The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Mebra. It seemed that someone had done her work for her.

  A flit of movement in the air behind her. Apsalar ducked and rolled to her left as a throwing star flashed over her, punching a hole through the curtain. Regaining her feet in a crouch, she faced the outside passage.

  Where a figure swathed in tight grey clothing stepped into the chamber. Its gloved left hand held another iron star, the multiple edges glittering with poison. In its right hand was a kethra knife, hooked and broad-bladed. A telab hid the assassin’s features, but around its dark eyes was a mass of white-etched tattoos against black skin.

  The killer stepped clear of the doorway, eyes fixed on Apsalar. ‘Stupid woman,’ hissed a man’s voice, in accented Ehrlii.

  ‘South Clan of the Semk,’ Apsalar said. ‘You are far from home.’

  ‘There were to be no witnesses.’ His left hand flashed.

  Apsalar twisted. The iron star whipped past to strike the wall behind her.

  The Semk rushed in behind the throw. He chopped down and crossways with his left hand to bat aside her knife-arm, then thrust with the kethra, seeking her abdomen, whereupon he would tear the blade across in a disembowelling slash. None of which succeeded.

  Even as he swung down with his left arm, Apsalar stepped to her right. The heel of his hand cracked hard against her hip. Her movement away from the kethra forced the Semk to attempt to follow with the weapon. Long before he could reach her, she had driven her knife between ribs, the point piercing the back of his heart.

  With a strangled groan, the Semk sagged, slid off the knife-blade, and pitched to the floor. He sighed out his last breath, then was still.

  Apsalar cleaned her weapon across the man’s thigh, then began cutting away his clothing. The tattoos continued, covering every part of him. A common enough trait among warriors of the South Clan, yet the style was not Semk. Arcane script wound across the assassin’s brawny limbs, similar to the carving she had seen in the ruins outside the temple.

  The language of the First Empire.

  With growing suspicion, she rolled the body over to reveal the back. And saw a darkened patch, roughly rectangular, over the Semk’s right shoulder-blade. Where the man’s name had once been, before it had been ritually obscured.

  This man had been a priest of the Nameless Ones.

  Oh, Cotillion, you won’t like this at all.

  ‘Well?’

  Telorast glanced up. ‘Well what?’

  ‘She is a pretty one.’

  ‘We’re prettier.’

  Curdle snorted. ‘At the moment, I’d have to disagree.’

  ‘All right. If you like the dark, deadly type.’

  ‘What I was asking, Telorast, is whether we stay with her.’

  ‘If we don’t, Edgewalker will be very unhappy with us, Curdle. You don’t want that, do you? He’s been unhappy with us before, or have you forgotten?’

  ‘Fine! You didn’t have to bring that up, did you? So it’s decided. We stay with her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Telorast said. ‘Until we can find a way to get out of this mess.’

  ‘You mean, cheat them all?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good,’ Curdle said, stretching out along the ruined wall and staring up at the strange stars. ‘Because I want my throne back.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Curdle sniffed. ‘Dead people. Fresh.’

  ‘Yes. But not her.’

  ‘No, not her.’ The ghost was silent a moment, then added, ‘Not just pretty, then.’

  ‘No,’ Telorast glumly agreed, ‘not just pretty.’

  Chapter Two

  It must be taken as given that a man who happens to be the world’s most powerful, most terrible, most deadly sorceror, must have a woman at his side. But it does not follow, my children, that a woman of similar proportions requires a man at hers.

  Now then, who wants to be a tyrant?

  Mistress Wu

  Malaz City School of Waifs and Urchins

  1152 Burn’s Sleep

  Insubstantial, fading in and out of sight, smoky and wisp-threaded, Ammanas fidgeted on the ancient Throne of Shadow. Eyes like polished haematite were fixed on the scrawny figure standing before it. A figure whose head was hairless except for a wild curly grey and black tangle over the ears and round the back of the subtly misshapen skull. And twin eyebrows that rivalled the fringe in chaotic waywardness, beetling and knotting to match the baffling and disquieting mêlée of emotions on the wrinkled face beneath them.

  The subject was muttering, not quite under his breath, ‘He’s not so frightening, is he? In and out, off and on, here and elsewhere, a wavering apparition of wavering intent and perhaps wavering intellect – best not let him read my thoughts – look stern, no, attentive, no, pleased! No, wait. Cowed. Terrified. No, in awe. Yes, in awe. But not for long, that’s tiring. Look bored. Gods, what am I thinking? Anything but bored, no matter how boring this might be, what with him looking down on me and me looking up at him and Cotillion over there with his arms crossed, leaning against that wall and smirking – what kind of audience is he? The worst kind, I say. What was I thinking? Well, at least I was thinking. I am thinking, in fact, and one might presume that Shadowthrone is doing the same, assuming of course that his brain hasn’t leaked away, since he’s nothing but shadows so what holds it in? The point is, I am well advised to remind myself, as I am now doing, the point is, he summoned me. And so here I am. Rightful servant. Loyal. Well, more or less loyal. Trustworthy. Most of the time. Modest and respectful, always. To all outward appearances, and what is outward in appearance is all that matters in this and every other world. Isn’t it? Smile! Grimace. Look helpful. Hopeful. Harried, hirsute, happenstance. Wait, how does one look happenstance? What kind of expression must that one be? I must think on that. But not now, because this isn’t happenstance, it’s circumstance—’

  ‘Silence.’

  ‘My lord? I said nothing. Oh, best glance away now, and think on this. I said nothing. Silence. Perhaps he’s making an observation? Yes, that must be it. Look back, now, deferentially, and say aloud: Indeed, my lord. Silence. There. How does he react? Is that growing apoplexy? How can one tell, with all those shadows? Now, if I sat on that throne—’

  ‘Iskaral Pust!’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘I have decided.’

  ‘Yes, my lord? Well, if he’s decided something, why doesn’t he just say it?’

  ‘I have decided, Iskaral Pust—’

  ‘He’s doing some more! Yes, my lord?’

  ‘That you…’ Shadowthrone paused and seemed to pass a hand over his eyes. ‘Oh my…’ he added in a murmur, then straightened. ‘I have decided that you will have to do.’

  ‘My lord? Flick eyes away! This god is insane. I serve an insane god! What kind of expression does that warrant?’

  ‘Go! Get out of here!’

  Iskaral Pust bowed. ‘Of course, my lord. Immediately!’ Then he stood, waiting. Looking around, one pleading glance to Cotillion. ‘I was summoned! I can’t leave until this foaming idiot on the throne releases me! Cotillion understands – that might be amusement in those horribly cold eyes – oh, why doesn’t he say something? Why doesn’t he remind this blathering smudge on this throne—’

  A snarl from Ammanas, and the High Priest of Shadow, Iskaral Pust, vanished.

  Shadowthrone then sat motionless for a time, before slowly turning his head to regard Cotillion. ‘What are you looking at?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not much,’ Cotillion replied. ‘You have become rather insubstantial of late.’

  ‘I like it this way.’ They studied each other for a moment. ‘All right, I’m a little stretched!’ The shriek echoed away, and the god subsided. ‘Do you think he’ll get there in time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think, if he does, he’ll be sufficient?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who asked you!?’

  Cotillion watched as Ammanas seethed, fidgeted and squirmed
on the throne. Then the Lord of Shadow fell still, and slowly raised a single, spindly finger. ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘And I shall leave you to it,’ Cotillion said, pushing himself from the wall. ‘I am going for a walk.’

  Shadowthrone did not reply.

  Glancing over, Cotillion saw that he had vanished. ‘Oh,’ he murmured, ‘that was a good idea.’

  Emerging from Shadowkeep, he paused to study the landscape beyond. It was in the habit of changing at a moment’s notice, although not when one was actually looking, which, he supposed, was a saving grace. A line of forested hills to the right, gullies and ravines directly ahead, and a ghostly lake to the left, on which rode a half-dozen grey-sailed ships in the distance. Artorallah demons, off to raid the Aptorian coastal villages, he suspected. It was rare to find the lake region appearing so close to the keep, and Cotillion felt a moment of unease. The demons of this realm seemed to do little more than bide their time, paying scant attention to Shadowthrone, and more or less doing as they pleased. Which generally involved feuds, lightning attacks on neighbours and pillaging.

  Ammanas could well command them, if he so chose. But he hardly ever did, perhaps not wanting to test the limits of their loyalty. Or perhaps just preoccupied with some other concern. With his schemes.

  Things were not well. A little stretched, are you, Ammanas? I am not surprised. Cotillion could sympathize, and almost did. Momentarily, before reminding himself that Ammanas had invited most of the risks upon himself. And, by extension, upon me as well.

  The paths ahead were narrow, twisted and treacherous. Requiring utmost caution with every measured step.

  So be it. After all, we have done this before. And succeeded. Of course, far more was at stake this time. Too much, perhaps.

  Cotillion set off for the broken grounds opposite him. Two thousand paces, and before him was a trail leading into a gully. Shadows roiled between the rough rock walls. Reluctant to part as he walked the track, they slid like seaweed in shallows around his legs.

  So much in this realm had lost its rightful…place. Confusion triggered a seething tumult in pockets where shadows gathered. Faint cries whispered against his ears, as if from a great distance, the voice of multitudes drowning. Sweat beaded Cotillion’s brow, and he quickened his pace until he was past the sinkhole.

  The path sloped upward and eventually opened out onto a broad plateau. As he strode into the clear, eyes fixed on a distant ring of standing stones, he felt a presence at his side, and turned to see a tall, skeletal creature, bedecked in rags, walking to match his pace. Not close enough to reach out and touch, but too close for Cotillion’s comfort nonetheless. ‘Edgewalker. It has been some time since I last saw you.’

  ‘I cannot say the same of you, Cotillion. I walk—’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Cotillion cut in, ‘you walk paths unseen.’

  ‘By you. The Hounds do not share your failing.’

  Cotillion frowned at the creature, then glanced back, to see Baran thirty paces back, keeping its distance. Massive head low to the ground, eyes glowing bruised crimson. ‘You are being stalked.’

  ‘It amuses them, I imagine,’ Edgewalker said.

  They continued on for a time, then Cotillion sighed. ‘You have sought me out?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘From you? Nothing. But I see your destination, and so would witness.’

  ‘Witness what?’

  ‘Your impending conversation.’

  Cotillion scowled. ‘And if I’d rather you did not witness?’

  The skeletal face held a permanent grin, but in some way it seemed to broaden slightly. ‘There is no privacy in Shadow, Usurper.’

  Usurper. I’d have long since killed this bastard if he wasn’t already dead. Long since.

  ‘I am not your enemy,’ Edgewalker said, as if guessing Cotillion’s thoughts. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘We have more than enough enemies as it is. Accordingly,’ Cotillion continued, ‘we have no wish for more. Unfortunately, since we have no knowledge as to your purpose, or your motivations, we cannot predict what might offend you. So, in the interests of peace between us, enlighten me.’

  ‘That I cannot do.’

  ‘Cannot, or will not?’

  ‘The failing is yours, Cotillion, not mine. Yours, and Shadowthrone’s.’

  ‘Well, that is convenient.’

  Edgewalker seemed to consider Cotillion’s sardonic observation for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’

  Long since…

  They approached the standing stones. Not a single lintel left to bridge the ring, just rubble scattered about down the slopes, as if some ancient detonation at the heart of the circle had blasted the massive structure – even the upright stones were all tilted outward, like the petals of a flower.

  ‘This is an unpleasant place,’ Edgewalker said as they swung right to take the formal approach, an avenue lined with low, rotted trees, each standing upended with the remnant roots clutching the air.

  Cotillion shrugged. ‘About as unpleasant as virtually anywhere else in this realm.’

  ‘You might believe that, given you have none of the memories I possess. Terrible events, long, long ago, yet the echoes remain.’

  ‘There is little residual power left here,’ Cotillion said as they neared the two largest stones, and walked between them.

  ‘That is true. Of course, that is not the case on the surface.’

  ‘The surface? What do you mean?’

  ‘Standing stones are always half-buried, Cotillion. And the makers were rarely ignorant of the significance of that. Overworld and underworld.’

  Cotillion halted and glanced back, studying the upended trees lining the avenue. ‘And this manifestation we see here is given to the underworld?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Is the overworld manifestation to be found in some other realm? Where one might see an inward-tilting ring of stones, and right-side-up trees?’

  ‘Assuming they are not entirely buried or eroded to nothing by now. This circle is very old.’

  Cotillion swung round again and observed the three dragons opposite them, each at the base of a standing stone, although their massive chains reached down into the rough soil, rather than into the weathered rock. Shackled at the neck and at the four limbs, with another chain wrapped taut behind the shoulders and wings of each dragon. Every chain drawn so tight as to prevent any movement, not even a lifting of the head. ‘This,’ Cotillion said in a murmur, ‘is as you said, Edgewalker. An unpleasant place. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘You forget every time,’ Edgewalker said. ‘Overcome by your fascination. Such is the residual power in this circle.’

  Cotillion shot him a quick look. ‘I am ensorcelled?’

  The gaunt creature shrugged in a faint clatter of bones. ‘It is a magic without purpose beyond what it achieves. Fascination…and forgetfulness.’

  ‘I have trouble accepting that. All sorcery has a desired goal.’

  Another shrug. ‘They are hungry, yet unable to feed.’

  After a moment, Cotillion nodded. ‘The sorcery belongs to the dragons, then. Well, I can accept that. Yet, what of the circle itself? Has its power died? If so, why are these dragons still bound?’

  ‘Not dead, simply not acting in any manner upon you, Cotillion. You are not its intent.’

  ‘Well enough.’ He turned as Baran padded into view, swinging wide to avoid Edgewalker’s reach, then fixing its attention on the dragons. Cotillion saw its hackles stiffen. ‘Can you answer me this,’ he said to Edgewalker, ‘why will they not speak with me?’

  ‘Perhaps you have yet to say anything worth a reply.’

  ‘Possibly. What do you think the response will be, then, if I speak of freedom?’

  ‘I am here,’ said Edgewalker, ‘to discover that for myself.’

  ‘You can read my thoughts?’ Cotillion asked in a low voice.

  Baran’s huge head slowly swung round to regard Edgewalker.
The Hound took a single step closer to the creature.

  ‘I possess no such omniscience,’ Edgewalker calmly replied, seeming to take no notice of Baran’s attention. ‘Although to one such as you, it might appear so. But I have existed ages beyond your reckoning, Cotillion. All patterns are known to me, for they have been played out countless times before. Given what approaches us all, it was not hard to predict. Especially given your uncanny prescience.’ The dead pits that were Edgewalker’s eyes seemed to study Cotillion. ‘You suspect, do you not, that dragons are at the heart of all that will come?’

  Cotillion gestured at the chains. ‘They reach through to the overworld presumably? And that warren is what?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Edgewalker countered.

  ‘Try reading my mind.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘So, you are here because you are desperate to know what I know, or even what I suspect.’

  Edgewalker’s silence was answer enough to that question. Cotillion smiled. ‘I think I will make no effort to communicate with these dragons after all.’

  ‘But you will, eventually,’ Edgewalker replied. ‘And when you do, I will be here. Thus, what does it avail you to remain silent now?’

  ‘Well, in order to irritate you, I suppose.’

  ‘I have existed ages beyond your—’

  ‘So you have been irritated before, yes, I know. And will be again, without question.’

  ‘Make your effort, Cotillion. Soon if not now. If you wish to survive what is to come.’

  ‘All right. Provided you tell me the names of these dragons.’

  A clearly grudging reply: ‘As you wish—’

  ‘And why they have been imprisoned here, and by whom.’

  ‘That I cannot do.’

  They studied each other, then Edgewalker cocked its head, and observed, ‘It seems we are at an impasse, Cotillion. What is your decision?’

  ‘Very well. I will take what I can get.’

  Edgewalker faced the three dragons. ‘These are of the pure blood. Eleint. Ampelas, Kalse and Eloth. Their crime was…ambition. It is a common enough crime.’ The creature turned back to Cotillion. ‘Perhaps endemic.’