The Malazan Empire, page 82
They continued on for another ten minutes, seeing nothing through the cloak of flying sand. Then the stallion snorted, rearing. Snapping and crunching sounds rose from beneath them. Kalam squinted down. Bones, on all sides. The storm had blown out a graveyard—a common enough occurrence. The assassin regained control of his mount, then tried to pierce the ochre gloom. Ladro Landing was nearby, but he could see nothing. He nudged the stallion forward, the animal stepping daintly around the skeletal clumps.
The coastal road appeared ahead, along with guardhouses flanking what had to be the bridge. The village must be on his right—if the damned thing hasn’t blown away. Beyond the bridge, then, he would find Ladro Keep.
The single-person guardhouses both gaped empty, like sockets in a massive geometric skull.
His horse stabled, Kalam crossed the compound, leaning against the wind and wincing at the ache in his legs as he approached the keep’s gatehouse entrance. Ducking within the alcove, he found himself beyond the storm’s howl for the first time in hours. Drifts of fine sand filled the gatehouse’s corners, but the dusty air was calm. No guardsman held the post: the lone stone bench was vacant.
Kalam raised the heavy iron ring on the wood door, slamming it down hard. He waited. Eventually he heard the bars being drawn on the other side. The door swung back with a grating sound. An old kitchen servant regarded him with his one good eye.
“Inside, then,” he grumbled. “Join the others.”
Kalam edged past the old man and found himself in a large common room. Faces had turned with his entrance. At the far end of the main table, which ran the length of the rectangular chamber, sat four of the keep’s guardsmen, Malazans, looking foul-tempered. Three jugs squatted in puddles of wine on the tabletop. To one side, next along the table, was a wiry, sunken-eyed woman, her face painted in a style best left to young maidens. At her side was an Ehrlii merchant, probably the woman’s husband.
Kalam bowed to the group, then approached the table. Another servant, this one younger than the doorman by only a few years, appeared with a fresh jug and a goblet, hesitating until the assassin settled on where he would sit—opposite the merchant couple. He set the goblet down and poured Kalam a half-measure, then backed away.
The merchant showed durhang-stained teeth in a welcoming smile. “Down from the north, then?”
The wine was some kind of herbal concoction, too sweet and cloying for the climate. Kalam set the goblet down, scowling. “No beer in this hold?”
The merchant’s head bobbed. “Aye, and chilled at that. Alas, only the wine is free, courtesy of our host.”
“Not surprised it’s free,” the assassin muttered. He gestured to the servant. “A tankard of beer, if you please.”
“Costs a sliver,” the servant said.
“Highway robbery, but my thirst is master.” He found a clipped Jakata and set it on the table.
“Has the village fallen into the sea, then?” the merchant asked. “On your way down from Ehrlitan, how stands the bridge?”
Kalam saw a small velvet bag on the tabletop in front of the merchant’s wife. Glancing up, he met her pitted eyes. She gave him a ghastly wink.
“He’ll not add to your gossip, Berkru darling. A stranger come in from the storm, is all you’ll learn from this one.”
One of the guardsmen raised his head. “Got something to hide, have ya? Not guarding a caravan, just riding alone? Deserting the Ehrlitan Guard, or maybe spreading the word of Dryjhna, or both. Now here ya come, expecting the hospitality of the Master—Malazan born and bred.”
Kalam eyed the men. Four belligerent faces. Any denial of the sergeant’s accusations would not be believed. The guards had decided he belonged in the dungeon for the night at least, something to break the boredom. Yet the assassin was not interested in shedding blood. He laid his hands flat on the table, slowly rose. “A word with you, Sergeant,” he said. “In private.”
The man’s dark face turned ugly. “So you can slit my throat?”
“You believe me capable of that?” Kalam asked in surprise. “You wear chain, you’ve a sword at your belt. You’ve three companions who no doubt will stay close—if only to eavesdrop on the words we exchange between us.”
The sergeant rose. “I can handle you well enough on my own,” he growled. He strode to the back wall.
Kalam followed. He withdrew a small pendant from under his telaba and held it up. “Do you recognize this, Sergeant?” he asked softly.
Cautiously, the man leaned forward to study the symbol etched on the pendant’s flat surface. Recognition paled his features as he involuntarily mouthed, “Clawmaster.”
“An end to your questions and accusations, Sergeant. Do not reveal what you know to your men—at least until after I am gone. Understood?”
The sergeant nodded. “Pardon, sir,” he whispered.
Kalam hooked a half-smile. “Your unease is earned. Hood’s about to stride this land, and you and I both know it. You erred today, but do not relax your mistrust. Does the Keep Commander understand the situation beyond these walls?”
“Aye, he does.”
The assassin sighed. “Makes you and your squad among the lucky ones, Sergeant.”
“Aye.”
“Shall we return to the table now?”
The sergeant simply shook his head in answer to his squad’s querying expressions.
As Kalam returned to his beer, the merchant’s wife reached for the velvet bag. “The soldiers have each requested a reading of their futures,” she said, revealing a Deck of Dragons. She held the deck in both hands, her unblinking eyes on the assassin. “And you? Would you know of your future, stranger? Which gods smile upon you, which gods frown—”
“The gods have little time or inclination to spare us any note,” Kalam said with contempt. “Leave me out of your games, woman.”
“So you cow the sergeant,” she said, smiling, “and now seek to cow me. See the fear your words have wrought in me? I shake with terror.”
With a disgusted snort, Kalam slid his gaze away.
The common room boomed as the front door was assailed.
“More mysterious travelers!” the woman cackled.
Everyone watched as the doorman reappeared from a side chamber and shuffled toward the door. Whoever waited outside was impatient—thunder rang imperiously through the room even as the old man reached for the bar.
As soon as the bar cleared the latch, the door was pushed hard. The doorman stumbled back. Two armored figures appeared, the first one a woman. Metal rustled and boots thumped as she strode into the center of the chamber. Flat eyes surveyed the guards and the other guests, held briefly on each of them before continuing on. Kalam saw no special attention accorded him.
The woman had once held rank—perhaps she still did, although her accoutrements and colors announced no present status; nor was the man behind her wearing anything like a uniform.
Kalam saw weals on both their faces and smiled to himself. They’d run into chigger fleas, and neither looked too pleased about it. The man jerked suddenly as one bit him somewhere beneath his hauberk, cursing, he began loosening the armor’s straps.
“No,” the woman snapped.
The man stopped.
She was Pardu, a southern plains tribe; her companion had the look of a northerner—possibly Ehrlii. His dusky skin was a shade paler than the woman’s and bare of any tribal tattooing.
“Hood’s breath!” the sergeant snarled at the woman. “Not another step closer! You’re both crawling with chiggers. Take the far end of the table. One of the servants will prepare a cedar-chip bath—though that will cost you.”
For a moment the woman seemed ready to resist, but then she gestured to the unoccupied end of the table with one gloved hand and her companion responded by pulling two chairs back before seating himself stiffly in one of them. The Pardu took the other. “A flagon of beer,” she said.
“The Master charges for that,” Kalam said, giving her a wry smile.
“The Seven’s fate! The cheap bastard—you, servant! Bring me a tankard and I’ll judge if it’s worth any coin. Quickly now!”
“The woman thinks this a tavern,” one of the guards said.
The sergeant spoke. “You’re here by the grace of this Keep’s commander. You’ll pay for the beer, you’ll pay for the bath, and you’ll pay for sleeping on this floor.”
“And this is grace?”
The sergeant’s expression darkened—he was Malazan, and he shared the room with a Clawmaster. “The four walls, the ceiling, the hearth and the use of the stables are free, woman. Yet you complain like a virgin princess—accept the hospitality or be gone.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, then she removed a handful of jakatas from a belt pouch and slammed them on the tabletop. “I gather,” she said smoothly, “that your gracious master charges even you for beer, Sergeant. So be it, I’ve no choice but to buy everyone here a tankard.”
“Generous,” the sergeant said with a stiff nod.
“The future shall now be prised loose,” the merchant’s wife said, trimming the Deck.
Kalam saw the Pardu flinch upon seeing the cards.
“Spare us,” the assassin said. “There’s nothing to be gained from seeing what’s to come, assuming you’ve any talent at all, which I doubt. Save us all from the embarrassment of your performance.”
Ignoring him, the old woman angled herself to face the guardsmen. “All your fates rest upon…this!” She laid out the first card.
Kalam barked a laugh.
“Which one is that?” one of the guards demanded.
“Obelisk,” Kalam said. “The woman’s a fake. As any seer of talent would know, that card’s inactive in Seven Cities.”
“An expert in divination, are you?” the old woman snapped.
“I visit a worthy seer before any overland journey,” Kalam replied. “It would be foolish to do otherwise. I know the Deck, and I’ve seen when the reading was true, when power showed the hand. No doubt you intended to charge these guardsmen once the reading was done, once you’d told them how rich they were going to become, how they’d live to ripe old ages, fathering heroes by the score—”
Her expression unveiling the charade’s end, the old woman screamed with rage and flung the Deck at Kalam. It struck him on the chest, cards clattering on the tabletop in a wild scatter—which settled into a pattern.
The breath hissed from the Pardu woman, the only sound to be heard within the common room.
Suddenly sweating, Kalam looked down at the cards. Six surrounded a single, and that single card—he knew with certainty—was his. The Rope, Assassin of Shadow. The six cards encircling it were all of one House. King, Herald, Mason, Spinner, Knight, Queen…High House Death, Hood’s House all arrayed…around the one who carries the Holy Book of Dryjhna. “Ah, well,” Kalam sighed, glancing up at the Pardu woman, “I guess I sleep alone tonight.”
The Red Blade Captain Lostara Yil and her companion soldier were the last to leave Ladro Keep, over an hour after their target had departed on his stallion, riding south through the dusty wake of the sandstorm.
The forced proximity with Kalam had been unavoidable, but just as he was skilled at deception, so too was Lostara. Bluster could be its own disguise, arrogance a mask hiding an altogether deadlier assurance.
The Deck of Dragons’ unexpected fielding had revealed much to Lostara, not only about Kalam and his mission. The Keep’s sergeant had shown himself by his expression to have been a co-conspirator—yet another Malazan soldier prepared to betray his Empress. Evidently, Kalam’s stop at the Keep had not been as accidental as it appeared.
Checking their horses, Lostara turned as her companion emerged from the Keep. The Red Blade grinned up at her. “You were thorough, as always,” he said. “The commander led me a merry chase, however. I found him in the crypt, struggling to climb into a fifty-year-old suit of armor. He was much thinner in his youth, it seems.”
Lostara swung herself into the saddle. “None still breathing? You’re certain you checked them all? What of the servants in the back hallway—I went through them perhaps too quickly.”
“You left not a single heart still beating, Captain.”
“Very good. Mount up. That horse of the assassin’s is killing these ones—we shall acquire fresh horses in Intesarm.”
“Assuming Baralta got around to arranging them.”
Lostara eyed her companion. “Trust Baralta,” she said coolly. “And be glad that—this time—I shall not report your skepticism.”
Tight-lipped, the man nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”
The two rode down the keep road, turning south on the coastal road.
The entire main floor of the monastery radiated in a circular pattern around a single room that was occupied by a circular staircase of stone leading down into darkness. Mappo crouched beside it.
“This would, I imagine, lead down to the crypt.”
“If I recall correctly,” Icarium said from where he stood near the room’s entrance, “when nuns of the Queen of Dreams die the bodies are simply wrapped in linen and placed on recessed ledges in the crypt walls. Have you an interest in perusing corpses?”
“Not generally, no,” the Trell said, straightening with a soft grunt. “It’s just that the stone changes as soon the stairs descend below floor level.”
Icarium raised a brow. “It does?”
“The level we’re on is carved from living rock—the cliff’s limestone. It’s rather soft. But beneath it there are cut granite blocks. I believe the crypt beneath us is an older construct. Either that or the nuns and their cult hold that a crypt’s walls and approach must be dressed, whereas living chambers need not be.”
The Jhag shook his head, approaching. “I would be surprised. The Queen of Dreams is Life-aspected. Very well, shall we explore?”
Mappo descended first. Neither had much need for artificial light, the darkness below offering no obstacle. The spiral steps showed the vestiges of marble tiling, but the passage of many feet long ago had worn most of them away. Beneath, the hard granite defied all evidence of erosion.
The stairs continued down, and down. At the seventieth step they ended in the center of an octagonally walled chamber. Friezes decorated each wall, the colors hinted at in the many shades of gray. Beyond the staircase’s landing, the floor was honeycombed with rectangular pits, cut down through the tiles and the granite blocks beneath removed. These blocks were now stacked over what was obviously a portalway. Within each pit was a shrouded corpse.
The air was dry, scentless.
“These paintings do not belong to the cult of the Queen,” Mappo said, stating the obvious, for the scenes on the walls revealed a dark mythos. Thick fir trees reared black, moss-stained boles on all sides. The effect created was of standing in a glade deep in an ancient forest. Between the trunks here and there was the hint of hulking, four-legged beasts, their eyes glowing as if in reflected moonlight.
Icarium crouched down, running a hand over the remaining tiles. “This floor held a pattern,” he said, “before the nuns’ workers cut graves in it. Pity.”
Mappo glanced at the blocked doorway. “If answers to the mysteries here exist, they lie beyond that barricade.”
“Recovered your strength, friend?”
“Well enough.” The Trell went to the barrier, pulled down the highest block. As he tipped it down into his arms, he staggered, voicing a savage grunt. Icarium rushed to help him lower the granite block to the floor. “Hood’s breath! Heavier than I’d expected.”
“I’d gathered that. Shall we work together, then?”
Twenty minutes later they had cleared sufficient blocks to permit their passage into the hallway beyond. The final five minutes they had an audience, as a squall of bhok’aral appeared on the staircase, silently watching their efforts from where they clung from the railings. When first Mappo and then Icarium clambered through the opening, however, the bhok’arala did not follow.
The hallway stretched away before them, a wide colonnade lined by twin columns that were nothing less than the trunks of cedars. Each bole was at least an arm-span in diameter. The shaggy, gouged bark remained, although most of it had fallen away and now lay scattered over the floor.
Mappo laid a hand on one wooden pillar. “Imagine the effort of bringing these down here.”
“Warren,” Icarium said, sniffing. “The residue remains, even after all these centuries.”
“After centuries? Can you sense which warren, Icarium?”
“Kurald Galain. Elder, the Warren of Darkness.”
“Tiste Andii? In all the histories of Seven Cities that I am aware of, I’ve never heard mention of Tiste Andii present on this continent. Nor in my homeland, on the other side of the Jhag Odhan. Are you certain? This does not make sense.”
“I am not certain, Mappo. It has the feel of Kurald Galain, that is all. The feel of Dark. It is not Omtose Phellack nor Tellann. Not Starvald Demelain. I know of no other Elder Warrens.”
“Nor I.”
Without another word the three began walking.
By Mappo’s count, the hallway ended three hundred and thirty paces later, opening out into another octagonal chamber, this one with its floor raised a hand’s width higher than that of the hallway. Each flagstone was also octagonal, and on each of them images had been intricately carved, then defaced with gouges and scoring in what seemed entirely random, frenzied destruction.
The Trell felt his hackles stiffening into a ridge on his neck as he stood at the room’s threshold. Icarium was beside him.
