Truth is a pressure, and I see us all shying away. But, my friends, from truth there can be no escape.
The Year of Ten Thousand Lies
Kayessan Arhizan, clinging to the limp folds of the imperial standard, its hunger forgotten, its own life but a quiescent spark within its tiny body, had listened intently to the entire conversation.
A dromon was easing its way among the nearest transports, towing a sleek, black-hulled warship; and from the shoreline watched the Adjunct and Admiral Nok, along with Fist Keneb, Quick Ben and Kalam Mekhar. Few words were exchanged among them, until the arrival of Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy. At that point, things got interesting.
'Adjunct,' Gesler said in greeting. 'That's our ship. That's the Silanda.'
Admiral Nok was studying the gold-hued marine. 'Sergeant, I understand you claim that you can sail that unpleasant craft.'
A nod. 'With a couple squads, aye, and that's it. As for the crew below manning the oars, well, when we need 'em to row, they'll row.'
Stormy added, 'We lived with 'em long enough they don't scare us no more, sir, not even Gesler here an' he jumps every time he looks in that fancy silver mirror of his. An' those heads, they don't make our skins crawl neither, no more-'
'Stop talking like a sailor, Adjutant Stormy,' Nok said.
A smile amidst the red, bristling beard. 'Ain't no Adjutant any more, Admiral.'
Thin brows rose, and Nok said, 'Title alone gifts the bearer with intelligence?'
Stormy nodded. 'That it does, sir. Which is why Gesler's a sergeant and I'm a corporal. We get stupider every year that passes.'
'And Stormy's proud of that,' Gesler said, slapping his companion on the back.
The Adjunct rubbed at her eyes. She examined the tips of her leather gloves, then slowly began removing the gauntlets. 'I see by the waterline she's fully provisioned…'
'Food does not spoil in that hold,' Nok said. 'That much my mages have determined. Furthermore, there are no rats or other vermin.' He hesitated, then sighed. 'In any case, I could find no sailors who would volunteer to crew the Silanda. And I have no intention of forcing the issue.' He shrugged. 'Adjunct, if they truly want it…'
'Very well. Sergeant Gesler, your own squad and two others.'
'The Fourth and Ninth, Adjunct.'
Her gaze narrowed on the man, then she turned to Keneb. 'Fist? They're your resurrected squads.'
'The Fourth – that would be Strings's-'
'For Hood's sake,' the Adjunct said. 'His name is Fiddler. It is the worst-kept secret in this army, Keneb.'
'Of course. My apologies, Adjunct. Fiddler's, then, and the Ninth – let's see, Sergeant Balm's squad. Abyss take us, Gesler, what a snarly bunch of malcontents you've selected.'
'Yes sir.'
'All right.' Keneb hesitated, then turned to Tavore.
'Adjunct, may I suggest that the Silanda hold a flanking position to your own flagship at all times.'
Mock dismay on Gesler's face and he punched Stormy in the arm and said, 'They don't trust us, Stormy.'
'Shows what they know, don't it?'
'Aye, it does. Damn me, they're smarter than we thought.'
'Sergeant Gesler,' the Adjunct said, 'take your corporal and get out of here.'
'Aye, Adjunct.'
The two marines hurried off.
After a moment, Admiral Nok laughed, briefly, under his breath, then said, 'Adjunct, I must tell you, I am… relieved.'
'To leave the Silanda to those idiots?'
'No, Tavore. The unexpected arrival of more survivors from Y'Ghatan, with soldiers such as Fiddler, Cuttle, Gesler and Stormy among them – and-' he turned to Quick Ben and Kalam, 'you two as well. The transformation within your army, Adjunct, has been… palpable. It is often forgotten by commanders, the significance of storied veterans, especially among young, untried soldiers. Added to that, the extraordinary tale of their survival beneath the streets of Y'Ghatan,' he shook his head. 'In all, a most encouraging development.'
'I agree,' Tavore said, glancing at Keneb. 'It was, for the most part, these soldiers who at the very beginning embraced what could have been seen as a terrible omen, and made of it a thing of strength. None of us were fully cognizant of it at the time, but it was there, in Aren, at that first parade, that the Bonehunters were born.' The others were all staring at her. Her brows lifted fractionally.
Keneb cleared his throat. 'Adjunct, the Bonehunters may well have been birthed that day in Aren, but it only drew its first breath yesterday.'
'What do you mean?'
'We were wondering,' Kalam said to her, 'where that decoration came from. The one you presented, with your own hand, to Captain Faradan Sort and the witch Sinn.'
'Ah, yes. Well, I can make no claim regarding that. The design of that sigil was by T'amber's hand. There were jewelsmiths in her family, I understand, and she passed a few years of her youth as an apprentice.
Nonetheless, I do not see how that ceremony achieved little more than a confirmation of what already existed.'
'Adjunct,' Fist Keneb said, 'it was your confirmation that was needed.
To make it real. I do not wish to offend you, but before then, you were the Adjunct. You were Laseen's. Her property.'
Her expression was suddenly flat, dangerous. 'And now, Fist?'
But it was Kalam who answered. 'Now, you belong to the Fourteenth.'
'You belong to us,' Keneb said.
The moment should have ended there, and all would have been well.
Better than well. It would have been perfect. Instead, they saw, upon Tavore's expression, a growing… dismay. And fear. And at first, neither emotion made any sense.
Unless…
Unless she was unable to return such loyalty.
And so the doubt twisted free, like newborn vipers slithering from their clutch of eggs, and tiny, deadly fangs sank into every figure standing there, witness to what her face revealed.
Revealed. And this from a woman whose self-control was damned near inhuman.
Startled into life, the rhizan lizard dropped free of its perch, wheeled once then flitted off, down along the strand, where it alighted on the white flank of a huge tree-trunk some past storm had flung ashore, the creature's legs spread wide, belly to the wood, its tiny sides palpitating. Distracted and frightened, Bottle reached out to brush one fingertip between the rhizan's eyes, a gesture intended to offer comfort, even as he released his hold upon its life-spark.
The creature fled in a flurry of wings and whipping tail.
And now, five days later, Bottle found himself on the foredeck of the Silanda, staring back down the ship to that tarp-covered heap of severed heads that Stormy called his brain's trust. Amusing, yes, but Bottle knew those undying eyes were piercing the frayed fabric of the canvas, watching him. In expectation. Of what? Damn you, I can't help you poor fools. You have to see that!
Besides, he had plenty of other things to worry over right now. So many, in fact, that he did not know where to start.
He had seen the sigil, the decoration the Adjunct had presented to Faradan Sort at what should have been her courtmartial, and to the mute child Sinn – not that she was in truth mute, Bottle knew. The urchin just had very little to say to anyone, barring her brother Shard. The sigil… in silver, a city wall over which rose ruby flames, and the sloped tel beneath that wall, a mass of gold human skulls. The echo of the Bridgeburners' old sigil was not accident – no, it was sheer genius. T'amber's genius.
By the end of that same day, iron needles and silk threads were out as blunted fingers worked with varying degrees of talent, and military issue cloaks found a new decoration among the soldiers of the Fourteenth Army. To go along with dangling finger bones, the occasional bird skull and drilled teeth.
All well and good, as far as it went. For much of the first day, as Bottle and the others recovered, soldiers would come by just to look at them. It had been unnerving, all that attention, and he still struggled to understand what he saw in those staring eyes. Yes, we're alive. Unlikely, granted, but true nonetheless. Now, what is it that you see?
The memories of that time beneath the city were a haunting refrain behind every spoken word shared between Bottle and his fellow survivors. It fuelled their terrible dreams at night – he had grown used to awakening to some muffled cry from a squad member; from Smiles, or Cuttle, or Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. Cries dimly echoed from where other squads slept on the stony ground.
Their kits had been rifled through in their absence, items and gear redistributed as was the custom, and on that first day soldiers arrived to return what they had taken. By dusk, each survivor had more than they had ever begun with – and could only look on in bemusement at the heaped trinkets, buckles, clasps and charms; the mended tunics, the scrubbed clean quilted under-padding, the buffed leather straps and weapon-rigging. And daggers. Lots of daggers, the most personal and precious of all weapons – the fighter's last resort. The weapon that, if necessary, would be used to take one's own life in the face of something far worse. Now, what significance are we to take from that?
Crouched nearby on the foredeck, Koryk and Tarr were playing a game of Bones that the former had found among the offerings in his kit. A sailor's version, the cribbed box deep to prevent the playing pieces bouncing out of the field, the underside made stable by iron-tipped eagle talons at each corner, sharp enough to bite into the wood of a galley bench or deck. Tarr had lost every game thus far – over twenty – both to Koryk and Smiles, yet he kept coming back. Bottle had never seen a man so willing to suffer punishment.
In the captain's cabin lounged Gesler, Stormy, Fiddler and Balm, their conversation sporadic and desultory. Deep in shadows beneath the elongated map-table huddled Y'Ghatan, Bottle's rat – my eyes, my ears… my aching teats.
No other rats on board, and without his control over Y'Ghatan and her brood, they would have flung themselves overboard long ago. Bottle sympathized. The sorcery engulfing this ship was foul, redolent with madness. It disliked anything alive that was not bound by its chaotic will. And it especially disliked… me.
Only… Gesler and Stormy, they seem immune to it. The bastards – forcing us to join them on this eerie, unwelcome floating barrow.
Bottle considered talking to Fiddler about it, then dismissed the idea. Fiddler was like Kalam, who was like Apsalar, who was like Quick Ben. All… evil.
All right, not evil, but something. I don't know. That stuff in Shadow – what were they up to? And Kalam, ready to stick his knives in Apsalar. And Apsalar, looking like she wanted just that. Then Quick Ben waking up, getting between the two as if this was all some old argument, old wounds ripped open.
Tavore had claimed Quick Ben, Kalam and Apsalar for her own retinue on the Adjunct's flagship, Froth Wolf – a Quon-built dromon, its workmanship Mapau, its keel and metalwork from somewhere else entirely. Fenn – can't be more than a handful of keel-carvers and blacksmiths left among the squalid remnants… but they made that keel and they made those fittings, and there's nothing insensate or inert about them. In any case, Bottle was glad they were on that ship riding the swells three reaches to starboard. Not quite far enough away for his comfort, but it would have to do. He could picture those two skeletal reptiles scurrying around in the hold below, hunting rats…
'So it was Grub who held onto that whistle?' Fiddler asked Gesler in the cabin.
Beneath the table, Y'Ghatan's tattered ears perked up.
'Aye. Keneb's lad. Now there's a strange one for ya. Said he knew we were coming. Now, maybe I believe that. Maybe I don't. But it was the first thing I got back.'
'Good thing, too,' Stormy said, audibly scratching his beard. 'I'm feeling right at home-'
'That's a joke,' Gesler cut in. 'Last time we was on this damned ship, Stormy, you spent most of the time cowering in a corner.'
'Just took a while getting used to it, that's all.'
Fiddler said, 'Look what some bright spark left in my loot.' Something thumped onto the table.
'Gods below,' Sergeant Balm muttered. 'Is it complete?'
'Hard to say. There are cards in there I've never seen before. One for the Apocalyptic – it's an Unaligned – and there's something called the House of War, showing as its ranked card a bone throne, unoccupied, flanked by two wolves. And in that House there's a card called the Mercenary, and another – done by a different hand – that I think is named something like Guardians of the Dead, and it shows ghostly soldiers standing in the middle of a burning bridge…'
A moment of silence, then Gesler: 'Recognize any faces, Fid?'
'Didn't want to look too closely at that one. There's the House of Chains, and the King of that House – the King in Chains – is sitting on a throne. The scene is very dark, swallowed in shadows, except I'd swear that poor bastard is screaming. And the look in his eyes…'
'What else?' Balm asked.
'Stop sounding so eager, you Dal Honese rock-toad.'
'All right, if you don't like your new present, Fiddler, give it to me.'
'Right, and you'd probably lay a field right here, on this ship.'
'So?'
'So, you want to open a door to this Tiste and Tellann nightmare of warrens? To the Crippled God, too?'
'Oh.'
'Anyway, there's more Unaligned. Master of the Deck, and aye, him I recognize. And Chain – a knot in the centre, with links stretching out in all directions. Don't like the look of that one.'
'Some gift, Fid.'
'Aye, like a rock thrown to a drowning sailor.'
'Put it away,' Gesler said.
The rat listened as the Deck was dragged back from the centre of the table.
'We got us a problem,' Gesler continued.
'Only,' Stormy added, 'we don't know what it is. We only know that something's rattled Keneb, and that assassin friend of yours, Fid. And Quick Ben. Rattled them all.'
'The Adjunct,' Fiddler said. 'Kalam and Quick weren't talking, but they're not happy.' A pause, then, 'Could be it's the way Pearl just vanished, right after Y'Ghatan, likely straight back to the Empress.
Just a Claw operative delivering his report? Maybe. But even that leaves a sour taste in the mouth – he was too quick to act, too quick to reach conclusions – as if what he thought happened at Y'Ghatan was only confirming suspicions he already held. Think on it – do you really suppose a report like that has anything good to say?'
'She killed Sha'ik,' Balm said, exasperated. 'She broke open that wasp nest in Raraku and damned nothing came buzzing out. She nabbed Korbolo Dom and sent him back in shackles. And she did all that with us not losing nobody, or almost nobody – the scraps on the way were expected, and not nearly so bad as they could've been. Then she chases Leoman to Y'Ghatan. Unless you got someone on the inside to crack open the gate, sieges are costly, especially when the attackers got no time to wait it out. And we didn't, did we? There was a damned plague on the way!'
'Calm down,' Fiddler said, 'we lived through all that, too, remember?'
'Aye, and did any one of us really think Leoman would broil his own people? That he'd turn a whole city into a heap of ashes and rivers of lead? All I'm saying, Fid, is we ain't done too bad, have we? When you think on it.'
'Balm's right,' Stormy said, scratching again. 'Fiddler, in that Deck you got, that House of War – did you smell Treach there? Those wolves, they got me wondering.'
'I have real doubt about that version,' Fiddler replied. 'That whole House, in fact. I'm thinking the maker was confused, or maybe what she saw was confused-'
'She?'
'I think so, except the rogue one, the Guardians of the Dead. That's a man's hand for sure.'
There was a sudden tension in Stormy's voice. 'Pull 'em out again, Fid. Let's see that House of War – all the cards in that House.'
Shuffling noises. 'I'll show each one, then. Not on the table, but still in my hand, all right? One at a time. Okay. As for titles, I'm just reading what's in the borders.' A moment, then, 'The Lords of War. Two wolves, one male, one female. Suggests to me the name for this one is wrong. But it's the plural that counts, meaning the unoccupied throne isn't that important. All right, everybody had a look? Good, next one. The Hunter, and aye, that's Treach-'
'What's with the striped corpse in the foreground? That old man with no hands?'
'No idea, Gesler.'
'Next one,' said Stormy.
'Guardians of the Dead-'
'Let me get a closer… good. Wait…'
'Stormy,' said Balm, 'what do you think you're seeing?'
'What's next?' the Falari corporal demanded. 'Quick!'
'The Army and the Soldier – I don't know – two names for this, which may be determined by context or something.'
'Any more?'
'Two, and I don't like these ones at all. Here, Life Slayer…'
'Jaghut?'
'Half-Jaghut,' Fiddler said in a dull voice. 'I know who this is – the horn bow, the single-edged sword. Life Slayer is Icarium. And his protector, Mappo Runt, is nowhere in sight.'
'Never mind all that,' Stormy said. 'What's the last card?'
'Icarium's counterpoint, of sorts. Death Slayer.'
'Who in the Abyss is that supposed to be? That's impossible.'
A sour grunt from Fiddler, then he said, 'Who? Well, let's see.
Squalid hut of skins and sticks, brazier coughing out smoke, a hooded thing inside the hut, broken limbed, shackles sunk into the earth.
Now, who might that be?'
'That's impossible,' Gesler said, echoing Stormy's assertion. 'He can' t be two things at once!'
'Why not?' Fiddler said, then sighed. 'That's it. Now, Stormy, what's lit that fire in your eyes?'
'I know who made these cards.'
'Really?' Fiddler sounded unconvinced. 'And how did you come by that?'
'The Guardians card, something about the stonework on the bridge. Then those last two, the skulls – I got a damned good look at Faradan Sort' s medal. So's I could sew the like, you see.'
There was a long, long silence.
And Bottle stared, unseeing, as implications settled in his mind – settled momentarily, then burst up and out, like dust-devils, one after another. The Adjunct wants that Deck of Dragons in Fiddler's hands. And either she or T'amber – or maybe Nether and Nil, or someone – is boiling over with arcane knowledge, and isn't afraid to use it.
Now, Fid, he never lays a field with those cards. No. He makes up games.
The Adjunct knows something. Just like she knew about the ghosts at Raraku… and the flood. But she carries an otataral sword. And the two Wickans are nothing like they once were, or so goes the consensus.
It must be T'amber.
What awaits us?
Is this what's got Quick Ben and the others so rattled?
What if'Something just nudged my foot – what? Is that a rat? Right under our table?'
'Ain't no rats on the Silanda, Stormy-'
'I'm telling you, Ges – there!'
Fiddler swore, then said, 'That's Bottle's rat! Get it!'
'After it!'
Skidding chairs, the crash of crockery, grunts and stamping boots.
'It's getting away!'
There were so many places, Bottle knew, on a ship, where only a rat could go. Y'Ghatan made her escape, despite all the cursing and thumping.
Moments later, Bottle saw Fiddler appear on deck amidships – the soldier looked away a moment before the sergeant's searching gaze found him, and Bottle listened – staring out to sea – as the man, pushing past lounging soldiers, approached.
Thump thump thump up the steps to the foredeck.
'Bottle!'
Blinking, he looked over. 'Sergeant?'
'Oh no I ain't fooled – you was spying! Listening in!'
Bottle gestured over at Koryk and Tarr, who had looked up from their game and were now staring. 'Ask them. I've been sitting here, not doing a thing, for more than a bell. Ask them.'
'Your rat!'
'Her? I lost track of her last night, Sergeant. Haven't bothered trying to hunt her down since – what would be the point? She's not going anywhere, not with her pups to take care of.'
Gesler, Stormy and Balm were now crowding up behind Fiddler, who looked ready to rip off his own stubbly beard in frustration. 'If you' re lying…' Fiddler hissed.
'Of course he's lying,' Balm said. 'If I was him, I'd be lying right now, too.'
'Well, Sergeant Balm,' Bottle said, 'you're not me, and that is the crucial difference. Because I happen to be telling the truth.'
With a snarl, Fiddler turned round and pushed his way back down to the mid deck. A moment later the others followed, Balm casting one last glare at Bottle – as if only now comprehending that he'd just been insulted.
A low snort from Koryk after they'd left. 'Bottle, I happened to glance up a while back – before Fiddler came out – and, Hood take me, there must have been fifty expressions crossing your face, one after the other.'
'Really?' Bottle asked mildly. 'Probably clouds passing the sun, Koryk.'
Tarr said, 'Your rat still has those pups? You must've carried them on the march, then. If I'd been the one carrying them, I would've eaten them one by one. Pop into the mouth, crunch, chew. Sweet and delicious.'
'Well, it was me, not you, wasn't it? Why does everyone want to be me, anyway?'
'We don't,' Tarr said, returning to study the game. 'We're just all trying to tell you we think you're a raving idiot, Bottle.'
Bottle grunted. 'All right. Then, I suppose, you two aren't interested in what they were talking about in that cabin just a little while ago.'
'Get over here,' Koryk said in a growl. 'Watch us play, and start talking, Bottle, else we go and tell the sergeant.'
'No thanks,' Bottle said, stretching his arms. 'I think I'm in need of a nap. Maybe later. Besides, that game bores me.'
'You think we won't tell Fiddler?'
'Of course you won't.'
'Why not?'
'Because then this would be the last time – the last time ever – you got any inside information from me.'
'You lying, snivelling, snake of a bastard-'
'Now now,' Bottle said, 'be nice.'
'You're getting worse than Smiles,' Koryk said.
'Smiles?' Bottle paused at the steps. 'Where is she, by the way?'
'Mooning away with Corabb, I expect,' Tarr said.
Really? 'She shouldn't do that.'
'Why?'
'Corabb's luck doesn't necessarily extend to people around him, that's why.'
'What does that mean?'
It means I talk too much. 'Never mind.'
Koryk called out, 'They'll get that rat, you know, Bottle! Sooner or later.'
Nobody's thinking straight around here. Gods, Koryk, you still think those pups are little helpless pinkies. Alas, they are all now quite capable of getting around all by themselves. So, I haven't got just one extra set of eyes and ears, friends. No. There's Baby Koryk, Baby Smiles, Baby Tarr, Baby… oh, you know the rest…
He was halfway to the hatch when the alarms sounded, drifting like demonic cries across the swollen waves, and on the wind there arrived a scent… no, a stench.
Hood take me, I hate not knowing. Kalam swung himself up into the rigging, ignoring the pitching and swaying as the Froth Wolf heeled hard about on a new course, northeast, towards the gap that had – through incompetence or carelessness – opened between two dromons of the escort. As the assassin quickly worked his way upward, he caught momentary glimpses of the foreign ships that had appeared just outside that gap. Sails that might have been black, once, but were now grey, bleached by sun and salt.
Amidst the sudden confusion of signals and alarms, one truth was becoming appallingly evident: they had sailed into an ambush. Ships to the north, forming an arc with killing lanes between each one. Another crescent, this one bulging towards the Malazans, was fast approaching before the wind from the northeast. Whilst another line of ships formed a bristling barrier to the south, from the shallows along the coast to the west, then out in a saw-toothed formation eastward until the arc curled north.
Our escorts are woefully outnumbered. Transports loaded down with soldiers, like bleating sheep trapped in a slaughter pen.
Kalam stopped climbing. He had seen enough. Whoever they are, they've got us in their jaws. He began making his way down once more, an effort almost as perilous as had been the ascent. Below, figures were scrambling about on the decks, sailors and marines, officers shouting back and forth.
The Adjunct's flagship, flanked still to starboard by the Silanda, was tacking a course towards that gap. It was clear that Tavore meant to engage that closing crescent. In truth, they had little choice. With the wind behind those attackers, they could drive like a spear-point into the midst of the cumbersome transports. Admiral Nok was commanding the lead escorts to the north, and they would have to seek to push through the enemy blocking the way, with as many of the transports following as were able – but all the enemy ships have to do is drive them into the coast, onto whatever uncharted reefs lurk in the shallows.
Kalam dropped the last distance to the deck, landed in a crouch. He heard more shouts from somewhere far above as he made his way forward.
Positioned near the pitching prow, the Adjunct and Quick Ben stood side by side, the wind whipping at Tavore's cloak. The High Mage glanced over as Kalam reached them.
'They've shortened their sails, drawn up or whatever it is sailors call slowing down.'
'Now why would they do that?' Kalam asked. 'That makes no sense. Those bastards should be driving hard straight at us.'
Quick Ben nodded, but said nothing.
The assassin glanced over at the Adjunct, but of her state of mind as she stared at the opposing line of ships he could sense nothing. '
Adjunct,' he said, 'perhaps you should strap on your sword.'
'Not yet,' she said. 'Something is happening.'
He followed her gaze.
'Gods below, what is that?'
On the Silanda, Sergeant Gesler had made use of the bone whistle, and now banks of oars swept out and back with steady indifference to the heaving swells, and the ship groaned with each surge, easily keeping pace with the Adjunct's dromon. The squads had finished reefing the sails and were now amidships, readying armour and weapons.
Fiddler crouched over a wooden crate, trying to quell his ever-present nausea – gods, I hate the sea, the damned back and forth and up and down. No, when I die I want my feet to be dry. That and nothing more.
No other stipulations. Just dry feet, dammit – as he worked the straps loose and lifted the lid. He stared down at the Moranth munitions nestled in their beds of padding. 'Who can throw?' he demanded, glaring over at his squad, then something cold slithered in his gut.
'I can,' both Koryk and Smiles said.
'Why ask?' said Cuttle.
Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas sat nearby, knees drawn up, too sick to move, much less respond to Fiddler's question.
Tarr said, shrugging, 'If it's right in front of me, maybe I can hit it, Sergeant.'
But Fiddler barely heard any of this – his eyes were fixed on Bottle, who stood, motionless, staring at the enemy line of ships. 'Bottle?
What is it?'
An ashen face turned to regard him. 'It's bad, Sergeant. They're… conjuring.'
Samar Dev shrank away until hard, insensate wood pressed against her back. Before her, to either side of the main mast, stood four Tiste Edur, from whom burgeoned crackling, savage sorcery, whipping like chains between them, fulminating with blooms and gouts of grey flames – and, beyond the rocking prow, a tumbling wave was rising, thrashing as if held taut, lifting skywardBristling chains of power snapped out from the four warlocks, arcing left and right, out to conjoin with identical kin from the ships to either side of Hanradi Khalag's command ship, and then onward to other ships, one after another, and the air Samar Dev drew into her lungs seemed dead, some essential necessity utterly destroyed. She gasped, sank down to the deck, drawing up her knees. A cough, then trembles racked through her in wavesSudden air, life flooding her lungs – someone stood to her left. She looked over, then up.
Karsa Orlong, motionless, staring at the billowing, surging wall of magic. 'What is this?' he demanded.
'Elder,' she said in a ragged voice. 'They mean to destroy them. They mean to tear ten thousand souls and more… into pieces.'
'Who is the enemy?'
Karsa, what is this breath of life you deliver? 'The Malazan Imperial Fleet,' Samar heard the Taxilian answer, and she saw that he had appeared on deck, along with Feather Witch and the Preda, Hanradi Khalag, and all were staring upward at the terrible, chained storm of power.
The Toblakai crossed his arms. 'Malazans,' he said. 'They are not my enemy.'
In a harsh, halting accent, Hanradi Khalag turned to Karsa Orlong and said, 'Are they Tiste Edur?'
The giant's eyes thinned to slits as he continued studying the conjuration, from which there now came a growing roar, as of a million enraged voices. 'No,' he said.
'Then,' replied the Preda, 'they are enemy.'
'If you destroy these Malazans,' Karsa said, 'more of them will come after you.'
'We do not fear.'
The Toblakai warrior finally glanced over at the Preda, and Samar Dev could read, with something fluttering inside her, his contempt. Yet he said nothing, simply turned about and crouched down at Samar Dev's side.
She whispered, 'You were going to call him a fool. I'm glad you didn't – these Tiste Edur don't manage criticism too well.'
'Which makes them even bigger fools,' the giant rumbled. 'But we knew that, Samar Dev. They believe their Emperor can defeat me.'
'Karsa-'
A strange chorus of cries erupted from the warlocks, and they all convulsed, as if some fiery hand had reached into their bodies, closed tight and cruel about their spines – Samar Dev's eyes widened – this ritual, it twists them, oh – such painThe enormous wall lifted free of the sea's suddenly becalmed surface.
Rose higher, then higher still – and in the space beneath it, a horizontal strip mocking normality, the Malazan ships were visible, their sails awry, each one losing way as panic raced through the poor bastards – except for those two, in the lead, a dromon warship, and on its seaward flank, a black-hulled craft, its oars flashing to either side.
What?
Hanradi Khalag had stepped forward upon seeing that odd black ship, but from where Samar sat curled up she could not see his expression, only the back of his head – the suddenly taut posture of his tall form.
And then, something else began to happen…
The wall of magic was pulling free from the surface, drawing with it spouts of white, churning water that fragmented and fell away like toppling spears as the grey-shot, raging manifestation lifted ever higher. The roar of sound rolled forward, loud and fierce as a charging army.
The Adjunct's voice was low, flat. 'Quick Ben.'
'Not warrens,' the wizard replied, as if awed. 'Elder. Not warrens.
Holds, but shot through with Chaos, with rot-'
'The Crippled God.'
Both the wizard and Kalam looked over at her.
'You're full of surprises, Adjunct,' Quick Ben observed.
'Can you answer it?'
'Adjunct?'
'This Elder sorcery, High Mage – can you answer it?'
The glance that Quick Ben cast at Kalam startled the assassin, yet it matched his reply perfectly: 'If I cannot, Adjunct, then we are all dead.'
You bastard – you've got something'You do not have long,' the Adjunct said. 'If you fail,' she added as she turned away, 'I have my sword.'
Kalam watched her make her way down the length of the ship. Then, heart pounding hard in his chest, he faced the tumbling, foaming conjuration that filled the north sky. 'Quick, you ain't got long here, you know – once she comes back with her sword-'
'I doubt it'll be enough,' the wizard cut in. 'Oh, maybe for this ship and this ship alone. As for everybody else, forget it.'
'Then do something!'
And Quick Ben turned on Kalam a grin the assassin had seen before, hundreds of times, and that light in his eyes – so familiar, soThe wizard spat on his hands and rubbed them together, facing the Elder sorcery once more. 'They want to mess with Holds… so will I.'
Kalam bared his teeth. 'You've got some nerve.'
'What?'
' "Full of surprises", you said to her.'
'Yes, well, best give me some room. It's been a while. I may be a little… rusty.' And he raised his arms.
So familiar… so… alarming.
On the Silanda four reaches to seaward, Bottle felt something jolt all his senses. His head whipped round, to fix his eyes on the forecastle of the Froth Wolf. Quick Ben, alone, standing tall at the prow, arms stretched out to the sides, like some damned offering-and around the High Mage, fire the colour of gold-flecked mud billowed awake, rushed outward, upward, fast – so fast, so fierce – gods take me – no, more patience, you fool! If theyWhispering a prayer, Bottle flung all his will at the High Mage's conjuration – slower, you fool. Slower! Here, deepen the hue, thicker, fling it out to the sides, it's just a reverse mudslide, yes, all going back up the slope, flames like rain, tongues of gold nastiness, yes, like thatNo, stop fighting me, damn you. I don't care how terrified you are – panic will ruin everything. Pay attention!
Suddenly, filling Bottle's head, a scent… of fur. The soft brush of not-quite-human hands – and Bottle's flailing efforts to quell Quick Ben's manic enthusiasm all at once ceased to matter, as his will was brushed aside like a cobweb**** Kalam, crouched down on the forecastle's wooden steps, watched as Quick Ben, legs spread wide, slowly lifted from the deck, as if some outside force had closed invisible hands on the front of his tunic, drawing him close, then giving him a shake.
'What in Hood's name-'
The magic rising in answer to that grey seething storm opposite was like a wall of earth, shot through with burning roots, churning and heaving and tumbling back into itself, its wild, explosive will bound tighter to something more powerful – and when he releases it, into that other one… Hood below, nobody's going to survive this**** Hanradi Khalag had stared, frozen in place for a dozen heartbeats, as the wild chaos of Elder magic rose in appalling challenge to that of the Edur warlocks – to that of nearly a hundred Edur warlocks – and, Samar Dev realized as she stared at the lead Malazan dromon, all from that one man, that black-skinned man floating above the ship's prow, his limbs spread wide.
The Preda seemed to stagger, then he straightened, and screamed orders – the same phrase repeated, again and again, as he lurched drunkenly towards his warlocks.
They collapsed, flung to the deck as if knocked down one after another by a giant's blows, then they lay writhing, mouths foaming, liquids spilling from themAs the looming, roaring grey wall seemed to implode, tendrils whipping off to vanish in the air or strike the now churning surface of the sea, sending gouts skyward that shot into view from clouds of billowing steam. The roaring sound shattered, fell away.
The sorcery collapsed, the chains linking wielders on each ship flickering out, or breaking explosively as if they were in truth links of iron.
The deck pitched drunkenly beneath them, and all but Karsa Orlong staggered.
Samar Dev dragged her eyes away from him and looked out once more upon that dark, earthen wall of magic – it too was subsiding – yes, maybe these Edur fools feel no compunction about unleashing such things when unopposed… but the same stupidity cannot be said of you, Malazan, whoever you are.
Hanradi Khalag, ignoring the warlocks thrashing about in their own filth, was calling out commands, and Letherii sailors – white-faced and chanting prayers – scrambled to bring the ship about, eastward.
We're withdrawing. The Malazan called their bluff. He faced them down – oh, wizard, I could kiss you – I could do more than that. Gods, I'd'What are the Edur saying?' Karsa Orlong demanded.
The Taxilian, frowning, shrugged, then said, 'They're disbelieving-'
'Disbelieving?' Samar Dev croaked. 'They're shaken, Taxilian. Badly.'
The man nodded, glancing over at Feather Witch, who was watching all three of them. 'Toblakai, the Edur are saying that these Malazans – they have a Ceda on board.'
Karsa scowled. 'I do not know that word.'
'I do,' Samar Dev said. She smiled as a sudden shaft of sunlight broke through the tumult overhead and bathed her face with unexpected warmth. 'Tell them, Taxilian, that they are right. They do. A Ceda.
The Malazans have a Ceda, and for all the Edur expected from this day, in their arrogance, these Malazans were not afraid. Tell them that, Taxilian. Tell them!'
Kalam knelt beside Quick Ben, studied the man's face for a moment, the slack expression, the closed eyes. Then he slapped the wizard. Hard.
Quick Ben swore, then glared up at the assassin. 'I should crush you like a bug, Kalam.'
'Right now, I think,' he rumbled in reply, 'a bug's fart might blow you right off this ship, Quick.'
'Be quiet. Can't I just lie here for a while longer?'
The Adjunct's coming. Slowly, I'll grant you. Idiot, you gave too much away-'
'Enough, Kalam. I need to think, and think hard.'
'Since when did you play with Elder magic?'
Quick Ben met Kalam's eyes. 'When? Never, you idiot.'
'What?'
'That was a Hood-damned illusion. Thank the gods cowering in their outhouses right now that the idiots swallowed the hook – but listen, it wasn't just that. I had help. And then I had help!'
'What does that mean?'
'I don't know! Let me think!'
'No time for that,' Kalam said, sitting back, 'the Adjunct's here.'
Quick Ben's hand snapped up and grasped Kalam's shirt, tugged him close. 'Gods, friend,' he whispered, 'I've never been so scared in my entire life! Don't you see? It started out as an illusion. Yes, but then-'
The Adjunct's voice: 'High Mage, you and I must talk.'
'It wasn't-'
'Ben Adaephon Delat, you and I will talk. Now.'
Straightening, Kalam backed away, then halted at a gesture from Tavore.
'Oh no, assassin. You as well.'
Kalam hesitated, then said, 'Adjunct, this conversation you propose… it cannot be one-sided.'
She frowned, then, slowly, nodded.
Fiddler stood next to Bottle where he lay on the deck. 'You, soldier.'
The man's eyes were closed, and at Fiddler's words the eyes scrunched tight. 'Not now, Sergeant. Please.'
'Soldier,' Fiddler repeated, 'you have, uh, made something of a mess of yourself. You know, around your crotch.'
Bottle groaned.
Fiddler glanced over at the others of the squad. Still busy with themselves for the moment. Good. He crouched down. 'Dammit, Bottle, crawl off and get yourself cleaned up – if the others see this – but hold on, I need to know something. I need to know what you found so exciting about all that?'
Bottle rolled onto his side. 'You don't understand,' he mumbled. 'She likes doing that. When she gets the chance. I don't know why. I don't know.'
'She? Who? Nobody's been near you, Bottle!'
'She plays with me. With… it.'
'Somebody sure does,' Fiddler said. 'Now get below and clean yourself up. Smiles sees this and you're looking at a life of torment.'
The sergeant watched the man crawl away. Excited. Here we were, about to get annihilated. Every damned one of us. And he fantasizes about some old sweetheart.
Hood's breath.
Taralack Veed studied the confusion on the deck for a time, frowning as he watched the commander, Tomad Sengar, pacing back and forth whilst Edur warriors came and went with messages somehow signalled across from the seemingly countless other Edur ships. Something had struck Tomad Sengar an almost physical blow – not the ritual sorcery that had challenged their own, but some news that arrived a short time later, as the Malazan fleet worked to extricate itself from the encirclement. Ships were passing within a quarrel's flight of each other, faces turned and staring across the gap, something like relief connecting that regard – Taralack had even seen a Malazan soldier wave. Before a fellow soldier had batted the man in the side of the head with a fist.
Meanwhile, the two Edur fleets were conjoining into one – no simple task, given the unsettled waters and the vast number of craft involved, and the fading light as the day waned.
And, there in the face of Tomad Sengar, the admiral of this massive floating army, the haunting that could only come with news of a very personal tragedy. A loss, a terrible loss. Curious indeed.
The air hung close about the ship, still befouled with Elder sorcery.
These Edur were abominations, to so flagrantly unleash such power.
Thinking they would wield it as if it were a weapon of cold, indifferent iron. But with Elder powers – with chaos – it was those powers that did the wielding.
And the Malazans had answered in kind. A stunning revelation, a most unexpected unveiling of arcane knowledge. Yet, if anything, the power of the Malazan ritual surpassed that of the scores of Edur warlocks.
Extraordinary. Had not Taralack Veed witnessed it with his own eyes, he would have considered such ability in the hands of the Malazan Empire simply unbelievable. Else, why had they never before exploited it?
Ah, a moment's thought and he had the answer to that. The Malazans might be bloodthirsty tyrants, but they are not insane. They understand caution. Restraint.
These Tiste Edur, unfortunately, do not.
Unfortunate, that is, for them.
He saw Twilight, the Atri-Preda, moving among her Letherii soldiers, voicing a calming word or two, the occasional low-toned command, and it seemed the distraught eddies calmed in her wake.
The Gral headed over.
She met his eyes and greeted him with a faint nod.
'How fares your companion below?' she asked, and Taralack was impressed by her growing facility with the language.
'He eats. His fortitude returns, Atri-Preda. But, as to this day and its strange events, he is indifferent.'
'He will be tested soon.'
Taralack shrugged. 'This does not concern him. What assails Tomad Sengar?' he asked under his breath, stepping closer as he did so.
She hesitated for a long moment, then said, 'Word has come that among the Malazan fleet was a craft that had been captured, some time back and an ocean away, by the Edur. And that ship was gifted to one of Tomad's sons to command – a journey into the Nascent, a mission the nature of which Emperor Rhulad would not be told.'
'Tomad now believes that son is dead.'
'There can be no other possibility. And in losing one son, he in truth has lost two.'
'What do you mean?'
She glanced at him, then shook her head. 'It is no matter. But what has been born in Tomad Sengar this day, Taralack Veed, is a consuming hatred. For these Malazans.'
The Gral shrugged. 'They have faced many enemies in their day, AtriPreda. Caladan Brood, Sorrel Tawrith, K'azz D'Avore, Anomander Rake-'
At the last name Twilight's eyes widened, and as she was about to speak her gaze shifted fractionally, to just past Taralack Veed's left shoulder. A male voice spoke from behind him.
'That is impossible.'
The Gral stepped to one side to take in the newcomer.
An Edur.
'This one is named Ahlrada Ahn,' Twilight said, and he sensed some hidden knowledge between the two in her voicing of the Edur's name. '
Like me, he has learned your language – swifter than I.'
'Anomander Rake,' the Edur said, 'the Black Winged Lord, dwells at the Gates of Darkness.'
'The last I heard,' Taralack Veed said, 'he dwelt in a floating fortress called Moon's Spawn. He fought a sorcerous battle with the Malazans on a distant continent, above a city named Pale. And Anomander Rake was defeated. But not killed.'
Shock and disbelief warred on the Edur warrior's weathered, lined visage. 'You must tell me more of this. The one you call Anomander Rake, how is he described?'
'I know little of that. Tall, black-skinned, silver hair. He carries a cursed two-handed sword. Are these details accurate? I know not… but I see by the look in your eyes, Ahlrada Ahn, that they must be.'
Taralack paused, considering how much he should reveal – his next statement would involve arcane knowledge – information not known by many. Still… let us see how this plays out. His shifted his language, to that of the Letherii, and said, 'Anomander Rake is Tiste Andii. Not Edur. Yet, by your reaction, warrior, I might think that, as with Tomad Sengar, you are wounded by some manner of unwelcome revelation.'
A sudden skittish look in the warrior's eyes. He glanced at Twilight, then pivoted about and strode away.
'There are matters,' the Atri-Preda said to Taralack Veed, 'that you are unaware of, and it is best that it remain so. Ignorance protects you. It was not wise,' she added, 'that you revealed your facility with the Letherii language.'
'I believe,' the Gral replied, 'that Ahlrada Ahn will prove disinclined to report our conversation to anyone.' He met her eyes then, and smiled. 'As will you, Atri-Preda.'
'You are careless, Taralack Veed.'
He spat on his hands and swept them through his hair, wondering again at her sudden look of distaste. 'Tell Tomad Sengar this, Atri-Preda.
It is he who risks much, with his demand that Icarium's prowess be tested.'
'You seem so certain,' she said.
'Of what?'
'That your companion represents the most formidable threat Emperor Rhulad has ever faced. Alas, as has invariably proved the case, all others who believed the same are now dead. And, Taralack Veed, there have been so many. Tomad Sengar must know for certain. He must be made to believe, before he will guide your friend to stand before his son.'
'His son?'
'Yes. Emperor Rhulad is Tomad Sengar's youngest son, Indeed, now, the only son he has left. The other three are gone, or dead. Likely they are all dead.'
'Then it strikes me,' the Gral said, 'that what Tomad seeks to measure is not Icarium's prowess, but his lack thereof. After all, what father would wish death upon his last surviving son?'
In answer, Twilight simply stared at him for a long moment. Then she turned away.
Leaving Taralack Veed alone, a frown growing ever more troubled on his face.
Sergeant Hellian had found a supply of sailor's rum and now walked round the decks, a benign smile on her face. Not half a bell earlier, she'd been singing some Kartoolian death dirge as the very Abyss was being unleashed in the skies overhead.
Masan Gilani, her armour off once more and a heavy woollen cloak wrapped about her against the chill wind, sat among a handful of other soldiers, more or less out of the way of the sailors. The enemy fleet was somewhere to the south now, lost in the deepening dusk, and good riddance to them.
We've got us a High Mage now. A real one. That Quick Ben, he was a Bridgeburner, after all. A real High Mage, who just saved all our skins. That's good.
A new badge adorned her cloak, in silver, crimson and gold thread – she was quite proud of her handiwork. The Bonehunters. Yes, I can live with that name. True, it wasn't as poignant as Bridgeburners. In fact, its meaning was a little bit obscure, but that was fine, since, thus far, the Fourteenth's history was equally obscure. Or at least muddied up enough to make things confused and uncertain.
Like where we're going. What's next? Why has the Empress recalled us?
It's not as if Seven Cities don't need rebuilding, or Malazans filling all those empty garrisons. Then again, the plague now held the land by the throat and was still choking the life from it.
But we got us a High Mage.
The young girl, Sinn, crawled near, shivering in the chill, and Masan Gilani opened one side of her cloak. Sinn slipped within that enveloping embrace, snuggled closer then settled her head on Masan's chest.
Nearby, Sergeant Cord was still cursing at Crump, who had stupidly waved at one of the passing enemy ships, just after the battle that wasn't. Crump had been the one who'd messed things badly at the wall of Y'Ghatan, she recalled. The one who ran with his knees up to either side of his big ears. And who was now listening to his sergeant with a broad, mindless smile, his expression twitching to sheer delight every time Cord's tirade reached new heights of imagination.
If all of that went on much longer, Masan Gilani suspected, the sergeant might well launch himself at Crump, hands closing on that long, scrawny neck with its bobbing fist-sized apple. Just to strangle that smile from the fool's horsey face.
Sinn's small hand began playing with one of Masan's breasts, the index finger circling the nipple.
What kind of company has this imp been keeping? She gently pushed the hand away, but it came back. Fine. What of it, but damn, that's one cold hand she's got there.
'All dead,' Sinn murmured.
'What? Who's all dead, girl?'
'They're all dead – you like this? I think you like this.'
'Your finger is cold. Who is all dead?'
'Big.'
The finger went away, was replaced by a warm, wet mouth. A dancing tongue.
Hood's breath! Well, I can think of worse ways to end this terrifying day.
'Is that my sister hiding in there?'
Masan Gilani looked up at Corporal Shard. 'Yes.'
A slightly pained expression on his face. 'She won't tell me… what happened at the estate. What happened… to her.' He hesitated, then added, 'Yours isn't the first cloak of the night she's crawled under, Masan Gilani. Though you're the first woman.'
'Ah, I see.'
'I want to know what happened. You understand that? I need to know.'
Masan Gilani nodded.
'I can see how it is,' Shard went on, looking away and rubbing at his face. 'We all cope in our own ways…'
'But you're her brother,' she said, still nodding. 'And you've been following her around. To make sure nobody does anything with her they shouldn't do.'
His sigh was heavy. 'Thanks, Masan Gilani. I wasn't really worried about you-'
'I doubt you'd need worry about any of us,' she replied. 'Not the squads here.'
'You know,' he said, and she saw tears trickle down his cheeks, 'that' s what's surprised me. Here, with these people – all of us, who came out from under the city – they've all said the same thing as you just did.'
'Shard,' she said gently, 'you still Ashok Regiment? You and the rest?'
He shook his head. 'No. We're Bonehunters now.'
That's good. 'I got some extra thread,' she noted. 'Might be I could borrow your cloaks… on a warm day…'
'You've got a good hand, Masan Gilani. I'll tell the others, if that's okay.'
'It is. Not much else for us to do now anyway, on these bloated hippos.'
'Still, I appreciate it. I mean, everything, that is.'
'Go get some sleep, Corporal. From your sister's breathing, that's what she's doing right now.'
Nodding, he moved away.
And if some soldier who doesn't get it tries to take advantage of this broken thing, all forty-odd of us will skin him or her alive. Add one more. Faradan Sort.
Four children scrambled across the deck, one squealing with laughter.
Tucked in Masan Gilani's arms, Sinn stirred slightly, then settled in once more, her mouth planted firm on the woman's nipple. The Dal Honese woman stared after the children, pleased to see that they'd recovered from the march, that they'd begun their own healing. We all cope in our own ways, aye.
So who was Sinn seeing, when she said that they were all dead?
Gods below, I don't think I want to know. Not tonight, anyway. Let her sleep. Let those others play, then curl up beneath blankets somewhere below. Let us all sleep to this beast's swaying. Quick Ben's gift to us, all of this.
Brother and sister stood at the prow, wrapped against the chill, and watched as stars filled the darkness of the north sky. Creaking cordage, the strain of sails canted over as the ship made yet another tack. Westward, a ridge of mountains blacker than the heavens marked the Olphara Peninsula.
The sister broke the long silence between them. 'It should have been impossible.'
Her brother snorted, then said, 'It was. That's the whole point.'
'Tavore won't get what she wants.'
'I know.'
'She's used to that.'
'She's had to deal with us, yes.'
'You know, Nil, he saved us all.'
A nod, unseen beneath the heavy hood of Wickan wool.
'Especially Quick Ben.'
'Agreed. So,' Nil continued, 'we are also agreed that it is a good thing he is with us.'
'I suppose,' Nether replied.
'You're only sounding like that because you like him, sister. Like him the way a woman likes a man.'
'Don't be an idiot. It's those dreams… and what she does…'
Nil snorted again. 'Quickens your breath, does it? That animal hand, gripping him hard-'
'Enough! That's not what I meant. It's just… yes, it's a good thing he's with this army. But her, with him, well, I'm not so sure.'
'You're jealous, you mean.'
'Brother, I grow weary of this childish teasing. There's something, well, compulsive about it, the way she uses him.'
'All right, on that I would agree. But for you and me, sister, there is one vital question remaining. The Eres'al has taken an interest.
She follows us like a jackal.'
'Not us. Him.'
'Exactly. And that is at the heart of the question here. Do we tell her? Do we tell the Adjunct?'
'Tell her what? That some wet-crotched soldier in Fiddler's squad is more important to her and her army than Quick Ben, Kalam and Apsalar all put together? Listen, we wait until we discover what the High Mage tells the Adjunct – about what just happened.'
'Meaning, if he says little, or even claims complete ignorance-'
'Or takes credit and struts around like a First Hero – that's when we decide on our answer, Nil.'
'All right.'
They were silent then for a dozen heartbeats, until Nil said, 'You shouldn't worry overmuch, Nether. A half-woman half-animal all covered in smelly fur isn't much competition for his heart, I'd imagine.'
'But it wasn't my hand-' Abruptly, she shut up, then offered up a most ferocious string of Wickan curses.
In the dark, Nil was smiling. Thankful, nonetheless, that his sister could not see it.
Marines crowded the hold, sprawled or curled up beneath blankets, so many bodies Apsalar was made uneasy, as if she'd found herself in a soldier barrow. Drawing her own coverings to one side, she rose. Two lanterns swung from timbers, their wicks low. The air was growing foul. She clasped on her cloak and made her way towards the hatch.
Climbing free, she stepped onto the mid deck. The night air was bitter cold but blissfully fresh in her lungs. She saw two figures at the prow. Nil and Nether. So turned instead and ascended to the stern castle, only to find yet another figure, leaning on the stern rail. A soldier, short, squat, his head left bare despite the icy wind. Bald, with a fringe of long, grey, ratty strands that whipped about in the frigid blasts. She did not recognize the man.
Apsalar hesitated, then, shrugging, walked over. His head turned when she reached the rail at his side. 'You invite illness, soldier,' she said. 'At the least, draw up your hood.'
The old man grunted, said nothing.
'I am named Apsalar.'
'So you want my name back, do you? But if I do that, then it ends.
Just silence. It's always that way.'
She looked down on the churning wake twisting away from the ship's stern. Phosphorescence lit the foam. 'I am a stranger to the Fourteenth Army,' she said.
'Doubt it'll make a difference,' he said. 'What I did ain't no secret to nobody.'
'I have but recently returned to Seven Cities.' She paused, then said, 'In any case, you are not alone with the burden of things you once did.'
He glanced over again. 'You're too young to be haunted by your past.'
'And you, soldier, are too old to care so much about your own.'
He barked a laugh, returned his attention to the sea.
To the east clouds skidded from the face of the moon, yet the light cast down was muted, dull.
'Look at that,' he said. 'I got good eyes, but that moon's nothing but a blur. Not the haze of cloud, neither. It's a distant world, ain't it? Another realm, with other armies crawling around in the fog, killing each other, draggin' children into the streets, red swords flashing down over'n over. And I bet they look up every now and then, wonderin' at all the dust they kicked up, makin' it hard to see that other world overhead.'
'When I was a child,' Apsalar said, 'I believed that there were cities there, but no wars. Just beautiful gardens, and the flowers were ever in bloom, every season, day and night, filling the air with wondrous scents… you know, I told all of that to someone, once. He later said to me that he fell in love with me that night. With that story. He was young, you see.'
'And now he's just that emptiness in your eyes, Apsalar.'
She flinched. 'If you are going to make observations like that, I will know your name.'
'But that would ruin it. Everything. Right now, I'm just me, just a soldier like all the others. You find out who I am and it all falls apart.' He grimaced, then spat down into the sea. 'Very well. Nothing ever lasts, not even ignorance. My name's Squint.'
'I hate to puncture your ego – as tortured as it is – but no vast revelation follows your name.'
'Do you lie? No, I see you don't. Well, never expected that, Apsalar.'
'Nothing changes, then, does it? You know nothing of me and I know nothing of you.'
'I'd forgotten what that was like. That young man, what happened to him?'
'I don't know. I left him.'
'You didn't love him?'
She sighed. 'Squint, it's complicated. I've hinted at my own past. The truth is, I loved him too much to see him fall so far into my life, into what I was – and still am. He deserves better.'
'You damned fool, woman. Look at me. I'm alone. Once, I wasn't in no hurry to change that. And then, one day I woke up, and it was too late. Now, alone gives me my only peace, but it ain't a pleasant peace. You two loved each other – any idea how rare and precious that is? You broke yourself and broke him too, I'd think. Listen to me – go find him, Apsalar. Find him and hold onto him – now whose ego tortures itself, eh? There you are, thinking that change can only go one way.'
Her heart was thudding hard. She was unable to speak, every counter argument, every refutation seeming to melt away. Sweat cooled on her skin.
Squint turned away. 'Gods below, a real conversation. All edges and life… I'd forgotten. I'm going below – my head's gone numb.' He paused. 'Don't suppose you'd ever care to talk again? Just Squint and Apsalar, who ain't got nothing in common except what they don't know about each other.'
She managed a nod, and said, 'I would… welcome that, Squint.'
'Good.'
She listened to his footsteps dwindle behind her. Poor man. He did the right thing taking Coltaine's life, but he's the only one who can't live with that.
Climbing down into the hold, Squint stopped for a moment, hands on the rope rails to either side of the steep steps. He could have said more, he knew, but he had no idea he'd slice so easily through her defences.
That vulnerability was… unexpected.
You'd think, wouldn't you, that someone who'd been possessed by a god would be tougher than that.
'Apsalar.'
She knew the voice and so did not turn. 'Hello, Cotillion.'
The god moved up to lean against the rail at her side. 'It was not easy to find you.'
'I am surprised. I am doing as you ask, after all.'
'Into the heart of the Malazan Empire. That detail was not something we had anticipated.'
'Victims do not stand still, awaiting the knife. Even unsuspecting, they are capable of changing everything.'
He said nothing for a time, and Apsalar could feel a renewal of tension within her. In the muted moonlight his face looked tired, and in his eyes as he looked at her, something febrile.
'Apsalar, I was… complacent-'
'Cotillion, you are many things, but complacency is not one of them.'
'Careless, then. Something has happened – it is difficult to piece together. As if the necessary details have been flung into a muddy pool, and I have been able to do little more than grope, half-blind and not even certain what it is I am looking for.'
'Cutter.'
He nodded. 'There was an attack. An ambush, I think – even the memories held in the ground, where the blood spilled, were all fragmented – I could read so little.'
What has happened? She wanted to ask that question. Now, cutting through his slow, cautious approach – not caution – he is hedging'A small settlement is near the scene – they were the ones who cleaned things up.'
'He is dead.'
'I don't know – there were no bodies, except for horses. One grave, but it had been opened and the occupant exhumed – no, I don't know why anyone would do that. In any case, I have lost contact with Cutter, and that more than anything else is what disturbs me.'
'Lost contact,' she repeated dully. 'Then he is dead, Cotillion.'
'I honestly do not know. There are two things, however, of which I am certain. Do you wish to hear them?'
'Are they relevant?'
'That is for you to decide.'
'Very well.'
'One of the women, Scillara-'
'Yes.'
'She gave birth – she survived to do that at least, and the child is now in the care of the villagers.'
'That is good. What else?'
'Heboric Light Touch is dead.'
She turned at that – but away from him – staring out over the seas, to that distant, murky moon. 'Ghost Hands.'
'Yes. The power – the aura – of that old man – it burned like green fire, it had the wild rage of Treach. It was unmistakable, undeniable-'
'And now it is gone.'
'Yes.'
'There was another woman, a young girl.'
'Yes. We wanted her, Shadowthrone and I. As it turns out, I know she lives, and indeed she appears to be precisely where we wanted her to be, with one crucial difference-'
'It is not you and Shadowthrone who control her.'
'Guide, not control – we would not have presumed control, Apsalar.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of her new master. The Crippled God.' He hesitated, then said, 'Felisin Younger is Sha'ik Reborn.'
Apsalar nodded. 'Like a sword that kills its maker… there are cycles to justice.'
'Justice? Abyss below, Apsalar, justice is nowhere to be seen in any of this.'
'Isn't it?' She faced him again. 'I sent Cutter away, because I feared he would die if he stayed with me. I sent him away and that is what killed him. You sought to use Felisin Younger, and now she finds herself a pawn in another god's hand. Treach wanted a Destriant to lead his followers into war, but Heboric is killed in the middle of nowhere, having achieved nothing. Like a tiger cub getting its skull crushed – all that potential, that possibility, gone. Tell me, Cotillion, what task did you set Cutter in that company?'
He did not answer.
'You charged him to protect Felisin Younger, didn't you? And he failed. Is he alive? For his own sake, perhaps it is best that he is not.'
'You cannot mean that, Apsalar.'
She closed her eyes. No, I do not mean that. Gods, what am I to do… with this pain? What am I to do?
Cotillion slowly reached up, his hand – the black leather glove removed – nearing the side of her face. She felt his finger brush her cheek, felt the cold thread that was all that was left of the tear he wiped away. A tear she had nor known was there.
'You are frozen,' he said in a soft voice.
She nodded, then shook her head suddenly as everything crumbled inside – and she was in his arms, weeping uncontrollably.
And the god spoke, 'I'll find him, Apsalar. I swear it. I'll find the truth.'
Truths, yes. One after another, one boulder settling down, then another. And another. Blotting out the light, darkness closing in, grit and sand sifting down, a solid silence when the last one is in place. Now, dear fool, try drawing a breath. A single breath.
There were clouds closed fast round the moon. And one by one, gardens died.