The Malazan Empire, page 467
‘Glad to see your mood’s improved,’ Quick Ben said, handing the jug over. ‘We will be having some company in a short while…after we eat, that is,’ he added, spying the wrapped foodstuffs and heading over. ‘I’m so hungry I could eat bloodflies.’
‘Lick my palm,’ Fiddler said.
The wizard halted, looked over. ‘You’ve lost your mind. I’d sooner lick the hand of a camel-dung hawker.’ He began unwrapping the leaves protecting the food.
‘How was your meeting with Tavore?’ Kalam asked, joining him.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Quick Ben replied. ‘I’ve seen people under siege before, but she’s raised walls so thick and so high I doubt a dozen irate dragons would get through…and not an enemy in sight, either.’
‘You might be wrong there,’ the assassin said. ‘Was Pearl around?’
‘Well, one curtain moved a bit.’
Fiddler snorted. ‘He ain’t that obvious. Was probably T’amber.’
‘I wasn’t being literal, Fid. Somebody in a warren, close and watchful.’
‘Tavore wasn’t wearing her sword, then,’ Kalam said.
‘No, she never does when talking with me, thank the gods.’
‘Ah, considerate, then!’
The wizard shot a dark glare at Kalam. ‘Doesn’t want to suck everything out of her High Mage, you mean.’
‘Stop,’ Fiddler said. ‘I don’t like the images popping into my head. Hand me a chunk of that sepah bread – no, not the one you’ve taken a bite out of, Quick, thanks anyway. There – oh, never mind.’ He reached across.
‘Hey, you’re raining sand on my food!’
Kalam settled back on his haunches. Fiddler was looking younger by the minute. Especially with that scowl. This break away from the army and all that went with it was long overdue.
‘What?’ Fiddler demanded. ‘Worried you’ll wear your teeth down? Better stop chewing on that bread, then.’
‘It’s not that hard,’ the wizard replied in a mouth-full muffle.
‘No, but it’s full of grit, Quick Ben. From the millstones. Anyway, I’m always raining sand these days. I got sand in places you wouldn’t imagine—’
‘Stop, images popping into my head and all that.’
‘After this,’ Fiddler continued remorselessly, ‘a year’s worth of sitting sweet in Darujhistan and I’ll still be shitting gritty bricks—’
‘Stop, I said!’
Kalam’s eyes narrowed on the sapper. ‘Darujhistan? Planning on joining the others, then?’
The sapper’s gaze shied away. ‘Some day…’
‘Some day soon?’
‘I ain’t planning on running, Kalam.’
The assassin met Quick Ben’s eyes, just a flicker of contact, and Kalam cleared his throat. ‘Well…maybe you should, Fid. If I was giving advice—’
‘If you’re giving advice then I know we’re all doomed. Thanks for ruining my day. Here, Quick, some more of that ale, please, I’m parched.’
Kalam subsided. All right, at least that’s cleared up.
Quick Ben brushed crumbs from his long-fingered hands and sat back. ‘She has ideas about you, Kalam…’
‘I’ve got one wife too many as it is.’
‘Maybe she wants you to put together a squad of assassins?’
‘A what? From this lot?’
‘Hey,’ Fiddler growled, ‘I know this lot.’
‘And?’
‘And you’re right, is all. They’re a mess.’
‘Even so,’ the wizard said, shrugging. ‘And she probably wants you to do it on the sly—’
‘With Pearl listening in on your conversation, right.’
‘No, that was later. The second half of our meetings is for our audience. The first half, before Pearl and whoever else arrives, is when we talk privately. She makes these meetings as impromptu as possible. Uses Grub as a messenger.’ The wizard made a warding gesture.
‘Just a foundling,’ Fiddler said.
But Quick Ben simply shook his head.
‘So she wants her own cadre of assassins,’ Kalam said. ‘Unknown to the Claw. Oh, I don’t like where this is going, Quick.’
‘Whoever is hiding behind those walls might be scared, Kal, but stupid it ain’t.’
‘This whole thing is stupid,’ Fiddler pronounced. ‘She crushed the rebellion – what more does Laseen want?’
‘Strong, when it comes to dealing with our enemies,’ Kalam said. ‘And weak when it comes to popularity.’
‘Tavore ain’t the popular sort of person, so what’s the problem?’
‘She might get popular. A few more successes – ones where it’s clear it’s not dumb luck. Come on, Fid, you know how fast an army can turn round.’
‘Not this army,’ the sapper said. ‘It barely got up off the ground to start with. We’re a damned shaky bunch – Quick Ben, does she have any idea of that?’
The wizard considered for a time, then he nodded. ‘I think so. But she doesn’t know what to do about it, beyond catching Leoman of the Flails and obliterating him and his army. Thoroughly.’
Fiddler grunted. ‘That’s what Cuttle is afraid of. He’s convinced we’re all going to end up wearing Ranal before this is done.’
‘Ranal? Oh, right.’
‘He’s being a right pain about it, too,’ Fiddler went on. ‘Keeps talking about the cusser he’s holding back, the one he’ll sit on when the doom descends on us all. You should see the look on the recruits’ faces when he goes on like that.’
‘Sounds like Cuttle needs a talking to.’
‘He needs a fist in the face, Kal. Believe me, I’ve been tempted…’
‘But sappers don’t do that to each other.’
‘I’m a sergeant, too.’
‘But you need him still on your side.’
Glumly, ‘Aye.’
‘All right,’ Kalam said, ‘I’ll put him right.’
‘Careful, he might toss a sharper at your feet. He don’t like assassins.’
‘Who does?’ Quick Ben commented.
Kalam frowned. ‘And here I thought I was popular…at least with my friends.’
‘We’re only playing it safe, Kalam.’
‘Thanks, Quick, I’ll remember that.’
The wizard rose suddenly. ‘Our guests are about to arrive…’
Fiddler and Kalam stood as well, turning to see the imperial warren open once more. Four figures strode out.
The assassin recognized two of them, and felt both tension and pleasure rising within him; the sudden hackles for High Mage Tayschrenn, and the genuine pleasure at seeing Dujek Onearm. Flanking Tayschrenn were two bodyguards, one an aged Seti with a waxed moustache – vaguely familiar in some distant way, as if Kalam had perhaps seen him once before, long ago. The other was a woman somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, lithe and athletic beneath tight silks. The eyes were soft and dark brown, watchful; her hair was cut short in the imperial fashion around her heart-shaped face.
‘Relax,’ Quick Ben murmured low beside Kalam. ‘Like I said before, Tayschrenn’s role in…things past…was misunderstood.’
‘So you say.’
‘And he did try to protect Whiskeyjack.’
‘But was too late.’
‘Kalam…’
‘All right, I’ll be civil. Is that Seti his old bodyguard – from the days of the Emperor?’
‘Aye.’
‘Miserable bastard? Never said anything?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Looks like he’s mellowed some.’
Quick Ben snorted.
‘Something amusing you, High Mage?’ Dujek asked as the group approached.
‘Welcome, High Fist,’ Quick Ben said, straightening, adding a slightly deferential bow to Tayschrenn. ‘Colleague…’
Tayschrenn’s thin, almost hairless brows rose. ‘A field promotion, wasn’t it? Well, perhaps long overdue. Nonetheless, I do not believe the Empress has sanctioned that title as yet.’
Quick Ben offered him a broad, white smile. ‘Do you recall, High Mage, a certain other High Mage, sent by the Emperor, early on in the Blackdog Campaign? Kribalah Rule?’
‘Rule the Rude? Yes, he died after a month or so—’
‘In a horrible conflagration, aye. Well, that was me. Thus, I’ve been a High Mage before, colleague…’
Tayschrenn was frowning, clearly thinking back, then the frown became a scowl. ‘And the Emperor knew this? He must have, having sent you – unless, of course, he didn’t send you at all.’
‘Well, granted, there were some improprieties involved, and had one set out on that particular trail they might well have been noted. But you did not feel the need to do so, evidently, since, although briefly, I more than held my own – pulling you out of trouble once, I seem to recall…something about Tiste Andii assassin-mages—’
‘When I lost a certain object containing a demon lord…’
‘You did? Sorry to hear that.’
‘The same demon that later died by Rake’s sword in Darujhistan.’
‘Oh, how unfortunate.’
Kalam leaned close to Quick Ben. ‘I thought,’ he said in a whisper, ‘you told me to relax.’
‘Long ago and far away,’ Dujek Onearm said gruffly, ‘and I’d slap my hands together if I had more than one. Tayschrenn, rein in that Seti before he does something stupid. We have things to discuss here. Let’s get on with it.’
Kalam glanced across at Fiddler and winked. Just like old times…
Lying flat at the crest of the ridge, Pearl grunted. ‘That’s Dujek Onearm out there,’ he said. ‘He’s supposed to be in G’danisban right now.’
Beside him, Lostara Yil hissed and began slapping about her body. ‘Chigger fleas, damn you. They’re swarming this ridge. I hate chigger fleas—’
‘Why not jump up and dance about, Captain?’ Pearl asked. ‘Just to make certain they know we’re here.’
‘Spying is stupid. I hate this, and I am rediscovering my hatred for you, too, Claw.’
‘You say the sweetest things. Anyway, the bald one’s Tayschrenn, with Hattar and Kiska this time, meaning he’s serious about the risks. Oh, why did they have to do this, now?’
‘Do what now?’
‘Whatever it is they’re doing, of course.’
‘So run back to Laseen like the eager puppy you are, Pearl, and tell her all about it.’
He edged back down the side of the ridge, twisted round and sat up. ‘No need for haste. I have to think.’
Lostara clambered down the slope until she could stand. She began scratching under her armour. ‘Well, I’m not waiting around for that. I need a milk bath, with escura leaves, and I need it now.’
He watched her stalk away, back towards the encampment. A nice walk, apart from the sudden twitches.
A simple cantrip, keeping the fleas away from his body. Perhaps he should have extended the courtesy to her.
No. This is much better.
Gods, we’re made for each other.
Chapter Three
Yareth Ghanatan, the city stands still
First and last and where the old causeway
Curves in its half-circle there are towers
Of sand seething with empires and
Marching armies, broken wing banners
And the dismembered lining the walkways
Are soon the bones of the edifices, warriors
And builders both, the city ever stands
To house insect hordes, oh those towers
Rear so proud, rising as dreams on the
Heated breath of the sun, Yareth Ghanatan.
The city is the empress, wife and lover,
Crone and child of the First Empire,
And I yet remain, with all my kin,
The bones in the walls, the bones
Beneath the floor, the bones that cast
Down this gentle shade – first and last,
I see what comes, all that has gone,
And the clay of my flesh has felt your hands
The old warmth of life, for the city,
My city, it stands still, and it stands,
Stands ever still.
Bones in the Walls
(stela fragment, circa First Empire)
Author unknown
‘I can be this urn.’
‘You don’t want to be that urn.’
‘It’s got legs.’
‘Stubby ones, and I don’t think they move. They’re just for show. I remember things like that.’
‘But it’s pretty.’
‘And she pees in it.’
‘Pees? Are you sure? Have you seen her pee in it?’
‘Take a look, Curdle. That’s her pee in it. You don’t want to be that urn. You want something alive. Really alive, with legs that work. Or wings…’
They were still whispering when Apsalar removed the last bar in the window and set it down. She climbed onto the sill, twisting sideways to reach up to the nearest roof-post.
‘Where are you going?’ Telorast demanded.
‘To the roof.’
‘Shall we join you?’
‘No.’
Apsalar pulled herself upward and moments later was crouched on the sun-baked clay, the stars glistening overhead. Dawn was not far off, and the city below was silent and motionless like a thing dead in the night. Ehrlitan. The first city they had come to in this land, the city where this particular journey had begun, a group fated to break apart beneath a host of burdens. Kalam Mekhar, Fiddler, Crokus and herself. Oh, Crokus had been so angry to discover that their companions had come with hidden motives – not just escorting her home, not just righting an old wrong. He had been so naïve.
She wondered how he was faring, thought to ask Cotillion the next time the god visited, then decided she would not do so. It would not do to let herself continue to care about him; even to think on him, achieving little more than loosing the flood-gates of yearning, desire and regret.
Other, more immediate issues demanded her thought. Mebra. The old spy was dead, which was what Shadowthrone had wanted, although the why of it escaped Apsalar. Granted, Mebra had been working all sides, serving the Malazan Empire at one moment, Sha’ik’s cause the next. And…someone else. That someone else’s identity was important, and, she suspected, it was the true reason for Shadowthrone’s decision.
The Nameless Ones? Had the Semk assassin been sent to cover a trail? Possible, and it made sense. No witnesses, the man had said. To what? What service could Mebra have provided the Nameless Ones? Hold off pursuing an answer to that. Who else?
Adherents to the old cult of Shadow in Seven Cities no doubt remained, survivors of the purges that had accompanied the conquest. Another possible employer of Mebra’s many skills, and more likely to have caught Shadowthrone’s attention, as well as his ire.
She had been told to kill Mebra. She had not been told why, nor had she been told to initiate any investigations on her own. Suggesting Shadowthrone felt he knew enough. The same for Cotillion. Or, conversely, they were both woefully ignorant, and Mebra had simply switched sides once too often.
There were more targets on her list, a random collection of names, all of which could be found in Cotillion’s memories. She was expected simply to proceed from one to the next, with the final target the most challenging of all…but that one was in all likelihood months away, and she would need to do some deft manoeuvring to get close enough to strike, a slow, careful stalking of a very dangerous individual. For whom she felt no enmity.
This is what an assassin does. And Cotillion’s possession has made me an assassin. That and nothing else. I have killed and will continue to kill. I need think of nothing else. It is simple. It should be simple.
And so she would make it so.
Still, what made a god decide to kill some lowly mortal? The minor irritation of a stone in a moccasin. The slap of a branch on a wooded trail. Who thinks twice plucking that stone out and tossing it away? Or reaching out and snapping that branch? It seems I do, for I am that god’s hand in this.
Enough. No more of this weakness…this…uncertainty. Complete the tasks, then walk away. Vanish. Find a new life.
Only…how does one do that?
There was someone she could ask – he was not far off, she knew, having culled his identity from Cotillion’s memories.
She had moved to sit with her legs dangling on the roof’s edge. Someone now sat at her side.
‘Well?’ Cotillion asked.
‘A Semk assassin of the Nameless Ones completed my mission for me.’
‘This very night?’
‘I met him, but was unable to question him.’
The god slowly nodded. ‘The Nameless Ones again. This is unexpected. And unwelcome.’
‘So they were not the reason for killing Mebra.’
‘No. Some stirrings of the old cult. Mebra was positioning himself to become a High Priest. The best candidate – we’re not worried about the others.’
‘Cleaning house.’
‘Necessary, Apsalar. We’re in for a scrap. A bad one.’
‘I see.’
They were silent for a time, then Cotillion cleared his throat. ‘I have not yet had time to check on him, but I know he is hale, although understandably dispirited.’
‘All right.’
He must have sensed she wanted it left at that, for, after a pause, he then said, ‘You freed two ghosts…’
She shrugged.
Sighing, Cotillion ran a hand through his dark hair. ‘Do you know what they once were?’
‘Thieves, I think.’
‘Yes, that.’
‘Tiste Andii?’
‘No, but they lingered long over those two bodies and so…absorbed certain essences.’
‘Ah.’
‘They are now agents of Edgewalker. I am curious to see what they will do.’
‘For the moment they seem content to accompany me.’
‘Yes. I think Edgewalker’s interests include you, Apsalar, because of our past…relationship.’
‘Through me, to you.’
‘I seem to warrant his curiosity.’
‘Edgewalker. That apparition seems a rather passive sort,’ she observed.
‘We first met him,’ Cotillion said slowly, ‘the night we ascended. The night we made passage into the realm of Shadow. He made my spine crawl right then, and it’s been crawling ever since.’
