Lorn was irritated. “What of it?”
The Imass stared at her in silence, then replied, dully, “Adjunct, I believe I know the name of this Jaghut Tyrant. I am now beset by doubts. It should not be freed. Yet, like you, I am compelled.”
Lorn’s breath caught.
“Adjunct,” Tool continued, “I acknowledge the ambivalence you have been feeling. I share it. When this is done, I shall leave.”
She was confused. “Leave?”
Tool nodded. “Within this tomb, and with what we will do, my vows are ended. They will bind me no longer. Such is the residual power of this sleeping Jaghut. And for that, I am thankful.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Adjunct, you are welcome to accompany me.”
Lorn opened her mouth, but could think of no immediate reply so shut it again.
“I ask that you consider my offer, Adjunct. I shall journey in search of an answer, and I shall find it.”
Answer? To what? she wanted to ask. Yet something stopped her, a surge of fear that said to her: You don’t want to know. Remain ignorant in this. “Let’s get on with it,” she grated.
Tool resumed his march into the darkness.
After a minute Lorn asked, “How much time is this going to take?”
“Time?” There was amusement in his voice. “Within this barrow, Adjunct, time does not exist. The Jaghut who imprisoned their kin brought an age of ice to this land, the barrow’s final seal. Adjunct, a half-league of ice stands over this burial chamber—still. We have come to a time and place before the faltering of the Jaghut ice, before the coming of the great inland sea known to the Imass as Jhagra Til, before the passing of countless ages—”
“And when we return?” Lorn interrupted. “How much time will have passed?”
“I cannot say, Adjunct.” The Imass paused and turned back to her, his eye sockets glimmering with a sourceless light. “I have never done this before.”
Despite the hardened leather armor, the feel of a woman pressing against Crokus’s back had brought to his face more sweat than the afternoon heat could account for. Yet it was a mix of feelings that had his heart thumping against his chest. On the one hand was the bald fact that here was a girl of nearly his age, and an attractive one at that, with surprisingly strong arms wrapped around his waist and her warm, moist breath on his neck. On the other hand, this woman had murdered a man, and the only reason he could think of her arriving on the scene back there in the hills was that she’d been planning to kill him, too. So he found himself too tense to enjoy sharing the saddle with her.
They had said little to each other since leaving Coll. In another day, Crokus knew, Darujhistan’s walls would come into view. He wondered if she’d remember it. And then a voice spoke in his head that sounded like Coll’s: “Why don’t you ask the girl, idiot?” Crokus scowled.
She spoke first. “Is Itko Kan far from here?”
He thought about laughing, but something—an instinct—stopped him. Tread softly, he told himself. “I’ve never heard of such a place,” he said. “It’s in the Malazan Empire?”
“Yes. We aren’t in the Empire?”
Crokus growled, “Not yet.” Then his shoulders slumped. “We’re on a continent called Genabackis. The Malazans came from the seas both east and west. They now control all the Free Cities to the north, as well as the Nathilog Confederacy.”
“Oh,” the girl replied weakly. “You’re at war with the Empire, then.”
“More or less, though you’d never know it as far as Darujhistan is concerned.”
“Is that the name of the town you live in?”
“Town? Darujhistan’s a city. It’s the biggest, richest city in all the land.”
There was awe and excitement in her reply. “A city. I’ve never been to a city. Your name is Crokus, isn’t it?”
“How did you know that?”
“That’s what your soldier friend called you.”
“Oh, of course.” Why did the fact that she’d known his name send his heart lurching?
“Aren’t you going to ask me my name?” the woman asked quietly.
“You can remember it?”
“No,” she admitted. “That’s strange, isn’t it?”
He heard pathos in that reply, and something melted inside—making him even angrier. “Well, I can’t very well help you in that, can I?”
The woman seemed to withdraw behind him, and her arms loosened their grip. “No.”
Abruptly his anger fell away. Crokus was ready to scream at the chaos in his head. Instead he shifted in the saddle, forcing her to clutch him tightly. Ah, he smirked, that’s better. Then his eyes widened. What am I saying?
“Crokus?”
“What?”
“Give me a Darujhistan name. Pick one. Pick your favorite.”
“Challice,” he responded immediately. “No, wait! You can’t be Challice. I already know a Challice. You’ve got to be someone else.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“No!” he snapped. He pulled at the reins and they stopped. Crokus clawed at his hair, then threw a leg over and dropped to the ground. He pulled the reins over the horse’s head. “I want to walk,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “I would like to, too.”
“Well, maybe I want to run!”
She stepped round to face him, her expression troubled. “Run? From me, Crokus?”
He saw things falling into ruins behind her eyes—what were those things? He felt a desperate need to know, but asking straight out was clearly impossible. Why it was impossible he couldn’t say. It just was. He looked down at the ground and kicked at a rock. “No,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean that. Sorry.”
Her eyes widened. “That was my name!” she gasped. “That was my name, Crokus—you just said my name!”
“What?” He frowned. “Sorry?”
“Yes!” She looked away. “Only, it wasn’t always my name. I don’t think. No. It wasn’t the name my father gave me.”
“Can you remember that one?”
She shook her head and ran a hand through her long, dark hair.
Crokus started walking, and the girl fell into step beside him. The road wound down through the low hills. In an hour they’d reach the Catlin Bridge. The panic that had filled him was subsiding, perhaps having burned itself out. He felt relaxed, and that surprised him, since he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt relaxed in a female’s company.
They walked in silence for a time. Ahead, the sun sank down in a golden blaze, shimmering along a blue and green line on the horizon beyond the hills. Crokus pointed to the glistening line. “That’s Lake Azur. Darujhistan lies on its south shore.”
“Haven’t you thought of a name for me yet?” the woman asked.
“The only name that comes to mind,” Crokus said sheepishly, “is my matron’s.”
The girl glanced at him. “Your mother’s?”
Crokus laughed. “No, not that kind of matron. I meant the Lady of Thieves, Apsalar. Only, it’s not good to take that kind of name, since she’s a goddess. What about Salar?”
Her nose wrinkled. “No, I like Apsalar. Make it Apsalar.”
“But I just said—”
“That’s the name I want,” the girl insisted, her face darkening.
Uh-oh, Crokus thought. Better not press this one. “All right.” He sighed.
“So you’re a thief.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Apsalar grinned. “Given my new name, nothing. Nothing at all, Crokus. When do we camp?”
He blanched. He hadn’t thought about that. “Maybe we should just push on,” he said warily, not meeting her eyes.
“I’m tired. Why don’t we camp at this Catlin Bridge?”
“Well, I’ve only got the one bedroll. You can have it. I’ll stand watch.”
“All night? What’s there to watch out for?”
Crokus rounded on her. “Why all these questions?�
� he demanded hotly. “It’s dangerous out here! Didn’t you see Coll’s wound? And how do we know the garrison’s still there?”
“What garrison?”
Crokus cursed himself. He averted his gaze. “The garrison on the other side of the bridge,” he said. “But it’s a long bridge—”
“Oh, come on, Crokus!” Apsalar laughed and drove her elbow into his ribs. “We’ll share the bedroll. I don’t mind, so long as you keep your hands to yourself.”
Rubbing his ribs, Crokus could only stare at her.
Cursing, Kruppe glared over his shoulder at Murillio. “Damnation! Can’t you urge that beast any faster?”
The mule was living up to its reputation, refusing anything but a plodding walk. Murillio grinned sheepishly. “What’s the big hurry, Kruppe? The boy can take care of himself.”
“It was Master Baruk’s explicit command that we guard him, and guard him we must!”
Murillio’s eyes narrowed. “So you keep saying,” he muttered. “Is this some favor on Mammot’s behalf? Has the boy’s uncle got all worried all of a sudden? Why’s Baruk so interested in Crokus? You convey the alchemist’s orders, Kruppe, but you don’t explain them.”
Kruppe reined in his mount. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Mutiny in the ranks forces Kruppe’s sly hand. Oponn has chosen Crokus, for whatever purposes the devious deity may devise. Baruk would have us keep an eye on the lad and, more, prevent any other powers from finding him.”
Murillio rubbed the bruise on his forehead and winced. “Damn you.” He sighed. “You should’ve explained all this from the start, Kruppe. Does Rallick know?”
“Of course not,” Kruppe replied tartly. “He’s too busy, after all, unable to extricate himself from his various responsibilities. Hence,” Kruppe’s expression turned crafty, “the assassin’s absence on this journey. But why, pray tell, is Kruppe informing Murillio of such things? Clearly, Murillio knows more of Rallick’s doings than poor, ignorant Kruppe.”
Murillio’s look was blank. “What do you mean?”
Kruppe sniggered, then kicked his mule into motion once again.
Murillio followed.
“And as for our present mission,” Kruppe continued blithely, “what seems a vast failure, particularly on Coll’s part, is in truth an astonishing success. Master Baruk must be made aware of the nefarious activities afoot in the Gadrobi Hills.”
“Success? What are you talking about?”
Kruppe waved a hand. “Dear man, though I was conscious but a moment during the fracas, clear it was that this woman warrior possessed an Otataral sword. Which means, as any child might guess, she’s Malazan.”
Murillio hissed slowly between his teeth. “And we left Coll back there? Are you insane, Kruppe?”
“He’ll mend enough to follow us shortly,” Kruppe said. “The need for haste overwhelms all other considerations.”
“Except cheap deals with a certain stabler,” Murillio growled. “So, there’s some Malazan in the Gadrobi Hills. What’s she up to? And don’t try telling me you don’t know. If you didn’t suspect something we wouldn’t be in such a hurry.”
“Suspicions, indeed.” Kruppe nodded, his shoulders hunching. “Recall Crokus uttering that perceptive comment as we left the crossroads? Hunting a rumor, or some such thing?”
“Wait a minute.” Murillio groaned. “Not that barrow legend again? There’s not a—”
Kruppe held up a finger and cut in smoothly, “What we believe is irrelevant, Murillio. The fact remains that the Malazans are seeking the truth of that rumor. And both Kruppe and Master Baruk suspect, being of equal intelligence, that they might well discover it. Hence this mission, my fluttery friend.” He waggled his brows. “Otataral in the hands of a swordmaster of the Empire. A T’lan Imass lurking in the vicinity—”
“What?” Murillio exploded, his eyes wide. He made to turn his mule around, but the beast complained and planted its hooves. He struggled with it, cursing. “Coll’s all cut up and he’s got a Malazan killer out there and an Imass! You’ve lost your mind, Kruppe!”
“But, dear Murillio,” Kruppe crooned, “Kruppe would have thought you eager, nay, desperate to return to Darujhistan as quickly as possible!”
That stopped the man. He rounded on Kruppe, face darkening. “Come on,” he gritted, “out with it, then.”
Kruppe’s brows rose. “Out with what?”
“You’ve been hinting about something, poking me with it. So if you think you know something about whatever, let’s hear it. Otherwise, we turn round right now and head back to Coll.” Seeing Kruppe’s eyes dart, Murillio grinned. “Hah, you thought to distract me, didn’t you? Well, it’s not going to work.”
Kruppe raised his hands palm up. “No matter whose brain was responsible for your scheme to return Coll to his rightful title, Kruppe can do naught but eagerly applaud!”
Murillio’s jaw dropped. How in Hood’s name did Kruppe . . . ?
The man continued, “But all that is inconsequential when faced with the fact of Crokus, and the grave danger he is presently in. More, if this young girl was indeed possessed, as Coll suspects, the risks are frightening to behold! Was she the only hunter for the lad’s frail, unprotected life? What of the thousand gods and demons who would eagerly confound Oponn at the first opportunity? Thus, would Murillio, friend of long standing with Crokus, so callously abandon the child to the fates? Is Murillio a man to succumb to panic, to what-ifs, to a host of imagined nightmares slinking about within the shadows of his overwrought imagination—?”
“All right!” Murillio barked. “Now hold your tongue and let’s ride.”
Kruppe gave a brusque nod at this wise remark.
An hour later, as dusk clambered up the hillsides and ever westward to the dying sun, Murillio started and threw Kruppe a furious glare that was lost in the gloom. “Damn him,” he whispered, “I said I wasn’t about to let him distract me. So what’s the first thing he does? Distract me.”
“Murillio murmurs something?” Kruppe asked.
Murillio massaged his forehead. “I’m having dizzy spells,” he said. “Let’s find a camp. Crokus and the girl won’t make it to the city before tomorrow anyway. I doubt he’s in any danger on the road, and we’ll find him easily enough before tomorrow’s sunset. They should be fine in the daytime—Hood knows, they’ll be with Mammot, right?”
“Kruppe admits to his own weariness. Indeed, a camp should be found, and Murillio can construct a small fire, perhaps, and so prepare dinner while Kruppe ponders vital thoughts and such.”
“Fine.” Murillio sighed. “Just fine.”
It came to Captain Paran a couple days after his encounter with the Tiste Andii and the events within the lord’s sword that Rake had not suspected him to be a Malazan soldier. Or he’d be dead. Oversights blessed him, it seemed. His assassin in Pale should have checked twice—and now the Son of Darkness, snatching him from the jaws of the Hounds, had in turn let him walk free. Was there a pattern to this? It had Oponn’s flavor, yet Paran didn’t doubt Rake’s assertion.
Then did his luck indeed lie in his sword? And had these mercies of fortune marked pivotal moments—moments that would come back to haunt those who’d spared him? For his own well-being, he hoped not.
His was no longer the Empire’s road. He’d walked that path of blood and treachery for too long. Never again. What lay before him, then, was the singular effort to save the lives of Whiskeyjack and the squad. If he managed that, he would not begrudge his own death as a consequence.
Some things went beyond a single man’s life, and maybe justice existed outside the minds of humanity, beyond even the hungry eyes of gods and goddesses, a thing shining and pure and final. Some philosophers he’d read during his schooling in the Malazan capital, Unta, had asserted what seemed to him then an absurd position. Morality was not relative, they claimed, nor even existing solely in the realm of the human condition. No, they proclaimed morality as an imperative of all life, a natural law that was neithe
r the brutal acts of beasts nor the lofty ambitions of humanity, but something other, something unassailable.
Just another hunt for certainty. Paran scowled and stiffened in his saddle, his eyes fixed on the trader track winding before him through low, rounded hills. He recalled discussing this with Adjunct Lorn, at a time when neither had been compelled by the outside world. Just another hunt for certainty, she’d said, in a voice brittle and cynical, putting an end to the discussion as clearly as if she’d driven a knife into the wine-stained table between them.
For such words to have come from a woman no older than him, Paran suspected then, as he did now, that her particular view had been no more than an easy, lazy mimicry of Empress Laseen’s. But Laseen had a right to it and Lorn did not. At least, in Paran’s mind. If anyone had a right to world-weary cynicism, it was the Empress of the Malazan Empire.
Truly had the Adjunct made herself Laseen’s extension. But at what cost? He’d seen the young woman behind the mask just once—as they’d looked out over a road carpeted with dead soldiers, then proceeded to pick their way through them. The pale, frightened girl that was Lorn had shown herself in a single frail moment. He couldn’t remember what had triggered the return of the mask—likely it had been something he’d said, something he’d tossed off in his own guise as a hardened soldier.
Paran sighed deeply. Too many regrets. Lost chances—and with each one passing the less human we all became, and the deeper into the nightmare of power we all sank.
Was his life irretrievable? He wished he had an answer to that question.
Movement in the south caught his attention, and with it he became aware of a rumbling sound, rising up from the earth around him. He rose in the saddle. A wall of dust curled over the ridge of land directly ahead. He swung his mount westward and nudged it into a trot. Moments later he reined in. The curtains of dust hung in that direction as well. Cursing, he spurred to the crest of a nearby rise. Dust. Dust on all sides. A storm? No, the thunder is too regular. He rode down to the plain below and reined in again, wondering what to do. The dust wall rose, cresting the hill he faced. The deep rumbling grew. Paran squinted into the dust. Dark, massive shapes moved there, spreading out to either side, sweeping down on his position. In moments he was surrounded.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 48