The Malazan Empire, page 333
Ranal and Keneb rode up. ‘Nicely done,’ the captain said. ‘I think.’
‘Should be all right,’ Strings replied. ‘So long as nobody starts firing arrows at us.’
‘Taken care of, Sergeant. Well, to your squad, the privilege of first crossing.’
‘Aye, sir.’
There should have been pleasure, in a task well done, but Strings felt nothing beyond the initial rush that had immediately followed the detonation. The broken song whispered on in his mind, a dirge lying beneath his every thought.
‘The way ahead seems clear,’ Cuttle muttered.
Aye. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
The land rose steeply on the north side of the Vathar River, with a treeless butte towering over the trail to the west. The army’s crossing continued as the Adjunct and Gamet climbed the goat trail towards the butte’s summit. The sun was low in the sky—their second full day at the ford—and the river was made molten by the lurid streams of light off to their left, although this side of the rock prominence was in deep shadow.
The mud covering Gamet’s leather-clad legs was drying to a stiff, crack-latticed skin that shed dust as he clambered in Tavore’s wake. He was breathing hard, his undergarments soaked with sweat.
They reached the summit, emerging once more into sunlight. A brisk, hot wind swept the barren, flat rock. A ring of stones on a lower shelf, on what passed for the lee side, marked where a hearth or watch-fire had once been constructed, possibly at the time of the Chain of Dogs.
The Adjunct wiped dust from her gloves, then strode to the north edge. After a moment, Gamet followed.
The city of Ubaryd was visible, dun-coloured and sheathed in smoke, to the northeast. Beyond it glittered the Dojal Hading Sea. The city’s harbour was crowded with ships.
‘Admiral Nok,’ the Adjunct said.
‘He’s retaken Ubaryd, then.’
‘Where we will resupply, yes.’ Then she pointed northward. ‘There, Gamet. Do you see it?’
He squinted, wondering what he was supposed to look at across the vast wasteland that was the Ubaryd Odhan. Then the breath hissed between his teeth.
A fiery wall of red on the horizon, as if a second sun was setting.
‘The Whirlwind,’ Tavore said.
Suddenly, the wind was much colder, pushing hard against Gamet where he stood.
‘Beyond it,’ the Adjunct continued, ‘waits our enemy. Tell me, do you think Sha’ik will contest our approach?’
‘She would be a fool not to,’ he replied.
‘Are you certain of that? Would she rather not face unblooded recruits?’
‘It is a huge gamble, Adjunct. The march alone will have hardened the Fourteenth. Were I her, I would prefer to face a battle-weary, bruised enemy. An enemy burdened with wounded, with a shortage of arrows, horses and whatnot. And by that time of final meeting, I would also have learned something of you, Adjunct. Your tactics. As it is, Sha’ik has no way to take your measure.’
‘Yes. Curious, isn’t it? Either she is indifferent to me, or she feels she has already taken my measure—which of course is impossible. Even assuming she has spies in our army, thus far I have done little more than ensure that we march in an organized fashion.’
Spies? Gods below, I hadn’t even considered that!
Neither spoke for a time, each lost in their own thoughts as they stared northward.
The sun was vanishing on their left.
But the Whirlwind held its own fire.
Chapter Sixteen
Power has voice, and that voice is the Song of the Tanno Spiritwalker.
KIMLOC
He awoke to a faint, damp nuzzling against his side, eyes slowly opened, head tilted downward, to see a bhok’aral pup, patchy with some sort of skin infection, curled against his stomach.
Kalam sat up, suppressing the urge to grab the creature by the neck and fling it against a wall. Compassion was not the consideration, of course. Rather, it was the fact that this subterranean temple was home to hundreds, perhaps even thousands of bhok’arala, and the creatures possessed a complex social structure—harm this pup and Kalam might find himself beneath a swarm of bull males. And small as the beasts were, they had canines to rival a bear’s. Even so, he fought to contain his revulsion as he gently pushed the mottled pup away.
It mewled pathetically and looked up at him with huge, liquid eyes.
‘Don’t even try,’ the assassin muttered, slipping free of the furs and rising. Flecks of mouldy skin covered his midriff, and the thin woollen shirt was sodden from the pup’s runny nose. Kalam removed the shirt and flung it into a corner of the small chamber.
He’d not seen Iskaral Pust in over a week. Apart from occasional tingling sensations at the tips of his fingers and toes, he was more or less recovered from the enkar’al demon’s attack. Kalam had delivered the diamonds and was now chafing to leave.
Faint singing echoed from the hallway. The assassin shook his head. Maybe one day Mogora will get it right, but in the meantime…gods below, it grates! He strode to his tattered backpack and rummaged inside until he found a spare shirt.
Sudden thumping sounded outside his door, and he turned in time to see it flung open. Mogora stood framed in the doorway, a wooden bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. ‘Was he here? Just now? Was he here? Tell me!’
‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ Kalam replied.
‘He has to clean the kitchen!’
‘Is this all you do, Mogora? Chase after Iskaral Pust’s shadow?’
‘All!’ The word was a shriek. She stormed up to him, mop thrust forward like a weapon. ‘Am I the only one using the kitchen! No!’
Kalam stepped back, wiping spittle from his face, but the Dal Honese woman advanced.
‘And you! Do you think your suppers arrive all by themselves? Do you think the shadow gods simply conjure them out of thin air? Did I invite you here? Are you my guest? Am I your serving wench?’
‘Gods forbid—’
‘Be quiet! I’m talking, not you!’ She thrust the mop and bucket into Kalam’s hands, then, spying the bhok’aral pup curled up on the cot, dropped into a predatory crouch and edged closer, fingers hooked. ‘There you are,’ she murmured. ‘Leave your skin everywhere, will you? Not for much longer!’
Kalam stepped into her path. ‘Enough, Mogora. Get out of here.’
‘Not without my pet.’
‘Pet? You’re intending to wring its neck, Mogora!’
‘So?’
He set the mop and bucket down. I can’t believe this. I’m defending a mangy bhok’aral…from a D’ivers witch.
There was movement in the doorway. Kalam gestured. ‘Look behind you, Mogora. Harm this pup and you’ll have to face them.’
She spun, then hissed. ‘Scum! Iskaral’s beget—always spying! That’s how he hides—using them!’
With a ululating scream she charged into the doorway. The bhok’arala massed there shrieked in answer and scattered, although Kalam saw one dart between her legs and leap onto the cot. It scooped the pup up under one arm then bolted for the corridor.
Mogora’s wailing cries dwindled as she continued her pursuit.
‘Hee hee.’
Kalam turned.
Iskaral Pust emerged from the shadows in the far corner. He was covered in dust, a sack draped over one bony shoulder.
The assassin scowled. ‘I’ve waited long enough in this madhouse, Priest.’
‘Indeed you have.’ He cocked his head, tugging at one of the few wisps of hair that remained on his pate. ‘I’m done and he can go, yes? I should be kindly, open, scattering gold dust to mark his path out into the waiting world. He’ll suspect nothing. He’ll believe he leaves of his own free will. Precisely as it should be.’ Iskaral Pust suddenly smiled, then held out the sack. ‘Here, a few diamonds for you. Spend them here and there, spend them everywhere! But remember, you must breach the Whirlwind—into the heart of Raraku, yes?’
‘That is my intent,’ Kalam growled, accepting the sack and stuffing it into his own backpack. ‘We do not proceed at cross-purposes, Priest, although I realize you’d rather we did, given your perverse mind. Even so…breach the Whirlwind…without being detected. How will I manage that?’
‘With the help of Shadowthrone’s chosen mortal. Iskaral Pust, High Priest and Master of Rashan and Meanas and Thyr! The Whirlwind is a goddess, and her eyes cannot be everywhere. Now, quickly collect your belongings. We must leave! She’s coming back, and I’ve made another mess in the kitchen! Hurry!’
They emerged from the warren of shadow beneath a large outcropping, in daylight, less than a hundred paces from the raging wall of the Whirlwind. After three strides forward Kalam reached out and grabbed the priest by the arm and spun him round.
‘That singing? Where in Hood’s name is that singing coming from, Iskaral? I’d heard it in the monastery and thought it was Mogora—’
‘Mogora can’t sing, you fool! I hear nothing, nothing but the wild winds and the hiss of sands! You are mad! Is he mad? Yes, possibly. No, likely. The sun broiled his brain in that thick skull. A gradual dissolution—but of course not, of course not. It’s the Tanno song, that’s what it is. Even so, he’s probably still mad. Two entirely separate issues. The song. And his madness. Distinct, unrelated, both equally confounding of all that my masters plan. Or potentially so. Potentially. There is no certainty, not in this damned land, especially not here. Restless Raraku. Restless!’
With a snarl, Kalam pushed the man away, began walking towards the wall of the Whirlwind. After a moment, Iskaral Pust followed.
‘Tell me how we’re going to manage this, Priest.’
‘It’s simple, really. She’ll know the breach. Like a knife stab. That cannot be avoided. Thus, misdirection! And there is none better at misdirection than Iskaral Pust!’
They arrived to within twenty paces of the seething wall of sand. Swirling clouds of dust engulfed them. Iskaral Pust moved close, revealing a grin filled with grit. ‘Hold tight, Kalam Mekhar!’ Then he vanished.
A massive shape loomed over the assassin, and he was suddenly gathered up in a swarm of arms.
The azalan.
Running, now, flowing faster than any horse along the edge of the Whirlwind Wall. The demon tucked Kalam close under its torso—then plunged through.
A thundering roar filled the assassin’s ears, sand flailing against his skin. He squeezed shut his eyes.
Multiple thuds, and the azalan was racing across packed sand. Ahead lay the ruins of a city.
Fire flared beneath the demon, a path of flames raging in its wake.
The raised tel of the dead city rose before them. The azalan did not even slow, swarming up the ragged wall. A fissure loomed, not large enough for the demon—but sufficient for Kalam.
He was flung into the crack as the azalan flowed over it. Landing heavily amidst rubble and potsherds. Deep in the fissure’s shadow.
Sudden thunder overhead, shaking the rock. Then again and again, seeming to stitch a path back towards the wall of sand. The detonations then ceased, and only the roar of the Whirlwind remained.
I think he made it back out. Fast bastard.
The assassin remained motionless for a time, wondering if the ruse had succeeded. Either way, he would wait for night before venturing out.
He could no longer hear the song. Something to be grateful for.
The walls of the fissure revealed layer upon layer of potsherds on one side, a sunken and heaved section of cobblestone street on another, and the flank of a building’s interior wall—the plaster chipped and scarred—on the last. The rubble beneath him was loose and felt deep.
Checking his weapons, Kalam settled down to wait.
Apsalar in his arms, Cutter emerged from the gateway. The woman’s weight sent waves of pain through his bruised shoulder, and he did not think he would be able to carry her for long.
Thirty paces ahead, at the edge of the clearing where the two trails converged, lay scores of corpses. And in their midst stood Cotillion.
Cutter walked over to the shadow god. The Tiste Edur lay heaped in a ring around a clear spot off to the left, but Cotillion’s attention seemed to be on one body in particular, lying at his feet. As the Daru approached, the god slowly settled down into a crouch, reaching out to brush hair back from the corpse’s face.
It was the old witch, Cutter saw, the one who had been burned. The one I thought was the source of power in the Malazan party. But it wasn’t her. It was Traveller. He halted a few paces away, brought up short by Cotillion’s expression, the ravaged look that made him suddenly appear twenty years older. The gloved hand that had swept the hair back now caressed the dead woman’s scorched face.
‘You knew her?’ Cutter asked.
‘Hawl,’ he replied after a moment. ‘I’d thought Surly had taken them all out. None of the Talon’s command left. I thought she was dead.’
‘She is.’ Then he snapped his mouth shut. A damned miserable thing to say—
‘I made them good at hiding,’ Cotillion went on, eyes still on the woman lying in the bloody, trampled grass. ‘Good enough to hide even from me, it seems.’
‘What do you think she was doing here?’
Cotillion flinched slightly. ‘The wrong question, Cutter. Rather, why was she with Traveller? What is the Talon up to? And Traveller…gods, did he know who she was? Of course he did—oh, she’s aged and not well, but even so…’
‘You could just ask him,’ Cutter murmured, grunting as he shifted Apsalar’s weight in his arms. ‘He’s in the courtyard behind us, after all.’
Cotillion reached down to the woman’s neck and lifted into view something strung on a thong. A yellow-stained talon of some sort. He pulled it loose, studied it for a moment, then twisted round and flung it towards Cutter.
It struck his chest, then fell to lie in Apsalar’s lap.
The Daru stared down at it for a moment, then looked up and met the god’s eyes.
‘Go to the Edur ship, Cutter. I am sending you two to another…agent of ours.’
‘To do what?’
‘To wait. In case you are needed.’
‘For what?’
‘To assist others in taking down the Master of the Talon.’
‘Do you know where he or she is?’
He lifted Hawl into his arms and straightened. ‘I have a suspicion. Now, finally, a suspicion about all of this.’ He turned, the frail figure held lightly in his arms, and studied Cutter for a moment. A momentary, wan smile. ‘Look at the two of us,’ he said, then he swung away and began walking towards the forest trail.
Cutter stared after him.
Then shouted: ‘It’s not the same! It’s not! We’re not—’
The forest shadows swallowed the god.
Cutter hissed a curse, then he turned to the trail that led down to the shoreline.
The god Cotillion walked on until he reached a small glade off to one side of the path. He carried his burden into its centre, and gently set her down.
A host of shadows spun into being opposite, until the vague, insubstantial form of Shadowthrone slowly resolved itself. For a change, the god said nothing for a long time.
Cotillion knelt beside Hawl’s body. ‘Traveller is here, Ammanas. In the Edur ruins.’
Ammanas grunted softly, then, shrugged. ‘He’ll have no interest in answering our questions. He never did. Stubborn as any Dal Honese.’
‘You’re Dal Honese,’ Cotillion observed.
‘Precisely.’ Ammanas slipped noiselessly forward until he was on the other side of the corpse. ‘It’s her, isn’t it.’
‘It is.’
‘How many times do our followers have to die, Cotillion?’ the god asked, then sighed. ‘Then again, she clearly ceased being a follower some time ago.’
‘She thought we were gone, Ammanas. The Emperor and Dancer. Gone. Dead.’
‘And in a way, she was right.’
‘In a way, aye. But not in the most important way.’
‘Which is?’
Cotillion glanced up, then grimaced. ‘She was a friend.’
‘Ah, that most important way.’ Ammanas was silent for a moment, then he asked, ‘Will you pursue this?’
‘I see little choice. The Talon is up to something. We need to stop them—’
‘No, friend. We need to ensure that they fail. Have you found a…trail?’
‘More than that. I’ve realized who is masterminding the whole thing.’
Shadowthrone’s hooded head cocked slightly. ‘And that is where Cutter and Apsalar are going now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they sufficient?’
Cotillion shook his head. ‘I have other agents available. But I would Apsalar be relatively close, in case something goes wrong.’
Ammanas nodded. ‘So, where?’
‘Raraku.’
Though he could not see it, Cotillion knew that his companion’s face was splitting into a broad grin. ‘Ah, dear Rope, time’s come, I think, that I should tell you more of my own endeavours…’
‘The diamonds I gave Kalam? I’d wondered about those.’
Ammanas gestured at Hawl’s corpse. ‘Let us take her home—our home, that is. And then we must speak…at length.’
Cotillion nodded.
‘Besides,’ Shadowthrone added as he straightened, ‘Traveller being so close by makes me nervous.’
A moment later, the glade was empty, barring a few sourceless shadows that swiftly dwindled into nothing.
Cutter reached the sandstone shoreline. Four runners had been pulled up on the flat, grainy shelf of rock. Anchored in the bay beyond were two large dromons, both badly damaged.
Around the runners gear lay scattered, and two huge trees had been felled and dragged close—probably intended to replace the snapped masts. Barrels containing salted fish had been broached, while other casks stood in a row nearby, refilled with fresh water.
Cutter set Apsalar down, then approached one of the runners. They were about fifteen paces from bow to stern, broad of beam with an unstepped mast and side-mounted steering oar. There were two oarlocks to a side. The gunnels were crowded with riotous carvings.
