The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

After a moment, the captain said, “Well, not all, it seems. Get the coin-stacker below and get him out of those sealskins. Ship’s cutter has more work to do, and we ain’t even cast off yet.” He swung to Salk Elan and Kalam. “Now, you two gentlemen can join me in my cabin.”

  The room was not much larger than the assassin’s own, and almost empty of possessions. It was a few minutes before the captain managed to find three tankards into which he poured local sour ale from a clay jug. Without offering a toast, the man drained half his tankard’s contents, then wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. His eyes roved restlessly, not once settling on the two men before him. “The rules,” he said, grimacing. “Simple. Stay out of the treasurer’s way. The situation is…confused. With the Admiral under arrest—”

  Kalam choked on the ale, then managed to rasp, “What? By whose command?”

  The captain was frowning down at Elan’s shoes. “That would be the High Fist’s, of course. No other means, you see, of keeping the fleet in the bay.”

  “The Empress—”

  “Probably doesn’t know. There’s been no Claw in the city for months—no-one knows why.”

  “And their absence,” Elan said, “gives implicit authority to Pormqual’s decisions, I take it.”

  “More or less,” the captain conceded, his eyes now fixed on a crossbeam. He finished his ale, poured more. “In any case, the High Fist’s personal treasurer has arrived with a writ granting him commander status for this voyage, meaning he has the privilege of overriding me if he so chooses. Now, while I hold an Imperial charter, neither me nor my ship and crew are actually in the Imperial Navy, which leaves things, like I said earlier, confused.”

  Kalam set his tankard down on the room’s lone table. “Right opposite us is an Imperial transport ship, getting ready to leave as much as we are. Why in Hood’s name hasn’t Pormqual sent his treasurer and his loot there? It’s bigger and better defended, after all—”

  “So it is. And it has indeed been commandeered by the High Fist, and will depart for Unta shortly after we do, loaded with Pormqual’s household and his precious breeding stallions, meaning it will be very crowded, and rank to boot.” He shrugged as if his shoulders had been tugged upward by invisible hands. He glanced nervously toward the door before returning his somewhat desperate gaze to the cross-beam overhead. “Ragstopper’s fast when she has to be. Now, that’s all. Drink up. The marines will board any moment now, and I mean for us to cast off within the hour.”

  In the companionway outside the captain’s cabin, Salk Elan shook his head and muttered, “He couldn’t have been serious.”

  The assassin eyed the man. “What do you mean?”

  “The ale was atrocious. ‘Drink up’ indeed.”

  Kalam scowled. “No Claw in the city—now why would that be?”

  The man’s shrug was loose. “Aren’s not its old self, alas. Filled with monks and priests and soldiers, the jails crowded with innocents while Sha’ik’s fanatics—only the most cunning left alive, of course—spread murder and mayhem. It’s also said the warrens aren’t what they used to be, either, though I gather you know more about that than I.” Elan smiled.

  “Was that an answer to my question?”

  “And am I an expert on the activities of the Claw? Not only have I never run into one of those horrid throat-slitters, I make it policy that my curiosity about them is thoroughly curtailed.” He brightened suddenly. “Perhaps the treasurer will not survive his heat prostration! Now there’s a pleasing thought!”

  Kalam swung about and made his way to his cabin. He heard Salk Elan sigh, then head in the opposite direction, ascending the companionway ladder to the main deck.

  The assassin closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Better to walk into a trap that you can see than one you can’t. Yet the thought gave him scant comfort. He wasn’t even sure if there was a trap. Mebra’s web was vast—Kalam had always known that, and had himself plucked those strands more than once. Nor, it seemed, had the Ehrlitan spy betrayed him when it came to delivering the Book of Dryjhna—Kalam had placed it into Sha’ik’s hands, after all.

  Salk Elan was likely a mage, and he also had the look of a man capable of handling himself in a fight. He had not so much as flinched when the treasurer’s bodyguard had closed on him.

  None of which puts me at ease.

  The assassin sighed. And the man knows bad ale when he tastes it…

  When the High Fist’s breeding stallions were led through the gate into the Imperial yard, chaos ensued. Stamping, nervous horses jostled with stablers, dockhands, soldiers and various officials. The Master of the Horse shrieked and ran about in an effort to impose some order, fomenting even more confusion in the seething press.

  The woman holding the reins of one magnificent stallion was notable only for her watchful calm, and when the Master finally managed to arrange the loading, she was among the first to lead her charge up the broad gangplank onto the Imperial transport. And though the Master knew every one of his workers and every one of the breeders in his care, his attention was so tugged and strained in multiple directions that he did not register that both woman and horse were unknown to him.

  Minala had watched Ragstopper cast off two hours earlier, following the boarding of two squads of marines and their gear. The trader was towed clear of the inside harbor before being allowed to stretch sails, flanked by Imperial galleys that would provide escort crossing Aren Bay. Four similar warships awaited the Imperial transport a quarter-league out.

  The complement of Marines aboard the Imperial transport was substantial, at least seven squads. Clearly, the Dojal Hading Sea was not secure.

  Kalam’s stallion tossed his head as he stepped down onto the main deck. The massive hatch that led down into the hold was in fact an elevator, raised and lowered by winches. The first four horses had been led onto the platform.

  An old, grizzled stabler standing near Minala eyed her and the stallion. “The latest in the High Fist’s purchases?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Magnificent animal,” the man said. “He’s a good eye, has the High Fist.”

  And not much else worth mentioning. The bastard’s making a show of his imminent flight, and when he finally leaves, he’ll have an entire fleet of warships for escort, no doubt. Ah, Keneb, is this what we’ve delivered you to?

  Get out of Aren, Kalam had said. She’d urged the same to Selv before saying goodbye, but Keneb was among the army’s ranks now. Attached to Blistig’s City Garrison. They were going nowhere.

  Minala suspected she would never see any of them again.

  All to chase a man I don’t understand. A man I’m not even sure I like. Oh, woman, you’re old enough to know better…

  The southern horizon ran in a thin, gray-green vein that wavered in the streams of heat rising from the road. The land that stretched before it was barren, studded with stones except along the path of the potsherd-strewn trader track that branched out from the Imperial Road.

  The vanguard sat their horses at the crossroads. To the east and southeast lay the coast, with its clustering of villages and towns and the Holy City of Ubaryd. The skyline in that direction was bruised with smoke.

  Slumped in his saddle, Duiker listened with the others as Captain Sulmar spoke.

  “—and the consensus on this is absolute, Fist. We’ve no choice but to hear Nethpara and Pullyk out. It is, after all, the refugees who will suffer the most.”

  Captain Lull grunted his contempt.

  Sulmar’s face paled beneath the dust, but he went on, “Their rations are at starvation level as it is—oh, there’ll be water at Vathar, but what of the wasteland beyond?”

  Bult raked fingers through his beard. “Our warlocks say they sense nothing, but we are still distant—a forest and a wide river between us and the drylands. It may be that the spirits of the land down there are simply buried deep—Sormo has said as much.”

  Duiker glanced at the warlock, who offered nothing
and who sat wrapped in an Elder’s cloak atop his horse, his face hidden beneath the hood’s shadow. The historian could see the now constant tremble in Sormo’s long-fingered hands where they rested on the saddlehorn. Nil and Nether were still recovering from their ordeal at Gelor Ridge, not once emerging from the covered wagon that carried them, and Duiker had begun to wonder whether they still lived at all. Our last three mages, and two of them are either dead or too weak to walk, while the third has aged ten years for every week of this Hood-cursed journey.

  “The tactical advantages must be clear to you, Fist,” Sulmar said after a moment. “No matter how sundered Ubaryd’s walls may be, they’ll provide a better defense than a land devoid even of hills—”

  “Captain!” Bult barked.

  Sulmar subsided, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line.

  Duiker shivered in response to a chill that had nothing to do with the dying day’s slow cooling. Such a vast concession, Sulmar, according to a Wickan war chief the rules of courtesy expected from one of lower rank. What skin is this that’s wearing so thin on you, Captain? No doubt quickly cast off when you sup wine with Nethpara and Pullyk Alar…

  Coltaine did not take Sulmar to task. He never did. He met every jibe and dig of nobleborn presumption and arrogance in the same manner that he dealt with everything else: cold indifference. It may well have worked for the Wickan, but Duiker could see how bold it was making Sulmar and others like him.

  And the captain was not finished. “This is not just a military concern, Fist. The civil element of the situation—”

  “Promote me, Commander Bult,” Lull said, “so that I may whip this dog until his hide’s just a memory.” He bared his teeth at his fellow captain. “Otherwise, a word with you somewhere private, Sulmar…”

  The man replied with a silent sneer.

  Coltaine spoke. “There is no civil element. Ubaryd will prove a fatal trap should we retake it. Assailed from the land and the sea, we would never hold. Explain that to Nethpara, Captain, as your last task.”

  “My last task, sir?”

  The Fist said nothing.

  “Last,” Bult rumbled. “Means just that. You’ve been stripped of rank, drummed out.”

  “Begging the Fist’s pardon, but you cannot do that.”

  Coltaine’s head turned and Duiker wondered if the captain had finally got to the Fist.

  Sulmar shrugged. “My Imperial commission was granted by a High Fist, sir. Based on that, it is within my right to ask for adjudication. Fist Coltaine, it has always been the strength of the Malazan Army that a tenet of our discipline insists that we speak our mind. Regardless of your commands—which I will obey fully—I have the right to have my position duly recorded, as stated. If you wish, I can recite the relevant Articles to remind you of these rights, sir.”

  There was silence, then Bult swung in his saddle to Duiker. “Historian, did you understand any of that?”

  “As well as you, Uncle.”

  “Will his position be duly recorded?”

  “Aye.”

  “And presumably adjudication requires the presence of advocates, not to mention a High Fist.”

  Duiker nodded.

  “Where is the nearest High Fist?”

  “Aren.”

  Bult nodded thoughtfully. “Then, to resolve this matter of the captain’s commission, we must make all haste to Aren.” He faced Sulmar. “Unless, of course, the views of the Council of Nobles are to take precedence over the issue of the fate of your career, Captain.”

  “Retaking Ubaryd will allow relief from Admiral Nok’s fleet,” Sulmar said. “Through this avenue, a swift and safe journey to Aren can be effected.”

  “Admiral Nok’s fleet is in Aren,” Bult pointed out.

  “Yes, sir. However, once news reaches them that we are in Ubaryd, the obvious course will be clear.”

  “You mean they will hasten to relieve us?” Bult’s frown was exaggerated. “Now I am confused, Captain. The High Fist holds his army in Aren. More, he holds the entire Seven Cities fleet as well. Neither has moved in months. He has had countless opportunities to despatch either force to our aid. Tell me, Captain, in your family’s hunting estates, have you ever seen a deer caught in lantern light? How it stands, frozen, unable to do anything. The High Fist Pormqual is that deer. Coltaine could deliver this train to a place three miles up the coast from Aren and Pormqual would not set forth to deliver us. Do you truly believe that an even greater plight, such as you envisage for us in Ubaryd, will shame the High Fist into action?”

  “I was speaking more of Admiral Nok—”

  “Who is dead, sick or in a dungeon, Captain. Else he would have sailed long ere now. One man rules Aren, and one man alone. Will you place your life in his hands, Captain?”

  Sulmar’s expression had soured. “It seems I have in either case, Commander.” He drew on his riding gloves. “And it also seems that I am no longer permitted to venture my views—”

  “You are,” Coltaine said. “But you are also a soldier of the Seventh.”

  The captain’s head bobbed. “I apologize, Fist, for my presumption. These are strained times indeed.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that,” Bult said, grinning.

  Sulmar swung to Duiker suddenly. “Historian, what are your views on all this?”

  As an objective observer…“My views on what, Captain?”

  The man’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Ubaryd, or the River Vathar and the forest and wastes southward? As a civilian who knows well the plight of the refugees, do you truly believe they will survive such a fraught journey?”

  The historian said nothing for a long minute, then he cleared his throat and shrugged. “As ever, the greater of the threats has been the renegade army. The victory at Gelor Ridge has purchased for us time to lick our wounds—”

  “Hardly,” Sulmar interjected. “If anything, we have been pushed even harder since then.”

  “Aye, we have, and for good reason. It is Korbolo Dom who now pursues us. The man was a Fist in his own right, and is a very able commander and tactician. Kamist Reloe is a mage, not a leader of soldiers—he wasted his army, thinking to rely upon numbers and numbers alone. Korbolo will not be so foolish. If our enemy arrives at the River Vathar before we do, we are finished—”

  “Precisely why we should surprise him and recapture Ubaryd instead!”

  “A short-lived triumph,” Duiker replied. “We’d be left with two days at the most to prepare the city’s defenses before Korbolo’s arrival. As you said, I am a civilian, not a tactician. Yet even I can see that retaking Ubaryd would prove suicidal, Captain.”

  Bult shifted in his saddle, making a show of looking around. “Let us find a cattle-dog, so that we may have yet another opinion. Sormo, where’s that ugly beast that’s adopted you? The one the marines call Bent?”

  The warlock’s head lifted slightly. “Do you really wish to know?” His voice was a rasp.

  Bult frowned. “Aye, why not?”

  “Hiding in the grass seven paces from you, Commander.”

  It was inevitable that everyone began looking, including Coltaine. Finally, Lull pointed and, after peering for a moment longer, Duiker could make out a tawny body amidst the high prairie spikegrass. Hood’s breath!

  “I am afraid,” Sormo said, “that he will offer little in the way of opinion, Uncle. Where you lead, Bent follows.”

  “A true soldier, then,” Bult said, nodding.

  Duiker guided his horse around on the crossroads, then looked back over the vast column stretching its length northward. The Imperial Road was designed for the swift travel of armies. It was wide and level, the cobbles displaying geometric precision. It could manage a troop of fifteen horsewarriors riding abreast. Coltaine’s Chain of Dogs was over an Imperial league long, even with the three Wickan clans riding the grasslands to either side of the road.

  “Discussion is ended,” Coltaine announced.

  Bult said, “Report to your companies, captain
s.” It was not necessary to add, We march for the River Vathar. The command meeting had revealed positions, in particular Sulmar’s conflicting loyalties, and beyond the mundane discussion of troop placement, supply issues and so on, nothing else was open to debate.

  Duiker felt a wave of pity for Sulmar, realizing the level of pressure the man must be under from Nethpara and Pullyk Alar. The captain was nobleborn, after all, and the threat of displeasure visited upon his kin made Sulmar’s position untenable.

  “The Malazan Army shall know but one set of rules,” Emperor Kellanved had proclaimed, during the first “cleansing” and “restructuring” of the military early in his reign. “One set of rules, and one ruler…” His and Dassem Ultor’s imposition of merit as the sole means of advancement had triggered a struggle for control within the hierarchies of the Army and Navy commands. Blood was spilled on the palace steps, and Laseen’s Claw was the instrument of that surgery. She should have learned from that episode. We had our second cull, but it came far too late.

  Captain Lull interrupted Duiker’s thoughts. “Ride back with me, old man. There’s something you should see.”

  “Now what?”

  Lull’s grin was ghastly in his raw, ravaged face. “Patience, please.”

  “Ah, well, I’ve acquired that with plenty to spare, Captain.” Waiting to die, and such a long wait it’s been.

  Lull clearly understood Duiker’s comment. He squinted his lone eye out across the plain, northwest, to where Korbolo Dom’s army was, less than three days away and closing fast. “It’s an official request, Historian.”

  “Very well. Ride on, then.”

  Coltaine, Bult and Sormo had ridden down to the trader track. Voices shouted from the Seventh’s advance elements as preparations began to leave the Imperial Road. Duiker saw the cattle-dog Bent loping ahead of the three Wickans. And so we follow. We are indeed well named.

  “How fares the corporal?” Lull asked as they rode down the corridor toward Lull’s company.

  Duiker frowned. List had taken a vicious wound at Gelor Ridge. “Mending. We face difficulties with the healers—they’re wearing down, Captain.”