The Malazan Empire, page 44
“Yes, Adjunct.”
And so, she realized, am I. “What,” she asked, “will stop the Tyrant? How do we control it?”
“We don’t, Adjunct. That is the gamble we take.”
“And what does that mean?”
Tool shrugged, an audible lifting and dropping of bones beneath the rotted furs. “The Lord of Moon’s Spawn, Adjunct. He will have no choice but to intervene.”
“He’s capable of stopping the Tyrant?”
“Yes, Adjunct. He is, although it will cost him dearly, weaken him. More, he is capable of delivering the single punishment that a Jaghut Tyrant fears most.” A faint gleam of light rose in Tool’s eye sockets as the Imass stared at Lorn. “Enslavement, Adjunct.”
Lorn stopped in her tracks. “You mean the Moon’s lord will have the Tyrant working on his side?”
“No, Adjunct. The enslavement is by the lord’s hand, but it is beyond him as well. You see, the Empress knows who the lord is, and what he possesses.”
Lorn nodded. “He’s Tiste Andii, and a High Mage.”
A rasp of laughter came from Tool. “Adjunct, he is Anomander Rake, the Son of Darkness. Bearer of Dragnipur.”
Lorn frowned.
Tool seemed to have noticed her confusion, for the Imass elaborated. “Dragnipur is a sword, born of the Age before light. And Darkness, Adjunct, is the Goddess of the Tiste Andii.”
A few minutes later, Lorn found her voice. “The Empress,” she said quietly, “knows how to pick her enemies.”
And then Tool hit her with another stunning revelation. “I am sure,” the Imass said, “the Tiste Andii regret their coming to this world.”
“They came to this world? From where? How? Why?”
“The Tiste Andii were of Kurald Galain, the Warren of Darkness. Kurald Galain stood alone, untouched. The Goddess, their mother, knew loneliness . . .” Tool hesitated. “There is probably little truth in this story, Adjunct.”
“Go on,” Lorn said quietly. “Please.”
“In her loneliness, the Goddess sought something outside herself. Thus was born Light. Her children the Tiste Andii saw this as a betrayal. They rejected her. Some hold they were cast out, others that they departed their mother’s embrace by choice. While Tiste Andii mages still use the Warren of Kurald Galain they are no longer of it. And some have embraced another Warren, that of Starvald Demelain.”
“The First Warren.”
Tool nodded.
“Whose Warren did Starvald Demelain belong to?”
“It was the home of Dragons, Adjunct.”
Murillio turned in his saddle and brought the mule to a halt on the dusty road. He glanced ahead. Kruppe and Crokus had already reached the Worry Crossroads. He patted his brow with the soft satin of his burnous, then looked back again. Coll leaned hunched over in his saddle, losing the rest of his breakfast.
Murillio sighed. It was a wonder to see the man sober, but that he’d insisted on accompanying them bordered on miraculous. Murillio wondered if Coll suspected anything of Rallick’s plans—but no, he would’ve brought a fist down on his and Rallick’s head in short order if he’d so much as caught a hint of what they were doing.
It had been Coll’s pride that had got him into his present mess, and drink did nothing to diminish it. To the contrary, in fact. Coll had even donned his brigandine armor, replete with arm and leg greaves. A bastard sword hung at the large man’s hip, and with his mail coif and helmet, he looked every inch a noble knight. The only exception was the green tinge to his rounded face. He was also the only one of them to have found a horse instead of these damned mules Kruppe had scrounged.
Coll straightened in his saddle and smiled wanly at Murillio, then spurred his horse alongside. They resumed the journey without a word, nudging their mounts into a canter until they’d caught up with the others.
As usual, Kruppe was pontificating. “No more than a handful of days, assures Kruppe, wizened traveler of the wastes beyond glittering Darujhistan. No reason to be so glum, lad. Consider this a mighty adventure.”
Crokus looked to Murillio and threw up his hands. “Adventure? I don’t even know what we’re doing out here! Won’t anybody tell me anything? I can’t believe I agreed to this!”
Murillio grinned at the boy. “Come now, Crokus. How many times have you expressed curiosity about our constant travels outside the city? Well, here we are—all your questions are about to find answers.”
Crokus hunched down in his saddle. “You told me you all worked as agents for some merchant. What merchant? I don’t see any merchant. And where’s our horses? How come Coll’s the only one with a horse? How come nobody gave me a sword or something? Why—?”
“All right!” Murillio laughed, holding up a hand. “Enough, please! We are agents for a merchant,” he explained. “But it’s rather unusual merchandise we’re acquiring.”
“A rather unusual merchant as well, Kruppe adds with a warm smile. Lad, we are agents seeking information on behalf of our employer, who is none other than High Alchemist Baruk!”
Crokus stared at Kruppe. “Baruk! And he can’t afford to give us horses?”
Kruppe cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Well. There was something of a misunderstanding between worthy, honest Kruppe and a conniving, deceitful stabler. Nonetheless, Kruppe received full recompense, thus saving our kind master eleven silver coins.”
“Which he’ll never see,” Murillio muttered.
Kruppe went on, “As for a sword, lad, what on earth for? Ignore blustery, pallid Coll there, with all his sweaty trappings of war. A mere affectation of his. And Murillio’s rapier is no more than an ornamental trifle, though no doubt he would claim that the jewels and emeralds studding said item’s hilt are toward achieving fine balance or some such martial detail.” Kruppe smiled beatifically at Murillio. “Nay, lad, the true masters at acquiring information need no such clumsy pieces of metal; indeed, we disdain them.”
“OK,” Crokus grumbled, “what kind of information are we looking for, then?”
“All that yon ravens overhead can see,” Kruppe said, waving a hand in the air. “Other travelers, other efforts within the Gadrobi Hills, all grist for Master Baruk’s mill of news. We observe without being observed. We learn while remaining a mystery to all. We ascend to the—”
“Will you shut up?” Coll moaned. “Who brought the waterskins?”
Smiling, Murillio removed a clay jug webbed in twine from his saddlehorn and handed it to Coll.
“A sponge,” Kruppe said, “squeezed beneath the burden of armor. See the man down our precious water, see it immediately reappear salty and grimy on his weathered skin. What yon poisons have leaked forth? Kruppe shudders at the thought.”
Coll ignored him, handing the jug to Crokus. “Buck up, lad,” he said. “You’re getting paid, and damn well. With luck there’ll be no trouble. Believe me, in this kind of work, excitement is the last thing we’re looking for. Still,” he glared at Murillio, “I’d feel a whole lot better if Rallick were with us.”
Crokus bristled. “And I’m an unworthy stand-in, right? You think I don’t know that, Coll? You think—?”
“Don’t tell me what I think,” Coll rumbled. “I never said you were a stand-in, Crokus. You’re a thief, and those kinds of skill come in a lot handier than anything I could manage. The same for Murillio. And as for Kruppe, well, his talents extend no further than his stomach and whatever he wants jammed in it. You and Rallick share a lot more than you think, and that’s why you’re the most qualified man here.”
“Barring the necessary brains, of course,” Kruppe said, “which is my true skill—though one such as Coll would never understand such abilities, alien as they are to him.”
Coll leaned toward Crokus. “You’re wondering why I’m wearing all this armor,” he whispered loudly. “It’s because Kruppe’s in charge. When Kruppe’s in charge I don’t feel safe unless I’m prepared for war. If it comes to that, lad, I’ll get us out alive.” He leaned back and stared straight ahead. “I’ve done it before. Right, Kruppe?”
“Absurd accusations.” Kruppe sniffed.
“So,” Crokus said, “what are we supposed to be on the lookout for?”
“We’ll know it when we see it,” Murillio said. He nodded toward the hills rising to the east. “Up there.”
Crokus was silent for a time, then his eyes narrowed. “The Gadrobi Hills. Are we looking for a rumor, Murillio?”
Murillio stiffened, but it was Kruppe who replied, “Indeed, lad. Rumors upon rumors. I applaud your cunning conclusion. Now, where is that water jug? Kruppe’s thirst has become intense.”
Sorry’s departure through Jammit’s Gate was casual, unhurried. Tracking the Coin Bearer was simple, and did not require that the boy remain within her range of vision. She sensed Crokus and Kruppe, in the company of two others, on the road a league beyond Worrytown. They did not seem to be in any kind of rush.
Whatever mission they were on, that it concerned the welfare of Darujhistan was plain. Thinking on it, Sorry was sure that the men within that group were spies and, in all likelihood, able ones. The dandy, Murillio, could move through noble-born circles with an ease coupled with a desirable coyness—the perfect combination for a spy. Rallick, though he did not accompany them on this mission, was the eyes and ears within the Assassins’ Guild, thus covering another power base. Kruppe’s world was that of the thieves and lower classes, whence rumors sprang to life like weeds in muddy soil. The third man was clearly a military man, no doubt serving as the group’s sword arm.
On a mundane level, then, an adequate group to protect the Coin Bearer, though insufficient to prevent her killing him—especially with the assassin left behind.
Yet something nagged within Sorry’s mind, a vague suspicion that the group was heading into danger—a danger that threatened her as well. Once beyond Worrytown she picked up her pace. As soon as she found herself alone on the road, she opened her Warren of Shadow and slipped into its swift tracks.
The Adjunct could find nothing to set apart the hill they approached. Its grass-cloaked summit was dwarfed by those around it. A half dozen scraggly, wind-twisted scrub oaks climbed one side amid a scree of broken boulders. The summit flattened out into a rough circle, rock pushing through here and there.
Overhead wheeled ravens, so high as to be no more than specks against the muggy gray sky. Lorn watched Tool striding ahead of her, the Imass choosing an unwavering path toward the hill’s base. She slumped in her saddle, feeling defeated by the world around her. The midday heat sapped her strength, and the sluggishness reached through to her thoughts—not Oponn’s doing, she knew. This was the pervasive dread clinging to the air, the sense that what they were doing was wrong, terribly wrong.
To fling this Jaghut Tyrant into the hands of the Empire’s enemy, to trust this Tiste Andii Anomander Rake to destroy it, yet at great cost to himself—thus opening the way for Malazan sorceries in turn to kill the Son of Darkness—now seemed precipitous, absurd in its ambitions.
Tool came to the base of the hill and waited for the Adjunct to arrive. Lorn saw, at Tool’s hide-wrapped feet, a gray rock jutting perhaps ten inches from the earth.
“Adjunct,” the Imass said, “this is the barrow marker we seek.”
She raised an eyebrow. “There’s hardly any soil cover here at all,” she said. “Are you suggesting this standing stone has eroded down to its present size?”
“The stone has not eroded,” Tool answered. “It has stood here since before the sheets of ice came to cover this land. It stood here when the Rhivi Plain was an inland sea, long before the waters withdrew to what is now Lake Azur. Adjunct, the stone is in fact taller than both of us combined, and what you think to be bedrock is shale.”
Lorn was surprised at the hint of anger in Tool’s voice. She dismounted and set to hobbling the horses. “How long do we stay here, then?”
“Until this evening passes. With tomorrow’s dawn I will open the way, Adjunct.”
Faintly from above came the cries of ravens. Lorn lifted her head and gazed at the specks wheeling high over them. They’d been with them for days. Was that unusual? She didn’t know. Shrugging, she unsaddled the horses.
The Imass remained motionless, his gaze seeming fixed on the stone marker. Lorn went about preparing her camp. Among the scrub oaks she found wood for a small cooking fire. It was dry, weathered, and likely to yield little smoke. Though she did not anticipate company, caution had become her habit. Before dusk arrived she found a nearby hill higher than those around it, and ascended to its summit. From this position she commanded a view that encompassed leagues on all sides. The hills continued their roll southward, sinking to steppes to the southeast. Due east of them stretched Catlin Plain, empty of life as far as she could see.
Lorn turned to the north. The forest they had traveled round a few days ago was still visible, a dark line thickening as it swept westward to the Tahlyn Mountains. She sat down and waited for night to fall. It was then that she’d be able to spot any campfires.
Even as night fell, the heat remained oppressive. Lorn walked around the hill’s summit to stretch her legs. She found evidence of past excavations, scars that dug into the shale. And evidence of the Gadrobi herders remained, from as far back as when they fashioned stone tools. Against the south side of the hill the ground had been carved out, not in search of a barrow but as a stone quarry. It appeared that beneath the shale was flint, chocolate brown, sharp-edged and crusted in white chalk.
Curious, Lorn investigated further, scrambling down into the cavity. Stone flakes carpeted the pit’s base. She crouched and picked up a piece of flint. It was the tip of a spear point, expertly shaped.
The echo of this technology was found in Tool’s chalcedony sword. She needed no further proof of the Imass’s assertions. Humans had indeed come from them, had indeed inherited a world.
Empire was a part of them, a legacy flowing like blood through human muscle, bone, and brain. But such a thing could easily be seen as a curse. Were they destined one day to become human versions of the T’lan Imass? Was war all there was? Would they bow to it in immortal servitude, no more than deliverers of death?
Lorn sat down in the quarry and leaned against the chiseled, weathered stone. The Imass had conducted a war of extermination lasting hundreds of thousands of years. Who or what had the Jaghut been? According to Tool, they’d abandoned the concept of government, and turned their backs on empires, on armies, on the cycles of rise and fall, fire and rebirth. They’d walked alone, disdainful of their own kind, dismissive of community, of purposes greater than themselves.
They would not, she realized, have started a war.
“Oh, Laseen,” she murmured, tears welling in her eyes, “I know why we fear this Jaghut Tyrant. Because he became human, he became like us, he enslaved, he destroyed, and he did it better than we could.” She lowered her head into her hands. “That’s why we fear.”
She fell silent then, letting the tears roll down her cheeks, seep between her fingers, trickle along her wrists. Who wept from her eyes? she wondered. Was it Lorn, or Laseen? Or was it for our kind? What did it matter? Such tears had been shed before, and would be again—by others like her and yet unlike her. And the winds would dry them all.
Captain Paran glanced at his companion. “You’ve got a theory about all this?” he asked.
Toc the Younger scratched his scar. “Damned if I know, Captain.” He stared down at the black, burned, crusted raven lying on the ground in front of them. “I’ve been counting, though. That’s the eleventh roasted bird in the last three hours. And, unless they’re covering the Rhivi Plain like some bloody carpet, it seems we’re on somebody’s trail.”
Paran grunted, then kicked his horse forward.
Toc followed. “And it’s a nasty somebody,” he continued. “Those ravens look like they was blasted from the inside out. Hell, even the flies avoid them.”
“In other words,” Paran grated, “sorcery.”
Toc squinted at the hills south of them. They’d found a woodcutter’s trail through the Tahlyn Forest, shaving days off their journey. As soon as they’d returned to the Rhivi traders’ track, however, they’d found the ravens, and also the signs of two horses and one moccasined man on foot. This latter group of tracks was only a few days old.
“Can’t understand why the Adjunct and that Imass are moving so slowly,” Toc muttered, repeating words he’d uttered a dozen times since the day’s beginning. “You think she doesn’t know something’s trailing her?”
“She’s an arrogant woman,” Paran said, his free hand gripping his sword. “And with that Imass with her, why should she worry?”
“Power draws power,” Toc said, scratching again at his scar. The motion triggered yet another flash of light in his head, but it was changing. At times he thought he could almost see images, scenes within the light. “Damn Seven Cities’ superstitions, anyway,” he growled, under his breath.
Paran looked at him oddly. “You say something?”
“No.” Toc hunched down in his saddle. The captain had been pushing them hard. His obsession was running them down; even with the extra mount, the horses were near finished. And a thought nagged Toc. What would happen when they caught up with the Adjunct? Obviously, Paran intended to catch Lorn and the Imass, spurred by vengeance that overwhelmed his previous intentions. With Lorn dead or her plans awry, Paran’s command would be safe. He could join Whiskeyjack and the squad at leisure. Assuming they still lived, of course.
Toc could think of a thousand flaws in the Captain’s plans. First and foremost was the T’lan Imass. Was Paran’s sword its match? In the past, sorcery had been flung at the Imass warriors with a frenzy born of desperation. Nothing had worked. The only way to destroy an Imass was to chop it to pieces. Toc didn’t think the captain’s weapon, god-touched as it was, could do the job, but there was no convincing Paran of anything these days.
They came upon another raven, its feathers fluttering in the wind, its entrails swollen by the sun and bright red like cherries. Toc rubbed his scar again, and almost fell from the saddle as an image, clear and precise, burgeoned in his head. He saw a small shape, moving so fast as to be but a blur. Horses screamed, and a massive tear opened up in the air. He jolted, as if something large and heavy had struck him, and the tear yawned, swirling darkness beyond. Toc heard his own horse scream. Then it was gone, and he found himself gripping the hinged horn of his saddle with all his strength.
