The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 43
All the ambivalence surrounding the Coin Bearer was gone, driven away. She knew now she would kill him. It had to be done, and soon. All that remained before she could do so was the mystery of his actions. To what extent was Oponn using the boy?
She knew he’d seen her in the D’Arles’ garden, just before he’d escaped to the estate’s roof. Seeing the light come on behind the balcony’s sliding doors had clinched her decision to continue following Crokus. The D’Arle family was powerful in Darujhistan. That the boy seemed to be involved in a clandestine love affair with the daughter was an outrageous proposition, yet what else could she conclude? So, the question remained: was Oponn working through the boy directly, insinuating a peculiar influence with the City Council? What powers of influence did this young maiden possess?
Only a matter of position, of possible scandal. Yet what was the political position of Councilman Estraysian D’Arle? Sorry realized that even though she’d learned much of Darujhistan’s political arena she still did not know enough to second-guess Oponn’s moves. Councilman D’Arle was Turban Orr’s principal opposition on this proclamation-of-neutrality business—but what did that matter? The Malazan Empire could not care less. Unless the proclamation was no more than a feint. Was this Turban Orr seeking to lay the groundwork for an Empire-backed coup?
The answers to such questions would be slow in coming. She knew she’d have to exercise patience. Of course, patience was her finest quality. She’d hoped that showing herself to Crokus a second time, there in the garden, might trigger panic in the lad—or, at the very least, annoy Oponn if indeed the god’s control was as direct as that.
Sorry had watched on, from the shadows she drew around her, as the assassin named Rallick took the lad to task. She’d also lingered to catch the conversation between Rallick and Murillio. It seemed the boy had protectors, and an odd lot they were, assuming that the fat little man, Kruppe, was some kind of group leader. Hearing that they were to take Crokus out of the city on behalf of their “master” made the whole situation even more intriguing.
She knew she’d have to make her move soon. The protection offered by Kruppe and this Murillio would not impede her much, she expected. Though Kruppe was certainly more than he seemed, violence hardly seemed his major skill.
She would kill Crokus, then, outside the city. As soon as she discovered the nature of their mission, and who their master was. As soon as everything had fallen into place.
Sergeant Whiskeyjack would have to wait a while longer for her return. Sorry smiled at that, knowing full well how relieved the whole squad would be that she was nowhere to be seen. As for that whole matter—the threat presented by Quick Ben and Kalam—well, everything in its own time.
Alchemist Baruk’s savage migraine was ebbing. Whatever presence had been unleashed in the city was gone. He sat in his reading chair, pressing a cloth-wrapped chunk of ice against his forehead. It had been a conjuring. He felt certain of that. The emanations stank of demonry. But there’d been more. The moment before the presence vanished, Baruk had experienced a mental wrench that came close to driving him into unconsciousness.
He’d shared the creature’s final death scream, his own shriek echoing down the hall and bringing his men-at-arms shouting to his bedroom door.
Baruk felt a wrongness, deep within him, as if his soul had been battered. For a single, brief second, he’d looked upon a world of absolute darkness, and from that darkness came sounds, the creak of wooden wheels, the clank of chains, the groans of a thousand imprisoned souls. Then it was gone, and he found himself sitting in his chair, Roald kneeling at his side with a pail of ice from the cellar.
He now sat in his study, alone, and the ice pressed against his brow was warm compared to what he felt in his heart.
There was a knock at the door, and Roald entered, his face creased with worry. “Lord, you have a visitor.”
“I have? At this hour?” He rose shakily to his feet. “Who is it?”
“Lord Anomander Rake.” Roald hesitated. “And . . . another.”
Frowning, Baruk waved a hand. “Bring them in.”
“Yes, Lord.”
Rake entered, holding a dog-sized winged creature by the nape of its neck. The creature twisted and hissed, then turned pleading eyes to Baruk.
“This thing was following me here,” Rake said. “Yours?”
Startled, Baruk managed a nod.
“I thought as much,” Rake said, releasing the demon to flap across the room and land at the alchemist’s slippered feet.
Baruk gazed down on it. The demon was trembling.
Rake strode to a chair and sat, stretching out his long legs. “A busy night,” he said.
Baruk gestured and the demon vanished with a faint popping sound. “Indeed,” he said, his voice hard. “My servant was on a mission. I had no idea it would involve you.” He went to stand before the Tiste Andii. “Why were you in the middle of an assassin war?”
“Why not?” Rake answered. “I started it.”
“What?”
He smiled up at Baruk. “You don’t know the Empress as well as I do, Baruk.”
“Please explain.” Color had risen in the alchemist’s face.
Rake looked away. “Tell me this, Baruk,” he said, turning to meet the alchemist’s gaze, “who in this city is most likely to be aware of your secret council? And who might benefit the most from your removal? And, most importantly, who in this city is capable of killing you?”
Baruk did not answer immediately. He walked slowly to the table, where a newly painted map had been laid out. He leaned over it, hands resting on the edge. “You suspect the Empress might seek out Vorcan,” he said. “A contract to offer.”
“On you and the rest of the High Mages,” Rake said, behind him. “The Empress has sent a Claw here, not so much to worry your city’s defenses, but to establish contact with the Master Assassin. I wasn’t entirely certain that I was right in this, but I meant to prevent that contact.”
Baruk’s eyes remained on the map’s red wash. “So you sent your own assassins to wipe out her Guild. To flush her out.” He faced Rake. “And then what? Kill her? All on the basis of some suspicion of yours?”
“This night,” Rake said calmly, “we prevented the Claw from making that contact. Your demon’s report will confirm this. Besides, you aren’t suggesting that the death of Vorcan and the decimation of the city’s assassins is a bad thing, are you?”
“I fear I am.” Baruk was pacing, struggling against a growing sense of outrage. “I may not know the Empress as well as you, Rake,” he said, gritting his teeth, “but I do know this city—far better than you ever will.” He glared at the Tiste Andii. “To you, Darujhistan is just another battleground for your private war with the Empress. You don’t give a damn about how this city survives—how it has managed to survive three thousand years.”
Rake shrugged. “Enlighten me.”
“The City Council has its function, a vital one. They are the city’s machine. True, Majesty Hall is a place of pettiness, corruption, endless bickering, but, despite all that, it’s also a place where things get done.”
“What’s that got to do with Vorcan and her gang of killers?”
Baruk grimaced. “Like any burdened wagon, the wheels require grease. Without the option of assassination the noble families would have long since destroyed themselves, taking the city with them, through civil war. Secondly, the Guild’s efficiency provides a measure of control on vendettas, arguments, and so forth. It is the guaranteed option of bloodshed, and bloodshed is messy. Usually too messy for the nobility’s sensibilities.”
“Curious,” Rake said. “Nevertheless, don’t you think that Vorcan would listen very carefully indeed to an offer from the Empress? After all, Laseen has the precedent of handing over the rule of a conquered city to an assassin. In fact, at least a third of her present High Fists come from that profession.”
“You are missing the point!” Baruk’s face was dark. “You did not consult us, and that cannot be tolerated.”
“You haven’t answered me,” Rake retorted, in a voice quiet and cold. “Would Vorcan take the contract? Could she manage it? Is she that good, Baruk?”
The alchemist turned away. “I don’t know. That’s my answer, to all three questions.”
Rake stared hard at Baruk. “If you were indeed nothing more than an alchemist, I might believe you.”
Baruk’s smile was wry. “Why would you think me anything but?”
Now it was Rake’s turn to smile. “There are few who would argue with me without flinching. I am unused to be addressed as an equal.”
“There are many paths to Ascendancy, some more subtle than others.” Baruk walked over to the mantel above the fireplace, took a carafe, then went to the shelf behind his desk and retrieved two crystal goblets. “She’s a High Mage. We all have magical defenses, but against her . . .” He filled the goblets with wine.
Rake joined the alchemist. He accepted the glass and raised it between them. “I apologize for not informing you. In truth, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind as being especially important. Until tonight, I was acting on a theory, nothing more. I didn’t consider the ripples a grounded Guild might cause.”
Baruk sipped his wine. “Anomander Rake, tell me something. There was a presence in our city tonight—a conjuring.”
“One of Tayschrenn’s Korvalah demons,” Rake answered. “Released by a Claw wizard.” He took a mouthful of the tart liquid, let it roll for a moment, then swallowed with satisfaction. “It’s gone.”
“Gone?” Baruk asked quietly. “Where?”
“Out of Tayschrenn’s reach,” Rake said, a tight smile on his lips. “Out of anyone’s reach.”
“Your sword,” Baruk said, repressing a shiver as the memory of that closing vision returned to him. The creak of wheels, the clank of chains, the groans of a thousand lost souls. And darkness.
“Oh, yes,” Rake said, refilling his goblet. “I received the two Pale wizards’ heads. As you promised. I admire your efficiency, Baruk. Did they protest?”
Baruk paled. “I explained to them the options,” he said quietly. “No, they didn’t protest.”
Rake’s soft laugh chilled the blood in Baruk’s veins.
At the distant sound Kruppe rose. The small fire flickered steadily before him, but its heat seemed less. “Ah,” he sighed, “Kruppe’s hands are near numb, yet his ears are as sharp as ever. Listen to this faint sound in the very nether regions of his present dream. Does he know its source?”
“Perhaps,” K’rul said beside him.
Startled, Kruppe turned, his eyebrows rising. “Kruppe thought you long gone, Eldering One. Nonetheless, he is thankful for your company.”
The hooded god nodded. “All is well with the child Tattersail. The Rhivi protect her, and she grows swiftly, as is the nature of Soletaken. A powerful warlord now shelters her.”
“Good,” Kruppe said, smiling. The noises in the distance drew his attention again. He stared out into the darkness, seeing nothing.
“Tell me, Kruppe,” K’rul said, “what do you hear?”
“The passing of a great wagon or some such thing,” he replied, with a frown. “I hear its wheels, and chains, and the groaning of slaves.”
“Its name is Dragnipur,” K’rul said. “And it is a sword.”
Kruppe’s frown deepened. “How can a wagon and slaves be a sword?”
“Forged in darkness, it chains souls to the world that existed before the coming of light. Kruppe, its wielder is among you.”
In Kruppe’s mind his Deck of Dragons rose. He saw the image of half man, half dragon—the Knight of High House Darkness, also known as the Son of Darkness. The man held aloft a black sword trailing smoky chains. “The Knight is in Darujhistan?” he asked, fighting a shiver of fear.
“In Darujhistan,” K’rul replied. “Around Darujhistan. Above Darujhistan. His presence is a lodestone to power, and great is the danger.” The Elder God faced Kruppe. “He is in league with Master Baruk and the T’orrud Cabal—Darujhistan’s secret rulers have found a two-edged ally. Dragnipur tasted a demon’s soul this night, Kruppe, in your city. It is never thirsty for long, and it will feed on more blood before this is done.”
“Can anyone withstand it?” Kruppe asked.
K’rul shrugged. “None could when it was first forged, but that was long ago. I cannot answer for the present. I have one other piece of information, Kruppe, a small piece, I’m afraid.”
“Kruppe hearkens.”
“The journey Master Baruk is sending you on to the Gadrobi Hills. Elder magic brews anew, after so long. It is Tellann—of the Imass—but what it touches is Omtose Phellack—Jaghut Elder magic. Kruppe, stay out of their way. Especially guard the Coin Bearer. What is about to come is a danger as grave as the Knight and his sword, and as ancient. Step carefully, Kruppe.”
“Kruppe always steps carefully, Eldering One.”
Book Five!
The Gadrobi Hills
Beyond these thin hide walls
a child sits, before her on worn silk
a Deck is arrayed.
She cannot yet speak
and the scenes before her
she’s never before seen in this life.
The child gazes upon a lone card
named Obelisk, the stone gray
she can feel its roughness in her mind.
Obelisk stands buried in a grassy knoll
like a knuckle protruded
from the earth, past and future.
This child’s eyes are wide
with terror, for cracks have appeared
in the stone of stones and she knows
the shattering is begun.
SILVERFOX
OUTRIDER HURLOCHEL,
6TH ARMY
Chapter Fourteen
I saw them on the shores
the deepening pits of their gaze
vowed immortal war
against the sighing calm
of Jaghut seas . . .
GOTHOS’ FOLLY
GOTHOS (B.?)
907th Year in the Third Millennium
The Season of Fanderay in the Year of the Five Tusks
By Malazan reckoning, 1163rd Year of Burn’s Sleep
T’lan Imass reckoning, The Year of Gathering, Tellann Arise
As the days passed, Adjunct Lorn felt a sharpness return to her mind, the exhaustion and depression fading away. The thought that she could allow herself to slip into carelessness so easily had left her shaken, and that was not a feeling with which she was familiar. She did not know how to deal with it, and this kept her unbalanced, not quite sure of her own efficacy.
As the Gadrobi Hills appeared, first to the south and then to the west as well, she sensed a desperate urgency to regain her confidence. The mission approached a vital juncture. Success with the Jaghut barrow would almost ensure success with everything else.
Since this dawn she’d ridden hard, pushing to keep her schedule intact after traveling so slowly in the first few days. Both horses were in need of rest, so she now walked ahead of them, the reins tucked through her belt. And beside her walked Tool.
Though the Imass spoke often, at her prodding, of many fascinating things, he denied her efforts regarding matters important to the Empire, and to Laseen’s continued power. All seemed to return to the vows he had taken at the last Gathering. For the Imass, something was coming to a head. She wondered if it was somehow connected with freeing this Jaghut Tyrant. And that was a disturbing thought.
Still, she would not permit any ambivalence to threaten the mission. In this she was Laseen’s arm, and it was directed not of Lorn’s own accord but by the Empress. Dujek and Tayschrenn had well reminded her of that truth. Thus, she played no role in all this—not as the woman named Lorn. How could she be held responsible for anything?
“In my years among humans,” Tool said, beside her, “I have come to recollect the passing of emotions in body and expressions. Adjunct, you have worn a frown the past two days. Is this significant?”
“No,” she snapped. “It isn’t.” Purging her thoughts of personal feelings had never been so difficult as it was now—was this a lasting effect of Oponn’s meddling? Perhaps Tool could rid her of it. “Tool,” she said, “what is significant, as you put it, is that I don’t know enough about what we’re doing. We are seeking a standing stone, the barrow’s marker. Well, assuming it can be found, why was it not so long ago? Why could not three thousand years of hunting find this barrow?”
“We will find the standing stone,” Tool replied calmly. “It marks the barrow in truth, but the barrow is not there.”
The Adjunct scowled. More riddles. “Explain.”
The Imass was silent for a minute, then he said, “I am born of an Elder Warren, Adjunct, known as Tellann. It is more than a source of magic, it is also a time.”
“Are you suggesting that the barrow exists in a different time? Is that how you plan to reach it—by using your Tellann Warren?”
“No, there is no parallel time any different from the one we know. That time is gone, past. It is more a matter of . . . flavor. Adjunct, may I continue?”
Lorn’s mouth thinned into a straight line.
“The Jaghut who entombed the Tyrant were born of a different Elder Warren. But the term ‘Elder’ is relative only to the existing Warrens of this age. The Jaghut Omtose Phellack is not ‘Elder’ when compared to Tellann. They are the same, of the same flavor. Do you understand thus far, Adjunct?”
“Patronizing bastard,” she muttered to herself. “Yes, Tool.”
The Imass nodded, his bones creaking. “The barrow has not been found before, precisely because it is Omtose Phellack. It lies within a Warren now lost to the world. Yet, I am Tellann. My Warren touches Omtose Phellack. I can reach it, Adjunct. Any T’lan Imass could. I was chosen because I am without a Clan. I am alone in every way.”
