The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘What now—’ And then there came a faint voice, seemingly from the very stones. Faradan Sort’s eyes widened. ‘Sinn?’

  The girl’s hand, shoved into that crack – it was holding on to something.

  Someone.

  ‘Oh, gods below!’

  Crunching sounds outside, boots digging into stone, then gloved fingers slipped round one edge beside the child’s forearm, and Bottle heard: ‘You, inside – who? Can you hear me?’

  A woman. Accented Ehrlii…familiar? ‘Fourteenth Army,’ Bottle said. ‘Malazans.’ The child’s grip tightened.

  ‘Oponn’s pull, soldier,’ the woman said in Malazan. ‘Sinn, let go of him. I need room. Make the hole bigger. Let go of him – it’s all right – you were right. We’re going to get them out.’

  Sinn? The shouts from below were getting louder. Cuttle, calling up something about a way out. Bottle twisted to call back down. ‘Cuttle! We’ve been found! They’re going to dig us out! Let everyone know!’

  Sinn’s hand released his, withdrew.

  The woman spoke again. ‘Soldier, move away from the hole – I’m going to use my sword.’

  ‘Captain? Is that you?’

  ‘Aye. Now, move back and cover your eyes – what? Oh, where’d all those children come from? Is that one of Fiddler’s squad with them? Get down there, Sinn. There’s another way out. Help them.’

  The sword-point dug into the concreted brick and stone. Chips danced down.

  Cuttle was climbing up from below, grunting. ‘We gotta widen this some more, Bottle. That runt who dropped down the hole. We sent Smiles after her. A tunnel, angling back up – and out. A looter’s tunnel. The children’re all out—’

  ‘Good. Cuttle, it’s the captain. The Adjunct, she must have waited for us – sent searchers out to find us.’

  ‘That makes no sense—’

  ‘You’re right,’ Faradan Sort cut in. ‘They’ve marched, soldiers. It’s just me, and Sinn.’

  ‘They left you behind?’

  ‘No, we deserted. Sinn knew – she knew you were still alive, don’t ask me how.’

  ‘Her brother’s down here,’ Cuttle said. ‘Corporal Shard.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘We think so, Captain. How many days has it been?’

  ‘Three. Four nights if you count the breach. Now, no more questions, and cover your eyes.’

  She chopped away at the hole, tugged loose chunks of brick and stone. The dusk air swept in, cool and, despite all the dust, sweet in Bottle’s lungs. Faradan Sort began work on one large chunk, and broke her sword. A stream of Korelri curses.

  ‘That your Stormwall sword, Captain? I’m sorry—’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

  ‘But your scabbard—’

  ‘Aye, my scabbard. The sword it belonged to got left behind…in somebody. Now, let me save my breath for this.’ And she began chopping away with the broken sword. ‘Hood-damned piece of Falari junk—’ The huge stone groaned, then slid away, taking the captain with it.

  A heavy thump from the ground beyond and below, then more cursing.

  Bottle clawed his way into the gap, dragged himself through, then was suddenly tumbling down, landing hard, rolling, winded, onto his stomach.

  After a long moment he managed a gasp of air, and he lifted his head – to find himself staring at the captain’s boots. Bottle arched, raised a hand and saluted – briefly.

  ‘You managed that better the last time, Bottle.’

  ‘Captain, I’m Smiles—’

  ‘You know, soldier, it was a good thing you assumed half the load I dumped on Smiles’s back. If you hadn’t done that, well, you likely wouldn’t have lived this long—’

  He saw her turn, heard a grunted snarl, then one boot lifted, moved out slightly to the side, hovered—

  —above Bottle’s rat—

  —then stamped down – as his hand shot out, knocked the foot aside at the last moment. The captain stumbled, then swore. ‘Have you lost your mind—’

  Bottle rolled closer to the rat, collected her in both hands and held her against his chest as he settled down onto his back. ‘Not this time, Captain. This is my rat. She saved our lives.’

  ‘Vile, disgusting creatures.’

  ‘Not her. Not Y’Ghatan.’

  Faradan Sort stared down at him. ‘She is named Y’Ghatan?’

  ‘Aye. I just decided.’

  Cuttle was clambering down. ‘Gods, Captain—’

  ‘Quiet, sapper. If you’ve got the strength left – and you’d better – you need to help the others out.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’ He turned about and began climbing back up.

  Still lying on his back, Bottle closed his eyes. He stroked Y’Ghatan’s smooth-furred back. My darling. You’re with me, now. Ah, you’re hungry – we’ll take care of that. Soon you’ll be waddling fat again, I promise, and you and your kits will be…gods, there’s more of you, isn’t there? No problem. When it comes to your kind, there’s never a shortage of food…

  He realized Smiles was standing over him. Staring down.

  He managed a faint, embarrassed smile, wondering how much she’d heard, how much she’d just put together.

  ‘All men are scum.’

  So much for wondering.

  Coughing, crying, babbling, the soldiers were lying or sitting all around Gesler, who stood, trying to make a count – the names, the faces, exhaustion blurred them all together. He saw Shard, with his sister, Sinn, wrapped all around him like a babe, fast asleep, and there was something like shock in the corporal’s staring, unseeing eyes. Tulip was nearby – his body was torn, shredded everywhere, but he’d dragged himself through without complaint and now sat on a stone, silent and bleeding.

  Crump crouched near the cliff-side, using rocks to pry loose a slab of melted gold and lead, a stupid grin on his ugly, overlong face. And Smiles, surrounded by children – she looked miserable with all the attention, and Gesler saw her staring up at the night sky again and again, and again, and that gesture he well understood.

  Bottle had pulled them through. With his rat. Y’Ghatan. The sergeant shook his head. Well, why not? We’re all rat-worshippers right now. Oh, right, the roll call…Sergeant Cord, with Ebron, Limp and his broken leg. Sergeant Hellian, her jaw swollen in two places, one eye closed up, and blood matting her hair, just now coming round – under the tender ministrations of her corporal, Urb. Tarr, Koryk, Smiles and Cuttle. Tavos Pond, Balgrid, Mayfly, Flashwit, Saltlick, Hanno, Shortnose and Masan Gilani. Bellig Harn, Maybe, Brethless and Touchy. Deadsmell, Galt, Sands and Lobe. The sergeants Thom Tissy and Balm. Widdershins, Uru Hela, Ramp, Scant and Reem. Throatslitter…Gesler’s gaze swung back to Tarr, Koryk, Smiles and Cuttle.

  Hood’s breath.

  ‘Captain! We’ve lost two!’

  Every head turned.

  Corporal Tarr shot to his feet, then staggered like a drunk, spinning to face the cliff-wall.

  Balm hissed, ‘Fiddler…and that prisoner! The bastard’s killed him and he’s hiding back in there! Waiting for us to leave!’

  Corabb had dragged the dying man as far as he could, and now both he and the Malazan were done. Crammed tight in a narrowing of the tunnel, the darkness devouring them, and Corabb was not even sure he was going in the right direction. Had they been turned round? He could hear nothing…no-one. All that dragging, and pushing…they’d turned round, he was sure of it.

  No matter, they weren’t going anywhere.

  Never again. Two skeletons buried beneath a dead city. No more fitting a barrow for a warrior of the Apocalypse and a Malazan soldier. That seemed just, poetic even. He would not complain, and when he stood at this sergeant’s side at Hood’s Gate, he would be proud for the company.

  So much had changed inside him. He was no believer in causes, not any more. Certainty was an illusion, a lie. Fanaticism was poison in the soul, and the first victim in its inexorable, ever-growing list was compassion. Who could speak of freedom, when one’s o
wn soul was bound in chains?

  He thought, now, finally, that he understood Toblakai.

  And it was all too late. This grand revelation. Thus, I die a wise man, not a fool. Is there any difference? I still die, after all.

  No, there is. I can feel it. That difference – I have cast off my chains. I have cast them off!

  A low cough, then, ‘Corabb?’

  ‘I am here, Malazan.’

  ‘Where? Where is that?’

  ‘In our tomb, alas. I am sorry, all strength has fled. I am betrayed by my own body. I am sorry.’

  Silence for a moment, then a soft laugh. ‘No matter. I’ve been unconscious – you should have left me – where are the others?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was dragging you. We were left behind. And now, we’re lost, and that’s that. I am sorry—’

  ‘Enough of that, Corabb. You dragged me? That explains all the bruises. For how long? How far?’

  ‘I do not know. A day, maybe. There was warm air, but then it was cool – it seemed to breathe in and out, past us, but which breath was in and which was out? I do not know. And now, there is no wind.’

  ‘A day? Are you mad? Why did you not leave me?’

  ‘Had I done so, Malazan, your friends would have killed me.’

  ‘Ah, there is that. But, you know, I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You are right. It is simple. I could not.’

  ‘All right, that will do.’

  Corabb closed his eyes – the effort making no difference. He was probably blind by now. He had heard that prisoners left too long without light in their dungeon cells went blind. Blind before mad, but mad, too, eventually.

  And now he heard sounds, drawing nearer…from somewhere. He’d heard them before, a half-dozen times at least, and for a short while there had been faint shouting. Maybe that had been real. The demons of panic come to take the others, one by one. ‘Sergeant, are you named Strings or Fiddler?’

  ‘Strings for when I’m lying, Fiddler for when I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘Ah, is that a Malazan trait, then? Strange—’

  ‘No, not a trait. Mine, maybe.’

  ‘And how should I name you?’

  ‘Fiddler.’

  ‘Very well.’ A welcome gift. ‘Fiddler. I was thinking. Here I am, trapped. And yet, it is only now, I think, that I have finally escaped my prison. Funny, isn’t it?’

  ‘Damned hilarious, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas. What is that sound?’

  ‘You hear it, too?’ Corabb held his breath, listened. Drawing closer—

  Then something touched his forehead.

  Bellowing, Corabb tried to twist away.

  ‘Wait! Damn you, I said wait!’

  Fiddler called out, ‘Gesler?’

  ‘Aye, calm down your damned friend here, will you?’

  Heart pounding, Corabb settled back. ‘We were lost, Malazan. I am sorry—’

  ‘Be quiet! Listen to me. You’re only about seventy paces from a tunnel, leading out – we’re all out, you understand me? Bottle got us out. His rat brought us through. There was a rock fall blocking you up ahead – I’ve dug through—’

  ‘You crawled back in?’ Fiddler demanded. ‘Gesler—’

  ‘Believe me, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Now I know – or I think I know – what Truth went through, running into that palace. Abyss take me, I’m still shaking.’

  ‘Lead us on, then,’ Corabb said, reaching back to grasp Fiddler’s harness once more.

  Gesler made to move past him. ‘I can do that—’

  ‘No. I have dragged him this far.’

  ‘Fid?’

  ‘For Hood’s sake, Gesler, I’ve never been in better hands.’

  Chapter Eight

  Sarkanos, Ivindonos and Ganath stood looking down on the heaped corpses, the strewn pieces of flesh and fragments of bone. A field of battle knows only lost dreams and the ghosts clutch futilely at the ground, remembering naught but the last place of their lives, and the air is sullen now that the clangour is past, and the last moans of the dying have dwindled into silence.

  While this did not belong to them, they yet stood. Of Jaghut, one can never know their thoughts, nor even their aspirations, but they were heard to speak, then.

  ‘All told,’ said Ganath. ‘This sordid tale here has ended, and there is no-one left to heave the standard high, and proclaim justice triumphant.’

  ‘This is a dark plain,’ said Ivindonos, ‘and I am mindful of such things, the sorrow untold, unless witnessed.’

  ‘Not mindful enough,’ said Sarkanos.

  ‘A bold accusation,’ said Ivindonos, his tusks bared in anger. ‘Tell me what I am blind to. Tell me what greater sorrow exists than what we see before us.’

  And Sarkanos made reply, ‘Darker plains lie beyond.’

  Stela Fragment (Yath Alban)

  Anonymous

  There were times, Captain Ganoes Paran reflected, when a man could believe in nothing. No path taken could alter the future, and the future remained ever unknown, even by the gods. Sensing those currents, the tumult that lay ahead, achieved little except the loss of restful sleep, and a growing suspicion that all his efforts to shape that future were naught but conceit.

  He had pushed the horses hard, staying well clear of villages and hamlets where the Mistress stalked, sowing her deadly seeds, gathering to herself the power of poisoned blood and ten thousand deaths by her hand. Before long, he knew, that toll would rise tenfold. Yet for all his caution, the stench of death was inescapable, arriving again and again as if from nowhere, and no matter how great the distance between him and inhabited areas.

  Whatever Poliel’s need, it was vast, and Paran was fearful, for he could not understand the game she played here.

  Back in Darujhistan, ensconced within the Finnest House, this land known as Seven Cities had seemed so far from the centre of things – or what he believed would soon become the centre of things. And it had been, in part, that mystery that had set him on this path, seeking to discover how what happened here would become enfolded into the greater scheme. Assuming, of course, that such a greater scheme existed.

  Equally as likely, he allowed, this war among the gods would implode into a maelstrom of chaos. There had been need, he had once been told, for a Master of the Deck of Dragons. There had been need, he had been told, for him. Paran had begun to suspect that, even then, it was already too late. This web was growing too fast, too snarled, for any single mind to fathom.

  Except maybe Kruppe, the famed Eel of Darujhistan…gods, I wish he was here, in my place, right now. Why wasn’t he made the Master of the Deck of Dragons? Or maybe that incorrigible aplomb was naught but bravado, behind which the real Kruppe cowered in terror.

  Imagine Raest’s thoughts…Paran smiled, recollecting. It had been early morning when that little fat man knocked on the door of the Finnest House, flushed of face and beaming up at the undead Jaghut Tyrant who opened it wide and stared down upon him with pitted eyes. Then, hands fluttering and proclaiming something about a crucial meeting, Kruppe somehow slid past the Azath guardian, waddling into the main hall and sinking with a delighted sigh of contentment into the plush chair beside the fireplace.

  An unexpected guest for breakfast; it seemed even Raest could do nothing about it. Or would not. The Jaghut had been typically reticent on the subject.

  And so Paran had found himself seated opposite the famed Defier of Caladan Brood – this corpulent little man in his faded waistcoat who had confounded the most powerful ascendants on Genabackis – and watched him eat. And eat. While somehow, at the same time, talking nonstop.

  ‘Kruppe knows the sad dilemma, yes indeed, of sad befuddled Master. Twice sad? Nay, thrice sad! Four times sad – ah, how usage of the dread word culminates! Cease now, Sir Kruppe, lest we find ourselves weeping without surcease!’ Lifting one greasy finger. ‘Ah, but Master wonders, does he not, how can one man such as Kruppe know all these things? What things, you would
also ask, given the chance, said chance Kruppe hastens to intercept with suitable answer. Had Kruppe such an answer, that is. But lo! He does not, and is that not the true wonder of it all?’

  ‘For Hood’s sake,’ Paran cut in – and got no further.

  ‘Yes indeed! For Hood’s sake indeed, oh, you are brilliant and so worthy of the grand title of Master of the Deck of Dragons and Kruppe’s most trusted friend! Hood, at the very centre of things, oh yes, and that is why you must hasten, forthwith, to Seven Cities.’

  Paran stared, dumbfounded, wondering what detail in that barrage of words he had missed. ‘What?’

  ‘The gods, dear precious friend of Kruppe’s! They are at war, yes? Terrible thing, war. Terrible things, gods. The two, together, ah, most terribler!’

  ‘Terri—what? Oh, never mind.’

  ‘Kruppe never does.’

  ‘Why Seven Cities?’

  ‘Even the gods cast shadows, Master of the Deck. But what do shadows cast?’

  ‘I don’t know. Gods?’

  Kruppe’s expression grew pained. ‘Oh my, a nonsensical reply. Kruppe’s faith in dubious friend lies shaking. No, shaken. Not lies, is. See how Kruppe shakens? No, not gods. How can gods be cast? Do not answer that – such is the nature and unspoken agreement regards rhetoric. Now, where was Kruppe? Oh yes. Most terrible crimes are in the offing off in Seven Cities. Eggs have been laid and schemes have hatched! One particularly large shell is about to be broken, and will have been broken by the time you arrive, which means it is as good as broken right now so what are you waiting for? In fact, foolish man, you are already too late, or will be, by then, and if not then, then soon, in the imminent sense of the word. Soon, then, you must go, despite it being too late – I suggest you leave tomorrow morning and make use of warrens and other nefarious paths of inequity to hasten your hopeless quest to arrive. On time, and in time, and in due time you will indeed arrive, and then you must walk the singular shadow – between, dare Kruppe utter such dread words – between life and death, the wavy, blurry metaphor so callously and indifferently trespassed by things that should know better. Now, you have worn out Kruppe’s ears, distended Kruppe’s largesse unto bursting his trouser belt, and heretofore otherwise exhausted his vast intellect.’ He rose with a grunt, then patted his tummy. ‘A mostly acceptable repast, although Kruppe advises that you inform your cook that the figs were veritably mummified – from the Jaghut’s own store, one must assume, yes, hmm?’