The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Patience, Rallick repeated, his lips moving to the word as he sighted down the crossbow’s length. A quality defined by its reward, and that reward was but moments away.

  ______

  “A fine-looking hound,” Councilman Turban Orr said, as he handed Roald his cloak.

  In the room Baruk was the only one capable of discerning the aura of illusion surrounding the black hunting dog lying curled on the rug before the fireplace. The alchemist smiled and gestured to a chair. “Please be seated, Councilman.”

  “I apologize for disturbing you so late at night,” Orr said, as he lowered himself into the plush chair. Baruk sat down opposite him, Crone between them. “It’s said,” Orr continued, “that alchemy flowers best in deep darkness.”

  “Hence you gambled on my being awake,” Baruk said. “A well-placed wager, Councilman. Now, what would you have of me?”

  Orr reached down to pat Crone’s head.

  Baruk looked away to keep himself from laughing.

  “The Council votes in two days,” Orr said. “With a proclamation of neutrality such as we seek, war with the Malazan Empire will be averted—so we believe, but there are those in the Council who do not. Pride has made them belligerent, unreasonable.”

  “As it does us all,” murmured Baruk.

  Orr leaned forward. “The support of Darujhistan’s sorcerers would do much to favor our cause,” he said.

  “Careful,” Crone rumbled. “This man now hunts in earnest.”

  Orr glanced down at the dog.

  “A bad leg,” Baruk said. “Pay it no mind.” The alchemist leaned back in his chair and plucked at a loose thread on his robe. “I admit to some confusion, Councilman. You appear to be assuming some things I cannot countenance.” Baruk spread his hands and met Orr’s eyes. “Darujhistan’s sorcerers, for one. You could travel the Ten Worlds and not find a more spiteful, rabid collection of humanity. Oh, I don’t suggest that they are all like this—there are those whose only interest, indeed, obsession, lies in the pursuit of their craft. Their noses have been buried in books so long they could not even tell you what century this is. The others find bickering their only true pleasure in life.”

  A smile had come to Orr’s thin lips as Baruk spoke. “But,” he said with a cunning gleam in his dark eyes, “there is one thing they all acknowledge.”

  “Oh? What is that, Councilman?”

  “Power. We’re all aware of your eminence among the city’s mages, Baruk. Your word alone would bring others.”

  “I’m flattered that you would think so,” Baruk replied. “Unfortunately, therein lies your second erroneous assumption. Even if I had such influence as you suggest,” Crone snorted and Baruk flicked a savage glare at her, then continued, “which I do not, for what possible reason would I support such a willfully ignorant position as yours? A proclamation of neutrality? Might as well whistle against the wind, Councilman. What purpose would it serve?”

  Orr’s smile had tightened. “Surely, Lord,” he purred, “you have no wish to share the same fate as the wizards of Pale?”

  Baruk frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Assassinated by an Empire Claw. Moon’s Spawn was entirely on its own against the Empire.”

  “Your information contradicts mine,” Baruk said stiffly, then cursed himself.

  “Lean not too heavily on this one,” Crone said smugly. “You are both wrong.”

  Orr’s eyebrows had risen at Baruk’s words. “Indeed? Perhaps it might profit us both to share our information?”

  “Unlikely,” Baruk said. “Throwing the threat of the Empire at me implies what? That if the proclamation is voted down, the city’s sorcerers will all die at the Empire’s hand. But if it wins, you’re free to justify opening the gates to the Malazans in peaceful coexistence, and in such a scenario the city’s magery lives on.”

  “Astute, Lord,” Crone said.

  Baruk studied the anger now visible beneath Orr’s expression. “Neutrality? How you’ve managed to twist that word. Your proclamation serves the first step toward total annexation, Councilman. Fortunate for you that I cast no weight, no vote, no influence.” Baruk rose. “Roald will see you out.”

  Turban Orr also rose. “You’ve made a grave error,” he said. “The proclamation’s wording is not yet complete. It seems we would do well to remove any consideration regarding Darujhistan’s magery.”

  “Too bold,” Crone observed. “Prod him and see what more comes forth.”

  Baruk strode toward the window. “One may only hope,” he said dryly over a shoulder, “that your vote fails to win the day.”

  Orr’s reply was hot and rushed. “By my count we’ve reached a majority this very night, Alchemist. You could have provided the honey on the cream. Alas,” he sneered, “we’ll win by only one vote. But that will suffice.”

  Baruk turned to face Orr as Roald quietly entered the room, bearing the councilman’s cloak.

  Crone stretched out on the rug. “On this night of all nights,” she said, in mock dismay, “to tempt myriad fates with such words.” The Great Raven cocked her head. Faintly, as from a great distance, she thought she could hear the spinning of a coin.

  There was a tremble of power, coming from somewhere within the city, and Crone shivered.

  Rallick Nom waited. No more indolence for the Lady Simtal. The end of such luxuries came this night. The two figures moved away from the railing and faced the glass door. Rallick’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  He froze. A whirring, spinning sound filled his head, whispering words that left him bathed in sudden sweat. All at once everything shifted, turned over in his mind. His plan for quick vengeance tumbled into disarray, and from the ruins arose something far more . . . elaborate.

  All this had come between breaths. Rallick’s gaze cleared. Lady Simtal and Councilman Lim stood at the door. The woman reached out to slide the panel to one side. Rallick swerved his crossbow an inch to the left, then squeezed the trigger. The blackened iron rib of the bow bucked with the release of tension. The quarrel sped outward, so fast as to be invisible until it hit home.

  A figure on the balcony spun with the quarrel’s impact, arms thrown out as it stumbled. The glass door shattered as the figure fell through it.

  Lady Simtal screamed in horror.

  Rallick waited no longer. Rolling onto his back he reached up and slid the crossbow into the narrow ledge between the cornice and the roof. Then he slipped down the outside of the wall, hung with his hands briefly as shouts of alarm filled the estate. A moment later he dropped, spinning as he fell, and landed catlike in the alley.

  The assassin straightened, adjusted his cloak, then calmly walked into the side-street, away from the estate. No more indolence for the Lady Simtal. But no quick demise, either. A very powerful, very well-respected member of the City Council had just been assassinated on her balcony. Lim’s wife—now widow—would certainly have something to say about this. The first phase, Rallick told himself as he strode through Osserc’s Gate and descended the wide ramp leading down into the Daru District, just the first phase, an opening gambit, a hint to Lady Simtal that a hunt has begun, with the eminent mistress herself as the quarry. It won’t be easy: the woman’s no slouch in the intrigue game.

  “There’ll be more blood,” he whispered aloud, as he turned a corner and approached the poorly lit entrance to the Phoenix Inn. “But in the end she’ll fall, and with that fall an old friend will rise.” As he neared the inn a figure stepped from the shadows of an adjacent alleyway. Rallick stopped. The figure gestured, then stepped back into the darkness.

  Rallick followed. In the alley he waited for his eyes to adjust.

  The man in front of him sighed. “Your vendetta probably saved your life tonight,” he said, his tone bitter.

  Rallick leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. “Oh?”

  Clan Leader Ocelot stepped close, his narrow, pitted face twisted into its habitual scowl. “The night’s been a shambles, Nom. You’ve he
ard nothing?”

  “No.”

  Ocelot’s thin lips curled into a humorless smile. “A war has begun on the rooftops. Someone is killing us. We lost five Roamers in less than an hour, meaning there’s more than one killer out there.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Rallick replied, fidgeting as the damp stones of the inn’s wall reached through his cloak and touched his flesh with chill. As always, Guild affairs bored him.

  Ocelot continued, “We lost that bull of a man, Talo Krafar, and a Clan Leader.” The man snapped a glance over his shoulder as if expecting a sudden dagger to come flashing at his own back.

  Despite his lack of interest Rallick’s eyebrows lifted at this last bit of news. “They must be good.”

  “Good? All of our eyewitnesses are dead, goes the sour joke this night. They don’t make mistakes, the bastards.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Rallick muttered. “Has Vorcan gone out?”

  Ocelot shook his head. “Not yet. She’s too busy recalling all the Clans.”

  Rallick frowned, curious in spite of himself. “Could this be a challenge to her Guild mastery? Perhaps an inside thing—a rival faction—”

  “You think we’re all fools, don’t you, Nom? That was Vorcan’s first suspicion. No, it’s not internal. Whoever’s killing our people is from outside the Guild, outside the city.”

  To Rallick the answer seemed obvious suddenly, and he shrugged. “An Empire Claw, then.”

  Though his expression bore reluctance, Ocelot nevertheless acknowledged agreement. “Likely,” he grated. “They’re supposed to be the best, aren’t they? But why go after the Guild? You’d think they’d be taking out the nobles.”

  “Are you asking me to guess the Empire’s intentions, Ocelot?”

  The Clan Leader blinked, then his scowl deepened. “I came to warn you. And that’s a favor, Nom. With you wrapped up in this vendetta thing, the Guild’s not obliged to spread its wing over you. A favor.”

  Rallick pushed himself from the wall and turned to the alley-mouth. “A favor, Ocelot?” He laughed softly.

  “We’re setting a trap,” Ocelot said, moving to block Rallick’s way. He jerked his scarred chin at the Phoenix Inn. “Make yourself visible, and leave no doubt as to what you do for a living.”

  Rallick’s gaze on Ocelot held steady, impassive. “Bait.”

  “Just do it.”

  Without replying, Rallick left the alley, climbed the steps, and entered the Phoenix Inn.

  “There is a shaping in the night,” Crone said, after Turban Orr had left. The air around her shimmered as she assumed her true shape.

  Baruk strode to his map table, hands clasped behind his back to still the trembling that had seized them. “You felt it too, then.” He paused, then sighed. “All in all, these seem the busiest hours.”

  “A convergence of power ever yields thus,” Crone said, as she rose to stretch her wings. “The black winds gather, Alchemist. Beware their flaying breath.”

  Baruk grunted. “While you ride them, a harbinger of our tragic ills.”

  Crone laughed. She waddled to the window. “My master comes. I’ve other tasks before me.”

  Baruk turned. “Permit me,” he said, gesturing. The window swung clear.

  Crone flapped up onto the sill. She swiveled her head round and cocked an eye at Baruk. “I see twelve ships riding a deep harbor,” she said. “Eleven stand tall in flames.”

  Baruk stiffened. He had not anticipated a prophecy. Now he was afraid. “And the twelfth?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  “On the wind a hailstorm of sparks fill the night sky. I see them spinning, spinning about the last vessel.” Crone paused. “Still spinning.” Then she was gone.

  Baruk’s shoulders slumped. He turned back to the map on the table and studied the eleven once Free Cities that now bore the Empire flag. Only Darujhistan remained, the twelfth and last marked by a flag that was not burgundy and gray. “The passing of freedom,” he murmured.

  Suddenly the walls around him groaned, and Baruk gasped as an enormous weight seemed to press down on him. The blood pounded in his head, lancing him with pain. He gripped the edge of the map table to steady himself. The incandescent globes of light suspended from the ceiling dimmed, then flickered out. In the darkness the alchemist heard cracks sweeping down the walls, as if a giant’s hand had descended on the building. All at once the pressure vanished. Baruk raised a shaking hand to his sweat-slicked brow.

  A soft voice spoke behind him. “Greetings, High Alchemist. I am the Lord of Moon’s Spawn.”

  Still facing the table, Baruk closed his eyes and nodded. “The title isn’t necessary,” he whispered. “Please call me Baruk.”

  “I’m at home in darkness,” the Lord said. “Will this prove an inconvenience, Baruk?”

  The alchemist muttered a spell. Before him the details of the map on the table took on distinction, emanating a cool blue glow. He faced the Lord and was startled to discover that the tall, cloaked figure reflected as little heat as the room’s inanimate objects. Nevertheless, he was able to distinguish quite clearly the man’s features. “You’re Tiste Andii,” he said.

  The Lord bowed slightly. His angled, multihued eyes scanned the room. “Have you any wine, Baruk?”

  “Of course, Lord.” The alchemist walked over to his desk.

  “My name, as best as it can be pronounced by humans, is Anomander Rake.” The Lord followed Baruk to the desk, his boots clicking on the polished marble floor.

  Baruk poured wine, then turned to study Rake with some curiosity. He had heard that Tiste Andii warriors were fighting the Empire up north, commanded by a savage beast of a man named Caladan Brood. They had allied with the Crimson Guard, and together, the two forces were decimating the Malazans. So, there were Tiste Andii in Moon’s Spawn, and the man standing before him was their lord.

  This moment marked the first time Baruk had ever seen a Tiste Andii face to face. He was more than a little disturbed. Such remarkable eyes, he thought. One moment a deep hue of amber, catlike and unnerving, the next gray and banded like a snake’s—a fell rainbow of colors to match any mood. He wondered if they were capable of lying.

  In the alchemist’s library lay copies of the surviving tomes of Gothos’ Folly, Jaghut writings from millennia past. In them Tiste Andii were mentioned here and there in an aura of fear, Baruk recalled. Gothos himself, a Jaghut wizard who had descended the deepest warrens of Elder Magic, had praised the gods of the time that the Tiste Andii were so few in number. And if anything, the mysterious black-skinned race had dwindled since then.

  Anomander Rake’s skin was jet-black, befitting Gothos’ descriptions, but his mane flowed silver. He stood close to seven feet tall. His features were sharp, as if cut from onyx, a slight upward tilt to the large vertical-pupiled eyes.

  A two-handed sword was strapped to Rake’s broad back, its silver dragonskull pommel and archaic crosshilt jutting from a wooden scabbard fully six and a half feet long. From the weapon bled power, staining the air like black ink in a pool of water. As his gaze rested on it Baruk almost reeled, seeing, for a brief moment, a vast darkness yawning before him, cold as the heart of a glacier, from which came the stench of antiquity and a faint groaning sound. Baruk wrenched his eyes from the weapon, looked up to find Rake studying him from over one shoulder.

  The Tiste Andii quirked a knowing smile, then handed Baruk one of the wine-filled goblets. “Was Crone her usual melodramatic self?”

  Baruk blinked, then could not help but grin.

  Rake sipped his wine. “She’s never been modest in displaying her talents. Shall we sit?”

  “Of course,” Baruk replied, relaxing in spite of his trepidation. From his years of study the alchemist knew that great power shaped different souls differently. Had Rake’s been twisted Baruk would have known immediately. But the Lord’s control seemed absolute. That alone engendered awe. The man shaped his power, not the other way around. Such control was, well, inhuman. He suspec
ted that this would not be the first insight he’d have regarding this warrior-mage that would leave him astonished and frightened.

  “She threw everything she had at me,” Rake said suddenly. The Tiste Andii’s eyes shone green as glacial ice.

  Startled by the vehemence of that outburst, Baruk frowned. She? Oh, the Empress, of course.

  “And even then,” Rake continued, “she couldn’t bring me down.”

  The alchemist stiffened in his chair. “Yet,” he said cautiously, “you were driven back, battered and beaten. I can feel your power, Anomander Rake,” he added, grimacing. “It pulses from you like waves. So I must ask: how is it you were defeated? I know something of the Empire’s High Mage Tayschrenn. He has power but it’s no match to yours. So again I ask, how?”

  His gaze on the map table, Rake replied, “I’ve committed my sorcerers and warriors to Brood’s north campaign.” He turned a humorless grin on Baruk. “Within my city are children, priests and three elderly, exceedingly bookish warlocks.”

  City? There was a city within Moon’s Spawn?

  A dun tone had entered Rake’s eyes. “I cannot defend an entire Moon. I cannot be everywhere at once. And as for Tayschrenn, he didn’t give a damn about the people around him. I thought to dissuade him, make the price too high . . .” He shook his head as if perplexed, then he looked to Baruk. “To save the home of my people, I retreated.”

  “Leaving Pale to fall—” Baruk shut his mouth, cursing his lack of tact.

  But Rake merely shrugged. “I didn’t anticipate that I’d face a full assault. My presence alone had been keeping the Empire at bay for almost two years.”

  “I’ve heard the Empress is short of patience,” murmured Baruk thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed, then he looked up. “You have asked to meet with me, Anomander Rake, and so here we are. What is it you wish from me?”

  “An alliance,” the Moon’s lord answered.

  “With me? Personally?”

  “No games, Baruk.” Rake’s voice was suddenly cold. “I’m not fooled by that Council of idiots bickering at Majesty Hall. I know that it’s you and your fellow mages who rule Darujhistan.” He rose and glared down with eyes of gray. “I’ll tell you this. For the Empress your city is the lone pearl on this continent of mud. She wants it and what she wants she usually gets.”