‘You are a fool.’
The commander turned at the rasping words. ‘None the less, Kallor.’
The tall, grey-haired man smiled coldly. ‘You will come to regret your vow to protect the child.’
Shrugging, Whiskeyjack turned to resume his walk.
‘I am not done with you!’ Kallor hissed.
‘But I am with you,’ the Malazan calmly replied, continuing on.
Paran was facing him now. The captain’s eyes were wide, uncomprehending. Behind him, the Tiste Andii had begun to drift away, spectral and seemingly indifferent now that their lord had retired within the command tent with Caladan Brood. Whiskeyjack looked for Korlat but didn’t see her; nor, he realized after a moment, was the Mhybe anywhere in sight. The child Silverfox stood a dozen paces from Paran, watching the captain with Tattersail’s eyes.
‘No questions,’ Paran growled as Whiskeyjack halted before him. ‘I have no answers for you – not for what’s happened here, not for what I’ve become. Perhaps it would be best if you placed someone else in command of the Bridgeburners—’
‘No reason for that,’ Whiskeyjack said. ‘Besides, I hate changing my mind on anything, Captain.’
Quick Ben joined them. He grinned. ‘That was close, wasn’t it?’
‘What is that thing?’ Whiskeyjack asked him, nodding towards the tabletop.
‘Just what it appears to be. A new Unaligned card in the Deck of Dragons. Well, it’s the Unaligned of all Unaligneds. The table holds the entire Deck, remember.’ The wizard glanced over at Paran. ‘The captain here’s on the threshold of ascendancy, as we suspected. And that means that what he does – or chooses not to do – could have profound effects. On all of us. The Deck of Dragons seems to have acquired a Master. Jen’isand Rul.’
Paran turned away, clearly not wanting to be part of this conversation.
Whiskeyjack frowned at the wizard. ‘Jen’isand Rul. I thought that was a name referring to his … escapades within a certain weapon.’
‘It is, but since that name is on the card it seems the two are linked … somehow. If the captain’s in the dark as much as the rest of us, then I’ll have to do some hard thinking on what that linkage signifies. Of course,’ he added, ‘the captain might well know enough to help me along in this, provided he’s willing.’
Paran opened his mouth for a reply but Whiskeyjack spoke first. ‘He’s got no answers for us … right now. I take it we’re carrying that ridiculous tabletop along with us on the march?’
Quick Ben slowly nodded. ‘It would be best, at least for a while, so I can study it some more. Still, I would advise we unload it before we cross into Pannion territory. The Trygalle Trade Guild can deliver it to the alchemist in Darujhistan for safekeeping.’
A new voice cut in, ‘The card does not leave us.’
The three men turned to find Silverfox standing close. Behind her, a dozen Rhivi warriors were lifting the tabletop.
Watching the dark-skinned, lithe men carrying the tabletop away, Quick Ben frowned. ‘Risky, taking an object of such power into battle, lass.’
‘We must accept that risk, Wizard.’
Whiskeyjack grunted. ‘Why?’
‘Because the card belongs to Paran, and he will have need of it.’
‘Can you explain that?’
‘We struggle against more than one enemy, as shall be seen.’
‘I don’t want that card,’ Paran snapped. ‘You’d better paint a new face on that thing. I have the blood of a Hound of Shadow within me. I am a liability—when will you all see that? Hood knows, I do!’
The rustle of armour alerted them to Kallor’s approach.
Whiskeyjack scowled. ‘You are not part of this conversation.’
Kallor smiled wryly. ‘Never part of, but often the subject of—’
‘Not this time.’
The High King’s flat, grey eyes fixed on Quick Ben. ‘You, wizard, are a hoarder of souls … I am a man who releases souls – shall I break the chains within you? An easy thing, to leave you helpless.’
‘Even easier,’ Quick Ben replied, ‘to make a hole in the ground.’
Kallor dropped from sight, the earth gone from beneath him. Armour clattered, followed by a bellow of rage.
Silverfox gasped, eyes widening on Quick Ben.
The wizard shrugged. ‘You’re right, I don’t care who, or what, Kallor is.’
Whiskeyjack stepped to the edge of the pit, glanced down. ‘He’s climbing out … not bad for an old man.’
‘But since I’m not stupid,’ Quick Ben said hastily, ‘I’ll take leave, now.’ The wizard gestured and seemed to blur a moment before vanishing altogether.
Turning his back on the grunting, cursing Kallor – whose gauntleted hands were now visible scrabbling at the crumbly edge of the pit – Whiskeyjack said to Paran, ‘Return to the Bridgeburners, Captain. If all goes well, we’ll meet again at Capustan.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Somewhat unsteadily, Paran strode away.
‘I suggest,’ Silverfox said, eyes fixed on Kallor’s efforts to extricate himself, ‘we too should depart this particular place.’
‘Agreed, lass.’
* * *
Slumped in his saddle, Whiskeyjack watched the columns of Onearm’s Host marching out from the city of Pale. The day was hot, the hint of thunderstorms in the humid air. Quorl-mounted Black Moranth circled high above the two de-camped armies, fewer in number than was usual – their Achievant, Twist, had departed with Captain Paran and the Bridgeburners four days ago, and eight of the eleven Flights had left in the night just past, on their way to the Vision Mountains on the northwest border of the Domin.
The commander was exhausted. The ache in his leg was robbing him of sleep, and each day was filled with the demands of supply, details on the planned deployment on the march, and the ceaseless swarm of messengers delivering reports and orders then hurrying off with the same. He was restless to begin the journey across half a continent, if only to answer the thousand questions of what awaited them.
Quick Ben sat in silence beside Whiskeyjack, the mage’s horse shifting nervously beneath him.
‘Your mount’s picked up on your state of mind, Quick,’ the commander said.
‘Aye.’
‘You’re wondering when I’ll cut you loose so you can chase after and catch up with Paran and the Bridgeburners, and put some distance between you and Kallor. You’re also eager to get as far away from Silverfox as you can.’
Quick Ben started at this last observation, then he sighed. ‘Aye. I imagine I haven’t managed to hide my unease – at least not from you, it’s clear. The child’s grown five years or more since we arrived, Whiskeyjack – I looked in on the Mhybe this morning. Korlat’s doing what she can, as are the Rhivi shoulderwomen, but Silverfox has taken from that old woman almost her entire life-force – Hood knows what’s keeping her alive. The thought of converging T’lan Imass ain’t making me happy, either. And then there’s Anomander Rake – he wants to know all about me—’
‘Has he attempted any further probing?’
‘Not yet, but why tempt him?’
‘I need you for a while longer,’ Whiskeyjack said. ‘Ride with my entourage – we’ll keep our distance from the Son of Darkness, as best we can. Have those mercenaries in Capustan taken your bait yet?’
‘They’re playing with it.’
‘We’ll wait another week, then. If nothing, then off you go.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now,’ Whiskeyjack drawled, ‘why don’t you tell me what else you’ve got going, Quick Ben?’
The mage blinked innocently. ‘Sir?’
‘You’ve visited every temple and every seer in Pale, mage. You’ve spent a small fortune on readers of the Deck. Hood, I’ve had a report of you sacrificing a goat at dawn atop a barrow – what in the Abyss were you up to with that, Quick?’
‘All right,’ the man muttered, ‘the goat thing stinks of desperation. I admit it. I got carried away.’
‘And what did the lost spirits in the barrow tell you?’
‘Nothing. There, uh, there weren’t any.’
Whiskeyjack’s eyes narrowed. ‘There weren’t any? It was a Rhivi barrow, was it not?’
‘One of the few still remaining in the area, aye. It was, uh, cleaned out. Recently.’
‘Cleaned out?’
‘Someone or something gathered them up, sir. Never known that to happen before. It’s the strangest thing. Not a single soul remains within those barrows. I mean, where are they?’
‘You’re changing the subject, Quick Ben. Nice try.’
The mage scowled. ‘I’m doing some investigating. Nothing I can’t handle, and it won’t interfere with anything else. Besides, we’re now officially on the march, right? Not much I can do out in the middle of nowhere, is there? Besides, I have been sidetracked, sir. Those snatched spirits … someone took them, and it’s got me curious.’
‘When you figure it out you’ll let me know, right?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Whiskeyjack gritted his teeth and said no more. I’ve known you too long, Quick Ben. You’ve stumbled onto something, and it’s got you scampering like a stoat with its tail between its legs.
Sacrificing a goat, for Hood’s sake!
On the road from Pale, Onearm’s Host – almost ten thousand veterans of the Genabackan Campaign – moved to join the ranks of Caladan Brood’s vast army. The march had begun, onward to war, against an enemy they had never seen and of whom they knew almost nothing.
Chapter Six
Where they tread, blood follows …
KULBURAT’S VISION
HORAL THUME (B. 1134)
Saltoan’s Sunset Gate was reached by a broad, arching causeway over the canal. Both the bridge and the canal itself were in serious need of repair, the mortar crumbling and webbed in wide, grass-tufted cracks where the foundations had settled. One of the Vision Plain’s oldest cities, Saltoan had once stood alongside the river Catlin, growing rich on the cross-continent trade, until the river changed its course in the span of a single, rain-drenched spring. Korselan’s Canal was built in an effort to re-establish the lucrative link with the river trade, as well as four deep lakes – two within the old river bed itself – for moorage and berths. The effort had seen only marginal success, and the four hundred years since that time had witnessed a slow, inexorable decline.
Gruntle’s scowl as he guided his horse onto the causeway deepened upon seeing Saltoan’s low, thick walls ahead. Brown stains ran in streaks down their sloped sides. The caravan captain could already smell the raw sewage. There were plenty of figures lining the battlements, but few if any of them were actual constabulary or soldiers. The city had sent its vaunted Horse Guard north to join Caladan Brood’s forces in the war against the Malazan Empire. What remained of its army wasn’t worth the polish on their boots.
He glanced back as his master’s carriage clattered onto the causeway. Sitting on the driver’s bench, Harllo waved. At his side, Stonny held the traces and Gruntle could see her lips moving to a stream of curses and complaints. Harllo’s wave wilted after a moment.
Gruntle returned his attention to Sunset Gate. There were no guards in sight, and little in the way of traffic. The two huge wooden doors hung ajar and looked not to have been closed in a long time. The captain’s mood soured even further. He slowed his horse until the carriage drew alongside him.
‘We’re passing right through, right?’ Stonny asked. ‘Straight through to Sunrise Gate, right?’
‘So I have advised,’ Gruntle said.
‘What’s the point of our long experience if the master won’t heed our advice? Answer me that, Gruntle!’
The captain simply shrugged. No doubt Keruli could hear every word, and no doubt Stonny knew that.
They approached the arched entrance. The avenue within quickly narrowed to a tortuous alley buried beneath the gloom of the flanking buildings’ upper levels, which projected outward until they almost touched overhead. Gruntle moved ahead of the carriage again. Mangy chickens scattered from their path, but the fat, black rats in the gutters only momentarily paused in their feasting on rotting rubbish to watch the carriage wheels slip past.
‘We’ll be scraping sides in a moment,’ Harllo said.
‘If we can manage Twistface Passage, we’ll be all right.’
‘Aye, but that’s a big if, Gruntle. Mind you, there’s enough that passes for grease on these walls…’
The alley narrowed ahead to the chokepoint known as Twistface Passage. Countless trader wagons had gouged deep grooves in both walls. Broken spokes and torn fittings littered the cobbles. The neighbourhood had a wreckers’ mentality, Gruntle well knew. Any carriage trapped in the Passage was free salvage, and the locals weren’t averse to swinging swords if their claims were contested. Gruntle had only spilled blood here once, six, seven years back. A messy night, he recalled. He and his guards had depopulated half a tenement block of cut-throats and thugs in those dark, nightmarish hours before they’d managed to back the wagon out of the passage, remove the wheels, lay rollers and manhandle their way through.
He did not want a repetition.
The hubs scraped a few times as they passed through the choke-point, but then, with a swearing Stonny and a grinning Harllo ducking beneath sodden clothes hanging from a line, they were clear and into the square beyond.
No deliberate intent created Wu’s Closet Square. The open space was born of the happenstance convergence of thirteen streets and alleys of various breadth. The inn to which they all once led no longer existed, having burned down a century or so ago, leaving a broad, uneven expanse of flagstones and cobbles that had, unaccountably, acquired the name of Wu’s Closet.
‘Take Mucosin Street, Stonny,’ Gruntle directed, gesturing towards the wide avenue on the east side of the square.
‘I remember well enough,’ she growled. ‘Gods, the stink!’
A score of urchins had discovered their arrival, and now trailed the carriage like flightless vultures, their dirty, pocked faces closed and all too serious. None spoke.
Still in the lead, Gruntle walked his horse into Mucosin Street. He saw a few faces peer out from grimy windows, but there was no other traffic. Not here … not ahead. This isn’t good.
‘Captain,’ Harllo called.
Gruntle did not turn. ‘Aye?’
‘Them kids … they’ve just vanished.’
‘Right.’ He loosened his Gadrobi cutlasses. ‘Load your crossbow, Harllo.’
‘Already done.’
I know, but why not announce it anyway.
Twenty paces ahead three figures stepped into the street. Gruntle squinted. He recognized the tall woman in the middle. ‘Hello, Nektara. I see you’ve expanded your holdings.’
The scar-faced woman smiled. ‘Why, it’s Gruntle. And Harllo. And who else? Oh, would that be Stonny Menackis? No doubt as unpleasant as ever, my dear, though I still lay down my heart at your feet.’
‘Unwise,’ Stonny drawled. ‘I never step lightly.’
Nektara’s smile broadened. ‘And you do make that heart race, love. Every time.’
‘What’s the toll?’ Gruntle asked, drawing his mount to a halt ten paces from the woman and her two silent bodyguards.
Nektara’s plucked brows rose. ‘Toll? Not this time, Gruntle. We’re still in Garno’s holdings – we’ve been granted passage. We’re simply here by way of escort.’
‘Escort?’
The sound of the carriage’s shutters clattering open made the captain turn. He saw his master’s hand appear, then languidly wave him over.
Gruntle dismounted. He reached the carriage’s side door, peered in to see Keruli’s round, pale face.
‘Captain, we are to meet with this city’s … rulers.’
‘The king and his Council? Why—’
A soft laugh interrupted him. ‘No, no. Saltoan’s true rulers. At great expense, and through extraordinary negotiation, a gathering
of all the hold-masters and mistresses has been convened, to whom I shall make address this night. You have leave to permit the escort just offered. I assure you, all is well.’
‘Why didn’t you explain all this earlier?’
‘I was not certain that the negotiations were successful. The matter is complex, for it is the masters and mistresses who have asked for … assistance. I, in turn, must endeavour to earn their confidence, to the effect that I represent the most efficacious agent to provide said assistance.’
You? Then who in Hood’s name are you? ‘I see. All right, then, trust these criminals if you like, but I’m afraid we’ll not be sharing your faith.’
‘Understood, Captain.’
Gruntle returned to his horse. Collecting the reins, he faced Nektara. ‘Lead on.’
* * *
Saltoan was a city with two hearts, their chambers holding different hues of blood but both equally vile and corrupt. Seated with his back to the wall of the low-ceilinged, crowded tavern, Gruntle looked out with narrowed eyes on a motley collection of murderers, extortionists and thugs whose claim to power was measured in fear.
Stonny leaned against the wall to the captain’s left, Harllo sharing the bench on his right. Nektara had dragged her chair and a small, round table close to Stonny. Thick coils of smoke rose from the hookah before the hold-mistress, wreathing her knife-kissed features in the cloying, tarry fumes. With the hookah’s mouthpiece in her left hand, her other hand was on Stonny’s leather-clad thigh.
Keruli stood in the centre of the room, facing the majority of the crimelords and ladies. The short man’s hands were clasped above his plain grey silk belt, his cloak of black silk shimmering like molten obsidian. A strange, close-fitting cap covered his hairless pate, its style reminiscent of that worn by figures found among Darujhistan’s oldest sculptures and in equally ancient tapestries.
He had begun his speech in a voice soft and perfectly modulated. ‘I am pleased to be present at this auspicious gathering. Every city has its secret veils, and I am honoured by this one’s select parting. Of course I realize that many of you might see me as cut from the same cloth as your avowed enemy, but I assure you this is not the case. You have expressed your concern as regards the influx of priests of the Pannion Domin into Saltoan. They speak of cities newly come under the divine protection of the Pannion Seer’s cult, and offer to the common people tales of laws applied impartially to all citizens, of rights and enscripted privileges, of the welcome imposition of order in defiance of local traditions and manners. They sow seeds of discord among your subjects – a dangerous precedent, indeed.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 178