The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 152
A figure, its back to them, stood staring into those flames. Dressed in faded ochre robes, the man was solid, broad-shouldered and at least seven feet tall. A long, iron-hued ponytail swept down between his shoulders, bound just above the small of his back with a dull length of chain.
Without turning, the guardian spoke in a low, rumbling voice. “Your failure in taking Icarium has been noted.”
Fiddler grunted. “In the end, it was not up to us. Mappo—”
“Oh yes, Mappo,” the guardian cut in. “The Trell. He has walked at Icarium’s side too long, it seems. There are duties that surpass friendship. The Elders scarred him deep when they destroyed an entire settlement and laid the blame at Icarium’s feet. They imagined that would suffice. A Watcher was needed, desperately. The one who had held that responsibility before had taken his own life. For months Icarium walked the land alone, and the threat was too great.”
The words reached into Fiddler, tore at his insides. No, Mappo believes Icarium destroyed his home, murdered his family, everyone he knew. No, how could you have done that?
“The Azath has worked toward this taking for a long time, mortals.” The man turned then. Huge tusks framed his thin mouth, jutting from his lower lip. The greenish cast of his weathered skin made him look ghostly, despite the hearth’s warm light. Eyes the color of dirty ice regarded them.
Fiddler stared, seeing what he could not believe—the resemblance was unmistakeable, every feature an echo. His mind reeled.
“My son must be stopped—his rage is a poison,” the Jaghut said. “Some responsibilities surpass friendship, surpass even blood.”
“We are sorry,” Apsalar said quietly after a long moment, “but the task was ever beyond us, beyond those you see here.”
The cold, unhuman eyes studied her. “Perhaps you are right. It is my turn to apologize. I had such…hopes.”
“Why?” Fiddler whispered. “Why is Icarium so cursed?”
The Jaghut cocked his head, then abruptly swung back to the fire. “Wounded warrens are a dangerous thing. Wounding one is far more so. My son sought a way to free me from the Azath. He failed. And was…damaged. He did not understand—and now he never will—that I am content here. There are few places in all the realms that offer a Jaghut peace, or, rather, such peace as we are capable of achieving. Unlike your kind, we yearn for solitude, for that is our only safety.”
He faced them again. “For Icarium, of course, there is another irony. Without memory, he knows nothing of what once motivated him. He knows nothing of wounded warrens or the secrets of the Azath.” The Jaghut’s sudden smile was a thing of pain. “He knows nothing of me, either.”
Apsalar lifted her head suddenly, “You are Gothos, aren’t you?”
He did not answer.
Fiddler’s gaze was drawn to a bench against the near wall. He hobbled to it and sat down. Leaning his head against the warm stone wall, he closed his eyes. Gods, our struggles are as nothing, our inner scars naught but scratches. Bless you, Hood, for your gift of mortality. I could not live as these Ascendants do—I could not so torture my soul…
“It is time for you to leave,” the Jaghut rumbled. “If you are ailing with wounds, you shall find a bucket of water near the front door—the water has healing properties. This night is rife with unpleasantries in the streets beyond, so tread with care.”
Apsalar turned, meeting Fiddler’s eyes as he blinked them open and struggled to focus through his tears. Oh, Mappo, Icarium…so entwined…
“We must go,” she said.
He nodded, pushed himself to his feet. “I could do with a drink of water,” he muttered.
Crokus was taking a last look around, at the faded tapestries, the ornate bench, the pieces of stone and wood placed on ledges, finally at the numerous scrolls stacked on a desktop against the wall opposite the double doors. With a sigh he backed away. Apsalar’s father followed.
They returned to the hall and approached the entranceway. The bucket stood to one side, a wooden ladle hanging from a hook above it.
Apsalar took the ladle, dipped it into the water, offered it to Fiddler.
He drank deep, then barked in pain as an appallingly swift mending gripped his ankle. A moment later it passed. He sagged, suddenly covered in sweat. The others eyed him. “For Hood’s sake,” the sapper panted, “don’t drink unless you truly need it.”
Apsalar replaced the ladle.
The door opened at a touch, revealing a night sky and a shambles of a yard. A flagstone path wound its way to an arched gate. The entire grounds were enclosed by a low stone wall. Tenement houses rose beyond, every shutter closed.
“Well?” Crokus asked, turning to Fiddler.
“Aye. Malaz City.”
“Damned ugly.”
“Indeed.”
Testing his ankle and finding not a single tremor of pain, Fiddler walked down the path to the arched gate. In the dark pool of its shadow, he looked out onto the street.
No movement. No sound.
“I don’t like this at all.”
“Sorcery has touched this city,” Apsalar pronounced. “And I know its taste.”
Fiddler eyes narrowed on her. “Claw?”
She nodded.
The sapper swung his pack around to reach beneath the flap. “That means close-up scuffles, maybe.”
“If we’re unlucky.”
He withdrew two sharpers. “Yeah.”
“Where to?” Crokus whispered.
Damned if I know. “Let’s try Smiley’s—it’s a tavern both Kalam and I know well…”
They stepped out from the gate.
A huge shadow unfolded before them, revealing a hulking, ungainly shape.
Apsalar’s hand shot out and stilled Fiddler’s arm even as he prepared to throw. “No, wait.”
The demon tilted a long-snouted head their way, regarding them with one silver eye. Then a figure astride its shoulder leaned into view. A youth, stained in old blood, his face a human version of the beast’s.
“Aptorian,” Apsalar said in greeting.
The youth’s fanged mouth opened and a rasping voice emerged. “You seek Kalam Mekhar.”
“Yes,” Apsalar answered.
“He approaches the keep on the cliff—”
Fiddler started. “Mock’s Hold? Why?”
The rider cocked his head. “He wishes to see the Empress?”
The sapper spun, eyes straining toward the towering bastion. A dark pennant flapped from the weathervane. “Hood take us, she’s here!”
“We shall guide you,” the rider said, offering a ghastly smile. “Through Shadow—safe from the Claw.”
Apsalar smiled in return. “Lead on, then.”
There was no slowing of pace as they rode toward the foot of wide stone stairs leading up the cliff face.
Kalam gripped Minala’s arm. “You’d better slow—”
“Just hold tight,” she growled. “They aren’t so steep.”
They aren’t so steep? Fener’s—
Muscles surged beneath them as the stallion plunged forward. Before the beast’s hooves struck the stones, however, the world shifted into formless gray. The stallion screamed and reared back, but too late. The warren swallowed them.
Hooves skidded wildly beneath them. Kalam was thrown to one side, met a wall and was scraped off. A polished floor rose up to meet him, punched the air from his lungs. The crossbow flew from his hands and skittered away. Gasping, the assassin slowly rolled over.
They had arrived in a musty hallway, and the stallion was anything but pleased. The ceiling was high and arched, with an arm’s reach to spare above the rearing animal. Somehow Minala had stayed in the saddle. She struggled to calm the stallion, and a moment later succeeded, leaning forward to rest one hand lightly just behind its flaring nostrils.
With a groan, Kalam climbed to his feet.
“Where are we?” Minala hissed, staring up and down the long, empty hall.
“If I’m correct, Mock’s Hold,” the assassin muttered, retrieving the crossbow. “The Empress knows we’re coming—seems she’s grown impatient…”
“If that’s the case, Kalam, we’re as good as dead.”
He was not inclined to disagree, but said nothing, stepping past the horse and eyeing the doors at the far end. “I think we’re in the Old Keep.”
“That explains the dust—even so, it smells like a stable.”
“Not surprising—half this building’s been converted into just that. The Main Hall remains, though.” He nodded toward the doors. “Through there.”
“No other approaches?”
He shook his head. “None surviving. Her back door will be a warren, in any case.”
Minala grunted and climbed down from the saddle. “Do you think she’s been watching?”
“Magically? Maybe—you’re wondering if she knows about you.” He hesitated, then handed her the crossbow. “Let’s pretend she doesn’t. Hold back—I’ll lead the stallion through.”
She nodded, cocking the weapon.
He looked at her. “How in Hood’s name did you get here?”
“The Imperial transport that left a day after Ragstopper. This horse wasn’t out of place among Pormqual’s breeders. We, too, were caught in that cursed storm, but the only real trouble came when we had to disembark from the bay. That’s a swim I don’t want to repeat. Ever.”
The assassin’s eyes widened. “Hood’s breath, woman!” He looked away, then back. “Why?”
She bared her teeth. “Can you really be that dense, Kalam? In any case, was I wrong?”
There were some barriers the assassin had never expected to be breached. Their swift crumble left him breathless. “All right,” he finally said, “but I’ll have you know, I’m anything but subtle.”
Her brows arched. “You could have fooled me.”
Kalam faced the doors once again. He was armed with a single knife and had lost too much blood. Hardly what you’d call properly equipped to assassinate an Empress, but it will have to do…Without another word to Minala, he slipped forward, gathering the stallion’s reins. The animal’s hooves clopped loudly as they approached the old double doors.
He laid a hand against the wood. The dark-stained planks were sweating. There’s sorcery on the other side. Powerful sorcery. He stepped back, met Minala’s eyes where she stood ten paces back, and slowly shook his head.
She shrugged, lifting the crossbow in her hands.
He faced the doors again and gripped the latch of the one to his left. It lifted silently.
Kalam pushed the door open.
Inky darkness flowed out, bitter cold.
“Step within, Kalam Mekhar,” a woman’s voice invited.
He saw little option. He had come for this, though the final shaping was not as he would have liked. The assassin strode into the dark, the stallion following.
“That is close enough. Unlike Topper and his Claw, I do not underestimate you.”
He could see nothing, and the voice seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. The door behind him—slightly ajar—offered a slight lessening of the gloom, but that reached but a pace or two before the blackness absorbed it entirely.
“You’ve come to kill me, Bridgeburner,” Empress Laseen said in a cool, dry voice. “All this way. Why?”
The question startled him.
There was wry amusement in her voice as she continued, “I cannot believe that you must struggle to find your answer, Kalam.”
“The deliberate murder of the Bridgeburners,” the assassin growled. “The outlawing of Dujek Onearm. The attempted murders of Whiskeyjack, myself and the rest of the Ninth Squad. Old disappearances. A possible hand in Dassem Ultor’s death. The assassination of Dancer and the Emperor. Incompetence, ignorance, betrayal…” He let his litany fall away.
Empress Laseen was silent for a long time, then she said in a low tone, “And you are to be my judge. And executioner.”
“That’s about right.”
“Am I permitted a defense?”
He bared his teeth. The voice was coming from everywhere—everywhere but one place, he now realized, the corner off to his left, a corner that he estimated was no more than four strides away. “You can try, Empress.” Hood’s breath, I can barely stand upright, and she’s most likely got wards. As Quick Ben says, when you’ve got nothing, bluff…
Laseen’s tone hardened. “High Mage Tayschrenn’s efforts in Genabackis were misguided. The decimation of the Bridgeburners was not a part of my intentions. Within your squad was a young woman, possessed by a god that sought to kill me. Adjunct Lorn was sent to deal with her—”
“I know about that, Empress. You’re wasting time.”
“I do not see it as a waste, given that time may be all I shall enjoy here in the mortal realm. Now, to continue answering your charges. The outlawing of Dujek is a temporary measure, a ruse, in fact. We perceived the threat that was the Pannion Domin. Dujek, however, was of the opinion that he could not deal with it on his own. We needed to fashion allies of enemies, Kalam. We needed Darujhistan’s resources, we needed Caladan Brood and his Rhivi and Barghast, we needed Anomander Rake and his Tiste Andii. And we needed the Crimson Guard off our backs. Now, none of those formidable forces are strangers to pragmatism—one and all they could see the threat represented by the Pannion Seer and his rising empire. But the question of trust remained problematic. I agreed to Dujek’s plan to cut him and his Host loose. As outlaws, they are, in effect, distanced from the Malazan Empire and its desires—our answer, if you will, to the issue of trust.”
Kalam’s eyes narrowed in thought. “And who knows of this ruse?”
“Only Dujek and Tayschrenn.”
After a moment he grunted. “And what of the High Mage? What’s his role in all this?”
He heard the smile as she said, “Ah, well, he remains in the background, out of sight, but there for Dujek should Onearm need him. Tayschrenn is Dujek’s—how do you soldiers say it—his shaved knuckle in the hole.”
Kalam was silent for a long minute. The only sounds in the chamber were his breathing and the slow but steady drip of his blood onto the flagstones. Then he said, “There are older crimes that remain…” The assassin frowned. The only sounds…
“Assassinating Kellanved and Dancer? Aye, I ended their rule of the Malazan Empire. Usurped the throne. A most vicious betrayal, in truth. An empire is greater than any lone mortal—”
“Including you.”
“Including me. An empire enforces its own necessities, makes demands in the name of duty—and that particular burden is something you, as a soldier, most certainly understand. I knew those two men very well, Kalam—a claim you cannot make. I answered a necessity I could not avoid, with reluctance, with anguish. Since that time, I have made grievous errors in judgment—and I must live with those—”
“Dassem Ultor—”
“Was a rival. An ambitious man, sworn to Hood. I would not risk civil war, so I struck first. I averted that civil war, and so have no regrets on that.”
“It seems,” the assassin murmured dryly, “you’ve prepared for this.” Oh, haven’t you just.
After a moment she went on. “So, if Dassem Ultor was sitting here right now, instead of me—tell me, Kalam, do you think he would have let you get this close? Do you think he would have sought to reason with you?” She was silent for a few more breaths, then continued, “It seems clear that my efforts to disguise the direction of my voice have failed, for you face me directly. Three, perhaps four strides, Kalam, and you can end the reign of Empress Laseen. What do you choose?”
Smiling, Kalam shifted the grip of the knife in his right hand. Very well, I’ll play along. “Seven Cities—”
“Will be answered in kind,” she snapped.
Despite himself, the assassin’s eyes widened at the anger he heard there. Well, what do you know? Empress, you did not need your illusions after all. Thus, the hunt ends here. He sheathed the knife.
And smiled in admiration when she gasped.
“Empress,” he rumbled.
“I—I admit to some confusion…”
I’d not thought acting one of your fortes, Laseen…“You could have begged for your life. You could have given more reasons, made more justifications. Instead, you spoke, not with your voice, but with an empire’s.” He turned away. “Your hiding place is safe. I will leave your…presence—”
“Wait!”
He paused, brows raised at the sudden uncertainty in her voice. “Empress?”
“The Claw—I can do nothing—I cannot recall them.”
“I know. They deal with their own.”
“Where will you go?”
He smiled in the darkness. “Your confidence in me is flattering, Empress.” He swung the stallion around, strode to the doorway, then turned back one last time. “If you meant to ask, will I come for you again? The answer is no.”
Minala was covering the entrance from a few paces away. She slowly straightened as Kalam stepped into the hallway. The crossbow held steady as the assassin pulled the stallion into view, then went around and shut the door.
“Well?” she demanded in a hiss.
“Well, what?”
“I heard voices—murmuring, garbled—is she dead? Did you kill the Empress?”
I killed a ghost, perhaps. No, a scarecrow I made in Laseen’s guise. An assassin should never see the face behind the victim’s mask. “Naught but mocking echoes in that chamber. We’re done here, Minala.”
Her eyes flashed. “After all this…mocking echoes? You’ve crossed three continents to do this!”
He shrugged. “It’s our nature, isn’t it? Again and again, we cling to the foolish belief that simple solutions exist. Aye, I anticipated a dramatic, satisfying confrontation—the flash of sorcery, the spray of blood. I wanted a sworn enemy dead by my hand. Instead—” he rumbled a laugh—“I had an audience with a mortal woman, more or less…” He shook himself. “In any case, we’ve the Claw’s gauntlet ahead of us.”
“Terrific. What do we do now, then?”
He grinned. “Simple—straight down their Hood-damned throat.”
