A Book of Prophecy opens the door. You need a second book to close it.
Tanno Spiritwalker Kimloc
Torbora With silver tongs, the servant set another disk of ground rustleaf atop the waterpipe. Felisin Younger drew on the mouthpiece, waving the servant away, watching bemused as the old woman – head bowed so low her forehead was almost scraping the floor – backed away on her hands and knees. More of Kulat's rules of propriety when in the presence of Sha'ik Reborn. She was tired of arguing about it – if the fools felt the need to worship her, then so be it. After all, for the first time in her life, she found that her every need was met, attended to with fierce diligence, and those needs – much to her surprise – were growing in count with every day that passed.
As if her soul was a vast cauldron, one that demanded filling, yet was in truth bottomless. They fed her, constantly, and she was growing heavy, clumsy with folds of soft fat – beneath her breasts, and on her hips and behind, the underside of her arms, her belly and thighs. And, no doubt, her face as well, although she had outlawed the presence of mirrors in her throne room and private chambers.
Food was not her only excess. There was wine, and rustleaf, and, now, there was lovemaking. There were a dozen servants among those attending her whose task it was to deliver pleasure of the flesh. At first, Felisin had been shocked, even outraged, but persistence had won out. More of Kulat's twisted rules – she understood that now. His desires were all of the voyeuristic variety, and many times she had heard the wet click of the stones in his mouth from behind a curtain or painted panel, as he spied on her with lascivious pathos.
She understood her new god, now. Finally. Bidithal had been entirely wrong – this was not a faith of abstinence. Apocalypse was announced in excess. The world ended in a glut, and just as her own soul was a bottomless cauldron, so too was the need of all humanity, and in this she was the perfect representative. As they devoured all that surrounded them, so too would she.
As Sha'ik Reborn, her task was to blaze bright, and quick – and then die. Into death, where lay the true salvation, the paradise Kulat spoke of again and again. Oddly enough, Felisin Younger struggled to imagine that paradise – she could only conjure visions that matched what now embraced her, her every want answered without hesitation, without judgement. Perhaps it would be like that – for everyone. But if everyone would know such an existence, then where were the servants?
No, she told Kulat, there needed to be levels on salvation. Pure service in this world was rewarded with absolute indolence in the other. Humility, self-sacrifice, abject servitude, these were the ways of living that would be measured, judged. The only difficulty with this notion – which Kulat had readily accepted and converted into edicts – was the position of Felisin herself. After all, was her present indolence – her luxuriating in all the excesses promised to others only following their deaths – to be rewarded by an afterlife of brutal slavery, serving the needs of everyone else?
Kulat assured her she had no need to be concerned. In life, she was the embodiment of paradise, she was the symbol of promise. Yet, upon her death, there would be absolution. She was Sha'ik Reborn, after all, and that was a role she had not assumed by choice. It had been thrust upon her, and this was the most profound form of servitude of them all.
He was convincing, although a tiny sliver of doubt lodged deep inside her, a few thoughts, one tumbling after the next: without excess I might feel better, about myself. I would be as I once was, when I walked in the wild-lands with Cutter and Scillara, with Greyfrog and Heboric Ghost Hands. Without all these servants, I would be able to fend for myself, and to see clearly that a measured life, a life tempered in moderation, is better than all this. I would see that this is a mortal paradise that cultivates flaws like flowers, that feeds only deathly roots, that chokes all life from me until I am left with… with this.
This. This wandering mind. Felisin Younger struggled to focus. Two men were standing before her. They had been standing there for some time, she realized. Kulat had announced them, although that had not been entirely necessary, for she knew that they were coming; indeed, she recognized both of them. Those hard, weathered faces, the streaks of sweat through a layer of dust, the worn leather armour, round shields and scimitars at their hips.
The one closest to her – tall, fierce. Mathok, who commanded the desert tribes in the Army of the Apocalypse. Mathok, Leoman's friend.
And, one pace behind the commander, Mathok's bodyguard T'morol, looking like some upright, hairless wolf, his eyes a hunter's eyes, cold, intense.
They had brought their army, their warriors.
They had brought that, and more…
Felisin the Younger lowered her gaze from Mathok's face, down to the tattered hide-bound book in his hands. The Holy Book of Dryjhna the Apocalyptic. Whilst Leoman had led the Malazans on a wild chase, into the trap that was Y'Ghatan, Mathok and his desert warriors had travelled quietly, secretly, evading all contact. There had been intent, Mathok had explained, to rendezvous at Y'Ghatan, but then the plague had struck, and the shamans in his troop had been beset by visions.
Of Hanar Ara, the City of the Fallen. Of Sha'ik, reborn yet again.
Leoman and Y'Ghatan, they told Mathok, was a dead end in every sense of the phrase. A feint, punctuated by annihilation. And so the commander had turned away with his army, and had set out on the long journey to find the City of the Fallen. To find her. To deliver the Holy Book into her hands.
A difficult journey, one worthy of its own epic, no doubt.
And now, Mathok stood before her, and his army was encamping in the city and Felisin sat amidst the cushions of her own fat, wreathed in smoke, and considered how she would tell him what he needed to hear – what they all needed to hear, Kulat included.
Well, she would be… direct. 'Thank you, Mathok, for delivering the Book of Dryjhna. Thank you, as well, for delivering your army. Alas, I have no need of either gift.'
Mathok's brows rose fractionally. 'Sha'ik Reborn, with the Book, you can do as you like. For my warriors, however, you have great need. A Malazan army approaches-'
'I know. But you are not enough. Besides, I have no need for warriors.
My army does not march in rank. My army carries no weapons, wears no armour. In conquering, my army kills not a single foe, enslaves noone, rapes no child. That which my army wields is salvation, Mathok.
Its promise. Its invitation.'
'And the Malazans?' T'morol demanded in his grating voice, baring his teeth. 'That army does carry weapons and wear armour. That army, Holy One, marches in rank, and right now they're marching right up our ass!'
'Kulat,' Felisin said. 'Find a place for the Holy Book. Have the artisans prepare a new one, the pages blank. There will be a second holy book. My Book of Salvation. On its first page, Kulat, record what has been said here, this day, and accord all present with the honour they have earned. Mathok, and T'morol, you are most welcome here, in the City of the Fallen. As are your warriors. But understand, your days of war, of slaughter, are done. Put away your scimitars and your shields, your bows. Unsaddle your horses and loose them to the high pastures in the hills at Denet'inar Spring. They shall live out their lives there, well and in peace. Mathok, T'morol, do you accept?'
The commander stared down at the ancient tome in his hands, and Felisin saw a sneer emerge on his features. He spread his hands. The book fell to the floor, landing on its spine. The impact broke it.
Ancient pages skirled out. Ignoring Felisin, Mathok turned to T'morol.
'Gather the warriors. We will resupply as needed. Then we leave.'
T'morol faced the throne, and spat onto the floor before the dais.
Then he wheeled and strode from the chamber.
Mathok hesitated, then he faced Felisin once more. 'Sha'ik Reborn, you will no doubt receive my shamans without the dishonour witnessed here.
I leave them with you. To you. As for your world, your bloated, disgusting world and its poisonous salvation, I leave that to you as well. For all of this, Leoman died. For all of this, Y'Ghatan burned.'
He studied her a moment longer, then he spun about and walked from the throne room.
Kulat scurried to kneel beside the broken book. 'It is ruined!' he said in a voice filled with horror.
Felisin nodded. 'Utterly.' Then she smiled at her own joke.
'I judge four thousand,' Fist Rythe Bude said.
The rebel army was positioned along a ridge. Horse-warriors, lancers, archers, yet none had readied weapons. Round shields remained strapped to backs, quivers lidded, bows unstrung and holstered on saddles. Two riders had moved out from the line and were working their horses down the steep slope to where Paran and his officers waited.
'What do you think, High Fist?' Hurlochel asked. 'This has the look of a surrender.'
Paran nodded.
The two men reached the base of the slope and cantered up to halt four paces from the Host's vanguard.
'I am Mathok,' the one on the left said. 'Once of Sha'ik's Army of the Apocalypse.'
'And now?' Paran asked.
A shrug. 'We dwelt in the Holy Desert Raraku, a desert now a sea. We fought as rebels, but the rebellion has ended. We believed. We believe no longer.' He unsheathed his scimitar and flung it onto the ground. '
Do with us as you will.'
Paran settled back in his saddle. He drew a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. 'Mathok,' he said, 'you and your warriors are free to go where you please. I am High Fist Ganoes Paran, and I hereby release you. As you said, the war is over, and I for one am not interested in reparation, nor punishment. Nothing is gained by inflicting yet more atrocities in answer to past ones.'
The grizzled warrior beside Mathok threw a leg over his horse's neck and slipped down to the ground. The impact made him wince and arch his lower back, grimacing, then he hobbled over to his commander's scimitar. Collecting it, he wiped the dust from the blade and the grip, then delivered it back to Mathok.
Paran spoke again: 'You have come from the place of pilgrimage.'
'The City of the Fallen, yes. Do you intend to destroy them, High Fist? They are defenceless.'
'I would speak with their leader.'
'Then you waste your time. She claims she is Sha'ik Reborn. If that is true, then the cult has seen a degradation from which it will never recover. She is fat, poisoned. I barely recognized her. She is indeed fallen. Her followers are sycophants, more interested in orgies and gluttony than anything else. They are disease-scarred and half-mad.
Her High Priest watches her sex acts from behind curtains and masturbates, and in both their energy is unbounded and insatiable.'
'Nonetheless,' Paran said after a moment, 'I sense power there.'
'No doubt,' Mathok replied, leaning to one side and spitting. '
Slaughter them, then, High Fist, and you will rid the world of a new kind of plague.'
'What do you mean?'
'A religion of the maimed and broken. A religion proffering salvation… you just have to die first. I predict the cult will prove highly contagious.'
He's probably right. 'I cannot slaughter innocents, Mathok.'
'Then, one day, the most faithful and zealous among them will slaughter you, High Fist.'
'Perhaps. If so, I will worry about it then. In the meantime, I have other tasks before me.'
'You will speak with Sha'ik Reborn?'
Paran considered, then he shook his head. 'No. As you suggest, there is little point. While I see the possible wisdom of expunging this cult before it gains a foothold, I admit I find the notion reprehensible.'
'Then where, if I may ask, High Fist, will you go now?'
Paran hesitated. Dare I answer? Well, now is as good as later for everyone to hear. 'We turn round, Mathok. The Host marches to Aren.'
'Do you march to war?' the commander asked.
Paran frowned. 'We're an army, Mathok. Eventually, yes, there will be fighting.'
'Will you accept our service, High Fist?'
'What?'
'We are a wandering people,' Mathok explained. 'But we have lost our home. Our families are scattered and no doubt many are dead of plague.
We have nowhere to go, and no-one to fight. If you should reject us now, and free us to go, we shall ride into dissolution. We shall die with our backs covered in straw and sand in our gauntlets. Or warrior will turn upon warrior, and blood will be shed that is without meaning. Accept us into your army, High Fist Ganoes Paran, and we will fight at your side and die with honour.'
'You have no idea where I intend to lead the Host, Mathok.'
The old warrior beside Mathok barked a laugh. 'The wasteland back of camp, or the wasteland few have ever seen before, what's the difference?' He turned to his commander. 'Mathok, my friend, the shamans said this one here killed Poliel. For that alone, I would follow him into the Abyss, so long as he promises us heads to lop off and maybe a woman or two to ride on the way. That's all we're looking for, right, before we dance in a god's lap one last time. Besides, I'm tired of running.'
To all of this, Mathok simply nodded, his gaze fixed on Paran.
Four thousand or so of this continent's finest light cavalry just volunteered, veterans one and all. 'Hurlochel,' he said, 'attach yourself as liaison to Commander Mathok. Commander, you are now a Fist, and Hurlochel will require a written compilation of your officers or potential officers. The Malazan army employs mounted troops in units of fifty, a hundred and three hundred. Adjust your command structure accordingly.'
'It shall be done, High Fist.'
'Fist Rythe Bude, see the Host turned round. And Noto Boil, find me Ormulogun.'
'Again?' the healer asked.
'Go.'
Yes, again. I think I need a new card. I think I'll call it Salvation.
At the moment it is in the House of Chains' sphere of influence. But something tells me it will claw free of that eventually. Such a taint will not last. This card is an Unaligned. In every sense of the word.
Unaligned, and likely destined to be the most dangerous force in the world.
Damn, I wish I was more ruthless. That Sha'ik Reborn, and all her twisted followers – I should ride up there and slaughter them all – which is precisely what Mathok wanted me to do.
To do what he himself couldn't – we're the same in that. In our… weakness.
No wonder I already like the man.
As Hurlochel led his horse alongside Mathok, back up towards the desert warriors on the ridge, the outrider glanced over at the new Fist. 'Sir, when you spoke of Sha'ik Reborn, you said something… about barely recognizing her…'
'I did. She was one of Sha'ik's adopted daughters, in Raraku. Of course, as Leoman and I well knew, even that one was… not as she seemed. Oh, chosen by the Whirlwind Goddess, well enough, but she was not a child of the desert.'
'She wasn't?'
'No, she was Malazan.'
'What?'
The commander's companion grunted and spat. 'Mezla, yes. And the Adjunct never knew – or so we heard. She cut down a helmed, armoured woman. And then walked away. The corpse then vanished. A Mezla killing a Mezla – oh how the gods must have laughed…'
'Or,' said Hurlochel in a low voice, 'wept.' He thought to ask more questions regarding this new Sha'ik Reborn, but a succession of tragic images, variants on that fated duel at Raraku, before the seas rose from the desert, raced through his mind. And so he rode in silence up the slope, beside the warriors, and before long was thoroughly consumed with the necessities of reorganizing Mathok's horse-warriors.
So preoccupied, he did not report his conversation to the High Fist.
Three leagues from the City of the Fallen, Paran turned the Host away, and set them on their path for distant Aren. The road that would take them from Seven Cities.
Never to return.
Saur Bathrada and Kholb Harat had walked into an upland village four leagues inland from the harbour city of Sepik. Leading twenty Edur warriors and forty Letherii marines, they had gathered the enslaved degenerate mixed-bloods, ritually freeing the uncomprehending primitives from their symbolic chains, then chaining them in truth for the march back to the city and the Edur ships. Following this, Saur and Kholb had driven the Sepik humans into a sheep pen where a bonfire was built. One by one, mothers were forced to throw their babes and children into the roaring flames. Those women were then raped and, finally, beheaded. Husbands, brothers and fathers were made to watch.
When they alone remained alive, they were systematically dismembered and left, armless and legless, to bleed out among bleating, bloodsplashed sheep.
A scream had been birthed that day in the heart of Ahlrada Ahn, and it had not ceased its desperate, terrible cry. Rhulad's shadow covered the Tiste Edur, no matter how distant that throne and the insane creature seated upon it. And in that shadow roiled a nightmare from which there could be no awakening.
That scream was echoed in his memories of that day, the shrieks wrung from the throats of burning children, the writhing forms in their bundled flames, the fires reflected on the impassive faces of Edur warriors. Even the Letherii had turned away, overcome with horror.
Would that Ahlrada Ahn could have done the same, without losing face.
Instead he stood, one among the many, and revealed nothing of what raged inside. Raged, breaking… everything. Within me, he told himself that night, back in Sepik where the sounds of slaughter continued beyond the room he had found, within me, nothing is left standing. On that night, for the first time ever, he considered taking his own life.
A statement of weakness. The others would have seen it in no other way – they could not afford to – so, not a protest, but a surrender, and they would line up to spit upon his corpse. And warriors like Saur Bathrada and Kholb Harat would draw their knives and crouch down, and with pleasure in their eyes they would disfigure the senseless body.
For these two Edur had grown to love blood and pain, and in that they were not alone.
The king of Sepik was the last to die. He had been made to witness the obliteration of his cherished people. It was said that he was a benign ruler – oh how the Edur despised that statement, as if it was an insult, a grievous, vicious insult. That wretched man collapsing between two warriors who struggled to hold him upright, grasping his grey hair to force his head up, to see. Oh, how he'd shrieked and wailed. Until Tomad Sengar wearied of those cries and ordered the king flung from the tower. And, as he fell, his wail became a sound filled with relief. He looked upon those cobbles, rising fast to meet him, as salvation. And this is our gift. Our only gift.
Ahlrada Ahn drew out his Merude cutlasses once again, studied their deadly sharp edges. The grips felt good, felt proper, nestled in his large hands. He heard a stirring among the warriors gathered on the deck and looked up to see the one named Taralack Veed pushing through the crowd, at his side Atri-Preda Yan Tovis and in their wake the Jhag known as Icarium.
Taller than most Edur, the silent, sad-faced warrior carried naught but his old, single-edged sword. No bow, no scabbard for the weapon in his right hand, no armour of any kind. Yet Ahlrada Ahn felt a chill whisper through him. Is he in truth a champion? What will we see this day, beyond the gate?
Two hundred Edur warriors, the Arapay warlock Sathbaro Rangar – now dragging his malformed hulk on a route that would intercept Icarium – and sixty Letherii archers. All ready, all eager to begin the killing.
The warlock squinted up at the Jhag, who halted before him – not out of deference or even much in the way of attentiveness; rather, because the twisted old man blocked his path. 'I see,' Sathbaro Rangar said in a rasp, 'in you… nothing. Vast emptiness, as if you are not even here. And your companion claims you to be a great warrior? I think we are deceived.'
Icarium said nothing.
The human named Taralack Veed stepped forward, pausing to spit on his hands and sweep them back through his hair. 'Warlock,' he said in passable trader's tongue, 'when the fight begins, you shall see the birth of all that waits within him. This I promise. Icarium exists to destroy, exists to fight, I mean to say, and that is all-'
'Then why does he weep at your words?' Tomad Sengar asked from behind Ahlrada Ahn.
Taralack Veed turned, then bowed low. 'Preda, he grieves for what is lost within him, for all that your warlock perceives… the absence, the empty vessel. It is no matter.'
'It is no matter.' Ahlrada Ahn did not believe that. He could not. You fools! Look at him! What you see, Sathbaro Rangar, is nothing more than loss. Do none of you grasp the significance of that? What do we invite among us? And this Taralack Veed, this foul-smelling savage, see how nervous he looks, as if he himself dreads what is coming – no, I am not blind to the eager light in his eyes, but I see fear there, too. It cries out in his every gesture.
What are we about to do here?
Tomad Sengar said, 'Warlock, prepare the path.'
At that, everyone readied their weapons. Saur Bathrada and Kholb Harat would lead, followed by Sathbaro Rangar himself, and then Taralack and his charge, with the bulk of the Edur behind them, and the Letherii appearing last, arrows nocked.
This would be Ahlrada Ann's first foray against the guardians of the throne. But he had heard enough tales. Battle without quarter. Battle as vicious as any the Edur had experienced. He adjusted his grip on the cutlasses and moved into position, in the front line of the main body. Low-voiced greetings reached him – every Edur warrior emboldened by Ahlrada Ahn's presence in their ranks. Spearbreaker. Fearless, as if eager for death.
Oh yes, I am that indeed. Death. My own.
And yet… do I not still dream of going home?
He watched the ragged gate blister the air, then split wide, limned in grey flames, its maw nothing but blurred darkness.
The warlock stepped to one side, and Saur and Kholb lunged into it, vanished into the gloom. Sathbaro Rangar followed, then Taralack and Icarium. And it was Ahlrada Ahn's turn. He pushed himself forward, into the void-and stumbled onto crackling loam, the air sweet with forest scents.
As with the world they had just left, it was late afternoon.
Continuing to move forward, Ahlrada Ahn looked around. They were alone, unopposed.
He heard Icarium ask, 'Where are we?'
And the Arapay warlock turned. 'Drift Avalii, warrior. Where resides the Throne of Shadow.'
'And who guards it?' Taralack Veed demanded. 'Where is this fierce enemy of yours?'
Sathbaro Rangar lifted his head, as if sniffing the air, then he grunted in surprise. 'The demons have fled. They have fled! Why? Why did they yield us the throne? After all those battles? I do not understand.'
Ahlrada Ahn glanced over at Icarium. Demons… fleeing.
'I do not understand this,' the warlock said again.
Perhaps I do. Oh Sisters, who now walks among us?
He was startled, then, by a faint whispering sound, and he whirled, weapons lifting.
But it was naught but an owl, gliding away down the wide path before them.
He saw a flicker of motion among the humus, and the raptor's talons snapped down. The owl then flapped upward once more, a tiny broken form clutched in its reptilian grip.
'No matter,' the Arapay warlock was saying. 'Let us go claim our throne.' And he set off, hobbling, dragging one bent leg, down the trail.
Baffled, Taralack Veed faced Icarium. 'What do you sense? Of this place?'
The eyes that regarded him were flat. 'The Shadow demons left with our arrival. There was… someone… a man, but he too is gone. Some time past. He is the one I would have faced.'
'Skilled enough to unleash you, Icarium?'
'Skilled enough, perhaps, to kill me, Taralack Veed.'
'Impossible.'
'Nothing is impossible,' Icarium said.
They set off after the half-dozen Edur who had hastened ahead to join Sathbaro Rangar.
Fifteen paces down the path they came upon the first signs of past battle. Bloated bodies of dead aptorians and azalan demons. They would not have fallen easily, Taralack Veed knew. He had heard of egregious losses among the Edur and, especially, the Letherii. Those bodies had been recovered.
A short distance beyond rose the walls of an overgrown a courtyard.
The gate had been shattered. Icarium trailing a step behind, Taralack Veed followed the others into the compound, then the Jhag reached out and halted the Gral, 'No further.'
'What?'
There was an odd expression on Icarium's face. 'There is no need.'
Ahlrada Ahn, along with Saur and Kholb, accompanied the Arapay warlock into the shadowy, refuse-filled chamber of the throne room. The Seat of Shadow, the soul of Kurald Emurlahn, the throne that needed to be claimed, before the sundered realm could be returned to what it once was, a warren whole, seething with power.
Perhaps, with this, Rhulad could break theSathbaro Rangar cried out, a terrible sound, and he staggered.
Ahlrada Ahn's thoughts fell away. He stared.
The Throne of Shadow, there on a raised dais at the far end of the room…
It has been destroyed.
Smashed to pieces, the black wood splintered to reveal its blood-red heartwood. The demons yielded us… nothing. The Throne of Kurald Emurlahn is lost to us.
The warlock was on his knees, shrieking at the stained ceiling. Saur and Kholb stood, weapons out, yet seemingly frozen in place.
Ahlrada Ahn strode up to Sathbaro Rangar and grasped the warlock by the collar, then pulled him onto his feet. 'Enough of this,' he said.
'Gather yourself. We may be done here, but we are not done – you know this. The warriors will be thirsting for slaughter, now. You must return to the gate – there is another throne to be won, and those defending it will not flee as these ones have done here. Attend to yourself, Sathbaro Rangar!'
'Yes,' the warlock gasped, tugging free from Ahlrada Ahn's grip. 'Yes, you speak truth, warrior. Slaughter, yes, that is what is needed.
Come, let us depart – ah, in the name of Father Bloodeye, let us leave this place!'
'They return,' Taralack Veed said, as the Tiste Edur reappeared at the entrance to the temple. 'The warlock, he looks… aggrieved. What has happened?'
Icarium said nothing, but something glittered in his eyes.
'Jhag,' snarled Sathbaro Rangar as he limped past, 'gather yourself. A true battle awaits us.'
Confusion among the ranks of Edur, words exchanged, then an outcry, curses, bellows of fury. The anger spread out, a wildfire suddenly eager to devour all that would dare oppose it. Wheeling about, hastening towards the flickering gate.
They were not returning to the ships.
Taralack Veed had heard, from Twilight, that an Edur commander named Hanradi Khalag had been sending his warriors against another foe, through a gate – one that led, in a journey of days, to yet another private war. And it was these enemies who would now face the wrath of these Edur here. And that of Icarium.
So they shall see, after all. That is good.
At his side there came a sound from the Jhag that drew Taralack Veed around in surprise. Low laughter.
'You are amused?' he asked Icarium in a hoarse whisper.
'Of Shadow both,' the Jhag said enigmatically, 'the weaver deceives the worshipper. But I will say nothing. I am, after all, empty.'
'I do not understand.'
'No matter, Taralack Veed. No matter.'
The throne room was abandoned once more, dust settling, shadows slinking back to their predictable haunts. And, from the shattered throne itself, there grew a faint shimmering, a blurring of edges, then a wavering that would have alarmed any who witnessed it – but of such sentient creatures there were none.
The broken, crushed fragments of wood melted away.
And once more there on the dais stood the Throne of Shadow. And stepping free of it, a shadowy form more solid than any other.
Hunched, short, shrouded in folds of midnight gauze. From the indistinct smudge where a face belonged, only the eyes were visible, momentarily, a glinting flash.
The figure moved away from the throne, towards the doorway… silver and ebony cane tapping on the pavestones.
A short while later it reached the temple's entrance and looked out.
There, at the gate, walked the last of them. A Gral, and the chilling, dread apparition that was Icarium.
A catch of breath from the huddling shadow beneath the arched frame, as the Jhag paused once to glance back.
And Shadowthrone caught, in Icarium's expression, something like a smile, then the faintest of nods, before the Jhag turned away.
The god cocked his head, listening to the party hurry back up the path.
A short time later and they were gone, back through their gate.
Meticulous illusion, crafted with genius, triggered by the arrival of strangers – of, indeed, any but Shadowthrone himself – triggered to transform into a shattered, powerless wreck. Meanas, bound with Mockra, flung across the span of the chamber, invisible strands webbing the formal entrance. Mockra, filaments of suggestion, invitation, the surrendering of natural scepticism, easing the way to witness the broken throne.
Lesser warrens, yet manipulated by a god's hands, and not any god's hands, either. No… mine!
The Edur were gone.
'Idiots.'
'Three sorceror kings,' Destriant Run'thurvian said, 'rule ShalMorzinn. They will contest our passage, Adjunct Tavore Paran, and this cannot be permitted.'
'We would seek to negotiate,' the Adjunct said. 'Indeed, to purchase supplies from them. Why would they oppose this?'
'Because it pleases them to do so.'
'And they are formidable?'
'Formidable? It may well prove,' the Destriant said, 'that even with the assistance of your sorcerors, including your High Mage here, we will suffer severe, perhaps devastating losses should we clash with them. Losses sufficient to drive us back, even to destroy us utterly.'
The Adjunct frowned across at Admiral Nok, then at Quick Ben.
The latter shrugged. 'I don't even know who they are and I hate them already.'
Keneb grunted. Some High Mage.
'What, Destriant Run'thurvian, do you suggest?'
'We have prepared for this, Adjunct, and with the assistance of your sorcerors, we believe we can succeed in our intention.'
'A gate,' Quick Ben said.
'Yes. The Realm of Fanderay and Togg possesses seas. Harsh, fierce seas, but navigable nonetheless. It would not be wise to extend our journey in that realm overlong – the risks are too vast – but I believe we can survive them long enough to, upon re-emerging, find ourselves off the Dal Honese Horn of Quon Tali.'
'How long will that take?' Admiral Nok asked.
'Days instead of months, sir,' the Destriant replied.
'Risks, you said,' Keneb ventured. 'What kind of risks?'
'Natural forces, Fist. Storms, submerged ice; in that realm the sea levels have plunged, for ice grips many lands. It is a world caught in the midst of catastrophic changes. Even so, the season we shall enter is the least violent – in that, we are most fortunate.'
Quick Ben snorted. 'Forgive me, Destriant, but I sense nothing fortuitous in all this. We have some savanna spirit driving us along with these winds, as if every moment gained is somehow crucial. A savannah spirit, for Hood's sake. And now, you've worked a ritual to fashion an enormous gate on the seas. That ritual must have been begun months ago-'
'Two years, High Mage.'
'Two years! You said you were waiting for us – you knew we were coming – two years ago? Just how many spirits and gods are pushing us around here?'
The Destriant said nothing, folding his hands together before him on the map-table.
'Two years,' Quick Ben muttered.
'From you, High Mage, we require raw power – taxing, yes, but not so arduous as to leave you damaged.'
'Oh, that's nice.'
'High Mage,' the Adjunct said, 'you will make yourself available to the Grey Helms.'
He sighed, then nodded.
'How soon, Destriant?' Admiral Nok asked. 'And how shall we align the fleet?'
'Three ships across at the most, two cables apart, no more – the span of a shortbow arrow's flight between each. I suggest you begin readying your fleet immediately, sir. The gate shall be opened at dawn tomorrow.'
Nok rose. 'Then I must take my leave. Adjunct.'
Keneb studied Quick Ben on the other side of the table. The High Mage looked miserable.
Kalam waited until Quick Ben emerged onto the mid deck, then made his way over. 'What's got you shaking in your boots?' he asked.
'Never mind. If you're here to badger me about something – anything – I'm not in the mood.'
'I just had a question,' the assassin said, 'but I need to ask it in private.'
'Our hole in the knuckle below.'
'Good idea.'
A short time later they crouched once more in the narrow unlit aisle between crates and bales. 'It's this,' Kalam said, dispensing with any small talk. 'The Adjunct.'
'What about her?'
'I'm nervous.'
'Oh, how sad for you. Take it from me, it beats being scared witless, Kalam.'
'The Adjunct.'
'What is that? A question?'
'I need to know, Quick. Are you with her?'
'With her? In what? In bed? No. T'amber would kill me. Now, maybe if she decided to join in it'd be a different matter-'
'What in Hood's name are you going on about, Quick?'
'Sorry. With her, you asked.' He paused, rubbed at his face. 'Things are going to get ugly.'
'I know that! That's why I'm asking, idiot!'
'Calm down. No reason to panic-'
'Isn't there?'
Quick Ben shifted from rubbing his face to scratching it, then he pulled his hands away and blinked tearily at the assassin. 'Look what' s happening to me, and it's all your damned fault-'
'Mine?'
'Well, it's somebody's, is what I'm saying. You're here so it might as well be you, Kal.'
'Fine, have it that way. You haven't answered me yet.'
'Are you?' the wizard countered.
'With her? I don't know. That's the problem.'
'Me neither. I don't know. She's a hard one to like, almost as hard to hate, since if you look back, there's nothing really to do either with, right?'
'You're starting to not make sense, Quick.'
'So what?'
'So you don't know, and I don't know. I don't know about you,' Kalam said, 'but I hate not knowing. I even hate you not knowing.'
'That's because, back then, Laseen talked you onto her side. You went to kill her, remember? And she turned you round. But now you're here, with the Adjunct, and we're on our way back, to her. And you don't know if anything's changed, or if it's all changed. It was one thing standing with Whiskeyjack. Even Dujek. We knew them. But the Adjunct… well… things aren't so simple.'
'Thank you, Quick, for reiterating everything I've just been telling you.'
'My pleasure. Now, are we done here?'
'Sorry, in need of changing your loincloth again, are you?'
'You have no idea what we're about to do, Kal. What I suggest is, come tomorrow morning, you head back down here, close your eyes and wait.
Wait, and wait. Don't move. Or try not to. You might get tossed round a bit, and maybe these bales will come down on you. In fact, you might end up getting crushed like a gnat, so better you stay up top. Eyes closed, though. Closed until I say otherwise.'
'I don't believe you.'
The High Mage scowled. 'All right. Maybe I was trying to scare you.
It'll be rough, though. That much is true. And over on the Silanda, Fiddler will be heaving his guts out.'
Kalam, thinking on it, suddenly smiled. 'That cheers me up.'
'Me too.'
Like a tidal flow clashing at the mouth of a raging river, walls of water rose in white, churning explosions on all sides as the Silanda lunged, prow plunging, into the maelstrom of the massive gate. Beyond was a sky transformed, steel, silver and grey, the tumult of atmospheric convulsions seeming to tumble down, as if but moments from crushing the score of ships already through. The scale to Bottle's eyes was all wrong. Moments earlier their warship had been but a cable behind the Froth Wolf, and now the Adjunct's flagship was a third of a league distant, dwarfed by the looming clouds and heaving swells.
Huddled beside Bottle, hands gripping the rail, Fiddler spat out the last of his breakfast, too sick to curse, too miserable to even so much as look upWhich was likely a good thing, Bottle decided, as he listened to other marines being sick all around him, and the shouts – close to panic – from the scrambling sailors on the transport wallowing in their wake.
Gesler began blasting on that damned whistle as the ship rose above a huge swell – and Bottle almost cried out to see the stern of the Froth Wolf rearing immediately in front of them. Twisting round, he looked back, to see the sorcerous gate far away, its raging mouth filled with ships – that worked clear, then plunged, suddenly close, behind the Silanda.
By the Abyss! We're damned near flying here!
He could see, to starboard, a mass of icebergs spilling out from the white-lined horizon – a wall of ice, he realized. Whilst to port rose a wind-battered coastline, thrashing deciduous trees – oak, arbutus – and here and there clumps of white pine, their tall trunks rocking back and forth with every savage gust. Between the fleet and that shore, there were seals, their heads dotting the waves, the rocky beaches crowded with the beasts.
'Bottle,' Fiddler croaked, still not looking up, 'tell me some good news.'
'We're through the gate, Sergeant. It's rough, and it looks like we got a sea full of icebergs closing in to starboard – no, not that close yet, I think we'll outrun them. I'll wager the whole fleet's through now. Gods, those Perish catamarans look like they were made for this. Lucky bastards. Anyway, rumour is this won't be long, here in this realm – Sergeant?'
But the man was crawling away, heading for the hatch.
'Sergeant?'
'I said good news, Bottle. Like, we're all about to drop off the world's edge. Something like that.'
'Oh. Well,' he called out as the man slithered across the deck, ' there's seals!'
The night of the green storm far to the north, four Malazan dromons slid into the harbour of Malaz City, the flags upon their masts indicating that they were from the Jakatakan Fleet, whose task it was to patrol the seas from Malaz Island west, to the island of Geni and on to the Horn of the mainland. There had been clashes a few months past with some unknown fleet, but the invaders had been driven away, albeit at some cost. At full strength, the Jakatakan Fleet sailed twenty-seven dromons and sixteen resupply ships. It was rumoured that eleven dromons had been lost in the multiple skirmishes with the foreign barbarians, although Banaschar, upon hearing all this, suspected that the numbers were either an exaggeration or – in accordance with the policy of minimizing imperial losses – the opposite. The truth of the matter was, he didn't believe much of anything any more, no matter the source.
Coop's was crowded, with a lot of in and out as denizens repeatedly tramped outside to watch the northern night sky – where there was no night at all – then returned with still more expostulations, which in turn triggered yet another exodus. And so on.
Banaschar was indifferent to the rushing about – like dogs on the trail, darting from master to home and back again. Endless and brainless, really.
Whatever was going on up there was well beyond the horizon. Although, given that, Banaschar reluctantly concluded, it was big.
But far away, so far away he quickly lost interest, at least after the first pitcher of ale had been drained. In any case, the four dromons that had just arrived had delivered a score of castaways. Found on a remote reef island southwest of the Horn (and what, Banaschar wondered briefly, were the dromons doing out there?), they had been picked up, brought to Malaz Island with four ships that had been losing a battle with shipping water, and this very night the castaways had disembarked into the glorious city of Malaz.
Now finding castaways was not entirely uncommon, but what made these ones interesting was that only two of them were Malazans. As for the others… Banaschar lifted his head from his cup, frowned across at his now regular drinking partner, Master Sergeant Braven Tooth, then over at the newcomers huddled round the long table at the back. The ex-priest wasn't alone in casting glances in that direction, but the castaways clearly weren't interested in conversation with anyone but themselves – and there didn't seem to be much of that, either, Banaschar noted.
The two Malazans were both drunk, the quiet kind, the miserable kind.
The others were not drinking much – seven in all to share a single carafe of wine.
Damned unnatural, as far as Banaschar was concerned.
But that in itself was hardly surprising, was it? Those seven were Tiste Andii.
'I know one of those two, you know,' Braven Tooth said.
'What?'
'Them Malazans. They saw me. Earlier, when they came in. One of them went white. That's how I could tell.'
Banaschar grunted. 'Most veterans who come in here do that the first time they see you, Braven Tooth. Some of them do that every time. How' s that feel, b'the way? Striking terror in everyone you ever trained?'
'Feels good. Besides, it's not everyone I trained. Jus' most, of 'em.
I'm used to it.'
'Why don't you drag them two over here, then? Get their story – what in Hood's name are they doing with damned Tiste Andii, anyway? Of course, with the feel in the air outside, there's a good chance those fools won't last the night. Wickans, Seven Cities, Korelri, Tiste Andii – foreigners one and all. And the mob's got its nose up and hackles rising. This city is about to explode.'
'Ain't never seen this afore,' Braven Tooth muttered. 'This… hate.
The old empire was never like that. Damn, it was the bloody opposite.
Look around, Banaschar, if y'can focus past that drink in your hand, and you'll see it. Fear, paranoia, closed minds and bared teeth. You voice a complaint out loud these days and you'll end up cut to pieces in some alley. Was never like this afore, Banaschar. Never.'
'Drag one over.'
'I heard the story already.'
'Really? Wasn't you sitting here wi'me all night tonight?'
'No, I was over there for most of a bell – you never noticed – I don't even think you looked up. You're a big sea sponge, Banaschar, and the more you pour in the thirstier you get.'
'I'm being followed.'
'So you keep saying.'
'They're going to kill me.'
'Why? They can just sit back and wait for you to kill yourself.'
'They're impatient.'
'So I ask again, Banaschar, why?'
'They don't want me to reach through to him. To Tayschrenn, you see.
It's all about Tayschrenn, locked up there in Mock's Hold. They brought the bricks, but he's mixed the mortar. I got to talk to him, and they won't let me. They'll kill me if I even try.' He waved wildly towards the door. 'I head out, right now, and start walking to the Stairs, and I'm dead.'
'That damned secret of yours, that's what's going to kill you, Banaschar. It's what's killing you right now.'
'She's cursed me.'
'Who has?'
'D'rek, of course. The Worm in my gut, in my brain, the worm that's eating me from the inside out. So what was the story?'
Braven Tooth scratched the bristling hair beneath his throat, then leaned back. 'Marine recruit Mudslinger. Forget the name he started with, Mudslinger is the one I gave 'im. It fits, 'course. They always fit. He was a tough one, though, a survivor, and tonight's proof of that. The other one's named Gentur. Kanese, I think – not one of mine.
Anyway, they was shipwrecked after a battle with the grey-skinned barbarians. Ended up on Drift Avalii, where things got real messy.
Seems those barbarians, they was looking for Drift Avalii all along.
Well, there were Tiste Andii living on it, and before anyone could spit there was a huge fight between them and the barbarians. An ugly one. Before long Mudslinger and the others with 'im were fighting alongside those Tiste Andii, along with someone named Traveller. The short of it is, Traveller told them all to leave, said he'd take on the barbarians by 'imself and anybody else around was jus' in the way.
So they did. Leave, I mean. Only t'get hit by a damned storm, and what was left of 'em fetched up on an atoll, where they spent months drinking coconut milk and eating clams.' Braven Tooth reached for his tankard. 'And that's Mudslinger's story, when he was sober, which he's not any more. The one named Traveller, he's the one that interests me… something familiar about him, the way 'Slinger d'scribes 'im, the way he fought – killing everything fast, wi'out breaking a sweat.
Too bad he didn't come wi' these ones.'
Banaschar stared at the huge man opposite him. What was he talking about? Whatever it was, it went on, and on, and on. Travelling fast?
Slingers and fights with barbarians. The man was drunk. Drunk and incomprehensible. 'So, what was Mud's story again?'
'I just told you.'
'And what about those Tiste Andii, Braven Tooth? They're going to get killed-'
'No they ain't. See the tallest one there, with the long white hair.
His name is Nimander Golit. And that pretty woman beside him, that's Phaed, his first daughter. All seven of 'em are cousins, sisters, brothers, but it's Nimander who leads, since he's the oldest. Nimander says he is the first son of the Son.'
'The what?'
'The Son of Darkness, Banaschar. Know who that is? That's Anomander Rake. Look at 'em, they're all Rake's brood – grandchildren mostly, except for Nimander, who's father to a lot of 'em, but not all. Now, maybe someone's got a hate on for foreigners – you really think that someone would be stupid enough to go after the whelps of Anomander Rake?'
Banaschar turned slightly, stared over at the figures. He slowly blinked, then shook his head. 'Not unless they're suicidal.'
'Right, and that's something you'd know all about, ain't it?'
'So, if Anomander Rake is Nimander's father, who was the mother?'
'Ah, you're not completely blind, then. You can see, can't you?
Different mothers, for some of 'em. And one of those mothers wasn't no Tiste Andii, was she? Look at Phaed-'
'I can only see the back of her head.'
'Whatever. I looked at her, and I asked her that very same question you just asked me.'
'What?'
' "Who was your mother?" '
'Mine?'
'And she smiled – and I nearly died, Banaschar, and I mean it. Nearly died. Bursting blood vessels in my brain, toppling over nearly died.
Anyway, she told me, and it wasn't no Tiste Andii kind of name, and from the looks of her I'd say the other half was human, but then again, can you really tell with these things? Not really.'
'No, really, what was the name?'
'Lady Envy, who used to know Anomander Rake himself, and got her revenge taking his son as a lover. Messy, eh? But if she was anything like that Phaed there, with that smile, well, envy's the only word – for every other woman in the world. Gods below… hey, Banaschar, what's wrong? You suddenly look real sick. The ale's not that bad, not like what we had last night, anyway. Look, if you're thinking of fillin' a plate on the tabletop, there ain't no plate, right? And the boards are warped, and that means it'll sluice onto my legs, and that' ll get me very annoyed – for Hood's sake, man, draw a damned breath!'
Leaning on the scarred, stained bartop fifteen paces away, the man Banaschar called Foreigner nursed a flagon of Malaz Dark, a brew for which he had acquired a taste, despite the expense. He heard the expriest and the Master Sergeant arguing back and forth at a table behind him, something they had been doing a lot of lately. On other nights, Foreigner reflected, he would have joined them, leaning back to enjoy what would be an entertaining – if occasionally sad – performance.
But not tonight.
Not with them, sitting back there.
He needed to think, now, and think hard. He needed to come to a decision, and he sensed, with a tremor of fear, that upon that decision rode his destiny.
'Coop, another Dark here, will you?'
The carrack Drowned Rat looked eager to pull away from the stone pier south of the rivermouth as the tide tugged fitfully on its way out.
Scrubbed hull, fresh paint, and a bizarre lateen rig and centre-stern steering oar had garnered the curious attention of more than a few sailors and fisher folk who'd wandered past in the last few days.
Irritating enough, the captain mused, but Oponn was still smiling nice twin smiles, and before long they'd be on their way, finally. Out of this damned city and the sooner the better.
First Mate Palet was lying curled up on the mid deck, still nursing the bruises and knocks he'd taken from a drunken mob the night before.
The captain's lizard gaze settled on him for a moment, before moving on. They were docked, trussed up neat, and Vole was perched in his oversized crow's nest – the man was mad as a squirrel with a broken tail – and everything seemed about right, so right, in fact, that the captain's nerves were a taut, tangled mess.
It wasn't just the fever of malice afflicting damned near everyone – with all those acid rumours of betrayal and murder in Seven Cities, and now the unofficial pogrom unleashed against the Wickans – there was, in addition, all that other stuff.
Scratching at the stubble on his scalp, Cartheron Crust turned and fixed narrow eyes on Mock's Hold. Mostly dark, of course. Faint glow from the gatehouse top of the Stairs – that would be Lubben, the old hunchback keeper, probably passed out by now as was his wont whenever the Hold had uninvited guests. Of course, all guests were uninvited, and even though a new Fist had arrived a month ago, that man Aragan had been posted here before and so he knew the way things worked best – and that was lying as low as you could, not once lifting your head above the parapet. Who knows? Aragan's probably sharing that bottle with Lubben.
Uninvited guests… like High Mage Tayschrenn. Long ago, now, Crust had found himself in that snake's company all too often, and he'd struggled hard not to do something somebody'd probably regret. Not me, though. The Emperor, maybe. Tayschrenn himself, definitely, but not me. He would dream of a moment alone, just the two of them. A moment, that was all he'd need. Both hands on that scrawny neck, squeeze and twist. Done. Simple. Problem solved.
What problem? That's what Kellanved would have asked, in his usual apoplectic way. And Crust had an answer waiting. No idea, Emperor, but I'm sure there was one, maybe two, maybe plenty. A good enough reply, he figured, although Kellanved might not have agreed. Dancer would've, though. Hah.
'Four dromons!' Vole called down suddenly.
Crust stared up at the idiot. 'We're in the harbour! What did you expect? That's it, Vole, no more sending your meals up there – haul your carcass down here!'
'Cutting in from the north, Captain. 'Top the masts… something glinting silver…'
Crust's scowl deepened. It was damned dark out there. But Vole was never wrong. Silver… that's not good. No, that's plain awful. He strode over to Palet and nudged the man. 'Get up. Send what's left of the crew back to those warehouses – I don't care who's guarding them, bribe the bastards. I want us low in the water and scuttling outa here like a three-legged crab.'
The man looked up at him with owlish eyes. 'Captain?'
'Did they knock all sense from your brain, Palet? Trouble's coming.'
Sitting up, the First Mate looked round. 'Guards?'
'No, a whole lot troubler.'
'Like what?'
'Like the Empress, you fool.'
Palet was suddenly on his feet. 'Supplies, aye, sir. We're on our way!'
Crust watched the fool scamper. The crew was drunk. Too bad for them.
They were sorely undermanned, too. It'd been a bad idea, diving into the bay when old Ragstopper went down, what with all those sharks.
Four good sailors had been lost that night. Good sailors, bad swimmers. Funny how that goes together.
He looked round once more. Damn, done forgot again, didn't I? No dinghies. Well, there's always something.
Four dromons, visible now, rounding into the bay, back-lit by one of the ugliest storms he'd ever seen. Well, not entirely true – he'd seen the like once before, hadn't he? And what had come of it? Not a whole lot… except, that is, a mountain of otataral…
The lead dromon – Laseen's flagship, The Surly. Three in her wake.
Three, that was a lot – who in Hood's name has she brought with her? A damned army?
Uninvited guests.
Poor Aragan.