The Malazan Empire, page 99
Like a long-limbed ape, Truth came scrambling down from the rigging, landing lightly on the deck and pausing close to her as he brushed dusty rope fibers from his clothes. He had a couple of years on her, yet looked much younger to her eyes. Unpocked, smooth skin. The wisps of beard, all too clear eyes. No gallons of wine, no clouds of durhang smoke, no weighty bodies taking turns to push inside, into a place that had started out vulnerable yet was soon walled off from anything real, anything that mattered. I only gave them the illusion of getting inside me, a dead-end pocket. Can you grasp what I’m talking about, Truth?
He noted her attention, gave her a shy smile. “He’s in the clouds,” he said, his voice hoarse with adolescence.
“Who is?”
“The sorcerer. Like an untethered kite, this way and that, trailing streamers of blood.”
“How poetic, Truth. Go back to being a marine.”
He reddened, turned away.
Baudin spoke behind her. “The lad’s too good for you and that’s what makes you mean.”
“What would you know?” she sneered without turning.
“I can’t scry you much, lass,” he admitted. “But I can scry you some.”
“So you’d like to believe. Let me know when that hand starts rotting—I want to be there when it’s cut off.”
The oars clacked in counterpoint to the thundering drum. The wind arrived like a gasping exhalation, and the sorcerer’s storm was upon them.
Something ragged across his brow awoke Fiddler. He opened his eyes to a mass of bristle ends that suddenly lifted clear to reveal a wizened black face peering critically down. The face concluded its examination with an expression of distaste.
“Spiders in your beard…or worse. Can’t see them, but I know they’re there.”
The sapper drew a deep breath and winced at the throbbing protest from his broken ribs. “Get away from me!” he growled. Stinging pain wrapped his thighs, reminders of the gouging claws that had raked them. His left ankle was heavily bandaged—the numbness from his foot was worrying.
“Can’t,” the old man replied. “No escape is possible. Bargains were sealed, arrangements made. The Deck speaks plain in this. A life given for a life taken, and more besides.”
“You’re Dal Honese,” Fiddler said. “Where am I?”
The face split into a wide grin. “In Shadow. Hee hee.”
A new voice spoke from behind the strange old man. “He wakens and you torment him, High Priest. Move aside, the soldier needs air, not airs.”
“It’s a matter of justice,” the High Priest retorted, though he pulled back. “Your tempered companion kneels before that altar, does he not? These details are vital to understanding.” He took another step back as the massive form of the other speaker moved into view.
“Ah,” Fiddler sighed. “The Trell. Memory returns. And your companion…the Jhag?”
“He entertains your companions,” the Trell said. “Feebly, I admit. For all his years, Icarium has never mastered the social grace necessary to put others at ease.”
“Icarium, the Jhag by that name. The maker of machines, the chaser of time—”
The Trell showed his canines in a wide, wry smile. “Aye, lord of the sand grains—though that poetic allusion’s lost on most and awkward besides.”
“Mappo.”
“Aye again. And your friends name you Fiddler, relieving you of the guise of a Gral horsewarrior.”
“Hardly matters that I awoke out of character, then,” Fiddler said.
“There’s no punishment awaiting the lapse, soldier. Thirsty? Hungry?”
“Good, yes and yes. But first, where are we?”
“In a temple carved into a cliff. Out of the Whirlwind. Guests of a High Priest of Shadow—whom you’ve met. Iskaral Pust.”
“Pust?”
“Even so.”
The Dal Honese High Priest pushed into view again, scowling. “You mock my name, soldier?”
“Not I, High Priest.”
The old man grunted, adjusted his grip on the broom, then scampered from the room.
Fiddler sat up gingerly, moving like an ancient. He was tempted to ask Mappo for an assessment of the damage, especially his ankle, but decided to hold off hearing the likely bad news a while longer. “What’s that man’s story?”
“I doubt even he knows.”
“I awoke when he was sweeping my head.”
“Not surprising.”
There was an ease to the Trell’s presence that relaxed Fiddler. Until he recalled the warrior’s name. Mappo, a name ever chained to another’s. And enough rumors to fill a tome. If any were true…“Icarium scared off the D’ivers.”
“His reputation carries weight.”
“Is it earned, Mappo?” Even as he asked, Fiddler knew he should have bitten back the question.
The Trell winced, withdrew slightly. “I shall get you food and drink, then.”
Mappo left the small room, moving silently despite his considerable bulk, the combination raising an echo that brought Kalam to mind. Did you outrun the storm, old friend?
Iskaral Pust eased back into the chamber. “Why are you here?” he whispered. “Do you know why? You don’t, but I’ll tell you. You and no one else.” He leaned close, plucking at his spiral wisps of hair with both hands. “Tremorlor!”
Laughing at Fiddler’s expression, he spun about in wild, capering steps before settling once more in front of the sapper, their faces inches apart. “The rumor of a path, a way home. A small wriggling worm of a rumor, even less, a grub, smaller than a nail clipping, the compacted and knotted mess wrapped around something that might be a truth. Or not. Hee hee!”
Fiddler had had enough. Grimacing through the pain, he grabbed the man’s collar and shook. Spittle struck his face, the High Priest’s eyes rolled about like marbles in a cup.
“What, again?” Iskaral Pust managed to say.
Fiddler pushed him away.
The old man staggered, righted himself and made a show of reassembling his dignity. “A concurrence of reactions. Too long out of social engagements and the like. Must examine my manners, and more, my personality.” He cocked his head. “Honest. Forthright. Amusing. Gentle and impressive integrity. Well! Where’s the problem, then? Soldiers are crude. Callow and thick. Distempered. Do you know the Chain of Dogs?”
Fiddler started, blinked as if shaken from a trance. “What?”
“It’s begun, though not yet known. Anabar Thy’lend. Chain of Dogs in the Malazan tongue. Soldiers have no imaginations, meaning they’re capable of vast surprises. There are some things even the Whirlwind cannot sweep aside.”
Mappo Trell returned, bearing a tray. “Harassing our guest again, Iskaral Pust?”
“Shadow-borne prophecies,” the High Priest muttered, eyeing Fiddler with cool appraisal. “The gutter under the flood, raising ripples on the plunging surface. A river of blood, the flow of words from a hidden heart. All things sundered. Spiders in every crook and corner.” He whirled about, stamped out of the room.
Mappo stared after him.
“Pay him no heed, right?”
The Trell swung around, his heavy brows lifting. “Hood, no, pay that man every heed, Fiddler.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. He mentioned Tremorlor. He knows.”
“He knows what even your companions don’t,” Mappo said, carrying the tray to the sapper. “You seek the fabled Azath House, out in the desert. Somewhere.”
Aye, and the gate Quick Ben swears it holds…“And you?” Fiddler asked. “What has brought you to Raraku?”
“I follow Icarium,” the Trell replied. “A search without end.”
“And you’ve devoted your life to helping him in his search?”
“No,” Mappo sighed, then whispered without meeting Fiddler’s gaze, “I seek to keep it endless. Here, break your fast. You’ve been unconscious for two days. Your friends are restless with questions, eager to speak with you.”
“I suppose I’ve no choice—I’d better answer those questions.”
“Aye, and once you’ve mended some, we can begin our journey…” He smiled cautiously. “To find Tremorlor.”
Fiddler frowned. “Mended, you said. My ankle was crushed—I can barely feel a thing beyond my knee. Seems likely you’ll have to cut that foot off.”
“I’ve some experience in healing,” Mappo said. “This temple once specialized in such alchemies, and the nuns left much behind. And, oddly enough, Iskaral Pust seems to show some talent as well, though one has to keep an eye on him. His wits scatter sometimes and he confuses elixirs with poisons.”
“He’s an avatar of Shadowthrone,” the sapper said, eyes narrowing. “Or the Rope, Cotillion, the Patron of Assassins—there’s little difference between the two.”
The Trell shrugged. “The art of assassination requires a complementary knowledge of healing. Two sides to the same alchemical coin. In any case, he actually did surgery on your ankle—fear not, I observed. And, I admit, learned much. Essentially, the High Priest rebuilt your ankle. Using an unguent, he sealed the fragments—I’ve never before seen the like. Thus, you will heal, and quickly.”
“A pair of hands devoted to Shadow poked around under my skin? Hood’s breath!”
“It was that or lose your foot. You had a punctured lung as well—beyond my skills, that, but the High Priest contrived to drain your lung of blood, then made you breathe a healing vapor. You owe Iskaral Pust your life.”
“Precisely my point,” Fiddler muttered.
There were voices outside, then Apsalar appeared in the doorway, Crokus behind her. The two days out of the desiccating storm had done much to revive both of them. They entered, Crokus rushing past to crouch beside Fiddler’s bed.
“We have to get out of here!” he hissed.
The sapper glanced at Mappo, noted his wry smile as he slowly backed away. “Calm down, lad. What is the problem?”
“The High Priest—he’s of the Shadow Cult, Fiddler. Don’t you see—Apsalar…”
Something cold slithered along the sapper’s bones. “Oh, damn,” he whispered. “I see your point.” He looked up as the young woman stepped to the foot of the bed, and spoke in a low tone. “Your mind still your own, lass?”
“The little man treats me well,” she said, shrugging.
“Well?” Crokus spluttered. “Like the prodigal returned, you mean! What’s to stop Cotillion from possessing you all over again?”
“You need only ask his servant,” a new voice said from the doorway. Icarium stood leaning, arms crossed, against the frame. His slitted gray eyes were fixed on the room’s far corner.
From the gloom of the shadows there a figure took shape. Iskaral Pust, seated on a strangely wrought chair, squirmed and flung a glare at the Jhag. “I was to remain unseen, fool! What gift shadows when you so clearly divine what they hide? Pah! I am undone!”
Icarium’s thin lips quirked slightly. “Why not give them answer, Iskaral Pust? Put them at ease.”
“Put them at ease?” The High Priest seemed to find the words awkward. “What value that? I must think. At ease. Relaxed. Unmindful of restraint. Careless. Yes, of course! Excellent idea.” He paused, swung his head to Fiddler.
The sapper watched a smile slide aboard the wizened man’s face, oiled and smooth and pathetically insincere.
“Everything’s fine, my friends,” he purred. “Be calm. Cotillion is done with possessing the lass. The bane of Anomander Rake’s threat remains. Who wants that crude conveyor of uncivilized mayhem crashing through the temple door? Not Shadowthrone. Not the Patron of Assassins. She is protected still. Besides which, Cotillion finds no further value in using her, and indeed the residue of his talents still within her gives cause for secret concern—” His face twisted on itself. “No, better keep that thought unspoken!” He smiled again. “Cultured conversation has been rediscovered and used with guile and grace. Look upon them, Iskaral Pust, they are won over one and all.”
There was a long silence.
Mappo cleared his throat. “The High Priest rarely has company,” he said.
Fiddler sighed, suddenly exhausted. He leaned back, closed his eyes. “My horse? Did it live?”
“Yes,” Crokus said. “It’s been taken care of, as have the others—those that Mappo had time to tend to, that is. And there’s a servant here, somewhere. We haven’t seen him, but he does good work.”
Apsalar spoke. “Fiddler, tell us about Tremorlor.”
A new tension filled the air. The sapper sensed it even as sleep pulled at him, alluring with its promise of temporary escape. After a moment he pushed it away with another sigh and opened his eyes. “Quick Ben’s knowledge of the Holy Desert is, uh, vast. When we last rode the Holy Desert—as we rode out, in fact—he spoke of the Vanished Roads. Like the one we found, an ancient road that sleeps beneath the sands and appears only occasionally—if the winds are right, that is. Well, one of those roads leads to Tremorlor—”
Crokus cut in, “Which is?”
“A House of the Azath.”
“Like the one that arose in Darujhistan?”
“Aye. Such buildings exist—or are rumored to exist—on virtually every continent. No one knows their purpose, though it does seem that they are a lodestone to power. There’s the old story that the Emperor and Dancer…” Oh, Hood, Kellanved and Dancer, Ammanas and Cotillion, the possible linkage with Shadow…this temple…Fiddler shot Iskaral Pust a sharp look. The High Priest sported an avid grin, his eyes glittering. “Uh, the legend goes that Kellanved and Dancer once occupied one such House, in Malaz City—”
“Deadhouse,” Icarium said from the doorway. “The legend is true.”
“Aye,” Fiddler muttered, then shook himself. “Well enough. In any case, it’s Quick Ben’s belief that such Houses are all linked to one another, via gates of some sort. And that travel between them is possible—virtually instantaneous travel—”
“Excuse me,” Icarium said, stepping into the room with an air of sudden attentiveness. “I have not heard the name Quick Ben. Who is this man purporting to possess such arcane knowledge of the Azath?”
The sapper fidgeted under the Jhag’s intent gaze, then scowled at himself and straightened slightly. “A squad mage,” he answered, making it clear he did not intend to elaborate.
Icarium’s eyes went oddly heavy. “You put much weight on a squad mage’s opinions.”
“Aye, I do.”
Crokus spoke. “You mean to find Tremorlor to use the gate to take us to Malaz City. To this Deadhouse. Which would leave us—”
“A half-day’s sail from the Itko Kanese coast,” Fiddler said, meeting Apsalar’s eyes. “And home to your father.”
“Father?” Mappo asked, frowning. “You now confuse me.”
“We’re delivering Apsalar back home,” Crokus explained. “To her family. She was possessed by Cotillion, stolen away from her father, her life—”
“Her life as what?” Mappo asked.
“A fishergirl.”
The Trell fell silent, but Fiddler thought he knew Mappo’s unspoken thoughts. After what she’s been through, she’s going to settle for a life dragging nets?
Apsalar herself said nothing.
“A life given for a life taken!” Iskaral Pust shouted, leaping from his chair and spinning in place, both hands clenched in his tufts of hair. “Such patience is enough to drive one mad! But not me! Anchored to the currents of weathered stone, the trickling away of sand under the sun’s glare! Time stretched, stretching, immortal players in a timeless game. There is poetry in the pull of elements, you know. The Jhag understands. The Jhag seeks the secrets—he is stone and the stone forgets, the stone is ever now, and in this lies the truth of the Azath—but wait! I’ve rambled on with such hidden thoughts and heard nothing of what is being said!” He fell abruptly silent and subsided back into the chair.
Icarium’s study of the High Priest could well have been something carved from charged stone. Fiddler’s attention was being pulled every which way. Thoughts of sleep had long since vanished. “I’m not certain of these details,” he said slowly, drawing everyone’s attention, “but I have the distinct feeling of being a marionette joining a vast and intricate dance. What’s the pattern? Who clutches the strings?”
All eyes swung to Iskaral Pust. The High Priest retained his fixed attentiveness a moment longer, then blinked. “A question asked of modest me? Excuses and apologies admittedly insincere. Vast and intricate mind wanders on occasion. Your query?” He ducked his head, smiled into the shadows. “Are they deceived? Subtle truths, vague hints, a chance choice of words in unmindful echo? They know not. Bask in their awe with all wide-eyed innocence, oh, this is exquisite!”
“You’ve answered us eloquently,” Mappo said to the High Priest.
“I have? This is unwell. Rather, how kind of me. You’re welcome. I shall command Servant to ready your party, then. A journey to fabled Tremorlor, where all truths shall converge with the clarity of unsheathed blades and unveiled fangs, where Icarium shall find his lost past, the once possessed fisher-girl shall find what she does not yet know she seeks, where the lad shall find the price of becoming a man, or perhaps not, where the hapless Trell shall do whatever he must, and where a weary sapper shall at least receive his Emperor’s blessing, oh yes. Unless, of course,” he added, one finger to his lips, “Tremorlor is naught but a myth and these quests nothing but hollow artifice.”
The High Priest—finger still against his lips—settled back in the strange chair. Shadows closed around him. A moment later he and the chair vanished.
Fiddler found himself starting out of a vague, floating trance. He shook his head, rubbed his face and glanced at the others, only to see they were reacting in similar ways—as if they had one and all been pulled into a subtle, seductive sorcery. Fiddler released a shaky breath. “Can there be magic in mere words?” he asked to no one in particular.
