The Malazan Empire, page 340
Kamist Reloe wrapped his arms about himself as he continued pacing. ‘It’s not who we know to be among us that is the source of my concerns, Korbolo Dom, it’s who is among us that we do not know.’
The Napan scowled. ‘And how many hundreds of spies do we have in this camp? And what of the Whirlwind Goddess herself—do you imagine she will permit the infiltration of strangers?’
‘Your flaw, Korbolo Dom, is that you think in a strictly linear fashion. Ask that question again, only this time ask it in the context of the goddess having suspicions about us.’
The High Mage was too distracted to notice the Napan’s half-step forward, one hand lifting. But Korbolo Dom’s blow died at that very moment, as the import of Kamist Reloe’s challenge reached him. His eyes slowly widened. Then he shook his head. ‘No, that would be too great a risk to take. A Claw let loose in this camp would endanger everyone—there would be no way to predict their targets—’
‘Would there be a need to?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We are the Dogslayers, Korbolo Dom. The murderers of Coltaine, the Seventh, and the legions at Aren. More, we also possess the mage cadre for the Army of the Apocalypse. Finally, who will be commanding that army on the day of battle? How many reasons do the Claw need to strike at us, and at us specifically? What chance would Sha’ik have if we were all dead? Why kill Sha’ik at all? We can fight this war without her and her damned goddess—we’ve done it before. And we’re about to—’
‘Enough of that, Kamist Reloe. I see your point. So, you fear that the goddess will permit a Claw to infiltrate…in order to deal with us. With you, Febryl and myself. An interesting possibility, but I still think it remote. The goddess is too heavy-handed, too ensnared by emotion, to think with such devious, insidious clarity.’
‘She does not have to initiate the scheme, Korbolo Dom. She need only comprehend the offer, and then decide either to acquiesce or not. It is not her clarity that is relevant, but that of Laseen’s Claw. And do you doubt the cleverness of Topper?’
Growling under his breath, Korbolo Dom looked away for a moment. ‘No,’ he finally admitted. ‘But I do rely on the goddess being in no mind to accept communication from the Empress, from Topper, or anyone else who refuses to kneel to her will. You have thought yourself into a nightmare, Kamist Reloe, and now you invite me to join you. I decline the offer, High Mage. We are well protected, and too far advanced in our efforts for all of this fretting.’
‘I have survived this long, Korbolo Dom, because of my talent in anticipating what my enemies would attempt. Soldiers say no plan of battle survives contact with the enemy. But the game of subterfuge is the very opposite. Plans derive from persistent contact with the enemy. Thus, you proceed on your terms, and I will proceed on mine.’
‘As you like. Now, leave me. It is late, and I would sleep.’
The High Mage stopped pacing to fix the Napan with an unreadable look for a moment, then he swung about and left the chamber.
Korbolo listened until he heard the flap in the outer room swish open, then close. He listened on, and was satisfied to hear the draws being tightened by one of his bodyguards positioned just outside the entrance.
Draining the last of the wine—damned expensive but tastes no different from the dockside swill I choked down on the Isle—he flung the goblet down and strode to the mass of cushions at the far end. Beds in every room. I wonder what that signifies of my personality? Then again, those other ones are not for sleeping in, are they. No, only this one…
In the front room on the other side of the silk partitions, the woman lay unmoving on her own heap of cushions, where Korbolo had left her some time back.
Continuous, overwhelming imbibing of durhang—like any other intoxicant—created a process of diminishment of its effects. Until, while a layer of insensate numbness still persisted—a useful barrier against such things as having her head yanked up by her hair then dropped back down—cool awareness remained beneath it.
Advantageous, as well, the rituals her master had inflicted upon her, rituals that eliminated the weakness of pleasure. There could be no loss of control, not any more, for her mind no longer warred with feelings, for of feelings she had none. An easy surrender, she had found to her delight, for there had been little in her life before her initiation to seed warm remembrances of childhood.
And so she was well suited to this task. Uttering the right sounds of pleasure to disguise her indifference to all of Korbolo Dom’s peculiar preferences. And lying motionless, unmindful even of a throat slowly filling with phlegm from the near-liquid smoke of the durhang, for as much time as was needed, before the subtle, tasteless drops she had added to his wine took effect.
When she could hear his deep, slow breaths that told her he would not easily awaken, she rolled onto her side in a fit of coughing. When it had passed she paused again, just to be certain that the Napan still slept. Satisfied, she clambered to her feet and tottered to the tent flap.
Fumbled with the ties until a gruff voice from just beyond said, ‘Scillara, off to the latrines again?’
And another voice softly laughed and added, ‘It’s a wonder there’s any meat on her at all, the way she heaves night after night.’
‘It’s the rust-leaf and the bitter berries crushed in with the durhang,’ the other replied, as his hands took over the task of loosening the draws, and the flap was drawn aside.
Scillara staggered out, bumping her way between the two guards.
The hands that reached out to steady invariably found unusual places to rest, and squeeze.
She would have enjoyed that, once, in a slightly offended, irritated way that none the less tickled with pleasure. But now, it was nothing but clumsy lust to be endured.
As everything else in this world had to be endured, while she waited for her final reward, the blissful new world beyond death. ‘The left hand of life, holding all misery. And the right hand—yes, the one with the glittering blade, dear—the right hand of death, holding, as it does, the reward you would offer to others, and then take upon yourself. At your chosen moment.’
Her master’s words made sense, as they always did. Balance was the heart of all things, after all. And life—that time of pain and grief—was but one side of that balance. ‘The harder, the more miserable, the more terrible and disgusting your life, child, the greater the reward beyond death…’ Thus, as she knew, it all made sense.
No need, then, to struggle. Acceptance was the only path to walk.
Barring this one. She weaved her way between the tent rows. The Dogslayers’ encampment was precise and ordered, in the Malazan fashion—a detail she knew well from her days as a child when her mother followed the train of the Ashok Regiment. Before that regiment went overseas, leaving hundreds destitute—lovers and their get, servants and scroungers. Her mother had then sickened and died. She had a father, of course, one of the soldiers. Who might be alive, or dead, but either way was thoroughly indifferent to the child he had left behind.
Balance.
Difficult with a head full of durhang, even inured to it as she had become.
But there were the latrines, down this slope, and onto the wooden walkways spanning the trench. Smudge-pots smouldering to cover some of the stench and keep the flies away. Buckets beside the holed seats, filled with hand-sized bundles of grass. Larger open-topped casks with water, positioned out over the trench and fixed to the walkways.
Hands held out to either side, Scillara navigated carefully across one of the narrow bridges.
Long-term camp trenches such as this one held more than just human wastes. Garbage was regularly dumped in by soldiers and others—or what had passed for garbage with them. But for the orphans of this squalid city, some of that refuse was seen as treasure. To be cleaned, repaired and sold.
And so, figures swarmed in the darkness below.
She reached the other side, her bare feet sinking into the mud made by splashes that had reached the ridge. ‘I remember the dark!’ she sang out, voice throaty from years of durhang smoke.
There was a scrabbling from the trench, and a small girl, sheathed in excrement, clambered up to her, teeth flashing white. ‘Me too, sister.’
Scillara drew out a small bag of coins from her sash. Their master frowned on such gestures, and indeed, they ran contrary to his teachings, but she could not help herself. She pressed it into the girl’s hands. ‘For food.’
‘He will be displeased, sister—’
‘And of the two of us, I alone will suffer a moment of torment. So be it. Now, I have words from this night, to be brought to our master…’
He had always walked with a pitching gait, low to the ground, sufficient to have earned him a host of unflattering nicknames. Toad, crab-legs…the names children gave each other, some of which were known to persist into adulthood. But Heboric had worked hard as a youth—long before his first, fateful visit into a temple of Fener—to excoriate those appellations, to eventually earn Light Touch, in response to certain skills he had acquired on the streets. But now, his sidling walk had undergone a transformation, yielding to an instinctive desire to drop even lower, even to using his hands to propel him along.
Had he considered it, he would have concluded, sourly, that he moved less like a cat than an ape, such as those found in the jungles of Dal Hon. Unpleasant to the eye, perhaps, but efficacious none the less.
He slowed on the trail as he approached Toblakai’s glade. A faint smell of smoke, the dull gleam of a fast-cooling fire, the murmur of voices.
Heboric slipped to one side, among the stone trees, then sank down within sight of the two seated at the hearth.
Too long his self-obsession, the seemingly endless efforts to create his temple—that now struck him as a strange kind of neurotic nesting; he had ignored the world beyond the walls for too long. There had been, he realized with a surge of bitter anger, a host of subtle alterations to his personality, concomitant with the physical gifts he had received.
He had ceased being mindful.
And that, he realized as he studied the two figures in the glade, had permitted a terrible crime.
She’s healed well…but not well enough to disguise the truth of what has happened. Should I reveal myself? No. Neither of them has made a move to expose Bidithal, else they would not be hiding here. That means they would try to talk me out of what must be done.
But I warned Bidithal. I warned him, and he was…amused. Well, I think that amusement is about to end.
He slowly backed away.
Then, deep in the shadows, Heboric hesitated. There was no clash between his new and old instincts on this matter. Both demanded blood. And this night. Immediately. But something of the old Heboric was reasserting itself. He was new to this role as Destriant. More than that, Treach himself was a newly arrived god. And while Heboric did not believe Bidithal held any position—not any more—within the realm of Shadow, his temple was sanctified to someone.
An attack would draw in their respective sources of power, and there was no telling how swiftly, and how uncontrollably, that clash could escalate.
Better had I just remained old Heboric. With hands of otataral entwined with an unknown being’s immeasurable power…Then I could have torn him limb from limb.
He realized that, instead, he could do nothing. Not this night, in any case. He would have to wait, seeking an opportunity, a moment of distraction. But to achieve that, he would have to remain hidden, unseen—Bidithal could not discover his sudden elevation. Could not learn that he had become Destriant to Treach, the new god of war.
The rage suddenly returned, and he struggled to push it away.
After a moment his breathing slowed. He turned round and edged back onto the trail. This would require more thought. Measured thought. Damn you, Treach. You knew the guise of a tiger. Gift me some of your cunning ways, a hunter’s ways, a killer’s…
He approached the head of the trail, and halted at a faint sound. Singing. Muted, a child’s, coming from the ruins of what had once been a modest building of some sort. Indifferent to the darkness, his eyes caught movement and fixed hard on that spot, until a shape resolved itself.
A girl in rags, carrying a stick that she held in both hands. A dozen or so dead rhizan hung by their tails from her belt. As he watched, he saw her leap up and swing the stick. It struck something and she scrambled in pursuit, jumping about to trap a tiny shape writhing on the ground. A moment later and she lifted the rhizan into view. A quick twist of the neck, then another tiny body was tied to her belt. She bent down and retrieved her stick. And began singing once more.
Heboric paused. He would have difficulty passing by her unnoticed. But not impossible.
Probably an unnecessary caution. Even so. He held to the shadows as he edged forward, moving only when her back was turned, his eyes never leaving her form for a moment.
A short while later and he was past.
Dawn was approaching, and the camp was moments from stirring awake. Heboric increased his pace, and eventually reached his tent, slipping inside.
Apart from the girl, he’d seen no-one.
And when she judged that he was finally gone, the girl slowly turned about, her singing falling away as she peered out into the gloom. ‘Funny man,’ she whispered, ‘do you remember the dark?’
A sixth of a bell before dawn, Leoman and two hundred of his desert warriors struck the Malazan encampment. The infantry stationed at the pickets were at the end of their watch, gathered in weary groups to await the sun’s rise—a lapse in discipline that presented easy targets for the archers who had, on foot, closed to within thirty paces of the line. A whispery flit of arrows, all loosed at the same time, and the Malazan soldiers were down.
At least half of the thirty or so soldiers had not been killed outright, and their screams of pain and fear broke the stillness of the night. The archers had already set their bows down and were darting forward with their kethra knives to finish the wounded sentries, but they had not gone ten paces before Leoman and his horse warriors thundered around them, striking hard through the breach.
And into the camp.
Corabb Bhilan. Thenu’alas rode at his commander’s side, a long-hafted weapon that was half sword, half axe, in his right hand. Leoman was the centre of a curved sweep of attackers, protecting a knot of additional horse warriors from which a steady whirring sound rose. Corabb knew what that sound signified—his commander had invented his own answer to Moranth munitions, employing a pair of clay balls filled with oil and connected by a thin chain. Lit like lamps, they were swung and thrown in the manner of bolas.
The desert warriors were among the huge supply wagons now, and Corabb heard the first of those bolas whip outward, the sound followed by a whooshing roar of fire. The darkness vanished in a red glare.
And then Corabb saw a figure running from his horse’s path. He swung his long-bladed axe. The impact, as it struck the back of the fleeing Malazan’s helmed head, nearly dislocated Corabb’s shoulder. A spray of blood spattered hard against his forearm as he dragged the weapon free—it was suddenly heavier, and he glanced down at it, to see that the blade had taken the helm with it, having cut fully half through. Brains and bits of bone and scalp were spilling from the bronze bowl.
Swearing, he slowed his mount’s wild charge and tried to shake the axe clear. There was fighting on all sides, now, as well as raging flames engulfing at least a dozen wagons—and squad-tents. And soldiers appearing, more and more of them. He could hear barked orders in the Malazan tongue, and crossbow quarrels had begun flitting through the air towards the horse warriors.
A horn sounded, high and wavering. His curses growing fiercer, Corabb wheeled his horse round. He had already lost contact with Leoman, although a few of his comrades were in sight. All of them responding to the call to withdraw. As he must, as well.
The axe dragged at his aching shoulder, still burdened with that damned helm. He drove his horse back up the broad track between the mess-tents. Smoke tumbled, obscuring the view before him, stinging his eyes and harsh in his lungs.
Sudden burning agony slashed across his cheek, snapping his head around. A quarrel clattered against the ground fifteen paces ahead and to one side. Corabb ducked low, twisting in search of where it had come from.
And saw a squad of Malazans, all with crossbows—all but one cocked and trained on the desert warrior, with a sergeant berating the soldier who had fired too early. A scene taken in, in its entirety, between heartbeats. The bastards were less then ten paces distant.
Corabb flung his axe away. With a scream, he pitched his horse sideways, directly into the wall of one of the mess-tents. Ropes tautened and snapped heavy stakes skyward, poles splintering. Amidst this stumbling chaos, the warrior heard the crossbows loose—but his horse was going down, onto its side—and Corabb was already leaping clear of the saddle, his moccasined feet slipping out from the stirrups as he dived.
Into the collapsing tent wall, a moment before his horse, rolling with a scream, followed.
The pressure of that waxed fabric vanished suddenly and Corabb tumbled into a somersault, once, twice, then skidded onto his feet, spinning round—
—in time to see his horse roll back upright.
Corabb leapt alongside his mount and vaulted up into the saddle—and they were off.
And in the desert warrior’s mind: numb disbelief.
On the opposite side of the avenue, seven Malazan marines stood or crouched with spent crossbows, staring as the rider thundered off into the smoke.
‘Did you see that?’ one asked.
Another frozen moment, shattered at last when the soldier named Lutes flung his weapon down in disgust.
‘Pick that up,’ Sergeant Borduke growled.
‘If Maybe hadn’t fired early—’
‘I wasn’t sure!’ Maybe replied.
‘Load up, idiots—there might be a few left.’
‘Hey, Sergeant, maybe that horse killed the cook.’
