‘Cagey? No, Tene Baralta. Private. The Adjunct is simply a private woman.’
The ex-Red Blade persisted, ‘What is this T’amber like? Does she exercise undue influence on our commander?’
‘I have no idea, to answer your latter question. What is she like? She was a concubine, I believe, in the Grand Temple of the Queen of Dreams, in Unta. Other than that, my only words with her have been at the Adjunct’s behest. Nor is T’amber particularly talkative…’ And that is an understatement of prodigious proportions. Beautiful, aye, and remote. Has she undue influence over Tavore? I wish I knew. ‘And speaking of T’amber, I must leave you now.’
At the door he paused and glanced back at Blistig. ‘You gave good answer, Blistig. I no longer suspect you.’
In reply, the man simply nodded.
Lostara Yil placed the last of her Red Blade accoutrements into the chest then lowered the lid and locked it. She straightened and stepped back, feeling bereft. There had been a vast comfort in belonging to that dreaded company. That the Red Blades were hated by their tribal kin, reviled in their own land, had proved surprisingly satisfying. For she hated them in turn.
Born a daughter instead of the desired son in a Pardu family, as a child she had lived on the streets of Ehrlitan. It had been common practice—before the Malazans came with their laws for families—among many tribes to cast out their unwanted children once they reached the fifth year of life. Acolytes from numerous temples—followers of mystery cults—regularly rounded up such abandoned children. No-one knew what was done with them. The hopeful among the rough circle of fellow urchins Lostara had known had believed that, among the cults, there could be found a kind of salvation. Schooling, food, safety, all leading to eventually becoming an acolyte in turn. But the majority of children suspected otherwise. They’d heard tales of—or had themselves seen—the occasional nightly foray of shrouded figures emerging from the backs of temples, wending down alleyways with a covered cart, on their way to the crab-infested tidal pools east of the city, pools not so deep that one could not see the glimmer of small picked bones at the bottom.
One thing all could agree on. The hunger of the temples was insatiable.
Optimistic or pessimistic, the children of Ehrlitan’s streets did all they could to evade the hunters with their nets and pole-ropes. A life could be eked out, a kind of freedom won, bitter though it might be.
Midway through her seventh year, Lostara was dragged down to the greasy cobbles by an acolyte’s net. Her shrieks went unheeded by the citizens who stepped aside as the silent priest dragged his prize back to the temple. Impassive eyes met hers every now and then on that horrible journey, and those eyes Lostara would never forget.
Rashan had proved less bloodthirsty than most of the other cults in the habit of hunting children. She had found herself among a handful of new arrivals, all tasked with maintenance of the temple grounds, destined, it seemed, for a lifetime of menial servitude. The drudgery continued until her ninth year, when for reasons unknown to Lostara she was selected for schooling in the Shadow Dance. She had caught rare and brief glimpses of the dancers—a hidden and secretive group of men and women for whom worship was an elaborate, intricate dance. Their only audience were priests and priestesses—none of whom would watch the actual dancers, only their shadows.
You are nothing, child. Not a dancer. Your body is in service to Rashan, and Rashan is this realm’s manifestation of Shadow, the drawing of darkness to light. When you dance, it is not you that is watched. It is the shadow your body paints. The shadow is the dancer, Lostara Yil. Not you.
Years of discipline, of limb-stretching training that loosened every joint, that drew out the spine, that would allow the Caster to flow with seamless movement—and all for naught.
The world had been changing outside the temple’s high walls. Events unknown to Lostara were systematically crushing their entire civilization. The Malazan Empire had invaded. Cities were falling. Foreign ships had blockaded Ehrlitan’s harbour.
The cult of Rashan was spared the purges of the new, harsh masters of Seven Cities, for it was a recognized religion. Other temples did not fare as well. She recalled seeing smoke in the sky above Ehrlitan and wondering at its source, and she was awakened at night by terrible sounds of chaos in the streets.
Lostara was a middling Caster. Her shadow seemed to have a mind of its own and was a recalcitrant, halting partner in the training. She did not ask herself if she was happy or otherwise. Rashan’s Empty Throne did not draw her faith as it did the other students’. She lived, but it was an unquestioning life. Neither circular nor linear, for in her mind there was no movement at all, and the notion of progress was measured only in terms of mastering the exercises forced upon her.
The cult’s destruction was sudden, unexpected, and it came from within.
She recalled the night when it had all begun. Great excitement in the temple. A High Priest from another city was visiting. Come to speak with Master Bidithal on matters of vast importance. There would be a dance in the stranger’s honour, for which Lostara and her fellow students would provide a background sequence of rhythms to complement the Shadow Dancers.
Lostara herself had been indifferent to the whole affair, and had been nowhere close to the best of the students in their minor role in the performance. But she remembered the stranger.
So unlike sour old Bidithal. Tall, thin, a laughing face, remarkably long-fingered, almost effeminate hands—hands the sight of which awakened in her new emotions.
Emotions that stuttered her mechanical dancing, that sent her shadow twisting into a rhythm that was counterpoint to that cast by not only her fellow students, but the Shadow Dancers themselves—as if a third strain had slipped into the main chamber.
Too striking to remain unnoticed.
Bidithal himself, his face darkening, had half risen—but the stranger spoke first.
‘Pray let the Dance continue,’ he said, his eyes finding Lostara’s own. ‘The Song of the Reeds has never been performed in quite this manner before. No gentle breeze here, eh, Bidithal? Oh no, a veritable gale. The Dancers are virgins, yes?’ His laugh was low yet full. ‘Yet there is nothing virginal about this dance, now, is there? Oh, storm of desire!’
And those eyes held Lostara still, in fullest recognition of the desire that overwhelmed her—that gave shape to her shadow’s wild cavort. Recognition, and a certain pleased, but cool…acknowledgement. As if flattered, but with no invitation offered in return.
The stranger had other tasks that night—and in the nights that followed—or so Lostara would come to realize much later. At the moment, however, her face burned with shame, and she had broken off her dance to flee the chamber.
Of course, Delat had not come to steal the heart of a Caster. He had come to destroy Rashan.
Delat, who, it proved, was both a High Priest and a Bridgeburner, and whatever the Emperor’s reason for annihilating the cult, his was the hand that delivered the death-blow.
Although not alone. The night of the killings, at the bell of the third hour—two past midnight—after the Song of Reeds, there had been another, hidden in the black clothes of an assassin…
Lostara knew more of what had happened that night in the Rashan Temple of Ehrlitan than anyone else barring the players themselves, for Lostara had been the only resident to be spared. Or so she had believed for a long time, until the name of Bidithal rose once more, from Sha’ik’s Apocalypse army.
Ah, I was more than spared that night, wasn’t I?
Delat’s lovely, long-fingered hands…
Setting foot onto the city’s streets the following morning, after seven years’ absence, she had been faced with the terrifying knowledge that she was alone, truly alone. Resurrecting an ancient memory of when she was awakened following the fifth birthday, and thrust into the hands of an old man hired to take her away, to leave her in a strange neighbourhood on the other side of the city. A memory that echoed with a child’s cries for her mother.
The short time that followed her departure from the temple, before she joined the Red Blades—the newly formed company of Seven Cities natives who avowed loyalty to the Malazan Empire—held its own memories, ones she had long since repressed. Hunger, denigration, humiliation and what seemed a fatal, spiralling descent. But the recruiters had found her, or perhaps she found them. The Red Blades would be a statement to the Emperor, the marking of a new era in Seven Cities. There would be peace. None of this interested Lostara, however. Rather, it was the widely-held rumour that the Red Blades sought to become the deliverers of Malazan justice.
She had not forgotten those impassive eyes. The citizens who were indifferent to her pleas, who had watched the acolyte drag her past to an unknown fate. She had not forgotten her own parents.
Betrayal could be answered by but one thing, and one thing alone, and the once-captain Lostara Yil of the Red Blades had grown skilled in that answer’s brutal delivery.
And now, am I being made into a betrayer?
She turned away from the wooden chest. She was a Red Blade no longer.
In a short while, Pearl would arrive, and they would set out to find the cold, cold trail of Tavore’s hapless sister, Felisin. Along which they might find opportunity to drive a blade into the heart of the Talons. Yet were not the Talons of the empire? Dancer’s own, his spies and killers, the deadly weapon of his will. Then what had turned them into traitors?
Betrayal was a mystery. Inexplicable to Lostara. She only knew that it delivered the deepest wounds of all.
And she had long since vowed that she would never again suffer such wounds.
She collected her sword-belt from the hook above the bed and drew the thick leather band about her hips, hooking it in place.
Then froze.
The small room before her was filled with dancing shadows.
And in their midst, a figure. A pale face of firm features, made handsome by smile lines at the corners of the eyes—and the eyes themselves, which, as he looked upon her, settled like depthless pools.
Into which she felt, in a sudden rush, she could plunge. Here, now, for ever.
The figure made a slight bow with his head, then spoke, ‘Lostara Yil. You may doubt my words, but I remember you—’
She stepped back, her back pressing up against the wall, and shook her head. ‘I do not know you,’ she whispered.
‘True. But there were three of us that night, so very long ago in Ehrlitan. I was witness to your…unexpected performance. Did you know Delat—or, rather, the man I would eventually learn was Delat—would have taken you for his own? Not just the one night. You would have joined him as a Bridgeburner, and that would well have pleased him. Or so I believe. No way to test it, alas, since it all went—outwardly—so thoroughly awry.’
‘I remember,’ she said.
The man shrugged. ‘Delat, who had a different name for that mission and was my partner’s responsibility besides—Delat let Bidithal go. I suppose it seemed a…a betrayal, yes? It certainly did to my partner. Certainly to this day Shadowthrone—who was not Shadowthrone then, simply a particularly adept and ambitious practitioner of Rashan’s sister warren, Meanas—to this day, I was saying, Shadowthrone stokes eternal fires of vengeance. But Delat proved very capable of hiding…under our very noses. Like Kalam. Just another unremarked soldier in the ranks of the Bridgeburners.’
‘I do not know who you are.’
The man smiled. ‘Ah, yes, I am well ahead of myself…’ His gaze fell to the shadows spread long before him, though his back was to an unlit, closed door, and his smile broadened as if he was reconsidering those words. ‘I am Cotillion, Lostara Yil. Back then, I was Dancer, and yes, you can well guess the significance of that name, given what you were being trained to do. Of course, in Seven Cities, certain truths of the cult had been lost, in particular the true nature of Shadow Dancing. It was never meant for performance, Lostara. It was, in fact, an art most martial. Assassination.’
‘I am no follower of Shadow—Rashan or your version—’
‘That is not the loyalty I would call upon with you,’ Cotillion replied.
She was silent, struggling to fit sense to her thoughts, to his words. Cotillion…was Dancer. Shadowthrone…must have been Kellanved, the Emperor! She scowled. ‘My loyalty is to the Malazan Empire. The Empire—’
‘Very good,’ he replied. ‘I am pleased.’
‘And now you’re going to try to convince me that the Empress Laseen should not be the empire’s true ruler—’
‘Not at all. She is welcome to it. But, alas, she is in some trouble right now, isn’t she? She could do with some…help.’
‘She supposedly assassinated you!’ Lostara hissed. ‘You and Kellanved both!’ She betrayed you.
Cotillion simply shrugged again. ‘Everyone had their…appointed tasks. Lostara, the game being played here is far larger than any mortal empire. But the empire in question—your empire—well, its success is crucial to what we seek. And, were you to know the fullest extent of recent, distant events, you would need no convincing that the Empress sits on a tottering throne right now.’
‘Yet even you betrayed the Emper—Shadowthrone. Did you not just tell me—’
‘Sometimes, I see further than my dear companion. Indeed, he remains obsessed with desires to see Laseen suffer—I have other ideas, and while he may see them as party to his own, there is yet no pressing need to disabuse him of that notion. But I will not seek to deceive you into believing I am all-knowing. I admit to having made grave errors, indeed, to knowing the poison of suspicion. Quick Ben. Kalam. Whiskeyjack. Where did their loyalty truly reside? Well, I eventually got my answer, but I am not yet decided whether it pleases me or troubles me. There is one danger that plagues ascendants in particular, and that is the tendency to wait too long. Before acting, before stepping—if you will—from the shadows.’ He smiled again. ‘I would make amends for past, at times fatal, hesitation. And so here I stand before you, Lostara, to ask for your help.’
Her scowl deepened. ‘Why should I not tell Pearl all about this…meeting?’
‘No reason, but I’d rather you didn’t. I am not yet ready for Pearl. For you, remaining silent will not constitute treason, for, if you do as I ask, you two will walk step in step. You will face no conflict, no matter what may occur, or what you may discover in your travels.’
‘Where is this…Delat?’
His brows rose, as if he was caught off guard momentarily by the question, then he sighed and nodded. ‘I have no hold over him these days, alas. Why? He is too powerful. Too mysterious. Too conniving. Too Hood-damned smart. Indeed, even Shadowthrone has turned his attentions elsewhere. I would love to arrange a reunion, but I am afraid I have not that power.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Sometimes, one must simply trust in fate, Lostara. The future can ever promise but one thing and one thing only: surprises. But know this, we would all save the Malazan Empire, in our own ways. Will you help me?’
‘If I did, would that make me a Talon?’
Cotillion’s smile broadened. ‘But, my dear, the Talons no longer exist.’
‘Oh, really, Cotillion, would you ask my help and then play me for a fool?’
The smile slowly faded. ‘But I am telling you, the Talons no longer exist. Surly annihilated them. Is there knowledge you possess that would suggest otherwise?’
She was silent a moment, then turned away. ‘No. I simply…assumed.’
‘Indeed. Will you help me then?’
‘Pearl is on his way,’ Lostara said, facing the god once again.
‘I am capable of brevity when need be.’
‘What is it you want me to do?’
Half a bell later there was a light rap upon the door and Pearl entered.
And immediately halted. ‘I smell sorcery.’
Seated on the bed, Lostara shrugged then rose to collect her kit bag. ‘There are sequences in the Shadow Dance,’ she said casually, ‘that occasionally evoke Rashan.’
>
‘Rashan! Yes.’ He stepped close, his gaze searching. ‘The Shadow Dance. You?’
‘Once. Long ago. I hold to no gods, Pearl. Never have. But the Dance, I’ve found, serves me in my fighting. Keeps me flexible, and I need that the most when I am nervous or unhappy.’ She slung the bag over a shoulder and waited.
Pearl’s eyebrows rose. ‘Nervous or unhappy?’
She answered him with a sour look, then walked to the doorway. ‘You said you’ve stumbled on a lead…’
He joined her. ‘I have at that. But a word of warning first. Those sequences that evoke Rashan—it would be best for us both if you avoided them in the future. That kind of activity risks drawing…attention.’
‘Very well. Now, lead on.’
A lone guard slouched outside the estate’s gate, beside a bound bundle of straw. Pale green eyes tracked Lostara and Pearl as they approached from across the street. The man’s uniform and armour were dull with dust. A small human finger bone hung on a brass loop from one ear. His expression was sickly, and he drew a deep breath before saying, ‘You the advance? Go back and tell her we’re not ready.’
Lostara blinked and glanced over at Pearl.
Her companion was smiling. ‘Do we look like messengers, soldier?’
The guard’s eyes thinned. ‘Didn’t I see you dancing on a table down at Pugroot’s Bar?’
Pearl’s smile broadened. ‘And have you a name, soldier?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘I just told you. Maybe. Do you need me to spell it or something?’
‘Can you?’
‘No. I was just wondering if you was stupid, that’s all. So, if you’re not the Adjunct’s advance, come to warn us about that surprise inspection, then what do you want?’
‘A moment,’ Pearl said, frowning. ‘How can an inspection be a surprise if there’s advance warning?’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 307