The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 604
‘I will not tell you, yet.’
‘In case I leave, circle round and somehow elude you and your hunters.’
‘The chance of that is remote.’
At the foreigner’s smile, Redmask continued, ‘I understand you are a skilled rider, but I would not send Awl after you. I would send my K’Chain Che’Malle.’
Anaster Toc had turned and he seemed to be studying the encampment, the rows upon rows of tents, the wreathed dung smoke of the fires. ‘You have fielded what, ten, twelve thousand warriors?’
‘Closer to fifteen.’
‘Yet you have broken up the clans.’
‘I have.’
‘In the manner needed to field something resembling a professional army. You must shift their loyalty from the old blood-ties. I’ve seen you badgering your troop commanders, ensuring that they will follow your commands in battle. I’ve seen them in turn badgering their squad leaders, and the squad leaders their squads.’
‘You are a soldier, Anaster Toc.’
‘And I hated every moment of it, Redmask.’
‘That matters not. Tell me of your Grey Swords, the tactics they employed.’
‘That won’t be much help. I could, however, tell you of the army I originally belonged to, before the Grey Swords.’ He glanced over with his one glittering eye, and Redmask saw amusement there, a kind of mad hilarity that left him uneasy. ‘I could tell you of the Malazans.’
‘I have not heard of that tribe.’
Anaster Toc laughed again. ‘Not a tribe. An empire. An empire three, four times the size of Lether.’
‘You will stay, then?’
Anaster Toc shrugged. ‘For now.’
There was nothing simple to this man, Redmask realized. Mad indeed, but it could prove a useful madness. ‘Then how,’ he asked, ‘do the Malazans win their wars?’
The foreigner’s twisted smile gleamed in the dusk, like the flash of a knife. ‘This could take a while, Redmask.’
‘I will send for food.’
‘And oil lamps – I can’t make out a damned thing on your map.’
‘Do you approve of my intent, Anaster Toc?’
‘To create a professional army? Yes, it’s essential, but it will change everything. Your people, your culture, everything.’ He paused, then added in a dry, mocking tone, ‘You’ll need a new song.’
‘Then you must create it,’ Redmask replied. ‘Choose one from among the Malazans. Something appropriate.’
‘Aye,’ the man muttered, ‘a dirge.’
The white knife flashed again, and Redmask would rather it had remained sheathed.
Chapter Nine
Everywhere I looked I saw the signs of war upon the landscape. There the trees had crested the rise, despatching skirmishers down the slope to challenge the upstart low growth in the riverbed, which had been dry as bone until the breaking of the ice dams high in the mountains, where the savage sun had struck in unexpected ambush, a siege that breached the ancient barricades and unleashed torrents of water upon the lowlands.
And here, on this tuck and fold of bedrock, the old scars of glaciers were vanishing beneath advancing mosses, creeping and devouring colonies of lichen which were themselves locked in feuds with kin.
Ants flung bridges across cracks in the stone, the air above swirling with winged termites, dying in silence in the serrated jaws of rhinazan that swung and ducked as they evaded yet fiercer predators of the sky.
All these wars proclaim the truth of life, of existence itself. Now we must ask ourselves, are we to excuse all we do by citing such ancient and ubiquitous laws? Or can we proclaim our freedom of will by defying our natural urge to violence, domination and slaughter? Such were my thoughts – puerile and cynical – as I stood triumphant over the last man I had slain, his lifeblood a dwindling stream down the length of my sword-blade, whilst in my soul there surged such pleasure as to leave me trembling…
King Kilanbas in the Valley of Slate
Third Letheras Tide – the Wars of Conquest
The ruins of a low wall encircled the glade, the battered rough-cut basalt dividing swaths of green grasses. Just beyond rose a thin copse of young birch and aspen, spring leaves bright and fluttering. Behind this stand the forest thickened, darkened, grey-skinned boles of pine crowding out all else. Whatever the wall had enclosed had vanished beneath the soft loam of the glade, although depressions were visible here and there to mark out cellar pits and the like.
The sunlit air seemed to spin and swirl, so thick were the clouds of flying insects, and there was a taint of something in the warm, sultry air that left Sukul Ankhadu with a vague sense of unease, as if ghosts watched from the black knots on the trees surrounding them. She had quested outward more than once, finding nothing but minute life-sparks – the natural denizens of any forest – and the low murmurings of earth spirits, too weak to do much more than stir restlessly in their eternal, dying sleep. Nothing to concern them, then, which was well.
Standing close to one of the shin-high walls, she glanced back at the makeshift shelter, repressing yet another surge of irritation and impatience.
Freeing her sister should have yielded nothing but gratitude from the bitch. Sheltatha Lore had not exactly fared well in that barrow – beaten senseless by Silchas Ruin and a damned Locqui Wyval, left near-drowned in a bottomless bog in some memory pocket realm of the Azath, where every moment stretched like centuries – so much so that Sheltatha had emerged indelibly stained by those dark waters, her hair a burnt red, her skin the hue of a betel nut, as waxy and seamed as that of a T’lan Imass. Wounds gaped bloodless. Taloned fingernails gleamed like elongated beetle carapaces – Sukul had found her eyes drawn to them again and again, as if waiting for them to split, revealing wings of exfoliated skin as they dragged the fingers loose to whirl skyward.
And her sister was fevered. Day after day, raving with madness. Dialogue – negotiation – had been hopeless thus far. It had been all Sukul had managed, just getting her from that infernal city out here to a place of relative quietude.
She now eyed the lean-to which, from this angle, hid the recumbent form of Sheltatha Lore, grimly amused by the sight. Hardly palatial, as far as residences were concerned, and especially given their royal blood – if the fiery draconean torrent in their veins could justify the appellation, and why wouldn’t it? Worthy ascendants were few and far between in this realm, after all. Barring a handful of dour Elder Gods – and these nameless spirits of stone and tree, spring and stream. No doubt Menandore has fashioned for herself a more stately abode – ripe for appropriation. Some mountain fastness, spired and impregnable, so high as to be for ever wreathed in clouds. I want to walk those airy halls and call them my own. Our own. Unless I have no choice but to lock Sheltatha in some crypt, where she can rave and shriek disturbing no-one—
‘I should tear your throat out.’
The croak, coming from beneath the boughed shelter, triggered a sigh from Sukul. She approached until she came round to the front and could look within. Her sister had sat up, although her head was bowed, that long, crimson hair obscuring her face. Her long nails at the end of her dangling hands glistened as if leaking oil. ‘Your fever has broken – that is well.’
Sheltatha Lore did not look up. ‘Is it? I called for you – when Ruin was clawing loose – when he turned upon me – that self-serving, heartless bastard! Turned on me! I called on you!’
‘I heard, sister. Alas, too far away to do much about it – that fight of yours. But I came at last, didn’t I? Came, and freed you.’
Silence for a long moment; then, her voice dark and brutal, ‘Where is she, then?’
‘Menandore?’
‘It was her, wasn’t it?’ Lore looked up suddenly, revealing amber eyes, the whites stained like rust. A ghastly gaze, yet wide and searching. ‘Striking me from behind – I suspected nothing – I thought you were there, I thought – you were there, weren’t you!’
‘As much a victim as you, Sheltatha. Menandore had prepared long for that betrayal, a score of rituals – to drive you down, to leave me helpless to intervene.’
‘She struck first, you mean.’ The statement was a half-snarl. ‘Were we not planning the same, Sukul?’
‘That detail is without much relevance now, isn’t it?’
‘And yet, dear sister, she didn’t bury you, did she?’
‘Not through any prowess on my part. Nor did I bargain for my freedom. No, it seemed Menandore was not interested in destroying me.’ Sukul could feel her own sneer of hatred twisting her features. ‘She never thought I was worth much. Sukul Ankhadu, Dapple, the Fickle. Well, she is about to learn otherwise, isn’t she?’
‘We must find an Azath,’ Sheltatha Lore said, baring brown teeth. ‘She must be made to suffer what I suffered.’
‘I agree, sister. Alas, there are no surviving Azath in this place – on this continent, I mean. Sheltatha Lore – will you trust me? I have something in mind – a means of trapping Menandore, of exacting our long-awaited revenge. Will you join me? As true allies – together, there are none here powerful enough to stop us—’
‘You fool, there is Silchas Ruin.’
‘I have an answer for him as well, sister. But I need your help. We must work together, and in so doing we will achieve the demise of both Menandore and Silchas Ruin. Do you trust me?’
Sheltatha Lore’s laugh was harsh. ‘Cast that word away, sister. It is meaningless. I demand vengeance. You have something to prove – to us all. Very well, we shall work together, and see what comes of it. Tell me your grand plan, then. Tell me how we shall crush Silchas Ruin who is without equal in this realm—’
‘You must conquer your fear of him,’ Sukul said, glancing away, studying the glade, noting how the shafts of sunlight had lengthened, and the ruined wall surrounding them now hunched like crumbling darkness. ‘He is not indomitable. Scabandari proved that well enough—’
‘Are you truly so stupid as to believe that?’ Sheltatha demanded, clambering free of the lean-to, straightening like some anthropomorphic tree. Her skin gleamed, polished and the colour of stained wood. ‘I shared the bastard’s barrow for a thousand eternities. I tasted his dreams, I sipped at the stream of his secretmost thoughts – he grew careless…’
Sukul scowled at her kin. ‘What are you saying?’
The terrible eyes fixed mockingly on her. ‘He stood on the field of battle. He stood, his back to Scabandari – whom he called Bloodeye and was that not hint enough? Stood, I tell you, and but waited for the knives.’
‘I do not believe you – that must be a lie, it must be!’
‘Why? Wounded, weaponless. Sensing the fast approach of this realm’s powers – powers that would not hesitate in destroying him and Bloodeye both. Destroying in the absolute sense – Silchas was in no condition to defend against them. Nor, he well knew, was Scabandari, for all that idiot’s pompous preening over the countless dead. So, join in Scabandari’s fate, or…escape?’
‘Millennia within a barrow of an Azath – you call that an escape, Sheltatha?’
‘More than any of us – more even than Anomandaris,’ she said, her eyes suddenly veiled, ‘Silchas Ruin thinks…draconean. As cold, as calculating, as timeless. Abyss below, Sukul Ankhadu, you have no idea…’ A shudder took Sheltatha then and she turned away. ‘Be sure of your schemes, sister,’ she added in a guttural tone, ‘and, no matter how sure you make yourself, leave us a means of escape. For when we fail.’
Another faint groan, from the earth spirits on all sides, and Sukul Ankhadu shivered, assailed by uncertainty – and fear. ‘You must tell me more of him,’ she said. ‘All you learned—’
‘Oh, I shall. Freedom has left you…arrogant, sister. We must strip that from you, we must free your gaze of that veil of confidence. And refashion your plans accordingly.’ A long pause, then Sheltatha Lore faced Sukul once again, an odd glint in her eyes. ‘Tell me, did you choose in deliberation?’
‘What?’
A gesture. ‘This place…for my recovery.’
Sukul shrugged. ‘Shunned by the local people. Private – I thought—’
‘Shunned, aye. With reason.’
‘And that would be?’
Sheltatha studied her for a long moment, then she simply turned away. ‘Matters not. I am ready to leave here now.’
As am I, I think. ‘Agreed. North—’
Another sharp glance, then a nod.
Oh, I see your contempt, sister. I know you felt as Menandore did – I know you think little of me. And you thought I would step forward once she struck? Why? I spoke of trust, yes, but you did not understand. I do indeed trust you, Sheltatha. I trust you to lust for vengeance. And that is all I need. For ten thousand lifetimes of slight and disregard…it will be all I need.
His tattooed arms bared in the humid heat, Taxilian walked to the low table where sat Samar Dev, ignoring the curious regard from other patrons in the courtyard restaurant. Without a word he sat, reached for the jug of watered, chilled wine and poured himself a goblet, then leaned closer. ‘By the Seven Holies, witch, this damned city is a wonder – and a nightmare.’
Samar Dev shrugged. ‘The word is out – a score of champions now await the Emperor’s pleasure. You are bound to attract attention.’
He shook his head. ‘You misunderstand. I was once an architect, yes? It is one thing’ – he waved carelessly – ‘to stand agape at the extraordinary causeways and spans, the bridges and that dubious conceit that is the Eternal Domicile – even the canals with their locks, inflows and outflows, the aqueduct courses and the huge blockhouses with their massive pumps and the like.’ He paused for another mouthful of wine. ‘No, I speak of something else entirely. Did you know, an ancient temple of sorts collapsed the day we arrived – a temple devoted, it seems, to rats—’
‘Rats?’
‘Rats, not that I could glean any hint of a cult centred on such foul creatures.’
‘Karsa would find the notion amusing,’ Samar Dev said with a half-smile, ‘and acquire in such cultists yet another enemy, given his predilection for wringing the necks of rodents—’
Taxilian said in a low voice, ‘Not just rodents, I gather…’
‘Alas, but on that matter I would allow the Toblakai some steerage room – he warned them that no-one was to touch his sword. A dozen or more times, in fact. That guard should have known better.’
‘Dear witch,’ Taxilian sighed, ‘you’ve been careless or, worse, lazy. It’s to do with the Emperor, you see. The weapon destined to cross blades with Rhulad’s own. The touch signifies a blessing – did you not know? The loyal citizens of this empire want the champions to succeed. They want their damned tyrant obliterated. They pray for it; they dream of it—’
‘All right,’ Samar Dev hissed, ‘keep your voice down!’
Taxilian spread his hands, then he grimaced. ‘Yes, of course. After all, every shadow hides a Patriotist—’
‘Careful of whom you mock. That’s a capricious, bloodthirsty bunch, Taxilian, and you being a foreigner only adds to your vulnerability.’
‘You need to eavesdrop on more conversations, witch. The Emperor is unkillable. Karsa Orlong will join all the others in that cemetery of urns. Do not expect otherwise. And when that happens, why, all his…hangers-on, his companions – all who came with him will suffer the same fate. Such is the decree. Why would the Patriotists bother with us, given our inevitable demise?’ He drained the last wine from his goblet, then refilled it. ‘In any case, you distracted me. I was speaking of that collapsed temple, and what I saw of its underpinnings – the very proof for my growing suspicions.’
‘I didn’t know we’re destined for execution. Well, that changes things – although I am not sure how.’ She fell silent; then, considering Taxilian’s other words, she said, ‘Go on.’
Taxilian slowly leaned back, cradling the goblet in his hands. ‘Consider Ehrlitan, a city built on the bones of countless others. In that, little different from the majority of settlements across all Seven Cities. But this Letheras, it is nothing like that, Samar Dev. No. Here, the older city never collapsed, never disintegrated into rubble. It still stands, following street patterns not quite obscured. Here and there, the ancient buildings remain, like crooked teeth. I have never seen the like, witch – it seems no regard whatsoever was accorded those old streets. At least two canals cut right through them – you can see the bulge of stonework on the canal walls, like the sawed ends of long-bones.’
‘Peculiar indeed. Alas, a subject only an architect or a mason would find a source of excitement, Taxilian.’
‘You still don’t understand. That ancient pattern, that mostly hidden gridwork and the remaining structures adhering to it – witch, none of it is accidental.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I should probably not tell you this, but among masons and architects there are secrets of a mystical nature. Certain truths regarding numbers and geometry reveal hidden energies, lattices of power. Samar Dev, there are such courses of energy, like twisted wires in mortar, woven through this city. The collapse of Scale House revealed it to my eyes: a gaping wound, dripping ancient blood – nearly dead blood, I’ll grant you, but undeniable.’
‘Are you certain of this?’
‘I am, and furthermore, someone knows. Enough to ensure that the essential constructs, the buildings that form a network of fulcra – the fixing-points to the lattice of energy – they all remain standing—’
‘Barring this Scale House.’
A nod. ‘Not necessarily a bad thing – indeed, not necessarily accidental, that collapse.’
‘Now you have lost me. That temple fell down on purpose?’
‘I would not discount that. In fact, that accords precisely with my suspicions. We approach a momentous event, Samar Dev. For now, that is as far as I can take it. Something is going to happen. I only pray we are alive to witness it.’
‘You’ve done little to enliven my day,’ she said, eyeing her half-finished breakfast of bread, cheeses and unfamiliar fruit. ‘At the very least you can order us another carafe of wine for your sins.’
