The Malazan Empire, page 835
Brys watched as the Adjunct slowly sat down in the chair at the head of the table, and it was hard to determine which woman was more shaken or distraught. Whatever sorrow was buried within Lostara Yil now seemed much closer to the surface, and she had said not a word since Fiddler’s exit, standing with arms crossed—a gesture that likely had as much to do with aching ribs as anything else.
‘Thank you,’ said the Adjunct, ‘for being here, sir.’
Startled, Brys frowned. ‘I may well have been the reason for the Errant’s attention, Adjunct. You would perhaps be more justified in cursing me instead.’
‘I do not believe that,’ she replied. ‘We are in the habit of acquiring enemies.’
‘This is the Errant’s back yard,’ Brys pointed out. ‘Naturally, he resents intruders. But even more, he despises the other residents who happen to share it with him. People like me, Adjunct.’
She glanced up at him. ‘You were dead, once. Or so I understand. Resurrected.’
He nodded. ‘It is extraordinary how little choice one has in such matters. If I mull on that overlong I become despondent. I do not appreciate the notion of being so easily manipulated. I would prefer to think of my soul as my own.’
She looked away, and then settled her hands flat on the table before her—a strange gesture—whereupon she seemed to study them. ‘Fiddler spoke of the Errant’s . . . rival. The Master of the Deck of Dragons.’ She hesitated, and then added, ‘That man is my brother, Ganoes Paran.’
‘Ah. I see.’
She shook her head but would not look up, intent on her hands. ‘I doubt that. We may share blood, but in so far as I know, we are not allies. Not . . . close. There are old issues between us. Matters that cannot be salved, not by deed, not by word.’
‘Sometimes,’ Brys ventured, ‘when nothing can be shared except regret, then regret must serve as the place to begin. Reconciliation does not demand that one side surrender to the other. The simple, mutual recognition that mistakes were made is in itself a closing of the divide.’
She managed a half-smile. ‘Brys Beddict, your words, however wise, presume communication between the parties involved. Alas, this has not been the case.’
‘Perhaps, then, you might have welcomed the Master’s attention this night. Yet, if I did indeed understand Fiddler, no such contact was in truth forthcoming. Your soldier bluffed. Tell me, if you would, is your brother aware of your . . . predicament?’
She shot him a look, sharp, searching. ‘I do not recall sharing any details of my predicament.’
Brys was silent. Wondering what secret web he had just set trembling.
She rose, frowned over at Lostara for a moment, as if surprised to find her still there, and then said, ‘Inform the King that we intend to depart soon. We will be rendezvousing with allies at the border to the Wastelands, whereupon we shall march east.’ She paused. ‘Naturally, we must ensure that we are well supplied with all necessities—of course, we shall pay in silver and gold for said materiel.’
‘We would seek to dissuade you, Adjunct,’ said Brys. ‘The Wastelands are aptly named, and as for the lands east of them, what little we hear has not been promising.’
‘We’re not looking for promises,’ the Adjunct replied.
Brys Beddict bowed. ‘I shall take my leave now, Adjunct.’
‘Do you wish an escort?’
He shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary. Thank you for the offer.’
The roof would have to do. He’d wanted a tower, something ridiculously high. Or a pinnacle and some tottering, ragged keep moments from plunging off the cliff into the thrashing seas below. Or perhaps a cliff-side fastness on some raw mountain, slick with ice and drifts of snow. An abbey atop a mesa, with the only access through a rope and pulley system with a wicker basket to ride in. But this roof would have to do.
Quick Ben glared at the greenish smear in the south sky, that troop of celestial riders not one of whom had any good news to deliver, no doubt. Magus of Dark. The bastard! You got a nasty nose, Fid, haven’t you just. And don’t even try it with that innocent look. One more disarming shrug from you and I’ll ram ten warrens down your throat.
Magus of Dark.
There was a throne once . . . no, never mind.
Just stay away from Sandalath, that’s all. Stay away, ducked out of sight. It was just a reading, after all. Fiddler’s usual mumbo jumbo. Means nothing. Meant nothing. Don’t bother me, I’m busy.
Magus of Dark.
Fiddler was now drunk, along with Stormy and Gesler, badly singing old Napan pirate songs, not one of which was remotely clever. Bottle, sporting three fractured ribs, had shuffled off to find a healer he could bribe awake. Sinn and Grub had run away, like a couple of rats whose tails had just been chopped off by the world’s biggest cleaver. And Hedge . . . Hedge was creeping up behind him right now, worse than an addled assassin.
‘Go away.’
‘Not a chance, Quick. We got to talk.’
‘No we don’t.’
‘He said I was the Mason of Death.’
‘So build a crypt and climb inside, Hedge. I’ll be happy to seal it for you with every ward I can think of.’
‘The thing is, Fid’s probably right.’
Eyes narrowing, Quick Ben faced the sapper. ‘Hood’s been busy of late.’
‘You’d know more of that than me, and don’t deny it.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with us.’
‘You sure?’
Quick Ben nodded.
‘Then why am I the Mason of Death?’
The shout echoed from the nearby rooftops and Quick Ben flinched. ‘Because you’re needed,’ he said after a moment.
‘To do what?’
‘You’re needed,’ Quick Ben snarled, ‘to build us a road.’
Hedge stared. ‘Gods below, where are we going?’
‘The real question is whether we’ll ever get there. Listen, Hedge, she’s nothing like you think. She’s nothing like any of us thinks. I can’t explain—I can’t get any closer than that. Don’t try anticipating. Or second-guessing—she’ll confound you at every turn. Just look at this reading—’
‘That was Fid’s doing—’
‘You think so? You’re dead wrong. He knows because she told him. Him and no one else. Now, you can try to twist Fiddler for details all you like—it won’t work. The truth as much as cut out his tongue.’
‘So what’s made you the Magus of Dark? What miserable piss-sour secret you holding back on now, Quick?’
The wizard turned away once more, stared out over the city, and then stiffened. ‘Shit, what now?’
The sorcery erupted from an alley mouth, striking Brys Beddict from his left side. The impact sent him sprawling, grey tendrils writhing like serpents about his body. In the span of a single heartbeat, the magic had bound him tight, arms trapped. The coils began constricting.
Lying on his back, staring up at the night sky—that had at last begun to pale—Brys heard footsteps and a moment later the Errant stepped into the range of his vision. The god’s single eye gleamed like a star burning through mist.
‘I warned you, Brys Beddict. This time, there will be no mistakes. Yes, it was me who nudged you to take that mouthful of poisoned wine—oh, the Chancellor had not anticipated such a thing, but he can be forgiven that. After all, how could I have imagined that you’d found a guardian among Mael’s minions?’ He paused, and then said, ‘No matter. I am done with subtlety—this is much better. I can look into your eyes and watch you die, and what could be more satisfying than that?’
The sorcery tautened, forcing Brys’s breath from his lungs. Darkness closed in round his vision until all he could see was the Errant’s face, a visage that had lost all grace as avid hunger twisted the features. He watched as the god lifted one hand and slowly clenched the fingers—and the pressure around Brys’s chest built until his ribs creaked.
The new fist that arrived hammered like a maul against the side of the Errant’s head, snapping it far over. The gleaming eye seemed to wink out and the god crumpled, vanishing from Brys’s dwindling vision.
All at once the coils weakened, and then frayed into dissolving threads.
Brys drew a ragged, delicious breath of chill night air.
He heard horse hoofs, a half dozen beasts, maybe more, approaching at a canter from up the street. Blinking sweat from his eyes, Brys rolled on to his stomach and then forced himself to his knees.
A hand closed on his harness and lifted him to his feet.
He found himself staring up at a Tarthenal—a familiar face, the heavy, robust features knotted absurdly into a fierce frown.
‘I got a question for you. It was for your brother and I was on my way but then I saw you.’
The riders arrived, horses skidding on the dew-slick cobbles—a Malazan troop, Brys saw, weapons unsheathed. One of them, a dark-skinned woman, pointed with a sword. ‘He crawled into that alley—come on, let’s chop the bastard into stewing meat!’ She made to dismount and then seemed to sag and an instant later she collapsed on to the street, weapon clattering.
Other soldiers dropped down from their mounts. Three of them converged on the unconscious woman, while the others fanned out and advanced into the alley.
Brys was still having difficulty staying upright. He found himself leaning with one forearm against the Tarthenal. ‘Ublala Pung,’ he sighed, ‘thank you.’
‘I got a question.’
Brys nodded. ‘All right, let’s hear it.’
‘But that’s the problem. I forgot what it was.’
One of the Malazans crowded round the woman now straightened and faced them. ‘Sinter said there was trouble,’ he said in heavily accented trader tongue. ‘Said we needed to hurry—to here, to save someone.’
‘I believe,’ Brys said, ‘the danger has passed. Is she all right, sir?’
‘I’m a sergeant—people don’t “sir” me . . . sir. She’s just done in. Both her and her sister.’ He scowled. ‘But we’ll escort you just the same, sir—she’d never forgive us if something happened to you now. So, wherever you’re going . . .’
The other soldiers emerged from the alley, and one said something in Malazan, although Brys needed no translation to understand that they’d found no one—the Errant’s survival instincts were ever strong, even when he’d been knocked silly by a Tarthenal’s fist.
‘It seems,’ Brys said, ‘I shall have an escort after all.’
‘It is not an offer you can refuse, sir,’ said the sergeant.
Nor will I. Lesson learned, Adjunct.
The soldiers were attempting to heave the woman named Sinter back into her saddle. Ublala Pung stepped up to them. ‘I will carry her,’ he said. ‘She’s pretty.’
‘Do as the Toblakai says,’ said the sergeant.
‘She’s pretty,’ Ublala Pung said again, as he took her limp form in his arms. ‘Pretty smelly, too, but that’s okay.’
‘Perimeter escort,’ snapped the sergeant, ‘crossbows cocked. Anybody steps out, nail ’em.’
Brys prayed there would be no early risers between here and the palace. ‘Best we hurry,’ he ventured.
On a rooftop not far away, Quick Ben sighed and then relaxed.
‘What was all that about?’ Hedge asked beside him.
‘Damned Toblakai . . . but that’s not the interesting bit, though, is it? No, it’s that Dal Honese woman. Well, that can all wait.’
‘You’re babbling, wizard.’
Magus of Dark. Gods below.
Alone in the cellar beneath the dormitories, Fiddler stared down at the card in his hand. The lacquered wood glistened, dripped as if slick with sweat. The smell rising from it was of humus, rich and dark, a scent of the raw earth.
‘Tartheno Toblakai,’ he whispered.
Herald of Life.
Well, just so.
He set it down and then squinted at the second card he had withdrawn to close this dread night. Unaligned. Chain. Aye, we all know about those, my dear. Fret naught, it’s the price of living.
Now, if only you weren’t so . . . strong. If only you were weaker. If only your chains didn’t reach right into the heart of the Bonehunters—if only I knew who was dragging who, why, I might have reason to hope.
But he didn’t, and so there wasn’t.
Chapter Four
Behold these joyful devourers
The land laid out skewered in silver
Candlesticks of softest pewter
Rolling the logs down cut on end
To make roads through the forest
That once was—before the logs
(Were rolled down cut on end)—
We called it stump road and we
Called it forest road when
Our imaginations starved
You can make fans with ribs
Of sheep and pouches for baubles
By pounding flat the ears
Of old women and old men—
Older is best for the ear grows
For ever it’s said, even when
There’s not a scrap anywhere to eat
So we carried our wealth
In pendulum pouches wrinkled
And hairy, diamonds and gems
Enough to buy a forest or a road
But maybe not both
Enough even for slippers of
Supplest skin feathered in down
Like a baby’s cheek
There is a secret we know
When nothing else is left
And the sky stops its tears
A belly can bulge full
On diamonds and gems
And a forest can make a road
Through what once was
You just won’t find any shade
PENDULUMS WERE ONCE TOYS
BADALLE OF KORBANSE SNAKE
To journey into the other worlds, a shaman or witch of the Elan would ride the Spotted Horse. Seven herbs, softened with beeswax and rolled into a ball and then flattened into an oblong disc that was taken into the mouth and held between lip and gum. Coolness slowly numbing and saliva rising as if the throat was the mouth of a spring, a tingling sensation lifting to gather behind the eyes in coalescing colours and then, in a blinding flash, the veil between worlds vanished. Patterns swirled in the air; complex geometries played across the landscape—a landscape that could be the limitless wall of a hide tent, or the rolling plains of a cave wall where ran the beasts—until the heart-stains emerged, pulsing, blotting the scene in undulating rows, sweet as waves and tasting of mother’s milk.
So arrived the Spotted Horse, a cascade of heart-stains rippling across the beast, down its long neck, sweeping along its withers, flowing like seed-heads from its mane and tail.
Ride into the alien world. Ride among the ancestors and the not-yet-born, among the tall men with their eternally swollen members, the women with their forever-filled wombs. Through forests of black threads, the touch or brush of any one of them an invitation to endless torment, for this was the path of return for all life, and to be born was to pass through and find the soul’s fated thread—the tale of a future death that could not be escaped. To ride the other way, however, demanded a supple traverse, evading such threads, lest one’s own birth-fate become entangled, knotted, and so doom the soul to eternal prison, snared within the web of conflicted fates.
Prophecies could be found among the black threads, but the world beyond that forest was the greatest gift. Timeless, home to all the souls that ever existed; this was where grief was shed, where sorrow dried up and blew away like dust, where scars vanished. To journey into this realm was to be cleansed, made whole, purged of all regrets and dark desires.
Riding the Spotted Horse and then returning was to be reborn, guiltless, guileless.
Kalyth knew all this, but only second-hand. The riders among her people passed on the truths, generation upon generation. Any one of the seven herbs, if taken alone, would kill. The seven mixed in wrong proportions delivered madness. And, finally, only those chosen as worthy by the shamans and witches would ever know the gift of the journey.
For one such as Kalyth, mired in the necessary mediocrity so vital to the maintenance of family, village and the Elan way of living, to take upon herself such a ritual—to even so much as taste the seven herbs—was a sentence to death and damnation.
Of course, the Elan were gone. No more shamans or witches to be found. No families, no villages, no clans, no herds—every ring of tipi stones, spanning the rises tucked at the foot of yet higher hilltops, now marked the motionless remnant of a final camp, a camp never to be returned to, the stones destined to sink slowly where they lay, the lichen on their undersides dying, the grasses so indifferently crushed beneath them turning white as bone. Such boulder rings were now maps of extinction and death. They held no promises, only the sorrow of endings.
She had suffered her own damnation, one devoid of any crime, any real culpability beyond her cowardly flight: her appalling abandonment of her family. There had been no shamans left to utter the curse, but that hardly mattered, did it?
She sat, as the sun withered in the west and the grasses surrounding her grew wiry and grey, staring down at the disc lying in the palm of her hand.
Elan magic. As foreign to her world now as the Che’Malle machines in Ampelas Rooted had been when she’d first set eyes upon them. To ride the Spotted Horse through the ashes of her people invited . . . what? She did not know, could not know. Would she find the spirits of her kin—would they truly look upon her with love and forgiveness? Was this her secret desire? Not a quest into the realms of prophecy seeking hidden knowledge; not searching for a Mortal Sword and a Shield Anvil for the K’Chain Che’Malle?
Dire confusion—her motivations were suspect—hah, rotted through and through!
And might there not be another kind of salvation she was seeking here? The invitation into madness, into death itself? Possibly.
‘Beware the leader who has nothing to lose.’
Her people were proud of their wise sayings. And yet now, in their mortal silence, wisdom and pride proved a perfect match in value. Namely: worthless.
