The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 601
Tumbling out from this surge like rotted curtains was fog, plucked and torn by the ferocious winds, and Shurq Elalle, facing astern, watched as the maelstrom heaved in their wake. It was gaining, but not fast enough; they were moments from rounding the isle’s rocky headland, which looked to be formidable enough to shunt the ice aside, down its length.
At least, she hoped so. If not, then Second Maiden’s harbour was doomed. And so is my ship and crew. As for herself, well, if she managed to avoid being crushed or frozen in place, she could probably work her way clear, maybe even clamber aboard for the long ride to the mainland’s coast.
It won’t come to that. Islands don’t get pushed around. Buried, possibly, but then Fent Reach is where it’s all piling up – what’s chasing us here is just an outer arm, and before long it’ll be fighting the tide. Errant fend, imagine what happened to the Edur homeland – that entire coast must have been chewed to pieces – or swallowed up entire. So what broke up the dam, that’s what I want to know.
Groaning, the Undying Gratitude rounded the point, the wind quickly dropping off as the ship settled and began its crawl into the high-walled harbour. A prison island indeed – all the evidence remained: the massive fortifications, the towers with lines of sight and fire arcs facing both to sea and inland. Huge ballistae, mangonels and scorpions mounted on every available space, and in the harbour itself rock-pile islands held miniature forts festooned with signal flags, fast ten-man pursuit galleys moored alongside.
A dozen ships rode at anchor in the choppy waters. Along the docks, she saw, tiny figures were racing in every direction, like ants on a kicked nest. ‘Pretty, have us drop anchor other side of that odd-looking dromon. Seems like nobody’s going to pay us much attention – hear that roar? That’s the northwest shore getting hit.’
‘The whole damned island could go under, Captain.’
‘That’s why we’re staying aboard – to see what happens. If we have to run east, I want us ready to do so.’
‘Look, there’s a harbour scow comin’ our way.’
Damn. ‘Typical. World’s falling in but that don’t stop the fee-takers. All right, prepare to receive them.’
The anchor had rattled down by the time the scow fought its way alongside. Two officious-looking women climbed aboard, one tall, the other short. The latter spoke first. ‘Who’s the captain here and where d’you hail from?’
‘I am Captain Shurq Elalle. We’ve come up from Letheras. Twenty months at sea with a hold full of goods.’
The tall woman, thin, pale, with stringy blonde hair, smiled. ‘Very accommodating of you, dear. Now, if you’ll be so kind, Brevity here will head down into the hold to inspect the cargo.’
The short dark-haired woman, Brevity, then said, ‘And Pithy here will collect the anchoring fee.’
‘Fifteen docks a day.’
‘That’s a little steep!’
‘Well,’ Pithy said with a lopsided shrug, ‘it’s looking like the harbour’s days are numbered. We’d best get what we can.’
Brevity was frowning at Shurq’s first mate. ‘You wouldn’t be Skorgen Kaban the Pretty, would you?’
‘Aye, that’s me.’
‘I happen to have your lost eye, Skorgen. In a jar.’
The man scowled across at Shurq Elalle, then said, ‘You and about fifty other people.’
‘What? But I paid good money for that! How many people lose an eye sneezing? By the Errant, you’re famous!’
‘Sneeze is it? That’s what you heard? And you believed it? Spirits of the deep, lass, and you paid the crook how much?’
Shurq said to Pithy, ‘You and your friend here are welcome to inspect the cargo – but if we’re not offloading that’s as far as it goes, and whether we offload or not depends on the kinds of prices your buyers are prepared to offer.’
‘I’ll prove it to you,’ Brevity said, advancing on Skorgen Kaban. ‘It’s a match all right – I can tell from here.’
‘Can’t be a match,’ the first mate replied. ‘The eye I lost was a different colour from this one.’
‘You had different-coloured eyes?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s a curse among sailors.’
‘Maybe that’s why it ain’t there no more.’ Skorgen nodded towards the nearby dromon. ‘Where’s that hailing from? I never seen lines like those before – looks like it’s seen a scrap or two, asides.’
Brevity shrugged. ‘Foreigners. We get a few—’
‘No more of that,’ Pithy cut in. ‘Check the cargo, dearie. Time’s a-wasting.’
Shurq Elalle turned and examined the foreign ship with more intensity after that peculiar exchange. The dromon looked damned weather-beaten, she decided, but her first mate’s lone eye had been sharp – the ship had been in a battle, one involving sorcery. Black, charred streaks latticed the hull like a painted web. A whole lot of sorcery. That ship should be kindling.
‘Listen,’ Pithy said, facing inland. ‘They beat it back, like they said they would.’
The cataclysm in the making seemed to be dying a rapid death, there on the other side of the island where clouds of ice crystals billowed skyward. Shurq Elalle twisted round to look out to the sea to the south, past the promontory. Ice, looking like a massive frozen lake, was piling up in the wake of the violent vanguard that had come so close to wrecking the Undying Gratitude. But its energy was fast dissipating. A gust of warm wind backed across the deck.
Skorgen Kaban grunted. ‘And how many sacrifices did they fling off the cliff to earn this appeasement?’ He laughed. ‘Then again, you probably got no shortage of prisoners!’
‘There are no prisoners on this island,’ Pithy said, assuming a lofty expression as she crossed her arms. ‘In any case, you ignorant oaf, blood sacrifices wouldn’t have helped – it’s just ice, after all. The vast sheets up north went and broke to pieces – why, just a week past and we was sweating uncommon here, and that’s not something we ever get on Second Maiden. I should know, I was born here.’
‘Born to prisoners?’
‘You didn’t hear me, Skorgen Kaban? No prisoners on this island—’
‘Not since you ousted your jailers, you mean.’
‘Enough of that,’ Shurq Elalle said, seeing the woman’s umbrage ratchet up a few more notches on the old hoist pole – and it was plenty high enough already. ‘Second Maiden is now independent, and for that I have boundless admiration. Tell me, how many Edur ships assailed your island in the invasion?’
Pithy snorted. ‘They took one look at the fortifications, and one sniff at the mages we’d let loose on the walls, and went right round us.’
The captain’s brows rose a fraction. ‘I had heard there was a fight.’
‘There was, when our glorious liberation was declared. Following the terrible accidents befalling the warden and her cronies.’
‘Accidents, hah! That’s a good one.’
Shurq Elalle glared across at her first mate, but like most men he was impervious to such non-verbal warnings.
‘I will take that fifteen docks now,’ Pithy said, her tone cold. ‘Plus the five docks disembarking fee, assuming you intend to come ashore to take on supplies or sell your cargo, or both.’
‘You ain’t never mentioned five—’
‘Pretty,’ Shurq Elalle interrupted, ‘head below and check on Brevity – she may have questions regarding our goods.’
‘Aye, Captain.’ With a final glower at Pithy he stumped off for the hatch.
Pithy squinted at Shurq Elalle for a moment, then scanned the various sailors in sight. ‘You’re pirates.’
‘Don’t be absurd. We’re independent traders. You have no prisoners on your island, I have no pirates on my ship.’
‘What are you suggesting by that statement?’
‘Clearly, if I had been suggesting anything, it was lost on you. I take it you are not the harbour master, just a toll-taker.’ She turned as first Skorgen then Brevity emerged onto the deck. The short woman’s eyes were bright.
‘Pithy, they got stuff!’
‘Now there’s a succinct report,’ Shurq Elalle said. ‘Brevity, be sure to inform the harbour master that we wish a berth at one of the stone piers, to better effect unloading our cargo. A messenger out to potential buyers might also prove…rewarding.’ She glanced at Pithy, then away, as she added, ‘As for mooring and landing fees, I will settle up with the harbour master directly, once I have negotiated the master’s commission.’
‘You think you’re smart,’ Pithy snapped. ‘I should have brought a squad with me – how would you have liked that, Captain? Poking in here and there, giving things a real look. How would you like that?’
‘Brevity, who rules Second Maiden?’ Shurq Elalle asked.
‘Shake Brullyg, Captain. He’s Grand Master of the Putative Assembly.’
‘The Putative Assembly? Are you sure you have the right word there, lass? Putative?’
‘That’s what I said. That’s right, isn’t it, Pithy?’
‘The captain thinks she’s smart, but she’s not so smart, is she? Wait until she meets Shake Brullyg, then won’t she be surprised—’
‘Not really,’ Shurq said. ‘I happen to know Shake Brullyg. I even know the crime for which he was sent away. The only surprise is that he’s still alive.’
‘Nobody kills Shake Brullyg easily,’ Pithy said.
One of the crew burst into a laugh that he quickly converted into a cough.
‘We’ll await the harbour master’s response,’ Shurq Elalle said.
Pithy and Brevity returned to their scow, the former taking the oars.
‘Strange women,’ Skorgen Kaban muttered as they watched the wallowing craft pull away.
‘An island full of inbred prisoners,’ Shurq replied in a murmur. ‘Are you at all surprised, Pretty? And if that’s not enough, a full-blooded Shake – who just happens to be completely mad – is ruling the roost. I tell you this, our stay should be interesting.’
‘I hate interesting.’
‘And probably profitable.’
‘Oh, good. I like profitable. I can swallow interesting so long as it’s profitable.’
‘Get the hands ready to ship the anchor. I doubt we’ll have to wait overlong for the harbour master’s signal flag.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
Udinaas sat watching her clean and oil her sword. An Edur sword, set into her hands by a Tiste Edur warrior. All she needed now was a house so she could bury the damned thing. Oh yes, and the future husband’s fateful return. Now, maybe nothing was meant by it; just a helpful gesture by one of Fear’s brothers – the only Sengar brother Udinaas actually respected. Maybe, but maybe not.
The interminable chanting droned through the stone walls, a sound even grimmer than the blunt grunting of Edur women at mourning. The Onyx Wizards were in consultation. If such an assertion held any truth then the priestly version of their language was incomprehensible and devoid of the rhythm normally found in both song and speech. And if it was nothing but chanting, then the old fools could not even agree on the tempo.
And he had thought the Tiste Edur strange. They were nothing compared to these Tiste Andii, who had carried dour regard to unhuman extremes.
It was no wonder, though. The Andara was a crumbling blackstone edifice at the base of a refuse-cluttered gorge. As isolated as a prison. The cliff walls were honeycombed with caves, pocked with irregular chambers, like giant burst bubbles along the course of winding tunnels. There were bottomless pits, dead ends, passages so steep they could not be traversed without rope ladders. Hollowed-out towers rose like inverted spires through solid bedrock; while over subterranean chasms arched narrow bridges of white pumice, carved into amorphous shapes and set without mortar. In one place there was a lake of hardened lava, smoother than wind-polished ice, the obsidian streaked with red, and this was the Amass Chamber, where the entire population could gather – barefooted – to witness the endless wrangling of the Reve Masters, otherwise known as the Onyx Wizards.
Master of the Rock, of the Air, of the Root, of the Dark Water, of the Night. Five wizards in all, squabbling over orders of procession, hierarchies of propitiation, proper hem-length of the Onyx robes and Errant knew what else. With these half-mad neurotics any burr in the cloth became a mass of wrinkles and creases.
From what Udinaas had come to understand, no more than fourteen of the half-thousand or so denizens – beyond the wizards themselves – were pure Tiste Andii, and of those, only three had ever seen daylight – which they quaintly called the blinded stars – only three had ever climbed to the world above.
No wonder they’d all lost their minds.
‘Why is it,’ Udinaas said, ‘when some people laugh it sounds more like crying?’
Seren Pedac glanced up from the sword bridging her knees, the oil-stained cloth in her long-fingered hands. ‘I don’t hear anyone laughing. Or crying.’
‘I didn’t necessarily mean out loud,’ he replied.
A snort from Fear Sengar, where he sat on a stone bench near the portal way. ‘Boredom is stealing the last fragments of sanity in your mind, slave. I for one will not miss them.’
‘The wizards and Silchas are probably arguing the manner of your execution, Fear Sengar,’ Udinaas said. ‘You are their most hated enemy, after all. Child of the Betrayer, spawn of lies and all that. It suits your grand quest, for the moment at least, doesn’t it? Into the viper’s den – every hero needs to do that, right? And moments before your doom arrives, out hisses your enchanted sword and evil minions die by the score. Ever wondered what the aftermath of such slaughter must be? Dread depopulation, shattered families, wailing babes – and should that crucial threshold be crossed, then inevitable extinction is assured, hovering before them like a grisly spectre. Oh yes, I heard my share when I was a child, of epic tales and poems and all the rest. But I always started worrying…about those evil minions, the victims of those bright heroes and their intractable righteousness. I mean, someone invades your hide-out, your cherished home, and of course you try to kill and eat them. Who wouldn’t? There they were, nominally ugly and shifty-looking, busy with their own little lives, plaiting nooses or some such thing. Then shock! The alarms are raised! The intruders have somehow slipped their chains and death is a whirlwind in every corridor!’
Seren Pedac sheathed the sword. ‘I think I would like to hear your version of such stories, Udinaas. How you would like them to turn out. At the very least, it will pass the time.’
‘I’d rather not singe Kettle’s innocent ears—’
‘She’s asleep. Something she does a lot of these days.’
‘Perhaps she’s ill.’
‘Perhaps she knows how to wait things out,’ the Acquitor responded. ‘Go on, Udinaas, how does the heroic epic of yours, your revised version, turn out?’
‘Well, first, the hidden lair of the evil ones. There’s a crisis brewing. Their priorities got all mixed up – some past evil ruler with no management skills or something. So, they’ve got dungeons and ingenious but ultimately ineffective torture devices. They have steaming chambers with huge cauldrons, awaiting human flesh to sweeten the pot – but alas, nobody’s been by of late. After all, the lair is reputedly cursed, a place whence no adventurer ever returns – all dubious propaganda, of course. In fact, the lair’s a good market for the local woodcutters and the pitch-sloppers – huge hearths and torches and murky oil lamps – that’s the problem with underground lairs – they’re dark. Worse than that, everyone’s been sharing a cold for the past eight hundred years. Anyway, even an evil lair needs the necessities of reasonable existence. Vegetables, bushels of berries, spices and medicines, cloth and pottery, hides and well-gnawed leather, evil-looking hats. Of course I’ve not even mentioned all the weapons and intimidating uniforms.’
‘You have stumbled from your narrative trail, Udinaas,’ Seren Pedac observed.
‘So I have, and that too is an essential point. Life is like that. We stumble astray. Just like those evil minions. A crisis – no new prisoners, no fresh meat. Children are starving. It’s an unmitigated disaster.’
‘What’s the solution?’
‘Why, they invent a story. A magical item in their possession, something to lure fools into the lair. It’s reasonable, if you consider it. Every hook needs a wriggling worm. And then they choose one among them to play the role of the Insane Master, the one seeking to unlock the dire powers of that magical item and so bring about a utopia of animated corpses stumbling through a realm of ash and rejected tailings. Now, if this doesn’t bring heroes in by the drove, nothing will.’
‘Do they succeed?’
‘For a time, but recall those ill-conceived torture implements. Invariably, some enterprising and lucky fool gets free, then crushes the skull of a dozing guard or three, and mayhem is let loose. Endless slaughter – hundreds, then thousands of untrained evil warriors who forgot to sharpen their swords and never mind the birch-bark shields that woodcutter with the hump sold them.’
Even Fear Sengar grunted a laugh at that. ‘All right, Udinaas, you win. I think I prefer your version after all.’
Udinaas, surprised into silence, stared across at Seren Pedac, who smiled and said, ‘You have revealed your true talent, Udinaas. So the hero wins free. Then what?’
‘The hero does nothing of the sort. Instead, the hero catches a chill down in those dank tunnels. Makes it out alive, however, and retreats to a nearby city, where the plague he carries spreads and kills everyone. And for thousands of years thereafter, that hero’s name is a curse to both people living above ground and those below.’
After a moment, Fear spoke. ‘Ah, even your version has an implicit warning, slave. And this is what you would have me heed, but that leads me to wonder – what do you care for my fate? You call me your enemy, your lifelong foe, for all the injustices my people have delivered upon you. Do you truly wish me to take note of your message?’
‘As you like, Edur,’ Udinaas replied, ‘but my faith runs deeper than you imagine, and on an entirely different course from what you clearly think. I said the hero wins clear, at least momentarily, but I mentioned nothing of his hapless followers, his brave companions.’
