The Malazan Empire, page 176
Kallor simply nodded.
Horse hooves sounded then, and the Tiste Andii lining the southeast side of the ring parted. Whiskeyjack rode into the clearing, slowing his mount to a walk, then to a perfect square-stanced halt. It was unclear what the commander had heard, yet he acted none the less. Dismounting, he strode towards Silverfox, stopping directly before her. His sword slid smoothly from its scabbard. Whiskeyjack faced Rake, Kallor and the others in the centre of the clearing, then planted his sword in the ground before him.
Caladan Brood stepped to the Malazan’s side. ‘With what you might face, Whiskeyjack, it would be best if you—’
‘I stand here,’ the commander growled.
Sorcery flowed from Anomander Rake, grainy grey, rolling in a slow wave across the clearing, passing through Whiskeyjack effortlessly, then swallowing Silverfox in an opaque, swirling embrace.
The Mhybe cried out, lurched forward, but Korlat’s hand closed on her arm. ‘Fear not,’ she said, ‘he but seeks to understand her—understand what she is…’
The sorcery frayed suddenly, flung away in tattered fragments to all sides. The Mhybe hissed. She knew enough of her daughter to see, in her reappearance, that she was furious. Power, twisting like taut ropes, rose around her, knotting, bunching.
Oh, spirits below, I see Nightchill and Tattersail both … a shared rage. And, by the Abyss, another! A stolid will, a sentience slow to anger … so much like Brood – who? Is this – oh! – is this Bellurdan? Gods! We are moments from tearing ourselves apart. Please …
‘Well,’ Rake drawled, ‘I have never before had my hand slapped in such a fashion. Impressive, though perilously impertinent. What is it, then, that the child does not wish me to discover?’ He reached over his left shoulder for Dragnipur’s leather-wrapped handle.
Grunting a savage curse, Brood unlimbered his hammer.
Whiskeyjack shifted his stance, raising his own blade.
Gods no, this is wrong—
‘Rake,’ Kallor rasped, ‘do you wish me on your left or right?’
Snapping tent poles startled everyone. A loud yelp from the command tent was followed by a massive, awkward, flying shape exploding out from the tent’s entrance. Cavorting, spinning wildly in the air, the huge wooden table the Mhybe had last seen emerging from the Shroud now rose above the clearing, and from one leg dangled Kruppe, sweetcakes fluttering away from him. He yelped again, kicking the air with his slippered feet. ‘Aai! Help! Kruppe hates flying!’
* * *
As the Bridgeburners completed assembling their gear, the sentries positioned to the east shouting out the news that the Black Moranth had been seen and now approached on their winged quorls, Captain Paran, plagued by a growing unease, strode among the gathered soldiers.
Off to one side, an exhausted Picker sat watching him, her expression a strange mixture of dismay and admiration, and thus she was the only one to see him taking yet another forward step, then simply vanishing.
The corporal bolted to her feet. ‘Oh, Hood’s balls! Spindle! Get Quick Ben!’
A few paces away, the hairshirted mage glanced up. ‘Why?’
‘Someone’s just snatched Paran – find Quick Ben, damn you!’
* * *
The vision of busy soldiers vanished before the captain’s eyes, and from a blurred veil that swiftly parted Paran found himself facing Anomander Rake and Kallor – both with weapons drawn – and behind them the Mhybe and Korlat, with a ring of alert Tiste Andii just beyond.
Countless eyes fixed on him, then darted up over his right shoulder, then back down. No-one moved, and Paran realized he was not alone in his shock.
‘Help!’
The captain spun at that plaintive cry, then looked up. An enormous wooden table twisted silently in the air, Kruppe’s round, silk-flowing form hanging beneath it. On the underside of the table, painted in bright, now glowing colours, was the image of a man. Slowly blinking in and out of Paran’s view, it was a few moments before he recognized the figure’s face. That’s me …
Pain ripped into him, a black surge that swallowed him whole.
* * *
The Mhybe saw the young captain buckle, drop to his knees, as if drawing tight around an overwhelming agony.
Her attention darted to her daughter, in time to see those bound coils of power snake outward from Silverfox, slipping round and past the motionless forms of Brood and Whiskeyjack, then upward to touch the table.
The four legs snapped. With a shriek Kruppe plunged earthward, to land in a flailing of limbs and silk among a crowd of Tiste Andii. Cries and grunts of pain and surprise followed. The table now steadied, the underside facing Rake and Kallor, the image of Paran coruscating with sorcery. Wisps of it reached down to clothe the hunched, kneeling captain in glittering, silver chains.
‘Well,’ a slightly breathless voice said beside her, ‘that’s the largest card of the Deck I’ve ever seen.’
She pulled her gaze away, stared wide-eyed at the lithe, dark-skinned mage standing beside her. ‘Quick Ben…’
The Bridgeburner stepped forward then, raising his hands. ‘Please excuse my interruption, everyone! Whilst it seems that a confrontation is desired by many of you here, might I suggest the absence of … uh, wisdom … in inviting violence here and now, when it is clear that the significance of all that seems to be occurring is as yet undetermined. The risks of precipitate action right now … Well, I trust you see what I mean.’
Anomander Rake stared at the mage a moment, then, with a faint smile, he sheathed his sword. ‘Cautious words, but wise ones. Who might you be, sir?’
‘Just a soldier, Son of Darkness, come to retrieve my captain.’
At that moment Kruppe emerged from the muttering, no doubt bruised crowd that had cushioned his fall. Brushing dust from his silks, he strode seemingly unaware to halt directly between the kneeling Paran and Anomander Rake. He looked up then, blinking owlishly. ‘What an unseemly conclusion to Kruppe’s post-breakfast repast! Has the meeting adjourned?’
* * *
Captain Paran was insensate to the power bleeding into him. In his mind he was falling, falling. Then striking hard, rough flagstones, the clash of his armour echoing. The pain was gone. Gasping, shivering uncontrollably, he raised his head.
In the dim light of reflected lanterns, he saw that he was sprawled in a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway. Heavy twin doors divided the strangely uneven wall on his right; on his left, opposite the doors, was a wide entrance, with niches set in its flanking walls. On all sides, the stone appeared rough, undressed, resembling the bark of trees. A heavier door of sheeted bronze – black and pitted – was at the far end, eight or so paces distant. Two shapeless humps lay at the inner threshold.
Where? What?
Paran pushed himself upright, using one wall for support. His gaze was drawn once again to the shapes at the foot of the bronze door. He staggered closer.
A man, swathed in the tightly bound clothes of an assassin, his narrow, smooth-shaven face set in a peaceful expression, his long black braids still glistening with oil. An old-fashioned crossbow lay beside him.
Lying at his side, a woman, her cloak stretched and twisted as if the man had dragged her across the threshold. A nasty head wound glittered wetly on her brow, and, from the blood-smears on the flagstones, she was the bearer of other wounds as well.
They’re both Daru … wait, I have seen the man before. At Simtal’s Fete … and the woman! She’s the Guild Master …
Rallick Nom and Vorcan, both of whom vanished that night of the ill-fated fete. I am in Darujhistan, then. I must be.
Silverfox’s words returned to him, resounding now with veracity. He scowled. The table – the card, with my image painted upon it. Jen’isand Rul, the Unaligned newly come to the Deck of Dragons … powers unknown. I have walked within a sword. It seems now that I can walk … anywhere.
And this place, this place … I am in the Finnest House. Gods, I am in a House of the Azath!
He heard a sound, a shuffling motion approaching the twin doors opposite, and slowly turned, reaching for the sword belted at his hip.
The wooden portals swung wide.
Hissing, Paran backed up a step, his blade sliding from its scabbard.
The Jaghut standing before him was almost fleshless, ribs snapped and jutting, strips of flayed skin and muscle hanging in ghastly ribbons from his arms. His gaunt, ravaged face twisted as he bared his tusks. ‘Welcome,’ he rumbled. ‘I am Raest. Guardian, prisoner, damned. The Azath greets you, as much as sweating stone is able. I see that, unlike the two sleeping in the threshold, you have no need for doors. So be it.’ He lurched a step closer, then cocked his head. ‘Ah, you are not here in truth. Only your spirit.’
‘If you say so.’ His thoughts travelled back to that last night of the fete. The debacle in the estate’s garden. Memories of sorcery, detonations, and Paran’s unexpected journey into the realm of Shadow, the Hounds and Cotillion. A journey such as this one … He studied the Jaghut standing before him. Hood take me, this creature is the Jaghut Tyrant – the one freed by Lorn and the T’lan Imass – or, rather, what’s left of him. ‘Why am I here?’
The grin broadened. ‘Follow me.’
Raest stepped into the corridor and turned to his right, each bared foot dragging, grinding as if the bones beneath the skin were all broken. Seven paces along, the hallway ended with a door on the left and another directly in front. The Jaghut opened the one on the left, revealing a circular chamber beyond, surrounding spiral stairs of root-bound wood. There was no light, yet Paran found he could see well enough.
They went down, the steps beneath them like flattened branches spoking out from the central trunk. The air warmed, grew moist and sweet with the smell of humus.
‘Raest,’ Paran said as they continued to descend, ‘the assassin and the Guild Master … you said they were asleep – how long have they been lying there?’
‘I measure no days within the House, mortal. The Azath took me. Since that event, a few outsiders have sought entry, have probed with sorceries, have indeed walked the yard, but the House has denied them all. The two within the threshold were there when I awoke, and have not moved since. It follows, then, that the House has already chosen.’
As the Deadhouse did Kellanved and Dancer. ‘All very well, but can’t you awaken them?’
‘I have not tried.’
‘Why not?’
The Jaghut paused, glanced back up at the captain. ‘There has been no need.’
‘Are they guardians as well?’ Paran asked as they resumed the descent.
‘Not directly. I suffice, mortal. Unwitting servants, perhaps. Your servants.’
‘Mine? I don’t need servants – I don’t want servants. Furthermore, I don’t care what the Azath expects of me. The House is mistaken in its faith, Raest, and you can tell it that for me. Tell it to find another … another whatever I am supposed to be.’
‘You are the Master of the Deck. Such things cannot be undone.’
‘The what? Hood’s breath, the Azath had better find a way of undoing that choice, Jaghut,’ Paran growled.
‘It cannot be undone, as I’ve already told you. A Master is needed, so here you are.’
‘I don’t want it!’
‘I weep a river of tears for your plight, mortal. Ah, we have arrived.’
They stood on a landing. Paran judged that they had gone down six, perhaps seven levels into the bowels of the earth. The stone walls had disappeared, leaving only gloom, the ground underfoot a mat of snaking roots.
‘I can go no further, Master of the Deck,’ Raest said. ‘Walk into the darkness.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then I kill you.’
‘Unforgiving bastard, this Azath,’ Paran muttered.
‘I kill you, not for the Azath, but for the wasted effort of this journey. Mortal, you’ve no sense of humour.’
‘And you think you do?’ the captain retorted.
‘If you refuse to go further, then … nothing. Apart from irritating me, that is. The Azath is patient. You will make the journey eventually, though the privilege of my escort occurs but once, and that once is now.’
‘Meaning I won’t have your cheery company next time? How will I cope?’
‘Miserably, if there was justice in the world.’
Paran faced the darkness. ‘And is there?’
‘You ask that of a Jaghut? Now, do we stand here for ever?’
‘All right, all right,’ the captain sighed. ‘Pick any direction?’
Raest shrugged. ‘They are all one to me.’
Grinning in spite of himself, Paran strode forward. Then he paused and half turned. ‘Raest, you said the Azath has need for a Master of the Deck. Why? What’s happened?’
The Jaghut bared his tusks. ‘A war has begun.’
Paran fought back a sudden shiver. ‘A war? Involving the Houses of the Azath?’
‘No entity will be spared, mortal. Not the Houses, not the gods. Not you, human, nor a single one of your short-lived, insignificant comrades.’
Paran grimaced. ‘I’ve enough wars to deal with as it is, Raest.’
‘They are all one.’
‘I don’t want to think about any of this.’
‘Then don’t.’
After a moment, Paran realized his glare was wasted on the Jaghut. He swung about and resumed his journey. With his third step his boot struck flagstone instead of root, and the darkness around him dissolved, revealing, in a faint, dull yellow light, a vast concourse. Its edges, visible a hundred paces or more in every direction, seemed to drift back into gloom. Of Raest and the wooden stairs there was no sign. Paran’s attention was drawn to the flagstones beneath him.
Carved into their bleached surfaces were cards of the Deck of Dragons. No, more than just the Deck of Dragons – there’s cards here I don’t recognize. Lost Houses, and countless forgotten Unaligned Houses, and … The captain stepped forward, crouched down to study one image. As he focused his attention on it the world around him faded, and he felt himself moving into the carved scene.
A chill wind slid across his face, the air smelling of mud and wet fur. He could feel the earth beneath his boots, cold and yielding. Somewhere in the distance crows cackled. The strange hut he had seen in the carving now stood before him, long and humped, the huge bones and long tusks comprising its framework visible between gaps in the thick, umber fur-skins clothing it. Houses … and Holds, the first efforts at building. People once dwelt within such structures, like living inside the rib-cage of a dragon. Gods, those tusks are huge – whatever beast these bones came from must have been massive …
I can travel at will, it seems. Into each and every card, of every Deck that ever existed. Amidst the surge of wonder and excitement he felt ran an undercurrent of terror. The Deck possessed a host of unpleasant places.
And this one?
A small stone-lined hearth smouldered before the hut’s entrance. Wreathed in the smoke was a rack made of branches, on which hung strips of meat. The clearing, Paran now saw, was ringed with weathered skulls – doubtless from the beasts whose bones formed the framework of the hut itself. The skulls faced inward, and he could see by the long, yellowed molars in the jaws that the animals had been eaters of plants, not flesh.
Paran approached the hut’s entrance. The skulls of carnivores hung down from the doorway’s ivory frame, forcing him to duck as he entered.
Swiftly abandoned, from the looks of it. As if the dwellers just left but moments ago … At the far end sat twin thrones, squat and robust, made entirely of bones, on a raised dais of ochre-stained human skulls – well, close enough to human in any case. More like T’lan Imass …
Knowledge blossomed in his mind. He knew the name of this place, knew it deep in his soul. The Hold of the Beasts … long before the First Throne … this was the heart of the T’lan Imass’s power – their spirit world, when they were still flesh and blood, when they still possessed spirits to be worshipped and revered. Long before they initiated the Ritual of Tellann … and so came to outlast their own pantheon …
A realm, then, abandoned. Lost to its makers. What then, is the Warren of Tellann that the T’lan Imass now use? Ah, that warren must have been born from the Ritual itself, a physical manifestation of their Vow of Immortality, perhaps. Aspected, not of life, nor even death. Aspected … of dust.
He stood unmoving for a time, struggling to comprehend the seemingly depthless layers of tragedy that were the burdens of the T’lan Imass.
Oh my, they’ve outlasted their own gods. They exist in a world of dust in truth – memories untethered, an eternal existence … no end in sight. Sorrow flooded him in a profound, heart-rending wave. Beru fend … so alone, now. So alone for so long … yet now they are gathering, coming to the child seeking benediction … and something more …
Paran stepped back – and stood on the flagstones once again. With an effort he pulled his eyes from the carved Hold of Beasts – but why were there two thrones and not just one? – as he now knew the card was called. Another etched stone, a dozen paces to his left, caught his attention. A throbbing, crimson glow suffused the air directly above it.
He walked to it, looked down.
The image of a sleeping woman, as seen from above, dominated the flagstone. Her flesh seemed to spin and swirl. Paran slowly lowered himself into a crouch, his eyes narrowing. Her skin was depthless, revealing ever more detail as the captain’s vision was drawn ever closer. Skin, not skin. Forests, sweeps of bedrock, the seething floor of the oceans, fissures in the flesh of the world – she is Burn! She is the Sleeping Goddess.
Then he saw the flaw, the marring a dark, suppurating welt. Waves of nausea swept through Paran, yet he would not look away. There, at the wound’s heart, a humped, kneeling, broken figure. Chained. Chained to Burn’s own flesh. From the figure, down the length of the chains, poison flowed into the Sleeping Goddess.
She sensed the sickness coming, sinking claws into her. Sensed … and chose to sleep. Less than two thousand years ago, she chose to sleep. She sought to escape the prison of her own flesh, in order to do battle with the one who was killing that flesh. She – oh gods above and below! She made of herself a weapon! Her entire spirit, all its power, into a single forging … a hammer, a hammer capable of breaking … breaking anything. And Burn then found a man to wield it …
Horse hooves sounded then, and the Tiste Andii lining the southeast side of the ring parted. Whiskeyjack rode into the clearing, slowing his mount to a walk, then to a perfect square-stanced halt. It was unclear what the commander had heard, yet he acted none the less. Dismounting, he strode towards Silverfox, stopping directly before her. His sword slid smoothly from its scabbard. Whiskeyjack faced Rake, Kallor and the others in the centre of the clearing, then planted his sword in the ground before him.
Caladan Brood stepped to the Malazan’s side. ‘With what you might face, Whiskeyjack, it would be best if you—’
‘I stand here,’ the commander growled.
Sorcery flowed from Anomander Rake, grainy grey, rolling in a slow wave across the clearing, passing through Whiskeyjack effortlessly, then swallowing Silverfox in an opaque, swirling embrace.
The Mhybe cried out, lurched forward, but Korlat’s hand closed on her arm. ‘Fear not,’ she said, ‘he but seeks to understand her—understand what she is…’
The sorcery frayed suddenly, flung away in tattered fragments to all sides. The Mhybe hissed. She knew enough of her daughter to see, in her reappearance, that she was furious. Power, twisting like taut ropes, rose around her, knotting, bunching.
Oh, spirits below, I see Nightchill and Tattersail both … a shared rage. And, by the Abyss, another! A stolid will, a sentience slow to anger … so much like Brood – who? Is this – oh! – is this Bellurdan? Gods! We are moments from tearing ourselves apart. Please …
‘Well,’ Rake drawled, ‘I have never before had my hand slapped in such a fashion. Impressive, though perilously impertinent. What is it, then, that the child does not wish me to discover?’ He reached over his left shoulder for Dragnipur’s leather-wrapped handle.
Grunting a savage curse, Brood unlimbered his hammer.
Whiskeyjack shifted his stance, raising his own blade.
Gods no, this is wrong—
‘Rake,’ Kallor rasped, ‘do you wish me on your left or right?’
Snapping tent poles startled everyone. A loud yelp from the command tent was followed by a massive, awkward, flying shape exploding out from the tent’s entrance. Cavorting, spinning wildly in the air, the huge wooden table the Mhybe had last seen emerging from the Shroud now rose above the clearing, and from one leg dangled Kruppe, sweetcakes fluttering away from him. He yelped again, kicking the air with his slippered feet. ‘Aai! Help! Kruppe hates flying!’
* * *
As the Bridgeburners completed assembling their gear, the sentries positioned to the east shouting out the news that the Black Moranth had been seen and now approached on their winged quorls, Captain Paran, plagued by a growing unease, strode among the gathered soldiers.
Off to one side, an exhausted Picker sat watching him, her expression a strange mixture of dismay and admiration, and thus she was the only one to see him taking yet another forward step, then simply vanishing.
The corporal bolted to her feet. ‘Oh, Hood’s balls! Spindle! Get Quick Ben!’
A few paces away, the hairshirted mage glanced up. ‘Why?’
‘Someone’s just snatched Paran – find Quick Ben, damn you!’
* * *
The vision of busy soldiers vanished before the captain’s eyes, and from a blurred veil that swiftly parted Paran found himself facing Anomander Rake and Kallor – both with weapons drawn – and behind them the Mhybe and Korlat, with a ring of alert Tiste Andii just beyond.
Countless eyes fixed on him, then darted up over his right shoulder, then back down. No-one moved, and Paran realized he was not alone in his shock.
‘Help!’
The captain spun at that plaintive cry, then looked up. An enormous wooden table twisted silently in the air, Kruppe’s round, silk-flowing form hanging beneath it. On the underside of the table, painted in bright, now glowing colours, was the image of a man. Slowly blinking in and out of Paran’s view, it was a few moments before he recognized the figure’s face. That’s me …
Pain ripped into him, a black surge that swallowed him whole.
* * *
The Mhybe saw the young captain buckle, drop to his knees, as if drawing tight around an overwhelming agony.
Her attention darted to her daughter, in time to see those bound coils of power snake outward from Silverfox, slipping round and past the motionless forms of Brood and Whiskeyjack, then upward to touch the table.
The four legs snapped. With a shriek Kruppe plunged earthward, to land in a flailing of limbs and silk among a crowd of Tiste Andii. Cries and grunts of pain and surprise followed. The table now steadied, the underside facing Rake and Kallor, the image of Paran coruscating with sorcery. Wisps of it reached down to clothe the hunched, kneeling captain in glittering, silver chains.
‘Well,’ a slightly breathless voice said beside her, ‘that’s the largest card of the Deck I’ve ever seen.’
She pulled her gaze away, stared wide-eyed at the lithe, dark-skinned mage standing beside her. ‘Quick Ben…’
The Bridgeburner stepped forward then, raising his hands. ‘Please excuse my interruption, everyone! Whilst it seems that a confrontation is desired by many of you here, might I suggest the absence of … uh, wisdom … in inviting violence here and now, when it is clear that the significance of all that seems to be occurring is as yet undetermined. The risks of precipitate action right now … Well, I trust you see what I mean.’
Anomander Rake stared at the mage a moment, then, with a faint smile, he sheathed his sword. ‘Cautious words, but wise ones. Who might you be, sir?’
‘Just a soldier, Son of Darkness, come to retrieve my captain.’
At that moment Kruppe emerged from the muttering, no doubt bruised crowd that had cushioned his fall. Brushing dust from his silks, he strode seemingly unaware to halt directly between the kneeling Paran and Anomander Rake. He looked up then, blinking owlishly. ‘What an unseemly conclusion to Kruppe’s post-breakfast repast! Has the meeting adjourned?’
* * *
Captain Paran was insensate to the power bleeding into him. In his mind he was falling, falling. Then striking hard, rough flagstones, the clash of his armour echoing. The pain was gone. Gasping, shivering uncontrollably, he raised his head.
In the dim light of reflected lanterns, he saw that he was sprawled in a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway. Heavy twin doors divided the strangely uneven wall on his right; on his left, opposite the doors, was a wide entrance, with niches set in its flanking walls. On all sides, the stone appeared rough, undressed, resembling the bark of trees. A heavier door of sheeted bronze – black and pitted – was at the far end, eight or so paces distant. Two shapeless humps lay at the inner threshold.
Where? What?
Paran pushed himself upright, using one wall for support. His gaze was drawn once again to the shapes at the foot of the bronze door. He staggered closer.
A man, swathed in the tightly bound clothes of an assassin, his narrow, smooth-shaven face set in a peaceful expression, his long black braids still glistening with oil. An old-fashioned crossbow lay beside him.
Lying at his side, a woman, her cloak stretched and twisted as if the man had dragged her across the threshold. A nasty head wound glittered wetly on her brow, and, from the blood-smears on the flagstones, she was the bearer of other wounds as well.
They’re both Daru … wait, I have seen the man before. At Simtal’s Fete … and the woman! She’s the Guild Master …
Rallick Nom and Vorcan, both of whom vanished that night of the ill-fated fete. I am in Darujhistan, then. I must be.
Silverfox’s words returned to him, resounding now with veracity. He scowled. The table – the card, with my image painted upon it. Jen’isand Rul, the Unaligned newly come to the Deck of Dragons … powers unknown. I have walked within a sword. It seems now that I can walk … anywhere.
And this place, this place … I am in the Finnest House. Gods, I am in a House of the Azath!
He heard a sound, a shuffling motion approaching the twin doors opposite, and slowly turned, reaching for the sword belted at his hip.
The wooden portals swung wide.
Hissing, Paran backed up a step, his blade sliding from its scabbard.
The Jaghut standing before him was almost fleshless, ribs snapped and jutting, strips of flayed skin and muscle hanging in ghastly ribbons from his arms. His gaunt, ravaged face twisted as he bared his tusks. ‘Welcome,’ he rumbled. ‘I am Raest. Guardian, prisoner, damned. The Azath greets you, as much as sweating stone is able. I see that, unlike the two sleeping in the threshold, you have no need for doors. So be it.’ He lurched a step closer, then cocked his head. ‘Ah, you are not here in truth. Only your spirit.’
‘If you say so.’ His thoughts travelled back to that last night of the fete. The debacle in the estate’s garden. Memories of sorcery, detonations, and Paran’s unexpected journey into the realm of Shadow, the Hounds and Cotillion. A journey such as this one … He studied the Jaghut standing before him. Hood take me, this creature is the Jaghut Tyrant – the one freed by Lorn and the T’lan Imass – or, rather, what’s left of him. ‘Why am I here?’
The grin broadened. ‘Follow me.’
Raest stepped into the corridor and turned to his right, each bared foot dragging, grinding as if the bones beneath the skin were all broken. Seven paces along, the hallway ended with a door on the left and another directly in front. The Jaghut opened the one on the left, revealing a circular chamber beyond, surrounding spiral stairs of root-bound wood. There was no light, yet Paran found he could see well enough.
They went down, the steps beneath them like flattened branches spoking out from the central trunk. The air warmed, grew moist and sweet with the smell of humus.
‘Raest,’ Paran said as they continued to descend, ‘the assassin and the Guild Master … you said they were asleep – how long have they been lying there?’
‘I measure no days within the House, mortal. The Azath took me. Since that event, a few outsiders have sought entry, have probed with sorceries, have indeed walked the yard, but the House has denied them all. The two within the threshold were there when I awoke, and have not moved since. It follows, then, that the House has already chosen.’
As the Deadhouse did Kellanved and Dancer. ‘All very well, but can’t you awaken them?’
‘I have not tried.’
‘Why not?’
The Jaghut paused, glanced back up at the captain. ‘There has been no need.’
‘Are they guardians as well?’ Paran asked as they resumed the descent.
‘Not directly. I suffice, mortal. Unwitting servants, perhaps. Your servants.’
‘Mine? I don’t need servants – I don’t want servants. Furthermore, I don’t care what the Azath expects of me. The House is mistaken in its faith, Raest, and you can tell it that for me. Tell it to find another … another whatever I am supposed to be.’
‘You are the Master of the Deck. Such things cannot be undone.’
‘The what? Hood’s breath, the Azath had better find a way of undoing that choice, Jaghut,’ Paran growled.
‘It cannot be undone, as I’ve already told you. A Master is needed, so here you are.’
‘I don’t want it!’
‘I weep a river of tears for your plight, mortal. Ah, we have arrived.’
They stood on a landing. Paran judged that they had gone down six, perhaps seven levels into the bowels of the earth. The stone walls had disappeared, leaving only gloom, the ground underfoot a mat of snaking roots.
‘I can go no further, Master of the Deck,’ Raest said. ‘Walk into the darkness.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then I kill you.’
‘Unforgiving bastard, this Azath,’ Paran muttered.
‘I kill you, not for the Azath, but for the wasted effort of this journey. Mortal, you’ve no sense of humour.’
‘And you think you do?’ the captain retorted.
‘If you refuse to go further, then … nothing. Apart from irritating me, that is. The Azath is patient. You will make the journey eventually, though the privilege of my escort occurs but once, and that once is now.’
‘Meaning I won’t have your cheery company next time? How will I cope?’
‘Miserably, if there was justice in the world.’
Paran faced the darkness. ‘And is there?’
‘You ask that of a Jaghut? Now, do we stand here for ever?’
‘All right, all right,’ the captain sighed. ‘Pick any direction?’
Raest shrugged. ‘They are all one to me.’
Grinning in spite of himself, Paran strode forward. Then he paused and half turned. ‘Raest, you said the Azath has need for a Master of the Deck. Why? What’s happened?’
The Jaghut bared his tusks. ‘A war has begun.’
Paran fought back a sudden shiver. ‘A war? Involving the Houses of the Azath?’
‘No entity will be spared, mortal. Not the Houses, not the gods. Not you, human, nor a single one of your short-lived, insignificant comrades.’
Paran grimaced. ‘I’ve enough wars to deal with as it is, Raest.’
‘They are all one.’
‘I don’t want to think about any of this.’
‘Then don’t.’
After a moment, Paran realized his glare was wasted on the Jaghut. He swung about and resumed his journey. With his third step his boot struck flagstone instead of root, and the darkness around him dissolved, revealing, in a faint, dull yellow light, a vast concourse. Its edges, visible a hundred paces or more in every direction, seemed to drift back into gloom. Of Raest and the wooden stairs there was no sign. Paran’s attention was drawn to the flagstones beneath him.
Carved into their bleached surfaces were cards of the Deck of Dragons. No, more than just the Deck of Dragons – there’s cards here I don’t recognize. Lost Houses, and countless forgotten Unaligned Houses, and … The captain stepped forward, crouched down to study one image. As he focused his attention on it the world around him faded, and he felt himself moving into the carved scene.
A chill wind slid across his face, the air smelling of mud and wet fur. He could feel the earth beneath his boots, cold and yielding. Somewhere in the distance crows cackled. The strange hut he had seen in the carving now stood before him, long and humped, the huge bones and long tusks comprising its framework visible between gaps in the thick, umber fur-skins clothing it. Houses … and Holds, the first efforts at building. People once dwelt within such structures, like living inside the rib-cage of a dragon. Gods, those tusks are huge – whatever beast these bones came from must have been massive …
I can travel at will, it seems. Into each and every card, of every Deck that ever existed. Amidst the surge of wonder and excitement he felt ran an undercurrent of terror. The Deck possessed a host of unpleasant places.
And this one?
A small stone-lined hearth smouldered before the hut’s entrance. Wreathed in the smoke was a rack made of branches, on which hung strips of meat. The clearing, Paran now saw, was ringed with weathered skulls – doubtless from the beasts whose bones formed the framework of the hut itself. The skulls faced inward, and he could see by the long, yellowed molars in the jaws that the animals had been eaters of plants, not flesh.
Paran approached the hut’s entrance. The skulls of carnivores hung down from the doorway’s ivory frame, forcing him to duck as he entered.
Swiftly abandoned, from the looks of it. As if the dwellers just left but moments ago … At the far end sat twin thrones, squat and robust, made entirely of bones, on a raised dais of ochre-stained human skulls – well, close enough to human in any case. More like T’lan Imass …
Knowledge blossomed in his mind. He knew the name of this place, knew it deep in his soul. The Hold of the Beasts … long before the First Throne … this was the heart of the T’lan Imass’s power – their spirit world, when they were still flesh and blood, when they still possessed spirits to be worshipped and revered. Long before they initiated the Ritual of Tellann … and so came to outlast their own pantheon …
A realm, then, abandoned. Lost to its makers. What then, is the Warren of Tellann that the T’lan Imass now use? Ah, that warren must have been born from the Ritual itself, a physical manifestation of their Vow of Immortality, perhaps. Aspected, not of life, nor even death. Aspected … of dust.
He stood unmoving for a time, struggling to comprehend the seemingly depthless layers of tragedy that were the burdens of the T’lan Imass.
Oh my, they’ve outlasted their own gods. They exist in a world of dust in truth – memories untethered, an eternal existence … no end in sight. Sorrow flooded him in a profound, heart-rending wave. Beru fend … so alone, now. So alone for so long … yet now they are gathering, coming to the child seeking benediction … and something more …
Paran stepped back – and stood on the flagstones once again. With an effort he pulled his eyes from the carved Hold of Beasts – but why were there two thrones and not just one? – as he now knew the card was called. Another etched stone, a dozen paces to his left, caught his attention. A throbbing, crimson glow suffused the air directly above it.
He walked to it, looked down.
The image of a sleeping woman, as seen from above, dominated the flagstone. Her flesh seemed to spin and swirl. Paran slowly lowered himself into a crouch, his eyes narrowing. Her skin was depthless, revealing ever more detail as the captain’s vision was drawn ever closer. Skin, not skin. Forests, sweeps of bedrock, the seething floor of the oceans, fissures in the flesh of the world – she is Burn! She is the Sleeping Goddess.
Then he saw the flaw, the marring a dark, suppurating welt. Waves of nausea swept through Paran, yet he would not look away. There, at the wound’s heart, a humped, kneeling, broken figure. Chained. Chained to Burn’s own flesh. From the figure, down the length of the chains, poison flowed into the Sleeping Goddess.
She sensed the sickness coming, sinking claws into her. Sensed … and chose to sleep. Less than two thousand years ago, she chose to sleep. She sought to escape the prison of her own flesh, in order to do battle with the one who was killing that flesh. She – oh gods above and below! She made of herself a weapon! Her entire spirit, all its power, into a single forging … a hammer, a hammer capable of breaking … breaking anything. And Burn then found a man to wield it …
