Will you come and tell me when the music ends When the musicians are swallowed in flames Every instrument blackening and crumbling to ash When the dancers stumble and sprawl their diseased limbs rotting off and twitching the skin sloughing away
Will you come and tell me when the music ends
When the stars we pushed into the sky loose their roars
And the clouds we built into visible rage do now explode
When the bright princes of privilege march past with dead smiles falling from their faces a host of deceiving masks
Will you come and tell me when the music ends When reason sinks into the morass of superstition Waging a war of ten thousand armies stung to the lash When we stop looking up even as we begin our mad running into stupidity’s nothingness with heavenly choirs screaming
Will you come and tell me when the music ends When the musicians are no more than black grinning sticks Every instrument wailing its frantic death cry down the road When the ones left standing have had their mouths cut off leaving holes from which a charnel wind eternally blows
Will you come and tell me when the music ends The fire is eating my breath and agony fills this song When my fingers crack on the strings and fall from my hands And this dance twists every muscle like burning rope while your laughter follows down my crumpling corpse
Won’t you come and tell me when the music ends
When I can leap away and face one god or a thousand
Or nothing at all into this blessed bliss of oblivion
When I can prise open this box and release cruel and bitter fury at all the mad fools crowding the door in panicked flight
Watch me and watch me with eyes wide and shocked
With disbelief with horror with indignant umbrage to upbraidAnd the shouted Nays are like drumbeats announcing a truth
The music ends my friends, my vile, despicable friends, and see me-
see me slam the door slam it hard-in all your faces!
The Music Ends Fisher Kel Tath
His boots crunched on waterworn stones slick with mist as he made his way to the water’s edge. The steep slopes of the surrounding mountainsides were verdant, thick rainforest, crimson-barked trees towering high, beards of moss hanging from toppled trunks.
Endest Silann leaned on his stolid walking stick, the muscles of his legs trembling. He looked round as he slowly regained his breath. It was chilly, the sun’s arc just slipping past the western peaks, and shadow swallowed the river valley.
Black water rushed by and he felt its cold-no need to squat down, no need to slide a hand into the tugging current. This dark river was, he could see now, nothing like Dorssan Ryl. How could he have expected otherwise? The new is ever but a mangled echo of the old and whatever whispers of similarity one imagined do naught but sting with pain, leaving one blistered with loss. Oh, he had been a fool, to have journeyed all this way. Seeking what? Even that he could not answer.
No, perhaps he could. Escape. Brief, yes, but escape none the less. The coward flees, knowing he must return, wishing that the return journey might kill him, take his life as it did the old everywhere. But listen! You can shape your soul-make it a bucket, a leaking one that you carry about. Or your soul can be a rope, thick and twisted, refusing to break even as it buckles to one knot after another. Choose your image, Endest Silann. You are here, you’ve made it this far, haven’t you? And as he told you… not much farther to go. Not much farther at all. He smelled woodsmoke.
Startled, alarmed, he turned away from the rush of the river. Faced upstream whence came the late afternoon breeze. There, in distant gloom, the muted glow of a campfire.
Ah, no escape after all. He’d wanted solitude, face to face with intractable, in-different nature. He’d wanted to feel… irrelevant. He’d wanted the wildness to punch him senseless, leave him humiliated, reduced to a wretch. Oh, he had wanted plenty, hadn’t he?
With a sour grunt, Endest Silann began walking upstream. At the very least, the fire would warm his hands.
Thirty paces away, he could see the lone figure facing the smoky flames. Huge, round-shouldered, seated on a fallen log. And Endest Silann smiled in recognition.
Two trout speared on skewers cooked above the fire. A pot of simmering tea sat with one blackened shoulder banked in coals. Two tin cups warmed on the flat rock making up one side of the hearth. Another log waited opposite the one on which sat the warlord, Caladan Brood, who slowly twisted round to watch Endest Silann approach, The broad, oddly bestial face split into a wry smile. ‘Of all the guests I imagined this night, old friend, you did not come to mind. Forgive me. You took your time since begin-ning your descent into this valley, but for that 1 will happily make allowances-but do not complain if the fish is overcooked.’
‘Complaints are far away and will remain so, Caladan. You have awakened my appetite-for food, drink and, most of all, company.’
‘Then sit, make yourself comfortable.’
‘So you did indeed disband your army after the siege,’ said Endest Silann, making his way over to settle himself down. ‘There were rumours. Of course, my master said nothing.’
‘See me now,’ said the warlord, ‘commanding an army of wet stones, and yes, it proves far less troublesome than the last one. Finally, I can sleep soundly at night. Although, matching wits with these trout has challenged me mightily. There, take one of those plates, and here-beware the bones, though,’ he added as he set a fish on the plate.
‘Alone here, Caladan Brood-it makes me wonder if you are hiding.’
‘It may be that I am, Endest Silann. Unfortunately, hiding never works.’
‘No, it never does.’
Neither spoke for a time as they ate their supper. The trout was indeed over-done but Endest Silann said nothing, for it was delicious none the less.
If Anomander Rake was a mystery shrouded in darkness, then Caladan Brood was one clothed in geniality. Spare with words, he nevertheless could make virtually anyone feel welcome and, indeed, appreciated. Or rather, he could when the pressures of command weren’t crouched on his shoulders like a damned mountain. This night, then, Endest Silann well understood, was a gift, all the more precious in that it was wholly unexpected.
When the meal was done, night’s arrival closed out the world beyond the fire’s light. The rush of the river was a voice, a presence: Water flowed indifferent to the heave and plunge of the sun, the shrouded moon and the slow spin of the stars. The sound reached them in a song without words, and all effort to grasp its meaning was hopeless, for, like the water itself, one could not grasp hold of sound. The flow was ceaseless and immeasurable and just as stillness did not in fact exist, so too true, absolute silence.
‘Why are you here?’ Endest Silann asked after a time.
‘I wish I could answer you, old friend, and Burn knows the desire to ease the burden is almost overwhelming.’
‘You are assuming, Caladan, that I am ignorant of what awaits us.’
‘No, I do not do that-after all, you have sought a pilgrimage, out to this river-and among the Tiste Andii, this place has proved a mysterious lure. Yet you ask why I am here, and so your knowledge must be… incomplete. Endest Silann, I cannot say more. I cannot help you.’
The old Tiste Andii looked away, off into the dark where the river sang to the night. So, others had come here, then. Some instinctive need drawing them, yes, to the ghost of Dorssan Ryl. He wondered if they had felt the same disappointment as he had upon seeing these black (but not black enough) waters. It is not the stum. Nothing ever is, beginning with ourselves. ‘I do not,’ he said, ‘believe much in forgiveness.’
‘What of restitution?’
The question stunned him, stole his breath. The river rushed with the sound of ten thousand voices and those cries filled his head, spread into his chest to grip his heart. Cold pooled in his gut. By the Abyss… such… ambition. He felt the icy trickle of tears on his fire-warmed cheeks. ‘I will do all I can.’
‘He knows that,’ Caladan Brood said with such compassion that Endest Silann almost cried out. ‘You might not believe this now,’ the huge warrior continued, ‘but you will find this pilgrimage worthwhile. A remembrance to give strength when you need it most.’
No, he did not believe that now, and could not imagine ever believing it. Even so… the ambition. So appalling, so breathtaking.
Caladan Brood poured the tea and set a cup into Endest’s hands. The tin shot heat into his chilled fingers. The warlord was standing beside him now.
‘Listen to the river, Endest Silann. Such a peaceful sound…’
But in the ancient Tiste Andii’s mind that sound was a wailing chorus, an overwhelming flood of loss and despair. The ghost of Dorssan Ryl? No, this was where that long dead river emptied out, feeding the midnight madness of its history into a torrent where it swirled with a thousand other currents. Endless variations on the same bitter flavour.
And as he stared into the flames he saw once more the city dying in a confla-gration. Kharkanas beneath the raging sky. Blinding ash like sand in the eyes, smoke like poison in the lungs. Mother Darkness in her fury, denying her chil-dren, turning away as they died and died. And died.
Listen to the river. Remember the voices.
Wait, as does the warlord here. Wait, to see what comes.
The smell of the smoke remained long after the fire was done. They rode in on to charred ground and blackened wreckage. Collapsed, crumbled inward, the enormous carriage still reared like a malignant smoking pyre in the centre of stained earth. Detritus was scattered about to mark the disintegration of the community. Yet, although the scene was one of slaughter, there were no bodies. Trails set off in all directions, some broader than others.
Samar Dev studied the scene for a time, then watched as Traveller dismounted to walk over to the edge of the camp, where he began examining some of the tracks leading away. He was an odd man, she decided. Quiet, self-contained, a man used to being alone, yet beneath it all was a current of… yes, mayhem. As if it was his own solitude that kept the world safe.
Once, long ago now, she had found herself in the company of another warrior equally familiar with that concept. But there the similarity ended. Karsa Orlong, notwithstanding that first journey into the besieged fortress outside Ugarat, thrived on an audience. Witness, he would say, In full expectation of just that, He wanted his every deed observed, as if each set of eyes existed solely to mat It K.arsa Orlong, and the minds behind them served, to the exclusion of all else, to recount to all what he had done, what he had said, what he had begun and what he had ended, He makes us his history. Every witness contributes to the narrative-the life, the deeds of Toblakai-a narrative to which we are, each of us, bound.
Chains and shackles snaked out from the burned carriage. Empty, of course. And yet, despite this, Samar Dev understood that the survivors of this place remained slaves. Chained to Karsa Orlong, their liberator, chained to yet another grim episode in his history. He gives us freedom and enslaves us all. Oh, now there is irony. All the sweeter for that he does not mean to, no, the very opposite each and every time. The damned fool.
‘Many took horses, loaded down with loot,’ Traveller said, returning to his mount. ‘One trail heads north, the least marked-I believe it belongs to your friend.’’
My friend.
‘He is not far ahead of us now, and still on foot. We should catch up to him to-day.’
She nodded.
Traveller studied her for a moment. He then swung himself on to his horse and collected the reins. ‘Samar Dev, I cannot work out what happened here.’
‘He did,’ she replied. ‘He happened here.’
‘He killed no one. From what you have told me, well, I thought to find something else. It is as if he simply walked up to them and said, “It’s over.”‘ He frowned across at her. ‘How can that be?’
She shook her head.
He grunted, guiding his horse round. ‘The scourge of the Skathandi has ended.’
‘It has.’
‘My fear of your companion has… deepened. I am ever more reluctant to find him.’
‘But that will not stop you, will it? If he carries the Emperor’s Sword…’ He did not reply. He didn’t need to. They set out at a canter. Northward.
The wind cut across from the west, sun-warmed and dry. The few clouds scudding past overhead were thin and shredded. Ravens or hawks circled, wheeling specks, and Samar Dev thought of flies buzzing the corpse of the earth.
She spat to clear away the taste of woodsmoke.
A short time later they came upon a small camp. Three men, two pregnant women. The fear in their eyes warred with abject resignation as Samar Dev and Traveller came up and reined in. The men had not sought to flee, proof of the rarest kind of courage-the women were too burdened to run, so the men had stayed and if that meant death, then so be it. Details like these ever humbled Samar Dev. ‘You are following the Toblakai,’ Traveller said, dismounting. They stared, say-lug nothing. Traveller half turned and gestured for Samar Dev. Curious, she slipped down,
‘Can you see to the health of the women?’ he asked her in a low voice.
‘All right,’ she said, then watched as the Dal Honese warrior led the three men off to one side. Bemused, Samar Dev approached the women. Both, she saw, were far along in their pregnancies, and then she noted that both seemed… not quite human. Furtive eyes the hue of tawny grasses, a kind of animal wariness along with the resignation she had noted earlier, but now she understood it as the fatalism of the victim, the hunted, the prey. Yes, she could imagine seeing such eyes in the antelope with the leopard’s jaws closed on its throat. The image left her feeling rattled.
‘I am a witch,’ she said. ‘Shoulder Woman.’
Both remained sitting. They stared in silence.
She edged closer and crouched down opposite them. They bore features both human and animal, as if they represented some alternative version of human beings. Dark-skinned, slope-browed, with broad mouths full-lipped and probably-when not taut with anxiety-unusually expressive. Both looked well fed, essentially healthy. Both emanated that strange completeness that only pregnant women possessed. When everything outward faced inward. In a less generous moment she might call it smugness but this was not such a moment. Besides, there was in those auras something animal that made it all seem proper, natural, as if this was exclusively and precisely what women were for.
Now that notion irritated her.
She straightened and walked over to where Traveller stood with the men. ‘They are fine,’ she said.
His brows rose at her tone, but he said nothing.
‘So,’ she asked, ‘what secrets have they revealed?’
“The sword he carries was made of flint, or obsidian. Stone.’
‘Then he rejected the Crippled God. No, I’m not surprised. He won’t do what’s expected. Ever. It’s part of his damned religion, I suspect. What now, Traveller?’
He sighed. ‘We will catch up with him anyway.’ A brief smile. ‘With less trepidation now.’
‘There’s still the risk,’ she said, ‘of an… argument.’
They returned to their horses.
‘The Skathandi king was dying,’ Traveller explained as they both rode out from the camp. ‘He bequeathed his kingdom to your friend. Who then dissolved it, freeing all the slaves, warning off the soldiers. Taking nothing for himself. Nothing at all.’
She grunted.
Traveller was silent for a moment and then he said, ‘A man like that… well, I am curious. I would like to meet him.’
‘Don’t expect hugs and kisses,’ she said. ‘He will not be pleased to see you?’
‘I have no idea, although I am bringing him his horse, which should count for something.’
‘Does he know how you feel about him?’
She shot him a look, and then snorted. ‘He may think he does but the truth is I don’t know how I feel about him, so whatever he’s thinking it’s bound to be wrong. Now that we’re closing in, I’m the one getting more nervous. It’s ridiculous, I know.’
‘It seems your examination of those two women has soured your mood. Why?’
‘I don’t know what you wanted me to do about them. They were pregnant, not in labour. They looked hale enough, better than I expected in fact. They didn’t need me poking and prodding. The babies will be born and they will live or they will die. Same for the mothers. It’s just how things are.’
‘My apologies, Samar Dev. I should not have so ordered you about. Were I in your place, I too would have been offended by the presumption.’
Was that what had annoyed her? Possibly. Equally likely, her mute acquiescence, the doe-eyed ease with which she had fallen into that subservient role. As when I was with Karsa Orlong. Oh, I think I now step on to the thinnest cmst of sand above some bottomless pit. Samar Dev discovers her very own secret weaknesses. Was she foul of mood earlier? See her now.
A talent, a sensitivity-something-clearly told Traveller to say nothing more.
They rode on, the horses’ hoofs thumping the taut drum of the earth. The warm wind slid dry as sand. In a low, broad depression on their left stood six pronghorn antelope, watching them pass. Rust-red slabs of flat rock tilted up through the thin ground along the spines of hills. Long-billed birds of some kind perched on them, their plumage the same mix of hues. ‘It is all the same,’ she murmured.
‘Samar Dev? Did you speak?’
She shrugged. ‘The way so many animals are made to match their surroundings. I wonder, if all this grass suddenly grew blood red, how long before the markings on those antelope shift into patterns of red? You’d think it could never be the other way round, but you would be wrong. See those flowers-the bright colours to attract the right insects. If the right insects don’t come to collect the pollen the flower dies. So, brighter is better. Plants and animals, it goes back and forth, the whole thing inseparable and dependent. Despite this, nothing stays the same.’
‘True, nothing ever stays the same.’
‘Those women back there…’
‘Gandaru. Kin to the Kindaru and Sinbarl-so the men explained.’
‘Not true humans.’
‘No.’
‘Yet true to themselves none the less.’
‘I imagine so, Samar Dev.’
‘They broke my heart, Traveller. Against us, they don’t stand a chance.’ He glanced across at her. ‘That is quite a presumption.’
‘It is?’
‘We are riding towards a Tartheno Toblakai, belonging to a remnant tribe isolated somewhere in northern Genabackis. You tell me that Karsa Orlong intend todeliver destruction to all the “children” of the world-to us, in other words. When you speak ol this, I see fear in your eyes. A conviction that he will succeed. So now, tell me, against one such as Karsa Orlong and his kind, do we stand a chance?’
‘Of course we do, because we can fight back. What can these gentle Gandaru manage? Nothing. They can hide, and when that fails they are killed, or enslaved. Those two women were probably raped. Used. Vessels for human seed.’
‘Barring the rape, every animal we hunt for food possesses the same few choices. Hide or flee.’
‘Until there is no place left to hide.’
‘And when the animals go, so too will we.’
She barked a laugh. ‘You might believe so, Traveller. No, we won’t go that way. We’ll just fill the empty lands with cattle, with sheep and goats. Or break up the ground and plant corn. There is no stopping us.’
‘Except, perhaps, for Karsa Orlong.’
And there,, then, was the truth of all this. Karsa Orlong pronounced a future of destruction, extinction. And she wished him well.
‘There,’ Traveller said in a different voice, and he rose in his stirrups. ‘He didn’t travel too far after all-’
From Havok’s saddle, Samar Dev could now see him. He had halted and was facing them, a thousand paces distant. Two horses stood near him, and there were humps in the grass of the knoll, scattered like ant hills or boulders but, she knew, neither of those. ‘He was attacked,’ she said. ‘The idiots should have left well enough alone.’
‘I’m sure their ghosts concur,’ Traveller said.
They cantered closer.
The Toblakai looked no different from the last time she had seen him-there on the sands of the arena in Letheras. As sure, as solid, as undeniable as ever. ‘I shall kill him… once.’ And so he did. Defying… everything. Oh, he was look-ing at her now, and at Havok, with the air of a master summoning his favourite hunting dog.
And suddenly she was furious. ‘This wasn’t obligation!’ she snapped, savagely reining in directly in front of him. ‘You abandoned us-there in that damned foreign city! “Do this when the time is right”, and so I did! Where the Hood did you go? And-’
And then she yelped, as the huge warrior swept her off the saddle with one massive arm, and closed her in a suffocating embrace, and the bastard was laughing and even Traveller-curse the fool-was grinning, although to be sure it was a hard grin, mindful as he clearly was of the half-dozen bodies lying amidst blood and entrails in the grasses.
‘Witch!’
‘Set me down!’
‘I am amazed,’ he bellowed, ‘that Havok suffered you all this way!’
‘Down!’
So he dropped her. Jarring her knees, sending her down with a thump on her backside, every bone rattled. She glared up at him. But Karsa Orlong had already turned away and was eyeing Traveller, who re-mained on his horse. ‘You are you her husband then? She must have had one somewhere-no other reason for her forever refusing me. Very well, we shall light for her, you and me-’
‘Be quiet, Karsa! He’s not my husband and no one’s fighting for me. Because I belong to no one but me! Do you understand? Will you ever understand?’
‘Samar Dev has spoken,’ said Traveller. ‘We met not long ago, both journeying on this plain! We chose to ride as companions. I am from Dal Hon, on the continent of Quon Tali-’
Karsa grunted. ‘Malazan.’
An answering nod. ‘I am called Traveller.’
‘You hide your name.’
‘What I hide merely begins with my name, Karsa Orlong.’ The Toblakai’s eyes thinned at that.
‘You bear the tattoos,’ Traveller went on, ‘of an escaped slave of Seven Cities. Or, rather, a recaptured one. Clearly, the chains did not hold you for long.’
Samar Dev had picked herself up and was now brushing the dust from her clothes. ‘Are these Skathandi?’ she asked, gesturing at the bodies. ‘Karsa?’
The giant turned away from his study of the Malazan. ‘Idiots,’ he said. ‘Seeking vengeance for the dead king-as if I killed him.’
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘Well,’ she said, ’at least now I will have a horse of my own.’
Karsa walked over to Havok and settled a hand on his neck. The beast’s nos-trils flared and the lips peeled back to reveal the overlong fangs. Karsa laughed. ‘Yes, old friend, I smell Of death. When was it never thus?’ And he laughed again.
‘Hood take you, Karsa Orlong-what happened?’
He frowned at her. ‘What do you mean, Witch?’
‘You killed the Emperor.’
‘I said I would, and so I did.’ He paused, and then said, ‘And now this Malazan speaks as if he would make me a slave once more.’
‘Not at all,’ said Traveller. ‘It just seems as if you have lived an eventful life, Toblakai. I only regret that I will probably never hear your tale, for I gather that you are not the talkative type.’
Karsa Orlong bared his teeth, and then swung up into the saddle. ‘I am riding north,’ he said.
‘As am I,’ replied Traveller.
Samar Dev collected both horses and tied a long lead to the one she decided she would not ride, then climbed into the saddle of the other-a russet gelding with a broad back and disinterested eyes. ‘I think I want to go home,’ she pronounced. ‘Meaning I need to find a port, presumably on the western coast of this continent.’
Traveller said, ‘I ride to Darujhistan. Ships ply the lake and the river that flows to the coast you seek. I would welcome the company, Samar Dev.’
‘Darujhistan,’ said Karsa Orlong. ‘I have heard of that city. Defied the Malazan Empire and so still free. I will see it for myself.’’Fine then,’ Samar Dev snapped. ‘Let’s ride on, to the next pile of corpses-and with you for company, Karsa Orlong, that shouldn’t be long-and then we’ll ride to the next one and so on, right across this entire continent. To Darujhistan! Wherever in Hood’s name that is.’
‘I will see it,’ Karsa said again. ‘But I will not stay long.’ And he looked at her with suddenly fierce eyes. ‘I am returning home, Witch.’
‘To forge your army,’ she said, nodding, sudden nerves tingling in her gut.
‘And then the world shall witness.’
‘Yes.’
After a moment, the three set out, Karsa Orlong on her left, Traveller on her right, neither speaking, yet they were histories, tomes of past, present and future. Between them, she felt like a crumpled page of parchment, her life a minor scrawl.
High, high above them, a Great Raven fixed preternatural eyes upon the three figures far below, and loosed a piercing cry, then tilted its broad black-sail wings and raced on a current of chill wind, rushing east.
She thought she might be dead. Every step she took was effortless, a product of will and nothing else-no shifting of weight, no swing of legs nor flexing of knees. Will carried her where she sought to go, to that place of formless light where the white sand glowed blindingly bright beneath her, at the proper distance had she been standing. Yet, looking down, she saw nothing of her own body. No limbs, no torso, and nowhere to any side could she see her shadow.
Voices droned somewhere ahead, but she was not yet ready for them, so she remained where she was, surrounded in warmth and light.
Pulses, as from torches flaring through thick mist, slowly approached, disconnected from the droning voices, and she now saw a line of figures drawing towards her. Women, heads tilted down, long hair over their faces, naked, each one heavy with pregnancy. The torch fires hovered over each one, fist-sized suns in which rainbow flames flickered and spun.
Salind wanted to recoil. She was a Child of a Dead Seed, after all. Born from a womb of madness. She had nothing for these women. She was no longer a priestess, no longer able to confer the blessing of anyone, no god and least of all herself, upon any child waiting to tumble into the world.
Yet those seething orbs of flame-she knew they were the souls of the unborn, the not-yet-born, and these mothers were walking towards her, with purpose, with need.
I can give you nothing! Go away!
Still they came on, faces lifting, revealing eyes dark and empty, and seemed not to see her even as, one by one, they walked through Salind. Gods, some of these women were not even human.
And as each one passed through her, she felt the life of the child within. She saw the birth unfolding, saw the small creature with those strangely wise eyes that seemed to belong to every newborn (except, perhaps, her own). And then theyears rushing on, the child growlng, faces taking the shape they would carry into old age-
But not all. As mother after mother stepped through her, futures flashed bright, and some died quickly indeed. Fraught, flickering sparks, ebbing, winking out, darkness rushing in. And at these she cried out, filled with anguish even as she un-derstood that souls travelled countless journeys, of which only one could be known by a mortal-so many, in countless perturbations-and that the loss belonged only to others, never to the child itself, for in its inarticulate, ineffable wisdom, understanding was absolute; the passage of life that seemed tragically short could well be the perfect duration, the experience complete-
Others, however, died in violence, and this was a crime, an outrage against life itself. Here, among these souls, there was fury, shock, denial. There was railing, struggling, bitter defiance. No, some deaths were as they should be, but others were not. From somewhere a woman’s voice began speaking.
‘Bless them, that they not be taken.
‘Bless them, that they begin in their time and that they end in its fullness.
‘Bless them, in the name of the Redeemer, against the cruel harvesters of souls, the takers of life.
‘Bless them, Daughter of Death, that each life shall be as it is written, for peace is born of completion, and completion denied-completion of all potential, all promised in life-is a crime, a sin, a consignation to eternal damnation. Beware the takers, the users! The blight of killers!
‘They are coming! Again and again, they harvest the souls-’
That strange voice was shrieking now, and Salind sought to flee but all will had vanished. She was trapped in this one place, as mother after mother plunged into her, eyes black and wide, mouths gaping in a chorus of screams, wailing terror, heart-crushing fear, for their unborn children-
All at once she heard the droning voices again, summoning her, inviting her into… into what?
Sanctuary.
With a cry tearing loose from her throat, Salind pulled away, raced towards those voices-
And opened her eyes. Low candlelight surrounded her. She was lying on a bed. The voices embraced her from all sides and, blinking, she sought to sit up. So weak-
An arm slipped behind her shoulders, helped her rise as pillows were pushed underneath. She stared up at a familiar, alien face. ‘Spinnock Durav.’ He nodded.
Others were rising into view now. Tiste Andii women, all in dark shapeless robes, eyes averted as they began filing out of the chamber, taking their chanting song with them.
Those voices-so heavy, so solid-they truly belonged to these women? She was astonished, half disbelieving, and yet…
‘You almost died,’ Spinnock Durav said. ‘The healers called you back-the priestesses.’’But why?’
His smile was wry. ‘I called in a favour or two. But I think, once they attended you, there was more to it. An obligation, perhaps. You are, after all, a sister priestess-oh, betrothed to a different ascendant, true enough, but that did not matter. Or,’ and he smiled again, ‘so it turned out.’
Yes, but why? Why did you bring me back? I don’t want-oh, she could not complete that thought. Understanding now, at last; how vast the sin of suicide-of course, it would not have been that, would it? To have simply slipped away, taken by whatever sickness afflicted her. Was it not a kind of wisdom to surrender?
‘No,’ she mumbled, ’it isn’t.’
‘Salind?’
‘To bless,’ she said, ’is to confer a hope. Is that enough? To make sacred the wish for good fortune, a fulfilled life? What can it achieve?’
He was studying her face. ‘High Priestess,’ he now said, haltingly, as if truly attempting an answer, ‘in blessing, you purchase a moment of peace, in the one being blessed, in the one for whom blessing is asked. Perhaps it does not last, but the gift you provide, well, its value never fades.’
She turned her head, looked away. Beyond the candles, she saw a wall crowded with Andiian hieroglyphs and a procession of painted figures, all facing one way, to where stood the image of a woman whose back was turned, denying all those beseeching her. A mother rejecting her children-she could see how the artist had struggled with all those upturned faces, the despair and anguish twisting them-painted in tears, yes.
‘I must go back,’ she said.
‘Back? Where?’
‘The camp, the place of the pilgrims.’
‘You are not yet strong enough, High Priestess.’
Her words to him had stripped away his using her chosen name. He was seeing her now as a High Priestess. She felt a twinge of loss at that. But now was not the time to contemplate the significance of such things. Spinnock Durav was right-she was too weak. Even these thoughts exhausted her. ‘As soon as I can,’ she said.
‘Of course.’
‘They are in danger.’
‘What would you have me do?’
She finally looked back at him. ‘Nothing. This belongs to me. And Seerdomin.’ At the mention of that name the Tiste Andii winced. ‘High Priestess-’
‘He will not reject me again.’
‘He is missing.’
‘What?’
‘I cannot find him. I am sorry, but I am fairly certain he is no longer in Black Coral.’
‘No matter,’ she said, struggling to believe her own words. ‘No matter. He will come when he is needed.’ She could see that Spinnock Durav was sceptical, but she would not berate him for that. ‘The Redeemer brought me to the edge ofdeath,’ she said, ‘to show me what was needed. To show me why I was needed.’
She paused. ‘Does that sound arrogant? It does, doesn’t it?’
His sigh was ragged. He stood. ‘I will return to check on you, High Priestess,
For now, sleep.’
Oh, she had offended him, but how? ‘Wait, Spinnock Durav-’
‘It is all right,’ he said. ‘You have misread me. Well, perhaps not entirely. You spoke of your god showing you what was needed-something we Tiste Andii ever yearn for but will not ever achieve. Then you doubt yourself. Arrogance?
Abyss below, High Priestess. Is this how you feel when the Redeemer blesses you?’
Then she was alone in the chamber. Candle flames wavering in the wake of Spinnock Durav’s departure, the agitated light making the figures writhe on the walls.
Still the mother stood, turned away.
Salind felt a twist of anger. Bless your children, Mother Dark. They have suffered long enough. I say this in gratitude to your own priestesses, who have given me back my life. I say it in the name of redemption. Bless your children, woman.
The candles settled once more, flames standing tall, immune to Salind’s meek agitations. Nowhere in this room was there darkness and that, she realized, was answer enough.
The old blood splashed on the walls was black, eager to swallow the lantern’s light. Dust still trickled down from stress fractures in the canted ceiling, reminding Seerdomin that half a mountain stood above him. The keep’s upper levels were crushed, collapsed, yet still settling even after all this time. Perhaps, some time soon, these lower tunnels would give away, and the massive ruin atop the hollowed-out cliff would simply tilt and slide into the sea.
In the meantime, there were these unlit, wending/buckled corridors, a chaotic maze where no one belonged, and yet boot prints tracked the thick, gritty dust. Looters? Perhaps, although Seerdomin well knew there was little to be found in these lower levels. He had walked these routes many times, doing what he could for the various prisoners of the Pannion Seer, though it was never enough-no, never enough.
If there was a curse, a most vicious kind of curse, whereby a decent person found him or herself in inescapable servitude to a creature of pure, unmitigated evil, then Seerdomin had lived it. Decency was not exculpable. Honour pur-chased no abeyance on crimes against humanity. And as for duty, well, it increasingly seemed the sole excuse of the morally despicable. He would offer up none of these in defence of the things he had done at his master’s behest. Nor would he speak of duress, of the understandable desire to stay alive under the threat of deadly coercion. None of these was sufficient. When undeniable crimes had been committed, justification was the act of a coward. And it was our cowardice that permitted such crimes in the first place. No tyrant could thrive where every subject said no. The tyrant thrives when the first fucking fool salutes.
He well understood that many people delighted in such societies-there had been fellow Seerdomin, most of them in fact, who revelled in the fear and the obedience that fear commanded. And this was what had led him here, trailing an old palace retainer of the Seer who had made his furtive way into the ruins of the old keep. No, not a looter. A sordid conspiracy was afoot, Seerdomin was certain of that. Survivors of one nightmare seeking to nurture yet another. That man would not be alone once he reached his destination.
He closed the shutter to the lantern once more and continued on.
Malazan soldiers had died here, along with the Pannion’s own. Seguleh had carved through the ranks of palace guard. Seerdomin could almost hear the echoes of that slaughter, the cries of the dying, the desperate pleading against cruel mischance, the stinging clash of weapons. He came to a set of steps leading down. Rubble had been cleared away. From somewhere below came the murmur of voices.
They had set no guard, proof of their confidence, and as he stealthily descended he could make out the glow of lanterns emanating from the cell down below.
This chamber had once been home to the one called Toc the Younger. Chained against one wall, well within reach of the Seer’s monstrous mother. Seerdomin’s paltry gifts of mercy had probably stung like droplets of acid on the poor man. Better to have left him to go entirely mad, escaping into that oblivious world where everything was so thoroughly broken that repair was impossible. He could still smell the reek of the K’Chain matron.
The voices were becoming distinguishable-three, maybe four conspirators. He could hear the excitement, the sweet glee, along with the usual self-importance, the songs of those who played games with lives-it was the same the world over, in every history, ever the same.
He had crushed down his outrage so long ago, it was a struggle to stir it into life once more, but he would need it. Sizzling, yet hard, controlled, peremptory. Three steps from the floor, still in darkness, he slowly drew out his tulwar. It did not matter what they were discussing. It did not even matter if their plans were pathetic, doomed to fail. It was the very act that awakened in Seerdomin the heart of murder, so that it now drummed through him, thunderous with contempt and disgust, ready to do what was needed.
When he first stepped into the chamber, none of the four seated at the table even noticed, permitting him to take another stride, close enough to send his broad-bladed weapon through the first face that lifted towards him, cutting it in half. His return attack was a looping backswing, chopping through the neck of the man to the right, who, in lurching upright, seemed to offer his throat to that slashing edge like a willing sacrifice. As his head tumbled away, the body stumbling as it backed over the chair, Seerdomin grasped one edge of the table and flipped it into the air, hammering it into the man on the left, who fell beneath the table’s weight. Leaving one man directly opposite Seerdomin.
Pleading eyes, a hand scrabbling at the ornate dagger at the belt, backing away-
Not nearly fast enough, as Seerdomin moved forward and swung his heavy tul-war down, cutting through the upraised forearms and carving into the man’s upper chest, through clavicle and down one side of the sternum. The edge jammed at the. fourth rib, forcing Seerdomin to kick the corpse loose. He then turned to the last conspirator.
The old palace retainer. Spittle on his lips, the reek of urine rising like steam, ‘No, please-’
‘Do you know me, Hegest?’
A quick nod. ‘A man of honour-what you have done here-’
‘Defies what you would expect of an honourable man, and it is that very expectation that frees you to scheme and plot. Alas, Hegest, your expectation was wrong. Fatally so. Black Coral is at peace, for the first time in decades-freed of terror. And yet you chafe, dreaming no doubt of your old station, of all the excesses you were privileged to possess.’
‘I throw myself upon the mercy of the Son of Darkness-’
‘You can’t throw yourself that far, Hegest. I am going to kill you, here, now. I can do it quick, or slow. If you answer my questions, I will grant you the mercy you have never spared others. If you refuse, I will do to you as you have done to many, many victims-and yes, I well remember. Which fate will it be, Hegest?’
‘I will tell you everything, Seerdomin. In exchange for my life.’
‘Your life is not the coin of this deal.’
The man began weeping.
‘Enough of that,’ Seerdomin growled. ‘Today, I am as you once were, Hegest. Tell me, did the tears of your victims soften your heart? No, not once. So wipe your face. And give me your answer.’
And so the man did, and Seerdomin began asking his questions.
Later, and true to his word, Seerdomin showed mercy, in so far as that word meant anything when taking someone else’s life, and he well knew it didn’t mean much. He cleaned his weapon on Hegest’s cloak.
Was he any different, then, from these fools? There were countless avenues he could take that would lead him to assert otherwise, each one tortured and malign with deceit. Without doubt, he told himself as he made his way out, what he had done ended something, whereas what these fools had been planning was the beginning of something else, something foul and sure to spill innocent blood. By this measure, his crime was far the lesser of the two. So why, then, did his soul feel stained, damaged?
Cogent reasoning could lead a man, step by logical step, into horror. He now carried with him a list of names, the sordid details of a scheme to drive out the Tiste Andii, and while he knew it was destined to fail, to leave it free was to invite chaos and misery. And so he would have to kill again. Quietly, revealing nothing to anyone, for this was an act of shame. For his kind, for humans and their stupid, vicious inclinations. Yet he did not want to be the hand of justice, for that hand was ever bloody and often indiscriminate, prone to excesses of all sorts.
The cruellest detail among all that he had learned this night was that this web of conspiracy reached out to the pilgrim camp. Hegest had not known who the players were out there, but it was clear that they were important, perhaps even essential. Seerdomin would have to go back to the camp and the very thought sickened him.
Salind, the High Priestess, was she one of the conspirators? Was this act of usurpation at its heart a religious one? It would not be the first time that a religion or cult ignited with the fires of self-righteous certainty and puritanical zeal, leading to ghastly conflict, and had he not heard-more than once-the bold assertion that the Son of Darkness held no claim upon the region outside Night? An absurd notion, yes, an indefensible one, the very kind fanatics converged upon, clenched fists held high in the air.
He had, for a time, nurtured the belief that he was not unique in his appreciation for the rule of the Tiste Andii, and his respect for the wisdom displayed again and again by the Son of Darkness. The gift of peace and stability, the sure, unambiguous rules of law imposed by a people whose own civilization spanned tens of thousands of years-even longer if the rumours were at all accurate. How could any human begrudge this gift?
Many did, it was now clear. The notion of freedom could make even peace and order seem oppressive, generate the suspicion of some hidden purpose, some vast deceit, some unspecified crime being perpetrated beyond human ken. That was a generous way of looking at it; the alternative was to acknowledge that humans were intrinsically conflicted, cursed with acquisitive addictions of the spirit.
He reached the steep ramp leading to the well-hidden entrance to the tunnels, rats skittering from his path, and emerged into the warmer, drier air of Night. Yes, he. would have to go to the pilgrim camp, but not now. This would demand some planning. Besides, if he could excise the cancer in the city, then the conspirators out there would find themselves isolated, helpless and incapable of achieving anything. He could then deal with them at his leisure.
Yes, that was a better course. Reasonable and methodical, as justice should be. He was not deliberately avoiding such a journey.
Satisfied with these arguments, Seerdomin set out to begin his night of slaughter, and here, in this city, night was without end.
The rats watched him set off. They could smell the blood on him, and more than one had been witness to the slaughter far below, and certain of these now ambled away from the ruin, heading for the world of daylight beyond the shroud.
Summoned, yes, by their master, the one known as Monkrat, an amusing enough name, implicitly contemptuous and derisive. What none of the man’s associates truly understood was the truth underlying that name. Monkrat, yes. The Monk of Rats, priest and wizard, conjuror and binder of spirits. Laugh and snicker if you like… at your peril. The liberation had found an enemy, and something would have to be done about that.
The city of Bastion crouched above the vast dying lake, its stolid, squat walls black-ened and. streaked with some kind of oil. The shanties and hovels surrounding the wall had been burned and then razed, the charred wreckage strewn down the slope leading to the cobbled road. Smoke hung above the battlements, thick and surly.
Cradling his battered hands-the reins looped loose about them-Nimander squinted up at the city and its yawning gates. No guards in sight, not a single figure on the walls. Except for the smoke the city looked lifeless, abandoned.
Riding at his side in the front of their modest column, Skintick said, ‘A name like “Bastion” invites images of ferocious defenders, bristling with all manner of weapons, suspicious of every foreigner climbing towards the gates. So,’ he added with a sigh, ‘we must be witness here to the blessed indolence of Saemankelyk, the Dying God’s sweet blood.’
Memories of his time in the company of the giant mason still haunted Nimander. It seemed he was cursed with occurrences devoid of resolution, every life crossing his path leaving a swirling wake of mysteries in which he flailed about, half drowning. The Jaghut, Gothos, only worsened matters, a creature of vast antiquity seeking to make use of them, somehow, for reasons he had been too uninterested to explain.
Since we failed him.
The smell of rotting salt filled the air and they could see the bleached flats stretching out from the old shoreline, stilted docks high and dry above struggling weeds, fisher boats lying on their sides farther out. Off to their left, inland, farmsteads were visible amidst rows of scarecrows, but it looked as if there was nothing still living out there-the plants were black and withered, the hundreds of wrapped figures motionless.
They drew closer to the archway, and still there was no one in sight.
‘We’re being watched,’ Skintick said.
Nimander nodded. He felt the same. Hidden eyes, avid eyes.
‘As if we’ve done just what they wanted,’ Skintick went on, his voice low, ‘by delivering Clip, straight to their damned Abject Temple.’
That was certainly possible. ‘I have no intention of surrendering him-you know that.’
‘So we prepare to wage war against an entire city? A fanatic priesthood and a god?’
‘Yes.’
Grinning, Skintick loosened the sword at his side.
Nimander frowned at him. ‘Cousin, I don’t recall you possessing such blood-lust.’
‘Oh, I am as reluctant as you, Nimander. But I feel we’ve been pushed long enough. It’s time to push back, that’s all. Still, that damage to your hands worries me.’’Aranathn did what she could I will he fine.’ He did not explain how the wounding felt more spiritual than physical. Aranatha had indeed healed the crushed bones, the mangled flesh. Yet he still cradled them as if crippled, and in his dreams at night he found himself trapped in memories of that heavy block of obsidian sliding over his fingertips, the pain, the spurting blood-and he’d awaken slick with sweat, hands throbbing.
The very same hands that had strangled Phaed-almost taking her life. The pain felt like punishment, and now, in the city before them, he believed that once more they would know violence, delivering death with terrible grace.
They reined in before the gate’s archway. Sigils crowded the wooden doors, painted in the same thick, black dye that marred the walls to either side.
Nenanda spoke from the wagon’s bench. ‘What are we waiting for? Nimander? Let’s get this over with.’
Skintick twisted in the saddle and said, ‘Patience, brother. We’re waiting for the official welcoming party. The killing will have to come later.’
Kallor climbed down from the back of the wagon and walked up to the gate. ‘I hear singing,’ he said.
Nimander nodded. The voices were distant, reaching them in faint waves rippling out from the city’s heart. There were no other sounds, as one would expect from a crowded, thriving settlement. And through the archway he could see naught but empty streets and the dull faces of blockish buildings, shutters closed on every window.
Kallor had continued on, into the shadow of the gate and then out to the wide street beyond, where he paused, his gaze fixed on something to his left.
‘So much for the welcoming party,’ Skintick said, sighing. ‘Shall we enter, Ni-mander?’
From behind them came Aranatha’s melodic voice. ‘Be warned, cousins. This entire city is the Abject Temple.’
Nimander and Skintick both turned at that. ‘Mother bless us,’ Skintick whispered.
‘What effect will that have on us?’ Nimander asked her. ‘Will it be the same as in the village that night?’
‘No, nothing like that has awakened yet.’ Then she shook her head. ‘But it will come.’
‘And can you defend us?’Nenanda asked. ‘We will see.’
Skintick hissed under his breath and then said, ‘Now that’s reassuring.’
‘Never mind,’ Nimander replied. Wincing, he tightened his grip on the reins and with a slight pressure of his legs he guided his horse into the city. The others lurched into motion behind him.
Coming to Kallor’s side Nimander followed the old man’s gaze down the side street and saw what had so captured his attention. The ruin of an enormous mechanism filled the street a hundred paces down. It seemed to have come from the sky, or toppled down from the roof of the building nearest the outer wall-taking most of the facing wall with it. Twisted iron filled its gaping belly, whereflattened, riveted sheets had been torn away. Smaller pieces of the machine littered the cobbles, like fragments of armour, the iron strangely blue, almost gleaming,
‘What in the Abyss is that?’ Skintick asked.
‘Looks K’Chain Che’Mallc,’ Kallor said. ‘But they would offer up no gods, dy-ing or otherwise. Now I am curious,’ and so saying he bared his teeth in a smile not directed at anyone present-which was, Nimander decided, a good thing.
‘Aranatha says the entire city is sanctified.’
Kallor glanced over. ‘I once attempted that for an entire empire.’
Skintick snorted. ‘With you as the focus of worship?’
‘Of course.’
‘And it failed?’
Kallor shrugged. ‘Everything fails, eventually.’ And he set out for a closer examination of the ruined machine.
‘Even conversation,’ muttered Skintick. ‘Should we follow him?’
Nimander shook his head. ‘Leave him. If the city is a temple, then there must be an altar-presumably somewhere in the middle.’
‘Nimander, we could well be doing everything they want us to do, especially by bringing Clip to that altar. I think we should find an inn, somewhere to rest up. We can then reconnoitre and see what awaits us.’
He thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Good idea. Lead the way, Skin, see what you can find.’
They continued on down the main street leading from the gate. The tenements looked lifeless, the shops on the ground level empty, abandoned. Glyphs covered every wall and door, spread out from every shuttered window to as far as a hand could reach if someone was leaning out. The writing seemed to record a frenzy of revelation, or madness, or both.
A half-dozen buildings along, Skintick found an inn, closed up like everything else, but he dismounted and approached the courtyard gates. A push swung them wide and Skintick looked back with a smile.
The wagon’s hubs squealed in well-worn grooves in the frame of the gate as Nenanda guided it in. The compound beyond was barely large enough to accommodate a single carriage on its circular lane that went past, first, the stables, and then the front three-stepped entrance to the hostelry. A partly subterranean doorway to the left of the main doors probably led into the taproom. In the centre of the round was a stone-lined well-stuffed solid with bloating corpses.
Skintick’s smile faded upon seeing this detail. Dead maggots ringed the well. ‘Let’s hope,’ he said to Nimander, ‘there’s another pump inside… drawing from a different source.’
Nenanda had set the brake and he now dropped down, eyeing the bodies. ‘Pre-vious guests?’
‘It’s what happens when you don’t pay up.’
Nimander dismounted and shot Skintick a warning look, but his cousin did not notice-or chose not to, for he then continued, ‘Or all the beds were taken. Or some prohibition against drinking anything but kelyk-it clearly doesn’t pay to complain.’’Enough,’ said Nimander. ‘Nenanda, can you check the stables-see if there’s feed and clean water. Skintick, let’s you and I head inside.’
A spacious, well-furnished foyer greeted them, with a booth immediately to the right, bridged by a polished counter. The narrow panel door set in its back wall was shut. To the left was a two-sided cloakroom and beside that the sunken entranceway into the taproom. A corridor was directly ahead, leading to rooms, and a steep staircase climbed to the next level where, presumably, more rooms could be found. Heaped on the floor at the foot of the stairs was bedding, most of it rather darkly stained.
‘They stripped the rooms,’ observed Skintick. ‘That was considerate.’
‘You suspect they’ve prepared this place for us?’
‘With bodies in the well and ichor-stained sheets? Probably. It’s reasonable that we would stay on the main street leading in, and this was the first inn we’d reach.’ He paused, looking round. ‘Obviously, there are many ways of readying for guests. Who can fathom human cultures, anyway?’
Outside, Nenanda and the others were unpacking the wagon.
Nimander walked to the taproom entrance and ducked to look inside. Dark, the air thick with the pungent, bittersweet scent of kelyk. He could hear Skintick making his way up the stairs, decided to leave him to it. One step down, on to the sawdust floor. The tables and chairs had all been pushed to one side in a haphazard pile. In the open space left behind the floor was thick with stains and coagulated clumps that reminded Nimander of dung in a stall. Not dung, however he knew that.
He explored behind the bar and found rows of dusty clay bottles and jugs, wine and ale. The beakers that had contained kelyk were scattered on the floor, some of them broken, others still weeping dark fluid.
The outer door swung open and Nenanda stepped inside, one hand on the grip of his sword. A quick look round, then he met Nimander’s gaze and shrugged. ‘Was you I heard, I guess.’
‘The stables?’
‘Well enough supplied, for a few days at least. There’s a hand pump and spout over the troughs. The water smelled sour but otherwise fine-the horses didn’t hesitate, at any rate.’ He strode in. ‘I think those bodies in the well, Nimander-dead of too much kelyk. I suspect that well was in fact dry. They just used to it dump the ones that died, as they died.’
Nimander walked back to the doorway leading into the foyer.
Desra and Kedeviss had carried Clip inside, setting him on the floor. Skintick was on the stairs, a few steps up from the mound of soiled bedding. He was leaning on one rail, watching as the two women attended to Clip. Seeing Nimander, he said, ‘Nothing but cockroaches and bedbugs in the rooms. Still, I don’t think we should use them-there’s an odd smell up there, not at all pleasant.’
‘This room should do,’ Nimander said as he went over to look down at Clip. ‘Any change?’ he asked.
Desra glanced up. ‘No. The same slight fever, the same shallow breathing.’
Aranatha entered, looked round, then went to the booth, lifted the hingedcounter and stepped through.She tried the latch on the panel door and when it opened, she disappeared into the back room.
A grunt from Skintick. ‘In need of the water closet?’
Nimander rubbed at his face, flexed his fingers to ease the ache, and then,.in Nenanda arrived, he said, ‘Skintick and I will head out now. The rest of you,,, well, we could run into trouble at any time. And if we do one of us will try to get back here-’
‘If you run into trouble,’ Aranatha said from the booth, ‘we will know it.’ Oh? How? ‘All right. We shouldn’t be long.’
They had brought all their gear into the room and Nimander now watched as first Desra and then the other women began unpacking their weapons, their fine chain hauberks and mail gauntlets. He watched as they readied for battle, and said nothing as anguish filled him. None of this was right. It had never been right. And he could do nothing about it.
Skintick edged his way round the bedding and, with a tug on Nimander’s arm, led him back outside. ‘They will be all right,’ he said. ‘It’s us I’m worried about.’
‘Us? Why?’
Skintick only smiled.
They passed through the gate and came out on to the main street once more. The mid-afternoon heat made the air sluggish, enervating. The faint singing seemed to invite them into the city’s heart. An exchanged glance; then, with a shrug from Skintick, they set out.
‘That machine.’
‘What about it, Skin?’
‘Where do you think it came from? It looked as if it just… appeared, just above one of the buildings, and then dropped, smashing everything in its path, ending with itself. Do you recall those old pumps, the ones beneath Dreth Street in Malaz City? Withal found them in those tunnels he explored? Well, he took us on a tour-’
‘I remember, Skin.’
‘I’m reminded of those machines-all the gears and rods, the way the metal components all meshed so cleverly, ingeniously-I cannot imagine the mind that could think up such constructs.’
‘What is all this about, Skin?’
‘Nothing much. I just wonder if that thing is somehow connected with the arrival of the Dying God.’
‘Connected how?’
‘What if it was like a skykeep? A smaller version, obviously. What if the Dying God was inside it? Some accident brought it down, the locals pulled him out. What if that machine was a kind of throne?’
Nimander thought about that. A curious idea. Andarist had once explained that skykeeps-such as the one Anomander Rake claimed as his own-were not a creation of sorcery, and indeed the floating fortresses were held aloft through arcane manipulations of technology. K’Chain Clic’Mallc, Kallor had said. Clearly, he had made the same connec-ion as had Skintick.
‘Why would a god need a machine?’ Nimander asked. ‘How should I know? Anyway, it’s broken now.’
They came to a broad intersection. Public buildings commanded each corner, the architecture peculiarly utilitarian, as if the culture that had bred it was singularly devoid of creative flair. Glyphs made a mad scrawl on otherwise unadorned walls, some of the symbols now striking Nimander as resembling that destroyed mechanism.
The main thoroughfare continued on another two hundred paces, they could see, opening out on to an expansive round. At the far end rose the most imposing structure they had seen yet.
‘There it is,’ Skintick said. ‘The Abject… altar. It’s where the singing is coming from, I think.’
Nimander nodded.
‘Should we take a closer look?’
He nodded again. ‘Until something happens.’
‘Does being attacked by a raving mob count?’ Skintick asked.
Figures were racing into the round, naked but with weapons in their hands that they waved about over their heads, their song suddenly ferocious, as they began marching towards the two Tiste Andii.
‘Here was I thinking we were going to be left alone,’ Nimander said. ‘If we run, we’ll just lead them back to the inn.’
‘True, but holding the gate should be manageable, two of us at a time, spelling each other.’
Nimander was the first to hear a sound behind him and he spun round, sword hissing from the scabbard. Kallor.
The old warrior walked towards them. ‘You kicked them awake,’ he said.
‘We were sightseeing,’ said Skintick, ‘and though this place is miserable we kept our opinions to ourselves. In any case, we were just discussing what to do now.’
‘You could stand and fight.’
‘We could,’ agreed Nimander, glancing back at the mob. Now fifty paces away and closing fast. ‘Or we could beat a retreat.’
‘They’re brave right now,’ Kallor observed, stepping past and drawing his two-handed sword. As he walked he looped the plain, battered weapon over his head, a few passes, as if loosening up his shoulders. Suddenly he did not seem very old at all.
Skintick asked, ‘Should we help him?’
‘Did he ask for help, Skin?’
‘No, you’re right, he didn’t.’
They watched as Kallor marched directly into the face of the mob.
And all at once that mob blew apart, people scattering, crowding out to the skies as the singing broke up into walls of dlsmay Kallor hesitated for but a mo ment, before resuming his march. In the center of a corridor now that had opened up to let him pass.
‘He just wants to see that altar,’ Skintick said, ‘and he’s not the one they’re bothered with. Too bad,’ he added, ’it might have been interesting to see the old badger fight.’
‘Let’s head back,’ Nimander said, ‘while they’re distracted.’
‘If they let us.’
They turned and set off at an even, unhurried pace. After a dozen or so strides Skintick half turned. He grunted, then said, ‘They’ve left us to it. Nimander, the message seems clear. To get to that altar, we will have to go through them.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Things will get messy yet.’ Yes, they would.
‘So, do you think Kallor and the Dying God will have a nice conversation? Observations on the weather. Reminiscing on the old tyrannical days when everything was all fun and games. Back when the blood was redder, its taste sweeter. Do you think?’
Nimander said nothing, thinking instead of those faces in that mob, the black stains smeared round their mouths, the pits of their eyes. Clothed in rags, caked with filth, few children among them, as if the kelyk made them all equal, regardless of age, regardless of any sort of readiness to manage the world and the demands of living. They drank and they starved and the present was the future, until death stole away that future. A simple trajectory. No worries, no ambitions, no dreams.
Would any of that make killing them easier? No. ‘I do not want to do this,’ Nimander said. ‘No,’ Skintick agreed. ‘But what of Clip?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘This kelyk is worse than a plague, because its victims invite it into their lives, and then are indifferent to their own suffering. It forces the question-have we any right to seek to put an end to it, to destroy it?’
‘Maybe not,’ Nimander conceded.
‘But there is another issue, and that is mercy.’
He shot his cousin a hard look. ‘We kill them all for their own good? Abyss take us, Skin-’
‘Not them-of course not. I was thinking of the Dying God.’
Ah… well. Yes, he could see how that would work, how it could, in fact, make this palatable. If they could get to the Dying God without the need to slaughter hundreds of worshippers. ‘Thank you, Skin.’
‘For what?’
‘We will sneak past them.’
‘Carrying Clip?’
‘Yes.’
‘That won’t be easy-it might be impossible, in fact. If this city is the temple, and the power of the Dying God grants gilts to the priests, then they will sense our approach no matter what we do.’
‘We are children of Darkness, Skintick. Let us see if that still means some-thing.’
Desra pulled her hand from Clip’s brow. ‘I was wrong. He’s getting worse.’ And she straightened and looked across to Aranatha. ‘How are they?’ A languid blink. ‘Coming back, unharmed.’
Something was wrong with Aranatha. Too calm, too… empty. Desra always considered her sister to be vapid-oh, she wielded a sword with consummate elegance, as cold a killer as the rest of them when necessity so demanded-but there was a kind of pervasive disengagement in Aranatha. Often descending upon her in the midst of calamity and chaos, as if the world in its bolder mayhem could bludgeon her senseless.
Making her unreliable as far as Desra was concerned. She studied Aranatha for a moment longer, their eyes meeting, and when her sister smiled Desra answered with a scowl and turned to Nenanda. ‘Did you find anything to eat in the tap-room? Or drink?’
The warrior was standing by the front door, which he held open with one hand. At Desra’s questions he glanced back. ‘Plenty, as if they’d just leftor maybe it was a delivery, like the kind we got on the road.’
‘Someone must be growing proper food, then,’ said Kedeviss. ‘Or arranging its purchase from other towns and the like.’
‘They’ve gone to a lot of trouble for us,’ Nenanda observed. ‘And that makes me uneasy.’
‘Clip is dying, Aranatha,’ Desra said.
‘Yes.’
‘They’re back,’ Nenanda announced.
‘Nimander will know what to do,’ Desra pronounced.
‘Yes,’ said Aranatha.
She circled once, high above the city, and even her preternatural sight struggled against the eternal darkness below. Kurald Galain was a most alien warren, even in this diffused, weakened state. Passing directly over the slumbering mass of Silanah, Crone cackled out an ironic greeting. Of course there was no visible response from the crimson dragon, yet the Great Raven well knew that Silanah sensed her wheeling overhead. And no doubt permitted, in a flash of imagery, the vision of jaws snapping, bones and feathers crunching as delicious fluids spurted-Crone cackled again, louder this time, and was rewarded with a twitch of that long, serpentine tail.
She slid on to an updraught from the cliff’s edge, then angled down through it on a steep dive towards the low-walled balcony of the keep.
He stood alone, something she had come to expect of late. The Son of Darkness was dosing in, like an onyx flower as the bells of midnight rang on, chime by chime to the twelfth and last, and then there would be naught but echoes, until even these faded, leaving silence. She crooked her wings to slow her plummet, the keep still rushing up to meet her. A flurry of beating wings and she settled atop the stone wall, talons crunching into the granite.
‘And does the view ever change?’ Crone asked.
Anomander Rake looked down, regarded her for a time.
She opened her beak to laugh in silence for a few heartbeats. ‘The Tiste Andii are not a people prone to sudden attacks of joy, are they? Dancing into darkness? The wild cheerful cavort into the future? Do you imagine that our flight from his rotting flesh was not one of rapturous glee? Pleasure at being born, delight at being alive? Oh, I have run Out of questions for you-it is indeed now a sad time.’
‘Does Baruk understand, Crone?’
‘He does. More or less. Perhaps. We’ll see.’
‘Something is happening to the south.’
She bobbed her head in agreement. ‘Something, oh yes, something all right. Are the priestesses in a wild orgy yet? The plunge that answers everything! Or, rather, postpones the need for answers for a time, a time of corresponding bliss, no doubt. But then… reality returns. Damn reality, damn it to the Abyss! Time for another plunge!’
‘Travel has soured your mood, Crone.’
‘It is not in my nature to grieve. I despise it, in fact. I rail against it! My sphincter explodes upon it! And yet, what is it you force upon me, your old companion, your beloved servant?’
‘I have no such intention,’ he replied. ‘Clearly, you fear the worst. Tell me, what have your kin seen?’
‘Oh, they are scattered about, here and there, ever high above the petty machinations of the surface crawlers. We watch as they crawl this way and that. We watch, we laugh, we sing their tales to our sisters, our brothers.’
‘And?’
She ducked her head, fixed one eye upon the tumultuous black seas below. ‘This darkness of yours, Master, breeds fierce storms.’
‘So it does.’
‘I will fly high above the twisting clouds, into air clear and cold.’
‘And so you shall, Crone, so you shall.’
‘I dislike it when you are generous, Master. When that soft regard steals into your eyes. It is not for you to reveal compassion. Stand here, yes, unseen, unknowable, that I might hold this in my mind. Let me think of the ice of true justice, the kind that never shatters-listen, I hear the bells below! How sure that music, how true the cry of iron.’
‘You are most poetic this day, Crone.’
‘It is how Great Ravens rail at grief, Master. Now, what would you have me do?’
‘Endest Silann is at the deep river.’
‘Hardly alone, I should think.’’He must return.’
She was silent for a moment, head cocked. Then she said, ‘Ten bells have sounded.’
‘Ten.’
‘I shall be on my way, then.’
‘Fly true, Crone.’
‘I pray you tell your beloved the same, Master, when the time is nigh.’ He smiled. ‘There is no need for that.’Who are you to judge whether she is old or young, and if she is lifting the bucket or lowering it down into this well? And is she pretty or plain as undyed linen, is she a sail riding the summer wind bright as a maiden’s eye above waves of blue? Does her walk sway in pleasure and promise of bracing dreams as if the earth could sing fertile as joyous butterflies in a flowered field, or has this saddle stretched slack in cascades of ripe fruit and rides no more through blossomed orchards? Who then are you to cage in presumptuous iron the very mystery that calls us to life where hovers the brimming bucket, ever poised between dark depths and choral sunlight-she is beauty and this too is a criminal exhortation, and nothing worthwhile is to be found in your regard that does little more than stretch this frayed rope-so shame! Dismissal delivers vicious wounds and she walks away or walks to with inner cringing. Dare not speak of fairness, dare not indulge cruel judgement when here I sit watching and all the calculations between blinks invite the multitude to heavy scorn and see that dwindling sail passing for ever beyond you as is her privilege there on the sea of flowers all sweet fragrance swirling in her wake-it will never ever reach you-and this is balance, this is measure, this is the observance of strangers who hide their tears when turning away.
Young Men Against a Wall Nekath of Onl Eye CatNo purer artist exists or has ever existed than a child freed to imagine. This scattering of sticks in the dust, that any adult might kick through without a moment’s thought, is in truth the bones of a vast world, clothed, fleshed, a fortress, a forest, a great wall against which terrible hordes surge and are thrown back by a handful of grim heroes. A nest for dragons, and these shiny smooth pebbles are their eggs, each one home to a furious, glorious future. No creation was ever raised as fulfilled, as brimming, as joyously triumphant, and all the machinations and manipulations of adults are the ghostly recollections of childhood and its wonders, the awkward mating to cogent function, reasonable purpose; and each facade has a tale to recount, a legend to behold in stylized propriety. Statues in alcoves fix sombre expressions, indifferent to every passer-by. Regimentation rules these creaking, stiff minds so settled in habit and fear.
To drive children into labour is to slaughter artists, to scour deathly all wonder, the flickering dart of imagination eager as finches flitting from branch to branch-all crushed to serve grown-up needs and heartless expectations. The adult who demands such a thing is dead inside, devoid of nostalgia’s bright dancing colours, so smooth, so delicious, so replete with longing both sweet and bitter-dead inside, yes, and dead outside, too. Corpses in motion, cold with the resentment the undead bear towards all things still alive, all things still warm, still breathing.
Pity these ones? Nay, never, never so long as they drive on hordes of children into grisly labour, then sup languid of air upon the myriad rewards.
Dare this round self descend into hard judgement? This round self does dare! A world built of a handful of sticks can start tears in the eyes, as the artist on hands and knees sings a score of wordless songs, speaks in a hundred voices, and moves unseen figures across the vast panorama of the mind’s canvas (pausing but once to wipe nose on sleeve). He does so dare this! And would hasten the demise of such cruel abuse.
Even a serpent has grandiose designs, yet must slither in minute increments, struggling for distances a giant or god would scorn. Tongue flicking for the scent, this way and that. Salvation is the succulent fruit at hunt’s end, the sun-warmed bird’s egg, the soft cuddly rat trapped in the jaws.
So searches the serpent, friend to the righteous. So slides the eel through the world’s stirred muck, whiskers a-probing. Soon, one hopes, soon!
Young Harllo was not thinking of justice, nor of righteous freedom, nor was he idly fashioning glittering worlds from the glistening veins of raw iron, or the flecks of gold in the midst of cold, sharp quartzite. He had no time to kneel in some over-grown city garden building tiny forts and reed bridges over run-off tracks left by yesterday’s downpour. No, for Harllo childhood was over. Aged six.
At this moment, then, he was lying on a shelf of hard, black stone, devoured by darkness. He could barely hear the workers far above, although rocks bouncedtheir way clown the crevasse every now and then, echoing with harsh harks from the floor far below.
The last time here he had dangled from a rope, and there had been no careless ram of stones-any one of which could crush his skull. And on his descent hack then, his outstretched arms had encountered no walls, leading him to believe the crevasse was vast, opening out perhaps into a cavern. This time, of course, there was no rope-Harllo should not even be here and would probably be switched once he was found out.
Bainisk had sent him back to Chuffs at shift’s end. And that was where he ought now to be, hurriedly devouring his bowl of watery soup and husk of black bread, before stumbling off to his cot. Instead, he was climbing down this wall, without light to ensure that he would not be discovered by those working above.
Not a cavern after all. Instead, a pocked, sheer cliff-face-and those gaping holes were all oddly regular, rectangular, although not until Harllo reached this balcony ledge did he comprehend that he was climbing down the face of some buried building. He wanted to slip into one of these windows and explore, but he had promised to deliver splints to the Bone Miner below, and that was what he would do.
Careful questioning had led him to a definition of “splints”, but he could not find sticks suitable for the purpose of fixing the Miner’s shattered legs. Either too feeble and small, or not straight enough; and besides, all the wood brought to the camp was too well guarded. Instead, he had gone to the tailings heaps, where all manner of garbage was thrown. Eyed suspiciously by the old women who’d sold children and grandchildren to the mine yet found they could not sever their ties-thus dooming themselves to this fringe-world at camp’s edge-Harllo had picked through the rubbish.
Often, and especially from the run-off tunnels pumped through layers of sandstone, miners would find piles of bones from long dead creatures. Bones heavy and solid and almost impossible to break. Skulls and the like were sold to collectors-scholars with squinty eyes and too much coin and time for their own good. The pieces already fractured off, broken up and forming a kind of gravel, went to the herbalists for their gardens and the mock-healers for potions and pastes-or so Bainisk called them, mock-healers, with a sneer-ground-up bone’s good only for constipation! This left the oversized long bones-which for some reason were believed to be cursed.
Out on the heaps he found two that seemed to have been from the same kind of beast. After some examination and comparison, he confirmed that he had a right one and a left one. They were heavy, thick and ridged, and he hoped they would do.
Between shifts at the main tunnel there was a half-bell when no one was under rock, and Harllo, sweating beneath the weight of the bones, hurriedly carried them in; then, finding an abandoned side-passage, he stashed them along with some lengths of rope and leather laces. That had been before his shift, and now here he was, trying to do what he had promised.
Those long leg bones were strapped to his back. His neck and shoulders wereraw from the ropes and more than once he had thought the swinging of the heavy hones would tug him away from the wall, but he had held on, this far at least. Ami now, lying on this balcony ledge, Harllo rested.
If someone went looking for him and didn’t find him, an alarm would be raised. Always two possibilities when someone went missing. Flight, or lost in the tunnels. Searches would set out in both directions, and some old woman would say how she saw him at the heaps, collecting bones and who knew what else. Then someone else would recall seeing Harllo carrying something back to the main tunnel mouth in between shifts-and Venaz would say that Harllo was clearly up to something, since he never came back for his meal. Something against the rules! Which would put Bainisk in a bad situation, since Bainisk had favoured him more than once. Oh, this was all a mistake!
Groaning, he slipped over the edge, cautious with his handholds, and resumed his journey down.
And, not two man-heights down from the balcony, his groping feet found another ledge, followed immediately by another-a staircase, angling steeply down the wall. One hand maintaining contact with the seamless stone, Harllo worked his way down, step by step.
He did not recall noticing any of this his first time down here. Of course, the candlelight had been feeble-which made easier catching the glitter of gold and the like-and he had gone straight back to the rope. And hadn’t his mind been awhirl? A talking Imass! Down here for maybe hundreds of years-with no one to talk to and nothing to look at, oh, how miserable that must have been.
So. He should not be resenting doing all this for the Bone Miner. A few switches to the back wasn’t much to pay for this mercy.
He reached the floor and paused. So dark! ‘Hello? It’s me! Dev’ad Anan Tol, can you hear me?’
‘I can. Follow, then, the sound of my voice. If such a.thing is possible-’
‘It is… I think. Scratch the rock you’re sitting on-I’ll feel that under my feet-’
‘That,’ said the Imass, ’is an impressive talent.’
‘I’m good when I can’t see. Vibrations, it’s called.’
‘Yes. Can you feel this then?’
‘I’m getting closer, yes. I think I can start a lantern here. Shuttered so it won’t spread out.’ He crouched down, the ends of the long bones thunking behind him, and untied the small tin lantern from his belt. ‘This one’s called a pusher. You can fix it on to a pole and push it ahead. If the wick dims fast then you know it’s bad air. Wait.’ A moment later and soft golden light slanted like a path, straight to where sat the Bone Miner. Harllo grinned. ‘See, I was almost there, wasn’t I?’
‘What is it that you carry, cub?’
‘Your splints. And rope and string.’
‘Let me see those… bones. Yes, give them to me-’ And he reached out skeletal hands to grasp the splints as soon as Harllo came close enough. A low grating gasp from the Imass, then soft muttering. ‘By the Shore of Jaghra Til, I had not thought to see… cub, my tools… for this. The gift is not in balance.’’I can try to find some better ones-’
‘No, child. The imbalance is the other way, These are emlava, a male, his hind long bones. True, they twist and cant. Still… yes… possible.’
‘Will they work as splints then?’
‘No.’
‘ Harllo sagged.
The Imass rumbled a low laugh. ‘Ah, cub. Not splints. No. Legs.’
‘So you can walk again? Oh, I’m glad!’
‘If indeed I was somehow caught in the Ritual of Tellann, yes, I think I can fashion… from these… why do you fret so, cub?’
‘I had to sneak down here. If they find out I’m missing…’
‘What will happen?’
‘I might be beaten-not so much as to make me useless. It won’t be so bad.’
‘You should go, then, quickly.’
Harllo nodded, yet still he hesitated. ‘I found a building, a buried building. Was that where you lived?’
‘No. It was a mystery even to the Jaghut Tyrant. Countless empty rooms, windows looking out upon nothing-blank rock, pitted sandstone. Corridors leading nowhere-we explored most of it, I recall, and found nothing. Do not attempt the same, cub. It is very easy to get lost in there.’
‘I better go,’ said Harllo. ‘If I can come down here again-’
‘Not at risk of your hide. Soon, perhaps, I will come to you.’
Harllo thought of the consternation such an event would bring, and he smiled. A moment later he shuttered the lantern and set off for the stairs.
From sticks a fortress, a forest, a great wall. From sticks, a giant, rising up in the darkness, and to look into the pits of its eyes is to see twin tunnels into rock, reaching down and down, reaching back and back, to the very bones of the earth.
And so he rises, to look upon you-Harllo imagines this but none of it in quite this way. Such visions and their deadly promise belong to the adults of the world. To answer what’s been done. What’s been done.
And in the city every building wears a rictus grin, or so it might seem, when the stone, brick, plaster and wood breathe in the gloom of dusk, and the gas lanterns are yet to be set alight, and all the world is ebbing with shadows drawing together to take away all certainty. The city, this artifice of cliffs and caves, whispers of madness. Figures scurry for cover, rats and worse peer out curious and hungry, voices grow raucous in taverns and other fiery sanctuaries.
Is this the city of the day just past? No, it is transformed, mghtmare-tinged, into a netherworld so well suited to the two figures walking-with comfort and ease-towards the gate of an estate. Where stand two guards, nervous, moments from warning the strangers off-for the Lady of the House was in residence and she valued her privacy, yes, she did. Or so it must be assumed, and Scorch and Leff, having discussed the matter at length, were indeed convinced that, being a Lady, she valued all those things few others could afford, including… er, privacy. They held crossbows because who could say what might creep into view and besides, the heavy weapons were so comforting to cradle when clouds devoured the stars and the moon had forgotten to rise and the damned lanterns still weren’t lit. True enough, torches in sconces framed the arched gateway but this did little more than blind the two guards to the horrors lurking just beyond the pool of light.
Two such horrors drew closer. One was enormous, broad-shouldered and oddly short-legged, his hair shaggy as a yak’s. He was smiling-or, that is, his teeth gleamed and perhaps it was indeed a smile, perhaps not. His companion was almost as tall, but much thinner, almost skeletal. Bald, the high dome of his forehead bore a tattooed scene of some sort within an elaborate oval frame of threaded gold stitched through the skin. His teeth, also visible, were all capped in silver-tipped gold, like a row of fangs. He wore a cloak of threadbare linen so long it dragged behind him, while his looming companion was dressed like a court jester-bright greens, oranges and reds and yellows-and these were just the colours of his undersized vest. He wore a billowy blouse of sky-blue silk beneath the vest, the cuffs of the sleeves stiff and reaching halfway between wrist and elbow. A shimmering black kerchief encircled his ox-like neck. He wore vermilion pantaloons drawn tight just beneath the knees, and calf-high snug moccasins.
‘I think,’ muttered Scorch, ‘I’m going to be sick.’
‘Stop there!’ Leff barked. ‘State your business if you have any-but know this, the Mistress is seeing no one.’
‘Excellent!’ said the huge one in a thunderous voice. ‘There will be no delay then in her granting us audience. If you please, O orange-eyed one, do inform the Mistress that Lazan Door and Madrun have finally arrived, at her service.’
Leff sneered, but he was wishing that Torvald Nom hadn’t gone off for supper or a roll with his wife or whatever, so he could pass all this on to him and not have to worry about it any more. Standing here at the gate, yes, that was within his abilities. ‘Train your weapon on ’em, Scorch,’ he said. ‘I’ll go find the castel-lan.’
Scorch shot him a look of raw terror. ‘There’s two, Leff, but only one quarrel! Leave me yours.’
‘Fine, but I’d like to see you get two off with them only ten paces away. If they rushed you, why, you’d be lucky to get just one off.’
‘Still, it’ll make me feel better.’
‘Now now, gentlemen,’ the big one said, all too smoothly, ‘there’s no need for concern. I assure you, we are expected. Is this not the estate of Lady Varada? I do believe it is.’
‘Varada?’ hissed Scorch to Leff. ‘Is that her name?’
‘Shut it,’ Leff snapped under his breath. ‘You’re making us look like idiots!’ He carefully set his crossbow down and drew out the gate key. ‘Nobody move unless it’s to go away-not you, Scorch! Stay right there. I’ll be right back.’
After he slipped out of sight, closing and locking the gate behind him, Scorch faced the two strangers once more. He managed a smile. ‘Nice get-up, that,’ he said to the jester. ‘You a court clown or something? Sing us a song. How ‘bout ariddIe? I ain’t any good at riddles but i like hearing ’em and the way when I do my thinking, trying to figure ’em out, my whole brain |ust goes white, sorta. Can you juggle? I like juggling, tried it once, got up to two at a time-that took weeks, let me tell you. Weeks. Juggling demands discipline all right, and maybe it looks eas-ier to other people, but you and I know, well, just how talented you have to be to do it. Do you dance, too, or stand on your head-’
‘Sir,’ the giant cut in, ‘I am not a jester. Nor a juggler. Nor a riddler, nor singer, nor dancer.’
‘Oh. Colour-blind?’
‘Excuse, me?’
‘The guard,’ said the other man, the thin one, in a voice even thinner, ‘has misconstrued your attire, Madrun. Local fashion is characteristically mundane, unimaginative. Did you not so observe earlier?’
‘So I did. Of course. A clash of cultures-’
‘Just so!’ cried Scorch. ‘Your clothes, yes, a clash of cultures all right-good way of describing it. You a puppetmaster, maybe? I like puppet shows, the way they look so lifelike, even the ones with wrinkled apples for heads-’
‘Not a puppeteer, alas,’ cut in Madrun with a heavy sigh.
The gate creaked open behind Scorch and he turned to see Leff and Studlock step through. The castellan floated past and hovered directly in front of the two strangers.
‘Well, you two took your time!’
Madrun snorted. ‘You try digging your way out of a collapsed mountain, Studious. Damned earthquake came from nowhere-’
‘Not quite,’ said Studlock. ‘A certain hammer was involved. I admit, in the immediate aftermath I concluded that never again would I see your miser-your memorable faces. Imagine my surprise when I heard from a caravan merchant that-’
‘Such rumours,’ interjected the one Scorch rightly assumed was named Lazan Door, ‘whilst no doubt egregiously exaggerated and so potentially entertaining, can wait, yes? Dear Studious, who dreamed of never again seeing our pretty faces, you have a new Mistress, and she is in need of compound guards. And, as we are presently under-employed, why, destinies can prove seamless on occasion, can’t they?’
‘So they can, Lazan. Yes, compound guards. You see, we have gate guards already. And a captain as well, who is presently elsewhere. Now, if you two will follow me, we can meet the Mistress.’
‘Excellent,’ said Madrun,
Scorch and Leff moved well aside as the trio filed in through the gate. Leff then locked it and turned to Scorch.
‘We never got no audience with the Mistress!’
‘We been snubbed!’
Leff collected his crossbow again. ‘It’s because we’re on the lowest rung, that’s why. The lowest… again! And here we thought we were climbing! Sure, Tor didsome climbing, captain and all. But look at us-not even compound guards and we got here first!’
‘Well,’ said Scorch, ‘if we’d a known there was a difference-gate and compound we would’ve pushed for that, right? We was ill-informed-look at you, after all.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You got orange eyes, Leff!’
‘That was a different kind of ill-informed.’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘If you’re so smart, Scorch, you coulda asked about being compound guards!’
‘If it was just me, I would have!’
‘If it was just you, Studlock never would’ve hired you at all, except maybe to clean out the latrines!’
‘At least then I’d be inside the gate!’
Well, he had a point there. Leff sighed, stared out on the street. ‘Look, there’s the lantern crew.’
‘Let’s shoot ’em!’
‘Sure, if you want us to get fired, Scorch, is that what you want?’, ‘I was only joking, Leff.’
There were looks that killed, and then there were looks that conducted torture. Excoriating skin with incremental, exquisite slices that left blood welling to the surface. That plucked eyeballs and pulled until all the tendons stretched, upon which those long wet ligaments were knotted together so that both eyes sat on the bridge of the nose. Torture, yes, delivered in cold pleasure, in clinical regard.
It was hardly surprising, then, that Torvald Nom devoured his supper in haste, forgetting to chew, and so was now afflicted with terrible indigestion, struggling to keep from groaning as he helped Tiserra clean the plates and whatnot; and the ominous silence stretched on, even as she cast sidelong looks of blood-curdling excision all unconvincingly dressed up as companionable, loving glances.
It was time to return to the estate for the evening. These precious deadly moments of domestic tranquillity-fraught as all such moments were with all that was left unspoken, the topics unbidden yet ever lurking, the hidden pitfalls and explosive nuances or even more explosive lack thereof-why, they had to come, alas, to an end, as considerations of career and professional responsibility returned once more to the fore.
‘My sweet, I must leave you now.’
‘Oh, must you?’
‘Yes. Until midnight, but don’t feel the need to wait up.’ Tve had a busy day. Two new orders. I doubt I’ll be awake when you return, darling.’
‘I’ll try to be quiet.’
‘Of course you will.’
Perfunctory kiss,
Just so, the pleasant exchanges to conclude the repast just past, but of course such words were the flourishes of feint and cunning sleight of hand. Beneath the innocence, Torvald well understood, there was this: ‘My sweet, I will run not walk back to the estate now.’
‘Oh, your stomach is upset? Let’s hope you heave all over your two gate guards when you get there.’
‘Yes. And suddenly it’ll be midnight and like a doomed man I will count the steps to the gallows awaiting me at home. Pray to Beru and every other ascendant the world over that you’re asleep when I get here, or at least feigning sleep.’
‘I’ve had a busy day, husband, just thinking of all the things I’d like to do to you for breaking that promise. And when you get home, why, I’ll be dreaming dreadful scenes, each one adding to that pleasant smile on my slumbering visage.’
‘I shall attempt to sleep on no more than a hand’s span of bed, stiff as a planed board, not making a sound.’
‘Yes, you will. Darling.’
And the perfunctory kiss, smooch smooch.
Blue light painted the streets through which Torvald Nom now hurried along, blue light and black thoughts, a veritable bruising of dismay, and so the buildings to each side crowded, leaned in upon him, until he felt he was squirting-like an especially foul lump of excrement-through a sewer pipe. Terrible indeed, a wife’s disappointment and, mayhap, disgust.
The princely wages were without relevance. The flexible shifts could barely earn a begrudging nod. The sheer impressive legality of the thing yielded little more than a sour grunt. And even the fact that Torvald Nom now held the title of Captain of the House Guard, while Scorch and Leff were but underlings among a menagerie of underlings (yes, he had exaggerated somewhat), had but granted him a temporary abeyance of the shrill fury he clearly deserved-and it waited, oh, it waited. He knew it. She knew it. And he knew she was holding on to it, like a giant axe, poised above his acorn of a head.
Yes, he’d given up slavery for this.
Such was the power of love, the lure of domestic tranquillity and the fending off of lonely solitude. Would he have it any other way? Ask him later.
Onward, and there before him the estate’s modest but suitably maintained wall, and the formal gate entranceway, its twin torches flaring and flickering, enough to make the two shapes of his redoubtable underlings look almost… attentive.
Not that either of them was watching the street. Instead, it seemed they were arguing.
‘Stay sharp there, you two!’ Torvald Nom said in his most stentorian voice, undermined by the punctuation of a loud, gassy belch. ‘Gods, Tor’s drunk!’
‘I wish. Supper didn’t agree with me. Now, what’s your problem? I heard you two snapping and snarling from the other side of the street.’’We got two new compound guards,’ said Leff, ‘Compound guards? Oh, you mean guarding the compound-’
‘That’s what I said. What else do compound guards guard if not compounds? Captains should know that kind of stuff, Tor.’
‘And I do. It’s just the title confused me. Compound needs guarding, yes, since the likelihood of someone getting past you two is so… likely. Well. So, you’ve met them? What are they like?’
‘They’re friends of Studlock-who they call Studious,’ said Scorch, his eyes widening briefly before he looked away and squinted. ‘Old friends, from under some mountain.’
‘Oh,’ said Torvald Nom. ‘That collapsed,’ Scorch added.
‘The friendship? Oh, the mountain, you mean. It collapsed.’ Leff stepped closer and sniffed. ‘You sure you’re not drunk, Tor?’
‘Of course I’m not drunk! Scorch is talking a lot of rubbish, that’s all.’
‘Rubble, not rubbish.’
‘Like that, yes! Oh, look, Leff, just open the damned gate, will you? So I can meet the new compound guards.’
‘Look for them in the compound,’ Scorch advised.
Oh, maybe his wife was right, after all. Maybe? Of course she was. These two were idiots and they were also his friends and what did that say about Torvald Nom? No, don’t think about that. Besides, she’s already done the necessary thinking about that, hasn’t she?
Torvald hastened through the gateway. Two strides into the compound and he halted. Studious? Studious Lock? The Landless! Studious Lock the Landless, of One Eye Cat!
‘Ah, Captain, well timed. Permit me to introduce our two new estate guards.’
Torvald flinched as Studlock drifted towards him. Hood, mask, eerie eyes, all bound up in rags to cover up what had been done to him back in his adopted city-yes, but then, infamy never stayed hidden for long, did it? ‘Ah, good evening, Castellan.’ This modest, civil greeting was barely managed, croaking out from an all too dry mouth. And he saw, with growing trepidation, the two figures trailing in Studlock’s wake.
‘Captain Torvald Nom, this gaily clad gentleman is Madrun, and his ephemer-ally garbed companion is Lazan Door. Both hail from the north and so have no local interests that might conflict with their loyalties-a most important requirement, as you have been made aware, for Lady Varada of House Varada. Now, I have seen to their kit and assigned quarters. Captain, is something wrong?’
Torvald Nom shook his head. Then, before he could think-before his finely honed sense of propriety could kick in-he blurted out: ‘But where are their masks?’
The shaggy haired giant frowned. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that is most unfortunate. Reassure me once more, Studious, please.’
The castellan’s pause was long, and then one rag-tied hand fluttered. ‘Reputations, alas, are what they are, Madrun. Evidently, our captain here has travelledsome. One Eye Cat? Let us hope he never wandered close to that foul, treacherous den of thieves, murderers and worse ‘
‘Never been there,’ Torvald Nom said, hastily, licking his lips, ‘But the tales of the, er, the ones hired to oust the Malazan Fist… and, er, what happened after-wards-’
‘Outrageous lies,’ said Lazan Door in his breathy, wispy voice, ‘such as arc invariably perpetrated by those with a vested interest in the illusion of righteousness. All lies, Captain. Foul, despicable, ruinous lies. I assure you we completed our task, even unto pursuing the Fist and his cadre into the very heart of a mountain-’
‘You and Madrun Badrun, you mean. Studious Lock, on the other hand, was…’ And only then did Torvald Nom decide that he probably shouldn’t be speaking, probably shouldn’t be revealing quite the extent of his knowledge. ‘The tale I heard,’ he added, ‘was garbled, second and maybe even third hand, a jumble of details and who can separate truth from fancy in such things?’
‘Who indeed,’ said the castellan with another wave of one hand. ‘Captain, we must trust that the subject of our past misadventures will not arise again, in any company and in particular that of our two intrepid gate guards.’
‘The subject is now and for ever more closed,’ affirmed Torvald Nom. ‘Well, I’d best get to my office. To work on, um, shift scheduling-it seems we now have our night shift pretty much filled. As for the daytime-’
‘As stated earlier,’ cut in the castellan, ‘the necessity for armed vigilance during the day is simply non-existent. Risk assessment and so forth. No, Captain, we have no need for more guards. Four will suffice.’
‘Good, that will make scheduling easier. Now, it was a pleasure meeting you, Lazan Door, Madrun Badrun.’ And, with disciplined march, Torvald Nom crossed the compound, making for his tiny office in the barracks annexe. Where he shut the flimsy door and sat down in the chair behind the desk which, in order to reach it, demanded that he climb over the desk itself. Slumping down, hands holding up his head, he sat. Sweating.
Was Lady Varada aware of any of this… this background, back there where the ground still steamed with blood and worse? Well, she’d hired Studlock, hadn’t she? But that didn’t mean anything, did it? He’d crunched down his name, and even that name wasn’t his real name, just something the idiots in One Eye Cat gave him, same as Madrun Badrun. As for Lazan Door, well, that one might be real, original even. And only one of them was wearing a mask and that mask was some local make, generic, not painted with any relevant sigils or whatever. So, she might not know a thing! She might be completely blind, unsuspecting, unaware, unprepared, uneverything!
He climbed back over his desk, straightened and smoothed out his clothing as best he could. It shouldn’t be so hard, the captain seeking audience with the Mistress. Perfectly reasonable. Except that the official route was through the castellan, and that wouldn’t do. No, he needed to be cleverer than that. In fact, he needed to… break in. More sweat, sudden, chilling him as he stood between the desk and the office door, a span barely wide enough to turn round in.
So, Lazan Door and Madrun Badrun would be patrolling the compound. And Studious Lock the Landless, well, he’d be in his own office, there on the main floor. Or even in his private chambers, sitting there slowly unravelling or undressing or whatever one wanted to call it.
There was a window on the back wall of the annexe. Plain shutters and simple inside latch. From there he could clamber on to the roof, which was close enough to the side wall of the main building to enable him to leap across and maybe find a handhold or two, and then he could scramble up to the next and final level, where dwelt the Lady. It was still early so she wouldn’t be asleep or in any particular state of undress.
Still, how would she react to her captain’s intruding so on her privacy? Well, he could explain he was testing the innermost security of the estate (and, in finding it so lacking, why, he could press for hiring yet more guards. Normal, reasonable, sane guards this time. No mass murderers. No sadists. No one whose humanness was questionable and open to interpretation. He could, then, provide a subtle counterbalance to the guards they already had).
It all sounded very reasonable, and diligent, as befitted a captain.
He worked his way round and opened the office door. Leaned out to make sure the barracks remained empty-of course it did, they were out there guarding things! He padded across to the back window. Unlatched it and eased out the shutters. Another quick, darting look, outside this time. Estate wall not ten paces opposite. Main building to his left, stables to his right. Was this area part of their rounds? It certainly should be. Well, if he moved fast enough, right this moment-
Hitching himself up on to the windowsill, Torvald Nom edged out and reached up for the eaves-trough. He tested his weight on it and, satisfied at the modest creak, quickly pulled himself up and on to the sloped roof. Reached back down and carefully closed the shutters.
He rolled on to his back and waited. He’d wait, yes, until the two monsters tramped past.
The clay tiles dug into his shoulder blades. Was that the scuff of boots? Was that the whisper of linen sweeping the cobbles? Was that-no, it wasn’t, he wasn’t hearing a damned thing. Where had his damned compound guards gone? He sat up, crept his way to the peak of the roof. Peered out on to the grounds-and there they were, playing dice against the wall to one side of the gate.
He could fire them for that! Why, even Studlock wouldn’t be able to-
And there he was, Studious himself, floating across towards his two cohorts. And his voice drifted back to Torvald Nom.
‘Any change in the knuckles, Lazan?’
‘Oh yes,’ the man replied. ‘Getting worse. Options fast diminishing.’
‘How unfortunate.’
Madrun Badrun grunted and then said, ‘We had our chance. Go north or go south. We should’ve gone north.’That would not work, as you well know,’ said Studious Lock. ‘Where are vour masks?’
Lazan Door flung the bone dice against the wall again, bent to study the re-suits.
‘We tossed ’em,’ answered Madrun. ‘Make new ones.’
‘We don’t want to, Studious, we really don’t.’
‘That goes without saying, but it changes nothing.’
Oh, Torvald suspected he could crouch here and listen to the idiots all night. Instead, he needed to take advantage of their carelessness. He eased back down the slope of the roof, lifted himself into a crouch, and eyed the main building-and, look, a balcony. Well, that wasn’t wise, was it?
Now, could he make the leap without making any noise? Of course he could-he’d been a thief for years, a successful thief, too, if not for all the arrests and fines and prison time and slavery and the like. He paused, gauging the distance, deciding which part of the rail he’d reach for, then launched himself across the gap.
Success! And virtually no noise at all. He dangled for a moment, then pulled himself on to the balcony. It was narrow and crowded with clay pots snarled with dead plants. Now, he could work the locks and slip in on this floor, taking the inside route to the level above. That would be simplest, wouldn’t it? Riskier scaling the outside wall, where a chance glance from any of the three fools still jabbering away just inside the gate might alight upon him. And the last thing he wanted was to see any of them draw swords (not that he recalled seeing them wearing any).
He tested the balcony door. Unlocked! Oh, things would indeed have to change. Why, he could just saunter inside and find himself-‘Please, Captain, take a seat.’
She was lounging in a plush chair, barely visible in the dark room. Veiled? Yes, veiled. Dressed in some long loose thing, silk perhaps. One long-fingered hand, snug in a grey leather glove, held a goblet. There was a matching chair opposite her.
‘Pour yourself some wine-yes, there on the table. The failure of that route, from the roof of the annexe, is that the roof is entirely visible from the window of any room on this side of the house. I assume, Captain, you were either testing the security of the estate, or that you wished to speak with me in private. Any other alternatives, alas, would be unfortunate.’
‘Indeed, Mistress. And yes, I was testing… things. And yes,’ he added as, summoning as much aplomb as he could manage, he went over to pour himself a goblet full of the amber wine, ‘I wished to speak with you in private. Concerning your castellan and the two new compound guards.’
‘Do they seem… excessive?’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘I would not want to be discouraging.’
He sat down. ‘Discouraging, Mistress?’
‘Tell me, are my two gate guards as incompetent as they appear to be?’’That would be quite an achievement, Mistress.’
‘It would, yes.’
‘It may surprise you,’ Torvald Nom said, ‘but they actually possess a nasty streak. And considerable experience. They have been caravan guards, enforcers, Guild thugs and bounty hunters. It’s the formality of this present job that has them so… awkward. They will adjust in time.’
‘Not too well, I hope.’
All right, Torvald Nom decided, she was talking about something and he had no idea what that something was. ‘Mistress, regarding Studlock, Lazan and Madrun-’
‘Captain, I understand you are estranged from House Nom. That is unfortunate. I always advise that such past errors be mended whenever possible. Reconciliation is essential to well-being.’
Twill give that some thought, Mistress.’
‘Do so. Now, please make your way out using the stairs. Inform the castellan that I wish to speak to him-no, there will be no repercussions regarding your seeking a private conversation with me. In fact, I am heartened by your concern. Loyalty was ever the foremost trait of the family Nom. Oh, now, do finish your wine, Captain.’
He did, rather quickly. Then walked over and locked the balcony doors. A bow to Lady Varada, and then out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. A moment to figure out where the stairs were, and, feeling slightly numbed-was it the wine? No, it wasn’t the wine-he descended to the ground floor and out through the formal entrance, striding across the compound to where stood the castellan and his two friends.
‘Castellan Studlock,’ Torvald Nom called out, pleased to see how all three looked up guiltily from their game. ‘The Mistress wishes to see you immediately.’
‘Oh? Of course. Thank you, Captain.’
Torvald watched him flit away, and then turned to Lazan Door and Madrun. ‘Interesting technique you have here. I feel the need to describe your duties, since it appears the castellan forgot to. You are to patrol the compound, preferably at random intervals, employing a variety of routes to ensure that you avoid predictability. Be especially mindful of unlit areas, although I do not recommend you carry torches or lanterns. Any questions?’
Madrun was smiling. He bowed. ‘Sound instruction, Captain, thank you. We shall commence our duties immediately. Lazan, collect up your scrying dice. We must attend to the necessary formalities of diligent patrol.’
Scrying dice! Gods below. ‘Is it wise,’ he asked, ‘to rely upon the hoary gods to determine the night’s flavour?’
Lazan Door cleared his throat then bared his metal fangs. ‘As you say, Captain. Divination is ever an imprecise science. We shall be sure to avoid relying overmuch on such things.’
‘Er, right. Good, well, I’ll be in my office, then.’
‘Again,’ Madrun said, his smile broadening. There was, Torval decided as he walked away, nothing pleasant about that smile. About either of their smiles, in fact. Or anythlng else about those two. Or Studious Lock, for that matter-Blood Drinker, Bile Spitter, Poisoner, oh, they had so many names for that one. How soon before he earns a few more? And Madrun Badrun? And Lazan Door? What is Lady Varada up to?
Never mind, never mind. He had an office, after all. And once he crawled over the desk and settled down in the chair, why, he felt almost important.
The sensation lasted a few heartbeats, which was actually something of an achievement. Any few precious moments, yes, of not thinking about those three. Any at all.
Make new masks-now why should they do that! Renegade Seguleh are renegade-they can’t ever go back. Supposedly, but then, what do any of us really know about the Seguleh? Make new masks, he said to them. Why!
What’s wrong with normal advice! Wash that robe, Lazan Door, before the spiders start laying eggs. Choose no more than two colours, Madrun, and not ones that clash. Please. And what’s with those moccasins!
Masks! Never mind the masks.
His stomach gurgled and he felt another rise of bilious gas. ‘Always chew your food, Tor, why such a hurry! There’s plenty of daylight left to play. Chew, Tor, chew! Nice and slow, like a cow, yes. This way nothing will disagree with you. Nothing disagrees with cows, after all.’
So true, at least until the axe swings down.
He sat in his office, squeezed in behind the desk, in a most disagreeable state.
‘She’s poisoning him, is my guess.’
Scorch stared, as if amazed at such a suggestion. ‘Why would she do that?’
‘Because of you,’ said Leff. ‘She hates you, Scorch, because of the way you always got Tor into trouble, and now she thinks you’re going to do it all over again, so that’s why she’s poisoning him.’
‘That don’t make any sense. If she was worried she wouldn’t be killing him!’
‘Not killing, just making sickly. You forget, she’s a witch, she can do things like that. Of course, she’d do better by poisoning you.’
‘I ain’t touching nothing she cooks, that’s for sure.’
‘It won’t help if she decides you’re better off dead, Scorch. Gods, I am so glad I’m not you.’
‘Me too.’
‘What?’
‘I’d have orange eyes and that’d be awful because then we’d both have orange eyes so looking at each other would be like looking at yourself, which I have to do all the time anyway but imagine double that! No thanks, is what I say.’
‘Is that what you say?’
‘I just said it, didn’t I?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what you just said, Scorch, and that’s the truth.’
‘Good, since what I had to say wasn’t meant for you anyway.’Leff looked round and no, he didn’t see anyone else. Of course he didn’t, there was no point in looking.
‘Besides,’ said Scorch, ‘you’re the one who’s been poisoned.’
‘It wasn’t no poison, Scorch. It was a mistake, a misdiagnosis. And it’s fading-’
‘No it ain’t.’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘No. It ain’t.’
‘I’d stop saying that if I was you-’
‘Don’t start that one again!’
Blessed fates! Leave them to it, thy round self begs! The night stretches on, the city wears its granite grin and shadows dance on the edge of darkness. Late-night hawkers call out their wares, their services both proper and dubious. Singers sing and the drunk drink and thieves do their thieving and mysteries thrive wherever you do hot belong and that, friends, is the hard truth.
Like rats we skitter away from the pools of light, seeking other matters, other scenes both tranquil and foul.
Follow, oh, follow me!
Benefactor of all things cosmopolitan, bestower of blessings upon all matters human and humane (bless their hearts both squalid and generous, bless their dreams and bless their nightmares, bless their fears and their loves and their fears of love and love of fears and bless, well, bless their shoes, sandals, boots and slippers and to walk in each, in turn, ah, such wonders! Such peculiar follies!), Kruppe of Darujhistan walked the Great Avenue of sordid acquisitiveness, casting a most enormous, indeed gigantic shadow that rolled sure as a tide past all these shops and their wares, past the wary eyes of shop owners, past the stands of fruit and succulent pastries, past the baskets of berries and the dried fish and the strange leafy things some people ate believing themselves to be masticators of wholesomeness, past the loaves of bread and rounds of cheese, past the vessels of wine and liquors in all assorted sizes, past the weavers and dressmakers, past the crone harpist with nubs for fingers and only three strings left on her harp and her song about the peg and the hole and the honey on the nightstand-ducking the flung coins and so quickly past!-and the bolts of cloth going nowhere and the breeches blocking the doorway and the shirts for men-at-arms and shoes for the soulless and the headstone makers and urn-pissers and the old thrice-divorced man who tied knots for a living with a gaggle of children in tow surely bound by blood and thicker stuff. Past the wax-drippers and wick-twisters, the fire-eaters and ashcake-makers, past the prostitutes-oozing each languorous step with smiles of appreciation and fingers all aflutter and unbidden mysterious sensations of caresses in hidden or at least out-of-reach places and see eyes widen and appreciation flood through like the rush of lost youth and princely dreams and they sigh and call out Kruppe, you darling man! Kruppe, ain’t you gonna pay for that! Kruppe, marry every one of us and make us honest women! Kruppe-rushing quickly past, now, aaii, frightening prospect to imagine! Abludgeon of wives (surely that must be the plural assignation)! A prattle of prostitutes!
Past this gate, thank the gods, and into the tunnel and out again and now Civilization loomed austere and proper and this bodacious shadow strode alone, animated in its solitude, and yet this moment proved ample time to partake of past passages through life itself.
Out from one sleeve a berry-studded pastry, a ripe pompfruit, and a flask of minty wine; out from the other a new silver dinner knife with the Varada House monogram (my, where did this come from?), the polished blade-astonishing!-already glistening with a healthy dollop of butter streaked with honey-and so many things crowding these ample but nimble hands but see how one thing after another simply vanished into inviting mouth and appreciative palate as befitting all culinary arts when the subtle merging of flavours yielded exquisite master-piece-butter, honey, and-oh!-jam, and pastry and cheese and fruit and smoked eel-agh! Voluminous sleeve betrays self! Wine to wash away disreputable (and most cruel) taste.
Hands temporarily free once more, to permit examination of new shirt, array of scented candles, knotted strings of silk, handsome breeches and gilt-threaded sandals soft as any one of Kruppe’s four cheeks, and here a kid-gut condom-gods, where did that come from? Well, an end to admiration of the night’s most successful shopping venture, and if that crone discovered but two strings left on her harp, well, imagine how the horse felt!
Standing now, at last, before most austere of austere estates. As the gate creaked open, inviting invitation and so invited Kruppe invited himself in.
Steps and ornate formal entranceway and corridor and more steps these ones carpeted and wending upward and another corridor and now the dark-stained door and-oh, fling aside those wards, goodness-inside.
‘How did you-never mind. Sit, Kruppe, make yourself comfortable.’
‘Master Baruk is so kind, Kruppe shall do as bid, with possibly measurable relief does he so oof! into this chair and stretch out legs, yes they are indeed stretched out, the detail subtle. Ah, an exhausting journey, Baruk beloved friend of Kruppe!’
A toad-like obese demon crawled up to nest at his feet, snuffling. Kruppe produced a strip of dried eel and offered it. The demon sniffed, then gingerly accepted the morsel.
‘Are things truly as dire as I believe, Kruppe?’
Kruppe waggled his brows. ‘Such journeys leave self puckered with dryness, gasping with thirst.’
Sighing, the High Alchemist said, ‘Help yourself.’
Beaming a smile, Kruppe drew out from a sleeve a large dusty bottle, already uncorked. He examined the stamp on the dark green glass. ‘My, your cellar is indeed well equipped!’ A crystal goblet appeared from the other sleeve. He poured. Downed a mouthful then smacked his lips. ‘Exquisite!’
‘Certain arrangements have been finalized,’ said Baruk.
‘Most impressive, Baruk friend of Kruppe. How can such portentous events bemeasured, one wonders. If one was the wondering type. Yet listen-the buried gate creaks, dust sifts down, stones groan! Humble as we are, can we hope to halt such inevitable inevitabilities? Alas, time grinds on. All fates spin and not even the gods can guess how each will topple. The moon itself rises uncertain on these nights. The stars waver, rocks fall upward, wronged wives forgive and forget-oh, this is a time for miracles!’
‘And is that what we need, Kruppe? Miracles?’
‘Each moment may indeed seem in flux, chaotic and fraught, yet-and Kruppe knows this most surely-when all is set out, moment upon moment, then every aberration is but a modest crease, a feeble fold, a crinkled memento. The great forces of the universe are as a weight-stone upon the fabric of our lives. Rich and poor, modest and ambitious, generous and greedy, honest and deceitful, why, all is flattened! Splat! Crunch, smear, ooze! What cares Nature for jewelled crowns, coins a-stacked perilously high, great estates and lofty towers? Kings and queens, tyrants and devourers-all are as midges on the forehead of the world!’
‘You advise an extended perspective. That is all very well, from an historian’s point of view, and in retrospect. Unfortunately, Kruppe, to those of us who must live it, in the midst, as it were, it provides scant relief.’
‘Alas, Baruk speaks true. Lives in, lives out. The sobs of death are the sodden songs of the world. So true, so sad. Kruppe asks this: witness two scenes. In one, an angry, bitter man beats another man to death in an alley in the Gadrobi District. In the other, a man of vast wealth conspires with equally wealthy compatriots to raise yet again the price of grain, making the cost of simple bread so prohibitive that families starve, are led into lives of crime, and die young. Are both acts of violence?’
The High Alchemist stood looking down at Kruppe. ‘In only one of those examples will you find blood on a man’s hands.’
‘True, deplorable as such stains are.’ He poured himself some more wine.
‘There are,’ said Baruk, ‘countless constructs whereby the wealthy man might claim innocence. Mitigating circumstances, unexpected costs of production, the law of supply and demand, and so on.’
‘Indeed, a plethora of justifications, making the waters so very murky, and who then sees the blood?’
‘And yet, destitution results, with all its misery, its stresses and anxieties, its foul vapours of the soul. It can be said that the wealthy grain merchant wages subtle war.’
Kruppe studied the wine through the crystal. ‘And so the poor remain poor and, mayhap, even poorer. The employed but scarcely getting by cling all the harder to their jobs, even unto accepting despicable working conditions-which in turn permits the employers to fill their purses unto bulging, thus satisfying whatever hidden pathetic inadequacies they harbour. A balance can be said to exist, one never iterated, whereby the eternal war is held in check, so as to avoid anarchy. Should the grain merchant charge too high, then revolution may well explode into life.’
‘Whereupon everyone loses.’
‘For a time. Until the new generation of the wealthy emerge, to begin once again their predations on the poor, Balance is framed by imbalances and so it seems such things might persist for all eternity. Alas, in any Iong view, one sees that this is not so. The structure of society is far more fragile than most believe. To set too much faith in its resilience is to know a moment of pristine astonishment at the instant of its utter collapse-before the wolves close in.’ Kruppe raised one finger.’ Yet, wit ness all these who would grasp hold of the crown, to make themselves the freest and the wealthiest of them all. Oh, they are most dangerous in the moment, as one might expect. Most dangerous indeed. One is encouraged to pray. Pray for dust.’
‘An end to it all.’
‘And a new beginning.’
‘I somehow expected more from you, my friend.’
Kruppe smiled, reached down and patted the demon’s pebbly head. It blinked languidly. ‘Kruppe maintains a perspective as broad as his waistline, which, as you know, is unceasing. After all, where does it begin and where does it end?’
‘Any other momentous news?’
‘Cities live in haste. Ever headlong. Nothing changes and everything changes. A murderer stalks Gadrobi District, but Kruppe suspects you know of that. Assassins plot. You know this too, friend Baruk. Lovers tryst or dream of said trysts. Children belabour unknown futures. People retire and others are retired, new careers abound and old nemeses lurk. Friendships unfold while others unravel. All in its time, most High Alchemist, all in its time.’
‘You do not put me at ease, Kruppe.’
‘Join me in a glass of this exquisite vintage!’
‘There are a dozen wards sealing the cellar-twice as many as since your last visit.’
‘Indeed?’
‘You did not trip a single one.’
‘Extraordinary!’
‘Yes, it is.’
The demon belched and the heady fragrance of smoked eel wafted through the chamber. Even the demon wrinkled its nostril slits.
Kruppe produced, with a flourish, some scented candles.
An intestinal confusion of pipes, valves, copper globes, joins and vents dominated one entire end of the building’s main front room. From this bizarre mechanism came rhythmic gasps (most suggestive), wheezes (inserting, as it were, a more realistic contribution) and murmurs and hissing undertones. Six nozzles jutted out, each one ready for a hose attachment or extension, but at the moment all shot out steady blue flame and this heated the crackling dry air of the chamber so that both Chaur and Barathol-working barebacked as they had been the entire day just done-were slick with sweat.
Most of the clutter in this decrepit bakery had now been removed, or, rather, transferred from inside to the narrow high-walled yard out the back, and Chaur was on his hands and knees using wet rags to wipe dust and old flour from the well set pavestone floor. Barathol was examining the brick bases of the three humped ovens, surprised and pleased to find, sandwiched between layers of brick, vast slabs of pumice-stone. The interior back walls of the ovens each contained fixtures for the gas that had been used as fuel, with elongated perforated tubes projecting out beneath the racks. Could he convert these ovens to low-heat forges? Perhaps.
The old copper mixing drums remained, lining one half of the room’s back wall, and would serve for quenching. He had purchased an anvil from an inbound caravan from Pale, the original buyer having, alas, died whilst the object was en route. A plains design, intended for portability-Rhivi, he had been informed-it was not quite the size he wanted or needed, but it would suffice for now. Various tongs and other tools came from the scrap markets on the west side of the city, including a very fine hammer of Aren steel (no doubt stolen from a Malazan army’s weaponsmith).
On the morrow he would put in his first orders for wood, coke, coal, and raw copper, tin and iron.
It was getting late. Barathol straightened from his examination of the ovens and said to Chaur, ‘Leave that off now, my friend. We’re grimy, true, but perhaps an outside restaurant would accommodate us, once we show our coin. I don’t know about you, but some chilled beer would sit well right now.’
Looking up, Chaur’s smeared and smudged face split into a wide smile.
The front door was kicked open and both turned as a half-dozen disreputable men pushed in, spreading out. Clubs and mallets in their hands, they began eyeing the equipment. A moment later and a finely dressed woman strode through the milling press, eyes settling on Barathol, upon which she smiled.
‘Dear sir, you are engaged in an illegal activity-’
‘Illegal? That is a reach, I’m sure. Now, before you send your thugs on a rampage of destruction, might I point out that the valves are not only open but the threads have been cut. In other words, for now, the flow of gas from the chambers beneath this structure cannot be stopped. Any sort of damage will result in, well, a ball of fire, probably of sufficient size to incinerate a sizeable area of the dis-trict.’ He paused, then added, ‘Such wilful destruction on your part will be viewed by most as, um, illegal. Now, you won’t face any charges since you will be dead, but the Guild that hired you will face dire retribution. The fines alone will bankrupt it.’
The woman’s smile was long gone by now. ‘Oh, aren’t you the clever one. Since we cannot discourage you by dismantling your shop, we have no choice then but to focus our attention on yourselves.’
Barathol walked to the kneading counter and reached into a leather satchel, withdrawing a large round ball of fired clay. He faced the woman and her mob, saw a few expressions drain of blood, and was pleased. ‘Yes, a Moranth grenado. Cusser, the Malazans call this one. Threaten myself or my companion here, and Iwill be delighted to commit suicide-after all, what have we to lose that you would not happily take from us, given the chance?.” ‘You have lost your mind.’
‘You are welcome to that opinion. Now, the question is, have you?’ She hesitated, then snarled and spun on her heel. Waving her crew to follow her, out she went.
Sighing, Barathol returned the cusser to the satchel. ‘In every thirteenth crate of twelve cussers each,’ Mallet had told him, ‘there is a thirteenth cusser. Empty. Why? Who knows? The Moranth are strange folk.’
‘It worked this time,’ he said to Chaur, ‘but I doubt it will last. So, the first or-der of business is to outfit you. Armour, weapons.’
Chaur stared at him as if uncomprehending.
‘Remember the smell of blood, Chaur? Corpses, the dead and dismembered?’ Sudden brightening of expression, and Chaur nodded vigorously. Sighing again, Barathol said, ‘Let’s climb out over the back wall and find us that beer.’
He took the satchel with him.
Elsewhere in the city, as the tenth bell of the night sounded, a fingerless man set out for a new tavern, murder on his mind. His wife went out to her garden to kneel on stone, which she polished using oiled sand and a thick pad of leather.
A buxom, curvaceous woman-who drew admiring regard along with curdling spite depending on gender and gender preference-walked with one rounded arm hooked in the rather thinner seamed arm of a Malazan historian, who bore an expression wavering between disbelief and dismay. They strolled as lovers would, and since they were not lovers, the historian’s bemusement only grew.
In the High Markets of the Estates District, south of the gallows, sauntered Lady Challice. Bored, stung with longing and possibly despoiled (in her own mind) beyond all hope of redemption, she perused the host of objects and items, none of which were truly needed, and watched as women just like her (though most were trailed by servants who carried whatever was purchased) picked through the expensive and often finely made rubbish eager as jackdaws (and as mindless? Ah, beware cruel assumptions!), and she saw herself as so very different from them. So… changed.
Not three hundred paces away from Lady Challice, wandering unmindful of where his steps took him, was Cutter, who had once been a thief named Crokus Younghand, who had once stolen something he shouldn’t have, and, finding that he could not truly give it back, had then confused guilt and sympathy with the bliss of adoration (such errors are common), only to be released in the end by a young woman’s open contempt for his heartfelt, honest admissions.
Well, times and people change, don’t they just.
On a rooftop half a city away, Rallick Nom stood looking out upon the choppy sea of blue lights, at his side Krute of Talient, and they had much to discuss and this meant, given Rallick Nom’s taciturnity, a long session indeed. Krute had too much to say. Rallick weighed every morsel he fed hack, not out of distrust, simply habit.
In a duelling school, long after the last of the young students had toddled out, Murillio sat under moonlight with Stonny Menackis as, weeping, she unburdened herself to this veritable stranger-which perhaps is what made it all so easy-but Stonny had no experience with a man such as Murillio, who understood what it was to listen, to bestow rapt, thorough and most genuine attention solely upon one woman, to draw all of her essence-so pouring out-into his own being, as might a hummingbird drinking nectar, or a bat a cow’s ankle blood (although this analogy ill serves the tender moment).
And so between them unseen vapours waft, animal and undeniable, and so much seeps into flesh and bone and self that stunning recognition comes-when it comes-like the unlocking of a door once thought sealed for ever more.
She wept and she wept often, and each time it was somehow easier, somehow more natural, more comfortable and acceptable, no different, truly, from the soft stroke of his fingers through her short hair, the way the tips brushed her cheek to smooth away the tears-and oh, who then could be surprised by all this?
To the present, then, as the blurred moon, now risen, squints down upon a score of figures gathering on a rooftop. Exchanging hand signals and muttering instructions and advice. Checking weapons. A full score, for the targets were tough, mean, veterans with foreign ways. And the assault to come, well, it would be brutal, unsubtle, and, without doubt, thorough.
The usual crowd in K’rul’s Bar, a dozen or so denizens choosing to be unmindful of the temple that once was-these quarried stone walls, stained with smoke and mute repositories for human voices generation upon generation, from droning chants and choral music to the howl of drunken laughter and the squeals of pinched women, these walls, then, thick and solid, ever hold to indifference in the face of drama.
Lives play out, lives parcel out portions framed by stone and wood, by tile and rafter, and each of these insensate forms have, in their time, tasted blood.
The vast, low-ceilinged main taproom with its sunken floor was once a transept or perhaps a congregation area. The narrow corridor between inset pillars along the back was once a colonnade bearing niches on which, long ago, stood funerary urns containing the charred, ashen remains of High Priests and Priestesses. The kitchen and the three storerooms behind it had once supplied sustenance to monks and the sanctioned blade-wielders, scribes and acolytes. Now they fed patrons, staff and owners.
Up the steep, saddled, stone steps to the landing on the upper floor, from which ran passages with sharply angled ceilings, three sides of a square with the fourth interrupted by the front facade of the building. Eight cell-like rooms fed off each of these passages, those on the back side projecting inward (supported by the pillars of the main floor colonnade) while the two to either side had their rooms against the building’s outer walls (thus providing windows). The cells looking out on to the taproom had had inside walls knocked out, so that eight rooms were now three rooms, constituting the offices. The interior windows were now shuttered-no glass or skin-and Picker was in the habit Or throwing them wide open when she sat at her desk, giving her a clear view of the front third of the taproom, including the entranceway.
On this night, there were few guests resident in the inn’s rooms. Barathol and Chaur had not yet returned. Scillara had taken Duiker into the Daru District. The bard was on the low dais in the taproom, plunking some airy, despondent melody that few of the twenty or so patrons listened to with anything approaching attention. A stranger from Pale had taken a corner room on the northeast corner and had retired early after a meagre meal and a single pint of Gredfallan ale.
Picker could see Blend at her station beside the front door, sunk in shadows as she sat, legs outstretched, her hands cradling a mug of hot cider-bizarre tastes, that woman, since it was sultry and steamy this night. People entering rarely even noticed her, marching right past without a glance down. Blend’s talent, aye, and who could say if it was natural or something else.
Antsy was yelling in the kitchen. He’d gone in there to calm down the two cooks-who despised each other-and it turned out as it usually did, with Antsy at war with everyone, including the scullions and the rats cowering beneath the counter. In a short while utensils would start flying and Picker would have to drag herself down there.
Bluepearl was… somewhere. It was his habit to wander off, exploring the darker crooks and crannies of the old temple.
A night, then, no different from any other.
Bluepearl found himself in the cellar. Funny how often that happened. He had dragged out the fourth dusty cask from the crawlspace behind the wooden shelves. The first three he had sampled earlier in the week. Two had been vinegar, from which he could manage only a few swallows at a time. The other had been something thick and tarry, smelling of cedar or perhaps pine sap-in any case, he’d done little more than dip a finger in, finding the taste even fouler than the smell.
This time, however, he felt lucky. Broaching the cask, he bent close and tried a few tentative sniffs. Ale? Beer? But of course, neither lasted, did they? Yet this cask bore the sigil of the temple on the thick red wax coating the lid. He sniffed again. Definitely yeasty, but fresh, which meant… sorcery. He sniffed a third time.
He’d danced with all kinds of magic as a squad mage in the Bridgeburners. Aye, he had so many stories that even that sour-faced bard upstairs would gape in wonder just to hear half of them. Why, he’d ducked and rolled under the nastiest kinds, the sorceries that ripped flesh from bones, that boiled the blood, that made a man’s balls swell up big as melons-oh, that time had been before he’d joined, hadn’t it? Yah, the witch and the witch’s daughter-never mind. What he was was an old hand.
And this stuff-Bluepearl dipped a finger in and then poked it into his mouth-oh, it was magic indeed. Something elder, hinting of blood (aye, he’d tasted the like before),
‘Is that you, Brother Cuven?’
He twisted round and scowled at the ghost whose head and shoulders lifted into view through the floor. ‘Do I look like Brother Cuven? You’re dead, long dead. It’s all gone, you hear? So why don’t you go and do the same?’
‘I smelled the blade,’ murmured the ghost, beginning to sink back down. ‘I smelled it…’
No, Bluepearl decided, it probably wasn’t a good thing to be drinking this stuff. Not before some kind of analysis was made. Could be Mallet might help on that. Now, had he messed it up by opening the cask? Probably it would go bad now. So, he’d better take it upstairs.
Sighing, Bluepearl replaced the wooden stopper and picked up the cask.
In the corner room on the second level, the stranger who’d booked the room for this night finished digging out the last of the bars on the window. He then doused the lantern and moved across to the hallway door, where he crouched down, listening.
From the window behind him the first of the assassins climbed in.
Blend, her eyes half closed, watched as five men came in, moving in a half-drunken clump and arguing loudly about the latest jump in the price of bread, slurred statements punctuated by shoves and buffets, and wasn’t it a wonder, Blend reflected as they staggered into the taproom, how people could complain about very nearly anything as if their lives depended on it.
These ones she didn’t know, meaning they’d probably spied the torchlit sign on their way back from some other place, deciding that this drunk wasn’t drunk enough, and she noted that they were better dressed than most-nobles, most likely, with all the usual bluster and airs of invincibility and all that. Well, they’d be spending coin here and that was what counted.
She took another sip of cider.
Antsy had his short sword out as he crept towards the back of the smallest of the three storerooms. That damned two-headed rat was back. Sure, nobody else believed him except maybe the cooks now since they’d both seen the horrid thing, but the only way to prove it to the others was to kill the bugger and then show it to everyone.
They could then pickle it in a giant jar and make of it a curio for the bar. It would be sure to pull ’em in. Two-headed rat caught in the kitchen of K’rul’s Bar! Come see!
Oh, hold on… was that the best kind of advertising? He’d have to ask Picker about that. First, of course, he needed to kill the thing.
He crept closer, eyes fixed on the dark gap behind the last crate to the left, Kill the thing, aye. fust don’t chop either head off.
Eleven figures crowded the corner room on the upper floor. Three held daggers, including the man crouched at the door. Four cradled crossbows, quarrels set. The last four-big men all-wielded swords and bucklers, and beneath their loose shirts there was fine chain.
The one at the door could now hear the argument in the taproom downstairs, accusations regarding the price of bread-a ridiculous subject, the man thought yet again, given how these ones were dressed like second and thirdborn nobles-but clearly no one had taken note of the peculiarity. Loud voices, especially drunk-sounding ones, had a way of filling the heads of people around them. Filling them with the wrong things.
So now everyone’s attention was on the loud, obnoxious newcomers, and at least some of the targets were likely to be converging, having it in mind to maybe toss the fools out or at least ask them to tone it down and all that.
Almost time then…
Sitting on the stool on the dais, the bard let his fingers trail away from the last notes he had played, and slowly leaned back as the nobles now argued over which table to take. There were plenty to choose from so the issue was hardly worth all that energy.
He watched them for a long moment, and then set his instrument down and went over to the pitcher and tankard waiting to one side of the modest stage. He poured himself some ale, and then leaned against the wall, taking sips.
Picker rose from her chair as the door opened behind her. She turned. ‘Mallet, that bunch of idiots who just came in.’
The healer nodded. ‘There’ll be trouble with them. Have you seen Barathol or Chaur? They were supposed to be coming back here-the Guild’s probably caught wind of what he’s up to by now. I’m thinking of maybe heading over, in case-’
Picker held up her hand, two quick signals that silenced Mallet. ‘Listen to them,’ she.said, frowning. ‘It’s not sounding right.’
After a moment, Mallet nodded. ‘We’d better head down.’
Picker turned and leaned on the sill, squinting at the shadows where Blend sat-and she saw those outstretched legs slowly draw back. ‘Shit.’