Felisin decided she had had enough. “What do you know, Heboric?”
The blind man shrugged.
“Why does it matter to you, lass?” Kulp growled. “You’re suggesting surrender: let the shapeshifters take us—we’re dead anyway.”
“I asked, why do we struggle on? Why leave here? We haven’t got a chance out in the desert.”
“Stay, then!” Kulp snapped, rising. “Hood knows you’ve nothing useful to offer.”
“I’ve heard all it takes is a bite.”
He went still and slowly turned to her. “You heard wrong. It’s common enough ignorance, I suppose. A bite can poison you, a cyclical fever of madness, but you do not become a shapeshifter.”
“Really, then how are they created?”
“They aren’t. They’re born.”
Heboric clambered to his feet. “If we’re to walk through this dead city, let us do so now. The voices have stilled, and I am clear of mind.”
“What difference does that make?” Felisin demanded.
“I can guide us on the swiftest route, lass. Else we wander lost until the ones who hunt us finally arrive.”
They drank one last time from the pool, then gathered as many of the pale fruits as they could carry. Felisin had to admit to herself that she felt healthier—more mended—than she had in a long time, as if memories no longer bled and she was left with naught but scars. Yet the cast of her mind remained fraught. She had run out of hope.
Heboric led them swiftly down tortuous streets and alleys, through houses and buildings, and everywhere they went, they trod over and around bodies, human, shapeshifter and T’lan Imass, ancient scenes of fierce battle. Heboric’s plundered knowledge was lodged in Felisin’s mind, a trembling of ancient horror that made every new scene of death they stumbled upon resonate within her. She felt she was close to grasping a profound truth, around which orbited all human endeavor since the very beginning of existence. We do naught but scratch the world, frail and fraught. Every vast drama of civilizations, of peoples with their certainties and gestures, means nothing, affects nothing. Life crawls on, ever on. She wondered if the gift of revelation—of discovering the meaning underlying humanity—offered nothing more than a devastating sense of futility. It’s the ignorant who find a cause and cling to it, for within that is the illusion of significance. Faith, a king, queen or Emperor, or vengeance…all the bastion of fools.
The wind moaned at their backs, raising small gusts of dust at their feet, rasping like tongues against their skin. It carried in it a faint scent of spice.
Felisin judged an hour had passed before Heboric paused. They stood before the grand entrance to a temple of some kind, where the columns, squat and broad, had been carved into a semblance of tree trunks. A frieze ran beneath the cracked, sagging plinth, each panel a framed image which Kulp’s warren-cast light eerily lit from beneath.
The mage was staring up at the images. Hood’s breath! he mouthed.
The ex-priest was smiling.
“It’s a Deck,” Kulp said.
Yet another pathetic assertion of order.
“The Elder Deck, aye,” Heboric nodded. “Not Houses but Holds. Realms. Can you discern Death and Life? And Dark and Light? Do you see the Hold of the Beast? Who sits upon that antlered throne, Kulp?”
“It’s empty, assuming I’m looking at the one you mean—the frame displays various creatures. The throne is flanked by T’lan Imass.”
“Aye, that is the one. No one on the throne, you say? Curious.”
“Why?”
“Because every echo of memory tells me there used to be.”
Kulp grunted. “Well, it’s not been defaced—you can see the back of the throne, and it looks as weathered as everywhere else.”
“There should be the Unaligned—can you detect those?”
“No. Perhaps around the sides and back?”
“Possibly. Among them you’ll find Shapeshifter.”
“All very fascinating,” Felisin drawled. “I take it we’re to enter this place—since that’s where the wind is going.”
Heboric smiled. “Aye. The far end shall provide our exit.”
The interior of the temple was nothing more than a tunnel, its walls, floor and ceiling hidden behind packed layers of sand. The wind raised its voice the farther in they went. Forty paces later they could discern pale ochre light ahead.
The tunnel narrowed, the howling wind making it difficult to resist being pushed forward headlong, and they were forced to duck into a shambling crouch near the exit point.
Heboric held back just before the threshold to let Kulp pass, then Felisin. The mage was the first to step outside; Felisin followed.
They stood on a ledge, the mouth of a cave high on a cliff face. The wind tore at them as if seeking to cast them out, flinging them into the air—and a fatal drop to jagged rocks two hundred or more arm-spans below. Felisin moved to grip one crumbling edge of the cave mouth. The vista had taken her breath away, weakened her knees.
The Whirlwind raged, not before them but beneath them, filling the vast basin that was the Holy Desert. A fine haze of suspended dust drifted above a floor of seething yellow and orange clouds. The sun was an edgeless ball of red fire to the west, deepening its hue as they watched.
After a long moment Felisin barked a laugh. “All we need now is wings.”
“I become useful once again,” Heboric said, grinning as he stepped out to stand beside her.
Kulp’s head whipped around. “What do you mean?”
“Tie yourselves to my back—both of you. This man’s got a pair of hands and he can use them, and for once my blindness will prove a salvation.”
Kulp peered down the cliff face. “Climb down this? It’s rotten rock, old man—”
“Not the handholds I’ll find, Mage. Besides, what choice do you have?”
“Oh, I simply can’t wait,” Felisin said.
“All right, but I’ll have my warren open,” Kulp said. “We’ll fall just as far, but the landing will be softer—not that it’ll make much difference, I suppose, but at least it gives us a chance.”
“You have no faith!” Heboric shouted, his face twisting as he fought back peals of laughter.
“Thanks for that,” Felisin said. How far do we have to be pushed? We’re not slipping into madness, we’re being nudged, tugged and pulled into it.
A hot, solid pressure closed on her shoulder. She turned. Heboric had laid an invisible hand on her—she could see nothing, yet the thin weave of her shirt’s fabric was compressed, slowly darkening with sweat. She could feel its weight. He leaned close. “Raraku reshapes all who come to it. This is one truth you can cling to. What you were falls away, what you become is something different.” His smile broadened at her snort of disdain. “Raraku’s gifts are harsh, it’s true,” he said in a tone of sympathy.
Kulp was readying harnesses. “These straps are rotting,” he said.
Heboric swung to him. “Then you must hold tight.”
“This is madness.”
Those were my words.
“Would you rather await the D’ivers and Soletaken?”
The mage scowled.
Heboric’s body felt like gnarled tree roots. Felisin clung with trembling muscles, not trusting the straining leather straps. Her gaze remained fixed on the ex-priest’s wrists—the unseen hands themselves were plunged into the rock face—while below she heard his feet scrambling for purchase again and again. The old man was carrying the weight of the three of them with his hands and arms alone.
The battered cliff was bathed in the setting sun’s red glare. As if we’re descending into a cauldron of fire, into some demonic realm. And this is a oneway trip—Raraku will claim us, devour us. The sands will bury every dream of vengeance, every desire, every hope. We will all of us drown, here in this desert.
Wind slapped them against the cliff face, then yanked them outward in a biting swirl of airborne sand. They had entered the Whirlwind once again. Kulp shouted somethin
g lost in the battering roar. Felisin felt herself being pulled away, raised up horizontal by the frantic, hungry wind. She hooked one arm around Heboric’s right shoulder.
Her muscles began shuddering with the strain, her joints burning like fanned coals. She felt the harness straps around her tightening as they slowly, inevitably, assumed the strain. Hopeless. The gods mock us at every turn.
Heboric continued the climb downward, into the heart of the maelstrom.
From inches away, Felisin watched as the blowing sand began abrading the skin stretched over her elbow joint. The sensation was nothing more than that of a cat’s tongue, yet the skin was peeling back, vanishing.
Her legs and body rode the wind, and from everywhere she felt that dreadful rasp of the storm’s tongue. I will be nothing but bones and sinew when we reach bottom, tottering fleshless with a rictus grin. Felisin unveiled in all her glory…
Heboric stepped away from the cliff face. The three of them fell in a heap onto a ragged floor of rocks. Felisin screamed as the stones and sand pressed hard against the ravaged skin of her back. She found herself staring back up the cliff, revealed in patches where the gusting sand momentarily thinned. She thought she saw a figure, fifty arm-spans above them, then it was swallowed once more by the storm.
Kulp tugged at the straps with frantic haste. Felisin rolled clear, pushing herself onto her hands and knees. There’s something…even I can feel it—
“On your feet, lass!” the mage shouted. “Quickly!”
Whimpering, Felisin struggled upright. The wind slapped her back down in a lash of pain. Warm hands closed on her, lifted her up into the crook of rope-muscled arms.
“Life’s like that,” Heboric said. “Hold tight.”
They were running, leaning into the raging wind. She squeezed shut her eyes, the agony of her flayed skin flashing like lightning behind her eyelids. Hood take this! All of it!
They stumbled into sudden calm. Kulp hissed his surprise.
Felisin opened her eyes on a motionless mist of dust, describing a sphere in the midst of the Whirlwind. A large, vague shape was tottering toward them through the haze. The air was redolent with citrus perfume. She struggled until Heboric set her down.
Four pale men in rags were carrying a palanquin on which sat, beneath an umbrella, a vast, corpulent figure wearing voluminous silks in a splash of discordant colors. Slitted eyes peered out from sweat-beaded folds of flesh. The man raised one bloated hand and the bearers halted.
“Perilous!” he squealed. “Join me, strangers, and take leave of yon dangers—a desert filled with beasts of most unpleasant disposition. I offer humble sanctuary through artful sorcery invested into this chair at great personal expense. Do you hunger? Do you thirst? Ahh, but look at the wounds upon the frail lass! I possess healing unguents, I would see such a delectable morsel with skin smoothed once again into youthful perfection. Tell me, is she perchance a slave? Might I make an offer?”
“I am not a slave,” Felisin said. And I am no longer for sale.
“The reek of lemon is making my blind eyes water,” Heboric whispered. “I sense greed but no ill will…”
“Nor I,” Kulp said beside them. “Only…his porters are undead, not to mention strangely…chewed.”
“I see you hesitate and I applaud caution at all times. Aye, my servants have seen better days, but they are harmless, I assure you.”
“How is it,” Kulp called out, “you oppose the Whirlwind?”
“Not oppose, sir! I am a true believer and most humble. The goddess grants me ease of passage, for which I make constant propitiation! I am naught but a merchant, my trade is select merchandise—of the magical kind, that is. I am making my return journey to Pan’potsun, you see, after a lucrative venture to Sha’ik’s rebel camp.” The man smiled. “Aye, I know you as Malazans and no doubt enemies of the great cause. But cruel retribution finds no root in my soil, I assure you. And truth to tell, I would enjoy your company, for these dread servants are obsessed with their own deaths and there is no end to their complaints.”
At a gesture, the four bearers set the sedan chair down. Two of them immediately began removing camp gear from the storage rack behind the seat, their movements careless and loose, while the other pair set to levering their master onto his feet.
“There is a most potent salve,” the man wheezed. “In yon wooden chest—there! The one called Nub carries it. Nub! Set that down, you gnawed grub! Nub the grub, hee! Leave off fumbling with the catch—such nimble escapades will melt your rotting brain. Aai! You’ve no hands!” The man’s eyes had found Heboric, as if for the first time. “A crime, to have done such a thing! Alas, none of my healing unguents could manage such complex regeneration.”
“Please,” Heboric said, “do not feel distressed at what I lack, or even at what you lack. I’ve need for nothing, although this shelter from the wind is most welcome.”
“Yours is assuredly a tragic tale of abandonment, once-priest of Fener, and I shall not pry. And you—” the man swung to Kulp—“forgive me, the warren of Meanas, perchance?”
“You do more than sell sorcerous trinkets,” Kulp growled, his face darkening.
“Long proximity, kind sir,” the man said, bowing his head. “Nothing more, I assure you. I have devoted my life to magery, yet I do not practice it. The years have granted me a certain…sensitivity, that is all. My apologies if I gave offense.” He reached out and cuffed one of his servants. “You, what name did I give you?”
Felisin stared in fascination as the corpse’s gnawed lips peeled back in a twisted grin. “Clam, though I once knew myself as Iryn Thalar—”
“Oh, shut up with what you once knew! You are Clam now.”
“I had a horrid death—”
“Shut up!” his master shrieked, his face suddenly darkening.
The undead servant fell silent.
“Now,” the man gasped, “find us that Falari wine—let us celebrate with the Empire’s most civil gifts.”
The servant stumbled off. Its nearest companion’s head swiveled to follow with desiccated eyes. “Yours was not as horrid as mine—”
“The Seven Holies preserve us!” the merchant hissed. “I beg of you, Mage, a spell of silence about these ill-chosen animations! I shall pay in jakata imperials, and pay well!”
“Beyond my abilities,” Kulp muttered.
Felisin’s eyes narrowed on the cadre mage. That has to be a lie.
“Ah, well,” the man sighed. “Gods below, I have not yet introduced myself! I am Nawahl Ebur, humble merchant of the Holy City Pan’potsun. And what names do you three wish to be known by?”
Oddly put.
“I’m Kulp.”
“Heboric.”
Felisin said nothing.
“While the lass is shy,” Nawahl said, his lips curving into an indulgent smile as he looked upon her.
Kulp crouched down at the wooden chest, released the catch and lifted the lid.
“The white clay bowl with the wax seal,” the merchant said.
The wind was a distant moan, the ochre dust of the calm slowly settling around them. Heboric, still gifted with an awareness that dispensed with the need for sight, sat down on a weathered boulder. A faint frown wrinkled his broad forehead, and his tattoos were dull beneath a veil of dust.
Kulp strode to Felisin, the bowl in one hand. “It’s a healing salve,” he affirmed. “And potent indeed.”
“Why didn’t the wind tear your skin, Mage? You’ve not got Heboric’s protection—”
“I don’t know, lass. I had my warren open—perhaps that was enough.”
“Why didn’t you extend its influence over me?”
He glanced away. “I thought I had,” he muttered.
The salve was cool and seemed to absorb the pain. Beneath its colorless patina, she saw her skin grow anew. Kulp applied it where she could not reach, and half a bowl later, the last flare of agony was healed. Suddenly exhausted, Felisin sat down on the sand.
A bro
ken-stemmed glass of wine appeared before her face. Nawahl smiled down on her. “This shall restore you, gentle lass. A pliant current will take the mind past suffering, into life’s most peaceful stream. Here, drink, my dear. I care for your well-being most deeply.”
She accepted the glass. “Why?” she demanded. “Why do you care most deeply?”
“A man of my wealth can offer you much, child. All that you grant of your free will is my reward. And know, I am most gentle.”
She downed a mouthful of the tart, cool wine. “Are you now?”
His nod was solemn, his eyes glittering between the folds of dimpled flesh. “This I promise.”
Hood knows I could do worse. Riches and comfort, ease and indulgences. Durhang and wine. Pillows to lie on…
“I sense wisdom in you, my dear,” Nawahl said, “so I shall not press. Let you, rather, yourself ascend to the proper course.”
Bedrolls had been laid out. One of the undead servants had fanned to life a camp stove, the remnants of one sleeve catching light and smoldering in the process, a detail none commented on.
Darkness swiftly closed in around them. Nawahl commanded the lighting of lanterns and their positioning on poles situated in a circle around the camp. One of the corpses stood beside Felisin and refilled her glass after every mouthful. The creature’s flesh looked gnawed. Gaping bloodless wounds lined his pallid arms. All his teeth had fallen out.
Felisin glanced up at him, willing herself against recoiling. “And how did you die?” she asked sardonically.
“Terribly.”
“But how?”
“I am forbidden to say more. I died terribly, a death to match one of Hood’s own nightmares. It was long, yet swift, an eternity that passed in an instant. I was surprised, yet knowing. Small pain, yet great pain, the flood of darkness, yet blinding—”
“All right. I see your master’s point.”
“So you shall.”
“Go easy on that, lass,” Kulp said from near the camp stove. “Best have your wits about you.”
“Why? It’s not availed me yet, has it?” In defiance, she drained the glass and held it up to be refilled. Her head was swimming, her limbs seeming to float. The servant splashed wine over her hand.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 122