ear, ‘Don’t give up on her, Prav. I know my sister, you see, and there’s a look growing in her eyes when she glances your way… so, don’t give up…’
Both gone, and that, as Badan repeated again and again when he thought no-one else was close enough to hear him, is that. And that is that.
Sergeant Primly came up then and slapped Pravalak on one shoulder. ‘Ready, Corporal? Good. Lead your squad, just like Sinter would’ve done. Lead ‘em, Prav, and let’s go gut some Edur.’
Skulldeath, whose name had once been Tribole Futan, last surviving male of the Futani royal line of the Gilani tribe of southeast Seven Cities, slowly straightened as he watched the heavies work their way up the slope towards the sounds of fighting.
He readied his two Gilani tulwars, which had once belonged to a Falah’dan champion-his great-uncle-who had fallen to an assassin’s poison three years before the Malazan invasion, when Tribole had been a child not yet cast out onto the mortal sands. Weapons he had inherited as last of the line in a family shattered by a feud, such as were common throughout all of Seven Cities before the conquest. The tulwars seemed large in his hands, almost oversized for his wrists-but he was Gilani and his tribe were a people characterized by bodies virtually devoid of fat. Muscles like ropes, long, gracile and far stronger than they appeared.
The softness of his feminine eyes did not change as he studied the tulwars, remembering when he had been a very young child and these weapons, if balanced on their curved tips, could be made to stand if he set the silver pommels into his armpits, and, gripping the handles just above the hilts, he would pitch himself round the camp like an imp with but one leg. Not long after that, he was using weighted sticks carved to match these tulwars of his great-uncle’s. Working the patterns in the Gilani style, both afoot and atop a desert horse where he learned to perch ori the balls of his feet and practise the lishgar efhanah, the leaping attack, the Edged Net. Many a night with bruised shoulders, then, until he learned how to roll clean after the mid-air attack was done, the three stuffed-grass dummies each sliced into pieces, the wind plucking at those golden grasses as they drifted in the dusty air. And he, rolling, upright once more, weapons at the ready.
He was not tall. He was not outspoken and his smile-rare as it was-was as shy as a young maiden’s. Men wanted him in their beds. So did women. But he was of the royal line, and his seed was the last seed, and one day he would give it to a queen, perhaps even an empress, as befitted his true station. In the meantime, he would let men use him as they would, and even find pleasure in that, harmless as it was. But he refused’ to spill his seed.
He stood now, and when the signal was given, he moved forward, light on his feet.
Skulldeath was twenty-three years old. Such was his discipline that he had not spilled seed once, not even in his sleep.
As the squad mage Mulvan Dreader would say later, Skulldeath was truly a man about to explode.
And a certain Master Sergeant on Malaz Island had got it right. Again.
Urb ran back from the Factor’s house as fast as he could, angling his shield to cover his right shoulder. The damned woman! Standing there with a damned cask lid with a flight of lances about to wing her way. Oh, her soldiers worshipped her all right, and so blind was that worship that not one of them could see all that Urb did just to keep the fool woman alive. He was exhausted and a nervous wreck besides and now-this time-it looked as if he would be too late.
Five paces from Hellian and out went a half-dozen lances, two winging to intercept Urb. Skidding as he pivoted round behind his shield, he lost sight of her.
One lance darted past a hand’s width from his face. The other struck true against the shield, the iron head punching through to impale his upper arm, pinning it to his side. The impact spun Urb round and he staggered as the lance pulled at him, and, grunting, he slid down on his knees, the hard cobbles driving shocks up his legs. He slammed his sword-hand down-still clutching the weapon-to keep from pitching forward, and heard a knuckle crack.
At that instant, the world exploded white.
Four lances speeding Hellian’s way came close to sobering her up. Crouching, she lifted her flimsy, undersized shield, only to have it hammered from her hand in a splintering concussion that sent it spinning, the snapped foreshafts of two lances buried deep in the soaked, heavy, wonderful-smelling wood. Then her helm was torn from her head with a deafening clang, even as she was struck a glancing blow on her right shoulder that ripped away the leather shingles of her armour. That impact turned her right round so that she faced up the street, and, upon seeing the clay bottle she had thrown away moments earlier, she dived towards it.
Better to die with one last mouthful-
The air above her whistled as she sailed through the air and she saw maybe a dozen lances flit overhead.
She slammed chest-first on the dusty cobbles, all breath punched from her lungs and stared, bug-eyed, as the bottle leapt of its own accord into the air. Then she was lifted by her feet and flipped straight over to thump hard on her back, and above her the blue sky was suddenly grey with dust and gravel, stone chips, red bits, all raining down.
She could not hear a thing, and that first desperate breath was so thick with dust that she convulsed in a fit of coughing. Twisting onto her side, she saw Urb maybe six paces away. The idiot had got himself skewered and looked even more stunned than usual. His face was white with dust except the blood on his lips from a tooth gash, and he was staring dumbly down the street to where all the Edur were-might be they were charging them now so she’d better find her sword-
She’d just sat up when a hand slapped her shoulder and she glared up at an unfamiliar face-a Kanese woman frowning intently at her. With a voice that seemed far away she said, ‘Still with us, Sergeant? You shouldn’t ever be that close to a cusser, you know.’
And then she was gone.
Hellian blinked. She squinted down the street and saw an enormous crater where the Edur had been. And body parts, and drifting dust and smoke.
And four more marines, two of them Dal Honese, loosing quarrels into a side street then scattering as one of them threw a sharper in the same direction.
Hellian crawled over to Urb.
He’d managed to pull the lance Out of his arm which had probably hurt, and there was plenty of blood now, pooling beneath him. His eyes had the look of a butchered cow though maybe not as dead as that but getting there.
Another marine arrived, another stranger. Black-haired, pale skin. He knelt down beside Urb.
‘You,’ Hellian said.
The man glanced over. ‘None of your wounds look to kill you, Sergeant. But your friend here is going fast, so let me do my work.’
‘What squad, damn you?’
‘Tenth. Third Company.’
A healer. Well, good. Fix Urb right up so she could kill him. ‘You’re Nathii, aren’t you?’
‘Sharp woman,’ he muttered as he began weaving magic over the huge torn hole in Urb’s upper arm. ‘Probably even sharper when you’re sober.’
‘Never count on that, Cutter.’
‘I’m not really a cutter, Sergeant. I’m a combat mage, but we can’t really be picky about those things any more, can we? I’m Mulvan Dreader.’
‘Hellian. Eighth Squad, the Fourth.’
He shot her a sudden look. ‘Really. You one of the ones crawled out under Y’Ghatan?’
‘Yeah. Urb’s gonna live?’
The Nathii nodded. ‘Be on a stretcher for a while, though. All the lost blood.’ He straightened and looked round. ‘Where are the rest of your soldiers?’
Hellian looked over at the Factor’s house. The cusser explosion seemed to have knocked it flat. She grunted. ‘Damned if I know, Mulvan. You don’t happen to have a flask of something on you, do you?’
But the mage was frowning at the wreckage of the collapsed house. ‘I hear calls for help,’ he said.
Hellian sighed. ‘Guess you found ‘em after all, Mulvan Dreader. Meaning we’re gonna have to dig ‘em out.’ Then she brightened. ‘But that’ll work us up a thirst now, won’t it?’
The multiple crack of sharpers outside the tavern and the biting snap of shrapnel striking the building’s front sent the Malazans inside flinching back. Screams erupted outside, wailing up into the street’s dust-filled air. Fiddler watched Gesler grab Stormy to keep him from charging out there-the huge Falari was reeling on his feet-then he turned to Mayfly, Corabb and Tarr. ‘Let’s meet our allies, then, but stay sharp. Rest of you, stay here, bind wounds-Bottle, where’s Koryk and Smiles?’
But the mage shook his head. ‘They went east side of the village, Sergeant.’
‘All right, you three with me, then. Bottle-can you do something for Stormy?’
Aye.’
Fiddler readied his crossbow, then led the way to the tavern entrance. At the threshold he crouched down, peering through the dust.
Allies all right. Blessed marines, a half-dozen, walking through the sprawled Edur bodies and silencing the screamers with quick thrusts of their swords. Fiddler saw a sergeant, South Dal Honese, short and wide and black as onyx. The woman at his side was half a head taller, pale-skinned and grey-eyed, and nearly round but in a way that had yet to sag. Behind these two stood another Dal Honese, this one wrinkled with pierced everything-ears, nose, wattle, cheeks-the gold ornaments a startling contrast to his dark scowling face. A damned shaman.
Fiddler approached, his eyes on the sergeant. There was fighting still going on, but nowhere close. ‘How many of you?’
‘Seventeen to start,’ the man replied. He paused to look down at the barbaric tusk-sword in his hands. ‘Just took off an Edur’s head with this,’ he said, then looked up. ‘My first kill-Fiddler gaped. ‘How in Hood’s name did you get this far from the damned coast, then? What are you all, Soletaken bats?’
The Dal Honese grimaced. ‘We stole a fisher boat and sailed up.’
The woman at his side spoke. ‘We were the southmost squads, moving east till we hit the river, then it was either wading waist-deep in swamp muck or taking to the water. Worked fine until a few nights ago, when we ran straight into a Letherii galley. We lost a few that night,’ she added.
Fiddler stared at her a moment longer. All round and soft-looking, except for those eyes. Hood take me, this one could pluck the skin off a man one tiny strip at a time with one hand while doing herself with the other. He looked away, back to the sergeant. ‘What company?’
‘Third. I’m Badan Gruk, and you’re Fiddler, aren’t you?’
‘Yeggetan,’ muttered the shaman with a warding gesture.
Badan Gruk turned to the pale woman. ‘Ruffle, take Vastly and Reliko and work west until you meet up with Primly. Then back here.’ He faced Fiddler again. ‘We caught ‘em good, I think.’
‘Thought I heard a cusser a while back.’
A nod. ‘Primly had the sappers. Anyway, the Edur pulled back, so I suppose we scared ‘em.’
‘Moranth munitions will do that.’
Badan Gruk glanced away again. He seemed strangely skittish. ‘We never expected to run into any squads this far east,’ he said. ‘Not unless they took to the water like we did.’ He met Fiddler’s eyes. ‘You’re barely a day from Letheras, you know.’
Seven Edur had turned the game on Koryk and Smiles, pushing them into a less than promising lane between decrepit, leaning tenements, that then led to a most quaint killing ground blocked by stacks of timber on all sides but the one with the alley mouth.,
Pushing Smiles behind him as he backed away from the Edur-who crowded the alley, slowly edging forward-Koryk readied his sword. Hand-and-a-half fighting now that he’d lost his shield. If the bastards threw lances, he’d be in trouble.
The thought made him snort. Him against seven Tiste Edur and all he had behind him was a young woman who’d used up all her throwing knives and was left with a top-heavy gutter that belonged in the hands of a butcher. Trouble? Only if they threw lances.
But these Edur weren’t interested in skewering them from a distance. They wanted to close, and Koryk was not surprised by that. Like Seti, these grey gaunts. Face to face, aye. That is where true glory is found. As they reached the mouth of the alley, Koryk lifted the tip of his sword and waved them forward.
‘Stay right back,’ he said to Smiles who crouched behind him. ‘Give me plenty of room-’
‘To do what, you oaf? Die in style? Just cut a few and I’ll slide in low and finish ‘em.’
‘And get a pommel through the top of your head? No, stay back.’
‘I ain’t staying back t’get raped by all the ones you were too incompetent to kill before dying yourself, Koryk.’
‘Fine! I’ll punch my pommel through your thick skull, then!’
‘Only time you’re ever gettin’ inside of me, so go ahead and enjoy it.’
‘Oh, believe me, I will-’
They might have gone on, and on, but the Edur had fanned out, four in front and three behind, and now they rushed forward.
Koryk and Smiles argued often, later, about whether their saviour descended on wings or just had a talent for leaping extraordinary distances, for he arrived in a blur, sailing right across the path of the first four Tiste Edur, and in that silent flight he seemed to writhe, amidst flashing heavy iron blades. A flurry of odd snicking sounds and then the man was past-and should have collided badly with a stack of rough-barked wood. Instead, one of those tulwars touched down tip first on a log, and pivoting on that single point of contact the man twisted round to land in a cat-like crouch against the slope of timbers-at an impossible to maintain angle, but that didn’t matter since he was already springing back the way he had come, this time sailing over the collapsing, blood-drenched forms of four Tiste Edur. Snick snick snicksnick-and the back three Edur toppled.
He landed again, just short of the opposite timber wall this time, head ducking and shoulder seeming to barely brush the ground before he tumbled right over, touched one foot on a horizontal log and used it to twist round before landing balanced on the other foot now drawn tight beneath him. Facing the seven corpses he had just felled.
And facing two Malazan marines who, for once and just this once, had precisely nothing to say.
The marines of the 3rd and 4th Companies gathered in front of the tavern, stood or sat on the bloodstained cobbles of the main street. Wounds were tended to here and there, while others repaired armour or filed the nicks from sword edges.
Fiddler sat on the edge of a water trough near the hitching post to one side of the tavern entrance, taking stock. Since the coast, the three other squads of 4th Company had taken losses. Gone from Gesler’s squad were Sands and Uru Hela. From Hellian’s, Lutes and Tavos Pond, both of whom had died in this cursed village, while from Urb’s both Hanno and now Bowl were dead, and Saltlick had lost his left hand. Fiddler’s own squad had, thus far, come through unscathed, and that made him feel guilty. Like one of Hood’s minions, one in the row just the other side of the gate. Crow feathers in hand, or wilted roses, or sweetcakes, or any of the countless other gifts the dead were eager to hand their newly arrived kin-gods below, Smiles is turning me into another Kanese with all these absurd beliefs. Ain’t nobody waiting other side of Hood’s Gate, unless it’s to jeer.
The two sergeants from the 3rd came over. Badan Gruk, whom Fiddler had met earlier, and the Quon, Primly. They made an odd pair, but that was always the way, wasn’t it?
Primly gave Fiddler a strangely deferential nod. ‘We’re fine with this,’ he said.
‘With what?’
‘Your seniority, Fiddler. So, what do we do now?’
Grimacing, Fiddler looked away. ‘Any losses?’
‘From this scrap? No. Those Edur pulled out fast as hares in a kennel. A lot shakier than we’d expected.’
‘They don’t like the shield to shield fighting,’ Fiddler said, scratching at his filthy beard. ‘They’ll do it, aye, especially when they’ve got Letherii troops with them. But of late they dropped that tactic, since with our munitions we made it a costly one. No, they’ve been hunting us, ambushing us, driving us hard. Their traditional way of fighting, I’d guess.’
Primly grunted. ‘Driving you, you said. So, likely there’s a damned army waiting for us this side of Letheras. The anvil.’
‘Aye, which is why I think we should wait here a bit. It’s risky, I know, since the Edur might return and next time there might be a thousand of them.’
Badan Gruk’s thinned eyes grew yet thinner. ‘Hoping your Fist is going to catch up with a lot more marines.’
‘Your Fist now, too, Badan Gruk.’
A sharp nod, then a scowl. ‘We only got thrown into the mix because of the 4th’s losses at Y’Ghatan.’
‘The Adjunct keeps making changes,’ Primly said. ‘We don’t have Fists in charge of nothing but marines-not since Crust’s day-’
‘Well, we do now. We’re not in the Malazan Army any more, Primly.’
‘Yes, Fiddler, I’m aware of that.’
‘That’s my suggestion,’ Fiddler repeated. ‘Wait here for a while. Let our mages get some rest. And hope Keneb shows and hope he’s got more than a few dozen marines with him. Now, I’m not much for this seniority thing. I’d rather we sergeants just agreed on matters, so I’m not holding you to anything.’
‘Gesler agrees with you, Fiddler?’
Aye.’
‘What of Hellian and Urb?’
Fiddler laughed. ‘Tavern’s still wet, Primly.’
The sun had gone down, but no-one seemed eager to go anywhere. Traffic in and out of the tavern occurred whenever another cask needed bringing out. The tavern’s main room was a slaughterhouse no-one was inclined to stay in for very long.
Smiles walked over to where Koryk sat. ‘His name’s Skulldeath, if you can believe that.’
‘Who?’
‘Nice try. You know who. The one who could kill you with his big toe.’
‘Been thinking about that attack,’ Koryk said. ‘Only works if they’re not expecting it.’
Smiles snorted.
‘No, really. I see someone flying at me I cut him in half. It’s not like he can retreat or change his mind, is it?’
‘You’re an idiot,’ she said, then nudged him. ‘Hey, met your twin brother, too. His name is Vastly Blank and between you two I’d say he got all the brains.’
Koryk glowered at her. ‘What is it you want with me, Smiles?’
She shrugged. ‘Skulldeath. I’m going to make him mine.’
‘Yours?’
‘Yes. Did you know he’s saving himself for a woman of royal blood?’
‘That’s not what the men inclined that way are saying.’
‘Where’d you hear that?’
‘Besides, you’re hardly royal blood, Smiles. Queen of shell-shuckers won’t cut it.’
‘That’s why I need you to lie for me. I was a Kanese princess-sent into the Malazan Army to keep the Claw from finding me-’
‘Oh, for Hood’s sake!’
‘Shh! Listen, the rest in the squad said they’d be happy to lie for me. What’s wrong with you?’
‘Happy… ha, that’s good. Very good.’ He then turned to study her. ‘You’re eager for Skulldeath to take one of those flying leaps straight between your legs? You want to get pregnant with some prince from some Seven Cities flying squirrel tribe?’
‘Pregnant? Aye, when dolphins walk and fish nest in trees. I won’t get pregnant,’ she pronounced. ‘Bottle’s giving me some herbs to take care of that. My beloved Skulldeath can empty gallons of his seed into me for Hood-damned ever and there won’t be any little jackrabbits jumping round.’;
‘He’s got the face of a girl,’ Koryk said. ‘And the men say he kisses like one, too.’
‘Who’s telling you all this?’
‘Saving his seed, that’s a laugh.’
‘Listen, those men, they don’t mean nothing. Now, am I a Kanese princess or not?’
‘Oh, aye. Rival to the empire’s throne, in fact. Be the fly-ing fish to the flying squirrel and make your nest in some tree, Smiles. When all’s done what’s needed doing.’
She surprised him with a bright smile. ‘Thanks, Koryk. You’re a true friend.’
He stared after her as she hurried off. Poor lass. The squirrel’s saving his seed because he doesn’t know what to do with it, is my guess.
A figure walked past in the gloom and Koryk squinted until he recognized the man’s gait. ‘Hey, Bottle.’
The young mage halted, looked over, then, feet dragging, approached.
Koryk said, ‘You’re supposed to be asleep.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So you’re giving Smiles special herbs, are you. Why do you-’
‘I’m what?’
‘Herbs. So she won’t get pregnant.’
‘Look, if she doesn’t want to get pregnant, she should just stop straddling every-’
‘Hold on, Bottle! Wait. I thought she’d talked to you. About herbs which you promised to give her-’
‘Oh, those herbs. No, you got it all wrong, Koryk. Those aren’t to keep her from getting pregnant. In fact, it’s some concoction of my grandmother’s and I’ve no idea if it even works, but anyway, it’s got nothing to do with not getting pregnant. Why, if she’d asked me about that kind of stuff, sure, there’s some very reliable-’
‘Stop! What-what does this concoction you’re giving her do to her, then?’
‘She’d better not be taking it! It’s for a man-’
‘For Skulldeath?’
‘Skulldeath? What…’ Bottle stared down for a long moment. ‘Do you know what skulldeath is, Koryk? It’s a plant that grows on Malaz Island and maybe Geni, too. You see, normally there’s male plants and there’s female plants and that’s how you get fruit and the like, right? Anyway, not so with the sweet little skulldeath. There’s only males-no females at all. Skulldeaths loose their-well, they spill it all out into the air, and it ends up somehow getting into the seeds of other plants and just riding along, hiding, until that seed sprouts, then it takes over and suddenly, another nice skulldeath with that grey flower that’s not really a flower at all, just a thin sack filled with-’
‘So, that concoction Smiles asked for-what does it do?’
‘Supposed to change a man who prefers other men into one who prefers women. Does it work? I have no idea.’
‘Skulldeath may be a plant,’ Koryk said, ‘but it’s also the name for a soldier in Primly’s squad. A pretty one.’
‘Oh, and that name…’
‘Is obviously very appropriate, Bottle.’
‘Oh. Poor Smiles.’
The Factor’s house might have looked nice, but it might as well have been made of straw, the way it fell down. Astonishing that no-one had died beneath all that wreckage. Urb at the least was certainly relieved by that, though his mood wilted somewhat after Hellian was through yelling at him.
In any case, thereafter satisfied and pleasantly feeling… pleasant, Hellian was anything but pleased when Balgrid’s appallingly unattractive face loomed into view directly in front of her. She blinked at him. ‘You’re shorter than I’d thought.’
‘Sergeant, I’m kneeling. What are you doing under the bar?’
‘I’m not the one who keeps movin’ it, Baldy.’
‘The other sergeants have agreed that we’re staying here for a while. You with them on that, Sergeant?’
‘Why not?’
‘Good. Oh, did you know, in the new squads, there’s another Kartoolii.’
‘Probbly a spy-they’re still after me, y’know.’
‘Why would they be after you?’
‘Cause I did something, that’s why. Can’t ‘member ‘xactly what, but it was bad ‘nough to get me sent here, wasn’t it? A damned spy!’
‘I doubt he’s anything-’
‘Yeah? Fine, make him come ‘ere and kiss my feet, then! Tell ‘im I’m the Queen of Kartool! An’ I want my kissed feet! My feeted kiss, I mean. Go on, damn you!’
Less than six paces away, tucked beneath the bar at the other end, sat Skulldeath; Hiding from that pretty but way too lustful woman in Fiddler’s squad. And at Hellian’s words his head snapped round and his dark, almond-shaped eyes, which had already broken so many hearts, slowly widened on the dishevelled sergeant crouched in a pool of spilled wine.
Queen of Kartool.
On such modest things, worlds changed.
The women were singing an ancient song in a language that was anything but Imass. Filled with strange clicks and phlegmatic stops, along with rhythmic gestures of the hands, and the extraordinary twin voices emerging from each throat, the song made the hair on the back of Hedge’s neck stand on end. ‘Eres’al,’ Quick Ben had whispered, looking a little ashen himself. ‘The First Language.’
No wonder it made the skin crawl, awakening faint echoes in the back of his skull-as if stirring to life the soft murmurings of his mother a handful of days after he’d been born, even as he clung by the mouth to her tit and stared stupidly up at the blur of her face. A song to make a grown man feel horribly vulnerable, weak in the limbs and desperate for comfort.
Muttering under his breath, Hedge plucked at Quick Ben’s sleeve.
The wizard understood well enough and they both rose, then backed away from the hearth and all the gathered Imass. Out into the darkness beneath a spray of glittering stars, up into the sprawl of tumbled boulders away from the rock shelters of the cliff face.
Hedge found a flat stone the size of a skiff, lying at the base of a scree. He sat down on it. Quick Ben stood nearby, bending down to collect a handful of gravel, then pacing as he began examining his collection-more by feel than sight-flinging rejections off into the gloom to bounce and skitter. ‘So, Hedge.’
‘What?’
‘How’s Fiddler these days?’
‘It’s not like I’m squatting on his shoulder or anything.’
‘Hedge.’
‘All right, I catch things occasionally. Whiffs. Echoes. He’s still alive, I can say that much.’
Quick Ben paused. ‘Any idea what the Adjunct’s up to?’
‘Who? No, why should I-never met her. You’re the one should be doing the guessing, wizard. She shackled you into being her High Mage, after all. Me, I’ve been wandering for what seems for ever, in nothing but the ashes of the dead. At least until we found this place, and it ain’t nearly as far away from the underworld as you might think.’
‘Don’t tell me what I think, sapper. I already know what I think and it’s not what you think.’
‘Well now, you’re sounding all nervous again, Quick. Little heart going pitterpat?’
‘She was taking them to Lether-to the Tiste Edur empire-once she managed to extricate them from Malaz harbour. Now, Cotillion says she managed that, despite my disappearing at the worst possible moment. True, some nasty losses. Like Kalam. And T’amber. Me. So, Lether. Pitching her measly army against an empire spanning half a continent or damn near, and why? Well, maybe to deliver some vengeance on behalf of the Malazan Empire and every other kingdom or people who got cut up by those roving fleets. But maybe that’s not it at all, because, let’s face it, as a motive it sounds, well, insane. And I don’t think the Adjunct is insane. So, what’s left?’
‘Sorry, was that actually a question? For me?’
‘Of course not, Hedge. It was rhetorical.’
‘That’s a relief. Go on, then.’
‘Seems more likely she’s set herself against the Crippled God.’
‘Oh yeah? What’s this Lether Empire got to do with the Crippled God?’
‘A whole lot, that’s what.’
‘Meaning me and Fiddler are back fighting the same damned war.’
‘As if you didn’t already know that, Hedge-and no, wipe that innocent look off your face. It’s not dark enough and you know that so that look is for me and it’s a damned lie so get rid of it.’
‘Ouch, the wizard’s nerves are singing!’
‘This is why I liked you least of all, Hedge.’
‘I remember once you being scared witless of a recruit named Sorry, because she was possessed by a god. And now here you are, working for that god. Amazing, how things can turn right round in ways you’d never expect nor even predict.’
The wizard stared long and hard at the sapper. Then he said, ‘Now hold on, Hedge.’
‘You really think Sorry was there to get at the Empress, Quick? Some sordid plan for vengeance against Laseen? Why, that would be… insane.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Just wondering if you should be as sure of the ones you’re working for as you think you are. Because, and it only seems this way to me, all this confusion you’re feeling about the Adjunct might just be coming from some wrong-footed, uh, misapprehensions about the two gods crouching in your shadow.’
‘Is all this just another one of your feelings?’
‘I ain’t Fiddler.’
‘No, but you’ve been so close to him-in his damned shadow-you’re picking up all his uncanny, whispered suspicions, and don’t even try to deny it, Hedge. So now I better hear it straight from you. You and me, are we fighting on the same side, or not?’
Hedge grinned up at him. ‘Maybe not. But, just maybe, more than you know, wizard.’
Quick Ben had selected out a half-dozen water-worn pebbles. Now he flung the rest away. ‘That answer was supposed to make me feel better?’
‘How do you think I feel?’ Hedge demanded. ‘Been at your damned side, Quick, since Raraku! And I still don’t know who or even what you are!’
‘What’s your point?’
‘It’s this. I’m beginning to suspect that even Cotillion-and Shadowthrone-don’t know you half as well as they might think. Which is why they’re now keeping you close. And which is why, too, they maybe made sure you ended up without Kalam right there guarding your back.’
‘If you’re right-about Kalam-there’s going to be trouble.’
Hedge shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is, maybe the plan was for Sorry to be right there, right now, beside Fiddler.’
‘The Adjunct didn’t even have an army then, Hedge. What you’re suggesting is impossible.’
‘Depends on how much Kellanved and Dancer saw-and came to understand-when they left their empire and went in search of ascendancy.’ The sapper paused, then said, ‘They walked the paths of the Azath, didn’t they?’
‘Almost no-one knows that, Hedge. You sure didn’t… before you died. Which brings us back to the path you ended up walking, after you’d gone and blown yourself up in Black Coral.’
‘You mean, after I did my own ascending?’
‘Yes.’
‘I already told you most of it. The Bridgeburners ascended. Blame some Spiritwalker.’
‘And now there’s more of you damned fools wandering around. Hood take you all, Hedge, there were some real nasty people in the Bridgebumers. Brutal and vicious and outright evil-’
‘Rubbish. And I’ll tell you a secret and maybe one day it’ll do you good, too. Dying humbles ya.’
‘I don’t need any humbling, Hedge, which is fine since I don’t plan on dying any time soon.’
‘Best stay light on your toes, then.’
‘You guarding my back, Hedge?’
‘I ain’t no Kalam, but aye, I am.’
‘For now.’
‘For now.’
‘That will have to do, I suppose-’
‘Mind you, only if you’re guarding mine, Quick.’
‘Of course. Loyalty to the old squad and all that.’
‘So what are damned pebbles for? As if I couldn’t guess.’
‘We’re heading into an ugly scrap, Hedge.’ He rounded on the sapper. ‘And listen, about those damned cussers-if you blow me into tiny pieces I will come back for you, Hedge. That’s a vow, sworn by every damned soul in me.’
‘Now that raises a question, don’t it? Just how long do all of those souls plan on hiding in there, Ben Adaephon Delat?’
The wizard eyed him, and, predictably, said nothing.
Trull Sengar stood at the very edge of the fire’s light, beyond the gathered Imass. The women’s song had sunk into a series of sounds that a mother might make to her babe, soft sounds of comfort, and Onrack had explained how this Eres’al song was in fact a kind of traverse, back into the roots of language, beginning with the bizarre yet clearly complex adult Eres language with its odd clicks and stops and all the gestures that provided punctuation, then working backward and growing ever more simplified even as it became more musical. The effect was eerie and strangely disturbing to the Tiste Edur.
Music and song among his people was a static thing, fixated within ritual. If the ancient tales were true, there had once been a plethora of instruments in use among the Tiste Edur, but most of diese were now unknown, beyond the names given them. Voice now stood in their stead and Trull began to sense that, perhaps, something had been lost.
The gestures among the women had transformed into dance, sinuous and swaying and now, suddenly, sexual.
A low voice beside him said, ‘Before the child, there is passion.’
Trull glanced over and was surprised to see one of the T’lan, the clan chief, Hostille Rator.
An array of calcified bones were knotted in the filthy long hair dangling from the warrior’s mottled, scarred pate. His brow ridge dominated the entire face, burying the eyes in darkness. Even clothed in the flesh of life, Hostille Rator seemed deathly.
‘Passion begets the child, Tiste Edur. Do you see?’
Trull nodded. ‘Yes. I think so.’
‘So it was, long ago, at the Ritual.’
Ah.
‘The child, alas,’ the clan chief continued, ‘grows up. And what was once passion is now…’
Nothing.
Hostille Rator resumed. ‘There was a Bonecaster here, among these clans. She saw, clearly, the illusion of this realm. And saw, too, that it was dying. She sought to halt the bleeding away, by sacrificing herself. But she is failing-her spirit and her will, they are failing.’
Trull frowned at Hostille Rator. ‘How did you come to know of this place?’
‘She gave voice to her pain, her anguish.’ The T’lan was silent a moment, then he added, ‘It was our intention to answer the call of the Gathering-but the need in her voice was undeniable. We could not turn aside, even when what we surrendered was-possibly-our final rest.’
‘So now you are here, Hostille Rator. Onrack believes you would usurp Ulshun Pral, but for Rud Elalle’s presence-the threat he poses you.’
A glitter from the darkness beneath those brow ridges. ‘You do not even whisper these things, Edur. Would you see weapons drawn this night, even after the gift of the First Song?’
‘No. Yet, perhaps, better now than later.’
Trull now saw that the two T’lan Bonecasters had moved up behind Hostille Rator. The singing from the women had ceased-had it been an abrupt end? Trull could not recall. In any case, it was clear that all those present were now listening to this conversation. He saw Onrack emerge from the crowd, saw his friend’s stone sword gripped in both hands.
Trull addressed Hostille Rator once more, his tone even and calm. ‘You three have stood witness to all that you once were-’
‘It will not survive,’ the clan chief cut in. ‘How can we embrace this illusion when, upon its fading, we must return to what we truly are?’
From the crowd Rud Elalle spoke, ‘No harm shall befall my people-not by your hand, Hostille Rator, nor that of your Bonecasters. Nor,’ he added, ‘that of those who are coming here. I intend to lead the clans away-to safety.’
‘There is no safety,’ Hostille Rator said. ‘This realm dies, and so too will all that is within it. And there can be no escape. Rud Elalle, without this realm, your clans do not even exist.’
Onrack said, ‘I am T’lan, like you. Feel the flesh that now clothes you. The muscle, the heat of blood. Feel the breath in your lungs, Hostille Rator. I have looked into your eyes-each of you three-and I see what no doubt resides in mine. The wonder. The remembering.’
‘We cannot permit it,’ said the Bonecaster named Til’aras Benok. ‘For when we leave this place, Onrack…’
Yes,’ Trull’s friend whispered. ‘It will be… too much. To bear.’
‘There was passion once,’ Hostille Rator said. ‘For us. It can never return. We are children no longer.’
‘None of you understand!’
Rud Elalle’s sudden shriek startled everyone, and Trull saw Ulshun Pral-on his face an expression of distress-reach out a hand to his adopted son, who angrily brushed it away as he stepped forward, the fire in his eyes as fierce as that in the hearth beyond. ‘Stone, earth, trees and grasses. Beasts. The sky and the stars! None of this is an illusion!’
‘A trapped memory-’
‘No, Bonecaster, you are wrong.’ He struggled to hold back his anger, and spun to face Onrack. ‘I see your heart, Onrack the Broken. I know, you will stand with me-in the time that comes. You will!’
‘Yes, Rud Elalle.’
‘Then you believe!’
Onrack was silent.
Hostille Rator’s laugh was a soft, bitter rasp. ‘It is this, Rud Elalle. Onrack of the Logros T’lan Imass chooses to fight at your side, chooses to fight for these Bentract, because he cannot abide the thought of returning to what he once was, and so he would rather die here. And death is what Onrack the Broken anticipates-indeed, what he now yearns for.’
Trull studied his friend, and saw on Onrack’s firelit face the veracity of Hostille Rator’s words.
The Tiste Edur did not hesitate. ‘Onrack will not stand alone,’ he said.
Til’aras Benok faced Trull. ‘You surrender your life, Edur, to defend an illusion?’
‘That, Bonecaster, is what we mortals delight in doing. You bind yourself to a clan, to a tribe, to a nation or an empire, but to give force to the illusion of a common bond, you must feed its opposite-that all those not of your clan, or tribe, or empire, do not share that bond. I have seen Onrack the Broken, a T’lan Imass. And now I have seen him, mortal once again. To the joy and the life in the eyes of my friend, I will fight all those who deem him their enemy. For the bond between us is one of friendship, and that, Ti’laras Benok, is not an illusion.’
Hostille Rator asked Onrack, ‘In your mercy, as you have now found it alive once more in your soul, will you now reject Trull Sengar of the Tiste Edur?’
And the warrior bowed his head and said, ‘I cannot.’
‘Then, Onrack the Broken, your soul shall never find peace.’
‘I know.’
Trull felt as if he had been punched in the chest. It was all very well to make his bold claims, in ferocious sincerity that could only come of true friendship. It was yet another thing to discover the price it demanded in the soul of the one he called friend. ‘Onrack,’ he whispered in sudden anguish.
But this moment would not await all that might have been said, all that needed to be said, for Hostille Rator had turned to face his Bonecasters, and whatever silent communication passed among these three was quick, decisive, for the clan chief swung round and walked towards Ulshun Pral. Whereupon he fell to one knee and bowed his head. ‘We are humbled, Ulshun Pral. We are shamed by these two strangers. You are the Bentract. As were we, once, long ago. We now choose to remember. We now choose to fight in your name. In our deaths there will be naught but honour, this we vow.’ He then rose and faced Rud Elalle. ‘Soletaken, will you accept us as your soldiers?’
As soldiers? No. As friends, as Bentract, yes.’
The three T’lan bowed to him.
All of this passed in a blur before Trull Sengar’s eyes. Since Onrack the Broken’s admission, it seemed as if Trull’s entire world had, with grinding, stone-crushing irresistibility, turned on some vast, unimagined axis-yet he was drawn round again by a hand on his shoulder, and Onrack, now standing before him.
‘There is no need,’ the Imass warrior said. ‘I know something even Rud Elalle does not, and I tell you this, Trull Sengar, there is no need. Not for grief. Nor regret. My friend, listen to me. This world will not die.’
And Trull found no will within him to challenge that assertion, to drive doubt into his friend’s earnest gaze. After a moment, then, he simply sighed and nodded. ‘So be it, Onrack.’
‘And, if we are careful,’ Onrack continued, ‘neither shall we.’
‘As you say, friend.’
Thirty paces away in the darkness, Hedge turned to Quick Ben and hissed, ‘What do you make of all that, wizard?’
Quick Ben shrugged. ‘Seems the confrontation has been averted, if Hostille Rator’s kneeling before Ulshun Pral didn’t involve picking up a dropped fang or something.’
‘A dropped-what?’
‘Never mind. That’s not the point at all, anyway. But I now know I am right in one thing and don’t ask me how I know. I just do. Suspicion into certainty.’
‘Well, go on, damn you.’
‘Just this, Hedge. The Finnest. Of Scabandari Bloodeye. It’s here.’
‘Here? What do you mean, here?’
‘Here, sapper. Right here.’
The gate was a shattered mess on one side. The huge cyclopean stones that had once formed an enormous arch easily five storeys high had the appearance of having been blasted apart by multiple impacts, flinging some of the shaped blocks a hundred paces or more from the entrance-way. The platform the arch had once spanned was heaved and buckled as if some earthquake had rippled through the solid bedrock beneath the pavestones. “The other side was dominated by a tower of still standing blocks, corkscrew-twisted and seemingly precariously balanced.
The illusion of bright daylight had held during this last part of the journey, as much by the belligerent insistence of Udinaas as by the amused indulgence of Clip. Or, perhaps, Silchas Ruin’s impatience. The foremost consequence of this was that Seren Pedac was exhausted-and Udinaas looked no better. Like the two Tiste Andii, however, Kettle seemed impervious-with all the boundless energy of a child, Seren supposed, raising the possibility that at some moment not too far off she would simply collapse.
Seren could see that Fear Sengar was weary as well, but probably that had more to do with the unpleasant burden settling ever more heavily upon his shoulders. She had been harsh and unforgiving of herself in relating to the Tiste Edur the terrible crime she had committed upon Udinaas, and she had done so in the hope that Fear Sengar would-with a look of unfeigned and most deserving disgust in his eyes-choose to reject her, and his own vow to guard her life.
But the fool had instead held to that vow, although she could see the brutal awakening of regret. He would not-could not-break his word.
It was getting easier to disdain these bold gestures, the severity so readily embraced by males of any species. Some primitive holdover, she reasoned, of the time when possessing a woman meant survival, not of anything so prosaic as one’s own bloodline, but possession in the manner of ownership, and survival in the sense of power. There had been backward tribes all along the fringe territories of the Letherii kingdom where such archaic notions were practised, and not always situations where men were the owners and wielders of power-for sometimes it was the women. In either case, history had shown that such systems could only survive in isolation, and only among peoples for whom magic had stagnated into a chaotic web of proscriptions, taboos and the artifice of nonsensical rules-where the power offered by sorcery had been usurped by profane ambitions and the imperatives of social control.
Contrary to Hull Beddict’s romantic notions of such peo-
pie, Seren Pedac had come to feel little remorse when she thought about their inevitable and often bloody extinction. Control was ever an illusion, and its maintenance could only persist when in isolation. Not to say, of course, that the Letherii system was one of unfettered freedom and the liberty of individual will. Hardly. One imposition had been replaced by another. But at the very least it’s not one divided by gender.
The Tiste Edur were different. Their notions… primitive. Offer a sword, bury it at the threshold of one’s home, the symbolic exchange of vows so archaic no words were even necessary. In such a ritual, no negotiation was possible, and if marriage did not involve negotiation then it was not marriage. No, just mutual ownership. Or not-so-mutual ownership. Such a thing deserved little respect.
And now, here, it was not even a prospective husband laying claim to her life, but that prospective husband’s damned brother. And, to make the entire situation yet more absurd, the prospective husband was dead. Fear will defend to the death my right to marry a corpse. Or, rather, the corpse’s right to claim me. Well, that is madness and I will not-1 do not-accept it. Not for a moment.
Yes, I have moved past self-pity. Now I’m just angry.
Because he refused to let his disgust dissuade him.
For all her notions of defiance, that last thought stung her.
Udinaas had moved past her to study the ruined gate, and now he turned to Clip. ‘Well, does it yet live?’
The Tiste Andii’s chain and rings were spinning from one finger again, and he offered the Letherii slave a cool smile. ‘The last road to walk,’ he said, ‘lies on the other side of the gate.’
‘So who got mad and kicked it to pieces, Clip?’
‘Of no consequence any more,’ Clip replied, his smile broadening.
‘You have no idea, in other words,’ Udinaas said. ‘Well, if we’re to go through it, let’s stop wasting time. I’ve almost given up hoping that you’ll end up garrotting yourself with that chain. Almost.’
His last comment seemed to startle Clip for some reason.
And all at once Seren Pedac saw that chain with its rings differently, By the Errant! Why did I not see it before? It is a garrotte. Clip is a damned assassin! She snorted. ‘And you claim to be a Mortal Sword! You’re nothing but a murderer, Clip. Yes, Udinaas saw that long ago-which is why you hate him so. He was never fooled by all those weapons you carry. And now, neither am I.’
‘We’re wasting time indeed,’ Clip said, once more seemingly unperturbed, and he turned and approached the huge gate. Silchas Ruin set out after him, and Seren saw that the White Crow had his hands on the grips of his swords.
‘Danger ahead,’ Fear Sengar announced and yes, damn him, he then moved from his position just behind Seren’s right shoulder to directly in front of her. And drew his sword.
Udinaas witnessed all this and grunted dismissively, then half turned and said, ‘Silchas Ruin’s earned his paranoia, Fear. But even that doesn’t mean we’re about to jump into a pit of dragons.’ He then smiled without any humour. ‘Not that dragons live in pits.’
When he walked after the two Tiste Andii, Kettle ran up to take his hand. At first Udinaas reacted as if her touch had burned him, but then his resistance vanished.
Clip reached the threshold, stepped forward and disappeared. A moment later Silchas Ruin did the same.
Neither Udinaas nor Kettle hesitated.
Reaching the same point, Fear Sengar paused and eyed her. ‘What is in your mind, Acquitor?’ he asked.
‘Do you think I might abandon you all, Fear? Watch you step through and, assuming you can’t get back, I just turn round and walk this pointless road-one I probably would never leave? Is that choice left to me?’
‘All choices are left to you, Acquitor.’
‘You too, I would say. Except, of course, for the ones you willingly surrendered.’
‘Yes.’
‘You admit that so easily.’
‘Perhaps it seems that way.’
‘Fear, if anyone should turn round right now, it is you.’
‘We are close, Acquitor. We are perhaps a few strides from Scabandari’s Finnest. How can you imagine I would even consider such a thing?’
‘Some stubborn thread of self-preservation, perhaps. Some last surviving faith of mine that you actually possess a brain, one that can reason, that is. Fear Sengar, you will probably die. If you pass through this gate.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I shall, if only to confound Udinaas’s expectations.’
‘Udinaas?’
A faint smile. ‘The hero fails the quest.’
‘Ah. And that would prove satisfying enough?’
‘Remains to be seen, I suppose. Now, you will follow?’
‘Of course.’
‘You then willingly surrender this choice?’
In answer she set a hand against his chest and pushed him, step by step, into the gate. All pressure vanished when he went through, and Seren stumbled forward, only to collide with the Tiste Edur’s broad, muscled chest.
He righted her before she could fall.
And she saw, before them all, a most unexpected vista. Black volcanic ash, beneath a vast sky nearly as black, despite at least three suns blazing in the sky overhead. And, on this rough plain, stretching on all sides in horrific proliferation, there were dragons.
Humped, motionless. Scores-hundreds.
She heard Kettle’s anguished whisper. ‘Udinaas! They’re all dead!’
Clip, standing twenty paces ahead, was now facing them. The chain spun tight, and then he bowed. ‘Welcome, my dear companions, to Starvald Demelain.’