The Malazan Empire, page 214
‘An alliance of equals,’ the High Fist muttered, then he shook his head. ‘What, then, does that make this Kruppe? Is he some god in disguise? A wizard of magnitude, an archmage?’
Whiskeyjack shrugged. ‘My best guess. Kruppe is a mortal man. But gifted with an intelligence that is singular in its prowess. And I mean that most literally. Singular, Dujek. If an Elder God was suddenly flung back into this realm, would he not seek out as his first ally the greatest of minds?’
Dujek’s face revealed disbelieving wonder. ‘But, Whiskeyjack … Kruppe?’
‘Kruppe. Who gave us the Trygalle Trade Guild, the only traders capable of supplying us on the route we chose to march. Kruppe, who brought to the Mhybe the surviving possessions of the First Rhivi, for her to wear and so diminish the pain she feels, and those ornaments are, I suspect, yet to fully flower. Kruppe, the only one Silverfox will speak with, now that Paran is gone. And, finally, Kruppe, who has set himself in the Crippled God’s path.’
‘If just a mortal, then how did he survive Brood’s wrath?’
‘Well, I expect his ally the Elder God would not wish to see the Daru killed. I’d guess there was intervention, then. What else could it have been?’
Dujek emptied his goblet. ‘Damn,’ he sighed. ‘All right. We ignore, as best we can, the Crippled God. We remain focused on the Pannion Domin. Still, my friend, I mislike it. I can’t help but be nervous in that we are not actively engaged in considering this new enemy…’
‘I don’t think we are, High Fist.’
Dujek’s glance was sharp, searching, then his face twisted. ‘Quick Ben.’
Whiskeyjack slowly nodded. ‘I think so. I’m not certain – Hood, I don’t even know if he’s still alive, but knowing Quick, he is. Very much alive. And, given his agitation the last time I saw him, he’s without illusions, and anything but ignorant.’
‘And he’s all we’ve got? To outwit the Crippled God?’
‘High Fist, if Kruppe is this world’s foremost genius, then Quick Ben’s but a step behind him. A very short step.’
They heard shouts outside the tent, then booted feet A moment later the standard-bearer Artanthos pulled aside the flap and entered. ‘Sirs, a lone Moranth has been spotted. Flying in from the northeast. It’s Twist.’
Whiskeyjack rose, grunting at the cascade of aches and twinges the motion triggered. ‘Queen of Dreams, we’re about to receive some news.’
‘Let’s hope it’s cheering news,’ Dujek growled. ‘I could do with some.’
* * *
Her face was pressed against the lichen-skinned stones, the roughness fading as her sweat soaked the ragged plant. Heart pounding, breaths coming in gasps, she lay whimpering, too tired to keep running, too tired to even so much as raise her head.
The tundra of her dreams had revealed new enemies. Not the band of strangers pursuing her this time.
This time, she had been found by wolves. Huge, gaunt creatures, bigger than any she had ever seen in her waking life. They had loped into view on a ridge marking the skyline to the north. Eight long-legged, shoulder-hunched beasts, their fur sharing the muted shades of the landscape. The one in the lead had turned, as if catching her scent on the dry, cold wind.
And the chase had begun.
At first the Mhybe had revelled in the fleetness of her young, lithe legs. Swift as an antelope – faster than anything a mortal human could achieve – she had fled across the barren land.
The wolves kept pace, tireless, the pack ranging out to the sides, one occasionally sprinting, darting in from one side or the other, forcing her to turn.
Again and again, when she sought to remain between hills, on level land, the creatures somehow managed to drive her up-slope. And she began to tire.
The pressure never relented. Into her thoughts, amidst the burgeoning pain in her legs, the fire in her chest and the dry, sharp agony of her throat, came the horrifying realization that escape was impossible. That she was going to die. Pulled down like any other animal doomed to become a victim of the wolves’ hunger.
For them, she knew, the sea of her mind, whipped now to a frenzied storm of panic and despair, meant nothing. They were hunters, and what resided within the soul of their quarry had no relevance. As with the antelope, the bhederin calf, the ranag, grace and wonder, promise and potential – reduced one and all to meat.
Life’s final lesson, the only truthful one buried beneath a layered skein of delusions.
Sooner or later, she now understood, we are all naught but food Wolves or worms, the end abrupt or lingering, it mattered not in the least.
Whimpering, half blind, she staggered up yet another hillside. They were closer. She could hear their paws crunching through wind-dried lichen and moss. To her right, to her left, closing, edging slightly ahead.
Crying out, the Mhybe stumbled, fell face first onto the rocky summit. She closed her eyes, waited for the first explosion of pain as teeth ripped into her flesh.
The wolves circled. She listened to them. Circled, then began spiralling in, closer, closer.
A hot breath gusted against the back of her neck.
The Mhybe screamed.
And awoke. Above her, a fading blue sky, a passing hawk. Haze of dust from the herd, drifting. In the air, distant voices and, much closer, the ragged, rattling sound of her own breathing.
The wagon had stopped moving. The army was settling in for the night.
She lay huddled, motionless beneath the furs and hides. A pair of voices were murmuring nearby. She smelled the smoke of a dung cook-fire, smelled a herbal, meaty broth – sage, a hint of goat. A third voice arrived, was greeted by the first two – all strangely indistinct, beyond her ability to identify. And not worth the effort. My watchers. My jailers.
The wagon creaked. Someone crouched beside her. ‘Sleep should not leave you so exhausted.’
‘No, Korlat, it should not. Please, now, let me end this myself—’
‘No. Here, Coll has made a stew.’
‘I’ve no teeth left with which to chew.’
‘Just slivers of meat, easily swallowed. Mostly broth.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Nevertheless. Shall I help you sit up?’
‘Hood take you, Korlat. You and the rest. Every one of you.’
‘Here, I will help you.’
‘Your good intentions are killing me. No, not killing. That’s just it, isn’t it—’ She grunted, feebly trying to twist away from Korlat’s hands as the Tiste Andii lifted her effortlessly into a sitting position. ‘Torturing me. Your mercy. Which is anything but. No, look not at my face, Korlat.’ She drew her hood tighter. ‘Lest I grow avid for the pity in your eyes. Where is this bowl? I will eat. Leave me.’
‘I will sit with you, Mhybe,’ Korlat replied. ‘There are two bowls, after all.’
The Rhivi woman stared down at her own wrinkled, pocked, skeletal hands, then at the bowl clutched between them, the watery broth with its slivers of wine-stained meat. ‘See this? The butcher of the goat. The slayer. Did he or she pause at the desperate cries of the animal? Look into its pleading eyes? Hesitate with the knife? In my dreams, I am as that goat. This is what you curse me to.’
‘The slaughterer of the goat was Rhivi,’ Korlat said after a moment. ‘You and I know that ritual well, Mhybe. Propitiation. Calling upon the merciful spirit whose embrace is necessity. You and I both know how that spirit comes upon the goat, or indeed any such creature whose body shall feed your people, whose skin shall clothe you. And so the beast does not cry out, does not plead. I have witnessed … and wondered, for it is indeed a remarkable thing. Unique to the Rhivi, not in its intent, but in its obvious efficacy. It is as if the ritual’s arriving spirit shows the beast a better future – something beyond the life it’s known to that point—’
‘Lies,’ the Mhybe murmured. ‘The spirit deceives the poor creature. To make the slaying easier.’
Korlat fell silent.
The Mhybe raised the bowl to her lips.
‘Perhaps, even then,’ the Tiste Andii resumed, ‘the deception is a gift … of mercy.’
‘There is no such thing,’ the Mhybe snapped. ‘Words to comfort the killer and his kin and naught else. Dead is dead, as the Bridgeburners are wont to say. Those soldiers know the truth of it. Children of the Malazan Empire hold no illusions. They are not easily charmed.’
‘You seem to know much of them.’
‘Two marines come to visit occasionally. They’ve taken it upon themselves to guard my daughter. And to tell me of her, since no-one else has a mind to, and I cherish them for that.’
‘I did not know this…’
‘It alarms you? Have terrible secrets been revealed to me? Will you now put a stop to it?’
A hand closed on her shoulder. ‘I wish you would at least look upon my face, Mhybe. No, I will do no such thing. Nor am I aware of any dire secrets being kept from you. Indeed, I now wish to seek out these two marines, to thank them.’
‘Leave them be, Korlat. They do not ask for thanks. They are simple soldiers, two women of the Empire. Through them, I know that Kruppe visits Silverfox regularly. He’s taken on the role of kindly uncle, perhaps. Such a strange man, endearing despite the terrible curse he has laid upon me.’
‘Curse? Oh. Mhybe, of all that I have seen of Kruppe, I can tell you, he is not one to curse anyone. I do not believe he ever imagined what the rebirthing of Tattersail would mean to you.’
‘So very true, that. I understand it well, you see. He was called upon by the Elder God – who either chose to become involved or was so already. An abomination had been created, as Kallor has called it, and it was an abomination in fact. The withered corpse of Nightchill, Tattersail’s soul trapped within it, the apparition webbed by T’lan Imass sorcery. A nightmare creation. The Elder God sought to save it, somehow, in some form, and for that it seemed he needed Kruppe. Thus. The Daru did all he could, believing it to be a mercy. But make no mistake, now, Korlat. Kruppe and his Elder God have decided to make use of the child they fashioned. Opportunistic or deliberate from the start? Does it matter? And lo, Kruppe now walks with Silverfox. Do they conspire? Am I blind…’
‘Conspire? To what end, Mhybe?’
‘You don’t know? I find that hard to believe.’
‘Clearly, you have concluded we are all conspiring … against you.’
‘Aren’t you?’ With all the strength she could muster, the Mhybe flung the bowl away, heard it splash, bounce off something, heard a shout of surprise from Murillio, who – it seemed – had the misfortune to be in its path of flight. ‘Guard me!’ she hissed. ‘Feed me! Watch me so I don’t take my own life! And this is not a conspiracy? And my daughter – my own daughter – does she visit? No! When have I last seen her face? When? I can barely remember the time!’
The hand tightened on her shoulder. Korlat’s voice, when she spoke, was low yet taut. ‘I hear you, my friend. I shall get to the bottom of this. I shall discover the truth, and then I shall tell you. This I promise, Mhybe.’
‘Then tell me, what has happened? Earlier today. I felt … something. An event. Coll and Murillio spoke of a scene between Kruppe and Brood. Tell me, where was Silverfox in all this?’
‘She was there,’ Korlat replied. ‘She joined me as I rode forward in answer to Whiskeyjack’s summons. I will be honest, Mhybe. Something indeed did occur, before the clash between Brood and Kruppe. Your daughter has found … protectors, but she will not extend that protection to you – for some reason she believes you are in danger, now. I do not know the source.’
Yet I do. Oh, Korlat, your friendship for me has blinded you. I am in danger indeed From myself. ‘Protectors. Who? What?’
Korlat drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. ‘Silverfox asked that I say nothing to you of them. I could not understand why, yet I acquiesced. I realize now that to do so was wrong. Wrong to you, Mhybe. A conspiracy, and I shall not be party to it. Your daughter’s protectors were wolves. Ancient, giant beasts—’
Terror ripped through the Mhybe. Snarling, she flung a hand at Korlat’s face, felt her nails tear through skin. ‘My hunters!’ she screamed as the Tiste Andii flinched away. ‘They want to kill me! My daughter—’ My daughter! Plaguing my dreams! Spirits below, she wants to kill me!
Coll and Murillio had leapt onto the wagon, were shouting in alarm even as Korlat hissed at them to calm down, but the Mhybe ceased hearing them, ceased seeing anything of the world surrounding her at that moment. She continued thrashing, nails clawing the air, betrayal searing through her chest, turning her heart into ashes. My daughter! My daughter!
And my voice, it whimpers.
And my eyes, they plead.
And that knife is in her hands, and in her gaze there is naught but cold, cold intent.
* * *
Whiskeyjack’s half-smile vanished when he turned upon Korlat’s arrival, to see that her eyes were as white-hot iron, to see as she stalked through the tent’s entrance four parallel slashes on her right cheek, wet with blood that had run down to the line of her jaw and now dripped onto the rushes covering the floor.
The Malazan almost stepped back as the Tiste Andii strode towards him. ‘Korlat, what has happened?’
‘Hear my words, lover,’ the woman grated in an icy voice. ‘Whatever secrets you have withheld from me – about Tattersail reborn, about those damned T’lan Ay, about what you’ve instructed those two marines guarding the child to say to the Mhybe – you will tell me. Now.’
He felt himself grow cold, felt his face twitch at the full thrust of her fury. ‘Instructions?’ he asked quietly. ‘I have given them no instructions. Not even to guard Silverfox. What they’ve done has been their own decision. What they might have said, that it should lead to this – well, I shall accept responsibility for that, for I am their commander. And I assure you, if punishment is required—’
‘Stop. A moment, please.’ Something had settled within her, and now she trembled.
Whiskeyjack thought to take her in his arms, but held back. She needed comfort, he sensed, but his instincts told him she was not yet ready to receive it. He glanced around, found a relatively clean hand-cloth, soaked it in a basin, then held it out to her.
She had watched in silence, the shade of her eyes deepening to slate grey, but she made no effort to accept the cloth.
He slowly lowered his hand.
‘Why,’ Korlat asked, ‘did Silverfox insist that her mother not learn of the T’lan Ay?’
‘I have no idea, Korlat, beyond the explanation she voiced. At the time, I thought you knew.’
‘You thought I knew.’
He nodded.
‘You thought that I had been keeping from you … a secret. Something to do with Silverfox and her mother…’
Whiskeyjack shrugged.
‘Were you planning to confront me?’
‘No.’
Her eyes widened on him. Silence stretched, then, ‘For Hood’s sake, clean my wounds.’
Relieved, he stepped closer and began, with the gentlest of touches, to daub her cuts. ‘Who struck you?’ he asked quietly.
‘The Mhybe. I think I have just made a dreadful mistake, for all my good intentions…’
‘That’s often the case,’ he murmured, ‘with good intentions.’
Korlat’s gaze narrowed searchingly. ‘Pragmatic Malazans. Clear-eyed indeed. Why do we keep thinking of you as just soldiers? Brood, Rake, Kallor … myself, we all look upon you and Dujek and your army as something … ancillary. A sword we hope to grasp in our hands when the need arrives. It seems now that we’re all fools. In fact, not one of us has come to realize the truth of how things now stand.’
He frowned. ‘And how do they now stand?’
‘You have become our backbone. Somehow, you are what gives us our strength, holds us together. Oh, I know you possess secrets, Whiskeyjack—’
He smiled wryly. ‘Not as many as you seem to think. I will tell you the biggest one. It’s this. We feel outmatched. By you – by Rake, by Caladan Brood, by Kallor. By the Tiste Andii army and that of the Rhivi and the Barghast. Hood, even that mob of mercenaries accompanying you makes us nervous. We don’t have your power. We’re just an army. Our best wizard isn’t even ranked. He’s a squad mage, and right now he’s very far away and, I suspect, feeling like a fly in a web. So, come the battles, we know we’ll be the spear’s head, and it’s going to cost us dear. As for the Seer himself, and whatever hides behind him, well, we’re now hoping you’ll deal with that. Same goes for the Crippled God. You’re right, Korlat, we’re just soldiers. Tired ones, at that. If we’re this combined army’s backbone, then Hood help us, it’s a bowed, brittle one.’
She reached up and laid her hand over his, pressed it against her cheek. Their eyes locked. ‘Bowed and brittle? I think not.’
Whiskeyjack shook his head. ‘I’m not being modest, Korlat. I speak the truth, though I fear you’re not prepared to hear it.’
‘Silverfox is manipulating her mother,’ the Tiste Andii said after a moment. ‘Somehow. Possibly even being responsible for the old woman’s terrible nightmares.’
‘I find that hard to countenance—’
‘Not something Tattersail would do, right? But what of this Nightchill? Or the Thelomen? You knew them, Whiskeyjack. Better than any of us, at least. Is it possible that one of them – or both – are responsible for this?’
He said nothing while he completed wiping clean the wounds on her cheek. ‘This will require a healer’s touch, Korlat, lest infection—’
‘Whiskeyjack.’
He sighed, stepped back. ‘Nightchill, I fear, might well harbour feelings of betrayal. Her targets for vengeance could be chosen indiscriminately. Same for Bellurdan Skullcrusher. Both were betrayed, after all. If you are right, about what’s happening to the Mhybe – that they’re doing something to her – then I still think that Tattersail would be resisting them.’
