The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 50
Coll grunted. “I’m not the sharpest man you’ll meet, Paran, and your thoughts are running a touch too deep for me. But if I understand you right, you’re sitting there looking at a chopped-up old fool of a man and you’re telling him he’s alive. Right now. As alive as can be. And whatever he betrayed back then, it wasn’t life, was it?”
“You tell me, Coll.”
The man grimaced and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “The thing is, I want it back. I want it all back.”
Paran burst out laughing, and continued to laugh until sharp pains cramped his stomach.
Coll sat watching him, then a low, rumbling chuckle rose from his chest. He reached back, retrieved a handful of sticks and tossed them into the fire, one at a time. “Well, dammit, Paran,” he said, amused lines crinkling around his eyes, “you’ve come out of the blue like a god-sent bolt of lightning. And I appreciate it. I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know.”
Paran wiped tears from his eyes. “Hood’s Breath,” he said. “Just one War Mule talking to another, right?”
“I guess so, Paran. Now, if you’ll look in that pack of mine, you’ll find a jug of Worrytown wine. Its vintage is about a week.”
The captain rose. “Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s running out of time.”
Book Six
The City of Blue Fire
Rumors like tattered flags
wind-snapped and echoing
in the streets below
told the tale of the days upon us . . .
’Twas said an eel had slipped ashore
or not one but a thousand
under a jagged moon that might be dead,
’twas whispered that a claw scraped slow
on the city’s cobbles, even as a dragon
was seen sailing high silver and black in the night sky.
’Twas heard, they say, a demon’s death cry
on the rooftops on a night of blood, even
as the master’s hundred hands lost
a hundred daggers to the dark,
and ’twas rumored then, a lady
masked highborn had offered to unbidden guests
a fête to remember . . .
RUMOR BORN
FISHER (B.?)
Chapter Seventeen
Few can see
the dark hand
holding aloft
the splinter, or
the notched chains
fated to be heard
before death’s rattle,
but hark the wheel
of minions and victims
who moan the
lord’s name
in the dark heart
of Moon’s Spawn . . .
SILVERFOX
OUTRIDER HURLOCHEL,
6TH ARMY
As Rallick Nom approached the Phoenix Inn from the alleyway, a large, beefy woman stepped out from a shadowed niche and confronted him. He raised an eyebrow. “You want something, Meese?”
“Never mind what I want.” She grinned invitingly. “You’ve known about that for years. Anyway, I come to tell ya something, Nom. So relax.”
He crossed his arms and waited.
Meese glanced back up the alley, then hunched close to the assassin. “There’s someone in the bar. Been asking for ya. By name.”
Startled, Rallick straightened. “What’s he look like?” he asked casually.
“Like a soldier outa uniform,” Meese replied. “Never seen him around before. So what do ya think, Nom?”
He looked away. “Nothing. Where’s he sitting?”
Meese grinned again. “At Kruppe’s table. Home ground. Now ain’t that fine?”
Rallick stepped past the woman and headed toward the inn. As she moved to follow he held out his hand. “A minute between us, Meese,” he said, without turning. “Where’s Irilta?”
“Inside,” she said, behind him. “Good luck, Nom.”
“Luck’s never free,” Rallick muttered, as he turned the corner and climbed the steps.
He stood still just within the door and surveyed the crowd. A few strangers, not enough to cause him concern, however. His gaze slid across to a man sitting at Kruppe’s table. He almost had to take a second look, so nondescript was he. Then Rallick strode straight for him, the crowd parting as he went—something he’d never noticed before. Amused, he held his eyes on the stranger until he was noticed. They locked gazes, though the man made no move other than to take a sip from his tankard, then set it down carefully on the table.
Rallick pulled out a chair and dragged it opposite. “I’m Rallick Nom.”
There was something solid about this person, a kind of assurance that was calming. Rallick felt himself relaxing in spite of his habitual caution. The man’s first words changed that, however.
“The Eel has a message for you,” he said quietly. “Direct, by word of mouth only. Before I deliver it, though, I’m to give you some background—as only I can.” He paused to drink from the tankard, then resumed. “Now, Turban Orr has hired another dozen hunters. What are they hunting? Well, me, for one. Your problem is that he’s going to be harder to reach. The Eel approves of your efforts concerning Lady Simtal. Coll’s return is desired by all who value integrity and honor within the Council. If you require anything, ask now and it’s yours.”
Rallick’s eyes had hardened. “Never knew Murillio had such a big mouth,” he said.
The man shook his head. “Your compatriot has revealed nothing. Nor have you. It is the Eel’s business. Now, what do you require?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.” The stranger nodded, as if he’d expected that reply and was pleased. “Incidentally, Turban Orr’s efforts to pass the proclamation have been . . . impeded. Indefinitely. The Eel wishes to thank you for your unwitting role in that. Nevertheless, the councilman explores other options. He has been watched closely. Hence our fortunate discovery that is at the heart of the Eel’s message to you. Last night, beneath Despot’s Barbican, Turban Orr met with a representative of the Assassins’ Guild—how he managed that was quite a feat, considering how difficult your comrades have been to find. In any case, a contract was tendered by Turban Orr.” The man waited for the shock to wear off Rallick’s face, then continued. “Tendered by Turban Orr, as I said, but not on his own behalf. Rather, Lady Simtal has decided that Coll’s death should be a fact in the real world as it is on paper.”
“Who?” Rallick rasped. “Who was the contact?”
“I’m coming to that. First, it was accepted, for the payment was substantial. They are aware that Coll is presently outside Darujhistan. They simply await his return.”
“The assassin’s name.”
“Ocelot.” The man rose. “The Eel wishes you success in all your ventures, Rallick Nom. Thus the message ends. Good evening.” He turned to leave.
“Wait.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” Rallick said.
The stranger smiled, then left.
The assassin took the man’s seat, and leaned against the wall. He waved at Sulty, who had a pitcher of ale and a tankard waiting. She hurried over. Behind her strode, at a more leisurely pace, Irilta and Meese. They sat down without preamble, each with her own tankard.
“Everybody’s still breathing,” Irilta said, raising her drink. “And here’s t’ that.”
Meese lifted hers as well and the two women drank deep. Then Meese bent forward. “Any word of Kruppe and the boy?”
Rallick shook his head. “I may not be here when they come back,” he said. “Tell Murillio to go ahead if I don’t show, and if other . . . events occur. And, if that happens, tell him our man’s eyes are open.” Rallick filled his tankard and drained it immediately. Then he rose. “Don’t wish me luck,” he said.
“How about success?” Meese asked, a worried expression on her broad face.
Rallick jerked his head in a nod. Then he left the inn.
Anomander Rake was hiding something. Baruk was certain of it as he stared moodily into the fireplace. In his right hand was a goblet of goat’s milk, and in his left a large fragment of Daru flatbread. Why had the Tiste Andii permitted the Imass to enter the barrow? He’d asked that question already of the Lord sitting beside him, but an answer didn’t seem forthcoming. Instead, all the alchemist got from Rake was that irritating smugness. Baruk took a bite from the flatbread, the crack loud between them.
Rake stretched out his legs and sighed. “An odd hour to dine,” he said.
“All my hours have been odd, lately,” Baruk said, around the bread. He drank a mouthful of milk.
“I’d no idea that both the Shadow Lord and Oponn had become involved in affairs,” Rake said.
Baruk felt the Lord’s eyes on him, but he remained staring at the fire. “I had an intimation of Oponn,” he said. “But nothing definite.”
Rake snorted in reply.
Baruk downed some more milk. “You hold your hunches close to your chest. I do the same.”
“This avails us nothing,” Rake snapped.
The alchemist turned in his chair to face the Tiste Andii. “Your ravens watched that woman and the T’lan Imass enter the barrow. Do you still believe they will fail?”
“Do you?” Rake retorted. “I seem to recall that that was your position on the matter, Baruk. As far as I was and am concerned, I don’t much care whether they succeed or not. Either way, there’ll be a fight. I suspect you’d imagined there would be a way to avoid one. Obviously, your intelligence concerning the Malazan Empire is sorely lacking. Laseen knows only one thing, and that’s force. She’ll ignore power until it’s unveiled, and then she’ll hit you with everything at her disposal.”
“And you just wait for it to happen?” Baruk scowled. “That’s how cities are destroyed. That’s how thousands of people die. Does any of that matter to you, Anomander Rake? So long as you win in the end?”
A tight smile played on the Lord’s thin lips. “An accurate assessment, Baruk. In this case, however, Laseen wants Darujhistan intact. I mean to prevent that. But destroying the city to defy her would be too easy. I could have managed that weeks ago. No, I want Darujhistan to remain as it is. Yet out of Laseen’s reach. That, Alchemist, is victory.” His gray eyes were on Baruk. “I would not have sought an alliance with you otherwise.”
The alchemist frowned. “Unless you plan treachery.”
Rake was silent for a time, studying his hands clasped on his lap. “Baruk,” he said softly, “as any commander of long standing knows, treachery breeds its own. Once committed, whether against an enemy or an ally, it becomes a legitimate choice for everyone in your command, from the lowest private seeking promotion, to your personal aides, bodyguards, and officers. My people know of our alliance with you, Alchemist. If I were to betray it, I would not long remain the Lord of Moon’s Spawn. And rightly so.”
Baruk smiled. “And who could challenge your power, Rake?”
“Caladan Brood, for one,” Rake replied immediately. “And then there’s my four assassin mages. Even Silanah, the dweller within the Moon’s caverns, might take it upon herself to exact judgment on me. I can think of others, Baruk, many others.”
“So fear holds you in check, Son of Darkness?”
Rake scowled. “That title is held by those fools who think me worthy of worship. I dislike it, Baruk, and would not hear it again from you. Does fear hold me in check? No. As powerful as fear is, it is no match for what compels me. Duty.” The Lord’s eyes had shifted into a dun tone as they remained fixed on his hands, which he now turned palms up. “You have a duty to your city, Baruk. It drives you, shapes you. I’m no stranger to such a thing. Within Moon’s Spawn are the last of the Tiste Andii on this world. We are dying, Alchemist. No cause seems great enough to return to my people the zest for life. I try, but inspiration has never been a great talent of mine. Even this Malazan Empire could not make us rise to defend ourselves—until we ran out of places to run to.
“We still die on this continent. Better that it be by the sword.” He let his hands slip from his lap. “Imagine your spirit dying while your body lives on. Not for ten years, not for fifty. But a body that lives on for fifteen, twenty thousand years.”
Rake rose swiftly. He looked down upon a silent Baruk, and smiled a smile that launched a dagger of pain into the alchemist’s heart. “Thus duty holds me, yet a duty that is in itself hollow. Is it enough to preserve the Tiste Andii? Simply preserve them? Do I raise Moon’s Spawn into the heavens, where we live on, beyond any risk, any threat? What, then, will I be preserving? A history, a particular point of view.” He shrugged. “The history is done, Baruk, and the Tiste Andii point of view is one of disinterest, stoicism, and quiet, empty despair. Are these gifts to the world worthy of preservation? I think not.”
Baruk had no immediate response. What Anomander Rake had described was almost beyond comprehension, yet its anguished cry reached through to the alchemist. “And yet,” he said, “here you are. Allied with the Empire’s victims. Do you stand alone in this, Anomander Rake? Do your people approve?”
“They care not,” Rake said. “They accept my commands. They follow me. They serve Caladan Brood when I ask them to. And they die in the mud and forests of a land that is not their own, in a war not their own, for a people who are terrified of them.”
Baruk sat forward. “Then why? Why do you do all this?”
A harsh laugh was Rake’s response. After a moment, however, his bitter amusement fell away and he said, “Is an honorable cause worth anything these days? Does it matter that we’ve borrowed it? We fight as well as any man. We die alongside them. Mercenaries of the spirit. And even that is a coin we scarcely value. Why? It doesn’t matter why. But we never betray our allies.
“I know you are worried that I did nothing to prevent the T’lan Imass from entering the barrow. I believe the Jaghut Tyrant will be freed, Baruk. But better now, with me here beside you, than at some other time when the Jaghut has no one capable of opposing him. We’ll take this legend and carve the life from it, Alchemist, and never again will the threat haunt you.”
Baruk stared at the Tiste Andii. “Are you that certain you’ll be able to destroy the Jaghut?”
“No. But when it is finished with us, it will have been much reduced. Then it falls to others—to your Cabal, in fact. There’s no certainty in this, Baruk. That seems a fact particularly galling to you humans. You’d better learn to accept it. We may well be able to destroy the Jaghut Tyrant, but even this will serve Laseen’s plans.”
The alchemist was bemused. “I don’t understand.”
Rake grinned. “When we are finished with it, we will have been much reduced. And then will come the powers of the Malazan Empire. So, you see, either way she wins. If anything has her worried, it’s your T’orrud Cabal, Baruk. Of your abilities she knows nothing. Which is why her agents seek this Vorcan. The Guild Master accepting the contract will solve the problem you represent.”
“Yet,” Baruk mused, “there are other factors involved.”
“Oponn,” Rake stated. “That is a danger to everyone involved. Do you think Oponn cares for a mortal city? For its people? It is the nexus of power that matters to Oponn, the whirlwind where games get nasty. Will immortal blood be spilled? That’s the question the gods are eager to have answered.”
Baruk stared down at his goblet of goat’s milk. “Well, at least we’ve avoided that so far.” He took a sip.
“Wrong,” Rake said. “Forcing Shadowthrone out of the game marked the first spilling of immortal blood.”
Baruk almost choked on the milk. He set down the goblet and stared up at the Tiste Andii. “Whose?”
“Two Hounds died by my sword. Knocked Shadowthrone somewhat off-balance, I believe.”
Baruk leaned back and closed his eyes. “Then the stakes have risen,” he said.
“As far as Moon’s Spawn, Alchemist.” Rake returned to his chair and sat, once again stretching his legs out to the fire’s warmth. “Now, what more can you tell me about this Jaghut Tyrant? I recall you said you wished to consult an authority.”
Baruk opened his eyes and tossed the flatbread into the fire. “There’s a problem there, Rake. I’m hoping you can help explain what’s happened. Please,” he said, rising, “follow me.”
Grunting, Rake climbed back to his feet. This night he’d not worn his sword. To Baruk the Lord’s broad back looked incomplete, but he was thankful for the weapon’s absence.
He led Rake from the room and down the central stairs to the lower chambers. The first of these subterranean rooms held a narrow cot, and on the cot lay an old man. Baruk indicated him. “As you see, he appears to be sleeping. He is named Mammot.”
Rake raised an eyebrow. “The historian?”
“Also a High Priest of D’rek.”
“That explains the cynicism in his writings,” Rake said, grinning. “The Worm of Autumn breeds an unhappy lot.”
Baruk was surprised that this Tiste Andii had read Mammot’s Histories but, then, why not? A life spanning twenty thousand years necessitated hobbies, he supposed.
“So,” Rake said, striding to the bed, “this Mammot sleeps a deep sleep. What triggered it?” He crouched before the old man.
Baruk joined him. “That is the odd part. I admit to knowing little of earth magic. D’riss is a Warren I’ve never explored. I called on Mammot, as I indicated to you, and upon his arrival I asked him to tell me all he knew of the Jaghut Tyrant and the barrow. He promptly sat down and closed his eyes. They’ve yet to open, and he’s not uttered a single word since.”
Rake straightened. “He took your request seriously, I see.”
“What do you mean?”
“As you guessed, he opened his D’riss Warren. He sought to answer your question by rather, shall we say, direct means. And now something’s trapped him.”
“He traveled by Warren to the Jaghut Tyrant’s barrow? The old fool!”
