The Malazan Empire, page 849
‘Where have the people gone, Osserc? Now that you’ve destroyed their city.’
His brows lifted. ‘Why, nowhere.’ He gestured, a broad sweep of one hand, encompassing the rows of mounds around them. ‘I denied them their moment of . . . nostalgia.’
She found herself trembling. ‘Come down here,’ she said in a rasp, ‘your death is long overdue.’
‘Others concur,’ he admitted. ‘In fact, it’s why I’m, uh, lingering here. Only one portal survives. No, not the one you came through—that one has since crumbled.’
‘And who waits for you there, Osserc?’
‘Edgewalker.’
Kilmandaros bared her massive fangs in a broad smile. And then threw a laugh back at him. She moved on.
His voice sounded surprised as he called out behind her. ‘What are you doing? He is angry. Do you not understand? He is angry!’
‘And this is my dream,’ she whispered. ‘Where all that has been is yet to be.’ And still, she wondered. She had no recollection, after all, of this particular place. Nor of meeting Osserc among the shattered remnants of Kurald Emurlahn.
Sometimes it is true, she told herself, that dreams prove troubling.
‘Clouds on the horizon. Black, advancing in broken lines.’ Stormy knuckled his eyes and then glared across at Gesler from a momentarily reddened face. ‘What kind of stupid dream is that?’
‘How should I know? There are cheats who make fortunes interpreting the dreams of fools. Why not try one of those?’
‘You calling me a fool?’
‘Only if you follow my advice, Stormy.’
‘Anyway, that’s why I howled.’
Gesler leaned forward, clearing tankards and whatnot to make room for his thick, scarred forearms. ‘Falling asleep in the middle of a drinking session is unforgivable enough. Waking up screaming, why, that’s just obnoxious. Had half the idiots in here clutching at their chests.’
‘We shouldn’t’ve skipped out on the war-game, Ges.’
‘Not again. It wasn’t like that. We volunteered to go and find Hellian.’ He nodded to the third occupant of the table, although only the top of her head was visible, the hair sodden along one side where it had soaked up spilled ale. Her snores droned through the wood of the table like a hundred pine beetles devouring a sick tree. ‘And look, we found her, only she was in no shape to lead her squad. In fact, she’s in no shape for anything. She could get mugged, raped, even murdered. We needed to stand guard.’
Stormy belched and scratched at his beard. ‘It wasn’t a fun dream, that’s all.’
‘When was the last fun dream you remember having?’
‘Don’t know. Been some time, I think. But maybe we just forget those ones. Maybe we only remember the bad ones.’
Gesler refilled their tankards. ‘So there’s a storm coming. Impressive subtlety, your dreams. Prophetic, even. You sleep to the whispers of the gods, Stormy.’
‘Now ain’t you in a good mood, Ges. Remind me not to talk about my dreams no more.’
‘I didn’t want you talking about them this time round. It was the scream.’
‘Not a scream, like I told you. It was a howl.’
‘What’s the difference?’
Scowling, Stormy reached for his tankard. ‘Only, sometimes, maybe, gods don’t whisper.’
‘Furry women still haunting your dreams?’
Bottle opened his eyes and contemplated throwing a knife into her face. Instead, he slowly winked. ‘Good afternoon, Captain. I’m surprised you’re not—’
‘Excuse me, soldier, but did you just wink at me?’
He sat up on his cot. ‘Was that a wink, Captain? Are you sure?’
Faradan Sort turned away, muttering under her breath as she marched towards the barracks door.
Once the door shut behind her, Bottle sat back, frowning. Now, messing with an officer’s head was just, well, second nature. No, what disturbed him was the fact that he was suddenly unsure if she’d spoken at all. As a question, it didn’t seem a likely fit, not coming from Faradan Sort. In fact, he doubted she even knew anything about his particular curse—how could she? There wasn’t a fool alive who confided in an officer. Especially ones who viciously killed talented, happily married scorpions for no good reason. And if she did indeed know something, then it meant someone had traded that bit of information in exchange for something else. A favour, a deal, which was nothing less than a behind-the-back betrayal of every common soldier in the legion.
Who was vile enough to do that?
He opened his eyes and looked around. He was alone in the barracks. Fiddler had taken the squad out for that field exercise, the war-game against Brys Beddict’s newly assembled battalions. Complaining of a bad stomach, Bottle had whined and groaned his way out of it. Not for him some useless trudging through bush and farmland; besides, it hadn’t been so long ago that they were killing Letherii for real. There was a good chance someone—on either side—would forget that everyone was friends now. The point was, he’d been the first one quick enough with the bad-stomach complaint, so no one else could take it up—he’d caught the vicious glare from Smiles, which of course he’d long got used to since he was always faster off the mark than she was.
Smiles. Bottle fixed his gaze on her cot, studied it through a suspicious squint. Behind-the-back shit was her forte, wasn’t it? Aye, and who else had it in for him?
He swung his feet to the floor and—gods, that stone was cold!—padded over to her berth.
It paid to approach these things cautiously. If anyone was in the habit of rigging booby traps to just about everything they didn’t want anyone else to touch, it was that spitting half-mad kitten with the sharp eye-stickers. Bottle drew his eating knife and began probing under the thin mattress, leaning close to peer at seams and seemingly random projections of tick straw—any one of which could be coated in poison—projections which, he discovered, turned out to be, uh, random projections of tick straw. Trying to lull me into something . . . I can smell it.
He knelt and peeked under the frame. Nothing obvious, and that made him even more suspicious. Muttering, Bottle crawled round to kneel in front of her lockbox. Letherii issue—not something they’d be taking with them. She’d not have had much time to rig it, not deviously, anyway. No, the needles and blades would be poorly hidden.
She’d sold him out, but she would learn to regret doing that.
Finding nothing on the outside of the trunk, he slipped his knife point into the lock and began working the mechanism.
Discovering that the lockbox wasn’t even locked froze him into a long moment of terror, breath held, sudden sweat beading his forehead. A snare for sure. A killer snare. Smiles doesn’t invite people in, oh no, not her. If I just lift this lid, I’m a dead man.
He whirled upon hearing the scrape of boots, and found himself looking up at Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas. ‘Hood’s breath, soldier, stop sneaking up on me like that!’
‘What’re you doing?’ Corabb asked.
‘Me? What’re you doing? Don’t tell me the scrap’s already over—’
‘No. I lost my new sword. Sergeant got mad and sent me home.’
‘Bad luck, Corabb. No glory for you.’
‘Wasn’t looking for any—wasn’t real fighting, Bottle. I don’t see the point in that. They’d only learn anything if we could use our weapons and kill a few hundred of them.’
‘Right. That makes sense. Bring it up with Fiddler—’
‘I did. Just before he sent me back.’
‘He’s getting more unreasonable by the day.’
‘Funny,’ Corabb said, ‘that’s exactly what I said to him. Anyway, what’re you doing? This isn’t your bunk.’
‘You’re a sharp one all right, Corabb. See, it’s like this. Smiles is trying to murder me.’
‘Is she? Why?’
‘Women like her don’t need reasons, Corabb. She’s set booby traps. Poison, is my guess. Because I was staying behind, you see? She’s set a trap to kill me.’
‘Oh,’ said Corabb. ‘That’s clever.’
‘Not clever enough, friend. Because now you’re here.’
‘I am, yes.’
Bottle edged back from the lockbox. ‘It’s unlocked,’ he said, ‘so I want you to lift the lid.’
Corabb stepped past and flung the lid back.
After he’d recovered from his flinch, Bottle crawled up for a look inside.
‘Now what?’ Corabb asked behind him. ‘Was that practice?’
‘Practice?’
‘Aye.’
‘No, Corabb—gods, this is strange—look at this gear! Those clothes.’
‘Well, what I meant was, do you want me to open Smiles’s box next?’
‘What?’
‘That’s Cuttle’s. You’re at Cuttle’s bunk, Bottle.’ He pointed. ‘Hers is right there.’
‘Well,’ Bottle muttered as he stood up and dropped the lid on the lockbox. ‘That explains the codpiece.’
‘Oh . . . does it?’
They stared at each other.
‘So, just how many bastards do you think you’ve sired by now?’
‘What?’
‘What?’
‘You just say something, Corabb?’
‘What?’
‘Before that.’
‘Before what?’
‘Something about bastards.’
‘Are you calling me a bastard?’ Corabb demanded, his face darkening.
‘No, of course not. How would I know?’
‘How—’
‘It’s none of my business, right?’ Bottle slapped the man on one solid shoulder and set off to find his boots. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Thought you were sick.’
‘Better now.’
Once he’d made his escape—in all likelihood narrowly avoiding being beaten to death by the squad’s biggest fist over some pathetic misunderstanding—Bottle glared up at the mid-afternoon sun for a moment, and then set off. All right, you parasite, I’m paying attention now. Where to?
‘It’s about time. I was having doubts—’
Quick Ben! Since when were you playing around with Mockra? And do you have any idea how our skulls will ache by this evening?
‘Relax, I got something for that. Bottle, I need you to go to the Old Palace. I’m down in the crypts.’
Where you belong.
‘First time anybody’s expressed that particular sentiment, Bottle. Tell me when you get to the grounds.’
What are you doing in the crypts, Quick Ben?
‘I’m at the Cedance. You need to see this, Bottle.’
Did you find them, then?
‘Who?’
Sinn and Grub. Heard they went missing.
‘No, they’re not here, and no sign that anyone’s been down here in some time. As I’ve already told the Adjunct, the two imps are gone.’
Gone? Gone where?
‘No idea. But they’re gone.’
Bad news for the Adjunct—she’s losing her mages—
‘She’s got me. She doesn’t need anyone else.’
And all my fears are laid to rest.
‘You may not have realized, Bottle, but I was asking you about your furry lover for a reason.’
Jealousy?
‘Hurry up and get here so I can throttle you. No, not jealousy. Although, come to think on it, I can’t even recall the last time—’
You said you had a reason, Quick Ben. Let’s hear it.
‘What’s Deadsmell been telling you?’
What? Nothing. Well.
‘Hah, I knew it! Don’t believe him, Bottle. He hasn’t any idea—any idea at all—about what’s in the works.’
You know, Quick Ben, oh . . . never mind. So, I’m on the grounds. Where to now?
‘Anybody see you?’
You didn’t tell me to do this sneakily!
‘Anybody in sight?’
Bottle looked round. Wings of the Old Palace were settled deep in mud, plaster cracking or simply gone, to reveal fissured, slumping brick walls. Snarls of grasses swallowed up old flagstone pathways. A plaza of some sort off to his left was now a shallow pond. The air was filled with spinning insects. No.
‘Good. Now, follow my instructions precisely, Bottle.’
You sure? I mean, I was planning on ignoring every third direction you gave me.
‘Fiddler needs to have a few words with you, soldier. About rules of conduct when it comes to High Mages.’
Look, Quick Ben, if you want me to find this Cedance, leave me to it. I have a nose for those kinds of things.
‘I knew it!’
You knew what? I’m just saying—
‘She’s been whispering in your ear—’
Gods below, Quick Ben! The noises she makes aren’t whispers. They’re not even words. I don’t—
‘She gives you visions, doesn’t she? Flashes of her own memories. Scenes.’
How do you know that?
‘Tell me some.’
Why do you think it’s any of your business?
‘Choose one, damn you.’
He slapped at a mosquito. Some would be easier than others, he knew. Easier because they were empty of meaning. Most memories were, he suspected. Frozen scenes. Jungle trails, the bark of four-legged monkeys from cliff-sides. Huddled warmth in the night as hunting beasts coughed in the darkness. But there was one that returned again and again, in innumerable variations.
The sudden blossoming of blue sky, an opening ahead, the smell of salt. Soft rush of gentle waves on white coral beach. Padding breathless on to the strand in a chorus of excited cries and chatter. Culmination of terrifying journeys overland where it seemed home would never again find them. And then, in sudden gift . . . Shorelines, Quick. Bright sun, hot sand underfoot. Coming home . . . even when the home has never been visited before. And, all at once, they gather to begin building boats.
‘Boats?’
Always boats. Islands. Places where the tawny hunters do not stalk the night. Places, where they can be . . . safe.
‘The Eres—’
Lived for the seas. The oceans. Coming from the great continents, they existed in a state of flight. Shorelines fed them. The vast emptiness beyond the reefs called to them.
‘Boats? What kind of boats?’
It varies—I don’t always travel with the same group. Dug-outs. Reed boats and bamboo rafts. Skins, baskets bridged by saplings—like nests in toppled trees. Quick Ben, the Eres’al—they were smart, smarter than you might think. They weren’t as different from us as they might seem. They conquered the entire world.
‘So what happened to them?’
Bottle shrugged. I don’t know. I think, maybe, we happened to them.
He had found a sundered doorway. Walking the length of dark, damp corridors and following the narrow staircases spiralling downward to landings ankle-deep in water. Sloshing this way and that, drawing unerringly closer to that pulsing residue of ancient power. Houses, Tiles, Holds, Wandering—that all sounds simple enough, doesn’t it, Quick Ben? Logical. But what about the roads of the sea? Where do they fit in? Or the siren calls of the wind? The point is, we see ourselves as the great trekkers, the bold travellers and explorers. But the Eres’al, High Mage, they did it first. There isn’t a place we step anywhere in this world that they haven’t stepped first. Humbling thought, isn’t it? He reached a narrow tunnel with an uneven floor that formed islands between pools. A massive portal with a leaning lintel stone beckoned. He stepped through and saw the causeway, and the broader platform at the end, where stood Quick Ben.
‘All right, I’m here, Quick Ben. With soaked feet.’
The vast chamber was bathed in golden light that rose like mist from the Tiles spreading out from the disc. Quick Ben, head tilted to one side, watched Bottle approach up the causeway, an odd look in his eyes.
‘What?’
He blinked, and then gestured. ‘Look around, Bottle. The Cedance is alive.’
‘Signifying what?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me. The magic here should be waning. We’ve unleashed the warrens, after all. We’ve brought the Deck of Dragons. We’ve slammed the door on Chaos. It’s like bringing the wheel to a tribe that has only used sleds and travois—there’s been a revolution among this kingdom’s mages. Even the priests are finding everything upside down—it’d be nice to sneak a spy into the cult of the Errant. Anyway, this place should be dying, Bottle.’
Bottle looked round. One Tile close by displayed a scatter of bones carved like impressions into the stone surface, impressions that glowed as if filled with embers. Nearby was another showing an empty throne. But the brightest Tile of all lifted its own image above the flat surface, so that it floated, swirling, in three dimensions. A dragon, wings spread wide, jaws open. ‘Hood’s breath,’ he muttered, repressing a shiver.
‘Your roads of the sea, Bottle,’ said Quick Ben. ‘They make me think about Mael.’
‘Well, hard not to think about Mael in this city, High Mage.’
‘You know, then.’
Bottle nodded.
‘That’s not nearly as worrisome as what was happening back in the Malazan Empire. The ascension of Mallick Rel, the Jhistal.’
Bottle frowned at Quick Ben. ‘How can that be more worrying than finding an Elder God standing next to the Letherii throne?’
‘It’s not the throne he’s standing beside. It’s Tehol. From what I gather, that relationship has been there for some time. Mael’s hiding here, trying to keep his head down. But he hasn’t much say when some mortal manages to grasp some of his power, and starts forcing concessions.’
‘The Elder God of the Seas,’ said Bottle, ‘was ever a thirsty god. And his daughter isn’t much better.’
‘Beru?’
‘Who else? The Lady of Fair Seas is an ironic title. It pays,’ he added, eyeing the dragon Tile, ‘not to take things so literally.’
‘I’m thinking,’ said Quick Ben, ‘of asking the Adjunct to elevate you to High Mage.’
‘Don’t do that,’ snapped Bottle. ‘Give me a reason not to. And not one of those pathetic ones about comradeship and how you’re so needed in Fid’s squad.’
‘All right. See what you think of this one, then. Keep me where I am . . . as your shaved knuckle in the hole.’
