The Malazan Empire, page 516
‘To make yourselves gods.’
‘Yes. And in so doing, we learned that the Azath are far more than Houses created as prisons for entities of power. They are also portals. And one more thing for certain – they are the repositories for the Lost Elementals.’
Mappo frowned. ‘I have not heard that phrase before. Lost Elementals?’
‘Scholars tend to acknowledge but four, generally: water, fire, earth and air; yet others exist. And it is from these others that comes the immense power of the Azath Houses. Mappo, one is at an immediate disadvantage in discerning a pattern, when one has but four points of reference, with an unknown number of others as yet invisible, unaccounted for in the scheme.’
‘Cotillion, these Lost Elementals – are they perhaps related to the aspects of sorcery? The warrens and the Deck of Dragons? Or, more likely, the ancient Holds?’
‘Life, death, dark, light, shadow…possibly, but even that seems a truncated selection. What of, for example, time? Past, present, future? What of desire, and deed? Sound, silence? Or are the latter two but minor aspects of air? Does time belong to light? Or is it but a point somewhere between light and dark, yet distinct from shadow? What of faith and denial? Can you now understand, Mappo, the potential complexity of relationships?’
‘Assuming they exist at all, beyond the notion of concepts.’
‘Granted. Yet, maybe concepts are all that’s needed, if the purpose of the elements is to give shape and meaning to all that surrounds us on the outside, and all that guides us from within.’
Mappo leaned back. ‘And you sought to master such power?’ He stared at Cotillion, wondering if even a god was capable of such conceit, such ambition. And they began on their quest long before they became gods…‘I confess that I hope you and Shadowthrone fail – for what you describe should not fall into anyone’s hands, not a god’s, not a mortal’s. No, leave it to the Azath—’
‘And so we would have, had we not come to understand that the Azath’s control was failing. The Nameless Ones, I suspect, have come to the same realization, and so are now driven to desperation. Alas, we believe their latest decision will, if anything, further pitch the Azath towards chaos and dissolution.’ He nodded towards Iskaral Pust, who crouched nearby, muttering to himself. ‘Hence, our decision to…intervene. Too late, unfortunately, to prevent Dejim Nebrahl’s release, and the ambush itself. But…you are alive, Trell.’
And so, Cotillion, in seeking to master the Azath, you now find yourself serving it. Desire versus deed…‘To lift Icarium’s curse,’ Mappo shook his head. ‘This is an extraordinary offer, Cotillion. I find myself torn between doubt and hope.’ A wry smile – ‘Ah, I begin to understand how mere concepts are enough.’
‘Icarium has earned an end to his torment,’ the god said, ‘has he not?’
‘What must I do?’
‘For now, do as you are doing – pursue your friend. Stay on that trail, Mappo. A convergence is coming, of a magnitude so vast it will very likely defy comprehension. The gods seem oblivious to the cliff-edge they are all approaching, and yes, every now and then I include myself among them.’
‘You hardly seem oblivious.’
‘Well then, perhaps helpless is a more accurate term. In any event, you and I will speak again. For now, do not doubt that you are needed. By us, by every mortal and above all, by Icarium.’ He set the cup down and rose.
The faint sound of the Hounds lifting themselves into readiness reached Mappo’s ears.
‘I know I need not say this,’ the god said, ‘but I shall anyway. Do not give up hope, Mappo. For this, despair is your greatest foe. When the time comes for you to stand between Icarium and all that the Nameless Ones seek…well, I believe that you will not fail.’
Mappo watched Cotillion walk into the darkness, the Hounds slipping into the god’s wake. After a moment, the Trell glanced over at Iskaral Pust. And found sharp, glittering eyes fixed on him. ‘High Priest,’ Mappo asked, ‘do you intend to join me in my journey?’
‘Alas, I cannot.’ The Dal Honese glanced away. ‘The Trell’s insane! He will fail! Of course he will fail! As good as dead, ah, I cannot bear now to even so much as look at him. All Mogora’s healing – for naught! A waste!’ Iskaral Pust rubbed at his face, then leapt to his feet. ‘Too many equally important tasks await me, Mappo Runt. No, you and I shall walk momentarily divergent paths, yet side by side to glory nonetheless! As Cotillion has said, you shall not fail. Nor will I. Victory shall be ours!’ He raised a bony fist and shook it at the night sky. Then hugged himself. ‘Gods below, we’re doomed.’
A cackle from Mogora, who had reappeared, her arms loaded down with firewood implausibly cut and split as if by a master woodsman. She dumped it beside the fire. ‘Stir them embers, dear pathetic husband of mine.’
‘You cannot command me, hag! Stir them yourself! I have more vital tasks before me right now!’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, to begin with, I need to pee.’
Chapter Thirteen
And all these people gathered
to honour the one who had died,
was it a man, a woman, a warrior,
a king, a fool, and where were
the statues, the likenesses painted
on plaster and stone?
yet so they stood or sat, the wine
spilling at their feet, dripping red
from their hands, with wasps
in their dying season spinning
about in sweet thirst and drunken
voices cried out, stung awake
voices blended in confused
profusion, the question asked
again then again – why? But this
is where a truth finds its own wonder,
for the question was not why did
this one die, or such to justify
for in their heart of milling lives
there were none for whom
this gathering was naught
but an echo, of former selves.
They asked, again and yet again,
why are we here?
The one who died had no name
but every name, no face but every
face of those who had gathered,
and so it was we who learned
among wasps swept past living
yet nerve-firing one last piercing
that we were the dead
and all in an unseen mind—
stood or sat a man, or a woman,
a warrior, queen or fool, who
in drunken leisure gave a moment’s
thought to all passed by in life.
Fountain Gathering
Fisher Kel Tath
Even with four new wheels, the Trygalle carriage was a battered, decrepit wreck. Two of the horses had died in the fall. Three shareholders had been crushed and a fourth had broken his neck. Karpolan Demesand sat on a folding camp-stool, his head swathed in a bloodstained bandage, sipping herbal tea in successive winces.
They had left Ganath’s warren of Omtose Phellack, and now the familiar desert, scrubland and barren hills of Seven Cities surrounded them, the sun reaching towards noon behind a ceiling of cloud. The smell of rain tinged the unusually humid air. Insects spun and swirled overhead.
‘This comes,’ said Ganath, ‘with the rebirth of the inland sea.’
Paran glanced over at her, then resumed cinching tight the girth strap on his horse – the beast had taken to holding its breath, chest swollen in an effort to keep the strap loose, likely hoping Paran would slide off from its back at some perfectly inopportune moment. Horses were reluctant companions in so many human escapades, disasters and foibles – Paran could not resent the animal’s well-earned belligerence. ‘Ganath,’ he said, ‘do you know precisely where we are?’
‘This valley leads west to Raraku Sea, beyond the inside range; and east, through a little-used pass, down to the city of G’danisban.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘It has been a long time since I have been this far east…this close to the cities of your kind.’
‘G’danisban. Well, I have need of supplies.’
She faced him. ‘You have completed your task, Master of the Deck. The Deragoth unleashed, the D’ivers known as Dejim Nebrahl, the hunter, now the hunted. Do you now return to Darujhistan?’
He grimaced. ‘Not yet, alas.’
‘There are still more forces you intend to release upon the world?’
A certain edge to her voice brought him round. ‘Not if I can help it, Ganath. Where do you now go?’
‘West.’
‘Ah, yes, to repair the damage to that ritual of yours. I’m curious, what did it imprison?’
‘A sky keep of the K’Chain Che’Malle. And…other things.’
A sky keep? Gods below. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘A warren, I suppose,’ she said.
She knew more than that, he suspected, but he did not press the issue. Paran made some final adjustments to the saddle, and said, ‘Thank you, Ganath, for accompanying us – we would not have survived without you.’
‘Perhaps, some day, I can ask of you a favour in return.’
‘Agreed.’ He drew out a long, cloth-wrapped object that had been strapped to the saddle, carried it over to Karpolan Demesand.
‘High Mage,’ he said.
The corpulent man looked up. ‘Ah, our payment.’
‘For services rendered,’ Paran said. ‘Do you wish me to unwrap it?’
‘Hood no, Ganoes Paran – sorcery’s the only thing keeping my skull intact right now. Even scabbarded and bundled as that sword now is, I can feel its entropy.’
‘Yes, it is an unpleasant weapon,’ Paran said.
‘In any case, there is yet one more thing to be done.’ A gesture from Karpolan and one of the Pardu shareholders came over, collected the otataral sword that had once belonged to Adjunct Lorn. She carried it a short distance, then set it on the ground and backed away. Another shareholder arrived, cradling in his arms a large two-handed mace. He positioned himself over the wrapped weapon, then swung the mace down. And again, and again. Each blow further shattered the otataral blade. Breathing hard, the man stepped back and looked over at Karpolan Demesand.
Who then faced Paran once more. ‘Collect your shard, Master of the Deck.’
‘Thank you,’ the Malazan replied, walking over. Crouching, he pulled aside the cut and battered hide. He stared down at the rust-hued slivers of metal for a half-dozen heartbeats, then selected a shard about the length of his index finger and not much wider. Carefully folding it inside a fragment of hide, he then tucked it into his belt pouch. He straightened and strode back to the High Mage.
Karpolan Demesand sighed, slowly rose from the stool. ‘It is time for us to go home.’
‘Have a safe journey, High Mage,’ Paran said with a bow.
The man attempted a smile, and the effort stole all colour from his face. Turning away and helped by one of the shareholders, he made his way to the carriage.
‘Pray,’ Ganath said in a low voice at Paran’s side, ‘he encounters no untoward opposition in the warrens.’
Paran went to his horse. Then, arms resting on the saddle, he looked over at Ganath. ‘In this war,’ he said, ‘Elder forces will be involved. Are involved. The T’lan Imass may well believe that they have annihilated the Jaghut, but clearly that isn’t the case. Here you stand, and there are others, aren’t there?’
She shrugged.
From behind them came the tearing sound of a warren opening. Snapping traces, then the rumble of wheels.
‘Ganath—’
‘Jaghut are not interested in war.’
Paran studied her for a moment longer, then he nodded. Setting a foot in the stirrup, he pulled himself onto the horse and collected the reins. ‘Like you,’ he said to the Jaghut, ‘I’m feeling a long way from home. Fare well in your travels, Ganath.’
‘And you, Master of the Deck.’
Eastward Paran rode along the length of the valley. The river that had once carved through this land was long gone, although the winding path of its course was evident, with stands of brush and withered trees clustered here and there where the last sinkholes had been, old oxbows and flats of alluvial sands fanning out on the bends. After a league the valley opened out into a shallow basin, raw cliffs to the north and long, sloping slides of rubble to the south. Directly ahead, a trail was visible climbing between deep-cut runoff channels.
Reaching its base, Paran dismounted and led his mount up the track. The afternoon heat was building, all the more cloying for its unnatural humidity. Far to the west, likely above the Raraku Sea, massive clouds were building. By the time he reached the summit, those clouds had devoured the sun and the breeze at his back was sweet with the promise of rain.
Paran found himself with a view far to the east, down onto rolling hills dotted with domestic goats, the path leading towards a more substantial road that cut north–south along the edge of the plain, the southern route swinging eastward towards a distant smudge of smoke and dust that was, he suspected, G’danisban.
Astride his horse once more, he set off at a canter.
Before long, Paran came to the first herder’s hovel, burned and gutted, where goats were now gathering, driven by habit alone as the day’s light faded. He discerned no obvious sign of graves, and was not inclined to search among the ruins. Plague, the silent, invisible breath of the Grey Goddess. It was likely, he realized, the city ahead was in the grip of that terror.
The first spatters of rain struck his back, and a moment later, in a rushing sizzle, the downpour was upon him. The rocky trail was suddenly treacherous, forcing Paran to slow his horse to a cautious trot. Visibility reduced to a dozen paces on all sides, the world beyond washed away behind a silver wall. Warm water trickling beneath his clothes, Paran drew up the tattered hood of the military rain-cape covering his shoulders, then hunched over as the rain hammered down.
The worn trail became a stream, muddy water sluicing along amidst rocks and cobbles. Horse slowing to a walk, they pressed on. Between two low hills, the track sprawling out into a shallow lake, and Paran found himself flanked by two soldiers.
One gauntleted hand reached out to take the reins. ‘You’re headed the wrong way, stranger,’ growled the man, in Malazan.
The other held cradled in his arms a crossbow, but it wasn’t loaded, and he now spoke from the shadows beneath his hood: ‘Is that cape loot? Dragged it from the body of a Malazan soldier, did you?’
‘No,’ Paran replied. ‘Issued to me, just like your capes were to you, soldier.’ Ahead, he could just make out in a brief easing of the downpour, was an encampment. Two, perhaps three legions, the tents cloaking a series of hills beneath a low ceiling of smoke from cookfires dying in the rain. Beyond it, with the road winding down a slope, rose the walls of G’danisban. He returned his attention to the soldiers. ‘Who commands this army?’
The one with the crossbow said, ‘How ’bout you answer the questions to start? You a deserter?’
Well, technically speaking, yes. Then again, I’m supposed to be dead. ‘I wish to speak with your commanding officer.’
‘You pretty much ain’t got no choice, now. Off the horse, stranger. We’re arresting you on suspicion of desertion.’
Paran slipped down from the horse. ‘Fine. Now will you tell me whose army this is?’
‘The lad’s push for you. You’re now a prisoner of Onearm’s Host.’
For all the outward signs, it slowly dawned on Paran that this was not a siege. Companies held the roads leading into G’danisban, and the camp itself formed a half-ring cordon along the north and west sides, no pickets closer than four hundred paces from the unmanned walls.
One of the soldiers led Paran’s horse towards the temporary stables, whilst the other one guided Paran down avenues between sodden tents. Figures moved about, cloaked and hooded, but none wearing full battle regalia.
They entered an officer’s tent.
‘Captain,’ the soldier said, flipping back his hood, ‘we come upon this man trying to ride into G’danisban from the Raraku road. You see, sir, he’s wearing a Malazan military rain-cape. We think he’s a deserter, probably from the Adjunct’s Fourteenth.’
The woman he addressed was lying on her back on a cot that ran parallel to the back wall. She was fair-skinned, her petite features surrounded by a mass of long red hair. Head tilting to take in her soldier and Paran, she was silent for a moment, then resumed her stare at the dipping ceiling above her. ‘Take him to the stockade – we have a stockade, don’t we? Oh, and get his details – what regiment, which legion and all that. So it can be recorded somewhere before he’s executed. Now get out, the both of you, you’re dripping water everywhere.’
‘Just a moment, Captain,’ Paran said. ‘I wish to speak with the High Fist.’
‘Not possible, and I don’t recall giving you permission to speak. Pull out his fingernails for that, Futhgar, will you? When it’s time, of course.’
Years ago, Paran would have done…nothing. Succumbed to the rules, the written ones and the unwritten ones. He would have simply bided his time. But he was soaked through, in need of a hot bath. He was tired. And, he had gone through something like this once before, long ago and on a distant continent. Back then, of course, it had been a sergeant – same red hair, but a moustache under the nose – even so, the similarity was there, like the poke of an assassin’s knife.
The soldier, Futhgar, was standing on his left, half a pace back. Paran gave nothing away, simply stepping to his right then driving his left elbow into the soldier’s face. Breaking his nose. The man dropped to the ground like a sack of melons.
The captain sat up, legs swinging round, and was on her feet in time for Paran to take a forward step and punch her hard, his knuckles cracking against her jaw. Eyes rolling up, she collapsed back down onto the cot, breaking its wooden legs.
Massaging his hand, Paran looked round. Futhgar was out cold, as was the captain. The steady downpour outside had ensured that no sounds from the brief fight had been heard beyond the tent.
