The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Well, this is curious,’ Gesler muttered. ‘Borduke’s sickly mage—his warren’s Meanas. And my mage is Tavos Pond, and he’s the same. Now, Strings, your lad, Bottle…’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘He’s also Meanas,’ Borduke growled, pulling at his beard in a habitual gesture Strings knew would come to irritate him. ‘Balgrid’s confirmed it. They’re all Meanas.’

  ‘Like I said.’ Gesler sighed. ‘Curious.’

  ‘That could be put to use,’ Strings said. ‘Get all three of them working on rituals—illusions are damned useful, when done right. Quick Ben could pull a few—the key is in the details. We should drag them all together tonight—’

  ‘Ah,’ said a voice from beyond the wagon, and Lieutenant Ranal strode into view, ‘all my sergeants together in one place. Convenient.’

  ‘Come to eat dust with the rest of us?’ Gesler asked. ‘Damned generous of you.’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t heard about you,’ Ranal sneered.

  ‘Had it been my choice, you’d be one of the lads carrying those waterskins, Gesler—’

  ‘You’d go thirsty if I was,’ the sergeant replied.

  Ranal’s face darkened. ‘Captain Keneb wants to know if there’s any mages in your squads. The Adjunct needs a tally of what’s available.’

  ‘None—’

  ‘Three,’ Strings interrupted, ignoring Gesler’s glare. ‘All minor, as would be expected. Tell the captain we’ll be good for covert actions.’

  ‘Keep your opinions to yourself, Strings. Three, you said. Very well.’ He wheeled about and marched off.

  Gesler rounded on Strings. ‘We could lose those mages—’

  ‘We won’t. Go easy on the lieutenant, Gesler, at least for now. The lad knows nothing of being an officer in the field. Imagine, telling sergeants to keep their opinions quiet. With Oponn’s luck, Keneb will explain a few things to the lieutenant, eventually.’

  ‘Assuming Keneb’s any better,’ Borduke muttered. He combed his beard. ‘Rumour has it he was the only one of his company to survive. And you know what that likely means.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see,’ Strings advised. ‘It’s a bit early to start honing the knives—’

  ‘Honing the knives,’ Gesler said, ‘now you’re talking a language I understand. I’m prepared to wait and see, as you suggest, Fid. For now. All right, let’s gather the mages tonight, and if they can actually get along without killing each other, then we might find ourselves a step or two ahead.’

  Horns sounded to announce the resumption of the march. Soldiers groaned and swore as they clambered upright once more.

  The first day of travel was done, and to Gamet it seemed they had travelled a paltry, pathetic distance from Aren. To be expected, of course. The army was a long way from finding its feet.

  As am I. Saddle sore and light-headed from the heat, the Fist watched from a slight rise alongside the line of march as the camp slowly took shape. Pockets of order amidst a chaotic sea of motion. Seti and Wickan horse warriors continued to range well beyond the outlying pickets, far too few in number, however, to give him much comfort. And those Wickans—grandfathers and grandmothers one and all. Hood knows, I might well have crossed blades with some of those old warriors. Those ancient ones, they were never settled with the idea of being in the Empire. They were here for another reason entirely. For the memory of Coltaine. And the children—well, they were being fed the singular poison of bitter old fighters filled with tales of past glory. And so, ones who’ve never known the terror of war and ones who’ve forgotten. A dreadful pairing…

  He stretched to ease the kinks in his spine, then forced himself into motion. Down from the ridge, along the edge of the rubble-filled ditch, to where the Adjunct’s command tent sat, its canvas pristine, Temul’s Wickans standing guard around it.

  Temul was not in sight. Gamet pitied the lad. He was already fighting a half-dozen skirmishes, without a blade drawn, and he was losing. And there’s not a damned thing any of us can do about it.

  He approached the tent’s entrance, scratched at the flap and waited.

  ‘Come in, Gamet,’ the Adjunct’s voice called from within.

  She was kneeling in the fore-chamber before a long, stone box, and was just settling the lid into place when he stepped through the entrance. A momentary glimpse—her otataral sword—then the lid was in place. ‘There is some softened wax—there in that pot over the brazier. Bring it over, Gamet.’

  He did so, and watched as she brushed the inset join between lid and base, until the container was entirely sealed. Then she rose and swept the windblown sand from her knees. ‘I am already weary of this pernicious sand,’ she muttered.

  She studied him for a moment, then said, ‘There is watered wine behind you, Gamet. Pour yourself some.’

  ‘Do I look in need, Adjunct?’

  ‘You do. Ah, I well know, you sought out a quiet life when you joined our household. And here I have dragged you into a war.’

  He felt himself bridling and stood straighter. ‘I am equal to this, Adjunct.’

  ‘I believe you. None the less, pour yourself some wine. We await news.’

  He swung about in search of the clay jug, found it and strode over. ‘News, Adjunct?’

  She nodded, and he saw the concern on her plain features, a momentary revelation that he turned away from as he poured out a cup of wine. Show me no seams, lass. I need to hold on to my certainty.

  ‘Come stand beside me,’ she instructed, a sudden urgency in her tone.

  He joined her. They faced the clear space in the centre of the chamber.

  Where a portal flowered, spreading outward like liquid staining a sheet of gauze, murky grey, sighing out a breath of stale, dead air. A tall, green-clad figure emerged. Strange, angular features, skin the shade of coal-dust marble; the man’s broad mouth had the look of displaying a perpetual half-smile, but he was not smiling now.

  He paused to brush grey dust from his cloak and leggings, then lifted his head and met Tavore’s gaze. ‘Adjunct, greetings from the Empress. And myself, of course.’

  ‘Topper. I sense your mission here will be an unpleasant one. Fist Gamet, will you kindly pour our guest some wine?’

  ‘Of course.’ Gods below, the damned master of the Claw. He glanced down at his own cup, then offered it to Topper. ‘I have yet to sip. Here.’

  The tall man tilted his head in thanks and accepted the cup.

  Gamet went to where the jug waited.

  ‘You have come directly from the Empress?’ Tavore asked the Clawmaster.

  ‘I have, and before that, from across the ocean…from Genabackis, where I spent a most glum evening in the company of High Mage Tayschrenn. Would it shock you to know that he and I got drunk that night?’

  Gamet’s head turned at that. It seemed such an unlikely image in his mind that he was indeed shocked.

  The Adjunct looked equally startled, then she visibly steeled herself. ‘What news have you to tell me?’

  Topper swallowed down a large mouthful of wine, then scowled. ‘Watered. Ah well. Losses, Adjunct. On Genabackis. Terrible losses…’

  Lying motionless in a grassy depression thirty paces beyond the squad’s fire, Bottle closed his eyes. He could hear his name being called. Strings—who was called Fid by Gesler—wanted him, but the mage was not ready. Not yet. He had a different conversation to listen to, and managing that—without being detected—was no easy task.

  His grandmother back in Malaz City would have been proud. ‘Never mind those damned warrens, child, the deep magic is far older. Remember, seek out the roots and tendrils, the roots and tendrils. The paths through the ground, the invisible web woven from creature to creature. Every creature—on the land, in the land, in the air, in the water—they are all linked. And it is within you, if you have been awakened, and spirits below, you’ve been awakened, child! Within you, then, to ride those tendrils…’

  And ride them he did, though he would not sur
render his private fascination with warrens, with Meanas in particular. Illusions…playing with those tendrils, with those roots of being, twisting and tying them into deceptive knots that tricked the eye, the touch, that deceived every sense, now that was a game worth playing…

  But for the moment, he had immersed himself in the old ways, the undetectable ways—if one were careful, that is. Riding the life-sparks of capemoths, of rhizan, of crickets and chigger fleas, of roving bloodflies. Mindless creatures dancing on the tent’s wall, hearing but not comprehending the sound shivers of the words coming from the other side of that tent wall.

  Comprehension was Bottle’s task. And so he listened. As the newcomer spoke, interrupted by neither the Adjunct nor Fist Gamet. Listened, and comprehended.

  Strings glared down at the two seated mages. ‘You can’t sense him?’

  Balgrid’s shrug was sheepish. ‘He’s out there, hiding in the dark somewhere.’

  ‘And he’s up to something,’ Tavos Pond added. ‘But we can’t tell what.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ Balgrid muttered.

  Strings snorted and strode back to Gesler and Borduke. The other squad members were brewing tea at the small fire they had built to one side of the path. Cuttle’s snores were loud from the tent beyond. ‘The bastard’s vanished,’ Strings said.

  Gesler grunted. ‘Maybe he’s deserted, and if that’s the case the Wickans will hunt him down and come back with his head on a spear. There won’t be—’

  ‘He’s here!’

  They turned to see Bottle settling down by the fire. Strings stamped over. ‘Where in Hood’s name have you been?’ he demanded.

  Bottle looked up, his brows slowly lifting. ‘Nobody else felt it?’ He glanced over at Balgrid and Tavos Pond, who were both approaching. ‘That portal? The one that opened in the Adjunct’s tent?’ He frowned at the blank expressions on the faces of the two other mages, then asked in a deadpan voice, ‘Have you two mastered hiding pebbles yet? Making coins disappear?’

  Strings lowered himself opposite Bottle. ‘What was all that about a portal?’

  ‘Bad news, Sergeant,’ the young man replied. ‘It all went foul on Genabackis. Dujek’s army mostly wiped out. The Bridgeburners annihilated. Whiskeyjack’s dead—’

  ‘Dead!’

  ‘Hood take us!’

  ‘Whiskeyjack? Gods below!’

  The curses grew more elaborate, along with postulations of disbelief, but Strings no longer heard them. His mind was numb, as if a wildfire had ripped through his inner landscape, scorching the ground barren. He felt a heavy hand settle on his shoulder and vaguely heard Gesler murmuring something, but after a moment he shook the man off, rose and walked into the darkness beyond the camp.

  He did not know how long, or how far he walked. Each step was senseless, the world outside his body not reaching through to him, remaining beyond the withered oblivion of his mind. It was only when a sudden weakness took his legs that he sank down onto the wiry, colourless grasses.

  The sound of weeping, coming from somewhere ahead, a sound of sheer despair that pierced through the fog and thrummed in his chest. He listened to the ragged cries, winced to hear how they seemed torn from a constricted throat, like a dam finally sundered by a flood of grief.

  He shook himself, growing mindful once more of his surroundings. The ground beneath the thin skein of grasses was hard and warm beneath his knees. Insects buzzed and flitted through the dark. Only starlight illuminated the wastes stretching out to all sides. The encamped army was easily a thousand or more paces behind him.

  Strings drew a deep breath, then rose. He walked slowly towards the sound of the weeping.

  A lad, lean—no, damn near scrawny, crouched down with arms wrapped about his knees, head sunk low. A single crow feather hung from a plain leather head-band. A few paces beyond stood a mare, bearing a Wickan saddle, a tattered vellum scroll hanging from the horn. The horse was placidly tugging at the grass, her reins dangling.

  Strings recognized the youth, though for the moment he could not recall his name. But Tavore had placed him in command of the Wickans.

  After a long moment, the sergeant moved forward, making no effort to stay quiet, and sat down on a boulder a half-dozen paces from the lad.

  The Wickan’s head snapped up. Tear-streaked warpaint made a twisted net of his narrow face. Venom flared in his dark eyes and he hissed, a hand unsheathing his long-knife as he staggered upright.

  ‘Relax,’ Strings muttered. ‘I’m in grief’s arms this night myself, though likely for an entirely different reason. Neither of us expected company, but here we are.’

  The Wickan hesitated, then snapped the weapon back into its sheath and made to walk away.

  ‘Hold a moment, Horsewarrior. There’s no need to flee.’

  The youth spun round, mouth twisting into a snarl.

  ‘Face me. I will be your witness this night, and we alone will know of it. Give me your words of sorrow, Wickan, and I will listen. Hood knows, it would serve me well right now.’

  ‘I flee no-one,’ the warrior rasped.

  ‘I know. I just wanted to get your attention.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Nobody. And that is how I will stay, if you like. Nor will I ask for your name—’

  ‘I am Temul.’

  ‘Ah, well. So your bravery puts me in my place. My name is Fiddler.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Temul’s voice was suddenly harsh, and he wiped angrily at his face, ‘did you think my grief a noble thing? Did I weep for Coltaine? For my fallen kin? I did not. My pity was for myself! And now you may go. Proclaim me—I am done with commanding, for I cannot command myself—’

  ‘Easy there, I’ve no intention of proclaiming anything, Temul. But I can guess at your reasons. Those wrinkled Wickans of the Crow, is my guess. Them and the survivors who walked off Gesler’s ship of wounded. They won’t accept you as their leader, will they? And so, like children, they blunt you at every turn. Defy you, displaying a mocking regard to your face then whispering behind your back. And where does that leave you? You can’t challenge them all, after all—’

  ‘Perhaps I can! I shall!’

  ‘Well, that will please them no end. Numbers alone will defeat your martial prowess. So you will die, sooner or later, and they will win.’

  ‘You tell me nothing I do not know, Fiddler.’

  ‘I know. I’m just reminding you that you’ve good reason to rail at the injustice, at the stupidity of those you would lead. I had a commander once, Temul, who was faced with the same thing you’re facing. He was in charge of a bunch of children. Nasty children at that.’

  ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘Not much, and ended up with a knife in his back.’

  There was a moment of silence, then Temul barked a laugh.

  Fiddler nodded. ‘Aye, I’m not one for stories with lessons in life, Temul. My mind bends to more practical choices.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, I would imagine that the Adjunct shares your frustration. She wants you to lead, and would help you do so—but not so you lose face. She’s too clever for that. No, the key here is deflection. Tell me, where are their horses right now?’

  Temul frowned. ‘Their horses?’

  ‘Aye. I would think the Seti outriders could do without the Crow Clan for a day, don’t you think? I’m sure the Adjunct would agree—those Seti are young, by and large, and untested. They need the room to find themselves. There’s good reason, then, militarily, to keep the Wickans from their horses come tomorrow. Let them walk with the rest of us. Barring your loyal retinue, of course. And who knows, a day might not be enough. Could end up being three, or even four.’

  Temul spoke softly, thoughtfully. ‘To get to their horses, we would need to be quiet…’

  ‘Another challenge for the Seti, or so I’m sure the Adjunct would note. If children your kin must be, then take away their favoured playthings—their horses. Hard to look tall and imperious when you’re
spitting dust behind a wagon. In any case, you’d best hurry, so as not to awaken the Adjunct—’

  ‘She may already be asleep—’

  ‘No, she isn’t, Temul. I am certain of it. Now, before you leave, answer me a question, please. You’ve a scroll hanging from your mare’s saddle. Why? What is written on it?’

  ‘The horse belonged to Duiker,’ Temul answered, turning to the animal. ‘He was a man who knew how to read and write. I rode with him, Fiddler.’ He spun back with a glare. ‘I rode with him!’

  ‘And the scroll?’

  The young Wickan waved a hand. ‘Men such as Duiker carried such things! Indeed, I believe it once belonged to him, was once in his very hands.’

  ‘And the feather you wear…to honour Coltaine?’

  ‘To honour Coltaine, yes. But that is because I must. Coltaine did what he was expected to do. He did nothing that was beyond his abilities. I honour him, yes, but Duiker…Duiker was different.’ He scowled and shook his head. ‘He was old, older than you. Yet he fought. When fighting was not even expected of him—I know this to be true, for I knew Coltaine and Bult and I heard them speak of it, of the historian. I was there when Coltaine drew the others together, all but Duiker. Lull, Bult, Chenned, Mincer. And all spoke true and with certainty. Duiker would lead the refugees. Coltaine even gave him the stone the traders brought—’

  ‘The stone? What stone?’

  ‘To wear about his neck, a saving stone, Nil called it. A soul trapper, delivered from afar. Duiker wore it, though he liked it not, for it was meant for Coltaine, so that he would not be lost. Of course, we Wickans knew he would not be lost. We knew the crows would come for his soul. The elders who have come, who hound me so, they speak of a child born to the tribe, a child once empty, then filled, for the crows came. They came.’

  ‘Coltaine has been reborn?’

  ‘He has been reborn.’

  ‘And Duiker’s body disappeared,’ Strings muttered. ‘From the tree.’

  ‘Yes! And so I keep his horse for him, for when he returns. I rode with him, Fiddler!’