the less Fiddler handled them the better he felt. No matter what, there was back and forth with the damned things, wasn’t there?
He reached the spot and looked down at the two remaining cussers. More superstition. Which one? Heart side or head side? Facing the hole or with the hole behind him as it was now? Hood’s breath, Hedge was clambering around in his skull like a fiend. Enough of the superstition! Fiddler crouched and collected a cusser.
Heart side.
And was random chance really any more than just that? The Moranth were fanatics when it came to precision. Every class of munitions perfect beyond belief. No variation at all. With variation, being a sapper would be nothing more than being a rock-thrower-with explosive rocks, mind, but even so. No real talent involved, no hard-earned skill.
Fiddler remembered, with the appalling clarity of a god-touched revelation, his first encounter with Moranth munitions. Northern Genabackis, a week before the march on the city of Mott followed by the twin nightmares of Mott Wood and Blackdog Swamp. There had been rumours of contact and extensive negotiations with a strange people ruling a place called Cloud Forest, far to the south. An isolated people, said to be terrifying and inhuman in appearance, who rode enormous domesticated four-winged insects-giant dragonflies-and could rain death upon enemies from great heights.
The Malazan negotiators had included Tayschrenn, some nobleborn dignitary named Aragan, and a lone T’lan Imass named Onos T’oolan. The Second and Third Armies had been encamped on Nathii farmland two days from the landing south of Malyntaeas. A crate had been carried-gingerly, by sweating soldiers from the quartermaster’s unit-and set down ten paces from the squad’s hearth fire. Whiskeyj ack had gestured Hedge and Fiddler over.
‘You two do most of the sapping in this miserable squad,’ the sergeant had said, grimacing as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant-which he had, by virtue of legitimizing Fid and Hedge’s destructive anarchy. ‘In yon box there are grenados and nastier stuff, come from the Moranth now that we’re allied with ‘em. Seems to make sense-in an insane way-to hand ‘em over to you two. Now, obviously, you need to do some experimenting with what’s in that box. Just make sure you do it half a league or more from this here camp.’ He hesitated, scratched at his bearded jaw, then added, ‘The big ones are too big to throw far enough, far enough to survive them exploding, I mean. So you’ll need to crack your heads together to work out trying them. As a final order, soldiers, don’t kill yourselves. This squad’s under strength as it is and I’d need to pick out two others to hump these damned things around. And the only two I could use are Kalam and Trotts.’
Aye, Trotts.
Fiddler and Hedge had pried the lid loose, then had stared down, bemused, at the well-packed grenados, nestled in frames and matted straw. Small round ones, long tapered ones, spike-shaped ones of exquisite glass-not a bubble to be seen-and, at the bottom, much larger ones, big enough to ride a catapult cup if one was so inclined (and, it turned out, suicidal, since they tended to detonate as soon as the catapult arm struck the brace. Great for destroying catapults and their hapless crews, though).
Experimentation indeed. Hedge and Fid had set out, the crate between them, on a long, exhausting walk into some out-of-the-way place, where they threw the small ones they decided to call sharpers because when detonated too close they had a tendency to pepper the thrower with slivers of iron and made the ears bleed; where they discovered the incendiary properties of the burners, to the wailing protestations of a farmer who’d witnessed the fiery destruction of a hay wagon (at least until they’d handed over four gold imperial sceptres-Kellanved’s newly minted currency-which was enough money to buy a new farm). Crackers, driven into elongated wedge-shaped holes in hard-packed earth, did sweet mayhem on foundation stones, mortared or otherwise. And, finally, the cussers, the ugliest, nastiest munitions ever created. They were intended to be dropped from high overhead by the Moranth on their Quorls, and Hedge and Fid had used up most of their allotted supply trying to work out an alternative means of practical, non-fatal use. And, in the end, had needed twenty more-two crates’ worth-to finally conclude that a fool would have to be Oponn-kissed by the Lady to try anything but secondary usage; add-ons to crackers and burners and, if the chance presented itself, a well-thrown sharper.
The oversized crossbows came much later, as did maniacal variations like the drum and the slow burn. And through all of that, the Lady’s Pull always remained as the last resort. Had Fiddler been a religious man, he would have been obliged, he well knew, to drop every single coin of pay and loot he earned into the coffers of the Lady’s temples, given how many times he had loosed a cusser at targets well within blast range of himself and countless other Malazans. Hedge had been even less… restrained. And, alas, his demise had therefore been of a nature succinctly
unsurprising.
Reminiscing had a way of arriving at the worst of moments, a glamour of nostalgia no doubt infused with subtle but alluring suicidal inclinations, and Fiddler was forced to push all such remembrances aside as he approached Cuttle and the last hole in the path.
‘You should have hightailed it out of here,’ Fiddler said as he settled down beside the modest excavation.
‘No chance of that,’ Cuttle replied in a low voice.
‘As you like, then, but don’t be standing there at Hood’s Gate if I mess this one up.’
‘I hear you, Fid.’
And, trying not to think of Hedge, of Whiskeyjack, Trotts and all the rest; trying not to think of the old days, when the world still seemed new and wondrous, when taking mad risks was all part of the game, Fiddler, the last great saboteur, went to work.
Bottle squinted at the farmhouse. Someone or ones inside there, he was sure enough of that. Living, breathing folk, oh yes. But… something, a faint odour, charnel recollections, or… whatever. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure, and that made him seriously uneasy.
Gesler had moved up beside him, had lain there patient as a tick on a blade of grass, at least to start. But now, a hundred or more heartbeats on, Bottle could sense the man growing restless. Fine enough for him, with that gold skin that didn’t burn once in Y’Ghatan-of course, Truth had
.
shown that the strange skin wasn’t truly impervious, especially when it came to Moranth munitions. Even so, Gesler was a man who had walked through fire, in every permutation of the phrase Bottle could think of, so all of this skulking and trickery and brutal slaughter was fine for him.
But I’m the one they’re all counting on, and I couldn’t use this stupid sword at my belt to hack my way clear of a gaggle of puritanical do-gooders with their pointing fingers and sharp nails and all-gods below, where did that image come from? Damned Mockra, someone’s leaking thoughts. Bottle glanced over at Gesler. ‘Sergeant?’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘Got strange notions in your skull, by any chance?’
A suspicious glance, then Gesler shook his head. ‘Was thinking of an old mage I knew. Kulp. Not that you remind me of him or anything, Bottle. You’re more like Quick Ben, I think, than any of us are comfortable with. Last 1 saw of Kulp, though, was the poor bastard flung head over heels off the stern rail of a ship-in a firestorm. Always wondered what happened to him. I like to think he made it just fine, dropping out of that furnace of a warren and finding himself in some young widow’s back garden, waist-deep in the cool waters of her fountain. Just as she was on her knees praying for salvation or something.’ All at once he looked embarrassed and his gaze flicked away. Aye, I paint pretty pictures of what could be, since what is always turns out so damned bad.’
Bottle’s grunt was soft, then he nodded. ‘I like that, Sergeant. Kind of… relieves me.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Only, shows that you’re not as far from the rest of us as it sometimes seems.’
Gesler grimaced. ‘Then you’d be wrong, soldier. I’m a sergeant, which makes me as far from you and these other idiots as a cave bear from a damned three-legged stoat. Understood?’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
‘Now why are we still hiding here? There’s smoke trickling up from that chimney, meaning we got folks inside. So, give us the damned go-ahead on this, Bottle, then your task’s done, for now.’
‘All right. I think there’s two in there. Quiet, contemplative thoughts, no conversation yet.’
‘Contemplative? As in what a cow thinks with a bellyful of feed in her and a calf tugging wet and hard at a teat? Or like some kind of giant two-headed snake that’s just come down the chimney and swallowed up old Crud-nails and his missus?’
‘Somewhere in between, I’d say.’
Gesler’s expression turned into a glare; then, with a snort, he twisted round and hand-signalled. A moment later Uru Hela crawled past Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas-who was directly behind the sergeant-and came up on Gesler’s left.
‘Sergeant?’
‘Bottle says there’s two in there. I want you to walk up peaceful-like and call ‘em out-you’re thirsty and want to ask for a ladle or two from that well there.’
‘I ain’t thirsty, Sergeant.’
‘Lie, soldier.’
Bottle could see the notion upset her. Spirits fend, the things you find out…
‘How about I just ask to refill my waterskin?’
Aye, that will do.’
‘Of course,’ she said, frowning, ‘I’ll need to empty it out first.’
‘Why don’t you do that?’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
Gesler twisted to look at Bottle, and the young mage could plainly see the man’s battle with pathos and despair. ‘Get yourself ready,’ he said, ‘to hit ‘em with a glamour or something, in case things go all wrong.’
Bottle nodded, then, seeing an entirely new expression on Gesler’s face, he asked, ‘What’s wrong, Sergeant?’
‘Well, either I just wet myself or Uru Hela’s draining her waterskin. On some level,’ he added, ‘I think the distinction’s moot.’
That’s it, Sergeant. You’ve just won me. Right there. Won me, so I’ll give you what I got. From now on. Yet, even with that quasi-serious notion, he had to turn his head away and bite hard on the sleeve of his tanned leather shirt. Better yet, Sergeant, wait till we all see that fine wet patch on your crotch. You won’t live this one down, no sir, not a chance of that. Oh, precious memory!
Strapping her now empty waterskin onto her belt, Uru Hela then squirmed forward a little further, and climbed to her feet. Adjusting her heavy armour and plucking twigs and grass from metal joins and hinges, she tightened the helm strap and set out for the farmhouse.
‘Oh,’ Bottle muttered.
‘What?’ Gesler demanded.
‘They’re suddenly alert-I don’t know, maybe one of them saw her through a crack in the window shutters-no, that’s not right.’
‘What?’
‘Still not talking, but moving around now. A lot. Fast, too. Sergeant, I don’t think they saw her. I think they smelled her. And us.’
‘Smelled? Bottle-’
‘Sergeant, I don’t think they’re human-’
Uru Hela was just passing the well, fifteen paces from the farmhouse’s door, when that door flew open-pushed hard enough to tear it from its leather hinges-and the creature that surged into view seemed too huge to even fit through the frame, coming up as if from stairs sunk steep below ground level-coming up, looming massive, dragging free an enormous single-bladed two-handed wood-axe-
Uru Hela halted, stood motionless as if frozen in place.
‘Forward!’ Gesler bellowed, scrambling upright as he swung up his crossbow-
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas charged past the sergeant, blade out-
Bottle realized his mouth was moving, yet no sounds came forth. He stared, struggling to comprehend. A demon. A Hood’damned Kenryll’ah demon!
It had lunged clear of the doorframe and now charged straight for Uru Hela.
She threw her waterskin at it, then spun to flee, even as she tugged at her sword.
Not nearly fast enough-to escape-the demon’s huge axe slashed in a gleaming, blurred arc, caught the soldier solid in her left shoulder. Arm leapt away. Blood spurted from joins in the scales right across her entire back, as the blade’s broad wedge drove yet deeper. Deeper, severing her spine, then further, tearing loose with her right scapula-cut halfway through-jammed on the gory blade as it whipped clear of Uru Hela’s body.
More blood, so much more, yet the sudden overwhelming gouts of red quickly subsided-the soldier’s heart already stopped, the life that was her mind already fleeing this corporeal carnage-and she was collapsing, forward, the sword in her right hand half drawn and never to go further, head dipping, chin to chest, then down, face-first onto the ground. A heavy sound. A thump. Whereupon all motion from her ceased.
Gesler’s crossbow thudded, releasing a quarrel that sliced past Corabb, not a hand’s breadth from his right shoulder.
A bellow of pain from the demon-the finned bolt sunk deep into its chest, well above its two hearts.
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas closed fast, yelling something in the tribal tongue, something like ‘Leoman’s balls!’
Gesler reloading on one knee. Stormy, Saltlick and Shortnose thundering past him, followed by Koryk and Tarr. Smiles swinging wide, crossbow in her hands-one of Fid’s weapons, this one headed with a sharper-which she then trained on the farmhouse entrance, where a second demon had appeared. Oh, she was fast indeed, that quarrel flitting across the intervening space, making a strange warbling sound as it went, and the second demon, seeing it, somehow swinging his weapon-a tulwar-into its path-not much use, that gesture, as the sharper exploded.
Another scream of pain, the huge demon knocked back, off its feet, crashing into the side of the farmhouse. Wood, sod and chinking bowed inward, and as the demon fell, the entire wall on that side of the doorframe went with it.
And what am I doing? Damn me, what am 1 doing? Bottle leapt upright, desperately drawing on whatever warren first answered his summons.
The axe-wielding demon surged towards Corabb. The wedge-blade slashed its deadly arc. Struck Corabb’s shield at an oblique angle, caromed upward and would have caught the side of Corabb’s head if not for the man’s stumbling, left knee buckling as he inadvertently stepped into a groundhog hole, losing his balance and pitching to one side. His answering sword-swing, which should have been batted aside by the demon’s swing-through, dipped well under it, the edge thunking hard into the demon’s right knee.
It howled.
In the next instant Stormy, flanked by his heavies, arrived. Swords chopping, shields clattering up against the wounded Kenryll’ah. Blood and pieces of meat spattered the air.
Another bellow from the demon as it launched itself backward, clear of the deadly infighting, gaining room to swing the wood-axe in a horizontal slash that crumpled all three shields lifting to intercept it. Banded metal and wood exploded in all directions. Saltlick grunted from a broken arm.
‘Clear!’ someone shouted, and Stormy and his heavies flung themselves backward. Corabb, still lying on the ground, rolled after them.
The demon stood, momentarily confused, readying its axe.
Smiles’s hand-thrown sharper struck it on its left temple.
Bright light, deafening crack, smoke, and the demon was reeling away, one side of its bestial face obliterated into red pulp.
Yet Bottle sensed the creature’s mind already righting itself.
Gesler was yelling. ‘Withdraw! Everyone!’
Summoning all he had, Bottle assailed the demon’s brain with Mockra. Felt it recoil, stunned.
From the ruined farmhouse, the second Kenryll’ah was beginning to clamber free.
Smiles tossed another sharper into the wreckage. A second snapping explosion, more smoke, more of the building falling down.
‘We’re pulling out!’
Bottle saw Koryk and Tarr hesitate, desperate to close in on the stunned demon. At that moment Fiddler and Cuttle arrived.
‘Hood’s balls!’ Fiddler swore. ‘Get moving, Koryk! Tarr! Move!’
Gesler was making some strange gesture. ‘We go south! South!’
Saltlick and Shortnose swung in that direction, but Stormy pulled them back. ‘That’s called misdirection, y’damned idiots!’
The squads reforming as they moved, eastward, now in a run. The shock of Uru Hela’s death and the battle that followed keeping them quiet now, just their gasping breaths, the sounds of armour like broken crockery underfoot. Behind them, smoke billowing from the farmhouse. An axe-wielding demon staggering about in a daze, blood streaming from its head.
Damned sharper should have cracked that skull wide open, Bottle well knew. Thick bones, I guess. Kenryll’ah, aye, not their underlings. No, Highborn of Aral Gamelon, he was sure of that.
Stormy started up. ‘Hood-damned demon farmers! They got Hood-damned demon farmers! Sowing seeds, yanking teats, spinnin’ wool-and chopping strangers to pieces! Gesler, old friend, 1 hate this place, you hear me? Hate it!’
‘Keep quiet!’ Fiddler snarled. ‘We was lucky enough all those sharpers didn’t mince us on the road-now your bleating’s telling those demons exactly where we’re going!’
‘I wasn’t going to lose any more,’ Stormy retorted in a bitter growl. ‘I’d swore it-’
‘Should’ve known better,’ Gesler cut in. ‘Damn you, Stormy, don’t make promises you can’t keep-we’re in a fight here and people are going to die. No more promises, got me?’
A surly nod was his only answer.
They ran on, the end of a long, long night now tumbled over into day. For the others, Bottle knew, there’d be rest ahead. Somewhere. But not him. No, he’d need to work illusions to hide them. He’d need to flit from creature to creature out in the forest, checking on their backtrail. He needed to keep these fools alive.
Crawling from the wreckage of the farmhouse, the demon prince spat out some blood, then settled back onto his haunches and looked blearily around. His brother stood nearby, cut and lashed about the body and half his face torn away. Well, it had never been much of a face anyway, and most of it would grow back. Except maybe for that eye.
His brother saw him and staggered over. ‘I’m never going to believe you again,’ he said.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ The words were harsh, painful to utter. He’d inhaled some flames with that second grenade.
‘You said farming was peaceful. You said we could just retire.’
‘It was peaceful,’ he retorted. ‘All our neighbours ran away, didn’t they?’
‘These ones didn’t.’
‘Weren’t farmers, though. I believe I can say that with some assurance.’
‘My head hurts.’
‘Mine too.’
‘Where did they run to?’
‘Not south.’
‘Should we go after them, brother? As it stands, I’d have to venture the opinion that they had the better of us in this little skirmish, and that displeases me.’
‘It’s worth considering. My ire is awakened, after all. Although I suggest you find your matlock, brother, instead of that silly wood-axe.’
‘Nearest thing within reach. And now I’ll have to dig into our crumpled, smouldering abode-all that digging we did, all for nothing!’
At that moment they heard, distinctly, the sound of horses. Coming fast up the track.
‘Listen, there’s more of them. No time to find your matlock, brother. Let us set forth and commence our sweet vengeance, shall we?’
‘Superior notion indeed. One of my eyes still works, which should suffice.’
The two Kenryll’ah demon princes set out for the cart path.
It was really not their day.
A quarter of a league now from the farmhouse, and Fiddler swung round, confirming for Bottle yet again that the old sergeant had hidden talents. ‘Horses,’ he said.
Bottle had sensed the same.
The squads halted, under bright sunlight, alongside a cobbled road left in bad repair. Another cluster of farm buildings awaited them a thousand paces to the east. No smoke rising from the chimney. No surprise with demons for neighbours, 1 suppose.
The detonations were a drumbeat of thunderous concussions that shook the earth beneath them.
‘Four!’ Fiddler said with a savage grin.
Bottle saw Cuttle staring at the sergeant with undisguised awe and more than a little worship.
Smoke now, billowing in the distance, an earthen blot rising above the treeline.
‘Let’s make for that farm ahead,’ Fiddler said. ‘We’ll rest up there for the day-I don’t think our pursuers are in any condition to do much.’
‘The drum,’ Cuttle whispered. ‘I seen it. The drum. Now I can die happy.’
Damned sappers. Bottle shook his head. There was pain there, now, in that mangled stretch of track a quarter-league away. Human, beast, and… oh, and demon. You’d have done better chasing us. Even so, what a mess we’ve made.
Yes, plenty of pain, but more death. Flat, dwindling death, spreading dark as that dust in the air. Fiddler’s drum. No better announcement imaginable, that the Malazans were here.
Thom Tissy’s descent from the tree was a little loud, a little fast. In a skein of snapped branches, twigs, leaves and one abandoned wasp nest, the sergeant landed heavy and hard on his backside. ‘Ow, gods below, gods below!’
‘Ain’t no god at that end, just a tailbone,’ a soldier called out from the nearby squads.
Keneb waited for a few more heartbeats, then asked, ‘Sergeant, tell me what you saw.’
Thom Tissy slowly, carefully, regained his feet. He walked about on his short bandy legs, squat as an ogre, replete with pocked face and warty hands. ‘Smoke, Fist, and plenty of it. Counted ten spots in all, one of ‘em big-probably the thunder we heard a little while back-more than one cusser for sure. Maybe three, maybe more.’
Meaning someone was in desperate trouble. Keneb glanced away, scanned the motley soldiers hunkered down in the forest glade. ‘Ten?’
‘Aye, Fist. I guess we stirred ‘em up some, enough so that the fighting’s getting fierce. When the captain gets back, we’ll find out some details, I suppose.’
Yes. Faradan Sort. But she and Beak had been away for days, almost a week now.
‘Ten.’
‘Expecting more, Fist!’ Thorn Tissy asked. ‘My line of sight wasn’t bad, but not perfect. I saw six on the north side, four on the south, putting us near dead centre and a half a night’s travel behind. Anyway, the outermost smokes were right on the horizons, so we’re still spread well out, the way we should be. And the smoke just tells us where bigger fights happened, not all the other little ambushes and the like. Something wrong, Fist?’
‘Settle the squads in,’ Keneb replied, turning away. Oh, aye, there was fighting going on. But nothing evenly matched. His marines were outnumbered; no chance of acquiring the allies they’d thought they’d get. True, they were loaded down with munitions, but the more mages arriving with the Edur and Letherii troops the more the sheer overwhelming imbalance would start to tell. His squads, even paired up, couldn’t afford losses. Four or five dead and that threshold of effectiveness would have been crossed. There would have to be convergence, merging of survivors-and this leagues-long line of advance would start thinning out. Instead of gaining in strength and momentum as the advance began to close in on this empire’s capital, the Malazan marines would in fact be weaker.
Of course, this invasion was not simply Keneb’s covert marine advance. There were other elements-the Adjunct and Blistig’s regular infantry, who would be led in the field, when that time came, by the terrifying but competent Captain Kindly. There were the Khundryl Burned Tears and the Perish-although they were, for the moment, far away. A complicated invasion indeed.
For us, here, all we need to do is sow confusion, cut supplies to the capital whenever we can, and just keep the enemy off balance, guessing, reacting rather than initiating. The fatal blows will come from elsewhere, and I need to remind myself of that. So that I don’t try to do too much. What counts is keeping as many of my marines alive as possible-not that the Adjunct’s tactics with us give me much chance of that. 1 think I’m starting to understand how the Bridgehumers felt, when they were being thrown into every nightmare, again and again.
Especially at the end. Pale, Darujhistan, that city called Black Coral.
But no, this is different. The Adjunct doesn’t want us wiped out. That would be insanity, and she may be a cold, cold bitch, but she’s not mad. At least not so it’s showed, anyway.
Keneb cursed himself. The strategy had been audacious, yes, yet founded on sound principles. On traditional principles, in fact. Kellanved’s own, in the purpose behind the creation of the marines; in the way the sappers rose to pre-eminence, once the Moranth munitions arrived to revolutionize Malazan-style warfare. This was, in fact, the old, original way of employing the marines-although the absence of supply lines, no matter how tenuous or stretched, enforced a level of commitment that allowed no deviation, no possibility of retreat-she burned the transports and not a Quorl in sight-creating a situation that would have made the Emperor squirm.
Or not. Kellanved had known the value of gambles, had known how an entire war could shift, could turn on that single unexpected, outrageous act, the breaking of protocol that left the enemy reeling, then, all at once, entirely routed.
Such acts were what made military geniuses. Kellanved, Dassem Ultor, Sher’arah of Korel, Prince K’azz D’avore of the Crimson Guard. Caladan Brood. Coltaine. Dujek.
Did Adjunct Tavore belong in this esteemed company? She’s not shown it yet, has she? Gods above, Keneb, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’ll become another Blistig and one Llistig is more than enough.
He needed to focus on the matters at hand. He and the marines were committed to this campaign, this bold gamble. Leave the others to do their part, believing at all times that they would succeed, that they would appear in their allotted positions when the moment arrived. They would appear, yes, with the expectation that he, Keneb, would do the same. With the bulk of his marines.
Game pieces, aye. Leave the deciding hand to someone else. To fate, to the gods, to Tavore of Home Varan, Adjunct to No-one. So bringing me round, damn this, to faith. Again. Faith. That she’s not insane. That she’s a military genius to rival a mere handful of others across the span of Malazan history.
Faith. Not in a god, not in fate, but in a fellow mortal. Whose face he knew well, remembering with grim clarity its limited range of expression, through grief to anger, to her ferocious will to achieve… whatever it is she seeks to achieve. Now, if only I knew what that was.
Perhaps this kind of fighting was suited to the marines. But it was not suited to Keneb himself. Not as commander, not as Fist. It was hard not to feel helpless. He wasn’t even in contact with his army, beyond sporadic murmurings among the squad mages. I’ll feel better when Faradan Sort returns.
If she returns.
‘Fist.’
Keneb turned. ‘You following me round, Sergeant?’
‘No sir,’ Thorn Tissy replied. ‘Just thought I’d say, before I sack out, that, well, we understand.’
‘Understand what? Who is “we”?’
‘All of us, sir. It’s impossible. I mean, for you. We know that.’
‘Do you now?’
‘Aye. You can’t lead. You’re stuck with following, and not knowing what in Hood’s name is happening to your soldiers, because they’re all over the place-’
‘Go get some sleep, Sergeant. And tell the rest, I am not aware that any of this is impossible. We maintain the advance, and that is that.’
‘Well, uh-’
‘You presume too much, Sergeant. Now return to your squad, tell your soldiers to stow all the theorizing, and go get some sleep.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Keneb watched the squat man walk away. Decent of him, all that rubbish. Decent, but pointless and dangerous. We’re not friends, Thorn Tissy. Neither of us can afford that.
After a moment, he allowed himself a wry smile. All of his complaints regarding Tavore, and here he was, doing the same damned thing that she did-pushing them all away.
Because it was necessary. Because there was no choice.
So, if she’s mad, then so am I.
Hood take me, maybe we all are.
The long descent of the ice field stretched out before them, studded with the rubble and detritus that was all that remained of the Age of the Jaghut. They stood side by side, a body without a soul and a soul without a body, and Hedge wished he could be more mindful of that delicious irony, hut as long as he could not decide which of them was more lost, the cool pleasure of that recognition evaded his grasp.
Beyond the ice field’s ragged demise two thousand paces distant, copses of deciduous trees rose in defiant exuberance, broken here and there by glades green with chest-high grasses. This patchwork landscape extended onward, climbing modest hills until those hills lifted higher, steeper, and the forest canopy, unbroken now, was thie darker green of conifers.
‘I admit,’ Hedge said, finally breaking the silence between them, ‘I didn’t expect anything like this. Broken tundra, maybe. Heaps of gravel, those dry dusty dunes stirred round by the winds. Mostly lifeless. Struggling, in other words.’
‘Yes,’ Emroth said in her rasping voice. ‘Unexpected, this close to the Throne of Ice.’
They set out down the slope.
‘I think,’ Hedge ventured after a time, ‘we should probably get around to discussing our respective, uh, destinations.’
The T’lan Imass regarded him with her empty, carved-out eyes. ‘We have travelled together, Ghost. Beyond that, nothing exists to bind you to me. I am a Broken, an Unbound, and I have knelt before a god. My path is so ordained, and all that would oppose me will be destroyed by my hand.’
‘And how, precisely, do you plan on destroying me, Emroth?’ Hedge asked..’I’m a Hood-forsaken ghost, after all.’
‘My inability to solve that dilemma, Ghost, is the only reason you are still with me. That, and my curiosity. I now believe you intend something inimical to my master-perhaps, indeed, your task is to thwart me. And yet, as a ghost, you can do nothing-’
‘Are you so sure?’
She did not reply. They reached to within thirty or so paces from the edge of the ice, where they halted again and the T’lan Imass shifted round to study him.
‘Manifestation of the will,’ Hedge said, smiling as he crossed his arms. ‘Took me a long time to come up with that phrase, and the idea behind it. Aye, I am a ghost, but obviously not your usual kind of ghost. I persist, even unto fashioning this seemingly solid flesh and bone-where does such power come from? That’s the question. I’ve chewed on this for a long time. In fact, ever since I opened my nonexistent eyes and realized I wasn’t in Coral any longer. I was someplace else. And then, when I found myself in, uh, familiar company, well, things got even more mysterious.’ He paused, then winked. ‘Don’t mind me talking now, Emroth?’
‘Go on,’ she said.
Hedge’s smile broadened, then he nodded and said, ‘The Bridgeburners, Emroth. That’s what we were called. An elite division in the Malazan Army. Pretty much annihilated at Coral-our last official engagement, I suppose. And that should have been that.
‘But it wasn’t. No. Some Tanno Spiritwalker gave us a song, and it was a very powerful song. The Bridgeburners, Emroth-the dead ones, that is; couldn’t say either way for the few still alive-us dead ones, we ascended.
‘Manifestation of the will, T’lan Imass. I’d hazard you understand that notion, probably better than I do. But such power didn’t end with your cursed Ritual. No, maybe you just set the precedent.’
‘You are not flesh without soul.’
‘No, I’m more like your reflection. Sort of inverted, aye?’
‘I sense no power from you,’ Emroth said, head tilting a fraction. ‘Nothing. You are not even here.’
Hedge smiled again, and slowly withdrew a cusser from beneath his raincape. He held it up between them. ‘Is this, Emroth?’
‘I do not know what that is.’
‘Aye, but is it even here?’
‘No. Like you it is an illusion.’
‘An illusion, or a manifestation of the will? My will?’
‘There is no value in the distinction,’ the T’lan Imass asserted.
You cannot see the truth within me, for the vision you’d need to see it is not within you. You threw it away, at the Ritual. You wilfully blinded yourselves to the one thing that can destroy you. That is, perhaps, destroying your kind even now-some trouble on the continent of Assail, yes? I have vague recollections of somebody hearing something… well, never mind that. The point here, Emroth, is this: you cannot understand me because you cannot see me. Beyond, that is, what I have willed into existence-this body, this cusser, this face-’
‘In which,’ Emroth said, ‘I now see my destruction.’
‘Not necessarily. A lot depends on our little conversation here. You say you have knelt before a god-no, it’s all right, I’ve already worked out who, Emroth. And you’re now doing its bidding.’ Hedge eyed the cusser in his hand. Its weight felt just right. It’s here, just like back at the Deragoth statues. No different at all. ‘I’ve walked a long way,’ he resumed, ‘starting out in the Jaghut underworld. I don’t recall crossing any obvious borders, or stepping through any gates. And the ice fields we’ve been crossing for what must have been weeks, well, that made sense, too. In fact, I’m not even much surprised we found the Ice Throne-after all, where else would it be?’ With his free hand he gestured at the forest-clad expanse before them. ‘But this…’
‘Yes,’ said the T’lan Imass. ‘You held to the notion of distinction, as do all your kind. The warrens. As if each was separate-’
‘But they are,’ Hedge insisted. ‘I’m not a mage, but I knew one. A very good one, with more than a few warrens at his disposal. Each one is an aspect of power. There are barriers between them. And chaos at their roots, and threading in between.’
‘Then what do you see here, Ghost?’
‘I don’t know, but it isn’t Jaghut. Yet now, well, I’m thinking it’s Elder, just like Jaghut. An Elder Warren. Which doesn’t leave many options, does it? Especially since this is your destination.’
‘In that you would be wrong,’ Emroth replied.
‘But you recognize it.’
‘Of course. It is Tellann. Home.’
‘Yet it’s here, trapped in the Jaghut underworld, Emroth. How can that be?’
‘I do not know.’
‘If it’s not your destination, then, I think I need to know if our finding it changes anything. For you, I mean.’
The head cocked yet further. ‘And upon my answer hangs my fate, Ghost?’
Hedge shrugged. The cusser was too real all right: his arm had begun to ache.
‘I have no answer for you,’ Emroth said, and Hedge might have heard something like regret in the creature’s voice, although more likely that was just his imagination. ‘Perhaps, Ghost,’ she continued after a moment, ‘what we see here is an example of this manifestation of the will.’
The sapper’s eyes widened. ‘Whose?’
‘In the Jaghut Wars, many T’lan Imass fell. Those who could not flee what remained of their bodies were left where they fell, for they had failed. On rare occasions, a Fallen would be gifted, so that its eternal vision looked out upon a vista rather than a stretch of ground or the darkness of earth. The T’lan Imass who were more thoroughly destroyed were believed to have found oblivion. True nonexistence, which we came to hold as the greatest gift of all.’
Hedge glanced away. These damned T’lan Imass were heartbreakers, in every sense of the term.
‘Perhaps,’ Emroth continued, ‘for some, oblivion was not what they found. Dragged down into the Jaghut underworld, the Jaghut realm of death. A place without the war, without, perhaps, the Ritual itself.’
‘Without the war? This is the Jaghut underworld-shouldn’t it be filled with Jaghut? Their souls? Their spirits?’
‘The Jaghut do not believe in souls, Ghost.’
Hedge stared, dumbfounded. ‘But… that’s ridiculous. If no souls, then how in Hood’s name am I here?’
‘It occurs to me,’ Emroth said with rasping dryness, ‘that manifestation of the will can go both ways.’
‘Their disbelief annihilated their own souls? Then why create an underworld?’
‘Verdith’anath is an ancient creation. It may be that the first Jaghut souls found it not to their liking. To create a realm of death is the truest manifestation of will, after all. And yet, what is created is not always solely what was willed. Every realm finds… resident beings. Every realm, once formed, is rife with bridges, gates, portals. If the Jaghut did not find it to their liking, other creatures did.’
‘Like your T’lan Imass.’
‘In the ages of ice that beset our kind,’ Emroth said, ‘there existed pockets of rich land, often surrounded in ice, yet resisting its fierce power. In these pockets, Ghost, the old ways of the Imass persisted. Places of forests, sometimes tundra, and, always, the beasts we knew so well. Our name for such a place was Farl ved ten ara. A refugium.’
Hedge studied the forested hills. ‘There are Imass in there.’
‘I believe that is so.’
‘Do you intend to seek them out, Emroth?’
‘Yes. I must.’
‘And what of your new god?’
‘If you would destroy me, do it now, Ghost.’ With that she turned and began walking towards the Refugium.
Hedge stood, shifted the cusser to his right hand, and gauged distance. The Crippled God would welcome more allies, wouldn’t he just? You go, Emroth, to meet this timeless kin. With your words marshalled to sway them, to offer them a new faith. Your kin. Could be thousands of them. Tens of thousands.
But they’re not what you came for.
Like me, Emroth, you’re heading for the gate. Starvald Demelain. Where anything is possible.
Including the destruction of the warrens.
It’s the blood, you see. The blood of dragons. Outside and inside. Dead and living. Aye, amazing the things you figure out. once you’re dead. But not dead. Aye, it’s all about the will.
The cusser returned to his left hand.
Arm angled back. Then swung forward. He watched the cusser’s arc for the briefest of moments, then, as habit demanded, he pitched sideways, onto the ground-
Even as it lurched up to meet him, a stone cracking hard against his chin. The concussion had of course deafened him, and he stared about, spitting blood from his tooth-sliced tongue. His left arm was gone, as was most of his left hip and thigh. Snow and dust drifting down, sparkling in the sunlight. Pebbles and clods of frozen earth now landing all around him, bouncing, skittering. The snow in the air, sparkling like magic.
He spat more blood, felt his chin with his one remaining hand and found a deep gash there, studded with gravel. He scowled, dismissed these absurd details. No more blood, a tongue whole and ever eager to wag. Smooth chin, unmarred by any gash-well, more or less smooth, under all that stubble. New left leg, hip, arm. Aye, that’s better.
The sapper climbed to his feet.
The crater was appropriately large, suitably deep, reaching down past the skin of ice and snow to the ground underneath, that now steamed sodden and glistening. Pieces of Emroth here and there. Not many. Cussers were like that, after all.
‘Aye,’ Hedge muttered, ‘Fid’s the sentimental one.’
Thirty, then thirty-five paces on, reaching the first sward of riotous grass, the sapper came upon one more fragment of Emroth’s body. And he halted. Stared down for some time. Then slowly turned and studied the way he had come, the borderline between ice and earth.
Farl ved ten ara. Refugium indeed. ‘Shit,’ he muttered. Worse yet, she’d told him. A place without the Ritual itself.
After a long moment, Hedge turned back to the forest ahead. He stepped over the torn, severed left leg lying bleeding in the grass. Flesh and blood, aye. A woman’s leg. Damned shapely at that.
‘Shit,’ he said again, hurrying on. ‘Fid’s the soft-hearted one, that he is. Fiddler. Not me. Not me.’ Wiping at his cheeks, cursing the ghost tears on his ghost face, and alone once more in this insipid, uninspiring realm of the dead, the Bridgeburner went on. Undead for a few hundred thousand years. Broken, Fallen, then resurrected, enough to walk once more. And, finally, thirty or so paces from a return to life…
A grim lesson about keeping the wrong company.
Seeking the forest. Beneath the thick branches at last, the heavy fluttering of a new season’s painfully green leaves. Spin and whirl of insects, the chitter of birds. Into the forest, aye, beyond the sight of that severed limb, the borderland, the steaming crater.
Shit!
‘Damned soft of you, Fid. But we’re at war, like I keep telling you. We’re at war. And I don’t care if it’s a damned Jaghut Bridge of Death, it’s still a bridge, and you know what we do to bridges, don’t you?’
Refugium.
But no refuge for me.
The emlava kittens were heavy as cattle dogs but shorter of leg and nowhere near as energetic. All they wanted to do was sleep. And feed. For the first few days, carrying them invited deadly fits of lashing talons and terrifying lunges with jaws opened wide. Unmindful of macabre irony, Onrack used their mother’s skinned hide to fashion a sack. Ends affixed to a cut sapling, the Imass and either Quick Ben or Trull would then carry between them the two hissing, thrashing creatures in their ghastly bag.
The ay never came close again.
A male and a female, their grey fur not yet banded and the pale hue of ashes rather than the dark iron of their mother. In the cave there had been a third one, dead a week or more. From the condition of its body, its siblings had decided on eliminating it. So fared the weak in this and every other world.
Trull’s sense of wonder was reawakened every time he glanced across at Onrack. A friend in the flesh was truly a revelation. He had imagined himself long past such profound, prolonged astonishment. The day he had been Shorn by his brother, it had seemed to him that his heart had died. Chained to stone, awaiting the cold water and the rot that it promised, the muscle that forged the tides of his blood seemed to beat on in some kind of waning inertia.
The desiccated corpse that was Onrack, walking up to where he had been bound, had even then seemed an unlikely salvation.
Trull recalled he’d had to argue with the T’lan Imass to win his own release. The thought amused him still.
Creaking sinew and cabled muscle and torque-twisted bone, Onrack had been the personification of indifference. As unmindful of life and its struggle to persist as only a lifeless thing could be.
And so Trull had simply tagged along, unwilling to admit to himself the burgeoning truth of his salvation-his reluctant return to life in the company of an undead warrior who had begun to discover his own life, the memories once thought surrendered, to time and cruel ritual, to wilful denial spanning tens of thousands of years.
What had bound them together? What improbable menagerie of terse conversations, unanticipated emotions and the shared extremity of combat had so thoroughly entwined them together, now as brothers yet more a brother than any of those with whom Trull Sengar shared blood? We stood side by side, together facing certain defeat. Only to find blessing in the timid hand of a creature not even half human. Oh, 1 know her well, that one.
Yet she is a secret 1 find 1 cannot share with Onrack, with my friend. Now, if only he was as coy, as guarded. Not this… this open regard, this casting away of every natural, reasonable defence. This childness-by the Sisters, Trull, at least find yourself a word that exists. But he seems so young! Not of age, but of cast. A species of unmitigated innocence-is such a thing even possible?
Well, he might know the answer to that soon enough. They had found signs as they trekked this youthful world. Camps, hearthstones lining firepits. Places where stone tools had been made, a flat boulder where an Imass had sat, striking flakes from flint, leaving behind a half-circle scatter of splinters. Refuse pits, filled with bones charred white or boiled to extract the fat, leaving them crumbly and light as pumice; scorched shell fragments from the gourds used to heat the bones in water; and the shattered rocks that had been plunged hot into that water to bring it to a boil. Signs of passing this way, some only a few weeks old, by Onrack’s estimations.
Did those Imass know that strangers had come among them? To this even Onrack had no answer. His kind were shy, he explained, and cunning. They might watch from hiding places for days, nights, and only when they so chose would they reveal enough to touch Onrack’s senses, his animal awareness with its instinctive whispering. Eyes are upon us, friends. It is time.
Trull waited for those words.
The emlava kits yowled, announcing their hunger.
Trull, who had taken point whilst Onrack and the wizard carried the beasts in their sack, halted and turned about.
Time for feeding. Else not a single moment of peace.
Groaning, Quick Ben set down his end of the sling-pole, watched bemusedly as the two kits spat and clawed their way free of the skin, hissing at each other then at Onrack, who began withdrawing leaf-wrapped hunks of raw antelope. The meat was foul, but clearly this was no deterrent for the emlava cubs as they lunged towards him.
The Imass flung the meat onto the ground to spare his own hands, and then stepped away with an odd smile on his face.
Too many odd smiles these days, the wizard thought. As if the blinding wonder and joy had begun to dim-not much, only a fraction, yet Quick Ben believed it was there, a hint of dismay. He was not surprised. No-one could sus-tain such pure pleasure indefinitely. And, for all this seeming paradise-at least a paradise by Imass standards-there remained something vaguely unreal about it. As if it was no more than an illusion, already begun to fray at the edges.
No real evidence of that, however. The wizard could feel the health of this place. It was strong, and, he now suspected, it was growing. As Omtose Phellack waned on all sides. The end of an age, then. An age that had ended everywhere else long, long ago. But isn’t Tellann itself dead everywhere else? Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just changed, grown into itself. Maybe, everywhere else, what we’re seeing-what we’re living in-is Tellann ascendant, victor in the war of millennia past, dominant and secure in its maturity. Is that possible?
Yet that did not mesh with Onrack, with how he had been and how he was now. Unless… gods below, unlike everywhere else, this is one fragment of Tellann that lies, somehow, beyond the Ritual. That is why he is flesh and blood here. In this place, there was no Ritual of Tellann, no severing of Imass souls. Suggesting that the Imass living here know nothing about it.
So what would happen if Logros led his thousands here? If Kron-But no, Silverfox wouldn’t permit that. She needed them for something else. For another war.
It’d be nice to know how this fragment related to the one created for the Wolves at the end of the Pannion War. From what Quick Ben had understood, that Beast Hold, or whatever it had been called, had been seeded with the souls of T’lan Imass. Or at least the memories of those souls-could be that’s all a soul really is: the bound, snarled mass of memories from one life. Huh. Might explain why mine is such a mess. Too many lives, too many disparate strands all now tangled together…
Trull Sengar had set off in search of water-springs bubbled up from bedrock almost everywhere, as if even the stone itself was saturated with glacial melt.
Onrack eyed the cats for another moment then turned to Quick Ben. ‘There is a sweep of ice beyond these hills,’ he said. ‘I can smell its rot-an ancient road, once travelled by Jaghut. Fleeing slaughter. This intrusion, wizard, troubles me.’
‘Why? Presumably that battle occurred thousands of years ago and the Jaghut are all dead.’
‘Yes. Still, that road reminds me of… things. Awakens memories…’
Quick Ben slowly nodded. ‘Like shadows, aye.’
‘Just so.’
‘You had to know it couldn’t last.’
The Imass frowned, the expression accentuating his strangely unhuman, robust features. ‘Yes, perhaps I did, deep within me. I had… forgotten.’
‘You’re too damned hard on yourself, Onrack. You don’t need to keep yourself shining so bright all the time.’
Onrack’s smile held sadness. ‘I gift my friend,’ he said quietly, ‘for all the gifts he has given me.’
Quick Ben studied the warrior’s face. ‘The gift loses its value, Onrack, if it goes on too long. It begins to exhaust us, all of us.’
‘Yes, I see that now.’
‘Besides,’ the wizard added, watching the two emlava, their bellies full, now mock-fighting on the blood-smeared grass, ‘showing your fallible side is another kind of gift. The kind that invites empathy instead of just awe. If that makes any sense.’
‘It does.’
‘You’ve been making lots of paints, haven’t you?’
A sudden smile. ‘You are clever. When I find a wall of stone that speaks… yes, a different kind of gift. My forbidden talents.’
‘Forbidden? Why?’
‘It is taboo among my people to render our own forms in likeness to truth. Too much is captured, too much is trapped in time. Hearts can break, and betrayals breed like vermin.’
Quick Ben glanced up at Onrack, then away. Hearts can break. Aye, the soul can haunt, can’t it just.
Trull Sengar returned, waterskins sloshing. ‘By the Sisters,’ he said to Onrack, ‘is that a frown you’re wearing?’
‘It is, friend. Do you wish to know why?’
‘Not at all. It’s just, uh, well, a damned relief, to be honest.’
Onrack reached down and snagged one of the cubs, lifting it by the scruff of its neck. The beast hissed in outrage, writhing as he held it up. ‘Trull Sengar, you may explain to our friend why Imass are forbidden to paint likenesses of themselves. You may also tell him my story, so that he understands, and need not ask again why I am awakened to pain within me, recalling now, as I do, that mortal flesh is only made real when fed by the breath of love.’
Quick Ben studied Onrack with narrowed eyes. I don’t recall asking anything like that. Well, not out hud, anyway.
Trull Sengar’s relieved expression fell away and he sighed, but it was a loose sigh, the kind that marked the unbinding of long-held tensions. ‘I shall. Thank you, Onrack. Some secrets prove a heavy burden. And when I am done revealing to Quick Ben one of the details of your life that has served to forge our friendship, I will then tell you both of my own secret. I will tell you of the Eres’al and what she did to me, long before she appeared to us all in the cavern.’
A moment of long silence.
Then Quick Ben snorted. ‘Fine. And I’ll tell a tale of twelve souls. And a promise I made to a man named Whiskeyjack-a promise that has brought me all this way, with farther still to go. And then, I suppose, we shall all truly know each other.’
‘It is,’ Onrack said, collecting the second cub so he could hold both beasts up side by side, ‘a day for gifts.’
From beyond the hills there came the sound of thunder. That faded, and did not repeat.
The emlava were suddenly quiet.
‘What was that?’ Trull Sengar asked.
Quick Ben could feel his heart pound in his chest. ‘That, friends, was a cusser.’
Fiddler made his way across the dirt floor of the barn to where Bottle slept. He stared down at the young soldier curled up beneath a dark grey blanket. Poor bastard. He nudged with his foot and Bottle groaned. ‘Sun’s set,’ Fiddler said.
‘I know, Sergeant. I watched it going down.’
‘We’ve rigged a stretcher. Just get up and eat something and then you’ve got a mobile bed for the rest of the night.’
‘Unless you need me.’
‘Unless we need you, aye.’
Bottle sat up, rubbed at his face. ‘Thanks, Sergeant. I don’t need the whole night-half will do.’
‘You take what I give you, soldier. Cut it short and we could all end up regretting it.’
‘All right, fine, make me feel guilty, then. See if I care.’
Smiling, Fiddler turned away. The rest of the squad was readying the gear, a few muted words drifting between the soldiers. Gesler and his crew were in the abandoned farmhouse-no point in crowding up all in one place. Poor tactics anyway.
There had been no pursuit. The drum had done its work. But that was four cussers lost, to add to the others they’d already used. Down to two left and that was bad news. If another enemy column found them… we’re dead or worse. Well, marines weren’t supposed to have it easy. Good enough that they were still alive.
Cuttle approached. ‘Tarr says we’re ready, Fid.’ He glanced over at Bottle. ‘I got the sorry end of the stretcher to start, soldier. You better not have gas.’
Bottle, a mouthful of nuts and lard bulging his cheeks, simply stared up at the sapper.
‘Gods below,’ Cuttle said, ‘you’re eating one of those Khundryl cakes, ain’t ya? Well, Fid, if we need us a torch to light the way-’
‘Permission denied, Cuttle.’
‘Aye, probably right. It’d light up half the night sky. Hood’s breath, why do I always get the short twig?’
‘So long as you face off against Corabb on that kind of thing,’ Fiddler said, ‘short’s your middle name.’
Cuttle edged closer to Fiddler and said in a low voice, ‘That big bang yesterday’s gonna draw down a damned army-
Assuming they’ve fielded one. So far, we’re running into companies, battalion elements-as if an army’s dispersed, which is more or less what we expected them to do. No point in maintaining a single force when your enemy’s scattered right across Hood’s pimply backside. If they were smart they’d draw up reserves and saturate the region, leave us not a single deer trail to slink along.’
‘So far,’ Cuttle said, squinting through the gloom at the rest of the squad and massaging his roughly healed shoulder, ‘they ain’t been very smart.’
‘Moranth munitions are new to them,’ Fiddler pointed out. ‘So’s our brand of magic. Whoever’s in command here is probably still reeling, still trying to guess our plans.’
‘My guess is whoever was in command, Fid, is now Rannalled in tree branches.’
Fiddler shrugged, then lifted his pack onto his shoulders and collected his crossbow.
Corporal Tarr checked his gear one last time, then straightened. He drew his left arm through the shield straps, adjusted his sword belt, then tightened the strap of his helm.
‘Most people just carry their shields on their backs,’ Koryk said from where he stood by the barn’s entrance.
‘Not me,’ said Tarr. ‘Get ambushed and there’s no time to ready, is there? So I stay readied.’ He then rolled his shoulders to settle his scaled hauberk, a most familiar, satisfying rustle and clack of iron. He felt unsteady on his feet without that solid, anchoring weight. He had quick-release clasps for his pack of equipment, could drop all that behind him one-handed even as he stepped forward and drew his sword. At least one of them in this squad had to be first to the front, after all, to give them time to bring whatever they had to bear.
This was what he had been trained to do, from the very beginning. Braven Tooth had seen it true enough, seen into Tarr’s stolid, stubborn soul, and he’d said as much, hadn’t he? ‘Your name’s Tarr, soldier. It’s under your feet and you’re s tuck fast. When needs be. It’s your job, from now on. You hold back the enemy at that first blink of contact, you make your squad survive mat moment, aye? Now, you ain’t solid enough yet. Strap on these extra weights, soldier, then get sparring…’
He liked the idea of being immovable. He liked the idea of being corporal, too, especially the way he hardly ever had to say anything. He had a good squad for that. Fast learners. Even Smiles. Corabb he wasn’t too sure about. Aye, the man had Oponn’s wink true enough. And no shortage of courage. But it seemed he always had to get there first, before Tarr himself. Trying to prove something, of course. No mystery there. As far as the squad was concerned, Corabb was a recruit. More or less. Well, maybe he was a bit past that-nobody called him Recruit, did they? Even if Tarr still thought of him that way.
But Corabb had dragged Fiddler out. All by himself. A damned prisoner, and he’d done that. Saved the sergeant’s life. Almost enough to excuse him being at Leoman’s side as the two of them lured the Bonehunters into Y’Ghatan’s fiery nightmare.
Almost.
Aye, Tarr knew he wasn’t the forgiving kind. Not the forgetting kind, either. And he knew, deep down inside, that he’d stand for every soldier in his squad, stand till he fell. Except, maybe, for Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas.
Koryk taking far point, they headed out into the night.
Along the edge of the nearest stand of trees, on the path between those boles and the edge of the fallow field, they silently merged with Gesler and his squad. Setting out in darkness beneath burgeoning stars.
Stormy’s heavies were good to have around, Tarr decided. Almost as tough and stubborn as he was. Too bad, though, about Uru Hela. But she’d been careless, hadn’t she? Even if you’re carrying a waterskin, the least you should have at the ready was a shield. Even more appalling, she’d turned and run, exposing her back.
Should’ve sent me to do all that. Demon or no, I’d have stood to meet the bastard. Stood, and held.
‘Remember your name, Tare. And just to help you remember it, come over here and listen to your Master Sergeant, while I tell you a tale. About another soldier with tar under his feet. His name was Temper, and on the day Dassem Ultor fell, outside Y’Ghatan, well, here then is that tale…’
Tarr had listened, all right. Enough to know that a man like that couldn’t have existed, except in the mind of Master Sergeant Braven Tooth. But it had been inspiring anyway. Temper, a good name, a damned good name. Almost as good as Tarr.
Three paces behind her corporal, Smiles scanned to either side as they moved along the trail, eyes restless with unease, senses awakened to such acuity her skull ached. Bottle was sleeping. Which meant no tiny spying eyes checking out the area, no forest animals tricked into succumbing to Bottle’s puny will, that empathy of similar brain size and intelligence that had so well served them all thus far.
And their damned corporal, all clicking scales and creaking leather, who probably couldn’t put fifteen words together in any reasonable, understandable order. Fine enough jamming a breach, with his ridiculous oversized shield-the only one left after that demon took care of the ones used by the heavies-and his short thick-bladed sword. The kind of soldier who’d hold his ground even when dead. Useful, aye, but as a corporal? She couldn’t figure that.
No, Fid would have been better served with a quickwitted, fast, nasty and hard-to-hit kind of corporal. Well, there was one consolation, and that was anyone could see she was next in line. And it’d been close back there, hadn’t it? Could’ve been Tarr sent out to say hello to that demon, and that would have been that. She’d now be Corporal Smiles, and look sharp there, y’damned fish-sniffers.
But never mind Tarr. It was Koryk who was riding her, uh, mind. A killer, oh yes, a real killer. Sort of like her but without the subtlety, and that made the two of them a good match. Dangerous, scary, the core of the nastiest squad in the Bonehunters. Oh, Balm’s crew might argue that, especially that yelping Throatslitter, but they were lounging round on a damned island right now, weren’t they? Not out here doing what marines were supposed to do, infiltrating, kicking the white squirmy balls outa Edur and Letherii and blowing up the occasional company just to remind Hood who did all the delivering.
She liked this life, yes she did. Better than that squalid existence she’d climbed out of back home. Poor village girl cowering in the ghostly shadow of a dead sister. Wondering when the next vanishing of the shoals would spell her watery demise. Oh, but the boys had wanted her once she’d been the only one left, wanted to fill that shadow with their own, as if that was even possible.
But Koryk here, well, that was different. Felt different, anyway. Because she was older now, she supposed. More experienced, so much so that she now knew what stirred her little winged flutter-bird. Watching Koryk kill people, ah, that had been so sweet, and lucky everyone else was too busy to have heard her moan and nearly squeal and guess what it’d meant.
Revelations were the world’s sharpest spice, and she’d just had a noseful. Making the night somehow clearer, cleaner. Every detail blade-edged, eager to be seen, noted by her glittering eyes. She heard the small creatures moving through the scrub of the fallow field, heard the frogs race up the boles of nearby trees. Mosquito hum and-
A sudden blinding flash to the south, a bloom of fiery light lifting skyward above a distant treeline. A moment later the rumble of twin detonations reached them. Everyone motionless now, crouched down. The small creatures frozen, quivering, terrified.
‘Bad time for an ambush,’ Koryk muttered as he worked his way back, slipping past Tarr.
‘So not one sprung by Malazan marines,’ Fiddler said, moving up to meet Koryk and Tarr. ‘That was a league away, maybe less. Anyone recall which squads were to our right first night?’
Silence.
‘Should we head over, Sergeant?’ Tarr asked. He had drawn his shortsword. ‘Could be they need our help.’
Gesler arrived. ‘Stormy says he heard sharpers after the cussers,’ the sergeant said. ‘Four or five.’
‘Could be the ambush got turned,’ Smiles said, struggling to control her breathing. Oh, take us there, you damned sergeant. Let me see Koryk fight again. It’s this itch, you see…
‘Not in our orders,’ Fiddler said. ‘If they’ve been mauled, the survivors will swing north or south and come looking for friends. We keep going.’
‘They come up to find us and they might have a thousand enemy on their heels,’ Gesler said.
‘Always a possibility,’ Fiddler conceded. ‘All right, Koryk, back on point. We go on, but with extra stealth. We’re not the only ones to see and hear that, so we might run into a troop riding hard across our path. Set us a cautious pace, soldier.’
Nodding, Koryk set out along the trail.
Smiles licked her lips, glowered at Tarr. ‘Put the damned pig-sticker away, Tarr.’
‘That’s “Corporal” to you, Smiles.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Hood’s breath, it’s gone to his head.’
‘And those aren’t knives in your hands?’
Smiles sheathed them, said nothing.
‘Go on,’ Fiddler ordered them. ‘Koryk’s waiting.’
Corabb picked up his end of the stretcher again and set out after the others. Bottle had slept through that distant succession of explosions. Sign of just how exhausted the poor man was. Still, it was unnerving not having him awake and keeping an eye on things, the way he could leap from animal to animal. Birds, too, And even insects. Although Corabb wondered just how far an insect could see.
He reached up and crushed a mosquito against one eyelid. The stretcher pitched behind him and he heard Cuttle swear under his breath. Corabb quickly regained his hold on the sapling. Damned insects, he needed to stop thinking about them. Because thinking about them led to hearing and feeling them, crawling and biting everywhere and him with both hands used up. This wasn’t like the desert. You could see chigger fleas coming on the wind, could hear a bloodfly from five paces, could pretty much guess that under every rock or stone there was a scorpion or a big hairy spider or a snake all of which wanted to kill you. Simple and straightforward, in other words. None of this devious whispering in the night, this whining at the ear, this winged flit up a man’s nostril. Or crawling into the hair to take nips of flesh that left a swollen, oozing, damnably itching hole.
And then there were the slithery things that sucked blood. Hid under leaves waiting for some poor bastard handless soldier to go past. And ticks. And plants that, when one brushed innocently against them, started up an awful itching rash that then leaked some kind of oil-this was a true underworld, peopled by demon farmers and every life form of the night a raving, rapacious devourer of desert-born men. And never mind the Tiste Edur and the spineless Letherii. Imagine, fighting at the behest of tyrannical masters. Had they no pride? Might be smart to take a prisoner or two, just to get some answers. A Letherii. He might mention the idea to the sergeant. Fiddler was all right with suggestions. In fact, the entire Malazan Army seemed all right with that kind of thing. Sort of a constant warrior gathering, when anyone could speak up, anyone could argue, and thus decisions were forged. Of course, among the tribes, when that gathering was done, argument ended.
No, the Malazans did almost everything differently, their own way. Corabb wasn’t bothered by that any more. It was probably a good thing he had held to so many ignorant, outrageous beliefs about them back when he was among the rebels. Otherwise, he might have found it hard to hate the enemy the way he was supposed to, the way it needed to be.
But now 1 know what it means to be a marine in the Malazan Army, even if the empire’s decided we’re outlaws or something. Still marines. Still the elite and that’s worth fighting for-the soldier at your side, the one in the stretcher, the one on point. Not sure about Smiles, though. Not sure about her at all. Reminds me of Dunsparrow, with that knowing look in her eyes and the way she licks her lips whenever someone talks about killing. And those knives-no, not sure about her at all.
At least they had a good corporal, though. A tough bastard not interested in words. Shield and sword did all Tarr’s talking, and Corabb always found himself rushing forward to stand at the man’s side in every scrap. Sword-arm side, but a step forward since Tarr used that short-bladed sticker so his parrying was foreshortened and that risked too much close-in stuff, the quick dirty underhanded kind-the style the desert tribes would use against a shield-wall soldier like Tarr-when there was no shield-wall, when it was just the one man, flank exposed and guard too tight. Batter and wail at the shield until his knees bent a fraction more and he ducked in behind and below that shield, left leg forward-then just sidestep and slip round the shield, over or under that stabbing shortsword, to take arm tendons or the unprotected underarm.
Corabb knew he needed to protect Tarr on that side, even if it meant disobeying Fiddler’s orders about staying close to Bottle. So long as Bottle looked to be out of trouble, Corabb would move forward, because he understood Tarr and Tarr’s way of fighting. Not like Koryk, who was more the desert warrior than any other in these two squads, and. what he needed fending his flanks was someone like Smiles, with her flicking knives, crossbow quarrels and the like. Staying back and to one side, out of range of Koryk’s frenzied swings of his longsword, and take down the enemy that worked in from the flanks. A good pairing, that.
Cuttle, the miserable old veteran, he had his cussers, and if Bottle got in danger the sapper would take care of things. Was also pretty sharp and quick with the crossbow, an old hand at the release and load-while-you-run.
It was no wonder Seven Cities was conquered the first time round, with Malazan marines in the field. Never mind the T’lan Imass. They’d only been let loose at the Aren uprising, after all. And if Fiddler’s telling the truth, that wasn’t the Emperor at all. No, it was Laseen who’d given the order.
Gesler ain’t convinced, so the truth is, no-one knows the truth. About Aren.]ust like, 1 suppose, pretty soon no-one will know the truth about Coltaine and the Chain of Dogs, or-spirits below-the Adjunct and the Bonehunters at Y’Ghatan, and at Mala? City.
He felt a chill whisper through him then, as if he’d stumbled onto something profound. About history. As it was remembered, as it was told and retold. As it was lost to lies when the truth proved too unpleasant. Something, aye… Something… Damn.’ Lost it.’
From the stretcher behind him, Bottle muttered in his sleep, then said, distinctly: ‘He never sees the owl. That’s the problem.’
Poor bastard. Rawng in delirium. Exhausted. Sleep easy, soldier, we need you.
I need you. Like Leoman never needed me, that’s how 1 need you. Because I’m a marine now. I suppose.
Ask the mice,’ Bottle said. ‘They’ll tell you.’ He then mumbled something under his breath, before sighing and saying: ‘If you want to live, pay attention to the shadow. The shadow. The owl’s shadow.’
At the other end of the stretcher, Cuttle grunted then shook the handles until Bottle groaned again and edged onto his side. Whereupon the young mage fell silent.
They continued on through the night. And once more, sometime later, they heard detonations in the distance again. These ones to the north.
Oh, they’d stirred ‘em awake all right.
Shurq Elalle’s herbs were getting stale. It had been all right out on the Undying Gratitude, on a wind-whipped deck and in the privacy of her cabin. And with a man with no nose for company. But now she found herself in a cramped map room with a half-dozen foreigners and Shake.Brullyg, the eponymous king of this miserable little island, and-especially among the women-she could see their nostrils wrinkle as they caught unpleasant aromas in the turgid, over-warm air.
Oh well. If they wanted to deal with her, they’d have to live with it. And be grateful for that ‘living’ part. She eyed the Adjunct, who never seemed to want to actually sit down; and although she stood behind the chair she had claimed at one end of the long, scarred table, hands resting on its back, she revealed none of the restlessness one might expect from someone for whom sitting felt like a sentence in a stock in the village square.
When it came to looks, there was not much to this Tavore Paran. Studious drab, sexless indifference, the wardrobe of the uncaring. A woman for whom womanly charms had less value than the lint in the creases of a coin purse. She could have made herself more attractive-almost feminine, in fact-if she so chose. But clearly such charms did not count as valuable assets to the Adjunct’s notions of command. And this was interesting, in a vague, academic sort of way. A leader who sought to lead without physical presence, without heroic or lustful or any other sort of imaginable grandeur. And so, with nary a hint of personality, what was Tavore left with?
Well, Shurq considered, there was her mind. Some kind of tactical genius? She wasn’t sure of that. From what Shurq had gathered from the fragmented mutterings of Balm’s squad, some vast error in judgement had already occurred.
Seemed there had been an advance landing of some sort. Elite troops, creeping onto the wild shore and its tangled swamps and forests in the dead of night. Soldiers with a mission to sow confusion and destabilize the Edur rule, and so stir the downtrodden Letherii into uprising.
Tactical genius? More like bad intelligence. The Letherii liked things just fine. This Tavore may well have condemned to slaughter a vital element of her army. They’d burned the transports-and what was that about? Leaving her own troops with no choice but to go on? That stinks of distrust, of no confidence-aye, that stinks worse than 1 do. Unless I’m reading it all wrong. Which is a distinct possibility. There’s nothing simple about these Malayans.
The Malazan Empire, aye. But nothing like the Letherii Empire, with its petty games of bloodlines and racial hierarchy. No, these Malazans came in all styles indeed. Look at Tavore’s aide-a stunning tattooed barbarian whose every movement was sensuality personified. Anyone looking that savage and primitive would be cleaning stalls here in the Letherii Empire. And there was Masan Gilani, another invitation to manly blubbering-oh, how Shurq wished she had skin that luscious, burnished hue, and the graceful, leonine lines of those long legs and full thighs, the swell of unsagging breasts with nipples that made her think of overripe figs-not that I needed to peek, she’s got less modesty than me and that’s saying a lot indeed. So, Tavore keeps the pretty ones close. Now that might be a telling hint.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Shake Brullyg demanded, close to being drunk enough to start slurring his words. He slouched in the chair at the other end of the long table, directly opposite the Adjunct but with his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Masan Gilani. The man truly believed that lascivious leers could make a woman swoon with desire. Yet Masan Gilani hid her disgust well, playing it along to keep the pathetic king dangling. The barbaric soldier was following very specific orders, Shurq suspected. To keep Brullyg from getting belligerent. Until they didn’t need him any more.
Well, that wouldn’t work with her, now, would it? Unless these Malazans had an Ublala Pung hidden nearby. Oh, that would be unfortunate indeed, to see her dissolving into an insatiable rutting animal in front of everyone. That was one secret she had better keep to herself. ‘Relax, Brullyg,’ she said. ‘All of this has to do with those huge trimarans that sailed into harbour last night.’ She’d love to have one of those, too, although she’d need two crews which meant less coin for everyone-damned logistics, always getting in the way of my dreams.
The Adjunct was eyeing her now, one of those gauging regards she settled on Shurq Elalle whenever the undead pirate said anything. Her own fault, actually-Shurq had sent Skorgen back to the Undying Gratitude. Her first mate’s unfortunate assortment of afflictions had proved far too distracting for everyone else, until she realized he was becoming a liability, undermining her… professionalism. Yes, that’s the word 1 was looking for. Got to be taken seriously here. I suspect my very existence depends on it. But she now found herself missing his weeping hole in the face, his mangled ear, blinded eye, stumped arm and bad leg-anything to swing away Tavore’s attention every time she was unwise enough to voice an opinion or observation.
Throatslitter, who sat opposite Shurq, now cleared his throat-producing an odd squeak-and smiled across at her.
She looked away, pointedly. That man was not a nice man. The way Gerun Eberict hadn’t been a nice man. Took too much pleasure in his job, she suspected. And even for a soldier, that wasn’t sensible. People like that tended to linger when lingering wasn’t good. Tended to put other soldiers at risk. Tended to get carried away. No, she didn’t like Throatslitter.
Yet her glance away had inadvertently shifted her attention to Corporal Deadsmell. Oh, funny name, that. In some ways, that man was even worse. No secrets from him, she suspected, no matter how coy she was-yes, he could smell her, and not stale herbs either. Had smelled her, from the very start. Had it been some bastard like him who wove the curse now afflicting me? No, that wasn’t right. Deadsmell had talents unknown here on Lether. Talents that made her think of that dying tower in Letheras, and Kettle, and the barrows in the yard.
Fortunately, he was dozing at the moment, bearded chin on his broad chest, thus sparing her his knowing look.
Ah, if only Tehol Beddict was here with me-he’d have them all reeling. In confusion or laughter? Laughter would be bad, very bad. For me. For anyone sitting too close to me. Very well, forget Tehol Beddict. 1 must be losing my mind.
The Adjunct addressed her. ‘Captain, I have spoken at length with Shake Brullyg, seeking to complete my understanding of this Letherii Empire. Yet I find his replies increasingly unsatisfactory-’
‘Poor Brullyg’s despondent,’ Shurq said. ‘And lovelorn. Well, perhaps unrequited lust is more accurate a description for his sordid, uncommunicative state of mind.’ Hah, she could out’Tehol Tehol Beddict! With no risk of laughing either!
Brullyg blinked at her.
Sergeant Balm leaned towards Throatslitter. ‘What did she just say?’
‘The Emperor,’ said Tavore.
Shurq frowned, but waited.
‘Of a Thousand Deaths.’
‘The title’s an exaggeration, I’m sure. Maybe a few hundred. Champions. They all die, eventually.’
‘Presumably he is well protected by his Edur in the palace.’
Shurq Elalle shrugged. ‘Not many details creep out of the Eternal Domicile, Adjunct. The Chancellor and his entire staff-Letherii-were retained after the conquest. There is also, now, a very powerful secret police, also Letherii.
As for the economic apparatus, well, that too is Letherii.’
The tattooed woman named Lostara Yil snorted. ‘Then what in Hood’s name are the Edur doing? Where do they fit?’
‘On top,’ Shurq replied. ‘Wobbling.’
There was a long moment of silence.
‘Yet,’ Tavore finally said, ‘the Edur Emperor cannot be killed.’
‘That is true.’ Shurq watched as these details worked their way through the Malazans, with the exception of Deadsmell, of course, whose snores were waves rolling ashore in the little dank cavern of a room.
‘Is that,’ Tavore asked, ‘irrelevant?’
‘Sometimes seems that way,’ Shurq conceded. Oh, she wished she could drink wine without its draining out everywhere. She could do with a tankard or two.
‘An Emperor whose very rule is dictated by the sword,’ Tavore said. ‘What remain unhoned, however, are the necessities of administering an empire.’
‘Very dull necessities, aye,’ Shurq said, smiling.
‘The Tiste Edur, leaning hard against the undying solidity of their ruler, exist under the delusion of mastery,’ Tavore continued. ‘But reality is not so generous.’
Nodding, Shurq Elalle said, ‘The Tiste Edur were fisher folk, seal-hunters. Builders in wood. A half-dozen or so tribes. There was someone called the Warlock King, Hannan Mosag, who waged a war of subjugation-why he didn’t end up with that dreadful sword only the Edur know and it is not something they talk about.’
‘Does this Hannan Mosag still live?’ Tavore asked.
‘The Emperor’s new Ceda.’
Deadsmell’s snores ceased. ‘Imperial High Mage,’ he said. ‘Ceda, a degradation of “Cedance”, I’d wager. “Cedance” was some sort of ritual back in the days of the First Empire.’ His eyes opened halfway. ‘Ebron won’t be at all surprised. These Letherii are some lost colony of the First Empire.’ The heavy lids slid down once more, and a moment later his snores groaned back to life.
Shurq Elalle thought to clear her throat, changed her mind. Things were rank enough as it was. ‘The point I was making, Adjunct, is that the Tiste Edur couldn’t administer their way through a mooring tithe. They’re warriors and hunters-the males, that is. The females are, as far as I can tell, completely useless mystics of some sort, and since the conquest they’ve virtually disappeared from sight.’
Boots echoed from the corridor and moments later the door opened. Accompanied by Gait and the odd little man named Widdershins, two Letherii soldiers strode into the chamber. One of them was an Atri-Preda.
Shake Brullyg lurched back in his chair, almost toppling it. Face twisting, he rose. ‘Damn every damned witch to the deep!’
‘It gets worse,’ the Atri-Preda replied with a faint smile on her lips. ‘I choose my own Rise, and you are not him. Yedan, throw this fool out on his arse-any window will do.’
Sudden alarm in Brullyg’s eyes as he stared at the soldier at the captain’s side, who made to move forward.
Gait’s sword was out of its scabbard in a blur, settled flat against the soldier’s stomach, halting the man in his tracks. ‘Maybe we should all back this up a few steps,’ he said in a drawl. ‘Adjunct, allow me to present Atri-Preda Yan Tovis and Shore Watch Yedan Derryg-which I take it is some kind of sergeant in charge of some kind of coastal patrol. What’s “Atri-Preda”? Captain? Commander? Whatever, they was in charge of that half-drowned bunch the Perish plucked from the storm.’
The Adjunct was frowning at Yan Tovis. ‘Atri-Preda, welcome. 1 am Adjunct Tavore Paran of the Malazan I Empire-’
Yan Tovis glanced across at her. ‘You’re commanding this invasion? How many soldiers did you land on the coast, Adjunct? Ten thousand? Twenty? I saw the ships, the burning ships-you followed our fleets all the way from your empire? That’s a long way for a little vengeful bloodletting, isn’t it?’
Shurq dreamed of downing another tankard of wine. At least the Malazans weren’t looking her way any more.
The Adjunct’s frown deepened, accentuating her drab plainness. ‘If you wish,’ she said coolly, ‘we can formalize your status as prisoners of war. Yet I find it difficult to characterize your sinking ferry as a punitive invasion expedition. According to the reports I have received, your status is better likened as refugees, yes? A modest company of soldiers overseeing a sizeable collection of old men and women, children and other non-combatants. Were you sailing here assuming the island remained independent?’ She flicked her gaze across to Brullyg, who stood leaning against the far wall. ‘That you and Shake Brullyg are acquainted suggests you are here to resolve some private matter between you.’
Yan Tovis’s eyes were flat as she shrugged and said, ‘Hardly private. “Shake” is a tribe’s name and could, if desired, precede the names of myself and Yedan here, as well as our “collection” of “refugees”. The Shake were the original inhabitants of the central west coast and some of the islands off shore. We were long ago subjugated by the Letherii.’ She shrugged again. ‘My issue with Brullyg refers to a matter of succession.’
Tavore’s brows rose. ‘Succession? You retain such things even when subjugated?’
‘More or less. The line is maintained through the women. The Queen-my mother-has recently died. It was Brullyg’s hope that I not return to claim the title. Brullyg wanted to rule the Shake for himself. He also wanted, I suspect, to make some bold claim to independence, riding the wave of your invasion-assuming it proves successful. Casting off the Letherii yoke and creating a new centre for our people, on this once-holy island. Although a murderer and a betrayer, Brullyg is an ambitious creature. Alas, his rule on this island has come to an end.’
Throatslitter hissed laughter. ‘Hear that, Masan Gilani? You can stop showing all that sweet flesh now.’
‘I am not sure,’ the Adjunct said, ‘the decision is yours to make, Atri-Preda.’
‘That rank is now gone. You may address me as Queen or, if you like, as Twilight.’
Shurq Elalle saw Deadsmell’s eyes flick open then, saw them fix hard and unblinking on Yan Tovis.
The Adjunct missed nothing, for she glanced at Deadsmell for a moment, then away again.
‘Twilight, Watch and Rise,’ Deadsmell muttered. ‘Covered the whole night, haven’t ya? But damn me, the blood’s awful thin. Your skin’s the colour of clay-couldn’t have been more than a handful at the start, probably refugees hiding among the local savages. A pathetic handful, but the old titles remained. Guarding the Shores of Night.’
Yan Tovis licked her lips. ‘Just the Shore,’ she said.
Deadsmell smiled. ‘Lost the rest, did you?’
‘Corporal,’ Tavore said.
‘Our squad spent time on the right ship,’ Deadsmell explained. ‘Enough for me to do plenty of talking with our black-skinned guests. Twilight,’ he said to Yan Tovis, ‘that’s a Letherii word you use. Would you be surprised if I told you the word for “twilight”, in your original language, was “yenander”? And that “antovis” meant “night” or even “dark”? Your own name is your title, and I can see by your expression that you didn’t even know it. Yedan Derryg? Not sure what “derryg” is-we’ll need to ask Sandalath-but “yedanas” is “watch”, both act and title. Gods below, what wave was that? The very first? And why the Shore? Because that’s where newborn K’Chain Che’Malle came from, isn’t it? The ones not claimed by a Matron, that is.’ His hard eyes held on Yan Tovis a moment longer, then he settled back once more and closed his eyes.
Errant fend, is he going to do that all evening?
‘I do not know what he is talking about,’ Yan Tovis said, but it was clear that she had been rattled. ‘You are all foreigners-what can you know of the Shake? We are barely worth mentioning even in Letherii history.’
‘Twilight,’ said Tavore, ‘you are here to assert your title as Queen-will you also proclaim this island sovereign?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, in that capacity, do you seek to treat with us?’
‘The sooner I can negotiate you Malazans off this island, the happier I will be. And you, as well.’
‘Why is that?’
The mage named Widdershins spoke up, ‘Those refugees of hers, Adjunct. One big squall of witches and warlocks. Oh, squiggily stuff for the most part-fouling water and cursin’ us with the runs and boils and the like. Mind, they could get together and work nastier rituals…’
Shurq Elalle stared at the strange man. Squiggily?
‘Yes,’ said Yan Tovis. ‘They could become troublesome.’
Gait grunted. ‘So saving all their lives don’t count for nothing?’
‘It does, of course. But, like all things, even gratitude wanes in time, soldier. Especially when the deed hangs over us like an executioner’s axe.’
Gait’s scowl deepened, then he prodded Yedan Derryg with his sword. ‘I need to keep this here?’ he asked.
The bearded, helmed soldier seemed to chew on his reply before answering, ‘That is for my Queen to decide.’
‘Belay my last order,’ Yan Tovis said. ‘We can deal with Brullyg later.’
‘Like demon-spawn you will!’ Brullyg drew himself up. Adjunct Tavore Paran, I hereby seek your protection. Since I have co-operated with you from the very start, the least you can do is keep me alive. Sail me to the mainland if that suits. I don’t care where I end up-just not in that woman’s clutches.’
Shurq Elalle smiled at the fool. Only everything you don’t deserve, Brullyg. Mercy? In the Errant’s fart, that’s where you’ll find that.
Tavore’s voice was suddenly cold. ‘Shake Brullyg, your assistance is duly noted, and you have our gratitude, although I do seem to recall something about this island’s imminent destruction beneath a sea of ice-which we prevented and continue to prevent. It may please the Queen that we do not intend to remain here much longer.’
Brullyg paled. ‘But what about that ice?’ he demanded. ‘If you leave-’
‘As the season warms,’ Tavore said, ‘the threat diminishes. Literally.’
‘So what holds you here?’ Yan Tovis demanded.
‘We seek a pilot to the Lether River. And Letheras.’
Silence again. Shurq Elalle, who had been gleefully observing Brullyg’s emotional dissolution, slowly frowned. Then looked round. All eyes were fixed on her. What had the Adjunct just said? Oh. The Lether River and Letheras.
And a pilot to guide their invasion fleet.
‘What’s that smell?’ Widdershins suddenly asked.
Shurq scowled. ‘The Errant’s fart, is my guess.’