The Malazan Empire, page 121
Squall Inn claimed to have seen better days, but Kalam suspected it never had. The floor of the main room sagged like an enormous bowl, tilting every wall inward until angled wooden posts were needed to keep them upright. Rotting food and dead rats had with inert patience migrated to the floor’s center, creating a mouldering, redolent heap like an offering to some dissolute god.
Chairs and tables stood on creatively sawed legs in a ring around the pit, only one still occupied by a denizen not yet drunk into senselessness. A back room no less disreputable provided the more privileged customers with some privacy, and it was there that Kalam had deposited his group to eat while a washtub was being prepared in the tangled garden. The assassin had then made his way to the main room and sat himself down opposite the solitary conscious customer.
“It’s the food, isn’t it?” the grizzled Napan said as soon as the assassin took his seat.
“Best in the city.”
“Or so voted the council of cockroaches.”
Kalam watched the blue-skinned man raise the mug to his lips, watched his large Adam’s apple bob. “Looks like you’ll have another one.”
“Easily.”
The assassin twisted slightly in his chair, caught the drooped gaze of the old woman leaning against a support post beside the ale keg, raised two fingers. She sighed, pushed herself upright, paused to adjust the rat-cleaver tucked through her apron belt, then went off in search of two tankards.
“She’ll break your arm if you paw,” the stranger said.
Kalam leaned back and regarded the man. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty, depending on his life’s toll. Deeply weathered skin was visible beneath the iron-streaked snarl of beard. The dark eyes roved restlessly and had yet to fix on the assassin. The man was dressed in baggy, thread-bare rags. “You force the question,” the assassin said. “Who are you and what’s your story?”
The man straightened up. “You think I tell that to just anyone?”
Kalam waited.
“Well,” the man continued. “Not everyone. Some people get rude and stop listening.”
An unconscious patron at a nearby table toppled from his chair, his head crunching as it struck the flagstones. Kalam, the stranger and the serving woman—who had just reappeared with two tin mugs—all watched as the drunk slid down on grease and vomit to join the central heap.
It turned out one of the rats had been just playing at being dead, and it popped free and clambered onto the patron’s body, nose twitching.
The stranger opposite the assassin grunted. “Everyone’s a philosopher.”
The serving woman delivered the drinks, her peculiar shuffle to their table displaying long familiarity with the pitched floor. Eyeing Kalam, she spoke in Dhebral. “Your friends in the back have asked for soap.”
“Aye, I imagine they have.”
“We got no soap.”
“I have just realized that.”
She wandered away.
“Newly arrived, I take it,” the stranger said. “North gate?”
“Aye.”
“That’s quite a climb, with horses yet.”
“Meaning the north gate’s locked.”
“Sealed, along with all the others. Maybe you arrived by the harborside.”
“Maybe.”
“Harbor’s closed.”
“How do you close Aren Harbor?”
“All right, it’s not closed.”
Kalam took a mouthful of ale, swallowed it down and went perfectly still.
“Gets even worse after a few,” the stranger said.
The assassin set the tankard back down on the table. He struggled a moment to find his voice. “Tell me some news.”
“Why should I?”
“I’ve bought you a drink.”
“And I should be grateful? Hood’s breath, man, you’ve tasted it!”
“I’m not usually this patient.”
“Oh, very well, why didn’t you say so?” He finished the first tankard, picked up the new one. “Some ales grow on you. Some grow in you. To your health, sir.” He quaffed the ale down.
“I have slit uglier throats than yours,” the assassin said.
The man paused, his eyes flicking for the briefest of moments to skitter over Kalam, then he set his tankard down. “Kornobol’s wives locked him out last night—the poor bastard was left wandering the streets till one of the High Fist’s patrols picked him up for breaking curfew. It’s becoming common practice. Wives all over the city are having revelations. What else? Can’t get a decent fillet without paying an arm and a leg for it—there’s more maimed beggars than ever crowding the streets where the markets used to be. Can’t buy a reading without Hood’s Herald poking up on the field—tell me, do you think it’s even possible that the High Fist is casting someone else’s shadow like they say? Of course, who can cast a shadow hiding in the palace wardrobe? Fish ain’t the only slippery things in this city, let me tell you. Why, I’ve been arrested four times in the last two days, had to identify myself and show my Imperial charter, if you can believe it. Turned out lucky, though, since I found my crew in one of those gaols. With Oponn’s smile I’ll have them out come tomorrow—got a deck to scrub and believe you me, those drunken louts will be scrubbing till the Abyss swallows the world. What’s worse is the way some people step right around that charter, make demands of a person so he’s left with an aching head delivering messages beneath common words, as if life’s not complicated enough—any idea how a hold groans when it’s full of gold? And now you’re going to say, ‘Well, Captain, it just so happens that I’m looking to buy passage back to Unta,’ and I’ll say, ‘The gods are smiling upon you, sir! It just so happens that I’m sailing in two days’ time, with twenty marines, the High Fist’s treasurer and half of Aren’s riches on board—but we’ve room, sir, oh, yes indeed. Welcome aboard!’ ”
Kalam was silent for a dozen heartbeats, then he said, “The gods are smiling indeed.”
The captain’s head bobbed. “Smooth and beguiling, them smiles.”
“Who do I thank for this arrangement?”
“Says he’s a friend of yours, though you’ve never met—though you will aboard my ship, Ragstopper, in two days.”
“His name?”
“Salk Elan, he called himself. Says he’s been waiting for you.”
“And how did he know I would come to this inn? I did not know of its existence an hour ago.”
“A guess, but an informed one. Something about this being the first one you come to down from the gate in the necropolis. Too bad you weren’t here last night, friend, it was even quieter, at least until the wench fished a drowned rat out of that keg over yonder. Too bad you and your friends missed this morning’s breakfast.”
Kalam slammed the rickety door behind him, pausing to regain control. Quick Ben’s arrangements? Not likely. Impossible, in fact—
“What’s wrong?” Minala was sitting at the table, a wedge of melon in one hand. Voices from the garden indicated parents bathing reluctant children.
The assassin closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them with a sigh. “You’ve been delivered to Aren—and now we must go our separate ways. Tell Keneb to go out until he finds a patrol or one finds him, and then make his report to the City Guard’s commander—leaving me entirely out of that report—”
“And how does he explain us getting into the city?”
“A fisherman brought you in. Keep it simple.”
“And that’s it? You won’t even say goodbye to Keneb, or Selv, or the children? You won’t even let them show their gratitude for saving their lives?”
“If you can, Minala, get yourself and your kin out of Aren—go back to Quon Tali.”
“Don’t do it like this, Kalam.”
“It’s the safest way.” The assassin hesitated, then said, “I wish it could have been…different.”
The wedge of melon caught him flush on one cheek. He spent a moment wiping his face, then picked up his saddlebags and threw them over one shoulder. “The stallion’s yours, Minala.”
In the main room, Kalam made his way to the captain’s table. “All right, I’m ready.”
Something like disappointment flickered in the man’s eyes, then he sighed and tottered upright. “So you say. It’s a middling long walk to where Ragstopper’s moored—with luck I’ll only have to show my charter a dozen or so times. Hood knows, what else do you do with an army camped in a city, eh?”
“That rag of a shirt you’re wearing won’t help matters, Captain. I imagine you’re looking forward to ditching the disguise.”
“What disguise? This is my lucky shirt.”
Lostara Yil leaned back against the wall of the small room, her arms crossed as she watched Pearl pacing back and forth near the window.
“Details,” he muttered, “it’s all in the details. Don’t blink or you might miss something.”
“I must report to the Red Blade commander,” Lostara said. “Then I shall return here.”
“Will Orto Setral give you leave, lass?”
“I am not relinquishing this pursuit…unless you forbid me.”
“Gods forbid! I enjoy your company.”
“You are being facetious.”
“Only slightly. Granted, you’ve displayed little ease of humor. However, we have shared quite an adventure thus far, have we not? Why end it now?”
Lostara examined her uniform. Its weight was a comfort—the armor she had worn when disguised was a shattered mess and she had happily discarded it after the Claw’s healing of her wounds.
Pearl had offered nothing to relieve the mystery of the demon that had appeared during the night engagement out on the plain, but it was clear to the Red Blade that the incident still troubled the man. As it does me, but that is past now. We have made it to Aren, still on the assassin’s trail. All is as it should be.
“Will you wait here for me?” she asked.
Pearl’s smile broadened. “Until the end of time, my dear.”
“Dawn will suffice.”
He bowed. “I shall count the heartbeats until then.”
She left the room, shutting the door behind her. The inn’s hallway led to a wooden staircase that took her into the crowded main room. The curfew made for a captive clientele, although the mood was anything but festive.
Lostara ducked under the staircase and passed through the kitchen. The eyes of the cook and her helpers followed her as she walked to the back door, which had been left ajar to provide a draft. It was a reaction she was used to. The Red Blades were much feared.
She pushed open the door and stepped out into the alley. The river’s breath, mingled with the salt of the bay, was cool against her face. I pray I never travel the Imperial Warren again.
She walked to the main street, her boots loud on the cobbles.
A dozen soldiers of the High Fist’s army accosted her as she reached the first intersection on her way to the garrison compound. The sergeant commanding them stared at her with disbelief.
“Good evening, Red Blade,” he said.
She nodded. “I understand that the High Fist has imposed a curfew. Tell me, do the Red Blades patrol the streets as well?”
“Not at all,” the sergeant replied.
There was an expectancy among the soldiers that Lostara found vaguely disturbing.
“They are tasked with other responsibilities, then?”
The sergeant slowly nodded. “I imagine they are. From your words and from…other things, I gather you are newly arrived.”
She nodded.
“How?”
“By warren. I had an…an escort.”
“The makings of an interesting story, no doubt,” the sergeant said. “I will have your weapons now.”
“Excuse me?”
“You wish to join your fellow Red Blades, yes? Speak with Commander Orto Setral?”
“Yes.”
“By the High Fist’s order, issued four days ago, the Red Blades are under detention.”
“What?”
“And await trial for treason against the Malazan Empire. Your weapons, please.”
Stunned, Lostara Yil made no resistance as the soldiers disarmed her. She stared at the sergeant. “Our loyalty has been…challenged?”
There was no malice in his eyes as he nodded. “I am sure your commander will have more to say on the situation.”
“He’s gone.”
Keneb’s jaw dropped. “Oh,” he managed after a moment. Frowning, he watched Minala packing her gear. “What are you doing?”
She whirled on him. “Do you think he gets away leaving it like that?”
“Minala—”
“Be quiet, Keneb! You’ll wake the children.”
“I wasn’t shouting.”
“Tell your commander everything, you understand me? Everything—except about Kalam.”
“I am not stupid, no matter what you may think.”
Her glare softened. “I know. Forgive me.”
“You’d better ask that of your sister, I think. And Kesen and Vaneb.”
“I will.”
“Tell me, how will you pursue a man who does not want to be pursued?”
A hard grin flashed on her dark features. “You ask that of a woman?”
“Oh, Minala…”
She reached up to brush his cheek with one hand. “No need for tears, Keneb.”
“I blame my sentimental streak,” he said with a weary smile. “But know this, I shall remain hopeful. Now, go and say good-bye to your sister and the children.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Goddess drew breath,
and all was still…
THE APOCALYPSE
HERULAHN
“We can’t stay here.”
Felisin’s eyes narrowed on the mage. “Why not? That storm outside will kill us. There’s no sheltering from it—except here, where there’s water…food—”
“Because we’re being hunted,” Kulp snapped, wrapping his arms around himself.
From where he sat against a wall, Heboric laughed. He raised his invisible hands. “Show me a mortal who is not pursued, and I’ll show you a corpse. Every hunter is hunted, every mind that knows itself has stalkers. We drive and are driven. The unknown pursues the ignorant, the truth assails every scholar wise enough to know his own ignorance, for that is the meaning of unknowable truths.”
Kulp looked up from where he sat on the low wall encircling the fountain, the lids of his eyes heavy as he studied the ex-priest. “I was speaking literally,” he said. “There are living shapeshifters in this city—their scent rides every wind and it’s getting stronger.”
“Why don’t we just give up?” Felisin said.
The mage sneered.
“I am not being flippant. We’re in Raraku, the home of the Whirlwind. There won’t be a friendly face within a hundred leagues of here, not that there’s a chance of making it that far in any case.”
“And the faces closer at hand aren’t even human,” Heboric added. “Every mask unveiled, and you know, the presence of D’ivers and Soletaken is most likely not at the Whirlwind’s beckoning. All a tragic coincidence, this Year of Dryjhna and the unholy convergence—”
“You’re a fool if you think that,” Kulp said. “The timing is anything but accidental. I’ve a hunch that someone started those shapeshifters on that convergence, and that someone acted precisely because of the uprising. Or it went the other way around—the Whirlwind goddess guided the prophecy to ensure that the Year of Dryjhna was now, when the convergence was under way, in the interest of creating chaos within the warrens.”
“Interesting notions, Mage,” Heboric said, slowly nodding. “Natural, of course, coming from a practitioner of Meanas, where deceit breeds like runaway weeds and inevitability defines the rules of the game…but only when useful.”
Felisin stayed silent, watching the two men. One conversation, here on the surface, yet another beneath. The priest and the mage are playing games, the entwining of suspicion with knowledge. Heboric sees a pattern, his plundering of ghostly lives gave him what he needed, and I think he’s telling Kulp that the mage himself is closer to that pattern than he might imagine. “Here, wielder of Meanas, take my invisible hand…”
Felisin decided she had had enough. “What do you know, Heboric?”
The blind man shrugged.
“Why does it matter to you, lass?” Kulp growled. “You’re suggesting surrender: let the shapeshifters take us—we’re dead anyway.”
“I asked, why do we struggle on? Why leave here? We haven’t got a chance out in the desert.”
“Stay, then!” Kulp snapped, rising. “Hood knows you’ve nothing useful to offer.”
“I’ve heard all it takes is a bite.”
He went still and slowly turned to her. “You heard wrong. It’s common enough ignorance, I suppose. A bite can poison you, a cyclical fever of madness, but you do not become a shapeshifter.”
“Really, then how are they created?”
“They aren’t. They’re born.”
Heboric clambered to his feet. “If we’re to walk through this dead city, let us do so now. The voices have stilled, and I am clear of mind.”
“What difference does that make?” Felisin demanded.
“I can guide us on the swiftest route, lass. Else we wander lost until the ones who hunt us finally arrive.”
They drank one last time from the pool, then gathered as many of the pale fruits as they could carry. Felisin had to admit to herself that she felt healthier—more mended—than she had in a long time, as if memories no longer bled and she was left with naught but scars. Yet the cast of her mind remained fraught. She had run out of hope.
Heboric led them swiftly down tortuous streets and alleys, through houses and buildings, and everywhere they went, they trod over and around bodies, human, shapeshifter and T’lan Imass, ancient scenes of fierce battle. Heboric’s plundered knowledge was lodged in Felisin’s mind, a trembling of ancient horror that made every new scene of death they stumbled upon resonate within her. She felt she was close to grasping a profound truth, around which orbited all human endeavor since the very beginning of existence. We do naught but scratch the world, frail and fraught. Every vast drama of civilizations, of peoples with their certainties and gestures, means nothing, affects nothing. Life crawls on, ever on. She wondered if the gift of revelation—of discovering the meaning underlying humanity—offered nothing more than a devastating sense of futility. It’s the ignorant who find a cause and cling to it, for within that is the illusion of significance. Faith, a king, queen or Emperor, or vengeance…all the bastion of fools.
