The Malazan Empire, page 688
‘Run!’ whispered Tehol Beddict. ‘Run!’
The sceptre swung next into Tehol’s chest, snapping ribs.
‘Pull the chain tighter on my ankles,’ Janath said. ‘Force my legs wider.’
‘You enjoy being helpless, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes!’
Smiling, Tanal Yathvanar knelt at the side of the bed. The chain beneath ran through holes in the bed frame at each corner. Pins held the lengths in place. To tighten the ones snaring her ankles all he needed to do was pull a pin on each side at the foot of the bed, drawing the chain down as far as he could, and, as he listened to her moans, replace the pins.
Then he rose and sat down on the edge of the bed. Stared down at her. Naked, most of the bruises fading since he no longer liked hurting her. A beautiful body indeed, getting thinner which he preferred in his women. He reached out, then drew his hand away again. He didn’t like any touching until he was ready. She moaned a second time, arching her back.
Tanal Yathvanar undressed. Then he crawled up onto the bed, loomed over her with his knees between her legs, his hands pressing down on the mattress to either side of her chest.
He saw how the manacles had torn at her wrists. He would need to treat that – those wounds were looking much worse.
Slowly, Tanal settled onto her body, felt her shiver beneath him as he slid smoothly inside. So easy, so welcoming. She groaned, and, studying her face, he said, ‘Do you want me to kiss you now?’
‘Yes!’
And he brought his head down as he made his first deep thrust.
Janath, once eminent scholar, had found in herself a beast, prodded awake as if from a slumber of centuries, perhaps millennia. A beast that understood captivity, that understood that, sometimes, what needed doing entailed excruciating pain.
Beneath the manacles on her wrists, mostly hidden by scabs, blood and torn shreds of skin, the very bones had been worn down, chipped, cracked. By constant, savage tugging. Animal rhythm, blind to all else, deaf to every scream of her nerves. Tugging, and tugging.
Until the pins beneath the frame began to bend. Ever so slowly, bending, the wood holes chewed into, the pins bending, gouging through the holes.
And now, with the extra length of chain that came when Tanal Yathvanar had reset the pins at the foot of the bed frame, she had enough slack.
To reach with her left hand and grasp a clutch of his hair. To push his head to the right, where she had, in a clattering blur, brought most of the length of the chain through the hole, enough to wrap round his neck and then twist her hand down under and then over; and in sudden, excruciating determination, she pulled her left arm up, higher and higher with that arm – the manacle and her right wrist pinned to the frame, tugged down as far as it could go.
He thrashed, sought to dig his fingers under the chain, and she reached ever harder, her face brushing his own, her eyes seeing the sudden blue hue of his skin, his bulging eyes and jutting tongue.
He could have beaten against her. He could have driven his thumbs into her eyes. He could probably have killed her in time to survive all of this. But she had waited for his breath to release, which ever came at the moment he pushed in his first thrust. That breath, that she had heard a hundred times now, close to her ear, as he made use of her body, that breath is what killed him.
He needed air. He had none. Nothing else mattered. He tore at his own throat to get his fingers under the chain. She pushed her left arm straight, elbow locking, and loosed her own scream as the manacle round her right wrist shifted as a bolt slipped down into the hole.
That blue, bulging face, that flooding burst from his penis, followed by the hot gush of urine.
Staring eyes, veins blossoming red, then purple until the whites were completely filled.
She looked right into them. Looked into, seeking his soul, seeking to lock her gaze with that pathetic, vile, dying soul.
I kill you. I kill you. I kill you!
The beast’s silent words.
The beast’s gleeful, savage assertion. Her eyes shouted it at him, shouted it into his soul.
Tanal Yathvanar. I kill you!
Taralack Veed spat into his hands, rubbed them together to spread out the phlegm, then raised them and swept his hair back. ‘I smell more smoke,’ he said.
Senior Assessor, who sat opposite him at the small table, raised his thin brows. ‘It surprises me that you can smell anything, Taralack Veed.’
‘I have lived in the wild, Cabalhii. I can follow an antelope’s spore that’s a day old. This city is crumbling. The Tiste Edur have left. And suddenly the Emperor changes his mind and slaughters all the challengers until but two remain. And does anyone even care?’ He rose suddenly and walked to the bed, on which he had laid out his weapons. He unsheathed his scimitar and peered down at the edge once again.
‘You could trim your eyelashes with that sword by now.’
‘Why would I do that?’ Taralack asked distractedly.
‘Just a suggestion, Gral.’
‘I was a servant of the Nameless Ones.’
‘I know,’ Senior Assessor replied.
Taralack turned, studied with narrowed eyes the soft little man with his painted face. ‘You do?’
‘The Nameless Ones are known in my homeland. Do you know why they are called that? I will tell you as I see that you do not. The Initiated must surrender their names, in the belief that to know oneself by one’s own name is to give it too much power. The name becomes the identity, becomes the face, becomes the self. Remove the name and power returns.’
‘They made no such demands of me.’
‘Because you are little more than a tool, no different from that sword in your hands. Needless to say, the Nameless Ones do not give names to their tools. And in a very short time you will have outlived your usefulness—’
‘And I will be free once more. To return home.’
‘Home,’ mused Senior Assessor. ‘Your tribe, there to right all your wrongs, to mend all the wounds you delivered in your zealous youth. You will come to them with wizened eyes, with slowed heart and a gentling hand. And one night, as you lie sleeping in your furs in the hut where you were born, someone will slip in and slide a blade across your throat. Because the world within your mind is not the world beyond. You are named Taralack Veed and they have taken of its power. From the name, the face. From the name, the self, and with it all the history, and so by your own power – so freely given away long, long ago – you are slain.’
Taralack Veed stared, the scimitar trembling in his hands. ‘And this, then, is why you are known only as Senior Assessor.’
The Cabalhii shrugged. ‘The Nameless Ones are fools for the most part. Said proof to be found in your presence here, with your Jhag companion. Even so, we share certain understandings, which is not too surprising, since we both came from the same civilization. From the First Empire of Dessimbelackis.’
‘It was a common joke in Seven Cities,’ the Gral said, sneering. ‘One day the sun will die and one day there will be no civil war in the Cabal Isles.’
‘Peace has at long last been won,’ Senior Assessor replied, folding his hands together on his lap.
‘Then why does every conversation I have with you of late make me want to throttle you?’
The Cabalhii sighed. ‘Perhaps I have been away from home too long.’
Grimacing, Taralack Veed slammed the scimitar back in its scabbard.
From the corridor beyond a door thumped open and the two men in the room stiffened, their gazes meeting.
Soft footsteps, passing the door.
With a curse Taralack began strapping on his weapons. Senior Assessor rose, adjusting his robe before heading to the door and opening it just enough to peer outside. Then he ducked back in. ‘He is on his way,’ he said in a whisper.
Nodding, Taralack joined the monk who opened the door a second time. They went out into the corridor, even as they heard the sound of a momentary scuffle, then a grunt, after which something crunched on the stone floor.
Taralack Veed in the lead, they padded quickly down the corridor.
At the threshold of the practice yard’s door was a crumpled heap – the guard. From the compound beyond there was a startled shout, a scuffle, then the sound of the outer gate opening.
Taralack Veed hurried out into the darkness. His mouth was dry. His heart pounded heavy in his chest. Senior Assessor had said that Icarium would not wait. That Icarium was a god and no-one could hold back a god, when it had set out to do what it would do. They will find him gone. Will they search the city? No, they do not even dare unbar the palace gate.
Icarium? Lifestealer, what do you seek?
Will you return to stand before the Emperor and his cursed sword?
The monk had told Taralack to be ready, to not sleep this night. And this is why.
They reached the gate, stepped over the bodies of two guards, then edged outside.
And saw him, standing motionless forty paces down the street, in its very centre. A group of four figures, wielding clubs, were converging on him. At ten paces away they halted, then began backing away. Then they whirled about and ran, one of the clubs clattering on the cobbles.
Icarium stared up at the night sky.
Somewhere to the north, three buildings were burning, reflecting lurid crimson on the bellies of the clouds of smoke seething overhead. Distant screams lifted into the air. Taralack Veed, his breath coming in gasps, drew out his sword. Thugs and murderers might run from Icarium, but that was no assurance that they would do the same for himself and the monk.
Icarium lowered his gaze, then looked about, as if only now discovering where he was. Another moment’s pause, then he set out.
Silent, the Gral and the Cabalhii followed.
Samar Dev licked dry lips. He was lying on his bed, apparently asleep. And come the dawn, he would take his flint sword, strap on his armour, and walk in the midst of Letherii soldiers to the Imperial Arena. And he would walk, alone, out onto the sand, the few hundred onlookers on the marble benches raising desultory hooting and cat-calls. There would be no bet-takers, no frenzied shouting of odds. Because this game always ended the same. And now, did anyone even care?
In her mind she watched him stride to the centre of the arena. Would he be looking at the Emperor? Studying Rhulad Sengar as he emerged from the far gate? The lightness of his step, the unconscious patterns the sword made at the end of his hands, patterns that whispered of all that muscles and bones had learned and were wont to do?
No, he will be as he always is. He will be Karsa Orlong. He’ll not even look at the Emperor, until Rhulad draws closer, until the two of them begin.
Not overconfident. Not indifferent. Not even contemptuous. No easy explanations for this Toblakai warrior. He would be within himself, entirely within himself, until it was time…to witness.
But nothing would turn out right, Samar Dev knew. Not all of Karsa Orlong’s prowess, nor that ever-flooding, ever-cascading torrent that was the Toblakai’s will; nor even this host of spirits trapped in the knife she now held, and those others who trailed the Toblakai’s shadow – souls of the slain, desert godlings and ancient demons of the sands and rock – spirits that might well burst forth, enwreathing their champion god (and was he truly that? A god? She did not know) with all their power. No, none of it would matter in the end.
Kill Rhulad Sengar. Kill him thrice. Kill him a dozen times. In the end he will stand, sword bloodied, and then will come Icarium, the very last.
To begin it all again.
Karsa Orlong, reduced to a mere name among the list of the slain. Nothing more than that. For this extraordinary warrior. And this is what you whisper, Fallen One, as your holy credo. Grandness and potential and promise, they all break in the end.
Even your great champion, this terrible, tortured Tiste Edur – you see him broken again and again. You fling him back each time less than what he was, yet with ever more power in his hands. He is there, yes, for us all. The power and its broken wielder broken by his power.
Karsa Orlong sat up. ‘Someone has left,’ he said.
Samar Dev blinked. ‘What?’
He bared his teeth. ‘Icarium. He is gone.’
‘What do you mean, gone? He’s left? To go where?’
‘It does not matter,’ the Toblakai replied, swinging round to settle his feet on the floor. He stared across at her. ‘He knows.’
‘Knows what, Karsa Orlong?’
The warrior stood, his smile broadening, twisting the crazed tattoos on his face. ‘That he will not be needed.’
‘Karsa—’
‘You will know when, woman. You will know.’
Know what, damn you? ‘They wouldn’t have just let him go,’ she said. ‘So he must have taken down all the guards. Karsa, this is our last chance. To head out into the city. Leave all this—’
‘You do not understand. The Emperor is nothing. The Emperor, Samar Dev, is not the one he wants.’
Who? Icarium? No – ‘Karsa Orlong, what secret do you hold? What do you know about the Crippled God?’
The Toblakai rose. ‘It is nearly dawn,’ he said. ‘Nearly time.’
‘Karsa, please—’
‘Will you witness?’
‘Do I have to?’
He studied her for a moment, and then his next words shocked her to the core of her soul: ‘I need you, woman.’
‘Why?’ she demanded, suddenly close to tears.
‘To witness. To do what needs doing when the time comes.’ He drew a deep, satisfied breath, looking away, his chest swelling until she thought his ribs would creak. ‘I live for days like these,’ he said.
And now she did weep.
Grandness, promise, potential. Fallen One, must you so share out your pain?
‘Women always get weak once a month, don’t they?’
‘Go to Hood, bastard.’
‘And quick to anger, too.’
She was on her feet. Pounding a fist into his solid chest.
Five times, six – he caught her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but stopping those swings as if a manacle had snapped tight.
She glared up at him.
And he was, for his sake, not smiling.
Her fist opened and she found herself almost physically pulled up and into his eyes – seeing them, it seemed, for the first time. Their immeasurable depth, their bright ferocity and joy.
Karsa Orlong nodded. ‘Better, Samar Dev.’
‘You patronizing shit.’
He released her arm. ‘I learn more each day about women. Because of you.’
‘You still have a lot to learn, Karsa Orlong,’ she said, turning away and wiping at her cheeks.
‘Yes, and that is a journey I will enjoy.’
‘I really should hate you,’ she said. ‘I’m sure most people who meet you hate you, eventually.’
The Toblakai snorted. ‘The Emperor will.’
‘So now I must walk with you. Now I must watch you die.’
From outside there came shouts.
‘They have discovered the escape,’ Karsa Orlong said, collecting his sword. ‘Soon they will come for us. Are you ready, Samar Dev?’
‘No.’
The water had rotted her feet, he saw. White as the skin of a corpse, shreds hanging loose to reveal gaping red wounds, and as she drew them onto the altar top and tucked them under her, the Errant suddenly understood something. About humanity, about the seething horde in its cruel avalanche through history.
The taste of ashes filling his mouth, he looked away, studied the runnels of water streaming down the stone walls of the chamber. ‘It rises,’ he said, looking back at her.
‘He was never as lost as he thought he was,’ Feather Witch said, reaching up distractedly to twirl the filthy strands of her once-golden hair. ‘Are you not eager, dear god of mine? This empire is about to kneel at your feet. And,’ she suddenly smiled, revealing brown teeth, ‘at mine.’
Yes, at yours, Feather Witch. Those rotting, half-dead appendages that you could have used to run. Long ago. The empire kneels, and lips quiver forth. A blossom kiss. So cold, so like paste, and the smell, oh, the smell…
‘Is it not time?’ she asked, with an oddly coy glance.
‘For what?’
‘You were a consort. You know the ways of love. Teach me now.’
‘Teach you?’
‘I am unbroken. I have never lain with man or woman.’
‘A lie,’ the Errant replied. ‘Gribna, the lame slave in the Hiroth village. You were very young. He used you. Often and badly. It is what has made you what you now are, Feather Witch.’
And he saw her eyes shy away, saw the frown upon her brow, and realized the awful truth that she had not remembered. Too young, too wide-eyed. And then, every moment buried in a deep hole at the pit of her soul. She, by the Abyss, did not remember. ‘Feather Witch—’
‘Go away,’ she said. ‘I don’t need anything from you right now. I have Udinaas.’
‘You have lost Udinaas. You never had him. Listen, please—’
‘He’s alive! Yes he is! And all the ones who wanted him are dead – the sisters, all dead! Could you have imagined that?’
‘You fool. Silchas Ruin is coming here. To lay this city to waste. To destroy it utterly—’
‘He cannot defeat Rhulad Sengar,’ she retorted. ‘Not even Silchas Ruin can do that!’
The Errant said nothing to that bold claim. Then he turned away. ‘I saw gangrene at your feet, Feather Witch. My temple, as you like to call it, reeks of rotting flesh.’
‘Then heal me.’
‘The water rises,’ he said, and this time the statement seemed to burgeon within him, filling his entire being. The water rises. Why? ‘Hannan Mosag seeks the demon god, the one trapped in the ice. That ice, Feather Witch, is melting. Water…everywhere. Water…’
By the Holds, was it possible? Even this? But no, I trapped the bastard. I trapped him!
‘He took the finger,’ Feather Witch said behind him. ‘He took it and thought that was enough, to just take it. But how could I go where he has gone? I couldn’t. So I needed him, yes. I needed him, and he was never as lost as he thought he was.’
