The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Toc glanced up at the man, saw the smile, the glimmering echo of a child’s joy in his eyes.

  Saw them die once more.

  ‘He came back the last time … to find that his family had embraced the Faith. His wife, to the Tenescowri. His sons, to the ranks, eldest begun schooling as Seerdomin. He did not throw his lines to me on that day – seeing my uniform. Seeing my mother – hearing her mindless shrieks. Seeing my brothers with spears in hand, my sisters naked and clinging to men thrice their age. No, he swung the boom, tacked onto the offshore breeze.

  ‘I watched his sail until I could see it no more. It was my way, Malazan—’

  ‘Of saying goodbye,’ Toc whispered.

  ‘Of saying good luck. Of saying … well done.’

  Destroyer of lives. Seer, how could you have done this to your people?

  A distant bell rang in the palace behind them.

  The Seerdomin’s grip tightened. ‘The allotted time is done.’

  ‘Back to my own embrace,’ Toc said, his gaze straining to catch, one last time, the world before him. Remember this, for you will not see it again, Toc the Younger.

  ‘Thank you for the use of your cloak,’ he said.

  ‘You are welcome, Malazan. These winds were once warm. Come, lean on me while we walk – your weight is as nothing.’

  They slowly made their way towards the building. ‘Easily borne, you mean.’

  ‘I did not say that, Malazan. I did not say that.’

  * * *

  The gutted tenement seemed to shiver a moment before collapsing in a cloud of dust. The cobbles of the street trembled beneath Shield Anvil Itkovian’s boots and thunder shook the air.

  Hedge turned to him, grinning through the smears of soot. ‘See? Easy.’

  Itkovian answered the Bridgeburner with a nod, watched as Hedge rejoined his fellow sappers and they set off for the next unrecoverable building.

  ‘At the very least,’ Captain Norul said beside him as she brushed dust from her surcoat, ‘there will be no shortage of material.’

  The morning was hot, the sun bright. Life was returning to Capustan. People with scarves covering their faces crawled through the rubble of their homes. Bodies were still being retrieved as wreckage was cleared away, wrapped and thrown onto fly-swarmed wagons. The air of the street stank with decay, but it seemed that the horses they rode had long since grown used to it.

  ‘We should proceed, sir,’ the captain said.

  They resumed their journey. Beyond the west gate were gathering the official representatives – the contingent that would set out to meet the approaching armies of Dujek Onearm and Caladan Brood. The parley was set to take place in three bells’ time.

  Itkovian had left the company’s new Destriant in command. Tenescowri refugees were arriving from the plain by the hundreds. Those few who’d attempted to enter Capustan had been set upon by the survivors. Reports of peasants being torn apart by frenzied mobs had reached the Shield Anvil. In response he had sent the Grey Swords out to establish an internment camp outside the west wall. Food was scarce. Itkovian wondered how his new Destriant was managing. At the very least, shelters were being prepared for the hapless refugees.

  Who will soon become recruits. Those who survive the next few weeks in any case. It’s likely the Grey Swords’ coffers will be emptied purchasing food and supplies from the Barghast. Fener grant – no, Togg grant that the investment will prove worthwhile.

  He was not looking forward to the parley. Indeed, the truth was, he had no real business attending it. The captain at his side was now the commander of the Grey Swords. His role as her adviser was dubious; she was capable of representing the company’s interests without any help from him.

  They approached the west gate, which now resembled nothing more than a massive hole in the city’s wall.

  Leaning against one of the burnt-out, most fallen gate-towers, Gruntle watched them with a half-grin on his barbed face. Stonny Menackis paced nearby, apparently in a temper.

  ‘Now there’s only Humbrall Taur to wait for,’ Gruntle said.

  Itkovian frowned as he reined in. ‘Where is the Mask Council’s retinue?’

  Stonny spat ‘They’ve gone ahead. Seems they want a private chat first.’

  ‘Relax, lass,’ Gruntle rumbled. ‘Your friend Keruli’s with them, right?’

  ‘That’s not the point! They hid. While you and the Grey Swords here kept them and their damned city alive!’

  ‘None the less,’ Itkovian said, ‘with Prince Jelarkan dead and no heir apparent, they are Capustan’s ruling body.’

  ‘And they could damn well have waited!’

  Captain Norul twisted in her saddle to look back up the avenue. ‘Humbrall Taur’s coming. Perhaps, if we rode fast enough, we could catch them.’

  ‘Is it important?’ Itkovian asked her.

  ‘Sir, it is.’

  He nodded. ‘I concur.’

  ‘Let’s ready our horses, Stonny,’ Gruntle said, pushing himself from the wall.

  * * *

  They set out across the plain, Humbrall Taur, Hetan and Cafal equally awkward on their borrowed mounts. The Barghast had been none too pleased by the Mask Council’s attempted usurpation – old enmities and mistrust had flared to life once more. By all reports, the approaching armies were still a league, perhaps two, distant. Keruli, Rath’Hood, Rath’Burn and Rath’Shadowthrone were in a carriage, drawn by the three horses of the Gidrath that had not been butchered and eaten during the siege.

  Itkovian recalled the last time he had ridden this road, recalled faces of soldiers now dead. Farakalian, Torun, Sidlis. Behind the formality imposed by the Reve, these had been his friends. A truth I dared not approach. Not as Shield Anvil, not as a commander. But that has changed. They are my own grief, as difficult to bear as those tens of thousands of others.

  He pushed the thought away. Control was still necessary. He could afford no emotions.

  They came within sight of the priests’ carriage.

  Stonny snarled in triumph. ‘Won’t they be delighted!’

  ‘Ease on the gloating, lass,’ Gruntle advised. ‘We reach them now in all innocence—’

  ‘Do you think me an idiot? Do you think me incapable of subtlety? I’ll have you know—’

  ‘All right, woman,’ her companion growled. ‘Forget I spoke—’

  ‘I always do, Gruntle.’

  The Gidrath driver drew the carriage to a halt as they rode up. A window shutter slid to one side and Rath’Shadowthrone’s masked face appeared, the expression neutral. ‘How fortunate! The rest of our honourable entourage!’

  Itkovian sighed under his breath. There was nothing subtle in that tone, alas.

  ‘Honourable?’ Stonny queried, brows lifting, ‘I’m surprised you recognize the concept, Priest.’

  ‘Ah.’ The mask swivelled to her. ‘Master Keruli’s wench. Shouldn’t you be on your knees?’

  ‘I’ll give you a knee, runt – right between the—’

  ‘Well now!’ Gruntle said loudly. ‘We’re all here. I see outriders ahead. Shall we proceed?’

  ‘We’re early,’ Rath’Shadowthrone snapped.

  ‘Aye, and that’s unfortunately unprofessional of us. Never mind. We can continue at the slowest pace possible, to give them time to prepare.’

  ‘A wise course, in the circumstances,’ Rath’Shadowthrone conceded. The mask’s hinged lips twisted into a broad smile, then the head withdrew and the shutter slid back in place.

  ‘I am going to cut that man into very small pieces,’ Stonny said in a bright tone.

  ‘We all appreciated your sense of subtlety, lass,’ Gruntle muttered.

  ‘And well you should, oaf.’

  Itkovian stared at the woman, then at the caravan captain, wondering.

  * * *

  Corporal Picker sat on the dusty steps of what had once been a temple. Her back and shoulders ached from throwing chunks of masonry since dawn.

  Blend must have been hove
ring nearby for she appeared with a waterskin. ‘You look thirsty.’

  Picker accepted it. ‘Funny how you do your vanishing act whenever there’s hard work to be done.’

  ‘Well, I brought you water, didn’t I?’

  Picker scowled.

  Across the street Captain Paran and Quick Ben were saddling horses, preparing to head out to the reunion with Onearm’s Host and Brood’s army. They’d been uncommonly cosy since meeting up once more, making Picker suspicious. Quick Ben’s schemes were never pleasant.

  ‘I’d rather we were all going,’ she muttered.

  ‘To the parley? Why? This way everyone else does the walking.’

  ‘Easier to be lurking about, is it? Weighed down with a half-full waterskin. You’d be saying different if you’d been tossing rocks with the rest of us, Blend.’

  The lean woman shrugged. ‘I’ve been busy enough.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Gathering information.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Whose whispering you been listening in on, then?’

  ‘People. Us and them, here and there.’

  ‘Them? Who’s them?’

  ‘Uhm, let’s see. Barghast. Grey Swords. A couple of loose-lipped Gidrath from the Thrall. Three acolytes from the temple behind you—’

  Picker flinched, swiftly rose to cast a nervous eye on the fire-scorched building behind her. ‘Which god, Blend? No lies—’

  ‘Why would I lie, Corporal? Shadowthrone.’

  Picker grunted. ‘Spyin’ on the sneaks, was you? And what were they talking about?’

  ‘Some bizarre plan of their master’s. Vengeance against a couple of necromancers holed up in an estate just up the street’

  ‘The one with all the bodies out front and the smelly guards on the walls?’

  ‘Presumably the same and none other.’

  ‘All right, so let’s hear the report on the rest of them.’

  ‘The Barghast are crowing. Agents of the Mask Council are buying food to feed the citizens. The Grey Swords are buying food, too, to feed a fast-growing camp of Tenescowri refugees outside the city. The White Faces are getting rich.’

  ‘Hold on, Blend. Did you say Tenescowri refugees? What are the Grey Swords up to? Hood knows there’s enough corpses lying around for those cannibals, why give ’em real food? Why feed the evil bastards at all?’

  ‘Sound questions,’ Blend agreed. ‘Certainly, I admit my own curiosity was piqued.’

  ‘No doubt you’ve come up with a theory, too.’

  ‘I have assembled the puzzle, to be more precise. Disparate facts. Observances. Offhand comments believed to be uttered in private, overheard by none other than the faithful servant standing before you—’

  ‘Oponn’s quivering knees, woman, get on with it!’

  ‘You never did appreciate a good gloat. All right. The Grey Swords were sworn to Fener. They weren’t just a mercenary company, more like damned crusaders to the holy cause of war. And they took it seriously. Only something’s happened. They’ve lost their god—’

  ‘No doubt there’s a tale there.’

  ‘Indeed, but it’s not relevant.’

  ‘Meaning you don’t know it.’

  ‘Precisely. The point is, the company’s surviving officers rode off to the Barghast camps, found a gaggle of tribal witches waiting for them, and together they all arranged a reconsecration.’

  ‘You mean they switched gods. Oh no, don’t tell me Treach—’

  ‘No, not Treach. Treach already has his crusaders.’

  ‘Oh, right. Must be Jhess, then. Mistress of Weaving. They’re all taking up knitting, but fiercely—’

  ‘Not quite. Togg. And Fanderay, the She-Wolf of Winter – Togg’s long lost mate. Recall the story? You must have heard it when you were a child, assuming you were ever a child—’

  ‘Careful, Blend.’

  ‘Sorry. Anyway, the Grey Swords were virtually wiped out. They’re looking for recruits.’

  Picker’s brows rose. ‘The Tenescowri? Hood’s breath!’

  ‘Makes sense, actually.’

  ‘Sure. If I needed an army I’d look first to people who eat each other when things get tough. Absolutely. In an instant.’

  ‘Well, that’s an unfortunate angle to take. It’s more a question of finding people with no lives—’

  ‘Losers, you mean.’

  ‘Uh, yes. No ties, no loyalties. Ripe for arcane rituals of induction.’

  Picker grunted again. ‘Mad. Everyone’s gone mad.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Blend murmured.

  Captain Paran and Quick Ben rode up.

  ‘Corporal Picker.’

  ‘Aye, Captain?’

  ‘Do you know where Spindle is right now?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘I’d suggest you keep better track of your squad, then.’

  ‘Well, he went off with Sergeant Antsy. Someone’s come up from the tunnels, claiming to be Prince Arard – some dispossessed ruler from one of the cities south of the river. The man was demanding to speak with a representative of Onearm’s Host and since we couldn’t find you at the time…’

  Paran cursed under his breath. ‘Let me get this straight. Sergeant Antsy and Spindle elected themselves to be Onearm’s Host’s official representatives to take audience with a prince? Antsy? Spindle?’

  Beside the captain, Quick Ben choked back a laugh, earning a glare from Paran.

  ‘Detoran volunteered, too,’ Picker added in an innocent tone. ‘So it was the three of them, I think. Maybe a few others.’

  ‘Mallet?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s with Hedge, sir. Tending to healing and whatever.’

  ‘Captain,’ Quick Ben interjected. ‘We’d best start our journey. Antsy will stall as soon as he gets confused, and he usually gets confused immediately after the making of introductions. Detoran won’t say a thing and likely none of the others will, either. Spindle might babble, but he’s wearing a hairshirt. It should be all right.’

  ‘Really? And shall I hold you to that, Wizard?’

  Quick Ben’s eyes widened.

  ‘Never mind,’ Paran growled, gathering his reins. ‘Let’s quit this city … before we find ourselves in a whole new war. Corporal Picker.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Why are you just standing here on your own?’

  She quickly glanced around. ‘The bitch,’ she whispered.

  ‘Corporal?’

  ‘Nothing. Sorry, sir. I was just resting.’

  ‘When you’re done resting, Corporal, go retrieve Antsy, Spindle and the others. Send Arard to the Thrall, with word that the real representatives of Onearm’s Host will see him shortly, should he wish an audience.’

  ‘Understood, Captain.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She watched the two men ride off down the street, then spun around. ‘Where are you, you coward?’

  ‘Sir?’ Blend queried, emerging from the shadows of the temple’s entrance.

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘I’d noted something inside this hovel, went to investigate—’

  ‘Hovel? Shadowthrone’s sacred abode, you mean.’

  She was pleased to see Blend suddenly pale. ‘Oh. I’d, uh, forgotten.’

  ‘You panicked. Hee hee. Blend panicked. Smelled a scene about to happen and fled into the nearest building like a rabbit down a bolt-hole! Just wait until I tell the others—’

  ‘An unseemly version,’ Blend sniffed, ‘malignly twisting a purely coincidental occurrence. They’ll not believe you.’

  ‘That’s what you—’

  ‘Oh oh.’

  Blend vanished once again.

  Startled, Picker looked round.

  Two black-cloaked figures were coming down the street, making directly for the corporal.

  ‘Dear soldier,’ the taller, pointy-bearded one called out.

  Her hackles rose at the imperious tone. ‘What?’

  A thin brow arched. ‘Respect is accord
ed ourselves, woman. We demand no less. Now listen. We are in need of supplies to effect the resumption of our journey. We require food, clean water and plenty of it, and if you could direct us to a clothier…’

  ‘At once. Here—’ She stepped up to him and drove her gauntleted fist full into his face. The man’s feet flew out from under him and he struck the cobbles with a meaty smack. Out cold.

  Blend stepped up behind, the other man and cracked him in the head with the pommel of her short sword. With a high-pitched grunt, he crumpled.

  Closing fast behind them was an old man in ragged servant garb. He skidded to a halt five paces away and raised his hands. ‘Don’t hit me!’ he shrieked.

  Picker frowned. ‘Now why would we do that? Are these two … yours?’

  The manservant’s expression was despondent. ‘Aye,’ he sighed, lowering his hands.

  ‘Advise them,’ Picker said, ‘of proper forms of address. When they awaken.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  ‘We should get moving, Corporal,’ Blend said, eyes on the two unconscious men.

  ‘Yes. Yes, please!’ the manservant begged.

  Picker shrugged. ‘I see no point in dawdling. Lead on, soldier.’

  * * *

  Paran and Quick Ben rode within a thousand paces of the Tenescowri encampment, which lay north of the road, on their right. Neither man spoke until they were well past, then the captain sighed. ‘That looks to be trouble fast approaching.’ ‘Oh? Why?’

  Paran shot his companion a startled glance, then returned his gaze to the road. ‘The lust for vengeance against those peasants. The Capans might well swarm out through the gate and slaughter them, with the Mask Council’s blessing.’ And why, Wizard, do I think I see something out of the corner of my eye? There, on your shoulder. Then, when I look more closely, it’s gone.

  ‘That’d be a mistake for the Mask Council,’ Quick Ben commented. ‘The Grey Swords looked ready to defend their guests, if those pickets and trenches were any indication.’

  ‘Aye, they’re anticipating becoming very unpopular, with what they’re now up to.’

  ‘Recruiting. Then again, why not? That mercenary company paid a high price defending the city and its citizens.’