The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 462
Karsa’s tattooed face darkened.
Samar edged down from the horse and hobbled to place herself between the giant and the guards, all of whom had drawn scimitars and were fanning out on the street. Beyond, a crowd of onlookers was gathering. She held up her hands. ‘There has been a misunderstanding.’
‘Samar Dev,’ one man said in a growl. ‘Best you step aside – this is no affair of yours—’
‘But it is, Captain Inashan. This warrior has saved my life. My wagon broke down out in the wastes, and I broke my leg – look at me. I was dying. And so I called upon a spirit of the wild-lands.’
The captain’s eyes widened as he regarded Karsa Orlong. ‘This is a spirit?’
‘Most assuredly,’ Samar replied. ‘One who is of course ignorant of our customs. That gate guard acted in what this spirit perceived as a hostile manner. Does he still live?’
The captain nodded. ‘Knocked senseless, that is all.’ The man then pointed towards the severed heads. ‘What are those?’
‘Trophies,’ she answered. ‘Demons. They had escaped their own realm and were approaching Ugarat. Had not this spirit killed them, they would have descended upon us with great slaughter. And with not a single worthy mage left in Ugarat, we would have fared poorly indeed.’
Captain Inashan narrowed his gaze on Karsa. ‘Can you understand my words?’
‘They have been simple enough thus far,’ the warrior replied.
The captain scowled. ‘Does she speak the truth?’
‘More than she realizes, yet even so, there are untruths in her tale. I am not a spirit. I am Toblakai, once bodyguard to Sha’ik. Yet this woman bargained with me as she would a spirit. More, she knew nothing of where I came from or who I was, and so she might well have imagined I was a spirit of the wild-lands.’
Voices rose among both guards and citizens at the name Sha’ik, and Samar saw a dawning recognition in the captain’s expression. ‘Toblakai, companion to Leoman of the Flails. Tales of you have reached us.’ He pointed with his scimitar at the fur riding Karsa’s shoulders. ‘Slayer of a Soletaken, a white bear. Executioner of Sha’ik’s betrayers in Raraku. It is said you slew demons the night before Sha’ik was killed,’ he added, eyes on the rotted, flailed heads. ‘And, when she had been slain by the Adjunct, you rode out to face the Malazan army – and they would not fight you.’
‘There is some truth in what you have spoken,’ Karsa said, ‘barring the words I exchanged with the Malazans—’
‘One of Sha’ik’s own,’ Samar quickly said, sensing the warrior was about to say something unwise, ‘how could we of Ugarat not welcome you? The Malazan garrison has been driven from this city and is even now starving in Moraval Keep on the other side of the river, besieged with no hope of succour.’
‘You are wrong in that,’ Karsa said.
She wanted to kick him. Then again, look how that had turned out the last time? All right, you ox, go and hang yourself.
‘What do you mean?’ Captain Inashan asked.
‘The rebellion is broken, the Malazans have retaken cities by the score. They will come here, too, eventually. I suggest you make peace with the garrison.’
‘Would that not put you at risk?’ Samar asked.
The warrior bared his teeth. ‘My war is done. If they cannot accept that, I will kill them all.’
An outrageous claim, yet no-one laughed. Captain Inashan hesitated, then he sheathed his scimitar, his soldiers following suit. ‘We have heard of the rebellion’s failure,’ he said. ‘For the Malazans in the keep, alas, it might well be too late. They have been trapped in there for months. And no-one has been seen on the walls for some time—’
‘I will go there,’ Karsa said. ‘Gestures of peace must be made.’
‘It is said,’ Inashan muttered, ‘that Leoman still lives. That he leads the last army and has vowed to fight on.’
‘Leoman rides his own path. I would place no faith in it, were I you.’
The advice was not well received. Arguments rose, until Inashan turned on his guards and silenced them with an upraised hand. ‘These matters must be brought to the Falah’d.’ He faced Karsa again. ‘You will stay this night at the Inn of the Wood?’
‘I shall, although it is not made of wood, and so it should be called Inn of the Brick.’
Samar laughed. ‘You can bring that up with the owner, Toblakai. Captain, are we done here?’
Inashan nodded. ‘I will send a healer to mend your leg, Samar Dev.’
‘In return, I bless you and your kin, Captain.’
‘You are too generous,’ he replied with a bow.
The squad headed off. Samar turned to regard the giant warrior. ‘Toblakai, how have you survived this long in Seven Cities?’
He looked down at her, then slung the stone sword once more over his shoulder. ‘There is no armour made that can withstand the truth…’
‘When backed by that sword?’
‘Yes, Samar Dev. I find it does not take long for children to understand that. Even here in Seven Cities.’ He pushed open the gates. ‘Havok will require a stable away from other beasts…at least until his hunger is appeased.’
‘I don’t like the looks of that,’ Telorast muttered, nervously shifting about.
‘It is a gate,’ Apsalar said.
‘But where does it lead?’ Curdle asked, indistinct head bobbing.
‘It leads out,’ she replied. ‘Onto the Jen’rahb, in the city of Ehrlitan. It is where I am going.’
‘Then that is where we are going,’ Telorast announced. ‘Are there bodies there? I hope so. Fleshy, healthy bodies.’
She regarded the two ghosts. ‘You intend to steal bodies to house your spirits? I am not sure that I can permit that.’
‘Oh, we wouldn’t do that,’ Curdle said. ‘That would be possession, and that’s difficult, very difficult. Memories seep back and forth, yielding confusion and inconsistency.’
‘True,’ Telorast said. ‘And we are most consistent, are we not? No, my dear, we just happen to like bodies. In proximity. They…comfort us. You, for example. You are a great comfort to us, though we know not your name.’
‘Apsalar.’
‘She’s dead!’ Curdle shrieked. To Apsalar: ‘I knew you were a ghost!’
‘I am named after the Mistress of Thieves. I am not her in the flesh.’
‘She must be speaking the truth,’ Telorast said to Curdle. ‘If you recall, Apsalar looked nothing like this one. The real Apsalar was Imass, or very nearly Imass. And she wasn’t very friendly—’
‘Because you stole from her temple coffers,’ Curdle said, squirming about in small dust-clouds.
‘Even before then. Decidedly unfriendly, where this Apsalar, this one here, she’s kind. Her heart is bursting with warmth and generosity—’
‘Enough of that,’ Apsalar said, turning to the gate once more. ‘As I mentioned earlier, this gate leads to the Jen’rahb…for me. For the two of you, of course, it might well lead into Hood’s Realm. I am not responsible for that, should you find yourselves before Death’s Gate.’
‘Hood’s Realm? Death’s Gate?’ Telorast began moving from side to side, a strange motion that Apsalar belatedly realized was pacing, although the ghost had sunk part-way into the ground, making it look more like wading. ‘There is no fear of that. We are too powerful. Too wise. Too cunning.’
‘We were great mages, once,’ Curdle said. ‘Necromancers, Spiritwalkers, Conjurers, Wielders of Fell Holds, Masters of the Thousand Warrens—’
‘Mistresses, Curdle. Mistresses of the Thousand Warrens.’
‘Yes, Telorast. Mistresses indeed. What was I thinking? Beauteous mistresses, curvaceous, languid, sultry, occasionally simpering—’
Apsalar walked through the gate.
She stepped onto broken rubble alongside the foundations of a collapsed wall. The night air was chill, stars sharp overhead.
‘—and even Kallor quailed before us, isn’t that right, Telorast?’
‘Oh yes, he quailed.’
Apsalar looked down to find herself flanked by the two ghosts. She sighed. ‘You evaded Hood’s Realm, I see.’
‘Clumsy grasping hands,’ Curdle sniffed. ‘We were too quick.’
‘As we knew we’d be,’ Telorast added. ‘What place is this? It’s all broken—’
Curdle clambered atop the foundation wall. ‘No, you are wrong, Telorast, as usual. I see buildings beyond. Lit windows. The very air reeks of life.’
‘This is the Jen’rahb,’ Apsalar said. ‘The ancient centre of the city, which collapsed long ago beneath its own weight.’
‘As all cities must, eventually,’ Telorast observed, trying to pick up a brick fragment. But its hand slipped ineffectually through the object. ‘Oh, we are most useless in this realm.’
Curdle glanced down at its companion. ‘We need bodies—’
‘I told you before—’
‘Fear not, Apsalar,’ Curdle replied in a crooning tone, ‘we will not unduly offend you. The bodies need not be sentient, after all.’
‘Are there the equivalent of Hounds here?’ Telorast asked.
Curdle snorted. ‘The Hounds are sentient, you fool!’
‘Only stupidly so!’
‘Not so stupid as to fall for our tricks, though, were they?’
‘Are there imbrules here? Stantars? Luthuras – are there luthuras here? Scaly, long grasping tails, eyes like the eyes of purlith bats—’
‘No,’ Apsalar said. ‘None of those creatures.’ She frowned. ‘Those you have mentioned are of Starvald Demelain.’
A momentary silence from the two ghosts, then Curdle snaked along the top of the wall until its eerie face was opposite Apsalar. ‘Really? Now, that’s a peculiar coincidence—’
‘Yet you speak the language of the Tiste Andii.’
‘We do? Why, that’s even stranger.’
‘Baffling,’ Telorast agreed. ‘We, uh, we assumed it was the language you spoke. Your native language, that is.’
‘Why? I am not Tiste Andii.’
‘No, of course not. Well, thank the Abyss that’s been cleared up. Where shall we go from here?’
‘I suggest,’ Apsalar said after a moment’s thought, ‘that you two remain here. I have tasks to complete this night, and they are not suited to company.’
‘You desire stealth,’ Telorast whispered, crouching low. ‘We could tell, you know. There’s something of the thief about you. Kindred spirits, the three of us, I think. A thief, yes, and perhaps something darker.’
‘Well of course darker,’ Curdle said from the wall. ‘A servant of Shadowthrone, or the Patron of Assassins. There will be blood spilled this night, and our mortal companion will do the spilling. She’s an assassin, and we should know, having met countless assassins in our day. Look at her, Telorast, she has deadly blades secreted about her person—’
‘And she smells of stale wine.’
‘Stay here,’ Apsalar said. ‘Both of you.’
‘And if we don’t?’ Telorast asked.
‘Then I shall inform Cotillion that you have escaped, and he will send the Hounds on your trail.’
‘You bind us to servitude! Trap us with threats! Curdle, we have been deceived!’
‘Let’s kill her and steal her body!’
‘Let’s not, Curdle. Something about her frightens me. All right, Apsalar who is not Apsalar, we shall stay here…for a time. Until we can be certain you are dead or worse, that’s how long we’ll stay here.’
‘Or until you return,’ Curdle added.
Telorast hissed in a strangely reptilian manner, then said, ‘Yes, idiot, that would be the other option.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so?’
‘Because it’s obvious, of course. Why should I waste breath mentioning what’s obvious? The point is, we’re waiting here. That’s the point.’
‘Maybe it’s your point,’ Curdle drawled, ‘but it’s not necessarily mine, not that I’ll waste my breath explaining anything to you, Telorast.’
‘You always were too obvious, Curdle.’
‘Both of you,’ Apsalar said. ‘Be quiet and wait here until I return.’
Telorast slumped down against the wall’s foundation stones and crossed its arms. ‘Yes, yes. Go on. We don’t care.’
Apsalar quickly made her way across the tumbled stone wreckage, intending to put as much distance between herself and the two ghosts as possible, before seeking out the hidden trail that would, if all went well, lead her to her victim. She cursed the sentimentality that left her so weakened of resolve that she now found herself shackled with two insane ghosts. It would not do, she well knew, to abandon them. Left to their own devices, they would likely unleash mayhem upon Ehrlitan. They worked too hard to convince her of their harmlessness, and, after all, they had been chained in the Shadow Realm for a reason – a warren rife with eternally imprisoned creatures, few of whom could truly claim injustice.
There was no distinct Azath House in the warren of Shadow, and so, accordingly, more mundane methods had been employed in the negation of threats. Or so it seemed to Apsalar. Virtually every permanent feature in Shadow was threaded through with unbreakable chains, and bodies lay buried in the dust, shackled to those chains. Both she and Cotillion had come across menhirs, tumuli, ancient trees, stone walls and boulders, all home to nameless prisoners – demons, ascendants, revenants and wraiths. In the midst of one stone circle, three dragons were chained, to all outward appearances dead, yet their flesh did not wither or rot, and dust sheathed eyes that remained open. That dread place had been visited by Cotillion, and some faint residue of disquiet clung to the memory – there had been more to that encounter, she suspected, but not all of Cotillion’s life remained within the grasp of her recollection.
She wondered who had been responsible for all those chainings. What unknown entity possessed such power as to overwhelm three dragons? So much of the Shadow Realm defied her understanding. As it did Cotillion’s, she suspected.
Curdle and Telorast spoke the language of the Tiste Andii. Yet betrayed intimate knowledge of the draconean realm of Starvald Demelain. They had met the Mistress of Thieves, who had vanished from the pantheon long ago, although, if the legends of Darujhistan held any truth, she had reappeared briefly less than a century past, only to vanish a second time.
She sought to steal the moon. One of the first stories Crokus had told her, following Cotillion’s sudden departure from her mind. A tale with local flavour to bolster the cult in the region, perhaps. She admitted to some curiosity. The goddess was her namesake, after all. An Imass? There are no iconic representations of the Mistress – which is odd enough, possibly a prohibition enforced by the temples. What are her symbols? Oh, yes. Footprints. And a veil. She resolved to question the ghosts more on this subject.
In any case, she was fairly certain that Cotillion would not be pleased that she had freed those ghosts. Shadowthrone would be furious. All of which might have spurred her motivation. I was possessed once, but no longer. I still serve, but as it suits me, not them.
Bold claims, but they were all that remained that she might hold on to. A god uses, then casts away. The tool is abandoned, forgotten. True, it appeared that Cotillion was not as indifferent as most gods in this matter, but how much of that could she trust?
Beneath moonlight, Apsalar found the secret trail winding through the ruins. She made her way along it, silent, using every available shadow, into the heart of the Jen’rahb. Enough of the wandering thoughts. She must needs concentrate, lest she become this night’s victim.
Betrayals had to be answered. This task was more for Shadowthrone than Cotillion, or so the Patron of Assassins had explained. An old score to settle. The schemes were crowded and confused enough as it was, and that situation was getting worse, if Shadowthrone’s agitation of late was any indication. Something of that unease had rubbed off on Cotillion. There had been mutterings of another convergence of powers. Vaster than any that had occurred before, and in some way Shadowthrone was at the centre of it. All of it.
She came within sight of the sunken temple dome, the only nearly complete structure this far into the Jen’rahb. Crouching behind a massive block whose surfaces were crowded with arcane glyphs, she settled back and studied the approach. There were potential lines of sight from countless directions. It would be quite a challenge if watchers had been positioned to guard the hidden entrance to that temple. She had to assume those watchers were there, secreted in cracks and fissures on all sides.
As she watched, she caught movement, coming out from the temple and moving furtively away to her left. Too distant to make out any details. In any case, one thing was clear. The spider was at the heart of its nest, receiving and sending out agents. Ideal. With luck, the hidden sentinels would assume she was one of those agents, unless, of course, there were particular paths one must use, a pattern altered each night.
Another option existed. Apsalar drew out the long, thin scarf known as the telab, and wrapped it about her head until only her eyes were left exposed. She unsheathed her knives, spent twenty heartbeats studying the route she would take, then bolted forward. A swift passage held the element of the unexpected, and made her a more difficult target besides. As she raced across the rubble, she waited for the heavy snap of a crossbow, the whine of the quarrel as it cut through the air. But none came. Reaching the temple, she saw the fissured crack that served as the entrance and made for it.
She slipped into the darkness, then paused.
The passageway stank of blood.
Waiting for her eyes to adjust, she held her breath and listened. Nothing. She could now make out the sloping corridor ahead. Apsalar edged forward, halted at the edge of a larger chamber. A body was lying on the dusty floor, amidst a spreading pool of blood. At the chamber’s opposite end was a curtain, drawn across a doorway. Apart from the body, a few pieces of modest furniture were visible in the room. A brazier cast fitful, orange light. The air was bitter with death and smoke.
She approached the body, eyes on the curtained doorway. Her senses told her there was no-one behind it, but if she was in error then the mistake could prove fatal. Reaching the crumpled figure, she sheathed one knife, then reached out with her hand and pulled the body onto its back. Enough to see its face.
Samar edged down from the horse and hobbled to place herself between the giant and the guards, all of whom had drawn scimitars and were fanning out on the street. Beyond, a crowd of onlookers was gathering. She held up her hands. ‘There has been a misunderstanding.’
‘Samar Dev,’ one man said in a growl. ‘Best you step aside – this is no affair of yours—’
‘But it is, Captain Inashan. This warrior has saved my life. My wagon broke down out in the wastes, and I broke my leg – look at me. I was dying. And so I called upon a spirit of the wild-lands.’
The captain’s eyes widened as he regarded Karsa Orlong. ‘This is a spirit?’
‘Most assuredly,’ Samar replied. ‘One who is of course ignorant of our customs. That gate guard acted in what this spirit perceived as a hostile manner. Does he still live?’
The captain nodded. ‘Knocked senseless, that is all.’ The man then pointed towards the severed heads. ‘What are those?’
‘Trophies,’ she answered. ‘Demons. They had escaped their own realm and were approaching Ugarat. Had not this spirit killed them, they would have descended upon us with great slaughter. And with not a single worthy mage left in Ugarat, we would have fared poorly indeed.’
Captain Inashan narrowed his gaze on Karsa. ‘Can you understand my words?’
‘They have been simple enough thus far,’ the warrior replied.
The captain scowled. ‘Does she speak the truth?’
‘More than she realizes, yet even so, there are untruths in her tale. I am not a spirit. I am Toblakai, once bodyguard to Sha’ik. Yet this woman bargained with me as she would a spirit. More, she knew nothing of where I came from or who I was, and so she might well have imagined I was a spirit of the wild-lands.’
Voices rose among both guards and citizens at the name Sha’ik, and Samar saw a dawning recognition in the captain’s expression. ‘Toblakai, companion to Leoman of the Flails. Tales of you have reached us.’ He pointed with his scimitar at the fur riding Karsa’s shoulders. ‘Slayer of a Soletaken, a white bear. Executioner of Sha’ik’s betrayers in Raraku. It is said you slew demons the night before Sha’ik was killed,’ he added, eyes on the rotted, flailed heads. ‘And, when she had been slain by the Adjunct, you rode out to face the Malazan army – and they would not fight you.’
‘There is some truth in what you have spoken,’ Karsa said, ‘barring the words I exchanged with the Malazans—’
‘One of Sha’ik’s own,’ Samar quickly said, sensing the warrior was about to say something unwise, ‘how could we of Ugarat not welcome you? The Malazan garrison has been driven from this city and is even now starving in Moraval Keep on the other side of the river, besieged with no hope of succour.’
‘You are wrong in that,’ Karsa said.
She wanted to kick him. Then again, look how that had turned out the last time? All right, you ox, go and hang yourself.
‘What do you mean?’ Captain Inashan asked.
‘The rebellion is broken, the Malazans have retaken cities by the score. They will come here, too, eventually. I suggest you make peace with the garrison.’
‘Would that not put you at risk?’ Samar asked.
The warrior bared his teeth. ‘My war is done. If they cannot accept that, I will kill them all.’
An outrageous claim, yet no-one laughed. Captain Inashan hesitated, then he sheathed his scimitar, his soldiers following suit. ‘We have heard of the rebellion’s failure,’ he said. ‘For the Malazans in the keep, alas, it might well be too late. They have been trapped in there for months. And no-one has been seen on the walls for some time—’
‘I will go there,’ Karsa said. ‘Gestures of peace must be made.’
‘It is said,’ Inashan muttered, ‘that Leoman still lives. That he leads the last army and has vowed to fight on.’
‘Leoman rides his own path. I would place no faith in it, were I you.’
The advice was not well received. Arguments rose, until Inashan turned on his guards and silenced them with an upraised hand. ‘These matters must be brought to the Falah’d.’ He faced Karsa again. ‘You will stay this night at the Inn of the Wood?’
‘I shall, although it is not made of wood, and so it should be called Inn of the Brick.’
Samar laughed. ‘You can bring that up with the owner, Toblakai. Captain, are we done here?’
Inashan nodded. ‘I will send a healer to mend your leg, Samar Dev.’
‘In return, I bless you and your kin, Captain.’
‘You are too generous,’ he replied with a bow.
The squad headed off. Samar turned to regard the giant warrior. ‘Toblakai, how have you survived this long in Seven Cities?’
He looked down at her, then slung the stone sword once more over his shoulder. ‘There is no armour made that can withstand the truth…’
‘When backed by that sword?’
‘Yes, Samar Dev. I find it does not take long for children to understand that. Even here in Seven Cities.’ He pushed open the gates. ‘Havok will require a stable away from other beasts…at least until his hunger is appeased.’
‘I don’t like the looks of that,’ Telorast muttered, nervously shifting about.
‘It is a gate,’ Apsalar said.
‘But where does it lead?’ Curdle asked, indistinct head bobbing.
‘It leads out,’ she replied. ‘Onto the Jen’rahb, in the city of Ehrlitan. It is where I am going.’
‘Then that is where we are going,’ Telorast announced. ‘Are there bodies there? I hope so. Fleshy, healthy bodies.’
She regarded the two ghosts. ‘You intend to steal bodies to house your spirits? I am not sure that I can permit that.’
‘Oh, we wouldn’t do that,’ Curdle said. ‘That would be possession, and that’s difficult, very difficult. Memories seep back and forth, yielding confusion and inconsistency.’
‘True,’ Telorast said. ‘And we are most consistent, are we not? No, my dear, we just happen to like bodies. In proximity. They…comfort us. You, for example. You are a great comfort to us, though we know not your name.’
‘Apsalar.’
‘She’s dead!’ Curdle shrieked. To Apsalar: ‘I knew you were a ghost!’
‘I am named after the Mistress of Thieves. I am not her in the flesh.’
‘She must be speaking the truth,’ Telorast said to Curdle. ‘If you recall, Apsalar looked nothing like this one. The real Apsalar was Imass, or very nearly Imass. And she wasn’t very friendly—’
‘Because you stole from her temple coffers,’ Curdle said, squirming about in small dust-clouds.
‘Even before then. Decidedly unfriendly, where this Apsalar, this one here, she’s kind. Her heart is bursting with warmth and generosity—’
‘Enough of that,’ Apsalar said, turning to the gate once more. ‘As I mentioned earlier, this gate leads to the Jen’rahb…for me. For the two of you, of course, it might well lead into Hood’s Realm. I am not responsible for that, should you find yourselves before Death’s Gate.’
‘Hood’s Realm? Death’s Gate?’ Telorast began moving from side to side, a strange motion that Apsalar belatedly realized was pacing, although the ghost had sunk part-way into the ground, making it look more like wading. ‘There is no fear of that. We are too powerful. Too wise. Too cunning.’
‘We were great mages, once,’ Curdle said. ‘Necromancers, Spiritwalkers, Conjurers, Wielders of Fell Holds, Masters of the Thousand Warrens—’
‘Mistresses, Curdle. Mistresses of the Thousand Warrens.’
‘Yes, Telorast. Mistresses indeed. What was I thinking? Beauteous mistresses, curvaceous, languid, sultry, occasionally simpering—’
Apsalar walked through the gate.
She stepped onto broken rubble alongside the foundations of a collapsed wall. The night air was chill, stars sharp overhead.
‘—and even Kallor quailed before us, isn’t that right, Telorast?’
‘Oh yes, he quailed.’
Apsalar looked down to find herself flanked by the two ghosts. She sighed. ‘You evaded Hood’s Realm, I see.’
‘Clumsy grasping hands,’ Curdle sniffed. ‘We were too quick.’
‘As we knew we’d be,’ Telorast added. ‘What place is this? It’s all broken—’
Curdle clambered atop the foundation wall. ‘No, you are wrong, Telorast, as usual. I see buildings beyond. Lit windows. The very air reeks of life.’
‘This is the Jen’rahb,’ Apsalar said. ‘The ancient centre of the city, which collapsed long ago beneath its own weight.’
‘As all cities must, eventually,’ Telorast observed, trying to pick up a brick fragment. But its hand slipped ineffectually through the object. ‘Oh, we are most useless in this realm.’
Curdle glanced down at its companion. ‘We need bodies—’
‘I told you before—’
‘Fear not, Apsalar,’ Curdle replied in a crooning tone, ‘we will not unduly offend you. The bodies need not be sentient, after all.’
‘Are there the equivalent of Hounds here?’ Telorast asked.
Curdle snorted. ‘The Hounds are sentient, you fool!’
‘Only stupidly so!’
‘Not so stupid as to fall for our tricks, though, were they?’
‘Are there imbrules here? Stantars? Luthuras – are there luthuras here? Scaly, long grasping tails, eyes like the eyes of purlith bats—’
‘No,’ Apsalar said. ‘None of those creatures.’ She frowned. ‘Those you have mentioned are of Starvald Demelain.’
A momentary silence from the two ghosts, then Curdle snaked along the top of the wall until its eerie face was opposite Apsalar. ‘Really? Now, that’s a peculiar coincidence—’
‘Yet you speak the language of the Tiste Andii.’
‘We do? Why, that’s even stranger.’
‘Baffling,’ Telorast agreed. ‘We, uh, we assumed it was the language you spoke. Your native language, that is.’
‘Why? I am not Tiste Andii.’
‘No, of course not. Well, thank the Abyss that’s been cleared up. Where shall we go from here?’
‘I suggest,’ Apsalar said after a moment’s thought, ‘that you two remain here. I have tasks to complete this night, and they are not suited to company.’
‘You desire stealth,’ Telorast whispered, crouching low. ‘We could tell, you know. There’s something of the thief about you. Kindred spirits, the three of us, I think. A thief, yes, and perhaps something darker.’
‘Well of course darker,’ Curdle said from the wall. ‘A servant of Shadowthrone, or the Patron of Assassins. There will be blood spilled this night, and our mortal companion will do the spilling. She’s an assassin, and we should know, having met countless assassins in our day. Look at her, Telorast, she has deadly blades secreted about her person—’
‘And she smells of stale wine.’
‘Stay here,’ Apsalar said. ‘Both of you.’
‘And if we don’t?’ Telorast asked.
‘Then I shall inform Cotillion that you have escaped, and he will send the Hounds on your trail.’
‘You bind us to servitude! Trap us with threats! Curdle, we have been deceived!’
‘Let’s kill her and steal her body!’
‘Let’s not, Curdle. Something about her frightens me. All right, Apsalar who is not Apsalar, we shall stay here…for a time. Until we can be certain you are dead or worse, that’s how long we’ll stay here.’
‘Or until you return,’ Curdle added.
Telorast hissed in a strangely reptilian manner, then said, ‘Yes, idiot, that would be the other option.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so?’
‘Because it’s obvious, of course. Why should I waste breath mentioning what’s obvious? The point is, we’re waiting here. That’s the point.’
‘Maybe it’s your point,’ Curdle drawled, ‘but it’s not necessarily mine, not that I’ll waste my breath explaining anything to you, Telorast.’
‘You always were too obvious, Curdle.’
‘Both of you,’ Apsalar said. ‘Be quiet and wait here until I return.’
Telorast slumped down against the wall’s foundation stones and crossed its arms. ‘Yes, yes. Go on. We don’t care.’
Apsalar quickly made her way across the tumbled stone wreckage, intending to put as much distance between herself and the two ghosts as possible, before seeking out the hidden trail that would, if all went well, lead her to her victim. She cursed the sentimentality that left her so weakened of resolve that she now found herself shackled with two insane ghosts. It would not do, she well knew, to abandon them. Left to their own devices, they would likely unleash mayhem upon Ehrlitan. They worked too hard to convince her of their harmlessness, and, after all, they had been chained in the Shadow Realm for a reason – a warren rife with eternally imprisoned creatures, few of whom could truly claim injustice.
There was no distinct Azath House in the warren of Shadow, and so, accordingly, more mundane methods had been employed in the negation of threats. Or so it seemed to Apsalar. Virtually every permanent feature in Shadow was threaded through with unbreakable chains, and bodies lay buried in the dust, shackled to those chains. Both she and Cotillion had come across menhirs, tumuli, ancient trees, stone walls and boulders, all home to nameless prisoners – demons, ascendants, revenants and wraiths. In the midst of one stone circle, three dragons were chained, to all outward appearances dead, yet their flesh did not wither or rot, and dust sheathed eyes that remained open. That dread place had been visited by Cotillion, and some faint residue of disquiet clung to the memory – there had been more to that encounter, she suspected, but not all of Cotillion’s life remained within the grasp of her recollection.
She wondered who had been responsible for all those chainings. What unknown entity possessed such power as to overwhelm three dragons? So much of the Shadow Realm defied her understanding. As it did Cotillion’s, she suspected.
Curdle and Telorast spoke the language of the Tiste Andii. Yet betrayed intimate knowledge of the draconean realm of Starvald Demelain. They had met the Mistress of Thieves, who had vanished from the pantheon long ago, although, if the legends of Darujhistan held any truth, she had reappeared briefly less than a century past, only to vanish a second time.
She sought to steal the moon. One of the first stories Crokus had told her, following Cotillion’s sudden departure from her mind. A tale with local flavour to bolster the cult in the region, perhaps. She admitted to some curiosity. The goddess was her namesake, after all. An Imass? There are no iconic representations of the Mistress – which is odd enough, possibly a prohibition enforced by the temples. What are her symbols? Oh, yes. Footprints. And a veil. She resolved to question the ghosts more on this subject.
In any case, she was fairly certain that Cotillion would not be pleased that she had freed those ghosts. Shadowthrone would be furious. All of which might have spurred her motivation. I was possessed once, but no longer. I still serve, but as it suits me, not them.
Bold claims, but they were all that remained that she might hold on to. A god uses, then casts away. The tool is abandoned, forgotten. True, it appeared that Cotillion was not as indifferent as most gods in this matter, but how much of that could she trust?
Beneath moonlight, Apsalar found the secret trail winding through the ruins. She made her way along it, silent, using every available shadow, into the heart of the Jen’rahb. Enough of the wandering thoughts. She must needs concentrate, lest she become this night’s victim.
Betrayals had to be answered. This task was more for Shadowthrone than Cotillion, or so the Patron of Assassins had explained. An old score to settle. The schemes were crowded and confused enough as it was, and that situation was getting worse, if Shadowthrone’s agitation of late was any indication. Something of that unease had rubbed off on Cotillion. There had been mutterings of another convergence of powers. Vaster than any that had occurred before, and in some way Shadowthrone was at the centre of it. All of it.
She came within sight of the sunken temple dome, the only nearly complete structure this far into the Jen’rahb. Crouching behind a massive block whose surfaces were crowded with arcane glyphs, she settled back and studied the approach. There were potential lines of sight from countless directions. It would be quite a challenge if watchers had been positioned to guard the hidden entrance to that temple. She had to assume those watchers were there, secreted in cracks and fissures on all sides.
As she watched, she caught movement, coming out from the temple and moving furtively away to her left. Too distant to make out any details. In any case, one thing was clear. The spider was at the heart of its nest, receiving and sending out agents. Ideal. With luck, the hidden sentinels would assume she was one of those agents, unless, of course, there were particular paths one must use, a pattern altered each night.
Another option existed. Apsalar drew out the long, thin scarf known as the telab, and wrapped it about her head until only her eyes were left exposed. She unsheathed her knives, spent twenty heartbeats studying the route she would take, then bolted forward. A swift passage held the element of the unexpected, and made her a more difficult target besides. As she raced across the rubble, she waited for the heavy snap of a crossbow, the whine of the quarrel as it cut through the air. But none came. Reaching the temple, she saw the fissured crack that served as the entrance and made for it.
She slipped into the darkness, then paused.
The passageway stank of blood.
Waiting for her eyes to adjust, she held her breath and listened. Nothing. She could now make out the sloping corridor ahead. Apsalar edged forward, halted at the edge of a larger chamber. A body was lying on the dusty floor, amidst a spreading pool of blood. At the chamber’s opposite end was a curtain, drawn across a doorway. Apart from the body, a few pieces of modest furniture were visible in the room. A brazier cast fitful, orange light. The air was bitter with death and smoke.
She approached the body, eyes on the curtained doorway. Her senses told her there was no-one behind it, but if she was in error then the mistake could prove fatal. Reaching the crumpled figure, she sheathed one knife, then reached out with her hand and pulled the body onto its back. Enough to see its face.
