'Empress?'
Ihave been talking to a corpse. Ah, Laseen, that is what I love most about you—your extraordinary ability to make one eat one's own words…
The captain of the Guard literally stumbled on them as they edged their way alongside the old keep's outer wall. Minala raised the crossbow and the man cautiously held his hands out to the sides. Kalam stepped forward and dragged him into the shadows, then quickly disarmed him.
'All right, Captain,' the assassin hissed. 'Tell me where the Hold's unwelcome guests are hiding.'
'I take it you don't mean yourselves,' the man said, sighing. 'Well, the gatehouse guard's been muttering about figures on the stairs—of course, the old bastard's half blind. But in the grounds here… nothing.'
'You can do better than that, Captain…?'
The man scowled. 'Aragan. And here I am only days away from a new posting…'
'And that doesn't have to change, with a little co-operation.'
'I've just done the rounds—everything's quiet, as far as I can tell. Mind you, that doesn't mean a thing, does it?'
Minala glanced pointedly up at the pennant flapping from the weathervane above the Hold. 'And your official guest? No bodyguards?'
Captain Aragan grinned. 'Oh, the Empress, you mean.' Something in his tone hinted at great amusement. 'She's not aged well, has she?'
Inky blackness billowed in the courtyard. Minala shouted a warning even as the crossbow bucked in her hands. A voice shouted in pain.
Kalam straight-armed the captain, sending him sprawling to one side, then spun, knife flashing in his hand.
Four Hands of the Claw had appeared—twenty killers were converging on them. Throwing stars hissed through the darkness. Minala cried out, the crossbow flying from her grip as she staggered back. A bucking wave of sorcery rolled over the cobbles—and vanished.
Shadows swirled in the midst of the Hands, adding to the confusion. When something huge and ungainly stepped into view, Kalam's eyes widened with recognition. Apt! The demon lashed out. Bodies flew in all directions. The Hand most distant turned as one to meet this new threat. A rock-sized object flew towards them. The five hunters scattered—but too late, as the sharper struck the flagstones.
The explosion sent shards of iron scything through them.
A lone hunter closed with Kalam. Two thin-bladed knives darted forward in a blur. One struck the assassin in his right shoulder, the other missed his face by inches. Kalam's knife fell from nerveless fingers and he reeled back. The hunter leapt at him.
The sack of cloth-tacks intercepted the path of the man's head with a sickening crunch. The hunter dropped to writhe on the ground.
Another sharper detonated nearby. More screams rang through the courtyard.
Hands gripped Kalam's tattered apron, dragged him into the shadows. The assassin weakly struggled. 'Minala!'
A familiar voice whispered close to him. 'We've got her—and Crokus has the stallion—'
Kalam blinked. 'Sorry?'
'It's Apsalar these days, Corporal.'
The shadows closed on all sides. Sounds faded.
'You're full of holes,' Apsalar observed. 'Busy night, I take it.'
He grunted as the knife was slowly withdrawn from his shoulder, and he felt the blood welling in the blade's wake. A face leaned into his view, a grey-streaked red snarl of beard, a battered soldier's visage that now grinned.
'Hood's breath!' Kalam muttered. That's a damned ugly face you've got there, Fid.'
The grin broadened. 'Funny,' Fiddler said, 'I was just thinking the same—and that's what I don't get, what with you finding this flash lady for company—
'Her wounds—'
'Minor,' Apsalar said from close by.
'Did you get her?' Fiddler asked. 'Did you kill the Empress?'
'No. I changed my mind—
'Damn, we could—you what?'
'She's a sweet sack of bones after all, Fid—remind me to tell you the whole tale some time, provided you repay in kind, since I gather you managed to use the Azath gates.'
'Aye, we did.'
'Any problems?'
'Nothing to it.'
'Glad to hear one of us had it easy.' Kalam struggled to sit up. 'Where are we?'
A new voice spoke, sibilant and wry. 'The Realm of Shadow… My realm!'
Fiddler groaned, looked up. 'Shadowthrone is it now? Kellanved, more like it! We ain't fooled, y' got that? You can hide in those fancy shadows all you like, but you're still just the damned Emperor!"
'Ai, I quail!' The insubstantial figure giggled suddenly, edging back. 'And you, are you not a soldier of the Malazan Empire? Did you not take a vow? Did you not swear allegiance… to me?'
'To the Empire, you mean!'
'Why quibble about such minor distinctions? The truth remains that the aptorian has delivered you… to me, to me, to me!'
Sudden clicking, buzzing sounds made the god shift around to face the demon. When the strange noises coming from Apt ceased, Shadowthrone faced the group once again. 'Clever bitch! But we knew that, didn't we? She and that ugly child riding her, agh! Corporal Kalam of the Bridgeburners, it seems you've found a woman—oh, look at her eyes! Such fury! I am impressed, most impressed. And now you wish to settle down, yes? I wish to reward you all!' He gestured with both hands as if delivering blessings. 'Loyal subjects that you all are!'
Apsalar spoke in her cool, detached way. 'I do not seek any reward, nor does my father. We would have our associations severed—with you, with Cotillion, and with every other Ascendant. We would leave this warren, Ammanas, and return to the Kanese coast—'
'And I with them,' Crokus said.
'Oh, wonderful!' the god crooned. 'Synchronous elegance, this fullest of full circles! To the Kanese coast indeed! To the very road where first we met, oh yes. Go, then! I send you with the smoothest of gestures. Go!' He raised an arm and caressed the air with his long, ghostly fingers.
Shadows swept over the three figures, and when they cleared, Apsalar, her father and Crokus had vanished.
The god giggled again. 'Cotillion will be so pleased, won't he just. Now, what of you, soldier? My magnanimity is rarely seen—I have so little of it! Quickly, before I tire of all this amusement.'
'Corporal?' Fiddler asked, crouching beside the assassin. 'Kalam, I ain't too thrilled with a god making offers, if you know what I mean—
'Well, we haven't heard much of those offers yet, have we? Kell—Shadowthrone, I could do with a rest, if that's what you've in mind.' He glanced across and met Minala's eyes. She nodded. 'Some place safe—
'Safe! Nowhere safer! Apt shall be at your side, as vigilant as ever! And comfort, oh yes, much comfort—'
'Ugh,' Fiddler said. 'Sounds dull as death. Count me out.'
The god seemed to cock its head. 'In truth, I owe you nothing, sapper. Only Apt speaks for you. Alas, she's acquired a certain… leverage. And oh, yes, you were a loyal enough soldier, I suppose. You wish to return to the Bridgeburners?'
'No.'
Kalam turned in surprise, to see his friend frowning.
'On our way up to Mock's Hold,' the sapper explained, 'we listened in on a group of guards during a shift-change—seems there's a last detachment of recruits holed up in Malaz Harbour on their way to join Tavore.' He met Kalam's eyes. 'Sorry, Corporal, but I'm for getting involved in putting down that rebellion in your homeland. So, I'll enlist… again.'
Kalam reached out a blood-smeared hand. 'Just stay alive, then, that's all I ask.'
The sapper nodded.
Shadowthrone sighed. 'And with such soldiers, it is no wonder we conquered half a world—no, Fiddler, I do not mock. This once, I do not mock. Though Laseen does not deserve such as you. Nonetheless, when these mists clear, you will find yourself in the alley back of Smiley's Tavern.'
'That will do me fine, Kellanved. I appreciate it.'
A moment later the sapper was gone.
The assassin turned a jaded eye on Shadowthrone. 'You understand, d
on't you, that I won't try to kill Laseen—my hunt's over. In fact, I'm tempted to warn you and Cotillion off her—leave the Empire to the Empress. You've got your own, right here—'
'Tempted to warn us, you said?' The god swept closer. 'Bite it back, Kalam, lest you come to regret it.' The shadow-wrapped form withdrew again. 'We do as we please. Never forget that, mortal.'
Minala edged to Kalam's side and laid a trembling hand on his uninjured shoulder. 'Gifts from gods make me nervous,' she whispered. 'Especially this one.'
He nodded, in full agreement.
'Oh,' Shadowthrone said, 'don't be like that! My offer stands. Sanctuary, a true opportunity to settle down. Husband and wife, hee hee! No, mother and father! And, best of all, there's no need to wait for children of your own—Apt has found some for you!'
The mists surrounding them suddenly cleared, and they saw, beyond Apt and her charge, a ragtag encampment sprawled over the summit of a low hill. Small figures wandered among the tent rows. Woodsmoke rose from countless fires.
'You wished for their lives,' Shadowthrone hissed in glee. 'Or so Apt claims. Now you have them. Your children await you, Kalam Mekhar and Minala Eltroeb—all thirteen hundred of them!'
Chapter Twenty-Four
The priest of Elder Mael dreams rising seas…
Dusk
Sethand
The whirlwind's spinning tunnel opened out onto the plain in an explosion of airborne dust. Wiry, strangely black grasses lay before Sha'ik as she led her train forward. After a moment she slowed her mount. What she had first thought to be humped stones stretching out in all directions she now realized were corpses, rotting under the sun.
They had come upon a battlefield, one of the last engagements between Korbolo Dom and Coltaine.
The grasses were black with dried blood. Capemoths fluttered here and there across the scene. Flies buzzed the heat-swollen bodies. The stench was overpowering.
'Souls in tatters,' Heboric said beside her.
She glanced at the old man, then gestured Leoman forward to her other side. 'Take a scouting party,' she told the desert warrior. 'See what lies ahead.'
'Death lies ahead,' Heboric said, shivering despite the heat.
Leoman grunted. 'We are already in its midst.'
'No. This—this is nothing.' The ex-priest swung his sightless eyes towards Sha'ik. 'Korbolo Dom—what has he done?'
'We shall discover that soon enough,' she snapped, waving Leoman and his troop forward.
The army of the Apocalypse marched out from the Whirlwind Warren. Sha'ik had attached each of her three mages to a battalion—she preferred them apart, and distanced from her. They had been none too pleased by the order of march, and she now sensed the three sorcerers questing ahead with enhanced sensitivities—questing, then flinching back, L'oric first, then Bidithal and finally Febryl. From three sources came echoes of appalled horror.
And, should I choose it, I could do the same. Reach ahead with unseen fingers to touch what lies before us. Yet she would not.
'There is trepidation in you, lass,' Heboric murmured. 'Do you now finally regret the choices you have made?'
Regret? Oh, yes. Many regrets, beginning with a vicious argument with my sister, back in Unta, a sisterly spat that went too far. A hurt child… accusing her sister of killing their parents. One, then the other. Father. Mother. A hurt child, who had lost all reasons to smile. 'I have a daughter now.'
She sensed his attention suddenly focusing on her, the old man wondering at this strange turn of thought, wondering, then slowly—in anguish—coming to understand.
Sha'ik went on, 'And I have named her.'
'I've yet to hear it,' the ex-priest said, as if each word edged forward on thinnest ice.
She nodded. Leoman and his scouts had disappeared beyond the next rise. A faint haze of smoke awaited them there, and she wondered at the portent. 'She rarely speaks. Yet when she does… a gift with words, Heboric. A poet's eye. In some ways, as I might have become, given the freedom…'
'A gift with words, you say. A gift for you, but it may well be a curse for her, one that has little to do with freedom. Some people invite awe whether they like it or not. Such people come to be very lonely. Lonely in themselves, Sha'ik.'
Leoman reappeared, reining in on the crest. He did not wave them to a quicker pace—he simply watched as Sha'ik guided her army forward.
A moment later another party of riders arrived at the desert warrior's side. Tribal standards on display—strangers. Two of the newcomers drew Sha'ik's attention. They were still too distant to make out their features, but she knew them anyway: Kamist Reloe and Korbolo Dom.
'She will not be lonely,' she told Heboric.
'Then feel no awe,' he replied. 'Her inclination will be to observe, rather than participate. Mystery lends itself to such remoteness.'
'I can feel no awe, Heboric,' Sha'ik said, smiling to herself.
They approached the waiting riders. The ex-priest's attention stayed on her as they guided their horses up the gentle slope.
'And,' she continued, 'I understand remoteness. Quite well.'
'You have named her Felisin, haven't you?'
'I have.' She turned her head, stared into his sightless eyes. 'It's a fine name, is it not? It holds such… promise. A fresh innocence, such as that which parents would see in their child, those bright, eager eyes—'
'I wouldn't know,' he said.
She watched the tears roll down his weathered, tattooed cheeks, feeling detached from their significance, yet understanding that his observation was not meant as a condemnation. Ordy loss. 'Oh, Heboric,' she said. 'It's not worthy of grief.'
Had she thought a moment longer before speaking those words, she would have realized that they, beyond any others, would break the old man. He seemed to crumple inward before her eyes, his body shuddering. She reached out a hand he could not see, almost touched him, then withdrew it—and even as she did so, she knew that a moment of healing had been lost.
Regrets? Many. Unending.
'Sha'ik! I see the goddess in your eyes!' The triumphant claim was Kamist Reloe's, his face bright even as it seemed twisted with tension. Ignoring the mage, she fixed her gaze on Korbolo Dom. Half-Napan—he reminds me of my old tutor, even down to the cool disdain in his expression. Well, this man has nothing to teach me. Clustered around the two men were the warleaders of the various tribes loyal to the cause. There was something like shock in their faces, intimations of horror. Another rider was now visible, seated with equanimity on a mule, wearing the silken robes of a priest. He alone seemed untroubled, and Sha'ik felt a shiver of unease.
Leoman sat his horse slightly apart from the group. Sha'ik already sensed a dark turmoil swirling between the desert warrior and Korbolo Dom, the renegade Fist.
With Heboric at her side, she reached the crest and saw what lay beyond. In the immediate foreground was a ruined village—a scattering of smouldering houses and buildings, dead horses, dead soldiers. The stone-built entrance to the Aren Way was blackened with smoke.
The road stretched away in an even declination southward. The trees lining it to either side…
Sha'ik nudged her horse forward. Heboric matched her, silent and hunched, shivering in the heat. Leoman rode to flank her on the other side. They approached the Aren Gate.
The group wheeled to follow, in silence.
Kamist Reloe spoke, the faintest quaver in his voice. 'See what has been made of this proud gate? The Malazan Empire's Aren Gate is now Hood's Gate, Seer. Do you see the significance? Do you—'
'Silence!' Korbolo Dom growled.
Aye, silence. Let silence tell this tale.
They passed beneath the gate's cool shadow and came to the first of the trees, the first of the bloated, rotting bodies nailed to them. Sha'ik halted.
Leoman's scouts were approaching at a fast canter. Moments later they arrived, reined in.
'Report,' Leoman snapped.
Four pale faces regarded them, then one said,
'It does not change, sir. More than three leagues—as far as we could see. There are—there are thousands.'
Heboric pulled his horse to one side, nudged it closer to the nearest tree and squinted up at the closest corpse.
Sha'ik was silent for a long minute, then, without turning, she said, 'Where is your army, Korbolo Dom?'
'Camped within sight of the city—
'You failed to take Aren, then.'
'Aye, Seer, we failed.'
'And Adjunct Tavore?'
'The fleet has reached the bay, Seer.'
What will you make of this, sister?
'The fools surrendered,' Korbolo Dom said, his voice betraying his own disbelief. 'At High Fist Pormqual's command. And that is the Empire's new weakness—what used to be a strength: those soldiers obeyed the command. The Empire has lost its great leaders—'
'Has it now?' She finally faced him.
'Coltaine was the last of them, Seer,' the renegade Fist asserted. 'This new Adjunct is untested—a nobleborn, for Hood's sake. Who awaits her in Aren? Who will advise her? The Seventh is gone. Pormqual's army is gone. Tavore has an army of recruits. About to face veteran forces three times their number. The Empress has lost her mind, Seer, to think that this pureblood upstart will reconquer Seven Cities.'
She turned away from him and stared down the Aren Way. 'Withdraw your army, Korbolo Dom. Link up with my forces here.'
'Seer?'
'The Apocalypse has but one commander, Korbolo Dom. Do as I say.'
And silence once again tells its tale.
'Of course, Seer,' the renegade Fist finally grated.
'Leoman.'
'Seer?'
'Encamp our own people. Have them bury the dead on the plain.'
Korbolo Dom cleared his throat. 'And once we've regrouped—what do you propose to do then?'
Propose? 'We shall meet Tavore. But the time and place shall be of my choosing, not hers.' She paused, then said, 'We return to Raraku.'
She ignored the shouts of surprise and dismay, ignored the questions flung at her, even as they rose into demands. Raraku—the heart of my newfound power. I shall need that embrace… if I am to defeat this fear—this terror—of my sister. Oh, Goddess, guide me now…
Deadhouse Gates Page 83