The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Whiskeyjack reined in. ‘Good day to you, Itkovian.’

  ‘And to you, sir. Is there something you wish of me?’

  The bearded soldier shrugged, scanning the area. ‘I am looking for Silverfox. Her, or the two marines who are supposed to be accompanying her.’

  ‘Following her, you no doubt mean. They passed me earlier, first Silverfox, then the two soldiers. Riding east.’

  ‘Did any of them speak with you?’

  ‘No. They rode at some distance from me, so courtesies were not expected. Nor did I endeavour to hail them.’

  The commander grimaced.

  ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Quick Ben’s been using his warrens to assist in the crossing. Our forces are on the other side and are ready to march, since we’ve the longer road.’

  ‘Indeed. Is Silverfox not of the Rhivi, however? Or do you simply wish to make formal your goodbye?’

  His frown deepened. ‘She’s as much Malazan as Rhivi. I would ask her to choose whom to accompany.’

  ‘Perhaps she has, sir.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Whiskeyjack replied, eyes now fixed on something to the east.

  Itkovian turned, but since he was on foot it was a moment longer before the two riders came into his line of sight. The marines, approaching at a steady canter.

  They drew up before their commander.

  ‘Where is she?’ Whiskeyjack asked.

  The marine on the right shrugged. ‘We followed her to the coast. Above the tide-line was a row of lumpy hills surrounded by swampy ditches. She rode into one of the hills, Whiskeyjack—’

  ‘Rode into the side of one of ’em,’ the other elaborated. ‘Vanished. Not a pause nor a stumble from her horse. We rode up to the spot but there was nothing there but grass, mud and rocks. We’ve lost her, which is, I guess, what she wanted.’

  The commander was silent.

  Itkovian had expected a heartfelt curse at the very least, and was impressed at the man’s self-control.

  ‘All right. Ride back with me. We’re crossing to the other side.’

  ‘We saw Gumble’s pet on the way out.’

  ‘I’ve already sent him and Ormulogun back. Theirs is the last wagon, and you well know Ormulogun’s instructions regarding his collection.’

  The marines nodded.

  Itkovian asked, ‘His collection? How many scenes has he painted since Pale?’

  ‘Since Pale?’ one of the marines grinned. ‘There’s over eight hundred stretches in that wagon. Ten, eleven years’ worth. Dujek here, Dujek there, Dujek even where he wasn’t but should have been. He’s already done one of the siege of Capustan, with Dujek arriving in the nick of time, tall in his saddle and coming through the gate. There’s one White Face Barghast crouching in the gate’s shadow, looting a dead Pannion. And in the storm clouds over the scene you’ll make out Laseen’s face if you look carefully enough—’

  ‘Enough,’ Whiskeyjack growled. ‘Your words give offence, soldier. The man before you is Itkovian.’

  The marine’s grin broadened but she said nothing.

  ‘We know that, sir,’ the other one said. ‘Which is why my comrade here was teasing him. Itkovian, there’s no such painting. Ormulogun is the Host’s historian, since we ain’t got any other, and he’s charged on pain of death to keep things accurate, right down to the nosehairs.’

  ‘Ride,’ Whiskeyjack told them. ‘I would a private word with Itkovian.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  The two marines departed.

  ‘Apologies, Itkovian—’

  ‘No need, sir. There is welcome relief to such irreverence. In fact, it pleases me that they would display such comfort.’

  ‘Well, they’re only like that with people they respect, though it’s often taken as the opposite, which can lead to all sorts of trouble.’

  ‘So I would imagine.’

  ‘Well,’ Whiskeyjack said gruffly, then surprised Itkovian by dismounting, stepping up to him and holding out his gauntleted hand. ‘Among the soldiers of the Empire,’ he said, ‘where the worn gauntlet is for war and nothing other than war, to remain gauntleted when grasping the hand of another, in peace, is the rarest of gestures.’

  ‘So it, too, is often misunderstood,’ Itkovian said. ‘I, sir, do not miscomprehend the significance, and so am honoured.’ He grasped the commander’s hand. ‘You accord me far too much—’

  ‘I do not, Itkovian. I only wish you were travelling with us, so that I could come to know you better.’

  ‘Yet we will meet at Maurik, sir.’

  Whiskeyjack nodded. ‘Until then, Itkovian.’

  They released their grips. The commander swung himself back into the saddle and gathered the reins. He hesitated, then said, ‘Are all Elin like you, Itkovian?’

  He shrugged. ‘I am not unique.’

  ‘Then ‘ware the Empress the day her legions assail your homeland’s borders.’

  His brows rose. ‘And come that day, will you be commanding those legions?’

  Whiskeyjack grinned. ‘Go well, sir.’

  Itkovian watched the man ride away, down the strand, his horse’s hooves kicking up green clumps of sand. He had a sudden, inexplicable conviction that they would never see each other again. After a moment, he shook his head to dispel the dread thought.

  * * *

  ‘Well, of course Kruppe will bless this company with his presence!’

  ‘You misunderstood,’ Quick Ben sighed. ‘That was only a question, not an invitation.’

  ‘Poor wizard is weary, yes? So many paths of sorcery to take the place of mundane barges plagued with leaky lack of integrity. None the less, Kruppe is impressed with your prowess – such a dance of warrens rarely if ever before witnessed by humble self. And each one pristine! As if to say faugh! to the foolish one in chains! Such a bold challenge! Such a—’

  ‘Oh, be quiet! Please!’ Quick Ben stood on the river’s north shore. Mud covered his leggings to mid-thigh, the price for minimizing as much as possible the distance of the paths he had fashioned for the columns of troops, the wagons, the livestock and the spare mounts. He only awaited the last few stragglers who’d yet to arrive, Whiskeyjack included. To make his exhaustion even more unpleasant, the spirit of Talamandas whined unceasing complaint from his invisible perch on the wizard’s left shoulder.

  Too much power had been unveiled here. Sufficient to draw notice. Careless, claimed the sticksnare in a whisper. Suicidal, in fact. The Crippled God cannot help but find us. Stupid bluster! And what of the Pannion Seer? A score of dread warrens all trembling to our passage! Proof of our singular efficacy against the infection! Will either of them simply sit back and do nothing in answer to what they have seen here?

  ‘Silence,’ Quick Ben muttered.

  Kruppe’s wiry brows rose. ‘One rude command was sufficient, Kruppe haughtily assures miserable wizard!’

  ‘Not you. Never mind. I was thinking aloud.’

  ‘Curious habit for a mage, yes? Dangerous.’

  ‘You think so? How about some more loudly uttered thoughts, Daru? The display is deliberate. The unveiling of power here is precisely intended to kick the hornet nests. Both of them! Clumsily massive, an appalling absence of subtlety. Thunder to those who had been expecting the almost soundless padding of a mouse’s feet and its whispering tail. Now, why would I do that, do you wonder?’

  ‘Kruppe does not wonder at all, except, perhaps, at your insisting on explaining such admirable tactics of misdirection to these squalling seagulls.’

  Quick Ben scowled down at the round little man. ‘Really? I had no idea I was that obvious. Maybe I should reconsider.’

  ‘Nonsense, Wizard! Hold to your unassailable self-confidence – aye, some might well call it megalomania, but not Kruppe, for he too is in possession of unassailable self-confidence, such as only mortals are capable of and then rightfully but a mere handful the world over. You’ve singular company, Kruppe assures you!’

  Quick Ben grinned. �
��Singular? And what about these seagulls?’

  Kruppe waved a plump hand. ‘Pah! Lest one should land on your left shoulder, that is. Which would be another matter entirely, would it not?’

  The wizard’s dark eyes thinned suspiciously on the Daru at his side.

  Kruppe blithely continued, ‘In which case, poor ignorant bird would be witness to such potent plurality of cunning converse so as to reel confused if not mercifully constipated!’

  Quick Ben blinked in startlement. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Well sir, were we not suggesting the placement of corks? Be quiet. Shut up. Kruppe simply advised of an internal version with which seagull’s ceaseless bleating complaint is silenced, indeed, stoppered up to the relief of one and all!’

  Two hundred paces to their right another barge loaded with Brood’s forces set out, the craft quickly drawing the lines down-current as it left the shore.

  A pair of marines rode up to Quick Ben and Kruppe.

  The wizard scowled at them. ‘Where’s Whiskeyjack?’

  ‘On the way, Bridgeburner. Did the toad and his artist show up?’

  ‘Just in time to take charge of their wagon, aye. They’re on the other side.’

  ‘Fancy work. We crossing the same way?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of dropping you halfway – when did you two last bathe?’

  The women exchanged a glance, then one shrugged and said, ‘Don’t know. A month? Three? We’ve been busy.’

  ‘And we’d rather not get wet, Wizard,’ the other marine said. ‘Our armour and the clothes under ’em might fall apart.’

  ‘Kruppe asserts that would prove a sight never to be forgotten!’

  ‘Bet your eyes’d fall out,’ the soldier agreed. ‘And if they didn’t we’d have to help ’em along some.’

  ‘At least our nails would be clean,’ the other observed.

  ‘Aai! Coarse women! Kruppe sought only to compliment!’

  ‘You’re the one needing a bath,’ the marine said.

  The Daru’s expression displayed shock, then dismay. ‘Outrageous notion. Sufficient layers of sweet scent applied over sufficient years, nay, decades, have resulted in a permanent and indeed impervious bouquet of gentlest fragrance.’ He waved his plump, pale hands. ‘A veritable aura about oneself to draw lovestruck butterflies—’

  ‘Look like deerflies to me—’

  ‘These are uncivil lands – yet do you see a single insect alight?’

  ‘Well, there’s a few drowned in your oily hair, now that you ask.’

  ‘Precisely. Inimical foes one and all fall to the same fate.’

  ‘Ah,’ Quick Ben said, ‘here comes Whiskeyjack. Finally. Thank the gods.’

  * * *

  Darkness swallowed the alley as dusk descended on the ruined city. A few oil lamps lit the major thoroughfares, and the occasional squad of Gidrath walked rounds carrying lanterns of their own.

  Wrapped in a cloak hiding his full armour, Coll stood within an alcove and watched one such squad troop past at the alley’s mouth, watched as the pool of yellow light slowly dwindled, until the night once more reclaimed the street.

  He stepped out and gestured.

  Murillio flicked the traces, startling the oxen into motion. The wagon creaked and rocked over the cracked, heat-blasted cobbles.

  Coll strode in advance, out onto the street. It had been only partially cleared of rubble. Three gutted temples were within the range of his vision, showing no indication of having been reoccupied. No different from the four others they had found earlier that afternoon.

  At the moment, the prospects were grim. It seemed the only surviving priests were those in the Thrall, and that was the last place they wanted to visit. Rumour was, political rivalries had reached a volatile state, now that the Mask Council was free of the presence of powerful allies; free, as well, of a royal presence who traditionally provided a levelling influence on their excesses. The future of Capustan was not a promising one.

  Coll turned to the right – northeast – waving behind him as he made his way up the street. He heard Murillio’s muted cursing as he slapped the traces down onto the backs of the two oxen. The animals were tired and hungry, the wagon behind them overburdened.

  Hood take us, we might have made a terrible mistake …

  He heard the flap of a bird’s wings overhead, soft and momentary, and thought nothing of it.

  Deep ruts had been worn into the cobbles from the passage of countless wagons, many of them of late heavily loaded down with broken stone, but their width did not match that of the Rhivi Wagon – a thick-wheeled, plains vehicle built to contest high grasses and muddy sinkholes. Nor could Murillio manage to avoid the wagon’s slipping into one of the ruts, for the oxen had a grooved path of their own on this side of the street. The result was a sharply canted, awkward progress, the yokes shifted into angles that were clearly uncomfortable for the oxen.

  Behind him, Coll heard one low a complaint, which ended with a strange grunt and whip of the traces. He spun in time to see Murillio’s body pitching from the seat, to strike the cobbles with a bone-cracking impact

  A huge figure, all in black, who seemed for the briefest moment to be winged, now stood atop the wagon.

  Murillio lay in a motionless heap beside the front wheel.

  Fear ripped through the Daru. ‘What the—’

  The figure gestured. Black sorcery bloomed from him, swept tumbling towards Coll.

  Swearing, the Daru flung himself to the right, rolled clanking, metal snapping on stone, to collide with the first half-moon step of a temple.

  But the magic flowed too wide to escape, swirling and spinning its inky power to fill the street like a flash-flood.

  Lying on his side, back jammed against the step, Coll could only throw up a forearm to cover his eyes as the sorcery loomed over him, then plunged down.

  And vanished. Blinking, Coll grunted, dropped his arm in time to see a dark, armoured figure step directly over him from behind – from the direction of the temple’s entrance.

  His peripheral vision caught flanking longswords, one of them strangely bent, gliding past as the massive warrior reached the cobbles of the street.

  The attacker perched on the wagon spoke in a high voice, the tone bemused. ‘You should be dead. I can feel the coldness of you. I can sense the fist of Hood, coiled there in your lifeless chest. He’s kept you here. Wandering.’

  Huh, this new arrival doesn’t look very dead to me. His eyes scanned the shadows to the right of the wagon, seeking Murillio’s motionless form.

  ‘Not wandering,’ the warrior rasped, still striding towards the figure. ‘Hunting.’

  ‘Us? But we’ve taken so few from you! Less than a score in this city. Knight of Death, has your master not fed unto bursting of late? And I but sought the unconscious hag – she lies in the bed of this wagon. Hovering at the very edge of the chasm. Surely your master—’

  ‘Not for you,’ the warrior rumbled. ‘Her spirit awaits. And those of her gathered kin. And the beasts whose hearts are empty. All await. Not for you.’

  The air in the alley had grown bitter cold.

  ‘Oh, all right, then,’ the attacker sighed. ‘What of this driver and his guard? I could use so many pieces of them—’

  ‘No. Korbal Broach, hear the words of my master. You are to release the undead who guard your compound. You and the one named Bauchelain are to leave the city. This night.’

  ‘We’d planned on a morning departure, Knight of Death – for you are the Knight, yes? High House Death stirs to wakefulness, I now sense. A morning departure, yes? To follow these fascinating armies southward—’

  ‘This night, or I shall descend upon you, and claim your souls. Do you realize the fate my master has in store for you two?’

  Coll watched as the bald, pallid-faced man atop the wagon raised his arms – which then blurred, broadened into midnight wings. He giggled. ‘You will have to catch us first!’ The blurring became a smear, then wh
ere the man had stood there was only a bedraggled crow, cawing sharply as it rose upward, wings thrumming, and was swallowed by darkness.

  The warrior walked to where Murillio lay.

  Coll drew a deep breath, seeking to slow his hammering heart, then climbed painfully to his feet. ‘My thanks to you, sir,’ he grunted, wincing at what in the morning would be fierce bruising on his right shoulder and hip. ‘Does my companion live?’

  The warrior, who Coll now saw was wearing the remnants of Gidrath armour, swung to face him. ‘He lives. Korbal Broach requires that they be alive … for his work. At least at first. You are to come with me.’

  ‘Ah, when you said hunting, that sorceror assumed it was him you were hunting. But it wasn’t, was it?’

  ‘They are an arrogant pair.’

  Coll slowly nodded. He hesitated, then said, ‘Forgive me if I am being rude, but I would know what you – what your Lord – would do with us? We’ve an elderly woman to care for—’

  ‘You are to have my master’s protection. Come, the Temple of Hood has been prepared for your residence.’

  ‘Not sure how I should take that. The Mhybe needs help.’

  ‘What the Mhybe needs, Coll of Darujhistan, is not for you to give.’

  ‘Is it for Hood to give?’

  ‘The woman’s flesh and bone must be maintained. Fed, given water, cared for. That is your responsibility.’

  ‘You did not answer.’

  ‘Follow me. We have not far to go.’

  ‘At the moment,’ Coll said quietly, ‘I am inclined otherwise.’ He reached for his sword.

  The Knight of Death cocked his head. ‘Tell me, Coll of Darujhistan, do you sleep?’

  The Daru frowned. ‘Of course. What—’

  ‘I did once, too. I must have, yes? But now, I do not. Instead, I pace. You see, I cannot remember sleep. I cannot remember what it was like.’

  ‘I – I am sorry for that.’

  ‘Thus, one who does not sleep … and, here in this wagon, one who will not awaken. I believe, Coll of Darujhistan, that we will have need of each other. Soon. This woman and I.’

  ‘What kind of need?’

  ‘I do not know. Come, we’ve not far.’

  Coll slowly resheathed his sword. He could not have explained why he did so; none of his questions had been answered to his satisfaction, and the thought of entering Hood’s protection chilled his skin. None the less, he nodded and said, ‘A moment, if you will. I have to lift Murillio onto the bed.’