The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 75
The captain handed the child over to one of the guards. “You heard the Master. Quickly now.”
Both children were taken through the linen door. Gesturing, the Tano Spiritwalker led Fiddler and Turqa to the same door at a more sedate pace.
Inside the glass-walled room squatted a low iron table with shin-high hide-bound chairs around it. On the table were bowls holding fruit and chilled meats stained red with spices. A crystal carafe of pale yellow wine had been unstoppered and left to air. At the carafe’s base the wine’s sediment was two fingers thick: desert flower buds and the carcasses of white honey bees. The wine’s cool sweet scent permeated the chamber.
The inner door was solid wood, set in a marble wall. Small alcoves set within that wall held lit candles displaying flames of assorted colors. Their flickering reflections danced hypnotically on the facing glass.
The priest sat down and indicated the other chairs. “Please be seated. I am surprised that a Malazan spy would so jeopardize his disguise by saving the lives of two Ehrlii children. Do you now seek to glean valuable information from a family overwhelmed by gratitude?”
Fiddler drew his hood back, sighing. “I am Malazan,” he acknowledged. “But not a spy. I am disguised to avoid discovery…by Malazans.”
The old priest poured the wine and handed the sapper a goblet. “You are a soldier.”
“I am.”
“A deserter?”
Fiddler winced. “Not by choice. The Empress saw fit to outlaw my regiment.” He sipped the flowery sweet wine.
Captain Turqa hissed. “A Bridgeburner. A soldier of Onearm’s Host.”
“You are well informed, sir.”
The Tano Spiritwalker gestured toward the bowls. “Please. If, after so many years of war, you are seeking a place of peace, you have made a grave error in coming to Seven Cities.”
“So I gathered,” Fiddler said, helping himself to some fruit. “Which is why I am hoping to book passage to Quon Tali as soon as possible.”
“The Kansu Fleet has left Ehrlitan,” the captain said. “Few are the trader ships setting forth on oceanic voyages these days. High taxes—”
“And the prospect of riches that will come with a civil war,” Fiddler said, nodding. “Thus, it must be overland, at least down to Aren.”
“Unwise,” the old priest said.
“I know.”
But the Tano Spiritwalker was shaking his head. “Not simply the coming war. To travel to Aren, you must cross the Pan’potsun Odhan, skirting the Holy Desert Raraku. From Raraku the whirlwind of the Apocalypse will come forth. And more, there will be a convergence.”
Fiddler’s eyes narrowed. The Soletaken dhenrabi. “As in a drawing-together of Ascendant powers?”
“Just so.”
“What will draw them?”
“A gate. The Prophecy of the Path of Hands. Soletaken and D’ivers. A gate promising…something. They are drawn as moths to a flame.”
“Why would shapeshifters have any interest in a warren’s gate? They are hardly a brotherhood, nor are they users of sorcery, at least not in any sophisticated sense.”
“Surprising depth of knowledge for a soldier.”
Fiddler scowled. “Soldiers are always underestimated,” he said. “I’ve not spent fifteen years fighting Imperial wars with my eyes closed. The Emperor clashed with both Treach and Ryllandaras outside Li Heng. I was there.”
The Tano Spiritwalker bowed his head in apology. “I have no answers to your questions,” he said quietly. “Indeed, I do not think even the Soletaken and D’ivers are fully aware of what they seek. Like salmon returning to the waters where they were born, they act on instinct, a visceral yearning and a promise only sensed.” He folded his hands together. “There is no unification among shapeshifters. Each stands alone. This Path of Hands—” he hesitated, then continued—“is perhaps a means to Ascendancy—for the victor.”
Fiddler drew a slow, unsteady breath. “Ascendancy means power. Power means control.” He met the Spiritwalker’s tawny eyes. “Should one shapeshifter attain Ascendancy—”
“Domination of its own kind, yes. Such an event would have…repercussions. In any case, friend, the wastelands could never be called safe, but the months to come shall turn the Odhan into a place of savage horror, this much I know with certainty.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“Yet it shall not deter you.”
“I am afraid not.”
“Then it befalls me to offer you some protection for your journey. Captain, if you would be so kind?”
The veteran rose and departed.
“An outlawed soldier,” the old priest said after a moment, “who will risk his life to return to the heart of the Empire that has sentenced him to death. The need must be great.”
Fiddler shrugged.
“The Bridgeburners are remembered here in Seven Cities. A name that is cursed, yet admired all the same. You were honorable soldiers fighting in a dishonorable war. It is said the regiment was honed in the heat and scorched rock of the Holy Desert Raraku, in pursuit of a Falah’d company of wizards. That is a story I would like to hear some time, so that it may be shaped into song.”
Fiddler’s eyes widened. A Spiritwalker’s sorcery was sung, no other rituals were required. Although devoted to peace, the power in a Tano song was said to be immense. The sapper wondered what such a creation would do to the Bridgeburners.
The Tano Spiritwalker seemed to understand the question, for he smiled. “Such a song has never before been attempted. There is in a Tano song the potential for Ascendancy, but can an entire regiment ascend? Truly a question deserving an answer.”
Fiddler sighed. “Had I the time, I would give you that story.”
“It would take but a moment.”
“What do you mean?”
The old priest raised a long-fingered, wrinkled hand. “If you were to let me touch you, I would know your history.”
The sapper recoiled.
“Ah,” the Tano Spiritwalker sighed, “you fear I would be careless with your secrets.”
“I fear that your possessing them would endanger your life. Nor are all of my memories honorable.”
The old man tilted his head back and laughed. “If they were all honorable, friend, you would be more deserving of this robe than I. Forgive me my bold request, then.”
Captain Turqa returned, carrying a small chest of weathered wood the color of sand. He set it down on the table before his master, who raised the lid and reached inside. “Raraku was once a sea,” the Tano said. He withdrew a bleached white conch shell. “Such remnants can be found in the Holy Desert, provided you know the location of the ancient shores. In addition to the memory song contained within it, of that inland sea, other songs have been invested.” He glanced up, meeting Fiddler’s eyes. “My own songs of power. Please accept this gift, in gratitude for saving the lives and honor of my granddaughters.”
Fiddler bowed as the old priest set the conch shell into his hands. “Thank you, Tano Spiritwalker. Your gift offers protection, then?”
“Of a sort,” the priest said, smiling. After a moment he rose from his seat. “We shall not keep you any longer, Bridgeburner.”
Fiddler quickly stood.
“Captain Turqa will see you out.” He stepped close and laid a hand on Fiddler’s shoulder. “Kimloc Spiritwalker thanks you.”
The conch shell in his hands, the sapper was ushered from the priest’s presence. Outside in the garden the water-cooled air plucked at the sweat on Fiddler’s brow. “Kimloc,” he muttered under his breath.
Turqa grunted beside him as they walked the path to the back gate. “His first guest in eleven years. Do you comprehend the honor bestowed upon you, Bridgeburner?”
“Clearly,” Fiddler said dryly, “he values his granddaughters. Eleven years, you say? Then his last guest would have been…”
“High Fist Dujek Onearm, of the Malazan Empire.”
“Negotiating the peaceful surrender of Karakarang, the Holy City of the Tano cult. Kimloc claimed he could destroy the Malazan armies. Utterly. Yet he capitulated and his name is now legendary for empty threats.”
Turqa snorted. “He opened the gates of his city because he values life above all things. He took the measure of your Empire and realized that the death of thousands meant nothing to it. Malaz would have what it desired, and what it desired was Karakarang.”
Fiddler grimaced. With heavy sarcasm he said, “And if that meant bringing the T’lan Imass to the Holy City—to do to it what they did to Aren—then we would have done just that. I doubt even Kimloc’s sorcery could hold back the T’lan Imass.”
They stood at the gate. Turqa swung it open, old pain in his dark eyes. “As did Kimloc,” he said. “The slaughter at Aren revealed the Empire’s madness—”
“What happened during the Aren Rebellion was a mistake,” Fiddler snapped. “No command was ever given to the Logros T’lan Imass.”
Turqa’s only reply was a sour, bitter grin as he gestured to the street beyond. “Go in peace, Bridgeburner.”
Irritated, Fiddler left.
Moby squealed in delight, launching itself across the narrow room to collide with Fiddler’s chest in a frenzied flap of wings and clutching limbs. Swearing and pushing the familiar away as it attempted a throat-crushing embrace, the sapper crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him.
“I was starting to get worried,” Kalam rumbled from the shadows filling the room’s far end.
“Got distracted,” Fiddler said.
“Trouble?”
He shrugged, stripping off his outer cloak to reveal the leather-bound chain surcoat beneath. “Where are the others?”
“In the garden,” Kalam replied wryly.
On his way over Fiddler stopped by his backpack. He crouched and set the Tano shell inside, pushing it into the bundle of a spare shirt.
Kalam poured him a jug of watered wine as the sapper joined him at the small table, then refilled his own. “Well?”
“A cusser in an eggshell,” Fiddler said, drinking deep before continuing. “The walls are crowded with symbols. I’d guess no more than a week, then the streets run red.”
“We’ve horses, mules and supplies. We should be nearing the Odhan by then. Safer out there.”
Fiddler eyed his companion. Kalam’s dark, bearish face glistened in the faint daylight from the cloth-covered window. A brace of knives rested on the pitted tabletop in front of the assassin, a whetstone beside them. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“The hands on the walls?”
Fiddler grunted. “You noticed them.”
“Symbols of insurrection aplenty, meeting places announced, rituals to Dryjhna advertised—I can read all of that as well as any other native. But those unhuman hand-prints are something else entirely.” Kalam leaned forward, picking up a knife in each hand. He idly crossed the blued blades. “They seem to indicate a direction. South.”
“Pan’potsun Odhan,” Fiddler said. “It’s a convergence.”
The assassin went still, his dark eyes on the blades crossed before him. “That’s not a rumor I’ve heard yet.”
“It’s Kimloc’s belief.”
“Kimloc!” Kalam cursed. “He’s in the city?”
“So it’s said.” Fiddler took another mouthful of wine. Telling the assassin of his adventures—and his meeting with the Spiritwalker—would send Kalam out through the door. And Kimloc to Hood’s Gates. Kimloc, his family, his guards. Everyone. The man sitting across from him would take no chances. Another gift to you, Kimloc…my silence.
Footsteps sounded in the back hallway and a moment later Crokus appeared. “It’s as dark as a cave in here,” he complained.
“Where’s Apsalar?” Fiddler demanded.
“In the garden—where else?” the Daru thief snapped back.
The sapper subsided. Remnants of his old unease still clung to him. When she was out of sight, trouble would come from it. When she was out of sight you watched your back. It was still hard to accept that the girl was no longer what she’d been. Besides, if the Patron of Assassins chose once more to possess her, the first warning we’d get would be a knife blade across the throat. He kneaded the taut muscles of his neck, sighing.
Crokus dragged a chair to the table, dropped into it and reached for the wine. “We’re tired of waiting,” he pronounced. “If we have to cross this damned land, then let’s do it. There’s a steaming pile of rubbish behind the garden wall, clogging up the sewage gutter. Crawling with rats. The air’s hot and so thick with flies you can barely breathe. We’ll catch a plague if we stay here much longer.”
“Let’s hope it’s the bluetongue, then,” Kalam said.
“What’s that?”
“Your tongue swells up and turns blue,” Fiddler explained.
“What’s so good about that?”
“You can’t talk.”
The stars bristled overhead, the moon yet to rise as Kalam made his way toward Jen’rahb. The old ramps climbed to the hill’s summit like a giant’s stairs, gap-toothed where the chiseled blocks of stone had been removed for use in other parts of Ehrlitan. Tangled scrub filled the gaps, long, wiry roots anchored deep in the slope’s fill.
The assassin scrambled lithely over the rubble, staying low so that he would make little outline against the sky, should anyone glance up from the streets below. The city was quiet, its silence unnatural. The few patrols of Malazan soldiery found themselves virtually alone, as if assigned to guard a necropolis, the haunt of ghosts and scant else. Their unease had made them loud as they walked the alleys and Kalam had been able to avoid them with little effort.
He reached the crest, slipping in between two large limestone blocks that had once formed part of the summit’s outer wall. He paused, breathing deep the dusty night air, and looked down on the streets of Ehrlitan. The Fist’s Keep, once the home of the city’s Holy Falah’d, rose dark and misshapen above a well-lit compound, like a clenched hand rising from a bed of coals. Yet within that stone edifice the military governor of the Malazan Empire cowered, shutting his ears to the heated warnings of the Red Blades and whatever Malazan spies and sympathizers had not yet been driven out or murdered. The entire occupying regiment was holed up in the Keep’s own barracks, having been called in from the outlying garrison forts strategically placed around Ehrlitan’s circumference. The Keep could not accommodate such numbers—the well was already foul, and soldiers slept on the bailey’s flagstones under the stars. In the harbor two ancient Falari triremes were moored off the Malazan mole and a lone undermanned company of marines held the Imperial Docks. The Malazans were under siege with not a hand yet raised against them.
Kalam found within himself conflicting loyalties. By birth he was among the occupied, but he had by choice fought under the standards of the Empire. He’d fought for Emperor Kellanved. And Dassem Ultor, and Whiskeyjack, and Dujek Onearm. But not Laseen. Betrayal cut those bonds long ago. The Emperor would have cut the heart out of this rebellion with its first beat. A short but unremitting bloodbath, followed by a long peace. But Laseen had left the old wounds to fester, and what was coming would silence Hood himself.
Kalam swung back from the hill’s crest. The landscape before him was a tumbled maze of shattered limestone and bricks, sinkholes and knotted shrubs. Clouds of insects hovered over black pools. Bats and rhizan darted among them.
Near the center rose the first three levels of a tower, tilted with roots snaking down from a drought-twisted tree on its top. The maw of a doorway was visible at its base.
Kalam studied it for a time, then finally approached. He was ten paces from the opening when he saw a flicker of light within. The assassin withdrew a knife, tapped the pommel twice against a block, then crossed to the doorway. A voice from its darkness stopped him.
“No closer, Kalam Mekhar.”
Kalam spat loudly. “Mebra, you think I don’t recognize your voice? Vile rhizan like you never wander far from their nest, which is what made you so easy to find, and following you here was even easier.”
“I have important business to attend to,” Mebra growled. “Why have you returned? What do you want of me? My debt was with the Bridgeburners, but they are no more.”
“Your debt was with me,” Kalam said.
“And when the next Malazan dog with the sigil of a burning bridge finds me, he can claim the debt as well? And the next, and the next after that? Oh no, Kal—”
The assassin was at the doorway before Mebra realized it, lunging into the darkness, a hand flashing out unerringly to grip the spy by the throat. The man squawked, dragged from his feet as Kalam lifted him and threw him against a wall. The assassin held him there, a knife point pricking the hollow above his breastbone. Something the spy had been clutching to his chest fell, slipping between them to thud heavily at their feet. Kalam did not spare it a glance; his eyes fixed on Mebra’s own.
“The debt,” he said.
“Mebra is an honorable man,” the spy gasped. “Pays every debt! Pays yours!”
Kalam grinned. “The hand you’ve just closed on that dagger at your belt had best remain where it is, Mebra. I see all that you plan. There in your eyes. Now look into mine. What do you see?”
Mebra’s breath quickened. Sweat trickled down his brow. “Mercy,” he said.
Kalam’s brows rose. “A fatal misreading—”
“No, no! I ask for mercy, Kalam! In your eyes I see only death! Mebra’s death! I shall repay the debt, my old friend. I know much, all that the Fist needs to know! I can deliver Ehrlitan into his hands—”
“No doubt,” Kalam said, releasing his grip on the man’s throat and stepping back. Mebra slid down the wall into a feeble crouch. “But leave the Fist to his fate.”
The spy looked up, in his eyes a sudden cunning. “You are outlawed. With no wish to return to the Malazan fold. You are Seven Cities once again! Kalam, may the Seven bless you!”
“I need the signs, Mebra. Safe passage through the Odhan.”
