The Malazan Empire, page 116
“Something’s wrong,” Minala persisted. “I can see it in your face. We should have arrived by now.”
The taste of ash, its smell, its feel, had become a part of him, and he knew it was the same for the others. The lifeless grit seemed to stain his very thoughts. Kalam had suspicions of what that ash had once been—the heap of bones they had stumbled onto when arriving had not proved unique—yet he found himself instinctively shying from acknowledging those suspicions. The possibility was too ghastly, too overwhelming, to contemplate.
Keneb grunted, then sighed. “Well, Corporal, shall we continue on?”
Kalam glanced at the captain. The fever from his head wound was gone, though a barely perceptible slowness to his movements and expressions betrayed a healing yet incomplete. The assassin knew he could not count on the man in a fight. And with the apparent loss of Apt, he felt his back exposed. Minala’s inability to trust him diminished the reliance he placed in her: she would do what was necessary to protect her sister and the children—that and nothing more.
Better were I alone. He nudged the stallion forward. After a moment the others followed.
The Imperial Warren was a realm with neither day nor night, just a perpetual dusk, its faint light sourceless—a place without shadows. They measured the passage of time by the cyclical demands imposed by their bodies. The need to eat and drink, the need to sleep. Yet, when gnawing hunger and thirst grew constant and unappeased, when exhaustion pulled at every step, the notion of time sank into meaninglessness; indeed, it revealed itself as something born of faith, not fact.
“Time makes of us believers. Timelessness makes of us unbelievers.” Another Saying of the Fool, another sly quote voiced by the sages of my homeland. Used most often when dismissing precedent; a derisive scoff at the lessons of history. The central assertion of sages was to believe nothing. More, that assertion was a central tenet of those who would become assassins.
“Assassination proves the lie of constancy. Even as the upraised dagger is itself a constant, your freedom to choose who, to choose when, is the constant’s darker lie. An assassin is chaos unleashed, students. But remember, the upraised dagger can quench firestorms as easily as light them…”
And there, plainly carved in his thoughts as if with a dagger-point, stretched the thin, straight track that would lead him to Laseen. Every justification he needed rode unerring within that fissure. Yet, while the track cuts through Aren, it seems all unknowing something’s nudged me from it, left me wandering this plain of ash.
“I see clouds ahead,” Minala said, now riding beside him.
Ridges of low-hanging dust crisscrossed the area before them. Kalam’s eyes narrowed. “As good as footprints in mud,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Look behind us—we leave the selfsame trail. We’ve company in the Imperial Warren.”
“And any company’s unwelcome,” she said.
“Aye.”
Arriving at the first of the ragged ruts only deepened Kalam’s unease. More than one. Bestial. No servants sworn to the Empress left these…
“Look,” Minala said, pointing.
Thirty paces ahead was what appeared to be a sinkhole or dark stain on the ground. Suspended ash rimmed the pit in a motionless, semi-translucent curtain.
“Is it just me,” Keneb growled behind them, “or is there a new smell to this Hood-rotted air?”
“Like wood spice,” Minala agreed.
Hackles rising, Kalam freed his crossbow from its binding on the saddle, cranked the claw back until it locked, then slid a quarrel into the slot. He felt Minala’s eyes on him throughout and was not surprised when she spoke.
“That particular smell’s one you’re familiar with, isn’t it? And not from rifling some merchant’s bolt-chest, either. What should we be on the lookout for, Corporal?”
“Anything,” he said, kicking his horse into a walk.
The pit was at least a hundred paces across, the edges heaped in places with excavated fill. Burned bone jutted from those mounds.
Kalam’s stallion stopped a few yards from the edge. Still gripping the crossbow, the assassin lifted one leg over the saddlehorn, then slipped down, landing in a puff of gray cloud. “Best stay here,” he told the others. “No telling how firm the sides are.”
“Then why approach at all?” Minala demanded.
Not answering, Kalam edged forward. He came to within two paces of the rim, close enough to see what lay at the bottom of the pit, although at first it was the far side that held his attention. Now I know what we’re walking on and refusing to think on it didn’t help at all. Hood’s breath! The ash formed compacted layers, revealing past variations in the temperature and ferocity of the fires that had incinerated this land—and everything on it. The layers varied in thickness as well. One of the thickest was an arm’s length in depth and looked solid with compacted, shattered bone. Immediately below it was a thinner, reddish layer of what looked like brick dust. Other layers revealed only charred bones, mottled with black patches rimmed in white. Those few that he could identify looked human in size—perhaps slightly longer of limb. The banded wall opposite him was at least six arm-spans deep. We stride ancient death, the remains of…millions.
His gaze slowly descended to the pit’s floor. It was crowded with rusted, corroded mechanisms, all alike though strewn about. Each was the size of a trader’s wagon, and indeed huge spoked iron wheels were visible.
Kalam studied them a long time, then he swung about and returned to the others, uncocking the crossbow as he did so.
“Well?”
The assassin shrugged, pulling himself back into the saddle. “Old ruins at the bottom. Odd ones—the only time I’ve seen anything like them was in Darujhistan, within the temple that housed Icarium’s Circle of Seasons, which was said to measure the passage of time.”
Keneb grunted.
Kalam glanced at the man. “Something, Captain?”
“A rumor, nothing more. Months old.”
“What rumor?”
“Oh, that Icarium was seen.” The man suddenly frowned. “What do you know of the Deck of Dragons, Corporal?”
“Enough to stay away from it.”
Keneb nodded. “We had a Seer pass through around that time—some of my squads chipped in for a reading, ended up getting their money back since the Seer couldn’t take the field past the first card—the Seer wasn’t surprised, I recall. Said that’d been the case for weeks, and not just for him, but for every other reader as well.”
Alas, that wasn’t my luck the last time I saw a Deck. “Which card?”
“One of the Unaligned I think it was. Which are those?”
“Orb, Throne, Scepter, Obelisk—”
“Obelisk! That’s the one. The Seer claimed it was Icarium’s doing, that he’d been seen with his Trell companion in Pan’potsun.”
“Does any of this matter?” Minala demanded.
Obelisk…past, present, future. Time, and time has no allies…“Probably not,” the assassin replied.
They rode on, skirting the pit at a safe distance. More dust trails crossed their route, with only a few suggesting the passage of a human. Although it was hard to be certain, they seemed to be heading in the opposite direction to the one Kalam had chosen. If indeed we’re traveling south, then the Soletaken and Divers are all traveling north. That might be reassuring, except that if there’re more shapeshifters on the way, we’ll run right into them.
A thousand paces later, they came to a sunken road. Like the mechanisms in the pit, it was six arm-spans down. While dust filled the air above the cobbles, making them blurry, the steeply banked sides had not slumped. Kalam dismounted, tied a long, thin rope to his stallion’s saddlehorn, then, gripping the rope’s other end, began making his way down. To his surprise he did not sink into the bank. His boots crunched. The slope had been solidified somehow. Nor was it too steep for the horses.
The assassin glanced up at the others. “This can lead us in the direction we’ve been traveling along, more or less. I suggest we take it—we’ll make much better time.”
“Going nowhere faster,” Minala said.
Kalam grinned.
When everyone had led their mounts down, the captain spoke. “Why not camp here for a while? We’re not visible and the air’s a bit cleaner.”
“And cooler,” Selv added, her arms around her all too quiet children.
“All right,” the assassin agreed.
The bladders of water for the horses were getting ominously light—the animals could last a few days on feed alone, Kalam knew, though they would suffer terribly. We’re running out of time. As he unsaddled, fed and watered the horses, Minala and Keneb laid out the bedrolls, then assembled the meager supplies that would make up their own meal. The preparations were conducted in silence.
“Can’t say I’m encouraged by this place,” Keneb said as they ate.
Kalam grunted, appreciating the gradual emergence of the captain’s sense of humor. “Could do with a good sweeping,” he agreed.
“Aye. Mind you, I’ve seen bonfires get out of control before…”
Minala took a last sip of water, set the bladder down. “I’m done,” she announced, rising. “You two can discuss the weather in peace.”
They watched her stride to her bedroll. Selv repacked the remaining food, then led her children away as well.
“It’s my watch,” Kalam reminded the captain.
“I’m not tired—”
The assassin barked a laugh.
“All right, I’m tired. We all are. Thing is, this dust has us all snoring so loud we’d drown out stags in heat. I end up just lying there, staring up at what should be sky but looks more like a shroud. Throat on fire, lungs aching like they were full of sludge, eyes drier than a forgotten luckstone. We won’t get any decent sleep until we’ve cleared this place out of our bodies—”
“We have to get out of here first.”
Keneb nodded. He glance over to where the snores had already begun and lowered his voice. “Any predictions on when that will be, Corporal?”
“No.”
The captain was silent a long time, then he sighed. “You’ve somehow crossed blades with Minala. That’s an unwelcome tension to our little family, wouldn’t you say?”
Kalam said nothing.
After a moment, Keneb continued. “Colonel Tras wanted a quiet, obedient wife, a wife to perch on his arm and make pretty sounds—”
“Not very observant, was he?”
“More like stubborn. Any horse can be broken, was his philosophy. And that’s what he set about doing.”
“Was the colonel a subtle man?”
“Not even a clever one.”
“Yet Minala is both—what in Hood’s name was she thinking?”
Keneb’s eyes narrowed on the assassin’s, as if he’d suddenly grasped something. Then he shrugged. “She loves her sister.”
Kalam looked away with a humorless grin. “Isn’t the officer corps a wonderful life.”
“Tras wasn’t long for that backwater garrison post. He used his messengers to weave a broad net. He was maybe a week away from catching a new commission right at the heart of things.”
“Aren.”
“Aye.”
“You’d get the garrison command, then.”
“And ten more Imperials a month. Enough to hire good tutors for Kesen and Vaneb, instead of that wine-addled old toad with the fiddling hands attached to the garrison staff.”
“Minala doesn’t look broken,” Kalam said.
“Oh, she’s broken all right. Forced healing was the colonel’s mainstay. It’s one thing to beat a person senseless, then have to wait a month or more for her to mend before you can do it again. With a squad healer with gambling debts at your side, you can break bones before breakfast and have her ready for more come the next sunrise.”
“With you smartly saluting through it all—”
Keneb winced, glanced away. “Can’t object to what you don’t know, Corporal. If I’d had as much as a suspicion…” He shook his head. “Closed doors. It was Selv who found out, through a launderer we shared with the colonel’s household. Blood on the sheets and all that. When she told me I went to call him out to the compound.” He grimaced. “The rebellion interrupted me—I walked into an ambush well under way, and then my only concern was in keeping us all alive.”
“How did the good colonel die?”
“You’ve just come to a closed door, Corporal.”
Kalam smiled. “That’s all right. Times like these I can see through them well enough.”
“Then I needn’t say any more.”
“Looking at Minala, none of this makes sense,” the assassin said.
“There’s different kinds of strength, I guess. And defenses. She used to be close with Selv, with the children. Now she wraps herself around them like armor, just as cold and just as hard. What she’s having trouble with is you, Kalam. You’ve wrapped yourself in the same way but around her—and the rest of us.”
And she’s feeling redundant? Maybe that’s how it would look to Keneb. “Her trouble with me is that she doesn’t trust me, Captain.”
“Why in Hood’s name not?”
Because I’m holding daggers unseen. And she knows it. Kalam shrugged. “From what you’ve told me, I’d expect trust to be something she wouldn’t easily grant to anyone, Captain.”
Keneb mused on this, then he sighed and rose. “Well, enough of that. I’ve a shroud to stare up at and snores to count.”
Kalam watched the captain move away and settle down beside Selv. The assassin drew a deep, slow breath. I expect your death was a quick one, Colonel Tras. Be fickle, dear Hood, and spit the bastard back out. I’ll kill him again, and Queen turn away, I’ll not be quick.
On his belly, Fiddler wormed his way down the rock-tumbled slope, heedlessly scraping his knuckles as he held out his cocked crossbow before him. That bastard Servant’s dissolving in a dozen stomachs by now. Either that or his head’s riding a pike minus the ears now dangling from someone’s hip.
All of Icarium’s and Mappo’s skills had been stretched to the limit with the simple effort of keeping everyone alive. The Whirlwind, for all its violence, was no longer an empty storm scouring a dead land. Servant’s trail had led the group into a more focused mayhem.
Another lance flew out from the swirling ochre curtain to his left and landed with a clatter ten paces from where the sapper lay. Your goddess’s wrath leaves you as blind as us, fool!
They were in hills crawling with Sha’ik’s desert warriors. There was both coincidence and something else in this fell convergence. Convergence indeed. The followers seek the woman they’re sworn to follow. Too bad that the other path happens to be here as well.
Distant screams rose above the wind’s more guttural howl. Lo, the hills are alive with beasts. Foul-tempered ones at that. Three times in the past hour Icarium had led them around a Soletaken or a D’ivers. There was some kind of mutually agreed avoidance going on—the shapeshifters wanted nothing to do with the Jhag. But Sha’ik’s fanatics…ah, now they’re fair game. Lucky for us.
Still, the likelihood that Servant still lived seemed, to Fiddler’s mind, very small indeed. He worried for Apsalar as well, and found himself—ironically—praying that a god’s skills would prove equal to the task.
Two desert warriors wearing leather armor appeared ahead and below, scampering with panicked haste down toward the base of the gorge.
Fiddler hissed a curse. He was the group’s flank on this side—if they got past him…
The sapper raised his crossbow.
Black cloaks swept over the two figures. They shrieked. The cloaks swarmed, crawled. Spiders, big enough to make out each one even at this distance. Fiddler’s skin prickled. You should have brought brooms, friends.
He pushed himself up from the crevasse he had wedged himself into, angled right as he scrambled along the slope. And if I don’t get back into Icarium’s influence soon, I’ll be wishing I had as well.
The screams of the desert warriors ceased, either with the distance the sapper put between him and them, or blissful release—he hoped the latter. Directly ahead rose the side of the ridge that had—thus far—marked Apsalar and her father’s trail.
The wind tugged at him as he clambered his way to the top. Almost immediately he stumbled onto the spine and caught sight of the others, no more than ten paces ahead. The three were crouched over a motionless figure.
Fiddler went cold. Oh, Hood, make it a stranger…
It was. A young man, naked, his skin too pale to make him one of Sha’ik’s desert tribesmen. His throat had been cut, the wound gaping down to the vertebra’s flattened inner side. There was no blood.
As Fiddler slowly crouched down, Mappo looked over at the sapper. “A Soletaken, we think,” he said.
“That’s Apsalar’s work,” Fiddler said. “See how the head was pushed forward and down, chin tucked to anchor the blade—I’ve seen it before…”
“Then she’s alive,” Crokus said.
“As I said,” Icarium rumbled. “As is her father.”
So far so good. Fiddler straightened. “There’s no blood,” he said. “Any idea how long ago he was killed?”
“No more than an hour,” Mappo said. “As for the lack of blood…” He shrugged. “The Whirlwind is a thirsty goddess.”
The sapper nodded. “I think I’ll stick closer from now on, if you don’t mind—I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble from Sha’ik’s warriors—call it a gut feeling.”
Mappo nodded. “For the moment, we ourselves walk the Path of Hands.”
And why is that, I wonder?
They resumed their journey. Fiddler mused on the half-dozen times he’d seen desert warriors in the past twelve hours. Desperate men and women in truth. Raraku was the center of the Apocalypse, yet the rebellion was headless and had been for some time. What was going on beyond the Holy Desert’s ring of crags?
