The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 526
A long, exhausting journey brought him outside, blinking in the harsh sunlight – so harsh and bright he could not see. There were voices all around him, filling the street, floating down from the roofs, high-pitched and in a language he had never heard before. Laughter, excitement, yet these sounds chilled him.
He needed more water. He needed to defeat this brightness, so that he could see once more. Discover the source of these carnival sounds – had a caravan arrived in the village? A troop of actors, singers and musicians?
Did no-one see him? Here on his hands and knees, the fever gone, his life returned to him?
He was nudged on one side and his groping hand reached out and found the shoulder and nape of a dog. The animal’s wet nose slipped along his upper arm. This was one of the healthier dogs, he judged, his hand finding a thick layer of fat over the muscle of the shoulder, then, moving down, the huge swell of the beast’s belly. He now heard other dogs, gathering, pressing close, squirming with pleasure at the touch of his hands. They were all fat. Had there been a feast? The slaughter of a herd?
Vision returned, with a clarity he had never before experienced. Lifting his head, he looked round.
The chorus of voices came from birds. Rooks, pigeons, vultures bounding down the dusty street, screeching at the bluff rushes from the village’s dogs, who remained possessive of the remains of bodies here and there, mostly little more than bones and sun-blackened tendons, skulls broken open by canine jaws, the insides licked clean.
The boy rose to his feet, tottering with sudden dizziness that was a long time in passing. Eventually, he was able to turn and look back at his family’s house, trying to recall what he had seen when crawling through the rooms. Nothing. No-one.
The dogs circled him, all seeming desperate to make him their master, tails wagging, stepping side to side as their spines twisted back and forth, ears flicking up at his every gesture, noses prodding his hands. They were fat, the boy realized, because they had eaten everyone.
For they had died. His mother, his father, his sisters, everyone else in the village. The dogs, owned by all and by none and living a life of suffering, of vicious hunger and rivalries, had all fed unto indolence. Their joy came from full bellies, all rivalry forgotten now. The boy understood in this something profound. A child’s delusions stripped back, revealing the truths of the world.
He began wandering.
Some time later he found himself at the crossroads just beyond the northernmost homestead, standing in the midst of his newly adopted pets. A cairn of stones had been raised in the very centre of the conjoined roads and tracks.
His hunger had passed. Looking down at himself, he saw how thin he had become, and saw too the strange purplish nodules thickening his joints, wrist, elbow, knee and ankle, not in the least painful. Repositories, it seemed, for some other strength.
The cairn’s message was plain to him, for it had been raised by a shepherd and he had tended enough flocks in his day. It told him to go north, up into the hills. It told him that sanctuary awaited him there. There had been survivors, then. That they had left him behind was understandable – against the bluetongue fever nothing could be done. A soul lived or a soul died of its own resolve, or lack thereof.
The boy saw that no herds remained on the hillsides. Wolves had come down, perhaps, uncontested; or the other villagers had driven the beasts with them. After all, a sanctuary would have such needs as food and water, milk and cheese.
He set off on the north trail, the dogs accompanying him.
They were happy, he saw. Pleased that he now led them.
And the sun overhead, that had been blinding, was blinding no longer. The boy had come to and now crossed a threshold, into the fourth and final time. He knew not when it would end.
With languid eyes, Felisin Younger stared at the scrawny youth who had been brought in by the Unmanned Acolytes. Just one more lost survivor looking to her for meaning, guidance, for something to believe in that could not be crushed down and swept away by ill winds.
He was a Carrier – the swellings at his joints told her that. Likely, he had infected the rest of his village. The nodes had suppurated, poisoning the air, and everyone else had died. He had arrived at the gates of the city that morning, in the company of twelve half-wild dogs. A Carrier, but here, in this place, that was not cause for banishment. Indeed, the very opposite. Kulat would take the boy under his wing, for teaching in the ways of pilgrimage, for this would be his new calling, to carry plague across the world, and so, among the survivors in his wake, gather yet more adherents to the new religion. Faith in the Broken, the Scarred, the Unmanned – all manner of sects were being formed, membership defined by the damage the plague had delivered to each survivor. Rarest and most precious among them, the Carriers.
All that Kulat had predicted was coming to pass. Survivors arrived, at first a trickle, then by the hundred, drawn here, guided by the hand of a god. They began excavating the long-buried city, making for themselves homes amidst the ghosts of long-dead denizens who still haunted the rooms, the hallways and the streets, silent and motionless, spectres witnessing a rebirth, on their faint, blurred faces a riot of expressions ranging from dismay to horror. How the living could terrify the dead.
Herders arrived with huge flocks, sheep and goats, the long-limbed cattle called eraga that most had believed extinct for a thousand years – Kulat said that wild herds had been found in the hills – and here the dogs recollected what they had been bred for in the first place and now fended the beasts against the wolves and the grey eagles that could lift a newborn calf in their talons.
Artisans had arrived and had begun producing images that had been born in their sickness, in their fevers: the God in Chains, the multitudes of the Broken and the Scarred and the Unmanned. Images on pottery, on walls painted in the ancient mix of eraga blood and red ochre, stone statues for the Carriers. Fabrics woven with large knots of wool to represent the nodules, scenes of fever patterns of colour surrounding central images of Felisin herself, Sha’ik Reborn, the deliverer of the true Apocalypse.
She did not know what to make of all this. She was left bewildered again and again by what she witnessed, every gesture of worship and adoration. The horror of physical disfigurement assailed her on all sides, until she felt numb, drugged insensate. Suffering had become its own language, life itself defined as punishment and imprisonment. And this is my flock.
Her followers had, thus far, answered her every need but one, and that was the growing sexual desire, reflecting the changes overtaking her body, the shape of womanhood, the start of blood between her legs, and the new hunger feeding her dreams of succour. She could not yearn for the touch of slaves, for slavery was what these people willingly embraced, here and now, in this place they called Hanar Ara, the City of the Fallen.
Around a mouthful of stones, Kulat said, ‘And this is the problem, Highness.’
She blinked. She hadn’t been listening. ‘What? What is the problem?’
‘This Carrier, who arrived but this morning from the southwest track. With his dogs that answer only to him.’
She regarded Kulat, the old bastard who confessed sexually fraught dreams of wine as if the utterance was itself more pleasure than he could bear, as if confession made him drunk. ‘Explain.’
Kulat sucked at the stones in his mouth, swallowed spit, then gestured. ‘Look upon the buds, Highness, the buds of disease, the Many Mouths of Bluetongue. They are shrinking. They have dried up and are fading. He has said as much. They have grown smaller. He is a Carrier who shall, one day, cease being a Carrier. This child shall lose his usefulness.’
Usefulness. She looked upon him again, more carefully this time, and saw a hard, angular face older than its years, clear eyes, a frame that needed more flesh and would likely find it once again, now that he had food to eat. A boy still young, who would grow into a man. ‘He shall reside in the palace,’ she said.
Kulat’s eyes widened. ‘Highness—’
‘I have spoken. The Open Wing, with the courtyard and stables, where he can keep his dogs—’
‘Highness, there are plans for converting the Open Wing into your own private garden—’
‘Do not interrupt me again, Kulat. I have spoken.’
My own private garden. The thought now amused her, as she reached for her goblet of wine. Yes, and we shall see how it grows.
So carried on her unspoken thoughts, Felisin saw nothing of Kulat’s sudden dark look, the moment before he bowed and turned away.
The boy had a name, but she would give him a new name. One better suited to her vision of the future. After a moment, she smiled. Yes, she would name him Crokus.
Chapter Fifteen
An old man past soldiering
his rivets green, his eyes
rimmed in rust,
stood as if heaved awake
from slaughter’s pit, back-cut
from broken flight
when young blades chased him
from the field.
He looks like a promise only fools
could dream unfurled,
the banners of glory
gesticulating
in the wind over his head,
stripped like ghosts,
skulls stove in, lips flapping,
their open mouths mute.
‘Oh harken to me,’ cries he
atop his imagined summit,
‘and I shall speak – of riches
and rewards, of my greatness,
my face once young like these
I see before me – harken!’
While here I sit at the Tapu’s
table, grease-fingered
with skewered meat, cracked goblet
pearled in the hot sun, the wine
watered to make, in the
alliance of thin and thick,
both passing palatable.
As near as an arm’s reach
from this rabbler, this
ravelling trumpeter who once
might have stood shield-locked
at my side, red-hued, masked
drunk, coarse with fear, in
the moment before he broke—
broke and ran—
and now he would call a new
generation to war, to battle-clamour,
and why? Well, why – all
because he once ran, but listen:
a soldier who ran once
ever runs, and this,
honoured magistrate,
is the reason—
the sole reason I say—
for my knife finding his back.
He was a soldier
whose words heaved me
awake.
‘Bedura’s Defence’ in The Slaying of King Qualin Tros of Bellid (transcribed as song by Fisher, Malaz City, last year of Laseen’s Reign)
Within an aura redolent and reminiscent of a crypt, Noto Boil, company cutter, Kartoolian by birth and once priest of Soliel, long, wispy, colourless hair plucked like strands of web by the wind, his skin the hue of tanned goat leather, stood like a bent sapling and picked at his green-furred teeth with a fish spine. It had been a habit of his for so long that he had worn round holes between each tooth, and the gums had receded far back, making his smile skeletal.
He had smiled but once thus far, by way of greeting, and for Ganoes Paran, that had been once too many.
At the moment, the healer seemed at best pensive, at worst distracted by boredom. ‘I cannot say for certain, Captain Kindly,’ the man finally said.
‘About what?’
A flicker of the eyes, grey floating in yellow murk. ‘Well, you had a question for me, did you not?’
‘No,’ Paran replied, ‘I had for you an order.’
‘Yes, of course, that is what I meant.’
‘I commanded you to step aside.’
‘The High Fist is very ill, Captain. It will avail you nothing to disturb his dying. More pointedly, you might well become infected with the dread contagion.’
‘No, I won’t. And it is his dying that I intend to do something about. For now, however, I wish to see him. That is all.’
‘Captain Sweetcreek has—’
‘Captain Sweetcreek is no longer in command, cutter. I am. Now get out of my way before I reassign you to irrigating horse bowels, and given the poor quality of the feed they have been provided of late…’
Noto Boil examined the fish spine in his hand. ‘I will make note of this in my company log, Captain Kindly. As the Host’s ranking healer, there is some question regarding chain of command at the moment. After all, under normal circumstances I far outrank captains—’
‘These are not normal circumstances. I’m losing my patience here.’
An expression of mild distaste. ‘Yes, I have first-hand knowledge of what happens when you lose patience, no matter how unjust the situation. It fell to me, I remind you, to heal Captain Sweetcreek’s fractured cheekbone.’ The man stepped to one side of the entrance. ‘Please, Captain, be welcome within.’
Sighing, Paran strode past the cutter, pulled aside the flap and entered the tent.
Gloom, the air hot and thick with heavy incense that could only just mask the foul reek of sickness. In this first chamber were four cots, each occupied by a company commander, only two of whom were familiar to Paran. All slept or were unconscious, limbs twisted in their sweat-stained blankets, necks swollen by infection, each drawn breath a thin wheeze like some ghastly chorus. Shaken, the captain moved past them and entered the tent’s back chamber, where there was but one occupant.
In the grainy, crepuscular air, Paran stared down at the figure in the cot. His first thought was that Dujek Onearm was already dead. An aged, bloodless face marred by dark purple blotches, eyes crusted shut by mucus. The man’s tongue, the colour of Aren Steel, was so swollen it had forced open his mouth, splitting the parched lips. A healer – probably Noto Boil – had packed Dujek’s neck in a mixture of mould, ash and clay, which had since dried, looking like a slave collar.
After a long moment, Paran heard Dujek draw breath, the sound uneven, catching again and again in faint convulsions of his chest. The meagre air then hissed back out in a rattling whistle.
Gods below, this man will not last the night.
The captain realized that his lips had gone numb, and he was having trouble focusing. This damned incense, it’s d’bayang. He stood for another half-dozen heartbeats, looking down on the shrunken, frail figure of the Malazan Empire’s greatest living general, then he turned about and strode from the chamber.
Two steps across the outer room and a hoarse voice halted him.
‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’
Paran faced the woman who had spoken. She was propped up on her bed, enough to allow her a level gaze on the captain. Dark-skinned, her complexion lacking the weathered lines of desert life, her eyes large and very dark. Stringy, sweat-plastered black hair, cut short yet nonetheless betraying a natural wave, surrounded her round face, which sickness had drawn, making her eyes seem deeper, more hollow.
‘Captain Kindly—’
‘By the Abyss you are. I served under Kindly in Nathilog.’
‘Well, that’s discouraging news. And you are?’
‘Fist Rythe Bude.’
‘One of Dujek’s recent promotions, then, for I have never heard of you. Nor can I fathom where you hail from.’
‘Shal-Morzinn.’
Paran frowned. ‘West of Nemil?’
‘Southwest.’
‘How did you come to be in Nathilog, Fist?’
‘By the Three, give me some water, damn you.’
Paran looked round until he found a bladder, which he brought to her side.
‘You’re a fool,’ she said. ‘Coming in here. Now you will die with the rest of us. You’ll have to pour it into my mouth.’
He removed the stopper, then leaned closer.
She closed her remarkable, luminous eyes and tilted her head back, mouth opening. The weals on her neck were cracked, leaking clear fluid as thick as tears. Squeezing the bladder, he watched the water stream into her mouth.
She swallowed frantically, gasped then coughed.
He pulled the bladder away. ‘Enough?’
She managed a nod, coughed again, then swore in some unknown language. ‘This damned smoke,’ she added in Malazan. ‘Numbs the throat so you can’t even tell when you’re swallowing. Every time I close my eyes, d’bayang dreams rush upon me like the Red Winds.’
He stood, looking down upon her.
‘I left Shal-Morzinn…in haste. On a Blue Moranth trader. Money for passage ran out in a town called Pitch, on the Genabarii coast. From there I made it to Nathilog, and with a belly too empty to let me think straight, I signed up.’
‘Where had you intended to go?’
She made a face. ‘As far as my coin would take me, fool. Crossing the Three is not a recipe for a long life. Blessings to Oponn’s kiss, they didn’t come after me.’
‘The Three?’
‘The rulers of Shal-Morzinn…for the past thousand years. You seemed to recognize the empire’s name, which is more than most.’
‘I know nothing beyond the name itself, which is found on certain Malazan maps.’
She croaked a laugh. ‘Malazans. Knew enough to make their first visit their last.’
‘I wasn’t aware we’d visited at all,’ Paran said.
‘The Emperor. And Dancer. The imperial flagship, Twist. Gods, that craft alone was sufficient to give the Three pause. Normally, they annihilate strangers as a matter of course – we trade with no-one, not even Nemil. The Three despise outsiders. Were they so inclined they would have conquered the entire continent by now, including Seven Cities.’
‘Not expansionists, then. No wonder no-one’s heard of them.’
‘More water.’
He complied.
When she’d finished coughing, she met his eyes. ‘You never told me – who are you in truth?’
‘Captain Ganoes Paran.’
‘He’s dead.’
