The Malazan Empire, page 226
‘Thank you for the warning, Wizard.’
After a moment, Quick Ben shrugged, then sighed. ‘See you in Capustan, Whiskeyjack.’
‘Aye.’
The apparition faded.
Korlat turned to the commander. ‘Malazan military law.’
He raised his brows. ‘My sense of Caladan Brood is that he’s not the vengeful type. Do you anticipate a clash?’
‘I know what Kallor will advise.’ A hint of tension was present in her tone.
‘So do I, but I don’t think the warlord’s inclined to listen. Hood knows, he hasn’t thus far.’
‘We have not yet seen Capustan.’
He released a long breath, drew off his gauntlets. ‘Horrors to answer in kind.’
‘An unwritten law,’ she said in a low voice. ‘An ancient law.’
‘I don’t hold to it,’ Whiskeyjack growled. ‘We become no better, then. Even simple execution…’ He faced her. ‘Over two hundred thousand starving peasants. Will they stand about like sheep? Not likely. As prisoners? We couldn’t feed them if we tried, nor have we sufficient soldiers to spare guarding them.’
Korlat’s eyes were slowly widening. ‘You are proposing we leave them, aren’t you?’
She’s leading up to something here. I’ve caught glimmers before, the whisper of a hidden wedge, poised to drive itself between us. ‘Not all of them. We’ll take their leaders. This Anaster, and his officers – assuming there are any. If the Tenescowri walked a path of atrocity, then the First Child led the way.’ Whiskeyjack shook his head. ‘But the real criminal awaits us within the Domin itself – the Seer – who would starve his followers into cannibalism, into madness. Who would destroy his own people. We’d be executing the victims – his victims.’
The Tiste Andii frowned. ‘By that token, we should absolve the Pannion armies as well, Whiskeyjack.’
The Malazan’s grey eyes hardened. ‘Our enemy is the Seer. Dujek and I agree on this – we’re not here to annihilate a nation. The armies that impede our march to the Seer, we will deal with. Efficiently. Retribution and revenge are distractions.’
‘And what of liberation? The conquered cities—’
‘Incidental, Korlat. I’m surprised at your confusion on this. Brood saw it the same as we did – at that first parley when tactics were discussed. We strike for the heart—’
‘I believe you misunderstood, Whiskeyjack. For over a decade, the warlord has been waging a war of liberation – from the rapacious hunger of your Malazan Empire. Caladan Brood has now shifted his focus – a new enemy – but the same war. Brood is here to free the Pannions—’
‘Hood’s breath! You can’t free a people from themselves!’
‘He seeks to free them from the Seer’s rule.’
‘And who exalted the Seer to his present status?’
‘Yet you speak of absolving the commonalty, even the soldiers of the Pannion armies, Whiskeyjack. And that is what is confusing me.’
Not entirely. ‘We speak at cross-purposes here, Korlat. Neither I nor Dujek will willingly assume the role of judge and executioner – should we prove victorious. Nor are we here to put the pieces back together for the Pannions. That’s for them to do. That responsibility will turn us into administrators, and to effectively administrate, we must occupy.’
She barked a harsh laugh. ‘And is that not the Malazan way, Whiskeyjack?’
‘This is not a Malazan war!’
‘Isn’t it? Are you sure?’
He studied her through slitted eyes. ‘What do you mean? We’re outlawed, woman. Onearm’s Host is…’ He fell silent, seeing a flatness come to Korlat’s gaze, then realized – too late – that he had just failed a test. And with that failure had ended the trust that had grown between them. Damn, I walked right into it. Wide-eyed stupid.
She smiled then, and it was a smile of pain and regret. ‘Dujek approaches. You might as well await him here.’
The Tiste Andii turned and strode from the tent.
Whiskeyjack stared after her, then, when she’d left, he flung his gauntlets on the map table and sat down on Dujek’s cot. Should I have told you, Korlat? The truth? That we’ve got a knife at our throats. And the hand holding it – on Empress Laseen’s behalf – is right here in this very camp, and has been ever since the beginning.
He heard a horse thump to a halt outside the tent. A few moments later Dujek Onearm entered, his armour sheathed in dust. ‘Ah, wondered where you’d got to—’
‘Brood knows,’ Whiskeyjack cut in, his voice low and raw.
Dujek paused but a moment. ‘He does, does he? What, precisely, has he worked out?’
‘That we’re not quite as outlawed as we’ve made out to be.’
‘Any further?’
‘Isn’t that enough, Dujek?’
The High Fist strode over to the side table where waited a jug of ale. He unstoppered it and poured two tankards full. ‘There are … mitigating circumstances—’
‘Relevant only to us. You and I—’
‘And our army—’
‘Who believe their lives are forfeit in the Empire, Dujek. Made into victims once again – no, it’s you and I and no-one else this time.’
Dujek drained his tankard, refilled it in silence. Then he said, ‘Are you suggesting we spread our hand on the table for Brood and Korlat? In the hopes that they’ll do something about our … predicament?’
‘I don’t know – not if we’re hoping for absolution for having maintained this deceit all this time. That would be a motive that wouldn’t sit well with me, even if patently untrue. Appearances—’
‘Will make it seem precisely that, aye. “We’ve been lying to you from the very beginning to save our own necks. But now that you know, we’ll tell you…” Gods, that’s insulting even to me and I’m the one saying it. All right, the alliance is in trouble—’
A thud against the tent flap preceded the arrival of Artanthos. ‘Your pardon, sirs,’ the man said, flat eyes studying the two soldiers in turn before he continued, ‘Brood has called for a counsel.’
Ah, standard-bearer, your timing is impeccable …
Whiskeyjack collected the tankard awaiting him and drained it, then turned to Dujek and nodded.
The High Fist sighed. ‘Lead the way, Artanthos, we’re right behind you.’
* * *
The encampment seemed extraordinarily quiet. The Mhybe had not realized how comforting the army’s presence had been on the march. Now, only elders and children and a few hundred rearguard Malazan soldiers remained. She had no idea how the battle fared; either way, deaths would make themselves felt. Mourning among the Rhivi and Barghast, bereft voices rising into the darkness.
Victory is an illusion. In all things.
She fled in her dreams every night. Fled and was, eventually, caught, only to awaken. Sudden, as if torn away, her withered body shivering, aches filling her joints. An escape of sorts, yet in truth she left one nightmare for another.
An illusion. In all things.
This wagon bed had become her entire world, a kind of mock sanctuary that reappeared each and every time sleep ended. The rough woollen blankets and furs wrapped around her were a personal landscape, the bleak terrain of dun folds startlingly similar to what she had seen when in the dragon’s grip, when the undead beast flew high over the tundra in her dream, yielding an echo of the freedom she had experienced then, an echo that was painfully sardonic.
To either side of her ran wooden slats. Their patterns of grain and knots had become intimate knowledge. Far to the north, she recalled, among the Nathii, the dead were buried in wood boxes. The custom had been born generations ago, arising from the more ancient practice of interring corpses in hollowed-out tree trunks. The boxes were then buried, for wood was born of earth and to earth it must return. A vessel of life now a vessel of death. The Mhybe imagined that, if a dead Nathii could see, moments before the lid was lowered and darkness swallowed all, that Nathii’s vision would match hers.
Lying in the box, unable to move, awaiting the lid. A body past usefulness, awaiting the darkness.
But there would be no end. Not for her. They were keeping it away. Playing out their own delusions of mercy and compassion. The Daru who fed her, the Rhivi woman who cleaned and bathed her and combed the wispy remnants of her hair. Gestures of malice. Playing out, over and over, scenes of torture.
The Rhivi woman sat above her now, steadily pulling the horn comb through the Mhybe’s hair, humming a child’s song. A woman the Mhybe remembered from her other life. Old, she had seemed back then, a hapless woman who had been kicked in the head by a bhederin and so lived in a simple world.
I’d thought it simple. But that was just one more illusion. No, she lives amidst unknowns, amidst things she cannot comprehend. It is a world of terror. She sings to fend off the fear born of her own ignorance. Given tasks to keep her busy.
Before I had come along for her, this woman had helped prepare corpses. After all, the spirits worked through such childlike adults. Through her, the spirits could come close to the fallen, and so comfort them and guide them into the world of the ancestors.
It could be nothing other than malice, the Mhybe concluded, to have set this woman upon her. Possibly, she was not even aware that the subject of her attentions was still alive. The woman met no-one’s eyes, ever. Recognition had fled with the kick of a bhederin’s hoof.
The comb dragged back and forth, back and forth. The humming continued its ceaseless round.
Spirits below, I would rather even your terror of the unknown. Rather that, than the knowledge of my daughter’s betrayal – the wolves she has set upon me, to pursue me in my dreams. The wolves, which are her hunger. The hunger, which has already devoured my youth and now seeks yet more. As if anything’s left. Am I to be naught but food for my daughter’s burgeoning life? A final meal, a mother reduced to nothing more than sustenance?
Ah, Silverfox, are you every daughter? Am I every mother? There have been no rituals severing our lives – we have forgotten the meaning behind the Rhivi ways, the true reasons for those rituals. I ever yield. And you suckle in ceaseless demand. And so we are trapped, pulled deeper and deeper, you and I.
To carry a child is to age in one’s bones. To weary one’s blood. To stretch skin and flesh. Birthing splits a woman in two, the division a thing of raw agony. Splitting young from old. And the child needs, and the mother gives.
I have never weaned you, Silverfox. Indeed, you have never left my womb. You, daughter, draw far more than just milk.
Spirits, please, grant me surcease. This cruel parody of motherhood is too much to bear. Sever me from my daughter. For her sake. My milk is become poison. I can feed naught but spite, for there is nothing else within me. And I remain a young woman in this aged body—
The comb caught on a snarl, tugging her head back. The Mhybe hissed in pain, shot a glare up at the woman above her. Her heart suddenly lurched.
Their gazes were locked.
The woman, who looked at no-one, was looking at her.
I, a young woman in an old woman’s body. She, a child in a woman’s body—
Two prisons, in perfect reflection.
Eyes locked.
* * *
‘Dear lass, you look weary. Settle here with magnanimous Kruppe and he will pour you some of this steaming herbal brew.’
‘I will, thank you.’
Kruppe smiled, watching Silverfox slowly lower herself onto the ground and lean back against the spare saddle, the small hearth between them. The well-rounded curves of the woman were visible through the worn deer-leather tunic. ‘So where are your friends?’ she asked.
‘Gambling. With the crew of the Trygalle Trade Guild. Kruppe, for some odd reason, has been barred from such games. An outrage.’ The Daru handed her a tin cup. ‘Mostly sage, alas. If you’ve a cough—’
‘I haven’t, but it’s welcome anyway.’
‘Kruppe, of course, never coughs.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Why, because he drinks sage tea.’
Her brown eyes slipped past his and settled on the wagon a dozen paces away. ‘How does she fare?’
Kruppe’s brows lifted. ‘You might ask her, lass.’
‘I can’t. I can be nothing other than an abomination for my mother – her stolen youth, in the flesh. She despises me, with good reason, especially now that Korlat’s told her about my T’lan Ay.’
‘Kruppe wonders, do you now doubt the journey undertaken?’
Silverfox shook her head, sipped at the tea. ‘It’s too late for that. The problem persists – as you well know. Besides, our journey is done. Only hers remains.’
‘You dissemble,’ Kruppe murmured. ‘Your journey is anything but done, Silverfox. But let us leave that subject for the moment, yes? Have you gleaned news of the dreadful battle?’
‘It’s over. The Pannion forces are no more. Barring a couple of hundred thousand poorly armed peasants. The White Faces have liberated Capustan – what’s left of it, that is. The Bridgeburners are already in the city. More pressing: Brood has called a council – you might be interested in attending that.’
‘Indeed, if only to bless the gathering with Kruppe’s awesome wisdom. What of you – are you not also attending?’
Silverfox smiled. ‘As you said earlier, Daru, my journey’s not quite over.’
‘Ah, yes. Kruppe wishes you well in that, lass. And dearly hopes he will see you again soon.’
The woman’s eyes glanced once more at the wagon. ‘You will, friend,’ she replied, then drained her tea and rose with a soft sigh.
Kruppe saw her hesitate. ‘Lass? Is something wrong?’
‘Uh, I’m not sure.’ Her expression was troubled. ‘A part of me desires to accompany you to that council. A sudden urge, in fact.’
The Daru’s small eyes narrowed. ‘A part of you, Silverfox?’
‘Aye, inviting the question: which part? Whose soul within me now twitches with suspicion? Who senses that sparks are about to fly in this alliance of ours? Gods, even worse, it’s as if I know precisely why … but I don’t.’
‘Tattersail doesn’t, yes? Leaving Nightchill and Bellurdan as potential candidates possessing prescient knowledge fraught with dire motivation. Uh, perhaps that can be said a simpler way—’
‘Never mind, Kruppe.’
‘You are torn, Silverfox, to put it bluntly. Consider this: will a minor delay in seeking your destiny unduly affect its outcome? Can you, in other words, spare the time to come with me to the warlord’s command tent?’
She studied him. ‘You’ve a hunch as well, don’t you?’
‘If a rift is imminent, lass, then your personage could prove essential, for you are the bridge indeed between these formidable camps.’
‘I – I don’t trust Nightchill, Kruppe.’
‘Most mortals occasionally fail in trusting parts of themselves. Excepting Kruppe, of course, whose well-earned confidence is absolute. In any case, conflicting instincts are woven in our natures, excepting Kruppe, of—’
‘Yes, yes. All right. Let’s go.’
* * *
A slash of darkness opened in the canvas wall. The mild breath of Kurald Galain flowed into the command tent, dimming the lanterns. Anomander Rake strode through. The midnight rent closed silently behind him. The lanterns flared back into life.
Brood’s wide, flat face twisted. ‘You are late,’ he growled. ‘The Malazans are already on their way.’
Shrugging the black leather cape from his shoulders, the Lord of Moon’s Spawn said, ‘What of it? Or am I to adjudicate yet again?’
Her back to one side of the tent wall, Korlat cleared her throat. ‘There have been … revelations, Lord. The alliance itself is in question.’
A dry snort came from Kallor, the last person present. ‘In question? We’ve been lied to from the very start. A swift strike against Onearm’s Host – before it’s had a chance to recover from today’s battles – is imperative.’
Korlat watched her master study his allies in silence.
After a long moment, Rake smiled. ‘Dear Caladan, if by lying you are referring to the hidden hand of the Empress – the daggers poised behind the backs of Dujek Onearm and Whiskeyjack – well, it would seem that, should action be required – which I add I do not believe to be the case – our position should be one of intervention. On behalf of Dujek and Whiskeyjack, that is. Unless, of course’ – his eyes flattened on Brood – ‘you are no longer confident of their capabilities as commanders.’ He slowly withdrew his gauntlets. ‘Yet Crone’s report to me of today’s engagement was characterized by naught but grudging praise. The Malazans were professional, perfunctory and relentless. Precisely as we would have them.’
‘It’s not their fighting ability that is the problem,’ Kallor rasped. ‘This was to be a war of liberation—’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Rake muttered. ‘Is there wine or ale? Who will join me in a drink?’
Brood grunted. ‘Aye, pour me one, Rake. But let it be known, whilst Kallor has uttered foolish statements in the past, he did not do so now. Liberation. The Pannion Domin—’
‘Is just another empire,’ the Lord of Moon’s Spawn drawled. ‘And as such, its power represents a threat. Which we are intending to obliterate. Liberation of the commonalty may well result, but it cannot be our goal. Free an adder and it will still bite you, given the chance.’
‘So we are to crush the Pannion Seer, only to have some High Fist of the Malazan Empire take his place?’
Rake handed the warlord a cup of wine. The Tiste Andii’s eyes were veiled, almost sleepy as he studied Brood. ‘The Domin is an empire that sows horror and oppression among its own people,’ Rake said. ‘None of us here would deny that. Thus, for ethical reasons alone, there was just cause for marching upon it.’
‘Which is what we’ve been saying all along—’
‘I heard you the first time, Kallor. Your penchant for repetition is wearisome. I have described but one … excuse. One reason. Yet it appears that you have all allowed that reason to overwhelm all others, whilst to my mind it is the least in importance.’ He sipped his wine, then continued. ‘However, let us stay with it for a moment. Horror and oppression, the face of the Pannion Domin. Consider, if you will, those cities and territories on Genabackis that are now under Malazan rule. Horror? No more so than mortals must daily face in their normal lives. Oppression? Every government requires laws, and from what I can tell Malazan laws are, if anything, among the least repressive of any empire I have known.
