‘Knowledge is returning,’ Icarium said, eyes still on the sea. ‘Raraku’s gift. We were witness to the rise of the waters, here on this west shore. Further west, then, there will be a river, and many cities—’
Mappo’s gaze narrowed. ‘Only one, now, to speak of,’ he said.
‘Only one?’
‘The others died thousands of years ago, Icarium.’
‘N’karaphal? Trebur? Inath’an Merusin? Gone?’
‘Inath’an Merusin is now called Mersin. It is the last of the great cities lining the river.’
‘But there were so many, Mappo. I recall all their names. Vinith, Hedori Kwil, Tramara…’
‘All practising intensive irrigation, drawing the river’s waters out onto the plains. All clearing forests to build their ships. Those cities are dead now, my friend. And the river, its waters once so clear and sweet, is now heavy with silts and much diminished. The plains have lost their topsoil, becoming the Lato Odhan to the east of the Mersin River, and Ugarat Odhan to the west.’
Icarium slowly raised his hands, set them against his temples, and closed his eyes. ‘That long, Mappo?’ he asked in a frail whisper.
‘Perhaps the sea has triggered such memories. For it was indeed a sea back then, freshwater for the most part, although there was seepage through the limestone escarpment from Longshan Bay – that vast barrier was rotting through, as it will do again, I imagine, assuming this sea reaches as far north as it once did.’
‘The First Empire?’
‘It was falling even then. There was no recovery.’ Mappo hesitated, seeing how his words had wounded his friend. ‘But the people returned to this land, Icarium. Seven Cities – yes, the name derives from old remembrances. New cities have grown from the ancient rubble. We are only forty leagues from one right now. Lato Revae. It is on the coast—’
Icarium turned away suddenly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am not yet ready to leave, to cross any oceans. This land holds secrets – my secrets, Mappo. Perhaps the antiquity of my memories will prove advantageous. The lands of my mindscape are the lands of my own past, after all, and they might well yield truths. We shall walk those ancient roads.’
The Trell nodded. ‘I will break camp, then.’
‘Trebur.’
Mappo turned, waited with growing dread.
Icarium’s eyes were fixed on him now, the vertical pupils narrowed to black slivers by the bright sunlight. ‘I have memories of Trebur. I spent time there, in the City of Domes. I did something. An important thing.’ He frowned. ‘I did…something.’
‘It is an arduous journey ahead of us, then,’ Mappo said. ‘Three, maybe four days to the edge of the Thalas Mountains. Ten more at the least to reach the Mersin River’s Wend. The channel has moved from the site of ancient Trebur. A day’s travel west of the river, then, and we will find those ruins.’
‘Will there be villages and such on our route?’
Mappo shook his head. ‘These Odhans are virtually lifeless now, Icarium. Occasionally, Vedanik tribes venture down from the Thalas Mountains, but not at this time of year. Keep your bow at the ready – there are antelope and hares and drolig.’
‘Waterholes, then?’
‘I know them,’ Mappo said.
Icarium walked over to his gear. ‘We have done this before, haven’t we?’
Yes. ‘Not for a long while, my friend.’ Almost eighty years, in fact. But the last time, we stumbled onto it – you remembered nothing. This time, I fear, it will be different.
Icarium paused, the horn-rimmed bow in his hands, and looked over at Mappo. ‘You are so patient with me,’ he said, with a faint, sad smile, ‘whilst I wander, ever lost.’
Mappo shrugged. ‘It is what we do.’
The Path’Apur Mountains rimmed the far horizon to the south. It had been almost a week since they had left the city of Pan’potsun, and with each day the number of villages they passed through had dwindled, whilst the distance between them lengthened. Their pace was torturously slow, but that was to be expected, travelling on foot as they did, and with a man in their company who had seemingly lost his mind.
Sun-darkened skin almost olive beneath the dust, the demon Greyfrog clambered onto the boulder and squatted at Cutter’s side.
‘Declaration. It is said that the wasps of the desert guard gems and such. Query. Has Cutter heard such tales? Anticipatory pause.’
‘Sounds more like someone’s bad idea of a joke,’ Cutter replied. Below them was a flat clearing surrounded by massive rock outcroppings. It was the place of their camp. Scillara and Felisin Younger sat in view, tending the makeshift hearth. The madman was nowhere to be seen. Off wandering again, Cutter surmised. Holding conversations with ghosts, or, perhaps more likely, the voices in his head. Oh, Heboric carried curses, the barbs of a tiger on his skin, the benediction of a god of war, and those voices in his head might well be real. Even so, break a man’s spirit enough times…
‘Belated observation. Grubs, there in the dark reaches of the nest. Nest? Bemused. Hive? Nest.’
Frowning, Cutter glanced over at the demon. Its flat, hairless head and broad, four-eyed face were lumpy and swollen with wasp stings. ‘You didn’t. You did.’
‘Irate is their common state, I now believe. Breaking open their cave made them more so. We clashed in buzzing disagreement. I fared the worse, I think.’
‘Black wasps?’
‘Tilt head, query. Black? Dreaded reply, why yes, they were. Black. Rhetorical, was that significant?’
‘Be glad you’re a demon,’ Cutter said. ‘Two or three stings from those will kill a grown man. Ten will kill a horse.’
‘A horse – we had those – you had them. I was forced to run. Horse. Large four-legged animal. Succulent meat.’
‘People tend to ride them,’ Cutter said. ‘Until they drop. Then we eat them.’
‘Multiple uses, excellent and unwasteful. Did we eat yours? Where can we find more such creatures?’
‘We have not the money to purchase them, Greyfrog. And we sold ours for food and supplies in Pan’potsun.’
‘Obstinate reasonableness. No money. Then we should take, my young friend. And so hasten this journey to its much-awaited conclusion. Latter tone indicating mild despair.’
‘Still no word from L’oric?’
‘Worriedly. No. My brother is silent.’
Neither spoke for a time. The demon was picking the serrated edges of its lips, where, Cutter saw upon a closer look, grey flecks and crushed wasps were snagged. Greyfrog had eaten the wasp nest. No wonder the wasps had been irate. Cutter rubbed at his face. He needed a shave. And a bath. And clean, new clothes.
And a purpose in life. Once, long ago, when he had been Crokus Younghand of Darujhistan, his uncle had begun preparing the way for a reformed Crokus. A youth of the noble courts, a figure of promise, a figure inviting to the young, wealthy, pampered women of the city. A short-lived ambition, in every way. His uncle dead, and dead, too, Crokus Younghand. No heap of ashes left to stir.
What I was is not what I am. Two men, identical faces, but different eyes. In what they have seen, in what they reflect upon the world.
‘Bitter taste,’ Greyfrog said in his mind, long tongue slithering out to collect the last fragments. A heavy, gusty sigh. ‘Yet oh so filling. Query. Can one burst from what one has inside?’
I hope not. ‘We’d best find Heboric, if we are to make use of this day.’
‘Noted earlier. Ghost Hands was exploring the rocks above. The scent of a trail led him onward and upward.’
‘A trail?’
‘Water. He sought the source of the spring we see pooling below near the fleshy women who, said jealously, so adore you.’
Cutter straightened. ‘They don’t seem so fleshy to me, Greyfrog.’
‘Curious. Mounds of flesh, water storage vessels, there on the hips and behind. On the chest—’
‘All right. That kind of fleshy. You are too much the carnivore, demon.’
‘Yes
. Fullest delicious agreement. Shall I go find Ghost Hands?’
‘No, I will. I think those riders who passed us yesterday on the track are not as far away as they should be, and I would be relieved to know you are guarding Scillara and Felisin.’
‘None shall take them away,’ Greyfrog said.
Cutter looked down at the squatting demon. ‘Scillara and Felisin are not horses.’
Greyfrog’s large eyes blinked slowly, first the two side-by-side, then the pair above and below. Tongue darted. ‘Blithe. Of course not. Insufficient number of legs, worthily observed.’
Cutter edged to the back of the boulder, then leapt across to another one tucked deeper into the talus-heaped cliff-side. He grasped a ledge and pulled himself up. Little different from climbing a balcony, or an estate wall. Adore me, do they? He had trouble believing that. Easier to rest eyes upon, he imagined, than an old man and a demon, but that was not adoration. He could make no sense of those two women. Bickering like sisters, competing over everything in sight, and over things Cutter couldn’t see or comprehend. At other times, unaccountably close, as if sharing a secret. Both fussed over Heboric Ghost Hands, Destriant of Treach.
Maybe war needs nurturers. Maybe the god is happy with this. The priest needs acolytes, after all. That might have been expected with Scillara, since Heboric had drawn her out of a nightmarish existence, and indeed had healed her in some as-yet unspecified way – if Cutter had surmised correctly from the meagre comments overheard now and then. Scillara had a lot to be grateful for. And for Felisin, there had been something about revenge, delivered to her satisfaction against someone who had done her a terrible wrong. It was complicated. So, a moment’s thought, and it’s obvious they do possess secrets. Too many of them. Oh, what do I care? Women are nothing but a mass of contradictions surrounded by deadly pitfalls. Approach at your own risk. Better yet, approach not at all.
He reached a chimney in the cliff-side and began working his way up it. Water trickled down vertical cracks in the rock. Flies and other winged insects swarmed him; the corners of the chimney were thickly webbed by opportunistic spiders. By the time he climbed free of it, he had been thoroughly bitten and was covered in thick, dusty strands. He paused to brush himself off, then looked around. A rough trail continued upward, winding between collapsed shelves of stone. He headed up the path.
At their meandering, desultory pace, they were months from the coast, as far as he could determine. Once there, they would have to find a boat to take them across to Otataral Island. A forbidden journey, and Malazan ships patrolled those waters diligently – or at least they did before the uprising. It might be that they were yet to fully reorganize such things.
They would begin the passage at night, in any case.
Heboric had to return something. Something found on the island. It was all very vague. And for some reason Cotillion had wanted Cutter to accompany the Destriant. Or, rather, to protect Felisin Younger. A path to take, when before there had been none. Even so, it was not the best of motivations. A flight from despair was pathetic, especially since it could not succeed.
Adore me, do they? What is here to adore?
A voice ahead: ‘All that is mysterious is as a lure to the curious. I hear your steps, Cutter. Come, see this spider.’
Cutter stepped round an outcrop and saw Heboric, kneeling beside a stunted scrub oak.
‘And where there is pain and vulnerability bound into the lure, it becomes all the more attractive. See this spider? Below this branch, yes? Trembling on its web, one leg dismembered, thrashing about as if in pain. Its quarry, you see, is not flies, or moths. Oh no, what she hunts is fellow spiders.’
‘Who care nothing for pain or mystery, Heboric,’ Cutter said, crouching down to study the creature. The size of a child’s hand. ‘That’s not one of its legs. It’s a prop.’
‘You are assuming other spiders can count. She knows better.’
‘All very interesting,’ Cutter said, straightening, ‘but we must get going.’
‘We’re all watching this play out,’ Heboric said, leaning back and studying the strangely pulsing, taloned hands that flitted in and out of existence at the ends of his wrists.
We? Oh, yes, you and your invisible friends. ‘I wouldn’t think there’d be many ghosts in these hills.’
‘Then you would be wrong. Hill tribes. Endless warfare – it’s those who fall in battle that I see, only those who fall in battle.’ The hands flexed. ‘The mouth of the spring is just ahead. They fought over control of it.’ His toad-like features twisted. ‘There’s always a reason, or reasons. Always.’
Cutter sighed, studied the sky. ‘I know, Heboric.’
‘Knowing means nothing.’
‘I know that, too.’
Heboric rose. ‘Treach’s greatest comfort, understanding that there are infinite reasons for waging war.’
‘And are you comforted by that, too?’
The Destriant smiled. ‘Come. That demon who speaks in our heads is obsessing about flesh at the moment, with watering mouth.’
They made their way down the trail. ‘He won’t eat them.’
‘I am not convinced that is the nature of his appetite.’
Cutter snorted. ‘Heboric, Greyfrog is a four-handed, four-eyed, oversized toad.’
‘With a surprisingly boundless imagination. Tell me, how much do you know of him?’
‘Less than you.’
‘It has not occurred to me, until now,’ Heboric said, as he led Cutter onto a path offering a less precarious climb – but more roundabout – than the one the Daru had used, ‘that we know virtually nothing of who Greyfrog was, and what he did, back in his home realm.’
This was proving an unusually long lucid episode for Heboric. Cutter wondered if something had changed – he hoped it would stay this way. ‘Then we could ask him.’
‘I shall.’
In the camp, Scillara kicked sand over the few remaining coals of the cookfire. She walked over to her pack and sat down, settling her back against it as she pushed more rustleaf into her pipe and drew hard until smoke streamed from it. Across from her, Greyfrog squatted in front of Felisin, making strange whimpering sounds.
She had seen so little for so long. Drugged insensate by durhang, filled with infantile thoughts by her old master, Bidithal. And now she was free, and still wide-eyed with the complexities of the world. The demon lusted after Felisin, she believed. Either to mate with or to devour – it was hard to tell. While Felisin regarded Greyfrog as if it was a dog better to stroke than kick. Which might in turn be giving the demon the wrong notions.
It spoke with the others in their minds, but had yet to do so with Scillara. Out of courtesy to her, the ones the demon addressed replied out loud, although of course they did not have to – and perhaps didn’t more often than not. There was no way for Scillara to tell. She wondered why she had been set apart – what did Greyfrog see within her that so affected its apparent loquaciousness?
Well, poisons do linger. I may be…unpalatable. In her old life, she might have felt some resentment, or suspicion, assuming she felt anything at all. But now, it appeared to her that she didn’t much care. Something had taken shape within her, and it was self-contained and, oddly enough, self-assured.
Perhaps that came with being pregnant. Just beginning to show, and that would only get worse. And this time there would be no alchemies to scour the seed out of her. Although other means were possible, of course. She was undecided on whether to keep the child, whose father was probably Korbolo Dom but could have been one of his officers, or someone else. Not that that mattered, since whoever he had been he was probably dead now, a thought that pleased her.
The constant nausea was wearying, although the rustleaf helped. There was the ache in her breasts, and the weight of them made her back ache, and that was unpleasant. Her appetite had burgeoned, and she was getting heavier, especially on the hips. The others had simply assumed that such changes were coming with her returning heal
th – she hadn’t coughed in over a week, and all this walking had strengthened her legs – and she did not disabuse them of their assumptions.
A child. What would she do with it? What would it expect of her? What was it mothers did anyway? Sell their babies, mostly. To temples, to slavers, to the harem merchants if it’s a girl. Or keep it and teach it to beg. Steal. Sell its body. This, born of sketchy observations and the stories told by the waifs of Sha’ik’s encampment. Meaning, a child was an investment of sorts, which made sense. A return on nine months of misery and discomfort.
She supposed she could do something like that. Sell it. Assuming she let it live that long.
It was a dilemma indeed, but she had plenty of time to think on it. To make her decision.
Greyfrog’s head twisted round, looking past Scillara’s position. She turned to see four men emerge and halt at the edge of the clearing. The fourth one was leading horses. The riders who had passed them yesterday. One was carrying a loaded crossbow, the weapon trained on the demon.
‘Be sure,’ the man said in a growl to Felisin, ‘that you keep that damned thing away from us.’
The man on his right laughed. ‘A four-eyed dog. Yes, woman, get a leash on it…now. We don’t want any blood spilled. Well,’ he added, ‘not much.’
‘Where are the two men you were with?’ the man with the crossbow asked.
Scillara set down her pipe. ‘Not here,’ she said, rising and tugging at her tunic. ‘Just do what you’ve come here to do and then leave.’
‘Now that’s accommodating. You, with the dog, are you going to be as nice as your friend here?’
Felisin said nothing. She had gone white.
‘Never mind her,’ Scillara said. ‘I’m enough for all of you.’
‘But maybe you ain’t enough, as far as we’re concerned,’ the man said, smiling.
It wasn’t even an ugly smile, she decided. She could do this. ‘I plan on surprising you, then.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 465