The Malazan Empire, page 482
Corabb did not trust her. It was as simple as that. Why would she choose to fight against her own people? Only a criminal, an outlaw, would do that, and how trustworthy was an outlaw? No, there were likely horrific murders and betrayals crowding her sordid past, and now here she was, spreading her legs beneath Falah’d Leoman of the Flails, the known world’s most feared warrior. He would have to watch her carefully, hand on the grip of his new cutlass, ready at a moment’s notice to cut her clean in half, head to crotch, then across, diagonally, twice – swish swish! – right shoulder to left hip, left shoulder to right hip, and watch her part ways. A duty-bound execution, yes. At the first hint of betrayal.
‘What has so lightened your expression, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas?’
Stiffening, he turned, to find Dunsparrow standing at his side. ‘Third,’ he said in sour grunt of greeting. ‘I was thinking, uh, of the blood and death to come.’
‘Leoman says you are the most reasonable of the lot. I now dread closer acquaintance with his other officers.’
‘You fear the siege to come?’
‘Of course I do. I know what Imperial Armies are capable of. There is said to be a High Mage among them, and that is the most disturbing news of all.’
‘The woman commanding them is simple-minded,’ Corabb said. ‘No imagination, or none that she’s bothered showing.’
‘And that is my point on that issue, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s had no need, as yet, to display the extent of her imagination. Thus far, it’s been easy for her. Little more than marching endless leagues in Leoman’s dust.’
‘We are her match, and better,’ said Corabb, straightening, chest swelling. ‘Our spears and swords have already drawn their foul Malazan blood, and shall do so again. More of it, much more.’
‘That blood,’ she said after a moment, ‘is as red as yours, warrior.’
‘Is it? Seems to me,’ he continued, looking out upon the city once more, ‘that betrayal is a dark taint upon it, to so easily twist one of its own into switching sides.’
‘As with, for example, the Red Blades?’
‘Corrupted fools!’
‘Of course. Yet…Seven Cities born, yes?’
‘They have severed their own roots and now flow on the Malazan tide.’
‘Nice image, Corabb. You do stumble on those often, don’t you?’
‘You’d be amazed at the things I stumble on, woman. And I will tell you this, I guard Leoman’s back, as I have always done. Nothing has changed that. Not you and your…your—’
‘Charms?’
‘Wiles. I have marked you, Third, and best you be mindful of that.’
‘Leoman has done well to have such a loyal friend.’
‘He shall lead the Apocalypse—’
‘Oh, he will at that.’
‘—for none but he is equal to such a thing. Y’Ghatan shall be a curse name in the Malazan Empire for all time—’
‘It already is.’
‘Yes, well, it shall be more so.’
‘What is it about this city, I wonder, that has driven so deep a knife into the empire? Why did the Claw act here against Dassem Ultor? Why not somewhere else? Somewhere less public, less risky? Oh yes, they made it seem like a wayward accident of battle, but no-one was fooled. I admit to a fascination with this city, indeed, it is what brought me here in the first place.’
‘You are an outlaw. The Empress has a price on your head.’
‘She does? Or are you just guessing?’
‘I am certain of it. You fight against your own people.’
‘My own people. Who are they, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas? The Malazan Empire has devoured many peoples, just as it has done those of Seven Cities. Now that the rebellion is over, are your kin now Malazan? No, that thought is incomprehensible to you, isn’t it? I was born on Quon Tali, but the Malazan Empire was born on Malaz Island. My people too were conquered, just as yours have been.’
Corabb said nothing, too confused by her words. Malazans were…Malazans, dammit. All of a kind, no matter the hue of their skin, the tilt of their eyes, no matter all the variations within that Hood-cursed empire. Malazans! ‘You will get no sympathy from me, Third.’
‘I did not ask for it.’
‘Good.’
‘Now, will you accompany us?’
Us? Corabb slowly turned. Leoman stood a few paces behind them, arms crossed, leaning against the map-table. In his eyes a sly, amused expression.
‘We are going into the city,’ Leoman said. ‘I wish to visit a certain temple.’
Corabb bowed. ‘I shall accompany you, sword at the ready, Warleader.’
Leoman’s brows lifted fractionally. ‘Warleader. Is there no end of titles you will bestow upon me, Corabb?’
‘None, Hand of the Apocalypse.’
He flinched at that honorific, then turned away. A half-dozen officers stood waiting at one end of the long table, and to these warriors, Leoman said, ‘Begin the evacuation. And no undue violence! Kill every looter you catch, of course, but quietly. Ensure the protection of families and their possessions, including livestock—’
One of the warriors started. ‘But Commander, we shall need—’
‘No, we shall not. We have all we need. Besides, those animals are the only wealth most of the refugees will have to take with them. I want escorts on the west road.’ He glanced over at Dunsparrow. ‘Have the messengers returned from Lothal?’
‘Yes, with delighted greetings from the Falah’d.’
‘Delighted that I am not marching on to his city, you mean.’
Dunsparrow shrugged.
‘And so he is dispatching troops to manage the road?’
‘He is, Leoman.’
Ah! She is already beyond titles! Corabb struggled to keep the snarl from his voice. ‘He is Warleader to you, Third. Or Commander, or Falah’d—’
‘Enough,’ cut in Leoman. ‘I am pleased enough with my own name to hear it used. From now on, friend Corabb, we shall dispense with titles when only officers are present.’
As I thought, the corruption has begun. He glared at Dunsparrow, but she was paying him no attention, her eyes settled possessively on Leoman of the Flails. Corabb’s own gaze narrowed. Leoman the Fallen.
No track, alley or street in Y’Ghatan ran straight for more than thirty paces. Laid upon successive foundations, rising, it was likely, from the very first maze-wound fortress city built here ten thousand years or more past, the pattern resembled a termite mound with each twisting passageway exposed to the sky, although in many cases that sky was no more than a slit, less than an arm’s length wide, overhead.
To look upon Y’Ghatan, and to wander its corridors, was to step into antiquity. Cities, Leoman had once told Corabb, were born not of convenience, nor lordship, nor markets and their babbling merchants. Born not even of harvest and surplus. No, said Leoman, cities were born from the need for protection. Fortresses, that and nothing more, and all that followed did just that: follow. And so, cities were always walled, and indeed, walls were often all that remained of the oldest ones.
And this was why, Leoman had explained, a city would always build upon the bones of its forebears, for this lifted its walls yet higher, and made of the place a more formidable protection. It was the marauding tribes, he had said, laughing, that forced the birth of cities, of the very cities capable of defying them and, ultimately, conquering them. Thus did civilization arise from savagery.
All very well, Corabb mused as they walked towards this city’s heart, and possibly even true, but already he longed for the open lands of the Odhans, the desert’s sweet whispering wind, the sultry heat that could bake a man’s brain inside his helmet until he dreamed raving that he was being pursued by herds of fat aunts and leathery grandmothers who liked to pinch cheeks.
Corabb shook his head to dispel the recollection and all its attendant terrors. He walked at Leoman’s left, cutlass drawn and a scowl of belligerence ready for any suspicious-looking citizen. Third Dunsparrow was to Leoman’s right, the two brushing arms every now and then and exchanging soft words, probably grim with romance, that Corabb was pleased he could not overhear. That, or they were talking about ways of doing away with him.
‘Oponn pull me, push her,’ he said under his breath.
Leoman’s head turned. ‘You said something, Corabb?’
‘I was cursing this damned rat path, Avenger.’
‘We’re almost there,’ Leoman said, uncharacteristically considerate, which only deepened Corabb’s foul mood. ‘Dunsparrow and I were discussing what to do with the priesthood.’
‘Were you now? That’s nice. What do you mean, what to do with them?’
‘They are resisting the notion of leaving.’
‘I am not surprised.’
‘Nor am I, but leave they shall.’
‘It’s all the wealth,’ Corabb said. ‘And their reliquaries and icons and wine cellars – they fear they will be set upon on the road, raped and robbed and their hair all unbunned.’
Both Leoman and Dunsparrow peered over at him with odd expressions.
‘Corabb,’ Leoman said, ‘I think it best you remove that new great helm of yours.’
‘Yes,’ Dunsparrow added. ‘There are streams of sweat pouring down your face.’
‘I am fine,’ Corabb said in growl. ‘This was the Champion’s helm. But Leoman would not take it. He should have. In truth, I am only carrying it for him. At the appropriate time, he will discover the need to tear it from my head and don it himself, and the world shall right itself once more, may all the yellow and blue gods be praised.’
‘Corabb—’
‘I am fine, although we had better do something about all those old women following us. I will spit myself on my own sword before I let them get me. Ooh what a nice little boy! Enough of that, I say.’
‘Give me that helm,’ Leoman said.
‘It’s about time you recognized your destiny, Adjunct Slayer.’
Corabb’s head was pounding by the time they reached the Temple of Scalissara. Leoman had elected not to wear the great helm, even with its sodden quilted under-padding removed – without which it would have been too loose in any case. At least the old women were gone; in fact, the route they had taken was almost deserted, although they could hear the chaotic sounds of crowds in the main thoroughfares, being driven from the city, out onto the west road that led to Lothal on the coast. Panic rode the sweltering currents, yet it was clear that most of the four thousand soldiers now under Leoman’s command were out in the streets, maintaining order.
Seven lesser temples, each dedicated to one of the Seven Holies, encircled the octagonal edifice now sanctified in the name of the Queen of Dreams. The formal approach was spiral, wending through these smaller domed structures. The flanking compound walls had been twice defaced, first with rededication to Malazan gods soon after the conquest; then again with the rebellion, when the temples and their new foreign priesthoods had been assailed, the sanctuaries sundered and hundreds slaughtered. Friezes and metopes, caryatids and panels were all ruined now, entire pantheons defiled and made incomprehensible.
All, that is, but the temple of the Queen of Dreams, its impressive fortifications making it virtually impregnable. There were in any case mysteries surrounding the Queen, Corabb knew, and it was generally believed that her cult had not originated in the Malazan Empire. The Goddess of Divinations cast a thousand reflections upon a thousand peoples, and no one civilization could claim her as exclusively its own. So, having battered futilely at the temple’s walls for six days, the rebels had concluded that the Queen was not their enemy after all, and had thereafter left her in peace. Desire and necessity, Leoman had said, laughing, upon hearing the tale.
Nonetheless, as far as Corabb was concerned, the goddess was…foreign.
‘What business do we have,’ Corabb asked, ‘visiting this temple?’
Leoman replied with a question of his own: ‘Do you recall, old friend, your vow to follow me no matter what seeming madness I undertake?’
‘I do, Warleader.’
‘Well, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, you shall find yourself sorely tested in that promise. For I intend to speak with the Queen of Dreams.’
‘The High Priestess—’
‘No, Corabb,’ said Leoman, ‘with the goddess herself.’
‘It is a difficult thing, killing dragons.’
Blood the colour of false dawn continued to spread across the buckled pavestones. Mappo and Icarium remained beyond its reach, for it would not do to make contact with that dark promise. The Jhag was seated on a stone block that might have once been an altar but had been pushed up against the wall to the left of the entrance. The warrior’s head was in his hands, and he had said nothing for some time.
Mappo alternated his attention between his friend and the enormous draconean corpse rearing over them. Both scenes left him distraught. There was much worthy of grieving in this cavern, in the terrible ritual murder that had taken place here, and in the fraught torrent of memories unleashed within Icarium upon its discovery.
‘This leaves naught but Osserc,’ Mappo said. ‘And should he fall, the warren of Serc shall possess no ruler. I believe, Icarium, that I am beginning to see a pattern.’
‘Desecration,’ the Jhag said in a whisper, not looking up.
‘The pantheon is being made vulnerable. Fener, drawn into this world, and now Osserc – the very source of his power under assault. How many other gods and goddesses are under siege, I wonder? We have been away from things too long, my friend.’
‘Away, Mappo? There is no away.’
The Trell studied the dead dragon once more. ‘Perhaps you are right. Who could have managed such a thing? Within the dragon is the heart of the warren itself, its well-fount of power. Yet…someone defeated Sorrit, drove her down into the earth, into this cavern within a sky keep, and spiked her to Blackwood – how long ago, do you think? Would we not have felt her death?’ With no answers forthcoming from Icarium, Mappo edged closer to the blood pool and peered upward, focusing on that massive iron, rust-streaked spike. ‘No,’ he murmured after a moment, ‘that is not rust. Otataral. She was bound by otataral. Yet, she was Elder – she should have been able to defeat that eager entropy. I do not understand this…’
‘Old and new,’ Icarium said, his tone twisting the words into a curse. He rose suddenly, his expression ravaged and eyes hard. ‘Speak to me, Mappo. Tell me what you know of spilled blood.’
He turned away. ‘Icarium—’
‘Mappo, tell me.’
Gaze settling on the aquamarine pool, the Trell was silent as emotions warred within him. Then he sighed. ‘Who first dipped their hands into this fell stream? Who drank deep and so was transformed, and what effect did that otataral spike have upon that transformation? Icarium, this blood is fouled—’
‘Mappo.’
‘Very well. All blood spilled, my friend, possesses power. Beasts, humans, the smallest bird, blood is the life-force, the soul’s own stream. Within it is locked the time of living, from beginning to end. It is the most sacred force in existence. Murderers with their victims’ blood staining their hands feed from that force, whether they choose to or not. Many are sickened, others find a new hunger within themselves, and so become slaves to the violence of slaying. The risk is this: blood and its power become tainted by such things as fear and pain. The stream, sensing its own demise, grows stressed, and the shock is as a poison.’
‘What of fate?’ Icarium asked in a heavy voice.
Mappo flinched, his eyes still on the pool. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘you cut to the matter’s very heart. What does anyone take upon themselves when such blood is absorbed, drawn into their own soul? Must violent death be in turn delivered upon them? Is there some overarching law, seeking ever to redress the imbalance? If blood feeds us, what in turn feeds it, and is it bound by immutable rules or is it as capricious as we are? Are we creatures on this earth the only ones free to abuse our possessions?’
‘The K’Chain Che’Malle did not kill Sorrit,’ Icarium said. ‘They knew nothing of it.’
‘Yet this creature here was frozen, so it must have been encompassed in the Jaghut’s ritual of Omtose Phellack – how could the K’Chain Che’Malle not have known of this? They must have, even if they themselves did not slay Sorrit.’
‘No, they are innocent, Mappo. I am certain of it.’
‘Then…how?’
‘The crucifix, it is Blackwood. From the realm of the Tiste Edur. From the Shadow Realm, Mappo. In that realm, as you know, things can be in two places at once, or begin in one yet find itself eventually manifesting in another. Shadow wanders, and respects no borders.’
‘Ah, then…this…was trapped here, drawn from Shadow—’
‘Snared by the Jaghut’s ice magic – yet the spilled blood, and perhaps the otataral, proved too fierce for Omtose Phellack, thus shattering the Jaghut’s enchantment.’
‘Sorrit was murdered in the Shadow Realm. Yes. Now the pattern, Icarium, grows that much clearer.’
Icarium fixed bright, fevered eyes upon the Trell. ‘Is it? You would blame the Tiste Edur?’
‘Who else holds such command of Shadow? Not the Malazan pretender who now sits on the throne!’
The Jhag warrior said nothing. He walked along the pool’s edge, head down as if seeking signs from the battered floor. ‘I know this Jaghut. I recognize her work. The carelessness in the unleashing of Omtose Phellack. She was…distraught. Impatient, angry, weary of the endless paths the K’Chain Che’Malle employed in their efforts to invade, to establish colonies on every continent. She cared nothing for the civil war afflicting the K’Chain Che’Malle. These Short-Tails were fleeing their kin, seeking a refuge. I doubt she bothered asking questions.’
‘Do you think,’ Mappo asked, ‘that she knows of what has happened here?’
