The bastard’s agents were everywhere. Whispering their stories in taverns, on street corners, beneath the straddled legs of whores and noblewomen. The Jhistal priest was fast becoming a hero – the lone survivor of the Fall at Aren, the only loyal one, that is. The one who managed to escape the clutches of the traitors, be they Sha’ik’s own, or the betrayers in the city of Aren itself. Mallick Rel, who alone professes to know the truth.
There were seeds from a certain grass that grew on the Seti Plains, Pearl recalled, that were cleverly barbed, so that when they snagged on something, or someone, they were almost impossible to remove. Barbed husks, that weakened and cracked apart only after the host had travelled far. Such were rumours, carried on breaths from one host to the next, the barbs holding fast. And when the necessary time has passed, when every seed is in place, what then? What shall unfold at Mallick Rel’s command? Pearl did not want to think about it.
Nor did he want to think about this: he was very frightened.
‘Claw, speak with him.’
‘Him. I admit, I cannot yet decide which “him” you are referring to, priest. In neither case, alas, can I fathom your reasons for making such a request of me. Tayschrenn is no friend of yours—’
‘Nor is he a fool, Claw. He sees far ahead, does Tayschrenn. No, there is no reason I would urge you to speak with the Imperial High Mage. His position grows ever more precarious as it is. You seek, yes, to confabulate? Plainly, then, I urge you, Claw, to descend to the catacombs, and there speak with Korbolo Dom. You have not heard his story, and in humility I would advise, it is time that you did.’
Pearl closed his eyes on the rain-lashed scene through the window. ‘Of course. He was in truth an agent of Laseen’s, even when he fought on behalf of Sha’ik. His Dogslayers, they were in place to turn upon Sha’ik and crush her utterly, including killing both Toblakai and Leoman of the Flails. But there, during the Chain of Dogs, he stumbled upon a greater betrayal in the making. Oh yes, Mallick Rel, I can see how you and he will twist this – I imagine you two have worked long and hard, during those countless “illegal” sojourns of yours down in the catacombs – indeed, I know of them – the Claw remain outside your grasp, and that will not change, I assure you.’
‘It is best,’ the man said in his sibilant voice, ‘that you consider my humble suggestion, Claw, for the good of your sect.’
‘For the good of…’ Gods below, he feels ready to threaten the Claw! How far has all this madness gone? I must speak with Topper – maybe it’s not too late…
‘This rain,’ Mallick Rel continued behind him, ‘it shall make the seas rise, yes?’
Chapter Eighteen
Truth is a pressure, and I see us all shying away. But, my friends, from truth there can be no escape.
The Year of Ten Thousand Lies
Kayessan
Arhizan, clinging to the limp folds of the imperial standard, its hunger forgotten, its own life but a quiescent spark within its tiny body, had listened intently to the entire conversation.
A dromon was easing its way among the nearest transports, towing a sleek, black-hulled warship; and from the shoreline watched the Adjunct and Admiral Nok, along with Fist Keneb, Quick Ben and Kalam Mekhar. Few words were exchanged among them, until the arrival of Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy. At that point, things got interesting.
‘Adjunct,’ Gesler said in greeting. ‘That’s our ship. That’s the Silanda.’
Admiral Nok was studying the gold-hued marine. ‘Sergeant, I understand you claim that you can sail that unpleasant craft.’
A nod. ‘With a couple squads, aye, and that’s it. As for the crew below manning the oars, well, when we need ’em to row, they’ll row.’
Stormy added, ‘We lived with ’em long enough they don’t scare us no more, sir, not even Gesler here an’ he jumps every time he looks in that fancy silver mirror of his. An’ those heads, they don’t make our skins crawl neither, no more—’
‘Stop talking like a sailor, Adjutant Stormy,’ Nok said.
A smile amidst the red, bristling beard. ‘Ain’t no Adjutant any more, Admiral.’
Thin brows rose, and Nok said, ‘Title alone gifts the bearer with intelligence?’
Stormy nodded. ‘That it does, sir. Which is why Gesler’s a sergeant and I’m a corporal. We get stupider every year that passes.’
‘And Stormy’s proud of that,’ Gesler said, slapping his companion on the back.
The Adjunct rubbed at her eyes. She examined the tips of her leather gloves, then slowly began removing the gauntlets. ‘I see by the waterline she’s fully provisioned…’
‘Food does not spoil in that hold,’ Nok said. ‘That much my mages have determined. Furthermore, there are no rats or other vermin.’ He hesitated, then sighed. ‘In any case, I could find no sailors who would volunteer to crew the Silanda. And I have no intention of forcing the issue.’ He shrugged. ‘Adjunct, if they truly want it…’
‘Very well. Sergeant Gesler, your own squad and two others.’
‘The Fourth and Ninth, Adjunct.’
Her gaze narrowed on the man, then she turned to Keneb. ‘Fist? They’re your resurrected squads.’
‘The Fourth – that would be Strings’s—’
‘For Hood’s sake,’ the Adjunct said. ‘His name is Fiddler. It is the worst-kept secret in this army, Keneb.’
‘Of course. My apologies, Adjunct. Fiddler’s, then, and the Ninth – let’s see, Sergeant Balm’s squad. Abyss take us, Gesler, what a snarly bunch of malcontents you’ve selected.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘All right.’ Keneb hesitated, then turned to Tavore. ‘Adjunct, may I suggest that the Silanda hold a flanking position to your own flagship at all times.’
Mock dismay on Gesler’s face and he punched Stormy in the arm and said, ‘They don’t trust us, Stormy.’
‘Shows what they know, don’t it?’
‘Aye, it does. Damn me, they’re smarter than we thought.’
‘Sergeant Gesler,’ the Adjunct said, ‘take your corporal and get out of here.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
The two marines hurried off.
After a moment, Admiral Nok laughed, briefly, under his breath, then said, ‘Adjunct, I must tell you, I am…relieved.’
‘To leave the Silanda to those idiots?’
‘No, Tavore. The unexpected arrival of more survivors from Y’Ghatan, with soldiers such as Fiddler, Cuttle, Gesler and Stormy among them – and—’ he turned to Quick Ben and Kalam, ‘you two as well. The transformation within your army, Adjunct, has been…palpable. It is often forgotten by commanders, the significance of storied veterans, especially among young, untried soldiers. Added to that, the extraordinary tale of their survival beneath the streets of Y’Ghatan,’ he shook his head. ‘In all, a most encouraging development.’
‘I agree,’ Tavore said, glancing at Keneb. ‘It was, for the most part, these soldiers who at the very beginning embraced what could have been seen as a terrible omen, and made of it a thing of strength. None of us were fully cognizant of it at the time, but it was there, in Aren, at that first parade, that the Bonehunters were born.’
The others were all staring at her.
Her brows lifted fractionally.
Keneb cleared his throat. ‘Adjunct, the Bonehunters may well have been birthed that day in Aren, but it only drew its first breath yesterday.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We were wondering,’ Kalam said to her, ‘where that decoration came from. The one you presented, with your own hand, to Captain Faradan Sort and the witch Sinn.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, I can make no claim regarding that. The design of that sigil was by T’amber’s hand. There were jewelsmiths in her family, I understand, and she passed a few years of her youth as an apprentice. Nonetheless, I do not see how that ceremony achieved little more than a confirmation of what already existed.’
‘Adjunct,’ Fist Keneb said, ‘it was your confirmation tha
t was needed. To make it real. I do not wish to offend you, but before then, you were the Adjunct. You were Laseen’s. Her property.’
Her expression was suddenly flat, dangerous. ‘And now, Fist?’
But it was Kalam who answered. ‘Now, you belong to the Fourteenth.’
‘You belong to us,’ Keneb said.
The moment should have ended there, and all would have been well. Better than well. It would have been perfect. Instead, they saw, upon Tavore’s expression, a growing…dismay. And fear. And at first, neither emotion made any sense.
Unless…
Unless she was unable to return such loyalty.
And so the doubt twisted free, like newborn vipers slithering from their clutch of eggs, and tiny, deadly fangs sank into every figure standing there, witness to what her face revealed.
Revealed. And this from a woman whose self-control was damned near inhuman.
Startled into life, the rhizan lizard dropped free of its perch, wheeled once then flitted off, down along the strand, where it alighted on the white flank of a huge tree-trunk some past storm had flung ashore, the creature’s legs spread wide, belly to the wood, its tiny sides palpitating. Distracted and frightened, Bottle reached out to brush one fingertip between the rhizan’s eyes, a gesture intended to offer comfort, even as he released his hold upon its life-spark. The creature fled in a flurry of wings and whipping tail.
And now, five days later, Bottle found himself on the foredeck of the Silanda, staring back down the ship to that tarp-covered heap of severed heads that Stormy called his brain’s trust. Amusing, yes, but Bottle knew those undying eyes were piercing the frayed fabric of the canvas, watching him. In expectation. Of what? Damn you, I can’t help you poor fools. You have to see that!
Besides, he had plenty of other things to worry over right now. So many, in fact, that he did not know where to start.
He had seen the sigil, the decoration the Adjunct had presented to Faradan Sort at what should have been her courtmartial, and to the mute child Sinn – not that she was in truth mute, Bottle knew. The urchin just had very little to say to anyone, barring her brother Shard. The sigil…in silver, a city wall over which rose ruby flames, and the sloped tel beneath that wall, a mass of gold human skulls. The echo of the Bridgeburners’ old sigil was not accident – no, it was sheer genius. T’amber’s genius.
By the end of that same day, iron needles and silk threads were out as blunted fingers worked with varying degrees of talent, and military-issue cloaks found a new decoration among the soldiers of the Fourteenth Army. To go along with dangling finger bones, the occasional bird skull and drilled teeth.
All well and good, as far as it went. For much of the first day, as Bottle and the others recovered, soldiers would come by just to look at them. It had been unnerving, all that attention, and he still struggled to understand what he saw in those staring eyes. Yes, we’re alive. Unlikely, granted, but true nonetheless. Now, what is it that you see?
The memories of that time beneath the city were a haunting refrain behind every spoken word shared between Bottle and his fellow survivors. It fuelled their terrible dreams at night – he had grown used to awakening to some muffled cry from a squad member; from Smiles, or Cuttle, or Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas. Cries dimly echoed from where other squads slept on the stony ground.
Their kits had been rifled through in their absence, items and gear redistributed as was the custom, and on that first day soldiers arrived to return what they had taken. By dusk, each survivor had more than they had ever begun with – and could only look on in bemusement at the heaped trinkets, buckles, clasps and charms; the mended tunics, the scrubbed-clean quilted under-padding, the buffed leather straps and weapon-rigging. And daggers. Lots of daggers, the most personal and precious of all weapons – the fighter’s last resort. The weapon that, if necessary, would be used to take one’s own life in the face of something far worse. Now, what significance are we to take from that?
Crouched nearby on the foredeck, Koryk and Tarr were playing a game of Bones that the former had found among the offerings in his kit. A sailor’s version, the cribbed box deep to prevent the playing pieces bouncing out of the field, the underside made stable by iron-tipped eagle talons at each corner, sharp enough to bite into the wood of a galley bench or deck. Tarr had lost every game thus far – over twenty – both to Koryk and Smiles, yet he kept coming back. Bottle had never seen a man so willing to suffer punishment.
In the captain’s cabin lounged Gesler, Stormy, Fiddler and Balm, their conversation sporadic and desultory. Deep in shadows beneath the elongated map-table huddled Y’Ghatan, Bottle’s rat – my eyes, my ears…my aching teats.
No other rats on board, and without his control over Y’Ghatan and her brood, they would have flung themselves overboard long ago. Bottle sympathized. The sorcery engulfing this ship was foul, redolent with madness. It disliked anything alive that was not bound by its chaotic will. And it especially disliked…me.
Only…Gesler and Stormy, they seem immune to it. The bastards – forcing us to join them on this eerie, unwelcome floating barrow.
Bottle considered talking to Fiddler about it, then dismissed the idea. Fiddler was like Kalam, who was like Apsalar, who was like Quick Ben. All…evil.
All right, not evil, but something. I don’t know. That stuff in Shadow – what were they up to? And Kalam, ready to stick his knives in Apsalar. And Apsalar, looking like she wanted just that. Then Quick Ben waking up, getting between the two as if this was all some old argument, old wounds ripped open.
Tavore had claimed Quick Ben, Kalam and Apsalar for her own retinue on the Adjunct’s flagship, Froth Wolf – a Quon-built dromon, its workmanship Mapau, its keel and metalwork from somewhere else entirely. Fenn – can’t be more than a handful of keel-carvers and blacksmiths left among the squalid remnants…but they made that keel and they made those fittings, and there’s nothing insensate or inert about them. In any case, Bottle was glad they were on that ship riding the swells three reaches to starboard. Not quite far enough away for his comfort, but it would have to do. He could picture those two skeletal reptiles scurrying around in the hold below, hunting rats…
‘So it was Grub who held onto that whistle?’ Fiddler asked Gesler in the cabin.
Beneath the table, Y’Ghatan’s tattered ears perked up.
‘Aye. Keneb’s lad. Now there’s a strange one for ya. Said he knew we were coming. Now, maybe I believe that. Maybe I don’t. But it was the first thing I got back.’
‘Good thing, too,’ Stormy said, audibly scratching his beard. ‘I’m feeling right at home—’
‘That’s a joke,’ Gesler cut in. ‘Last time we was on this damned ship, Stormy, you spent most of the time cowering in a corner.’
‘Just took a while getting used to it, that’s all.’
Fiddler said, ‘Look what some bright spark left in my loot.’ Something thumped onto the table.
‘Gods below,’ Sergeant Balm muttered. ‘Is it complete?’
‘Hard to say. There are cards in there I’ve never seen before. One for the Apocalyptic – it’s an Unaligned – and there’s something called the House of War, showing as its ranked card a bone throne, unoccupied, flanked by two wolves. And in that House there’s a card called the Mercenary, and another – done by a different hand – that I think is named something like Guardians of the Dead, and it shows ghostly soldiers standing in the middle of a burning bridge…’
A moment of silence, then Gesler: ‘Recognize any faces, Fid?’
‘Didn’t want to look too closely at that one. There’s the House of Chains, and the King of that House – the King in Chains – is sitting on a throne. The scene is very dark, swallowed in shadows, except I’d swear that poor bastard is screaming. And the look in his eyes…’
‘What else?’ Balm asked.
‘Stop sounding so eager, you Dal Honese rock-toad.’
‘All right, if you don’t like your new present, Fiddler, give it to
me.’
‘Right, and you’d probably lay a field right here, on this ship.’
‘So?’
‘So, you want to open a door to this Tiste and Tellann nightmare of warrens? To the Crippled God, too?’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway, there’s more Unaligned. Master of the Deck, and aye, him I recognize. And Chain – a knot in the centre, with links stretching out in all directions. Don’t like the look of that one.’
‘Some gift, Fid.’
‘Aye, like a rock thrown to a drowning sailor.’
‘Put it away,’ Gesler said.
The rat listened as the Deck was dragged back from the centre of the table.
‘We got us a problem,’ Gesler continued.
‘Only,’ Stormy added, ‘we don’t know what it is. We only know that something’s rattled Keneb, and that assassin friend of yours, Fid. And Quick Ben. Rattled them all.’
‘The Adjunct,’ Fiddler said. ‘Kalam and Quick weren’t talking, but they’re not happy.’ A pause, then, ‘Could be it’s the way Pearl just vanished, right after Y’Ghatan, likely straight back to the Empress. Just a Claw operative delivering his report? Maybe. But even that leaves a sour taste in the mouth – he was too quick to act, too quick to reach conclusions – as if what he thought happened at Y’Ghatan was only confirming suspicions he already held. Think on it – do you really suppose a report like that has anything good to say?’
‘She killed Sha’ik,’ Balm said, exasperated. ‘She broke open that wasp nest in Raraku and damned nothing came buzzing out. She nabbed Korbolo Dom and sent him back in shackles. And she did all that with us not losing nobody, or almost nobody – the scraps on the way were expected, and not nearly so bad as they could’ve been. Then she chases Leoman to Y’Ghatan. Unless you got someone on the inside to crack open the gate, sieges are costly, especially when the attackers got no time to wait it out. And we didn’t, did we? There was a damned plague on the way!’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 541