The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Unanticipated, her arrival, I presume.’

  ‘Most unexpected, Trull. It is unfortunate, nonetheless, that her power of healing did not reach through, into this chamber.’

  The Tiste Edur frowned, then looked back up at the god. ‘What do you mean?’

  Cotillion could not meet his eyes. ‘Onrack. Even now he rises. Mended, more or less. I think she feels for him…’

  ‘And who feels for us?’ Trull demanded. He turned his head aside and spat out blood.

  There was no answer from the god.

  The Tiste Edur slumped down into a ragged sitting position. ‘I’m sorry, Cotillion. I don’t know if you deserved that. Probably not.’

  ‘It has been an eventful night,’ the god said. Then sighed. ‘Such is convergence. I asked you earlier, will Quick Ben live?’

  Quick Ben. Trull nodded. ‘I think so. The blood’s stopped flowing.’

  ‘I have called Shadowthrone. There will be healing.’

  Trull Sengar glanced over to where Panek sat beside his mother – one of his mothers – ‘Shadowthrone had best hurry, before those children become orphans once again.’

  A scuffling sound from the portal, and Onrack shuffled into view.

  ‘Trull Sengar.’

  He nodded, managed a broken smile. ‘Onrack. It seems you and I are cursed to continue our pathetic existence for a while longer.’

  ‘I am pleased.’

  No-one spoke for a moment, and then the T’lan Imass said, ‘Lifestealer is gone. He was taken away, back through the gate.’

  Cotillion hissed in frustration. ‘The damned Nameless Ones! They never learn, do they?’

  Trull was staring at Onrack. ‘Taken? He lives? Why – how? Taken?’

  But it was the god who answered. ‘Icarium – Lifestealer – is their finest weapon, Trull Sengar. The Nameless Ones intend to fling him against your brother, the Emperor of Lether.’

  As comprehension reached through the numbness of exhaustion, Trull slowly closed his eyes. Oh no, please…‘I see. What will happen then, Cotillion?’

  ‘I don’t know. No-one does. Not even the Nameless Ones, although in their arrogance they would never admit to it.’

  A squeal from Panek drew their attention – and there was Shadowthrone, crouching down over Minala, settling a hand on her forehead.

  Trull spat again – the insides of his mouth were lacerated – then grunted and squinted up at Cotillion. ‘I will not fight here again,’ he said. ‘Nor Onrack, nor these children – Cotillion, please—’

  The god turned away. ‘Of course not, Trull Sengar.’

  Trull watched Cotillion walk through the archway, and the Tiste Edur’s gaze fell once more on the body of Ahlrada Ahn. As Shadowthrone approached Quick Ben, Trull climbed to his feet and made his way to where his friend was lying. Ahlrada Ahn. I do not understand you – I have never understood you – but I thank you nonetheless. I thank you…

  He stepped to the entranceway, looked out, and saw Cotillion, the Patron of Assassins, the god, sitting on a shelf of stone that had slipped down from one wall, sitting, alone, with his head in his hands.

  Epilogue

  In a journey through the wastes, I found a god

  kneeling as it pushed its hands into the sand

  again and again, each time lifting them up

  to watch the lifeless grains stream down.

  Dismounting from my weary horse, I walked

  to stand before this apparition and its dusty hands

  and watched for a time the cycles of their motion

  when at last up it looked, eyes beseeching.

  ‘Where,’ asked this god, ‘are my children?’

  The Lost Believers

  Fisher

  The bite, then the blessed numbness of smoke in her lungs, slowly released as Scillara moved up to lean on the rail at Cutter’s side. ‘You look far away,’ she said, scanning the endless seas.

  He sighed, then nodded.

  ‘Thinking of her, were you? What was her name again?’

  ‘Apsalar.’

  She smiled, mostly to herself, drew in more smoke, watched it whirl away from her nostrils and her pursed lips, three streams becoming one. ‘Tell me about her.’

  Cutter glanced back over a shoulder, and Scillara, to be companionable, did the same. Barathol was at the stern, Chaur seated almost at the huge blacksmith’s boots. Iskaral Pust and Mogora were nowhere in sight, likely in the cabin below, arguing over supper’s mysterious ingredients. The black mule had vanished days ago, probably over the side although Iskaral simply smiled at their enquiries.

  Mappo was at the bow, crouched down, knees drawn up. Rocking, weeping. He had been that way since morning and no-one seemed able to get through to find out what assailed him.

  Cutter turned and stared back over the seas. Scillara happily did the same, pulling hard on her pipe.

  And the Daru spoke. ‘I was remembering back. After the big fête in Darujhistan, there was another one, a smaller one, celebrating the withdrawal of Malazan interests…for the time being. Anyway, it was in Coll’s estate, just before we left the city – gods below, it seems so long ago now…’

  ‘You’d just met, then.’

  ‘Yes. Well, there was music. And Apsalar…she danced.’ He looked across at her. ‘She danced so beautifully, all conversation stopped, everyone watched.’ Cutter shook his head. ‘I couldn’t even draw breath, Scillara…’

  And yours is a love that will not die.

  So be it.

  ‘A good memory, Cutter. Hold on to it. Me, I could never dance well, unless drunk or otherwise softened up.’

  ‘Do you miss those days, Scillara?’

  ‘No. It’s more fun this way.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘Well now, you see, I don’t miss a thing any more. Not a thing. That’s very…satisfying.’

  ‘You know, Scillara, I do envy your happiness.’

  She smiled across at him once more, a simple act that took all her will, all her strength. So be it.

  Cutter said, ‘I think…I think I need to lie in your arms right now, Scillara.’

  For all the wrong reasons. But there’s this – in this Hood-damned world, it’s worth taking what you can get. Whatever you can get.

  Three streams.

  Into one.

  Karsa Orlong turned about as Samar Dev moved up beside him and settled down – a fierce gale was busy ripping off the surface of the waves in the sea beyond, and the hammering against the hull was incessant, as if eager spirits sought to tear the craft to pieces. ‘Well, woman, what has got you looking so excited?’

  ‘Something’s happened,’ she said. ‘Here, give me some of that fur cloak, I’m chilled to the bone.’

  He yielded the bear fur. ‘Take it.’

  ‘I bless your martyrdom, Karsa Orlong.’

  ‘A wasted effort, then,’ he rumbled in reply. ‘I will be martyr to no-one, not even the gods.’

  ‘Just a saying, you thick-skulled oaf. But listen, something happened. There was an assault. Hundreds of Edur warriors and Letherii auxiliaries. And, another champion.’

  Karsa grunted. ‘Plenty of those in this fleet.’

  ‘But only that champion and his servant returned. And one Letherii. The rest were slaughtered.’

  ‘Where was this battle? We have seen no other ships.’

  ‘Through a warren, Karsa Orlong. In any case, I heard the name of the champion. And this is why you have to listen to me. We have to get off this damned ship – if we even come in sight of land between here and that empire, we should go over the side. You said I was excited? Wrong. I am terrified.’

  ‘And who is this terrifying champion, then?’

  ‘He is named Icarium. The Slayer—’

  ‘Whose servant is a Trell.’

  She frowned. ‘No, a Gral. Do you know Icarium? Do you know the awful legends surrounding him?’

  ‘I know nothing of legends, Samar Dev. But we fought, once, Icari
um and I. It was interrupted before I could kill him.’

  ‘Karsa—’

  But the Toblakai was smiling. ‘Your words please me, woman. I will face him again, then.’

  She stared at him in the gloom of the hold, but said nothing.

  On another ship in the fleet, Taralack Veed was curled up in the hold, back to the sloping, sweating hull, as shivers racked through him.

  Icarium stood before him, and was speaking: ‘…difficult to understand. The Letherii seemed so contemptuous of me before, so what has changed? Now I see worship and hope in their eyes, their deference unnerves me, Taralack Veed.’

  ‘Go away,’ the Gral mumbled. ‘I’m not well. Leave me.’

  ‘What ails you is not physical, I fear, my friend. Please, come up on deck, breathe deep this enlivening air – it will soothe you, I am certain of it.’

  ‘No.’

  Icarium slowly crouched until his grey eyes were level with Taralack’s belligerent stare. ‘I awoke that morning more refreshed, more hopeful than I have ever been – I feel the truth of that claim. A warmth, deep within me, soft and welcoming. And it has not diminished since that time. I do not understand it, friend—’

  ‘Then,’ the Gral said in a grating voice, bitter with venom, ‘I must tell you once more. Who, what you are. I must tell you, prepare you for what you must do. You leave me no choice.’

  ‘There is no need,’ Icarium said in a soft tone, reaching out one hand and resting it on Taralack Veed’s shoulder.

  ‘You fool!’ the Gral hissed, twisting away from that touch. ‘Unlike you,’ he spat, ‘I remember!’

  Icarium straightened, looked down on his old friend. ‘There is no need,’ he said again, then turned away. You do not understand.

  There is no need.

  He stood on the highest tower of Mock’s Hold, expressionless eyes on the chaos in the city below. The Adjunct’s ships were drawing away from the harbour, out into the unlit waters of the bay beyond.

  To his right, less than three strides away, was the fissure that gave the far side of the platform an alarming cant. The crack was recent, no more than a year old, reaching all the way down the keep into the cellars below, and the repairs by the engineers seemed desultory, verging on incompetent. The old heart of the Malazan Empire was wounded, and he did not expect it to survive much longer.

  After a time, he sensed a presence behind him, but did not turn. ‘Emperor,’ he said in his quiet voice, ‘it has been a long time, hasn’t it?’

  Shadowthrone’s whisper reached out to him, like a chilling caress. ‘Must this be your way, Tayschrenn? Each and every time.’ A soft snort, the voice drawing closer as it continued, ‘You’ve let yourself be caged. Again. You drive me mad.’

  ‘You have had a busy night,’ the Imperial High Mage observed.

  ‘Ah, you sensed my…activities? Of course you did. So, not as caged as it would seem.’

  ‘I endeavour,’ said Tayschrenn, ‘to take the long view on such matters.’ He paused, then added, ‘As do you.’ He glanced over at the insubstantial smear of darkness at his side. ‘Your new role would not have changed you that much, I suspect.’

  ‘You schemed with Quick Ben and Kalam,’ Shadowthrone said. ‘You travelled all the way to Seven Cities to do it, yet what have your plans achieved? The Empress on shifting sands, a Jhistal priest waddling unfettered in the corridors of power, the Claw infiltrated and decimated and my loyal Wickans assailed – but tell me this, Tayschrenn, could you have ever predicted D’rek’s answer to the betrayal of the priests and priestesses?’

  ‘Betrayal?’

  ‘D’rek slaughtered your kin! Every temple!’

  The High Mage was silent for a dozen heartbeats, as the god at his side grew ever more agitated. Then Tayschrenn said, ‘A year ago, an old friend of mine set out, in haste, from here – sailing to the Grand Temple of D’rek in Kartool City.’

  ‘You knew all that?’

  Tayschrenn half-smiled. ‘The ship he hired was mine. Alas, he was unaware of that detail.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Shadowthrone hissed. ‘You never left the cult!’

  ‘The Worm of Autumn is the harbinger of death, and death comes to us all. Us mortals, that is. How can one leave the acceptance of that? What would be the point?’

  ‘This empire was mine! Not D’rek’s! Not yours!’

  ‘Emperor, your paranoia always disturbed me more than your acquisitiveness. In any case, Laseen now rules…for the moment. Unless,’ he squinted at the god, ‘you are planning a triumphant return?’

  ‘To save everyone from themselves? I think not. Hate is the world’s most pernicious weed…especially when people like you do nothing.’

  ‘Every garden I have tended is either dead or wild, Emperor.’

  ‘Why did you agree to be Quick Ben’s shaved knuckle in the hole, Tayschrenn?’

  The High Mage blinked in surprise.

  ‘And why didn’t he call on you when I sent him into that nightmare?’

  ‘I would have been disappointed indeed,’ Tayschrenn slowly said, ‘had he called on me so soon. As I said earlier, Emperor, I hold to the long view on matters of this realm.’

  ‘Why didn’t D’rek kill you?’

  ‘She tried.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I talked her out of it.’

  ‘Abyss take me, how I hate you!’

  ‘Even gods must learn to control their tempers,’ Tayschrenn said, ‘lest they set a bad example.’

  ‘You said that to D’rek?’

  ‘I am saying that to you, Shadowthrone.’

  ‘My temper is fine! I am perfectly calm – seething with fury and hatred, mind you, but calm!’

  Neither spoke for a time after that, until the god murmured, ‘My poor Wickans…’

  ‘They are not as vulnerable as you fear, Emperor. They will have Nil and Nether. They will have Temul, and when Temul is old, decades from now, he will have a young warrior to teach, whose name shall be Coltaine.’ He clasped his hands behind his back, frowning down at the smoke-wreathed city as the first greying of dawn approached. ‘If you would fear,’ he said, ‘fear for your own child.’

  ‘I fear nothing—’

  ‘Liar. You heard Temper step out of Coop’s – and you fled.’

  ‘Expedience!’

  ‘Unquestionably.’

  ‘You’re in a nest of vipers here – I am happy to leave you to it.’

  Tayschrenn sketched a modest bow. ‘Emperor. Please convey my greetings to Cotillion.’

  ‘Tell him yourself, if you dare.’

  ‘It was not me who stole Kalam from him – tell me, does the assassin live?’

  ‘He’s in the Deadhouse – isn’t that answer enough?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I know!’ Shadowthrone cackled in glee, then vanished like mist in the wind.

  The morning was bright, the sun already warm, as the Master Investigator paused outside the Imperial Domicile in the city of Kartool. He adjusted his uniform, ensuring that every wrinkle was smoothed away. Then he licked the palms of his hands and carefully, tenderly, eased back his unruly hair – unruly in his own mind, at least. A last glance down at his boots, reassured by their unmarred polish, then he smartly ascended the steps and entered the squat building.

  A nod rather than an answering salute to the guards stationed just within, then down the hallway to the door of the Commander’s office. A knock, sharp and sure, and, upon hearing a muffled invitation to enter, he opened the door and marched inside, halting before the desk, behind which sat the Commander.

  Who now looked up, and scowled. ‘All right, you pompous ass, let’s have it.’

  The slight deflation was involuntary on the Master Investigator’s part, but he managed to mask it as best as possible. ‘I have the following to report, sir, regarding the investigation I rigorously undertook on the mysterious deaths of the acolytes and priests of the temple dedicated to D’rek on the Street of—’

  ‘
Will you shut up! You want to report your conclusions, yes? Then do just that!’

  ‘Of course, sir. Given lack of evidence to the contrary, sir, only one conclusion is possible. The devotees of D’rek have, one and all, committed a thorough orgy of suicide in the span of a single night.’

  Lizard eyes regarded him for an uncomfortably long time. Then he said, ‘Sergeant Hellian, the original investigator, said precisely the same thing.’

  ‘Clearly a perceptive woman, sir.’

  ‘A drunk. I shipped her to the Fourteenth.’

  ‘The…Fourteenth…?’

  ‘Write up your conclusions,’ the Commander then said, ‘and close the investigation. Now get out of here.’

  The Master Investigator saluted and escaped with as much dignity as he could manage. Along the corridor, another nod to the guards, then out through the main doors, onto the landing, then down the steps.

  Where he paused, looked up. The sunlight was glistening from the magnificent webs of the paralt spiders now resident in the towers of Kartool. A skein of crystal beauty, scintillating like threads of diamond against the stunning blue sky.

  Optimism returning, he sighed, deciding that he had never before seen such a wondrous, breathtaking sight. And so he set off with a lighter step, boots ringing smartly on the cobbles.

  While a score of huge spiders, crouched in their small caves dug into the walls of the towers, looked with cold, multifaceted eyes. Looked down upon all that crawled below, occasionally curious, ever patient, even as the sweet whispers of hunger flitted through their liquid brains.

  The webs were set.

  And the traps, in their elaborate elegance, were never empty for long.

  This ends the sixth tale of the

  Malazan Book of the Fallen

  Glossary

  Ascendants

  Anomander Rake: Son of Darkness

  Apsalar: Lady of Thieves

  Beru: Lord of Storms

  Bridgeburners

  Burn: The Sleeping Goddess

  Cotillion: The Rope, Patron of Assassins, High House Shadow

  Dessembrae: Lord of Tears

  Draconus: an Elder God and forger of the sword Dragnipur