The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘And you will find him.’

  The Guardian regarded the Letherii once more. ‘I am…pushed?’

  The man shrugged again.

  The Guardian reached down, closed a firm grip on the Champion’s sword-belt, then lifted him from the floor and slung him over its left shoulder. Standing in a spreading pool of blood, it turned about.

  And looked upon Rhulad Sengar. ‘They show no mercy, your friends,’ it said.

  ‘No?’ Rhulad’s laugh became a cough. He gasped, then said, ‘I am beginning to see…otherwise—’

  ‘I have learned mercy,’ the Guardian said, and thrust down with his sword.

  Into Rhulad’s back, severing the spine.

  Trull Sengar lurched to his feet, stared, disbelieving—

  —as the Letherii man whispered, ‘And…once more.’

  The Guardian walked towards the entrance, ignoring Hannan Mosag’s enraged bellow as it passed the Warlock King.

  Trull stumbled forward, around the motionless form of his brother, until he reached Hannan Mosag. Snapped a hand down and dragged the Warlock King up, until he held him close. ‘The throne?’ Trull asked in a rasp. ‘You just lost it, bastard.’ He flung Hannan Mosag back down onto the floor. ‘I need to find Fear. Tell him,’ Trull said as he walked to the entranceway, ‘tell him, Mosag, that I went to find Fear. I am sending in the others—’

  Rhulad spasmed behind him, then shrieked.

  So be it.

  The Wyval clawed its way free from the barrow, dripping red-streaked mud, flanks heaving. A moment later the wraith appeared, dragging the unconscious form of a Letherii man.

  Shurq Elalle rose from where she had crouched beside Ublala, stroking his brow and wondering at the stupid smile plastered on his features, and, placing her hands on her hips, surveyed the scene. Five sprawled bodies, toppled trees, the stench of rotting earth. Two of her employees near the facing wall of the Azath tower, the mage tending to the Avowed’s wounds. Avowed. What kind of title is that, anyway?

  Closer to the gate, Kettle and the tall, white-skinned warrior with the two Letherii swords.

  Impressively naked, she noted, walking over. ‘If I am not mistaken,’ she said to him, ‘you are of the same blood as the Tiste Edur.’

  A slight frown as he looked down upon her. ‘No. I am Tiste Andii.’

  ‘If you say so. Now that you have finished off those…things, I take it your allegiance to the Azath tower is at an end.’

  He glanced over at it with his strange, red eyes. ‘We were never…friends,’ he said, then faintly smiled. ‘But it is dead. I am not bound to anyone’s service but my own.’ Studied her once again. ‘And there are things I must do…for myself.’

  Kettle spoke. ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘That would please me, child,’ the warrior said.

  Shurq Elalle narrowed her eyes. ‘You made a promise, didn’t you?’ she asked him. ‘To the tower, and though it is dead the promise remains to be honoured.’

  ‘She will be safe, so long as she chooses to remain with me,’ the warrior said, nodding.

  Shurq looked round once more, then said, ‘This city is now ruled by the Tiste Edur. Will they take undue note of you?’

  ‘Accompanied by a Wyval, a wraith and the unconscious slave he insists on keeping with him, I would imagine so.’

  ‘Best, then,’ she said, ‘you left Letheras without being seen.’

  ‘Agreed. Do you have a suggestion?’

  ‘Not yet—’

  ‘I have…’

  They turned to see the Avowed and his mage, the latter lending the former his shoulder as they slowly approached. It had been Iron Bars who had spoken.

  ‘You,’ Shurq Elalle said, ‘work for me, now. No volunteering allowed.’

  He grinned. ‘Aye, but all I’m saying is they need an escort. Someone who knows all the secret ways out of this city. It’s the least I can do, since this Tiste Andii saved my life.’

  ‘Thinking of things before I do does not bode well for a good working relationship,’ Shurq Elalle said.

  ‘Apologies, ma’am. I won’t do it again, I promise.’

  ‘You think I’m being petty, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course not. After all, the undead are never petty.’

  She crossed her arms. ‘No? See that pit over there? There’s an undead man named Harlest hiding in it, waiting to scare someone with his talons and fangs.’

  They all turned to study the pit in the yard of the Azath tower. From which they could now hear faint singing.

  ‘Hood’s balls,’ Iron Bars muttered. ‘When do we sail?’

  Shurq Elalle shrugged. ‘As soon as they let us. And who is Hood?’

  The white-skinned warrior replied distractedly, ‘The Lord of Death, and yes, he has balls.’

  Everyone turned to stare at the warrior, who shrugged.

  Shurq grunted, then said, ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

  Kettle pointed up. ‘I like that. In your forehead, Mother. I like that.’

  ‘And let’s keep it there, shall we?’ Fortunately, no-one seemed to grasp the significance of her comment.

  The warrior said to Iron Bars. ‘Your suggestion?’

  The Avowed nodded.

  Tehol Beddict, lying atop the sarcophagus, was sleeping. Bugg had been staring down at him, thoughtful, when he heard the sound of footsteps almost directly behind him. He slowly swung about as the Guardian emerged from the wall of water that marked the tunnel mouth.

  The apparition was carrying a body over one shoulder. It halted and was silent as it studied the manservant.

  Here, in this tomb emptied of water, in this place where an Elder god’s will held all back, the Guardian did not bleed.

  Bugg sighed. ‘Oh, he will grieve for this,’ he said, finally recognizing the Letherii on the Guardian’s shoulder.

  ‘The Errant says the names remain alive within him,’ the creature said.

  ‘The names? Ah, yes. Of course.’

  ‘You abandoned us, Mael.’

  ‘I know. I am sorry.’

  The Guardian stepped past him and stopped beside the sarcophagus. Its helmed head tilted down as it observed Tehol Beddict. ‘This one shares his blood.’

  ‘A brother, yes.’

  ‘He shall carry the memory of the names, then.’ It looked over. ‘Do you object to this?’

  Bugg shook his head. ‘How can I?’

  ‘That is true. You cannot. You have lost the right.’

  The manservant said nothing. He watched as the Guardian grasped hold of one of Brys’s hands and set it down upon Tehol’s brow. A moment, then it was done. The apparition stepped away, headed towards the far wall of water.

  ‘Wait, please,’ Bugg said.

  It paused, looked back.

  ‘Where will you take him?’

  ‘Into the deep, where else, Elder One?’

  Bugg frowned. ‘In that place…’

  ‘Yes. There shall be two Guardians now and for ever more.’

  ‘Will that eternal service please him, do you think?’

  The apparition cocked its head. ‘I do not know. Does it please me?’

  With that ambiguous question hanging in the still air, the Guardian carried the body of Brys Beddict into the water.

  After a long moment, Bugg turned back to regard Tehol. His friend would wake with a terrible headache, he knew.

  Nothing to be done for it, alas. Except, perhaps, for some tea…I’ve a particularly nasty herbal mix that’ll make him forget his headache. And if there is anyone in the world who will appreciate that, it is Tehol Beddict of Letheras.

  But first, I’d better get him out of this tomb.

  There were bodies lying in the throne room of the Eternal Domicile. The one halfway down the dais, face to the bloody tiles, still made Feather Witch’s breath catch, her heart thud loud in her chest. Fear or excitement, she knew not which—perhaps both. King Ezgara Diskanar, flung down from the throne, where Rhulad Sengar of the Tist
e Edur now sat, and the darkness in the emperor’s eyes seemed beyond measure.

  There had been pain in this chamber—she could feel its bitter wake, hanging still in the air. And Rhulad had been its greatest fount. Betrayals, more betrayals than any mortal could bear. She knew this was truth, knew it in her heart.

  Before the emperor stood Tomad and Uruth, flanking the trembling, huddled form of Hannan Mosag, who had paid a dear price for this day of triumph. It seemed that he awaited something, a posture of terrified expectation, his eyes downcast. Yet Rhulad appeared content to ignore the Warlock King. For now, he would indulge his sour triumph.

  Even so, where was Fear Sengar? And Trull? Feather Witch had assisted Uruth in tending to Binadas, who remained unconscious and would continue so until the healing was done. But, apart from Rhulad’s parents, the only others of the emperor’s inner court present were a handful of his adopted brothers, Choram Irard, Kholb Harat and Matra Brith. The Buhns were absent, as was the Jheck warchief, B’nagga.

  Two Letherii remained, apart from the pathetic wreckages of Queen Janall and Prince Quillas. And already the Chancellor, Triban Gnol, had knelt before Rhulad and proclaimed his eternal service. The other Letherii drew Feather Witch’s attention again and again. Consort to the queen, Turudal Brizad gave the appearance of being almost indifferent to all he was witnessing here in the Eternal Domicile.

  And he was handsome, extraordinarily handsome.

  More than once, she had met his gaze, and saw in his eyes—even from across the room—a certain avid interest that sent tremors through her.

  She remained a step behind Uruth, her new mistress, ever attentive, whilst commanders came and went with their irrelevant reports. Fighting here, an end to fighting there, the docks secured. The first of the emissaries from the protectorates eagerly awaited audience in the ruined hallway beyond.

  The empire was born.

  And she had witnessed, and more than witnessed. A knife, pushed into the hands of Mayen, and word had come that she had been found. Dead. No more would Feather Witch cower beneath her fury. The whore was dead.

  Rhulad’s first command was to begin a hunt. For Udinaas. His adopted brothers were given a company of warriors each and sent out to find the slave. The search would be relentless, she knew, and in the end, Udinaas would be captured. And made to pay for his betrayal.

  She did not know what to think about that. But the thought had run through her once—and only once, quickly driven away afterwards—a hope, a fervent prayer to the Errant that Udinaas would escape. That he would never be found. That at least one Letherii would defy this emperor, defeat him. And in defeating him thus, would break Rhulad’s heart yet again.

  The world has drawn breath…and now breathes once more. As steady as ever, as unbroken in rhythm as the tides.

  She could see, through the cleverly fashioned, slitted windows high in the dome overhead, the deepening of the light, and she knew the sun was setting on this day.

  A day in which a kingdom was conquered, and a day in which that which was conquered began its inevitable destruction of the conquerors.

  For such was the rhythm of these particular tides. Now, with the coming of night, when the shadows drew long, and what remained of the world turned away.

  For that is what the Tiste Edur believe, is it not? Until midnight, all is turned away, silent and motionless. Awaiting the last tide.

  On his throne, Rhulad Sengar sat, draped in the gold of Lether, and the dying light gleamed in his hooded eyes. Darkened the stains on the sword held in his right hand, point to the dais.

  And Feather Witch, her eyes cast downward once more after that momentary glance, downward as required, saw, lying in the join of the dais, a severed finger. Small, like a child’s. She stared at it, fascinated, filled with a sudden desire. To possess it. There was power in such things, after all. Power a witch could use.

  Assuming the person it had belonged to had been important.

  Well, I shall find that out soon enough.

  Dusk was claiming the throne room. Someone would have to light lanterns, and soon.

  She had not left the room. There had been no reason to. She had sat, motionless, empty, numb to the sounds of fighting, to the howling wolves, to the distant screams in the city beyond. And told herself, every now and then, that she waited. The end of one thing brought the birth of another, after all.

  Lives and loves, the gamut of existence was marked by such things. A breaking of paths, the ragged, uneven ever-forward stumble. Blood dried, eventually. Turned to dust. The corpses of kings were laid down and sealed in darkness and set away, to be forgotten. Graves were dug for fallen soldiers, vast pits like mouths in the earth, opened in hunger, and all the bodies were tumbled down, each exhaling a last gasp of lime dust. Survivors grieved, for a time, and looked upon empty rooms and empty beds, the scattering of possessions no-one possessed any longer, and wondered what was to come, what would be written anew on the wiped-clean slate. Wondering, how can I go on?

  Kingdoms and empires, wars and causes, she was sick of them.

  She wanted to be gone. Away, so far away that nothing of her life from before mattered in the least. No memories to drive her steps in this direction or that.

  Corlo had warned her. Not to fall into the cycle of weeping. So now she sat dry-eyed, and let the city beyond weep for itself. She was done with such things.

  A knock upon the door.

  Seren Pedac looked down the hallway, her heart lurching.

  A heavy sound, now repeated, insistent.

  The Acquitor rose from the chair, tottering at the tingling in her legs—she had not moved in a long time—then made her way unevenly forward.

  Dusk had arrived. She had not noticed that. Someone has decided. Someone has ended this day. Why would they do that?

  Absurd thoughts, pushed into her mind as if from somewhere outside, in tones of faint irony, drawled out like a secret joke.

  At the door now. Flinching as the knock sounded again, at a level opposite her face.

  Seren opened it.

  To find, standing before her, Fear and Trull Sengar.

  Trull could not understand it, but it had seemed his steps were being guided, down this alley, along that street, through the vast city with unerring precision until he saw, in the gloom ahead, his brother. Walking with purpose over a minor bridge of the main canal. Turning in surprise at Trull’s hoarse shout. Then waiting until his brother caught up to him.

  ‘Rhulad is resurrected,’ Trull said.

  Fear looked away, squinted into the shadows of the seemingly motionless water of the canal. ‘By your hand, Trull?’

  ‘No. I…failed in that. Something else. A demon of some sort. It came for the Champion—I don’t know why, but it carried the man’s body away. After killing Rhulad in what it saw as an act of mercy.’ Trull grimaced. ‘A gift of the ignorant. Fear—’

  ‘No. I will not return.’

  Trull stared at him. ‘Listen to me, please. I believe, if we work together, we can guide him back. From madness. For the Sisters’ sake, Fear, we must try. For our people—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You…would leave me to this?’

  Sudden pain in Fear’s face, but he refused to meet his brother’s eyes. ‘I must go. I understand something now, you see. This is not of Rhulad’s making. Nor Hannan Mosag’s. It is Father Shadow’s, Trull.’

  ‘Scabandari Bloodeye is dead—’

  ‘Not his spirit. It remains…somewhere. I intend to find it.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘We have been usurped. All of us. By the one behind that sword. No-one else can save us, Trull. I mean to find Scabandari Bloodeye. If he is bound, I mean to free him. His spirit. We shall return together, or not at all.’

  Trull knew his brother well enough to cease arguing. Fear had found a new purpose, and with it he intended to flee…from everything, and everyone, else. ‘How will you get out of the city? They will be looking for us—it’s prob
able they are doing so even now.’

  ‘Hull once told me that Seren Pedac had her home here.’ Fear shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I don’t understand it myself, but I believe she might help.’

  ‘Why?’

  Fear shook his head.

  ‘How do you know where she lives?’

  ‘I don’t. But it’s…this way.’

  He began walking. Trull quickly caught up to him and gripped his arm. ‘Listen—no, I don’t mean to prevent you. But listen to me, please.’

  ‘Very well, but let us walk in the meantime.’

  ‘All right. Do you not wonder at all this, Fear? How did I find you? It should have been impossible, yet here we are. And now you, and this house—the Acquitor’s house—Fear, something is guiding us. We are being manipulated—’

  His brother’s smile was wry. ‘What of it?’

  To that, Trull had no answer. Silent, he walked with Fear. Coming upon a score of dead Letherii, he paused to collect a sword and scabbard. He strapped it on, ignoring Fear’s raised brows, not out of some ambivalent emotion, but because he himself did not know why he had picked up the weapon. They walked on.

  Until they came to a modest house.

  Trull’s chest seemed to clench tight upon seeing her standing in the doorway. He could not understand it—no, he could, but it was impossible. Absurd. He’d only seen Seren Pedac a few times. Had but exchanged a few score words, if that. Yet, as he studied her face, the shock writ there, so at odds with the appalling depth in her eyes, he felt himself falling forward in his mind—

  ‘What?’ she asked, gaze darting between him and Fear. ‘What are you…’

  ‘I need your help,’ Fear said.

  ‘I cannot…I don’t see how…’

  Sisters take me, I would give my heart to this woman. This Letherii…

  Fear said, ‘I am fleeing. My brother, the emperor. I need a guide to take me through the city unseen. Tonight.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know why…why I have this belief that only you can help me.’

  She looked then at Trull, and he saw her eyes hold on his for what seemed a long moment, slowly widening. ‘And you, Trull Sengar?’ she asked. ‘Are coming with us?’