The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  “Know what you mean.” Bones creaking, Meese pushed herself to her feet. “I think even the Eel’s beginning to sweat.” She chuckled. “Life’s heating up, friend. Rolling times ahead.”

  Irilta nodded grimly. “Roll on, roll on.”

  Captain Paran refilled his tankard for the third time. Was this what that Tiste Andii had meant about his luck turning? Since coming to this land he’d found three friends—something wholly unexpected and new to him, precious, in fact. But the Tattersail he knew was dead, and in her place . . . a child. Toc was dead. And now it looked like Coll would join that list.

  He ran a finger through a pool of spilled beer on the table, creating a river leading to a crack between two planks, then watched as the beer drained down and out of sight. He felt a spreading wetness on his right shin but ignored it as his eyes focused on the crack. The wood had been bolted down, joining the thick planks to an equally robust frame of legs.

  What had Rake said? Paran rose and unclipped his sword belt. He laid it on the table, then withdrew Chance.

  The few regulars in the bar fell silent and turned to watch him. Behind the counter, Scurve reached for his club.

  The captain noticed none of this. With the sword in his right hand, he set the point into the crack and brought the weapon vertical. Working it back and forth, he managed to drive it close to half its length between the planks. Then he sat down again and reached for his beer.

  Everyone relaxed, and spoke among themselves in shared confusion.

  Paran swallowed a mouthful of beer, frowning at Chance. What had Rake said? When your luck turns, break the sword. Or give it to your worst enemy. He doubted Oponn would accept it, however. And that meant breaking it. The sword had been with him for a long time. He’d used it in battle only once, and that had been against the Hound.

  Faintly, he heard the words of one of his childhood tutors. The man’s lined face rose into his thoughts to accompany the voice. “Those whom the gods choose, ’tis said, they first separate from other mortals—by treachery, by stripping from you your spirit’s lifeblood. The gods will take all your loved ones, one by one, to their death. And, as you harden, as you become what they seek, the gods smile and nod. Each company you shun brings you closer to them. ’Tis the shaping of a tool, son, the prod and pull, and the final succour they offer you is to end your loneliness—the very isolation they helped you create.” Never get noticed, boy.

  Had the shaping begun? Paran scowled. Was he responsible for taking Coll’s life? The mere brush of friendship between them—enough to seal the man’s doom? “Oponn,” he whispered, “you’ve a lot to answer for, and answer for it you shall.”

  He set down the tankard and rose. Then he reached for the sword.

  Climbing the steps of the Phoenix Inn, Kalam paused. Damn, there it was again, this feeling that unseen eyes were fixed on him. The sensation, born of his Claw training, had struck him four times in quick succession since he’d come within sight of this bar. Heeding such warnings was what kept him alive, and yet he felt no malice in that unwanted attention—rather, it had the feel of amused curiosity, as if whoever watched him knew full well who and what he was, yet seemed unconcerned.

  He shook himself, then entered the bar. As soon as he took his first step into the heavy, stagnant atmosphere, Kalam knew that something was wrong. He shut the door behind him, waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He heard breathing, the light scuff of furniture and clank of tankards coming to rest on tabletops. So, there were people here. Then why the silence?

  As the gray confines of the bar grew defined, he saw that its denizens had turned their backs to him and were watching a man standing behind his table at the far end of the room. The lantern light reflected dully from a sword thrust through the table, and the man had closed one hand around its grip. He seemed oblivious to everyone else in the bar.

  Kalam took a half-dozen steps, coming to the near end of the counter. His dark eyes remained on the man with the sword, and a frown deepened the lines on his broad, flat forehead. The assassin stopped. Was it a trick of this damn light? he wondered. “No,” he said, startling the innkeeper behind the counter, “it isn’t.” He pushed himself back from the counter, ran his eyes over the others in the chamber—all locals. He’d have to take the risk.

  A band of tension tightened around Kalam’s neck and shoulders as he strode directly for the man, who looked to be but moments away from snapping his sword’s blade. The assassin plucked an empty chair from a table in his path and slammed it down one-handed opposite the man. Startled eyes fixed on Kalam.

  “Your god-given luck’s holding, Captain,” the assassin rumbled, in low, close tones. “Sit down.”

  His expression confused and frightened, Paran released his grip on the weapon and sank back into his seat.

  Kalam followed suit and leaned forward over the table. “What’s all this drama anyway?” he asked, in a whisper.

  The captain frowned. “Who are you?”

  Behind them conversations resumed, loud with rattled nerves.

  “Ain’t you guessed?” Kalam wagged his head. “Corporal Kalam, Ninth Squad, Bridgeburners. The last time I saw you, you was recovering from two fatal knife wounds—”

  Paran’s hands shot out and gripped Kalam’s shirt. The assassin was too surprised to react, and the captain’s words confused him all the more. “Is your squad’s healer still alive, Corporal?”

  “What? Alive? Yeah, sure, why not? What’s—?”

  “Shut up,” Paran snapped. “Just listen, soldier. Bring him here. Now! No questions. I’m giving you a direct order, Corporal.” He released his grip on the assassin’s shirt. “Now, move!”

  Kalam almost saluted, but caught himself in time. “As you command, sir,” he whispered.

  Paran glared at the corporal’s back until the man disappeared through the front door. Then he surged to his feet. “Innkeeper!” he called, stepping around the table. “The black man will be showing up in a few minutes with company. Send them up to Coll’s room on the double. Understood?”

  Scurve nodded.

  Paran strode to the stairs. As he reached them he glanced back at the sword. “And nobody touch that sword,” he ordered, swinging a glare across everyone in the room. Nobody seemed inclined to challenge him. With a sharp, satisfied nod, the captain ascended the stairs.

  On the first floor, he strode down the hallway to the last room on the right. He entered without knocking to find Sulty and a local surgeon sitting at the room’s lone table. Coll’s blanket-covered form lay unmoving on the bed.

  The surgeon rose. “It’s no good,” he said, in a thin, reedy voice. “The infection’s too far along.”

  Paran asked, “Is he still breathing?”

  “Aye,” the surgeon replied. “But it won’t be for much longer. If the wound had been further down on his leg, I might have been able to cut it off. Even then, I’m afraid the poison’s spread through all of him. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Leave,” Paran snapped.

  The surgeon bowed and prepared to depart.

  “What do I owe you for the services?” the captain asked, remembering.

  The surgeon frowned over at Sulty. “Why, nothing, sir. I failed.” He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Sulty joined the captain at the bedside. She wiped her face as she looked down on Coll, but said nothing. A few minutes later she, too, left the room, unable to remain any longer.

  Paran found a stool and pulled it over to the bed. He sat and leaned his forearms on his knees. He was not sure how long he sat there, staring down at the straw-littered floor, but the door slamming open behind him brought him to his feet.

  A bearded man stood in the doorway, his slate-gray eyes hard and cold.

  “Are you Mallet?” Paran demanded.

  The man shook his head and strode inside. Behind him appeared Kalam and another man. The latter’s gaze found Coll, and he walked quickly to the bed.

  “I’m Sergeant Whis
keyjack,” the bearded man said quietly. “Pardon my directness, sir, but what in Hood’s name are you doing here?”

  Ignoring the question, Paran joined the healer. Mallet laid a hand over the crusted bandages. He glared up at the captain. “Can’t you smell the rot? He’s gone.” Mallet frowned and leaned forward. “No, wait . . . Damn, I don’t believe it.” The healer took a spoon-shaped blade from his pouch and removed the bandages. Then he began to dig into the wound with the blade. “Shedenul’s Mercy, someone’s stuffed this with herbs!” He drove his fingers into the wound.

  Coll jerked and moaned.

  Mallet grinned. “Hah, that got you going, did it? Good.” He probed deeper. “This cut’s halfway through the bone,” he breathed in amazement. “Those damn herbs have poisoned his marrow. Who the hell treated this?” he asked, looking accusingly at Paran.

  “I don’t know,” Paran said.

  “All right,” Mallet said, removing his hand and wiping it on the blankets. “Move back, everybody. Give me some room. A minute later, Captain, and this man would’ve been striding through Hood’s Gate.” He pressed his hand down on Coll’s chest and closed his eyes. “And be glad I’m as good as I am.”

  “Now, Captain?”

  Paran walked over to the table and motioned for the sergeant to join him. “First, has Adjunct Lorn contacted you yet?”

  Whiskeyjack’s blank look was sufficient answer.

  “Good, I’m in time, then.” Paran glanced up at Kalam, who had stationed himself behind the sergeant. “You’ve been set up. The plan was to take the city, yes, but also to make certain you were all killed in the process.”

  Whiskeyjack held up a hand. “A moment, sir. You and Tattersail worked this out?”

  Paran closed his eyes briefly. “She’s . . . dead. Chasing Hairlock out on the Rhivi Plain. Tayschrenn got to her. It was also her intent to find you and tell you all that I’m telling you. I’m afraid I won’t be her equal as your ally once the Adjunct shows up, but at least I can prepare you somewhat.”

  Kalam spoke. “I don’t like the idea of Oponn’s pawn supposedly helping us.”

  Paran nodded. “I have it on good authority that I’m not Oponn’s. That sword downstairs is, though. Your squad wizard should be able to confirm this.”

  “The Adjunct’s plan,” Whiskeyjack reminded him, the fingers of one hand tapping slowly on the tabletop.

  “She’ll have no trouble finding you. She has a talent in that area. But I fear she’s not the major threat. There’s a T’lan Imass with her. Maybe her mission is simply to lead him to you, then he’ll handle the rest.”

  Kalam cursed and began pacing behind the sergeant’s chair.

  Whiskeyjack reached a decision. “The satchel, Corporal.”

  The assassin frowned, then picked up the sergeant’s standard-issue supply satchel left beside the door. He returned and set it down on the tabletop.

  Whiskeyjack released the straps and pulled out an object wrapped in burgundy silk. He removed the cloth, revealing twin yellowed bones of a human forearm. The elbow-end’s ball joints were bound together with verdigrised copper wire; the wrist ends were wrapped as well, but as a misshapen knife grip, beyond which jutted a serrated blade.

  “What is it?” the captain asked. “I’ve never seen its like before.”

  “Be surprised if you had,” Whiskeyjack said. “Back in the days of the Emperor, the inner ring of military commanders each possessed one of these, the booty of a looted K’chain Che’Malle tomb.” He grasped the bones with both hands. “It was the source of much of our success, Captain.” He rose and drove the point into the table.

  A flash of white light erupted from the bones, then contracted to a swirl spinning threadlike between them. Paran heard a voice he knew.

  “I was getting worried, Whiskeyjack,” High Fist Dujek growled.

  “Unavoidable,” the sergeant replied, frowning at Paran. “We’ve had little to report . . . until now. But I need to know the situation in Pale, High Fist.”

  “You want an update before you spill the bad news, eh? Fair enough,” Dujek said. “Tayschrenn’s stumbling in circles. He was last happy when Bellurdan was killed along with Tattersail. Two more of the Old Guard gone in one fell swoop. Since then, all he’s got is questions. What game is Oponn playing? Was there truly a clash between the Knight of Darkness and Shadowthrone? Did a soul-shifted puppet kidnap, torture, then murder a Claw officer in Nathilog and what truths were revealed by the poor man?”

  “We were not aware that Hairlock had done that, High Fist.”

  “I believe you, Whiskeyjack. In any case, enough of the Empress’s plans have been discovered and, indeed, she seems convinced that the dismantling of my army will pull me back under her wing, in time to saddle me with the command of the Seven Cities’ garrisons and put a bloody stop to the rebellion that’s brewing. She seriously miscalculated there—if only she’d paid attention to Toc the Younger’s reports. Well . . . Laseen’s intentions now seem to be riding on Adjunct Lorn and Onos T’oolan. They’ve reached the Jaghut barrow, Whiskeyjack.”

  Mallet joined them and met Kalam’s stunned gaze. Clearly, even they’d had no idea that their sergeant was so well informed. Suspicion dawned in the assassin’s eyes, and Paran nodded to himself. It was happening, after all.

  Dujek continued, “The Moranth Black are ready to march, but it’s only for show, and to get them out of the city. So, what are we looking at, friend? The balance of the world is with you, in Darujhistan. If Lorn and Onos T’oolan succeed in unleashing the Tyrant on the city, you can be certain that you and your squad are intended to be on the casualty list. Closer to home, here’s what you want: we’re ready to move. Tayschrenn himself will trigger events when he announces the disbanding of the Bridgeburners—the blind idiot. Now, I’m waiting.”

  “High Fist,” Whiskeyjack began, “Captain Paran’s made it. He’s sitting across from me right now. His story is that Oponn’s working through his sword, not him.” He met the captain’s eyes. “I believe him.”

  Dujek spoke. “Captain?”

  “Yes, High Fist?”

  “Was Toc any help?”

  Paran winced. “He gave his life for this, High Fist. The puppet Hairlock ambushed us, tossed Toc into a—a rent or something.”

  There was silence, then Dujek said, his voice hoarse, “I’m sorry to hear that, Captain. More than you know. His father . . . Well, enough of that. Go on, Whiskeyjack.”

  “No success yet in contacting the local Assassins’ Guild, High Fist. We’ve mined the intersections, though. I’ll be explaining everything to my men tonight. The question remains what to do about Captain Paran.”

  “Understood,” Dujek replied. “Captain Paran?”

  “Sir?”

  “Have you come to any conclusions?”

  Paran glanced at Whiskeyjack. “Yes, sir. I think so.”

  “So? What choice will you make, Captain?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair. “High Fist,” he said slowly, “Tayschrenn killed Tattersail.” And failed, but that is a secret I will keep to myself. “The Adjunct’s plan included betraying her word to me, and probably killing me in the process. But, I admit, that’s secondary to what Tayschrenn did.” Looking up, he met Whiskeyjack’s steady gaze. “Tattersail took care of me, and I her after that Hound. It . . .” he hesitated “. . . it meant something, High Fist.” He straightened. “So, I gather you intend to defy the Empress. But what then? Do we challenge the Empire’s hundred legions with ten thousand men? Do we proclaim an independent kingdom and wait for Laseen to make an example of us? I need more details, High Fist, before I decide whether I join you. Because, sir, I want vengeance.”

  Dujek responded, “The Empress loses Genabackis, Captain. We’ve got the support for that. By the time the Malazan Marines arrive to reinforce the campaign, it’ll already be over. The Crimson Guard won’t even let them disembark. Expect Nathilog to rise up and Genabaris to follow. The Moranth
alliance is about to lose its punch—though I’m afraid I can’t give you the details on that.

  “My plans, Captain? They might not make sense, because I don’t have time to explain. But we’re readying ourselves to take on a new player in the game—someone completely outside all of this, and that someone is damn nasty. He is called the Pannion Seer, who even now prepares his armies for a holy war. You want vengeance? Leave Tayschrenn to enemies closer to home. As for Lorn, she’s all yours, if you can manage it. I can’t offer you anything more, Captain. You can say no. Nobody will kill you for that.”

  Paran stared at his hands. “I want to know when High Mage Tayschrenn gets what he deserves.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Very well, High Fist. As far as this present situation is concerned, however, I’d rather Sergeant Whiskeyjack remained in command.”

  Dujek asked, a grin in his voice, “Whiskeyjack?”

  “Accepted,” the sergeant answered. He smiled at Paran. “Welcome aboard, Captain.”

  “Enough?” Dujek asked.

  “We’ll speak again after it’s all done,” Whiskeyjack said. “Until then, High Fist, success.”

  “Success, Whiskeyjack.”

  The threads of light faded. As soon as they were gone Kalam rounded on his sergeant. “You old bastard! Fiddler told me Dujek wouldn’t hear any talk of revolt! Not only that, the High Fist told you to walk after this mission!”

  Whiskeyjack shrugged, removing the strange contraption from the table. “Things change, Corporal. When Dujek got the Adjunct’s word on next year’s reinforcements, it became obvious that someone was ensuring that the Genabackan Campaign would end in disaster. Now, even Dujek won’t tolerate that. Obviously, plans would have to be revised.” He faced Paran, his eyes hardening. “I’m sorry, Captain, but Lorn has to live.”