The Malazan Empire, page 80
“An old contact who owes him.”
“Giving him reason to betray Kalam. No one likes being reminded of debts.”
Fiddler said nothing. After a moment he patted the mule’s back, raising a faint puff of dust, then went to his horse. The Gral gelding showed its teeth as he reached for the reins. He gripped the bridle under the animal’s chin. It tried tossing its head but he held firm, leaned close. “Show some manners, you ugly bastard, or you’ll live to regret it.” Gathering the reins, he pulled himself up into the high-backed saddle.
Beyond Caravan Gate the coastal road stretched southward, level despite the gentle rise and fall of the sandstone cliffs that overlooked the bay on the west side. On their left and a league inland ran the Arifal Hills. The jagged serrations of Arifal would follow them all the way to the Eb River, thirty-six leagues to the south. Barely tamed tribes dwelt in those hills, pre-eminent among them the Gral. Fiddler’s greatest worry was running into a real Gral tribesman. The chance of that was diminished somewhat given the season, for the Gral would be driving their goats deep into the range, where both shade and water could be found.
They nudged their mounts into a canter and rode past a merchant’s train to avoid the trailing dust clouds, then Fiddler settled them back into a slow trot. The day’s heat was already building. Their destination was a small village called Salik, a little over eight leagues distant, where they would stop to eat the midday meal and wait out the hottest hours before continuing on to the Trob River.
If all went well, they would reach G’danisban in a week’s time. Fiddler expected Kalam to be two, maybe even three days ahead of them by then. Beyond G’danisban was the Pan’potsun Odhan, a sparsely populated wasteland of desiccated hills, the skeletal ruins of long-dead cities, poisonous snakes, biting flies and—he recalled the Spiritwalker Kimloc’s words—the potential of something far deadlier. A convergence. Togg’s feet, I don’t like that thought at all. He thought about the conch shell in his leather pack. Carrying an item of power was never a wise thing. Probably more trouble than it’s worth. What if some Soletaken sniffs it out, decides it wants it for its collection? He scowled. A collection easily built on with one conch shell and three shiny skulls.
The more he thought on it, the more uneasy he became. Better to sell it to some merchant in G’danisban. The extra coin could prove useful. The thought settled him. He would sell the conch, be rid of it. While no one would deny a Spiritwalker’s power, it was likely dangerous to lean too heavily on it. The Tano priests gave up their lives in the name of peace. Or worse. Kimloc surrendered his honor. Better to rely on the Moranth incendiaries in my pack than on any mysterious shell. A Flamer will burn a Soletaken as easily as anyone else.
Crokus rode up alongside the sapper. “What are you thinking, Fiddler?”
“Nothing. Where’s that bhok’aral of yours?”
The young man frowned. “I don’t know. I guess he was just a pet after all. Went off last night and never came back.” He wiped the back of his hand across his face and Fiddler saw smeared tears on his cheeks. “I sort of felt Mammot was with me, with Moby.”
“Was your uncle a good man, before the Jaghut Tyrant took him?”
Crokus nodded.
Fiddler grunted. “Then he’s with you still. Moby probably sniffed kin in the air. More than a few highborn keep bhok’arala as pets in the city. Just a pet after all.”
“I suppose you’re right. For most of my life I thought of Mammot as just a scholar, an old man always scribbling on scrolls. My uncle. But then I found out he was a High Priest. Important, with powerful friends like Baruk. But before I could even come to terms with that, he was dead. Destroyed by your squad—”
“Hold on there, lad! What we killed wasn’t your uncle. Not any more.”
“I know. In killing him you saved Darujhistan. I know, Fiddler…”
“It’s done, Crokus. And you should realize, an uncle who took care of you and loved you is more important than his being a High Priest. And he would have told you the same, I imagine, if he’d had the chance.”
“But don’t you see? He had power, Fiddler, but he didn’t do a damn thing with it! Just hid in his tiny room in a crumbling tenement! He could have owned an estate, sat on the Council, made a difference…”
Fiddler wasn’t ready to take on that argument. He’d never had any skill with counsel. Got no advice worth giving anyway. “Did she kick you up here for being so moody, lad?”
Crokus’s face darkened, then he spurred forward, taking point position.
Sighing, Fiddler twisted in the saddle and eyed Apsalar, riding a few paces behind. “Lovers’ spat, is it?”
She blinked owlishly.
Fiddler swung back, settling in the saddle. “Hood’s balls,” he muttered under his breath.
Iskaral Pust poked the broom farther up the chimney and frantically scrubbed. Black clouds descended onto the hearthstone and settled on the High Priest’s gray robes.
“You have wood?” Mappo asked from the raised stone platform he had been using as a bed and was now sitting on.
Iskaral paused. “Wood? Wood’s better than a broom?”
“For a fire,” the Trell said. “To take out the chill of this chamber.”
“Wood! No, of course not. But dung, oh yes, plenty of dung. A fire! Excellent. Burn them into a crisp! Are Trell known for cunning? No recollection of that, none among the rare mention of Trell this, Trell that. Finding writings on an illiterate people very difficult. Hmm.”
“Trell are quite literate,” Mappo said. “Have been for some time. Seven, eight centuries, in fact.”
“Must update my library, an expensive proposition. Raising shadows to pillage great libraries of the world.” He squatted down at the fireplace, frowning through the soot covering his face.
Mappo cleared his throat. “Burn what into a crisp, High Priest?”
“Spiders, of course. This temple is rotten with spiders. Kill them on sight, Trell. Use those thick-soled feet, those leathery hands. Kill them all, do you understand?”
Nodding, Mappo pulled the fur blanket closer around him, wincing only slightly as the hide brushed the puckered wounds on the back of his neck. The fever had broken, as much due to his own reserves as, he suspected, the dubious medicines applied by Iskaral’s silent servant. The fangs and claws of D’ivers and Soletaken bred a singularly virulent sickness, often culminating in hallucinations, bestial madness, then death. For many who survived, the madness remained, reappearing on a regular basis for one or two nights nine or ten times each year. It was a madness often characterized by murder.
Iskaral Pust believed Mappo had escaped that fate, but the Trell would not himself be confident of that until at least two cycles of the moon had passed without sign of any symptoms. He did not like to think what he would be capable of when gripped in a murderous rage. Many years ago among the warband ravaging the Jhag Odhan, Mappo had willed himself into such a state, as warriors often did, and his memories of the deaths he delivered remained with him and always would.
If the Soletaken’s poison was alive within him, Mappo would take his own life rather than unleash its will.
Iskaral Pust stabbed the broom into each corner of the small mendicant’s chamber that was the Trell’s quarters, then reached up to the ceiling corners to do the same. “Kill what bites, kill what stings, this sacred precinct of Shadow must be pristine! Kill all that slithers, all that scuttles. You were examined for vermin, the both of you, oh yes. No unwelcome visitors permitted. Lye baths were prepared, but nothing on either of you. I remain suspicious, of course.”
“Have you resided here long, High Priest?”
“No idea. Irrelevant. Importance lies solely in the deeds done, the goals achieved. Time is preparation, nothing more. One prepares for as long as is required. To do this is to accept that planning begins at birth. You are born and before all else you are plunged into shadow, wrapped inside the holy ambivalence, there to suckle sweet sustenance. I live to prepare, Trell, and the preparations are nearly complete.”
“Where is Icarium?”
“A life given for a life taken, tell him that. In the library. The nuns left but a handful of books. Tomes devoted to pleasuring themselves. Best read in bed, I find. The rest of the material is mine, a scant collection, dreadful paucity, I am embarrassed. Hungry?”
Mappo shook himself. The High Priest’s rambles had a hypnotic quality. Each question the Trell voiced was answered with a bizarre rambling monologue that seemed to drain him of will beyond the utterance of yet another question. True to his assertions, Iskaral Pust could make the passing of time meaningless. “Hungry? Aye.”
“Servant prepares food.”
“Can he bring it to the library?”
The High Priest scowled. “Collapse of etiquette. But if you insist.”
The Trell pushed himself upright. “Where is the library?”
“Turn right, proceed thirty-four paces, turn right again, twelve paces, then through door on the right, thirty-five paces, through archway on right another eleven paces, turn right one last time, fifteen paces, enter the door on the right.”
Mappo stared at Iskaral Pust.
The High Priest shifted nervously.
“Or,” the Trell said, eyes narrowed, “turn left, nineteen paces.”
“Aye,” Iskaral muttered.
Mappo strode to the door. “I shall take the short route, then.”
“If you must,” the High Priest growled as he bent to close examination of the broom’s ragged end.
The breach of etiquette was explained when, upon entering the library, Mappo saw that the squat chamber also served as kitchen. Icarium sat at a robust black-stained table a few paces to the Trell’s right, while Servant hunched over a cauldron suspended by chain over a hearth a pace to Mappo’s left. Servant’s head was almost invisible inside a cloud of steam, drenched in condensation and dripping into the cauldron as he worked a wooden ladle in slow, turgid circles.
“I shall pass on the soup, I think,” Mappo said to the man.
“These books are rotting,” Icarium said, leaning back and eyeing Mappo. “You are recovered?”
“So it seems.”
Still studying the Trell, Icarium frowned. “Soup? Ah,” his expression cleared, “not soup. Laundry. You’ll find more palatable fare on the carving table.” He gestured to the wall behind Servant, then returned to the mouldering pages of an ancient book opened before him. “This is astonishing, Mappo…”
“Given how isolated those nuns were,” Mappo said as he approached the carving table, “I’m surprised you’re astonished.”
“Not those books, friend. Iskaral’s own. There are works here whose existence was but the faintest rumor. And some—like this one—that I have never heard of before. A Treatise on Irrigation Planning in the Fifth Millenium of Ararkal, by no fewer than four authors.”
Returning to the library table with a pewter plate piled high with bread and cheese, Mappo leaned over his friend’s shoulder to examine the detailed drawings on the book’s vellum pages, then the strange, braided script. The Trell grunted. Mouth suddenly dry, he managed to mutter, “What is so astonishing about that?”
Icarium leaned back. “The sheer…frivolity, Mappo. The materials alone for this tome are a craftsman’s annual wage. No scholar in their right mind would waste such resources—never mind their time—on such a pointless, trite subject. And this is not the only example. Look, Seed Dispersal Patterns of the Purille Flower on the Skar Archipelago, and here, Diseases of White-Rimmed Clams of Lekoor Bay. And I am convinced that these works are thousands of years old. Thousands.”
And in a language I never knew you would recognize, much less understand. He recalled when he’d last seen such a script, beneath a hide canopy on a hill that marked his tribe’s northernmost border. He’d been among a handful of guards escorting the tribe’s elders to what would prove a fateful summons.
Autumn rains drumming overhead, they had squatted in a half-circle, facing north, and watched as seven robed and hooded figures approached. Each held a staff, and as they strode beneath the canopy and stood in silence before the elders, Mappo saw, with a shiver, how those staves seemed to writhe before his eyes, the wood like serpentine roots, or perhaps those parasitic trees that entwined the boles of others, choking the life from them. Then he realized that the twisted madness of the shafts was in fact runic etching, ever changing, as if unseen hands continually carved words anew with every breath’s span.
Then one among them withdrew its hood, and so began the moment that would change Mappo’s future path. His thoughts jerked away from the memory.
Trembling, the Trell sat down, clearing a space for his plate. “Is all this important, Icarium?”
“Significant, Mappo. The civilization that brought forth these works must have been appallingly rich. The language is clearly related to modern Seven Cities dialects, although in some ways more sophisticated. And see this symbol, here in the spine of each such tome? A twisted staff. I have seen that symbol before, friend. I am certain of it.”
“Rich, you said?” The Trell struggled to drag the conversation away from what he knew to be a looming precipice. “More like mired in minutiae. Probably explains why it’s dust and ashes. Arguing over seeds in the wind while barbarians batter down the gates. Indolence takes many forms, but it comes to every civilization that has outlived its will. You know that as well as I. In this case it was an indolence characterized by a pursuit of knowledge, a frenzied search for answers to everything, no matter the value of such answers. A civilization can as easily drown in what it knows as in what it doesn’t know. Consider,” he continued, “Gothos’s Folly. Gothos’s curse was in being too aware—of everything. Every permutation, every potential. Enough to poison every scan he cast on the world. It availed him naught, and worse, he was aware of even that.”
“You must be feeling better,” Icarium said wryly. “Your pessimism has revived. In any case, these works support my belief that the many ruins in Raraku and the Pan’potsun Odhan are evidence that a thriving civilization once existed here. Indeed, perhaps the first true human civilization, from which all others were born.”
Leave this path of thought, Icarium. Leave it now. “And how does this knowledge avail us in our present situation?”
Icarium’s expression soured slightly. “My obsession with time, of course. Writing replaces memory, you see, and the language itself changes because of it. Think of my mechanisms, in which I seek to measure the passage of hours, days, years. Such measurings are by nature cyclic, repetitive. Words and sentences once possessed the same rhythms, and could thus be locked into one’s mind and later recalled with absolute precision. Perhaps,” he mused after a moment, “if I was illiterate I would not be so forgetful.” He sighed, forced a smile. “Besides, I was but passing time, Mappo.”
The Trell tapped one blunt, wrinkled finger on the open book. “I imagine the authors of this would have defended their efforts with the same words, friend. I have a more pressing concern.”
The Jhag’s expression was cool, not completely masking amusement. “And that is?”
Mappo gestured. “This place. Shadow does not list among my favorite cults. Nest of assassins and worse. Illusion and deceit and betrayal. Iskaral Pust affects a harmless façade, but I am not fooled. He was clearly expecting us, and anticipates our involvement in whatever schemes he plans. We risk much in lingering here.”
“But Mappo,” Icarium said slowly, “it is precisely here, in this place, that my goal shall be achieved.”
The Trell winced. “I feared you would say that. Now you shall have to explain it to me.”
“I cannot, friend. Not yet. What I hold are suspicions, nothing more. When I am certain, I shall feel confident enough to explain. Can you be patient with me?”
In his mind’s eye he saw another face, this one human, thin and pale, raindrops tracking runnels down the withered cheeks. Flat, gray eyes reaching up, finding Mappo’s own beyond the rim of elders. “Do you know us?” The voice was a rasp of rough leather.
An elder had nodded. “We know you as the Nameless Ones.”
“It is well,” the man replied, eyes still fixed on Mappo’s own. “The Nameless Ones, who think not in years, but in centuries. Chosen warrior,” he continued, addressing Mappo, “what can you learn of patience?”
Like rooks bursting from a copse, the memories fled. Staring at Icarium, Mappo managed a smile, revealing his gleaming canines. “Patient? I can be nothing else with you. Nonetheless, I do not trust Iskaral Pust.”
Servant began removing sopping clothes and bedding from the cauldron, using his bare hands as he squeezed steaming water from the bundles. Watching him, the Trell frowned. One of Servant’s arms was strangely pink, unweathered, almost youthful. The other more befitted the man’s evident age, thickly muscled, hairy and tanned.
“Servant?”
The man did not look up.
“Can you speak?” Mappo continued.
“It seems,” Icarium said when Servant made no response, “that he’s turned a deaf ear to us, by his Master’s command, I’d warrant. Shall we explore this temple, Mappo? Bearing in mind that every shadow is likely to echo our words as a whisper in the High Priest’s ears.”
“Well,” the Trell growled as he rose, “it is of little concern to me that Iskaral knows of my distrust.”
“He surely knows more of us than we do of him,” Icarium said, also rising.
As they left, Servant was still twisting water from the cloth with something like savage joy, the veins thick on his massive forearms.
Chapter Four
In a land where
Seven cities rose in gold,
Even the dust has eyes
DEBRAHL SAYING
A crowd of dusty, sweat-smeared men gathered around as the last of the bodies were removed. The dust cloud hung unmoving over the mine entrance as it had for most of the morning, since the collapse of the reach at the far end of Deep Mine. Under Beneth’s command the slaves had worked frantically to retrieve the thirty-odd companions buried in the fall.
