Another shrug. ‘Far away, and beyond that, I can tell you nothing.’
‘Far away indeed. I have never heard of an empire of humans ruled by Tiste Edur. And yet, this Letherii language. As you noted it is somehow related to many of the languages here in Seven Cities, those that are but branches from the same tree, and that tree is the First Empire.’
‘Ah, that explains it, then, for I can mostly understand the Letherii, now. They use a different dialect when conversing with the Edur – a mix of the two. A trader tongue, and even there I begin to comprehend.’
‘I suggest you keep such knowledge to yourself, Taxilian.’
‘I will. Samar Dev, is your companion truly the same Toblakai as the one so named who guarded Sha’ik? It is said he killed two demons the night before she was slain, one of them with his bare hands.’
‘Until recently,’ Samar Dev said, ‘he carried with him the rotted heads of those demons. He gifted them to Boatfinder – to the Anibari shaman who accompanied us. The white fur Karsa wears is from a Soletaken. He killed a third demon just outside Ugarat, and chased off another in the Anibar forest. He singlehandedly killed a bhederin bull – and that I witnessed with my own eyes.’
The Taxilian shook his head. ‘The Edur Emperor…he too is a demon. Every cruelty committed by these grey-skinned bastards, they claim is by their Emperor’s command. And so too this search for warriors. An emperor who invites his own death – how can this be?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. And not knowing is what frightens me the most. ‘As you say, it makes no sense.’
‘One thing is known,’ the man said. ‘Their Emperor has never been defeated. Else his rule would have ended. Perhaps indeed that tyrant is the greatest warrior of all. Perhaps there is no-one, no-one anywhere in this world, who can best him. Not even Toblakai.’
She thought about that, as the huge Edur fleet, filling the seas around her, worked northward, the untamed wilds of the Olphara Peninsula a jagged line on the horizon to port. North, then west, into the Sepik Sea.
Samar Dev slowly frowned. Oh, they have done this before. Sepik, the island kingdom, the vassal to the Malazan Empire. A peculiar, isolated people, with their two-tiered society. The indigenous tribe, subjugated and enslaved. Rulhun’tal ven’or – the Mudskins…‘Taxilian, these Edur slaves below. Where did they find them?’
‘I don’t know.’ The bruised face twisted into a bitter smile. ‘They liberated them. The sweet lie of that word, Samar Dev. No, I will think no more on that.’
You are lying to me, Taxilian, I think.
There was a shout from the crow’s nest, picked up by sailors in the rigging and passed on below. Samar Dev saw heads turn, saw Tiste Edur appear and make their way astern.
‘Ships have been sighted in our wake,’ the Taxilian said.
‘The rest of the fleet?’
‘No.’ He lifted his head and continued listening as the lookout called down ever more details. ‘Foreigners. Lots of ships. Mostly transports – two-thirds transports, one-third dromon escort.’ He grunted. ‘The third time we’ve sighted them since I came on board. Sighted, then evaded, each time.’
‘Have you identified those foreigners for them, Taxilian?’
He shook his head.
The Malazan Imperial Fleet. Admiral Nok. It has to be. She saw a certain tension now among the Tiste Edur. ‘What is it? What are they so excited about?’
‘Those poor Malazans,’ the man said with a savage grin. ‘It’s the positioning now, you see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If they stay in our wake, if they keep sailing northward to skirt this peninsula, they are doomed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because now, Samar Dev, the rest of the Edur fleet – Tomad Sengar’s mass of warships – is behind the Malazans.’
All at once, the cold wind seemed to cut through all of Samar Dev’s clothing. ‘They mean to attack them?’
‘They mean to annihilate them,’ the Taxilian said. ‘And I have seen Edur sorcery and I tell you this – the Malazan Empire is about to lose its entire Imperial Fleet. It will die. And with it, every damned man and woman on board.’ He leaned forward as if to spit, then, realizing the wind was in his face, he simply grinned all the harder. ‘Except, maybe, one or two…champions.’
This was something new, Banaschar reflected as he hurried beneath sheets of rain towards Coop’s. He was being followed. Once, such a discovery would have set a fury alight inside him, and he would have made short work of the fool, then, after extracting the necessary details, even shorter work of whoever had hired that fool. But now, the best he could muster was a sour laugh under his breath. ‘Aye, Master (or Mistress), he wakes up in the afternoon, without fail, and after a sixth of a bell or so of coughing and scratching and clicking nits, he heads out, onto the street, and sets off, Mistress (or Master), for one of six or so disreputable establishments, and once ensconced among the regulars, he argues about the nature of religion – or is it taxation and the rise in port tithes? Or the sudden drop-off in the coraval schools off the Jakatakan shoals? Or the poor workmanship of that cobbler who’d sworn he could re-stitch that sole on this here left boot – what? True enough, Master (or Mistress), it’s all nefarious code, sure as I can slink wi’ the best slinkers, and I’m as near to crackin’ it as can be…’
His lone source of entertainment these nights, these imagined conversations. Gods, now that is pathetic. Then again, pathos ever amuses me. And long before it could cease amusing him, he’d be drunk, and so went another passage of the sun and stars in that meaningless heaven overhead. Assuming it still existed – who could tell with this solid ceiling of grey that had settled on the island for almost a week now, with no sign of breaking? Much more of this rain and we’ll simply sink beneath the waves. Traders arriving from the mainland will circle and circle where Malaz Island used to be. Circle and circle, the pilots scratching their heads…There he went again, yet another conjured scene with its subtle weft of contempt for all things human – the sheer incompetence, stupidity, sloth and bad workmanship – look at this, after all, he limped like some one-footed shark baiter – the cobbler met him at the door barefooted – he should have started up with the suspicion thing about then. Don’t you think?
‘Well, Empress, it’s like this. The poor sod was half-Wickan, and he’d paid for that, thanks to your refusal to rein in the mobs. He’d been herded, oh Great One, with bricks and clubs, about as far as he could go without diving headfirst into the harbour. Lost all his cobbler tools and stuff – his livelihood, you see. And me, well, I am cursed with pity – aye, Empress, it’s not an affliction that plagues you much and all the good to you, I say, but where was I? Oh yes, racked with pity, prodded into mercy. Hood knows, the poor broken man needed that coin more than I did, if only to bury that little son of his he was still carrying round, aye, the one with the caved-in skull—’ No, stop this, Banaschar.
Stop.
Meaningless mind games, right? Devoid of significance. Nothing but self-indulgence, and for that vast audience out there – the whispering ghosts and their intimations, their suppositions and veiled insults and their so easily bored minds – that audience – they are my witnesses, yes, that sea of murky faces in the pit, for whom my desperate performance, ever seeking to reach out with a human touch, yields nothing but impatience and agitation, the restless waiting for the cue to laugh. Well enough, this oratory pageant served only himself, Banaschar knew, and all the rest was a lie.
The child with the caved-in skull showed more than one face, tilted askew and flaccid in death. More than one, more than ten, more than ten thousand. Faces he could not afford to think about in his day-to-day, night-through-night stumble of existence. For they were as nails driven deep into the ground, pinning down whatever train he dragged in his wake, and with each forward step the resistance grew, the constriction round his neck stretching ever tighter – and no mortal could weather that – we choke on what we witness, we ar
e strangled by headlong flight, that will not do, not do at all. Don’t mind me, dear Empress. I see how clean is your throne.
Ah, here were the steps leading down. Coop’s dear old Hanged Man, the stone scaffold streaming with gritty tears underfoot and a challenge to odd-footed descent, the rickety uncertainty – was this truly nothing more than steps down into a tavern? Or now transformed, my temple of draughts, echoing to the vacuous moaning of my fellow-kind, oh, how welcome this embrace—
He pushed through the doorway and paused in the gloom, just inside the dripping eaves, his feet planted in a puddle where the pavestones sagged, water running down him to add to its depth; and a half-dozen faces, pale and dirty as the moon after a dust storm, swung towards him…for but a moment, then away again.
My adoring public. Yes, the tragic mummer has returned.
And there, seated alone at a table, was a monstrosity of a man. Hunched over, tiny black eyes glittering beneath the shadow of a jutting brow. Hairy beyond reason. Twisted snarls exploding out from both ears, the ebon-hued curls wending down to merge with the vast gull’s nest that was his beard, which in turn engulfed his neck and continued downward, unabated, to what was visible of the man’s bulging chest; and, too, climbed upward to fur his cheeks – conjoining on the way with the twin juts of nostril hairs, as if the man had thrust tiny uprooted trees up his nose – only to then merge uninterrupted with the sprung hemp ropes that were the man’s eyebrows, which in turn blended neatly into the appallingly low hairline that thoroughly disguised what had to be a meagre, sloping forehead. And, despite the man’s absurd age – rumoured age, actually, since no one knew for certain – that mass of hair was dyed squid-ink black.
He was drinking red-vine tea, a local concoction sometimes used to kill ants.
Banaschar made his way over and sat down opposite the man. ‘If I’d thought about it, I’d say I’ve been looking for you all this time, Master Sergeant Braven Tooth.’
‘But you ain’t much of a thinker, are you?’ The huge man did not bother looking up. ‘Can’t be, if you were looking for me. What you’re seeing here is an escape – no, outright flight – Hood knows who’s deciding these pathetic nitwits they keep sending me deserve the name of recruits. In the Malazan Army, by the Abyss! The world’s gone mad. Entirely mad.’
‘The gatekeeper,’ Banaschar said. ‘Top of the stairs, Mock’s Hold. The gate watchman, Braven Tooth, I assume you know him. Seems he’s been there as long as you’ve been training soldiers.’
‘There’s knowing and there’s knowing. That bell-backed old crab, now, let me tell you something about him. I could send legion after legion of my cuddly little recruits up them stairs, with every weapon at their disposal, and they’d never get past him. Why? I’ll tell you why. It ain’t that Lubben’s some champion or Mortal Sword or something. No, it’s that I got more brains lodged up my left nostril waitin’ for my finger than all my so-called recruits got put together.’
‘That doesn’t tell me anything about Lubben, Braven Tooth, only your opinion of your recruits, which it seems I already surmised.’
‘Just so,’ said the man, nodding.
Banaschar rubbed at his face. ‘Lubben. Listen, I need to talk with someone, someone holed up in Mock’s. I send messages, they get into Lubben’s hands, and then…nothing.’
‘So who’s that you want to talk to?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Oh, him.’
‘So, is Lubben dropping those messages down that slimy chute the effluence of which so decorously paints the cliff-side?’
‘Efflu-what? No. Tell you what, how about I head up there and take that You’d rather not say by the overlong out-of-style braid on top of his head and give ’im a shake or three?’
‘I don’t see how that would help.’
‘Well, it’d cheer me up, not for any particular gripe, mind you, but just on principle. Maybe You’d rather not say’d rather not talk to you, have you thought of that? Or maybe you’d rather not.’
‘I have to talk to him.’
‘Important, huh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Imperial interest?’
‘No, at least I don’t think so.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll grab him by his cute braid and dangle him from the tower. You can signal from below. I swing him back and forth and it means he says “Sure, come on up, old friend”. And if I just drop ’im it means the other thing. That, or my hands got tired and maybe slipped.’
‘You’re not helpful at all, Braven Tooth.’
‘Wasn’t me sitting at your table, was you sitting at mine.’
Banaschar leaned back, sighing. ‘Fine. Here, I’ll buy you some more tea—’
‘What, you trying to poison me now?’
‘All right, how about we share a pitcher of Malazan Dark?’
The huge man leaned forward, meeting Banaschar’s eyes for the first time. ‘Better. Y’see, I’m in mourning.’
‘Oh?’
‘The news from Y’Ghatan.’ He snorted. ‘It’s always the news from Y’Ghatan, ain’t it? Anyway, I’ve lost some friends.’
‘Ah.’
‘So, tonight,’ Braven Tooth said, ‘I plan on getting drunk. For them. I can’t cry unless I’m drunk, you see.’
‘So why the red-vine tea?’
Braven Tooth looked up as someone arrived, and gave the man an ugly smile. ‘Ask Temper here. Why the red-vine tea, you old hunkered-down bastard?’
‘Plan on crying tonight, Braven Tooth?’
The Master Sergeant nodded.
Temper levered himself into a chair that creaked alarmingly beneath him. Red-shot eyes fixed on Banaschar. ‘Makes his tears the colour of blood. Story goes, he’s only done it once before, and that was when Dassem Ultor died.’
Gods below, must I witness this tonight?
‘It’s what I get,’ Braven Tooth muttered, head down once more, ‘for believin’ everything I hear.’
Banaschar frowned at the man opposite him. Now what does that mean?
The pitcher of ale arrived, as if conjured by their silent desires, and Banaschar, relieved of further contemplation – and every other demanding stricture of thought – settled back, content to weather yet another night.
‘Aye, Master (or Mistress), he sat with them veterans, pretending he belonged, but really he’s just an imposter. Sat there all night, until Coop had to carry him out. Where is he now? Why, in his smelly, filthy room, dead to the world. Yes indeed, Banaschar is dead to the world.’
The rain descended in torrents, streaming over the battlements, down along the blood-gutters, and the cloud overhead had lowered in the past twenty heartbeats, swallowing the top of the old tower. The window Pearl looked through had once represented the pinnacle of island technology, a fusing of sand to achieve a bubbled, mottled but mostly transparent glass. Now, a century later, its surface was patinated in rainbow patterns, and the world beyond was patchy, like an incomplete mosaic, the tesserae melting in some world-consuming fire. Although sight of the flames eluded Pearl, he knew, with fearful certainty, that they were there, and no amount of rain from the skies could change that.
It had been flames, after all, that had destroyed his world. Flames that took her, the only woman he had ever loved. And there had been no parting embrace, no words of comfort and assurance exchanged. No, just that edgy dance round each other, and neither he nor Lostara had seemed capable of deciding whether that dance was desire or spite.
Even here, behind this small window and the thick stone walls, he could hear the battered, encrusted weather vane somewhere overhead, creaking and squealing in the buffeting gusts of wind assailing Mock’s Hold. And he and Lostara had been no different from that weather vane, spinning, tossed this way and that, helpless victim to forces ever beyond their control. Beyond, even, their comprehension. And didn’t that sound convincing? Hardly.
The Adjunct had sent them on a quest, and when its grisly end arrived, Pearl had realized that the
entire journey had been but a prelude – as far as his own life was concerned – and that his own quest yet awaited him. Maybe it had been simple enough – the object of his desire would proclaim to his soul the consummation of that quest. Maybe she had been what he sought. But Pearl was not certain of that, not any more. Lostara Yil was dead, and that which drove him, hounded him, was unabated. Was in fact growing.
Hood take this damned, foul city anyway. Why must imperial events ever converge here? Because, he answered himself, Genabackis had Pale. Korel had the Stormwall. Seven Cities has Y’Ghatan. In the heart of the Malazan Empire, we have Malaz City. Where it began, so it returns, again and again. And again. Festering sores that never heal, and when the fever rises, the blood wells forth, sudden, a deluge.
He imagined that blood sweeping over the city below, climbing the cliff-side, lapping against the very stones of Mock’s Hold. Would it rise higher?
‘It is my dream,’ said the man sitting cross-legged in the room behind him.
Pearl did not turn. ‘What is?’
‘Not understanding this reluctance of yours, Claw.’
‘I assure you,’ Pearl said, ‘the nature of my report to the Empress will upend this tidy cart of yours. I was there, I saw—’
‘You saw what you wanted to see. No witness in truth but myself, regarding the events now being revisited. Revised, yes? As all events are, for such is the exercise of quill-clawed carrion who title themselves historians. Revisiting, thirsting for a taste, just a taste, of what it is to know trauma in one’s quailing soul. Pronouncing with authority, yes, on that in which the proclaimant in truth has no authority. I alone survive as witness. I alone saw, breathed the air, tasted the treachery.’
Pearl would not turn to face the fat, unctuous man. He dare not, lest his impulse overwhelm him – an impulse to lift an arm, to flex the muscles of his wrist just so, and launch a poison-sheathed quarrel into the flabby neck of Mallick Rel, the Jhistal priest of Mael.
He knew he would likely fail. He would be dead before he finished raising that arm. This was Mallick Rel’s chamber, after all, his residence. Wards carved into the floor, rituals suspended in the damp air, enough sorcery to set teeth on edge and raise hairs on the nape of the neck. Oh, officially this well-furnished room might be referred to as a cell, but that euphemistic absurdity would not last much longer.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 540