The Malazan Empire, page 472
‘I assume we don’t step within that ring.’
‘Not unless we need to pull them out.’
Strings looked over.
‘Not unless I need to pull them out, I mean. If things go wrong. If they get in trouble.’
They drew nearer. ‘What made you join the army, Bottle?’
She insisted. ‘My grandmother thought it would be a good idea. She’d just died, you see, and her spirit was, um, agitated a little. About something.’ Oh, steer away from this, Bottle. ‘I was getting bored. Restless. Selling dolls to pilots and sailors on the docks—’
‘Where?’
‘Jakatakan.’
‘What kind of dolls?’
‘The kind the Stormriders seem to like. Appeasement.’
‘Stormriders? Gods below, Bottle, I didn’t think anything worked with them lately. Not for years.’
‘The dolls didn’t always work, but they sometimes did, which was better than most propitiations. Anyway, I was making good coin, but it didn’t seem enough—’
‘Are you feeling cold all of a sudden?’
Bottle nodded. ‘It makes sense, where they’ve gone.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Through Hood’s Gate. It’s all right, Sergeant. I think. Really. They’re pretty sneaky, and so long as they don’t attract the wrong attention…’
‘But…why?’
Bottle glanced over. The sergeant was looking pale. Not surprising. Those damned ghosts at Raraku had rattled him. ‘They’re looking for…people. Dead ones.’
‘Sormo E’nath?’
‘I guess. Wickans. Ones who died on the Chain of Dogs. They’ve done this before. They don’t find them—’ He stopped as a gust of bitter cold wind swirled up round the circle of stones. Sudden frost limned the ground. ‘Oh, that’s not good. I’ll be right back, Sergeant.’
Bottle ran forward, then leapt into the ring.
And vanished.
Or, he assumed he had, since he was no longer on the Lato Odhan, but ankle-deep in rotting, crumbling bones, a sickly grey sky overhead. Someone was screaming. Bottle turned at the sound and saw three figures thirty paces away. Nil and Nether, and facing them, a horrific apparition, and it was this lich that was doing the screaming. The two young Wickans were flinching before the tirade.
A language Bottle did not understand. He walked closer, bone-dust puffing with each step.
The lich suddenly reached out and grasped both Wickans, lifting them into the air, then shaking them.
Bottle ran forward. And what do I do when I get there?
The creature snarled and flung Nil and Nether to the ground, then abruptly disappeared amidst the clouds of dust.
He reached them as they were climbing to their feet. Nether was swearing in her native tongue as she brushed dust from her tunic. She glared over at Bottle as he arrived. ‘What do you want?’
‘Thought you were in trouble.’
‘We’re fine,’ Nil snapped, yet there was a sheepish expression on his adolescent face. ‘You can lead us back, mage.’
‘Did the Adjunct send you?’ Nether demanded. ‘Are we to have no peace?’
‘Nobody sent me. Well, Sergeant Strings – we were just out walking—’
‘Strings? You mean Fiddler.’
‘We’re supposed to—’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Nether said. ‘Everybody knows.’
‘We’re not idiots. It clearly hasn’t occurred to either of you that maybe Fiddler wants it that way. Wants to be called Strings, now, because his old life is gone, and with the old name comes bad memories, and he’s had enough of those.’
Neither Wickan replied.
After a few more strides, Bottle asked, ‘So, was that a Wickan lich? One of the dead you were looking for?’
‘You know too much.’
‘Was it?’
Nil cursed under his breath, then said, ‘Our mother.’
‘Your…’ Bottle fell silent.
‘She was telling us to stop moping and grow up,’ Nil added.
‘She was telling you that,’ Nether retorted. ‘She told me to—’
‘To take a husband and get pregnant.’
‘That was just a suggestion.’
‘Made while she was shaking you?’ Bottle asked.
Nether spat at his feet. ‘A suggestion. Something I should maybe think about. Besides, I don’t have to listen to you, soldier. You’re Malazan. A squad mage.’
‘He’s also the one,’ pointed out Nil, ‘who rides life-sparks.’
‘Small ones. The way we did as children.’
Bottle smiled at her remark.
She caught it. ‘What’s so amusing?’
‘Nothing. Sorry.’
‘I thought you were going to lead us back.’
‘I thought so, too,’ Bottle said, halting and looking round. ‘Oh, I think we’ve been noticed.’
‘It’s your fault, mage!’ Nil accused.
‘Probably.’
Nether hissed and pointed.
Another figure had appeared, and to either side padded dogs. Wickan cattle dogs. Nine, ten, twelve. Their eyes gleamed silver. The man in their midst was clearly Wickan, greying and squat and bow-legged. His face was savagely scarred.
‘It is Bult,’ Nether whispered. She stepped forward.
The dogs growled.
‘Nil, Nether, I have been searching for you,’ the ghost named Bult said, halting ten paces away, the dogs lining up on either side. ‘Hear me. We do not belong here. Do you understand? We do not belong.’ He paused and pulled at his nose in a habitual gesture. ‘Think hard on my words.’ He turned away, then paused and glanced back over a shoulder, ‘And Nether, get married and have babies.’
The ghosts vanished.
Nether stamped her foot. Dust rose up around her. ‘Why does everyone keep telling me that!?’
‘Your tribe’s been decimated,’ Bottle said reasonably. ‘It stands to reason—’
She advanced on him.
Bottle stepped back—
And reappeared within the stone circle.
A moment later gasps came from Nil and Nether, their crosslegged bodies twitching.
‘I was getting worried,’ Strings said behind him, standing just outside the ring.
The two Wickans were slow in getting to their feet.
Bottle hurried to his sergeant’s side. ‘We should get going,’ he said. ‘Before she comes fully round, I mean.’
‘Why?’
Bottle started walking. ‘She’s mad at me.’
The sergeant snorted, then followed. ‘And why is she mad at you, soldier? As if I need ask.’
‘Just something I said.’
‘Oh, I am surprised.’
‘I don’t want to go into it, Sergeant. Sorry.’
‘I’m tempted to throw you down and pin you for her.’
They reached the crest. Behind them, Nether began shouting curses. Bottle quickened his pace. Then he halted and crouched down, reaching under his shirt, and gingerly drew out a placid lizard. ‘Wake up,’ he murmured, then set it down. It scampered off.
Strings watched. ‘It’s going to follow them, isn’t it?’
‘She might decide on a real curse,’ Bottle explained. ‘And if she does, I need to counter it.’
‘Hood’s breath, what did you say to her?’
‘I made a terrible mistake. I agreed with her mother.’
‘We should be getting out of here. Or…’
Kalam glanced over. ‘All right, Quick.’ He raised a hand to halt the soldiers flanking them and the one trailing behind, then uttered a low whistle to alert the huge, red-bearded corporal on point.
The squad members drew in to surround the assassin and the High Mage.
‘We’re being followed,’ Sergeant Gesler said, wiping sweat from his burnished brow.
‘It’s worse than that,’ Quick Ben said.
The soldier named Sands muttered, ‘Isn’t it just.’
Kalam turned and studied the track behind them. He could see nothing in the colourless swirl. ‘This is still the Imperial Warren, isn’t it?’
Quick Ben rubbed at his neck. ‘I’m not so sure.’
‘But how can that happen?’ This from the corporal, Stormy, his forehead buckling and small eyes glittering as though he was about to fly into a berserk rage at any moment. He was holding his grey flint sword as if expecting some demon to come bursting into existence right in front of them.
The assassin checked his long-knives, and said to Quick Ben, ‘Well?’
The wizard hesitated, then nodded. ‘All right.’
‘What did you two just decide?’ Gesler asked. ‘And would it be so hard explaining it to us?’
‘Sarcastic bastard,’ Quick Ben commented, then gave the sergeant a broad, white smile.
‘I’ve punched a lot of faces in my day,’ Gesler said, returning the smile, ‘but never one belonging to a High Mage before.’
‘You might not be here if you had, Sergeant.’
‘Back to business,’ Kalam said in a warning rumble. ‘We’re going to wait and see what’s after us, Gesler. Quick doesn’t know where we are, and that in itself is troubling enough.’
‘And then we leave,’ the wizard added. ‘No heroic stands.’
‘The Fourteenth’s motto,’ Stormy said, with a loud sigh.
‘Which?’ Gesler asked. ‘And then we leave or No heroic stands?’
‘Take your pick.’
Kalam studied the squad, first Gesler, then Stormy, then the lad, Truth, and Pella and the minor mage, Sands. What a miserable bunch.
‘Let’s just go kill it,’ Stormy said, shifting about. ‘And then we can talk about what it was.’
‘Hood knows how you’ve lived this long,’ Quick Ben said, shaking his head.
‘Because I’m a reasonable man, High Mage.’
Kalam grunted. All right, they might grow on me at that. ‘How far away is it, Quick?’
‘Closing. Not it. Them.’
Gesler unslung his crossbow and Pella and Truth followed suit. They loaded quarrels, then fanned out.
‘Them, you said,’ the sergeant muttered, glaring over at Quick Ben. ‘Would that be two? Six? Fifty thousand?’
‘It’s not that,’ Sands said in a suddenly shaky voice. ‘It’s where they’ve come from. Chaos. I’m right, ain’t I, High Mage?’
‘So,’ Kalam said, ‘the warrens really are in trouble.’
‘I did tell you that, Kal.’
‘You did. And you told the Adjunct the same thing. But she wanted us to get to Y’Ghatan before Leoman. And that means the warrens.’
‘There!’ Truth hissed, pointing.
Emerging from the grey gloom, something massive, towering, black as a storm-cloud, filling the sky. And behind it, another, and another…
‘Time to go,’ Quick Ben said.
Chapter Four
All that K’rul created, you understand, was born of the Elder God’s love of possibility. Myriad paths of sorcery spun out a multitude of strands, each wild as hairs in the wind, hackled to the wandering beast. And K’rul was that beast, yet he himself was a parody of life, for blood was his nectar, the spilled gift, red tears of pain, and all that he was, was defined by that singular thirst.
For all that, thirst is something we all share, yes?
Brutho and Nullit speak on Nullit’s Last Night
Brutho Parlet
The land was vast, but it was not empty. Some ancient cataclysm had torn through the scoured bedrock, splitting it with fissures in a chaotic crisscross skein over the plain. If sand had once covered this place, even filling the chasms, wind or water had swept away the very last grain. The stone looked polished and the sun’s light bounced from it in a savage glare.
Squinting, Mappo Runt studied the tormented landscape in front of them. After a time, he shook his head. ‘I have never seen this place before, Icarium. It seems as though something has just peeled back the skin of the world. Those cracks…how can they run in such random directions?’
The half-blood Jaghut standing at his side said nothing for a moment, his pallid eyes scanning the scene as if seeking a pattern. Then he crouched down and picked up a piece of broken bedrock. ‘Immense pressures,’ he murmured. ‘And then…violence.’ He straightened, tossing the rock aside. ‘The fissures follow no fault lines – see that nearest one? It cuts directly across the seams in the stone. I am intrigued, Mappo.’
The Trell set down his burlap sack. ‘Do you wish to explore?’
‘I do.’ Icarium glanced at him and smiled. ‘None of my desires surprise you, do they? It is no exaggeration that you know my mind better than I. Would that you were a woman.’
‘Were I a woman, Icarium, I would have serious concerns about your taste in women.’
‘Granted,’ the Jhag replied, ‘you are somewhat hairy. Bristly, in fact. Given your girth, I believe you capable of wrestling a bull bhederin to the ground.’
‘Assuming I had reason to…although none comes to mind.’
‘Come, let us explore.’
Mappo followed Icarium out onto the blasted plain. The heat was vicious, desiccating. Beneath their feet, the bedrock bore twisted swirls, signs of vast, contrary pressures. No lichen clung to the stone. ‘This has been long buried.’
‘Yes, and only recently exposed.’
They approached the sharp edge of the nearest chasm.
The sunlight reached down part-way to reveal jagged, sheer walls, but the floor was hidden in darkness.
‘I see a way down,’ Icarium said.
‘I was hoping you had missed it,’ Mappo replied, having seen the same chute with its convenient collection of ledges, cracks for hand- and foot-holds. ‘You know how I hate climbing.’
‘Until you mentioned it, no. Shall we?’
‘Let me retrieve my pack,’ Mappo said, turning about. ‘We’ll likely be spending the night down there.’ He made his way back towards the edge of the plain. The rewards of curiosity had diminished for Mappo, over the years since he had vowed to walk at Icarium’s side. It was now a sentiment bound taut with dread. Icarium’s search for answers was not a hopeless one, alas. And if truth was discovered, it would be as an avalanche, and Icarium would not, could not, withstand the revelations. About himself. And all that he had done. He would seek to take his own life, if no-one else dared grant the mercy.
That was a precipice they had both clung to not so long ago. And I betrayed my vow. In the name of friendship. He had been broken, and it shamed him still. Worse, to see the compassion in Icarium’s eyes, that had been a sword through Mappo’s heart, an unhealed wound still haunting him.
But curiosity was a fickle thing, as well. Distractions devoured time, drew Icarium from his relentless path. Yes, time. Delays. Follow where he will lead, Mappo Runt. You can do naught else. Until…until what? Until he finally failed. And then, another would come, if it was not already too late, to resume the grand deceit.
He was tired. His very soul was weary of the whole charade. Too many lies had led him onto this path, too many lies held him here to this day. I am no friend. I broke my vow – in the name of friendship? Another lie. No. Simple, brutal self-interest, the weakness of my selfish needs.
Whilst Icarium called him friend. Victim of a terrible curse, yet he remained, trusting, honourable, filled with the pleasure of living. And here I am, happily leading him astray, again and again. Oh, the word for it was indeed shame.
He found himself standing before his pack. How long he had stood there, unseeing, unmoving, he did not know. Ah, now that is just, that I begin to lose myself. Sighing, he picked it up and slung it over a shoulder. Pray we cross no-one’s path. No threat. No risk. Pray we never find a way out of the chasm. But to whom was he praying? Mappo smiled as he made his way back. He believed in nothing, and would not presume the conceit of etching a face on oblivion. Thus, empty prayers, uttered by an empty man.
‘Are you all right, my friend?’ Icarium asked as he arrived.
‘Lead on,’ Mappo said. ‘I must secure my pack first.’
A flash of something like concern in the Jhag’s expression, then he nodded and walked over to where the chute debouched, slipped over the edge, and vanished from sight.
Mappo tugged a small belt-pouch free and loosened the drawstrings. He pulled another pouch from the first one and unfolded it, revealing that it was larger than the one it had been stored in. From this second pouch he withdrew another, again larger once unfolded. Mappo then, with some effort, pushed the shoulder pack into this last one. Tightened the strings. He stuffed that pouch into the next smaller and followed by forcing that one into the small belt-pouch, which he tied at his waist. Inconvenient, though temporary. He would have no quick access to his weapons should some calamity arise, at least for the duration of the descent. Not that he could fight clinging like a drunk goat to the cliff-side in any case.
He made his way to the chute and looked over the edge. Icarium was making swift progress, already fifteen or more man-heights down.
What would they find down there? Rocks. Or something that should have remained buried for all time.
Mappo began his descent.
Before long, the passage of the sun swept all light from the crevasse. They continued in deep gloom, the air cool and stale. There was no sound, barring the occasional scrape of Icarium’s scabbard against stone from somewhere below, the only indication that the Jhag still lived, that he had not fallen, for, had he lost his grip and plummeted, Mappo knew that he would make no outcry.
The Trell’s arms were getting tired, the calves of his legs aching, his fingers growing numb, but he maintained his steady pace, feeling strangely relentless, as if this was a descent with no end and he was eager to prove it, the only possible proof being to continue on. For ever. There was something telling in that desire, but he was not prepared to be mindful of it.
The air grew colder. Mappo watched the plumes of his breath frosting the stone face opposite him, sparkling in some faint, sourceless illumination. He could smell old ice, somewhere below, and a whisper of unease quickened his breathing.
