The Malazan Empire, page 92
The red sky darkened with that desert suddenness, suffusing the air with the color of drying blood. Moments before he lost the last of the light, Duiker chanced to glance behind him. He saw a grainy cloud, visibly expanding as it swept southward. It seemed to glitter with a hundred thousand pale reflections, as if a wind was flipping the underside of birch leaves at the edge of a vast forest. Capemoths, surely in their millions, leaving Hissar behind, flying to the scent of blood.
He told himself that it was a mindless hunger that drove them. He told himself that the blots, stains and smudges in that billowing, sky-filling cloud were only by chance finding the shape of a face. Hood, after all, had no need to manifest his presence. Nor was he known as a melodramatic god—the Lord of Death was reputed to be, if anything, ironically modest. Duiker’s imaginings were the product of fear, the all too human need to conjure symbolic meaning from meaningless events. Nothing more.
Duiker kicked his horse into a canter, eyes fixed once more on the growing darkness ahead.
From the crest of the low rise, Felisin watched the seething floor of the basin. It was as if insanity’s grip had swept out, from the cities, from the minds of men and women, to stain the natural world. With the approach of dusk, as she and her two companions prepared to break camp for the night’s walk, the basin’s sand had begun to shiver like the patter of rain on a lake. Beetles began emerging, each black and as large as Baudin’s thumb, crawling in a glittering tide that soon filled the entire sweep of desert before them. In their thousands, then hundreds of thousands, yet moving as one, with a singular purpose. Heboric, ever the scholar, had gone off to determine their destination. She had watched him skirt the far edge of the insect army, then vanish beyond the next ridge.
Twenty minutes had passed since then.
Crouching beside her was Baudin, his forearms resting on the large backpack, squinting to pierce the deepening gloom. She sensed his growing unease but had decided that she would not be the one to give voice to their shared concern. There were times when she wondered at Heboric’s grasp of what mattered over what didn’t. She wondered if the old man was, in fact, a liability.
The swelling had ebbed, enough so that she could see and hear, but a deeper pain remained, as if the bloodfly larvae had left something behind under her flesh, a rot that did more than disfigure her appearance, but laid a stain on her soul as well. There was a poison lodged within her. Her sleep was filled with visions of blood, unceasing, a crimson river that carried her like flotsam from sunrise to sunset. Six days since their escape from Skullcup, and a part of her looked forward to the next sleep.
Baudin grunted.
Heboric reappeared, jogging steadily along the basin’s edge toward their position. Squat, hunched, he was like an ogre shambling out from a child’s bedtime story. Blunt knobs where his hands should be, about to be raised to reveal fangstudded mouths. Tales to frighten children. I could write those. I need no imagination, only what I see all around me. Heboric, my boar-tattooed ogre. Baudin, red-scarred where one ear used to be, the hair growing tangled and bestial from the puckered skin. A pair to strike terror, these two.
The old man reached them, kneeling to sling his arms through his backpack. “Extraordinary,” he mumbled.
Baudin grunted again. “But can we get around them? I ain’t wading through, Heboric.”
“Oh, aye, easily enough. They’re just migrating to the next basin.”
Felisin snorted. “And you find that extraordinary?”
“I do,” he said, waiting as Baudin tightened the pack’s straps. “Tomorrow night they’ll march to the next patch of deep sand. Understand? Like us they’re heading west, and like us they’ll reach the sea.”
“And then?” Baudin asked. “Swim?”
“I have no idea. More likely they’ll turn around and march east, to the other coast.”
Baudin strapped on his own pack and stood. “Like a bug crawling the rim of a goblet,” he said.
Felisin gave him a quick glance, remembering her last evening with Beneth. The man had been sitting at his table in Bula’s, watching flies circle the rim of his mug. It was one of the few memories that she could conjure up. Beneth, my lover, the Fly King circling Skullcup. Baudin left him to rot, that’s why he won’t meet my eye. Thugs never lie well. He’ll pay for that, one day.
“Follow me,” Heboric said, setting off, his feet sinking into the sand so that it seemed he walked on stumps to match those at the end of his arms. He always started out fresh, displaying an energy that struck Felisin as deliberate, as if he sought to refute that he was old, that he was the weakest among them. The last third of the night he would be seven or eight hundred paces behind them, head ducked, legs dragging, weaving with the weight of the pack that nearly dwarfed him.
Baudin seemed to have a map in his head. Their source of information had been precise and accurate. Even though the desert seemed lifeless, a barrier of wasting deadliness, water could be found. Spring-fed pools in rock outcroppings, sinks of mud surrounded by the tracks of animals they never saw, where one could dig down an arm-span, sometimes less, and find the life-giving water.
They had carried enough food for twelve days, two more than was necessary for the journey to the coast. It was not a large margin but it would have to suffice. For all that, however, they were weakening. Each night, they managed less distance in the hours between the sun’s setting and its rise. Months at Skullcup, working the airless reaches, had diminished some essential reserve within them.
That knowledge was plain, though unspoken. Time now stalked them, Hood’s most patient servant, and with each night they fell back farther, closer to that place where the will to live surrendered to a profound peace. There’s a sweet promise to giving up, but realizing that demands a journey. One of spirit. You can’t walk to Hood’s Gate, you find it before you when the fog clears.
“Your thoughts, lass?” Heboric asked. They had crossed two ridge lines, arriving on a withered pan. The stars were spikes of iron overhead, the moon yet to rise.
“We live in a cloud,” she replied. “All our lives.”
Baudin grunted. “That’s durhang talking.”
“Never knew you were so droll,” Heboric said to the man.
Baudin fell silent. Felisin grinned to herself. The thug would say little for the rest of the night. He did not take well being mocked. I must remember that, for when he next needs cutting down.
“My apologies, Baudin,” Heboric said after a moment. “I was irritated by what Felisin said and took it out on you. More, I appreciated the joke, no matter that it was unintended.”
“Give it up,” Felisin sighed. “A mule comes out of a sulk eventually, but it’s nothing you can force.”
“So,” Heboric said, “while the swelling’s left your tongue, its poison remains.”
She flinched. If you only knew the full truth of that.
Rhizan flitted over the cracked surface of the pan, their only company now that they’d left the mindless beetles behind. They had seen no one since crossing Sinker Lake the night of the Dosii mutiny. Rather than loud alarms and frenetic pursuit, their escape had effected nothing. For Felisin, it made the drama of that night now seem somehow pathetic. For all their self-importance, they were but grains of sand in a storm vaster than anything they could comprehend. The thought pleased her.
Nevertheless, there was cause for worry. If the uprising had spread to the mainland, they might arrive at the coast only to die waiting for a boat that would never come.
They reached a low serrated ridge of rock outcroppings, silver in the starlight and looking like the vertebrae of an immense serpent. Beyond it stretched a wavelike expanse of sand. Something rose from the dunes fifty or so paces ahead, angled like a toppled tree or marble column, though, as they came nearer, they could see that it was blunted, crooked.
A vague wind rustled on the sands, twisting as if in the wake of a spider-bitten dancer. Gusts of sand caressed their shins as they strode on. The bent pillar, or whatever it was, was proving farther away than Felisin had first thought. As a new sense of scale formed in her mind, her breath hissed between her teeth.
“Aye,” Heboric whispered in reply.
Not fifty paces away. More like five hundred. The wind-blurred surface had deceived them. The basin was not a flat sweep of land, but a vast, gradual descent, rising again around the object—a wave of dizziness followed the realization.
The scythe of the moon had risen above the southern horizon by the time they reached the monolith. By unspoken agreement, Baudin and Heboric dropped their packs, the thug sitting down and leaning against his, already dismissive of the silent edifice towering over them.
Heboric removed the lantern and the firebox from his pack. He blew on the hoarded coals, then set alight a taper, which he used to light the lantern’s thick wick. Felisin made no effort to help, watching with fascination as he managed the task with a deftness belying the apparent awkwardness of the scarred stumps of his wrists.
Slinging one forearm under the lantern’s handle, he rose and approached the dark monolith.
Fifty men, hands linked, could not encircle the base. The bend occurred seven or eight man-lengths up, at about three-fifths of the total length. The stone looked both creased and polished, dark gray under the colorless light of the moon.
The glow of the lantern revealed the stone to be green, as Heboric arrived to stand before it. She watched his head tilt back as he scanned upward. Then he stepped forward and pressed a stump against the surface. A moment later he stepped back.
Water sloshed beside her as Baudin drank from a waterskin. She reached out and, after a moment, he passed it to her. Sand whispered as Heboric returned. The ex-priest squatted.
Felisin offered him the bladder. He shook his head, his toadlike face twisted into a troubled frown.
“Is this the biggest pillar you’ve seen, Heboric?” Felisin asked. “There’s a column in Aren…or so I’ve heard…that’s as high as twenty men, and carved in a spiral from top to bottom. Beneth described it to me once.”
“Seen it,” Baudin grumbled. “Not as wide, but maybe higher. What’s this one made of, Priest?”
“Jade.”
Baudin grunted phlegmatically, but Felisin saw his eyes widen slightly. “Well, I’ve seen taller. I’ve seen wider—”
“Shut up, Baudin,” Heboric snapped, wrapping his arms around himself. He glared up at the man from under the ridge of his brows. “That’s not a column over there,” he rasped. “It’s a finger.”
Dawn stole into the sky, spreading shadows on the landscape. The details of that carved jade finger were slowly prised from the gloom. Swells and folds of skin, the whorls of the pad, all became visible. So too did a ridge in the sand directly beneath it—another finger.
Fingers, to hand. Hand to arm, arm to body…For all the logic of that progression, it was impossible, Felisin thought. No such thing could be fashioned, no such thing could stand or stay in one piece. A hand, but no arm, no body.
Heboric said nothing, wrapped around himself, motionless as the night’s darkness faded. He held the wrist that had touched the edifice tucked under him, as if the memory of that contact brought pain. Staring at him in the growing light, Felisin was struck anew by his tattoos. They seemed to have deepened somehow, become sharper.
Baudin finally rose and began pitching the two small tents, close to the base of the finger, where the shadows would hold longest. He ignored the towering monolith as if it was nothing more than the bole of a tree, and set about driving deep into the sand the long, thin spikes through the first tent’s brass-hooped corners.
An orange tint suffused the air as the sun climbed higher. Although Felisin had seen that color of sky before on the island, it had never before been so saturated. She could almost taste it, bitter as iron.
As Baudin began on the second tent, Heboric finally roused himself, his head lifting as he sniffed the air, then squinted upward. “Hood’s breath!” he growled. “Hasn’t there been enough?”
“What is it?” Felisin demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s been a storm,” the ex-priest said. “That’s Otataral dust.”
At the tents, Baudin paused. He ran a hand across one shoulder, then frowned at his palm. “It’s settling,” he said.
“We’d best get under cover—”
Felisin snorted. “As if that will do any good! We’ve mined the stuff, in case you’ve forgotten. Whatever effect it’s had on us, it’s happened long ago.”
“Back at Skullcup we could wash ourselves at day’s end,” Heboric said, slinging an arm through the food pack’s strap and dragging it toward the tents.
She saw that he still held his other stump—the one that had touched the edifice—tight against his midriff.
“And you think that made a difference?” she asked. “If that’s true, why did every mage who worked there die or go mad? You’re not thinking clearly, Heboric—”
“Sit there, then,” the old man snapped, ducking under the first tent’s flap and pulling the pack in after him.
Felisin glanced at Baudin. The thug shrugged, resumed readying the second tent, without evident haste.
She sighed. She was exhausted, yet not sleepy. If she took to the tent, she would in all likelihood simply lie there, eyes open and studying the weave of the canvas above her face.
“Best get inside,” Baudin said.
“I’m not sleepy.”
He stepped close, the motion fluid like a cat’s. “I don’t give a damn if you’re sleepy or not. Sitting out under the sun will dry you out, meaning you’ll drink more water, meaning less for us, meaning get in this damned tent, lass, before I lay a hand to your backside.”
“If Beneth was here you wouldn’t—”
“The bastard’s dead!” he snarled. “And Hood take his rotten soul to the deepest pit!”
She sneered. “Brave now—you wouldn’t have dared stand up against him.”
He studied her as he would a bloodfly caught in a web. “Maybe I did,” he said, a sly grin showing a moment before he turned away.
Suddenly cold, Felisin watched the thug stride over to the other tent, crouch down and crawl inside. I’m not fooled, Baudin. You were a mongrel skulking in alleys, and all that’s changed is that you’ve left the alleys behind. You’d squirm in the sand at Beneth’s feet, if he were here. She waited another minute in defiance before entering her own tent.
Unfurling her bedroll, she lay down. Her eagerness to sleep was preventing her from doing so. She stared up at the dark imperfections in the canvas weave, wishing she had some durhang or a jug of wine. The crimson river of her dreams had become an embrace, protective and welcoming. She conjured from memory an echo of the image, and all the feelings that went with it. The river flowed with purpose, ordered and inexorable; when in its warm currents, she felt close to understanding that purpose. She knew she would discover it soon, and with that knowledge her world would change, become so much more than it was now. Not just a girl, plump and out of shape and used up, the vision of her future reduced to days when it should be measured in decades—a girl who could call herself young only with sneering irony.
For all that the dream promised her, there was a value in self-contempt, a counterpoint between her waking and sleeping hours, what was and what could be. A tension between what was real and what was imagined, or so Heboric would put it from his acid-pocked critical eye. The scholar of human nature held it in low opinion. He would deride her notions of destiny, and her belief that the dream offered something palpable would give him cause to voice his contempt. Not that he’s needed cause. I hate myself, but he hates everyone else. Which of us has lost the most?
She awoke groggy, her mouth parched and tasting of rust. The air was grainy, a dim gray light seeping through the canvas. She heard sounds of packing outside, a short murmur from Heboric, Baudin’s answering grunt. Felisin closed her eyes, trying to recapture the steady, flowing river that had carried her through her sleep, but it was gone.
She sat up, wincing as every joint protested. The others experienced the same, she knew. A nutritional deficiency, Heboric guessed, though he did not know what it might be. They had dried fruit, strips of smoked mule and some kind of Dosii bread, brick-hard and dark.
Muscles aching, she crawled from the tent into the chill morning air. The two men sat eating, the packets of rations laid out before them. There was little left, with the exception of the bread, which was salty and tended to make them desperately thirsty. Heboric had tried to insist that they eat the bread first—over the first few days—while they were still strong, not yet dehydrated, but neither she nor Baudin had listened, and for some reason he abandoned the idea with the next meal. Felisin had mocked him for that, she recalled. Unwilling to follow your own advice, eh, old man? Yet the advice had been good. They would reach the salt-laden, deathly coast with naught but even saltier bread to eat, and little water to assuage their thirst.
Maybe we didn’t listen because none of us believed we would ever reach the coast. Maybe Heboric decided the same after that first meal. Only I wasn’t thinking that far ahead, was I? No wise acceptance of the futility of all this. I mocked and ignored the advice out of spite, nothing more. As for Baudin, well, rare was the criminal with brains, and he wasn’t at all rare.
She joined the breakfast, ignoring their looks as she took an extra mouthful of lukewarm water from the bladder when washing down the smoked meat.
When she was done, Baudin repacked the food.
Heboric sighed. “What a threesome we are!” he said.
“You mean our dislike of each other?” Felisin asked, raising a brow. “You shouldn’t be surprised, old man,” she continued. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re all broken in some way. Aren’t we? The gods know you’ve pointed out my fall from grace often enough. And Baudin’s nothing more than a murderer—he’s dispensed with all notions of brotherhood, and is a bully besides, meaning he’s a coward at heart…” She glanced over to see him crouched at the packs, flatly eyeing her. Felisin gave him a sweet smile. “Right, Baudin?”
