The Malazan Empire, page 469
The other Pardu was sitting up near the entrance, making grunting noises, then coughing, until she spat out bloody phlegm. ‘Ah!’ Curdle cried. ‘Better! Oh, everything aches, oh, the arm!’
‘Be quiet,’ Apsalar commanded, then fixed her attention once more on the woman in front of her. ‘I am not a patient person.’
‘Trygalle Trade Guild,’ the woman said in a gasp.
Apsalar slowly leaned back on her haunches. A most unexpected answer. ‘Curdle, get out of that body.’
‘What?’
‘Now.’
‘Just as well, she was all broken. Ah, free of pain again! This is better – I was a fool!’
Telorast’s laughter was a rasp. ‘And you still are, Curdle. I could have told you, you know. She wasn’t right for you.’
‘No more talking,’ Apsalar said. She needed to think on this. The Trygalle Trade Guild’s centre of operations was Darujhistan. It had been a long time since they’d visited the fragment of the Shadow Realm with munitions for Fiddler, assuming it was the same caravan – and she suspected it was. As purveyors of items and information, it now seemed obvious that more than one mission had brought them to Seven Cities. On the other hand, perhaps they were doing little more than recovering here in the city – given their harrowing routes through the warrens – and the merchant-mage had instructed his guards to deliver any and all unusual information. Even so, she needed to be certain. ‘The Trygalle merchant – what brought him or her here to Ehrlitan?’
The swelling was closing the Pardu’s right eye. ‘Him.’
‘His name?’
‘Karpolan Demesand.’
At that, Apsalar allowed herself a faint nod.
‘We, uh, we were making a delivery – us guards, we’re shareholders—’
‘I know how the Trygalle Trade Guild works. A delivery, you said.’
‘Yes, to Coltaine. During the Chain of Dogs.’
‘That was some time ago.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, the pain, it hurts to talk.’
‘It’ll hurt more if you don’t.’
The Pardu grimaced, and it was a moment before Apsalar realized it had been a smile. ‘I do not doubt you, Shadow Dancer. Yes, there was more. Altar stones.’
‘What?’
‘Cut stones, to line a holy pool…’
‘Here in Ehrlitan?’
The woman shook her head, winced, then said, ‘No. Y’Ghatan.’
‘Are you on your way there, or returning?’
‘Returning. Outward journeys are through warrens. We’re…uh…resting.’
‘So Karpolan Demesand’s interest in a Shadow Dancer is just passing.’
‘He likes to know…everything. Information buys us advantages. No-one likes rearguard on the Ride.’
‘The Ride.’
‘Through the warrens. It’s…hairy.’
I imagine it would be. ‘Tell your master,’ Apsalar said, ‘that this Shadow Dancer does not appreciate the attention.’
The Pardu nodded.
Apsalar straightened. ‘I am done with you.’
The woman flinched back, up against the wall, her left forearm rising to cover her face.
The assassin looked down on the guard, wondering what had set her off.
‘We understand that language now,’ Telorast said. ‘She thinks you are going to kill her, and you are, aren’t you?’
‘No. That should be obvious, if she’s to deliver a message to her master.’
‘She’s not thinking straight,’ Curdle said. ‘Besides, what better way to deliver your message than with two corpses?’
Apsalar sighed, said to the Pardu, ‘What brought you to this place? To Mebra’s?’
Muffled from behind the forearm, the woman replied, ‘Purchasing information…but he’s dead.’
‘What information?’
‘Any. All. Comings and goings. Whatever he was selling. But you’ve killed Mebra—’
‘No, I did not. By way of peace between me and your master, I will tell you this. An assassin of the Nameless Ones murdered Mebra. There was no torture involved. A simple assassination. The Nameless Ones weren’t looking for information.’
The Pardu’s lone visible eye, now above the guarding wrist, was fixed on her. ‘The Nameless Ones? Seven Holies protect us!’
‘Now,’ Apsalar said, drawing her knife, ‘I need some time.’ With that she struck the woman with the pommel of her knife, hard against the temple, and watched the Pardu’s eye roll up, the body slump over.
‘Will she live?’ Telorast demanded, slinking closer.
‘Leave her alone.’
‘She may wake up not remembering anything you told her.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Apsalar replied, sheathing her knife. ‘Her master will glean all he needs to know anyway.’
‘A sorceror. Ah, they travel the warrens, they said. Risky. This Karpolan Demesand must be a formidable wielder of magic – you have made a dangerous enemy.’
‘I doubt he will pursue this, Telorast. I let his shareholders live, and I have provided him with information.’
‘And what of the tablets?’ Curdle asked.
Apsalar turned. ‘What tablets?’
‘The ones hidden under the floor.’
‘Show me.’
The shade drifted towards Mebra’s naked corpse. ‘Under him. A secret cache, beneath this pavestone. Hard clay, endless lists, they probably mean nothing.’
Apsalar rolled the body over. The stone was easily pried loose, and she wondered at the carelessness of the searchers. Then again, perhaps Mebra had had some control over where he would die. He had been lying directly over it. A rough pit had been excavated, and it was crowded with clay tablets. In one corner sat a damp burlap sack filled with soft clay, and a half-dozen bone scribers bound in twine.
She rose and retrieved the lantern. When it had struck the wall, the shutter had closed – the flame within remained. She pulled the top ring to draw up the hinged shutters part-way. Returning to the secret cache, she collected the topmost dozen tablets then sat cross-legged beside the pit within the small circle of light, and began reading.
Attending the Grand Meeting of the Cult of Rashan was Bridthok of G’danisban, Septhune Anabhin of Omari, Sradal Purthu of Y’Ghatan, and Torahaval Delat of Karashimesh. Fools and charlatans one and all, although it must be said, Sradal is a dangerous fool. Torahaval is a bitch, with nothing of the humour of her cousin, nor his deadliness. She plays at this and nothing more, but she will make a fine head-piece, a High Priestess with seductive charms and so the acolytes shall flock. Of Septhune and Bridthok, the latter is my nearest rival, leaning heavily on his bloodline to that madman Bidithal, but I know well his weaknesses now and soon he shall be eliminated from the final vote by misfortune. Septhune is a follower and no more need be said of him.
Two of these cultists numbered among Apsalar’s targets for assassination. She memorized the other names, in case the opportunity arose.
The second, third and fourth tablets contained lists of contacts made in the past week, with notes and observations that made it plain that Mebra had been busy weaving his usual web of extortion among a host of dim-witted victims. Merchants, soldiers, amorous wives, thieves and thugs.
The fifth tablet proved interesting.
Sribin, my most trusted agent, has confirmed it. The outlawed Gral, Taralack Veed, was in Ehrlitan one month past. Truly a man to be feared, the most secret dagger of the Nameless Ones. This only reinforces my suspicion that they have done something, an unleashing of some ancient, terrible demon. Even as the Khundryl wanderer said, and so it was no lie, that harrowing tale of the barrow and the fleeing dragon. A hunt has begun. Yet, who is the prey? And what role has Taralack Veed in all this? Oh, the name alone, scribed here in damp clay, fills my bones with ice. Dessimbelackis curse the Nameless Ones. They never play fair.
‘How much longer are you going to do that?’ Curdle demanded beside her.
Ignoring the shade, Apsalar continued working her way through the tablets, now seeking the name of Taralack Veed. The ghosts wandered about, sniffing every now and then at the two unconscious Pardu, slipping outside occasionally then returning, muttering in some unknown language.
There were thirty-three tablets in the pit, and as she removed the last one, she noted something odd about the pit’s base. She brought the lantern closer. Shattered pieces of dried clay. Fragments of writing in Mebra’s hand. ‘He destroys them,’ she said under her breath. ‘Periodically.’ She studied the last tablet in her hand. It was dustier by far than all the others, the script more faded by wear. ‘But he saved this one.’ Another list. Only, in this one she recognized names. Apsalar began reading aloud: ‘Duiker has finally freed Heboric Light Touch. Plan ruined by the rebellion, and Heboric lost. Coltaine marches with his refugees, yet there are vipers among the Malazans. Kalam Mehkar sent to Sha’ik, the Red Blades following. Kalam will deliver the Book into Sha’ik’s hands. The Red Blades will kill the bitch. I am well pleased.’ The next few lines had been carved into the clay after it had hardened, the script looking ragged and hurried. ‘Heboric is with Sha’ik. Known now as Ghost Hands, and in those hands is the power to destroy us all. This entire world. And none can stop him.’
Written in terror and panic. Yet…Apsalar glanced over at the other tablets. Something must have happened to have eased his mind. Was Heboric now dead? She did not know. Had someone else stumbled on the man’s trail, someone aware of the threat? And how in Hood’s name had Heboric – a minor historian of Unta – ended up in Sha’ik’s company?
Clearly the Red Blades had failed in their assassination attempt. After all, the Adjunct Tavore had killed the woman, hadn’t she? In front of ten thousand witnesses.
‘This woman is waking up.’
She looked over at Telorast. The shade was hovering over the Pardu guard lying near the entrance. ‘All right,’ Apsalar said, pushing the heap of tablets back into the pit and replacing the stone. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘Finally! It’s almost light outside!’
‘No causeway?’
‘Nothing but ruin, Not-Apsalar. Oh, this place looks too much like home.’
Curdle hissed. ‘Quiet, Telorast, you idiot! We don’t talk about that, remember?’
‘Sorry.’
‘When we reach my room,’ Apsalar said, ‘I want you two to tell me about that throne.’
‘She remembered.’
‘I don’t,’ Curdle said.
‘Me neither,’ Telorast said. ‘Throne? What throne?’
Apsalar studied the two ghosts, the faintly luminous eyes peering up at her. ‘Oh, never mind.’
The Falah’d was a head shorter than Samar Dev – and she was of barely average height – and he likely weighed less than would one of her legs cut clean away at the hip. An unpleasant image, she allowed, but one frighteningly close to reality. A fierce infection had set in the broken bones and it had taken four witches to draw the malign presence out. That had been the night before and she still felt weak and light-headed, and standing here in this blistering sun wasn’t helping.
However short and slight the Falah’d was, he worked hard at presenting a noble, imposing figure, perched there atop his long-legged white mare. Alas, the beast was trembling beneath him, flinching every time Karsa Orlong’s Jhag stallion tossed its head and rolled its eyes menacingly in the mare’s direction. The Falah’d gripped the saddle horn with both hands, his thin dark lips pinched and a certain timidity in his eyes. His ornate, jewel-studded telaba was dishevelled, and the round, silken and padded hat on his head was askew as he looked on the one known to all as Toblakai, once-champion of Sha’ik. Who, standing beside his horse, was still able, had he so chosen, to look down on the ruler of Ugarat.
Fifty palace guards accompanied the Falah’d, none of them – nor their mounts – at ease.
Toblakai was studying the massive edifice known as Moraval Keep. An entire flat-topped mesa had been carved hollow, the rock walls shaped into imposing fortifications. A deep, steep-walled moat surrounded the keep. Moranth munitions or sorcery had destroyed the stone bridge spanning it, and the doors beyond, battered and scorched, were of solid iron. A few scattered windows were visible, high up and unadorned, each sealed by iron doors barbed with angled arrow-slits.
The besieging encampment was squalid, a few hundred soldiers sitting or standing near cookfires and looking on with vaguely jaded interest. Off to one side, just north of the narrow road, sprawled a rough cemetery of a hundred or so makeshift, shin-high wooden platforms, each holding a cloth-wrapped corpse.
Toblakai finally turned to the Falah’d. ‘When last was a Malazan seen at the battlements?’
The young ruler started, then scowled. ‘I am to be addressed,’ he said in his piping voice, ‘in a manner due my authority as Holy Falah’d of Ugarat—’
‘When?’ Toblakai demanded, his expression darkening.
‘Well, uh, well – Captain Inashan, answer this barbarian!’
With a quick salute, the captain walked over to the soldiers in the encampment. Samar watched him speaking with a half-dozen besiegers, saw the various shrugs in answer to his question, saw Inashan’s back straighten and heard his voice get louder. The soldiers started arguing amongst themselves.
Toblakai made a grunting sound. He pointed at his horse. ‘Stay here, Havok. Kill nothing.’ Then the warrior strode to the edge of the moat.
Samar Dev hesitated, then followed.
He glanced at her when she stopped at his side. ‘I will assault this keep alone, witch.’
‘You certainly will,’ she replied. ‘I’m just here for a closer look.’
‘I doubt there will be much to see.’
‘What are you planning, Toblakai?’
‘I am Karsa Orlong, of the Teblor. You know my name and you will use it. To Sha’ik I was Toblakai. She is dead. To Leoman of the Flails, I was Toblakai, and he is as good as dead. To the rebels I was—’
‘All right, I understand. Only dead or nearly dead people called you Toblakai, but you should know, it is only that name that has kept you from rotting out the rest of your life in the palace pits.’
‘That pup on the white horse is a fool. I could break him under one arm—’
‘Yes, that likely would break him. And his army?’
‘More fools. I am done speaking, witch. Witness.’
And so she did.
Karsa clambered down into the moat. Rubble, broken weapons, siege-stones and withered bodies. Lizards scampered on the rocks, capemoths rising like pale leaves caught in an updraught. He made his way to a point directly beneath the two massive iron doors. Even with his height he could barely reach the narrow ledge at their base. He scanned the wreckage of the bridge around him, then began piling stones, choosing the larger fragments and fashioning rough steps.
Some time later he was satisfied. Drawing his sword, he climbed the steps, and found himself at the same level as the broad, riveted locking mechanism. Raising his stone sword in both hands, he set the point in the join, in front of where he judged the lock to be. He waited a moment, until the position of his arms and the angle of the blade was set in his mind, then he lifted the sword away, edged back as far as he could on the makeshift platform of rubble, drew the weapon back, and swung.
The blow was true, the unbreakable chalcedony edge driving into the join between the doors. Momentum ceased with a snapping sound as the blade jammed in an unseen, solid iron bar, the reverberations pounding through Karsa’s arms and into his shoulders.
He grunted, waited until the pain ebbed, then tugged the weapon free in a screech of metal. And took aim once again.
He both felt and heard the crack of the bar.
Karsa pulled the sword loose then threw his shoulder against the doors.
Something fell with a loud clang, and the door on the right swung back.
On the other side of the moat, Samar Dev stared. She had just witnessed something…extraordinary.
Captain Inashan came up alongside her. ‘The Seven Holies protect us,’ he whispered. ‘He just cut through an iron door.’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘We need…’
She glanced over. ‘We need what, Captain?’
‘We need to get him out of Ugarat. Away, as soon as possible.’
Darkness in the funnel within – angled walls, chutes and arrow-slits. Some mechanism had lowered the arched ceiling and narrowed the walls – he could see that they were suspended, perhaps a finger’s width from contact with each other and with the paved floor. Twenty murderous paces to an inner gate, and that gate was ajar.
Karsa listened but heard nothing. The air smelled rank, bitter. He squinted at the arrow-slits. They were dark, the hidden chambers to either side unlit.
Readying the sword in his hands, Karsa Orlong entered the keep.
No hot sand from the chutes, no arrows darting out from the slits, no boiling oil. He reached the gate. A courtyard beyond, one third sharply bathed in white sunlight. He strode forward until he was past the gate and then looked up. The rock had been hollowed out indeed – above was a rectangle of blue sky, the fiery sun filling one corner. The walls on all four sides were tiered with fortified landings and balconies, countless windows. He could make out doorways on those balconies, some yawning black, others closed. Karsa counted twenty-two levels on the wall opposite him, eighteen on the one to his left, seventeen to the right, and behind him – the outer wall – twelve in the centre flanked by projections each holding six more. The keep was a veritable city.
And, it seemed, lifeless.
A gaping pit, hidden in the shadow in one corner of the courtyard, caught his attention. Pavestones lifted clear and piled to the sides, an excavated shaft of some sort, reaching down into the foundations. He walked over.
The excavators had cleared the heavy pavestones to reach what looked to be bedrock but had proved to be little more than a cap of stone, perhaps half an arm’s length thick, covering a hollowed-out subterranean chamber. That stank.
A wooden ladder led down into the vault.
