Sympathy was like water in the desert. Hoarded, reluctantly meted out in the barest of sips. And he, Taralack Veed, could walk a thousand deserts on a single drop.
Such were the world’s demands. He knew himself well enough to recognize that his was a viper’s charm, alluring and mesmerizing and ultimately deadly. A viper made guest in a nest-bundle of meer-rats, how could they curse him for his very nature? He had killed the husband, after all, in service to her heart, a heart that had swallowed him whole. He had never suspected that she would then cast him out, that she would have simply made use of him, that another man had been waiting in the hut’s shadow to ease the tortured spirit of the grieving widow. He had not believed that she too possessed the charms of a viper.
He halted near a boulder, collected a waterskin from his pack and removed the broad fired-clay stopper. Tugging his loincloth down he squatted and peed into the waterskin. There were no rock-springs for fifteen or more leagues in the direction the D’ivers was leading him. That path would eventually converge on a traders’ track, of course, but that was a week or more away. Clearly, the D’ivers Dejim Nebrahl did not suffer the depredations of thirst.
The rewards of singular will, he well knew. Worthy of emulation, as far as was physically possible. He straightened, tugged the loincloth back up. Replacing the stopper, Taralack Veed slung the skin over a shoulder and resumed his measured pursuit.
Beneath glittering stars and a pale smear in the east, Scillara knelt on the hard ground, vomiting the last of her supper and then nothing but bile as heave after heave racked through her. Finally the spasms subsided. Gasping, she crawled away a short distance, then sat with her back to a boulder.
The demon Greyfrog watched from ten paces away, slowly swaying from side to side.
Watching him invited a return of the nausea, so she looked away, pulled out her pipe and began repacking it. ‘It’s been days,’ she muttered. ‘I thought I was past this. Dammit…’
Greyfrog ambled closer, approached the place where she had been sick. It sniffed, then pushed heaps of sand over the offending spot.
With a practised gesture, Scillara struck a quick series of sparks down into the pipe’s bowl with the flint and iron striker. The shredded sweet-grass mixed in with the rustleaf caught, and moments later she was drawing smoke. ‘That’s good, Toad. Cover my trail…it’s a wonder you’ve not told the others. Respecting my privacy?’
Greyfrog, predictably, did not reply.
Scillara ran a hand along the swell of her belly. How could she be getting fatter and fatter when she’d been throwing back one meal in three for weeks? There was something diabolical about this whole pregnancy thing. As if she possessed her own demon, huddled there in her belly. Well, the sooner it was out the quicker she could sell it to some pimp or harem master. There to be fed and raised and to learn the trade of the supplicant.
Most women who bothered stopped at two or three, she knew, and now she understood why. Healers and witches and midwives and sucklers kept the babies healthy enough, and the world remained to teach them its ways. The misery lay in the bearing, in carrying this growing weight, in its secret demands on her reserves.
And something else was happening as well. Something that proved the child’s innate evil. She’d been finding herself drifting into a dreamy, pleasant state, inviting a senseless smile that, quite simply, horrified Scillara. What was there to be happy about? The world was not pleasant. It did not whisper contentment. No, the poisonous seduction stealing through her sought delusion, blissful stupidity – and she had had enough of that already. As nefarious as durhang, this deadly lure.
Her bulging belly would soon be obvious, she knew. Unless she tried to make herself even fatter. There was something comforting about all that solid bulk – but no, that was the delusional seduction all over again, finding a new path into her brain.
Well, it seemed the nausea was fully past, now. Scillara regained her feet and made her way back to the encampment. A handful of coals in the hearth, drifting threads of smoke, and three recumbent figures wrapped in blankets. Greyfrog appeared in her wake, moving past her to squat near the hearth. It snapped a capemoth out of the air and stuffed it into its broad mouth. Its eyes were a murky green as it studied Scillara.
She refilled her pipe. Why was it just women that had babies, anyway? Surely some ascendant witch could have made some sorcerous adjustment to the inequity by now? Or was it maybe not a flaw at all, but an advantage of some sort? Not that any obvious advantages came to mind. Apart from this strange, suspicious bliss constantly stealing through her. She drew hard on the rustleaf. Bidithal had made the cutting away of pleasure the first ritual among girls in his cult. He had liked the notion of feeling nothing at all, removing the dangerous desire for sensuality. She could not recall if she had ever known such sensations.
Bidithal had inculcated religious rapture, a state of being, she now suspected, infinitely more selfish and self-serving than satisfying one’s own body. Being pregnant whispered of a similar kind of rapture, and that made her uneasy.
A sudden commotion. She turned to see that Cutter had sat up.
‘Something wrong?’ she asked in a low voice.
He faced her, his expression indistinct in the darkness, then sighed shakily. ‘No. A bad dream.’
‘It’s nearing dawn,’ Scillara said.
‘Why are you awake?’
‘No particular reason.’
He shook off the blanket, rose and walked over to the hearth. Crouched, tossing a handful of tinder onto the glowing coals, waited until it flared to life, then began adding dung chips.
‘Cutter, what do you think will happen on Otataral Island?’
‘I’m not sure. That old Malazan’s not exactly clear on the matter, is he?’
‘He is Destriant to the Tiger of Summer.’
Cutter glanced across at her. ‘Reluctantly.’
She added more rustleaf to her pipe. ‘He doesn’t want followers. And if he did, it wouldn’t be us. Well, not me, nor Felisin. We’re not warriors. You,’ she added, ‘would be a more likely candidate.’
He snorted. ‘No, not me, Scillara. It seems I follow another god.’
‘It seems?’
She could just make out his shrug. ‘You fall into things,’ he said.
A woman. Well, that explains a lot. ‘As good a reason as any other,’ she said behind a lungful of smoke.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I don’t see much reason behind following any god or goddess. If you’re worth their interest, they use you. I know about being used, and most of the rewards are anything but, even if they look good at the time.’
‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘someone’s rewarded you.’
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘Call what? You’re looking so…healthy. Full of life, I mean. And you’re not as skinny as before.’ He paused, then hastily added, ‘Which is good. Half-starved didn’t suit you – doesn’t suit anyone, of course. You, included. Anyway, that’s all.’
She sat, smoking, watching him in the growing light. ‘We are quite a burden to you, aren’t we, Cutter?’
‘No! Not at all! I’m to escort you, a task I happily accepted. And that hasn’t changed.’
‘Don’t you think Greyfrog is sufficient to protect us?’
‘No, I mean, yes, he probably is. Even so, he is a demon, and that complicates things – it’s not as if he can just amble into a village or city, is it? Or negotiate supplies and passage or stuff like that.’
‘Felisin can. So can I, in fact.’
‘Well. You’re saying you don’t want me here?’
‘I’m saying we don’t need you. Which isn’t the same as saying we don’t want you, Cutter. Besides, you’ve done well leading this odd little company, although it’s obvious you’re not used to doing that.’
‘Listen, if you want to take over, that’s fine by me.’
Ah, a woman who wouldn’t follow, then. ‘I s
ee no reason to change anything,’ she said offhandedly.
He was staring at her as she in turn regarded him, her gaze as level and as unperturbed as she could manage. ‘What is the point of all this?’ he demanded.
‘Point? No point. Just making conversation, Cutter. Unless…is there something in particular you would like to talk about?’
She watched him pull back in every way but physically, as he said, ‘No, nothing.’
‘You don’t know me well enough, then, is that it? Well, we’ll have plenty of time.’
‘I know you…I think. I mean, oh, you’re right, I don’t know you at all. I don’t know women, is what I really mean. And how could I? It’s impossible, trying to follow your thoughts, trying to make sense out of what you say, what is hidden behind your words—’
‘Would that be me, specifically, or women in general?’
He threw more dung on the fire. ‘No,’ he muttered, ‘nothing in particular I’d like to talk about.’
‘All right, but I have a few topics…’
He groaned.
‘You were given the task,’ she said. ‘To escort us, correct? Who gave you that task?’
‘A god.’
‘But not Heboric’s god.’
‘No.’
‘So there’s at least two gods interested in us. That’s not good, Cutter. Does Ghost Hands know about this? No, he wouldn’t, would he? No reason to tell him—’
‘It’s not hard to figure out,’ Cutter retorted. ‘I was waiting for you. In Iskaral Pust’s temple.’
‘Malazan gods. Shadowthrone or Cotillion. But you’re not Malazan, are you?’
‘Really, Scillara,’ Cutter said wearily, ‘do we have to discuss this right now?’
‘Unless,’ she went on, ‘your lover was. Malazan, that is. The original follower of those gods.’
‘Oh, my head hurts,’ he mumbled, hands up over his eyes, the fingers reaching into his hair, then clenching as if to begin tearing it out. ‘How – no, I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.’
‘So where is she now?’
‘No more.’
Scillara subsided. She pulled out a narrow-bladed knife and began cleaning her pipe.
He suddenly rose. ‘I’ll start on breakfast.’
A sweet boy, she decided. Like damp clay in a woman’s hands. A woman who knew what she was doing, that is. Now the question is, should I be doing this? Felisin adored Cutter, after all. Then again, we could always share.
‘Smirking observation. Soft-curved, large-breasted woman wants to press flesh with Cutter.’
Not now, Greyfrog, he replied without speaking aloud as he removed food from the pack.
‘Alarm. No, not now indeed. The others are wakening from their uneasy dreams. Awkward and dismay to follow, especially with Felisin Younger.’
Cutter paused. What? Why – but she’s barely of age! No, this can’t be. Talk her out of it, Greyfrog!
‘Greyfrog’s own advances unwelcome. Despondent sulk. You, Cutter, of seed-issuing capacity, capable of effecting beget. Past revelation. Human women carry breeding pond in bellies. But one egg survives, only one. Terrible risk! You must fill pond as quickly as possible, before rival male appears to steal your destiny. Greyfrog will defend your claim. Brave self-sacrifice, such as Sentinel Circlers among own kind. Altruistic enlightenment of reciprocity and protracted slant reward once or even many times removed. Signifier of higher intelligence, acknowledgement of community interests. Greyfrog is already Sentinel Circler to soft-curved, large-breasted goddess-human.’
Goddess? What do you mean, goddess?
‘Lustful sigh, is worthy of worship. Value signifiers in male human clouding the pond’s waters in Greyfrog’s mind. Too long association. Happily. Sexual desires long withheld. Unhealthy.’
Cutter set a pot of water on the fire and tossed in a handful of herbs. What did you say earlier about uneasy dreams, Greyfrog?
‘Observation, skimming the mind ponds. Troubled. Approaching danger. There are warning signs.’
What warning signs?
‘Obvious. Uneasy dreams. Sufficient unto themselves.’
Not always, Greyfrog. Sometimes it’s things from the past that haunt us. That’s all.
‘Ah. Greyfrog will think on this. But first, pangs. Greyfrog is hungry.’
The grey haze of the heat and the dust made the distant walls barely visible. Leoman of the Flails rode at the head of the ragged column, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas at his side, as a company of riders approached from Y’Ghatan’s gates.
‘There,’ Corabb said, ‘front rider on the right of the standard-bearer, that is Falah’d Vedor. He looks…unhappy.’
‘He’d best begin making peace with that sentiment,’ Leoman said in a growl. He raised a gloved hand and the column behind him slowed to a halt.
They watched the company close.
‘Commander, shall you and I meet them halfway?’ Corabb asked.
‘Of course not,’ Leoman snapped.
Corabb said nothing more. His leader was in a dark mood. A third of his warriors were riding double. A much-loved old healer witch had died this very morning, and they’d pinned her corpse beneath a slab of stone lest some wandering spirit find her. Leoman himself had spat in the eight directions to hallow the ground, and spilled drops of his own blood from a slash he opened on his left hand onto the dusted stone, voicing the blessing in the name of the Apocalyptic. Then he had wept. In front of all his warriors, who had stood silent, awestruck by the grief and the love for his followers Leoman had revealed in that moment.
The Falah’d and his soldiers approached, then drew to a halt five paces in front of Leoman and Corabb.
Corabb studied Vedor’s sallow, sunken face, murky eyes, and knew him for an addict of d’bayang poppy. His thick-veined hands trembled on the saddle horn, and, when it became evident that Leoman would not be the first to speak, he scowled and said, ‘I, Falah’d Vedor of Y’Ghatan, the First Holy City, do hereby welcome you, Leoman of the Flails, refugee of Sha’ik’s Fall in Raraku, and your broken followers. We have prepared secure barracks for your warriors, and the tables wait, heaped with food and wine. You, Leoman, and your remaining officers shall be the Falah’d’s guests in the palace, for as long as required for you to reprovision your army and recover from your flight. Inform us of your final destination and we shall send envoys in advance to proclaim your coming to each and every village, town and city on your route.’
Corabb found he was holding his breath. He watched as Leoman nudged his horse forward, until he was positioned side by side with the Falah’d.
‘We have come to Y’Ghatan,’ Leoman said, in a low voice, ‘and it is in Y’Ghatan that we shall stay. To await the coming of the Malazans.’
Vedor’s stained mouth worked for a moment without any sound issuing forth, then he managed a hacking laugh. ‘Like a knife’s edge, your sense of humour, Leoman of the Flails! It is as your legend proclaims!’
‘My legend? Then this, too, will not surprise you.’ The kethra knife was a blinding flash, sweeping to caress Vedor’s throat. Blood spurted, and the Falah’d’s head rolled back, thumped on the rump of the startled horse, then down to bounce and roll in the dust of the road. Leoman reached out to steady the headless corpse still seated in the saddle, and wiped the blade on the silken robes.
From the company of city soldiers, not a sound, not a single motion. The standard-bearer, a youth of perhaps fifteen years, stared open-mouthed at the headless body beside him.
‘In the name of Dryjhna the Apocalyptic,’ Leoman said, ‘I now rule the First Holy City of Y’Ghatan. Who is the ranking officer here?’
A woman pushed her horse forward. ‘I am. Captain Dunsparrow.’
Corabb squinted at her. Solid features, sun-darkened, light grey eyes. Twenty-five years of age, perhaps. The glint of a chain vest was just visible beneath her plain telaba. ‘You,’ Corabb said, ‘are Malazan.’
The cool eyes fixed on him.
‘What of it?’
‘Captain,’ Leoman said, ‘your troop will precede us. Clear the way to the palace for me and my warriors. The secure barracks spoken of by the late Falah’d will be used to house those soldiers in the city garrison and from the palace who might be disinclined to follow my orders. Please ensure that they are indeed secured. Once you have done these things, report to me in the palace for further orders.’
‘Sir,’ the woman said, ‘I am of insufficient rank to do as you ask—’
‘No longer. You are now my Third, behind Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas.’
Her gaze briefly flicked back to Corabb, revealing nothing. ‘As you command, Leoman of the Flails, Falah’d of Y’Ghatan.’
Dunsparrow twisted in her saddle and bellowed out to her troops, ‘About face! Smartly now, you damned pig-herders! We advance the arrival of the new Falah’d!’
Vedor’s horse turned along with all the others, and began trotting, the headless body pitching about in its saddle.
Corabb watched as, twenty paces along, the dead Falah’d’s mount came up alongside the captain. She noted it and with a single straight-armed shove sent the corpse toppling.
Leoman grunted. ‘Yes. She is perfect.’
A Malazan. ‘I have misgivings, Commander.’
‘Of course you have. It’s why I keep you at my side.’ He glanced over. ‘That, and the Lady’s tug. Come now, ride with me into our new city.’
They kicked their horses into motion. Behind them followed the others.
‘Our new city,’ Corabb said, grinning. ‘We shall defend it with our lives.’
Leoman shot him an odd look, but said nothing.
Corabb thought about that. Commander, I have more misgivings…
Chapter Five
The first cracks appeared shortly after the execution of Sha’ik. None could know the mind of Adjunct Tavore. Not her closest officers, and not the common soldier under her command. But there were distant stirrings, to be sure, more easily noted in retrospect, and it would be presumptuous and indeed dismissive to claim that the Adjunct was ignorant of the growing troubles, not only in her command, but at the very heart of the Malazan Empire. Given that, the events at Y’Ghatan could have been a fatal wound. Were someone else in command, were that someone’s heart any less hard, any less cold.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 476