The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  A nod.

  ‘Before that, however, we must summon the witches and warlocks.’

  ‘You’ll find most of them huddled in the village yonder, Queen. And Pully and Skwish will have announced your return. Taloned toes are tapping the floorboards, I would wager.’

  ‘Go down there,’ she commanded, facing the inn. ‘Escort them back here – I will be in the tavern.’

  ‘And if the tavern is not big enough?’

  An odd concern. She began walking towards the entrance. ‘Then they can perch on shoulders like the crows they are, Yedan.’

  ‘Twilight.’

  She half turned.

  Yedan was tightening the straps of his helm once again. ‘Do not do it.’

  ‘Do not do what?’

  ‘Send us to war, sister.’

  She studied him.

  But he said nothing more, and a moment later he had turned away and set off down towards the village.

  She resumed her walk, while her soldiers led the mounts towards the stable, the beasts’ hoofs slipping on the slick logs of the courtyard. They had ridden hard, these last horses drawn from a virtually empty garrison fort just north of Tulamesh – reports of bandits had sent the squads into the countryside and they’d yet to return. Yan Tovis believed they would never do so.

  At the entranceway she paused, looking down at the slab of stone beneath her boots, on which were carved Shake runes.

  ‘This Raised Stone honours Teyan Atovis, Rise, who was claimed by the Shore 1113th Year of the Isle. Slain by the Letherii for Debts Unremitted.’

  Yan Tovis grunted. One of her kin, no less, dead a thousand years now. ‘Well, Teyan,’ she muttered, ‘you died of drink, and now your stone straddles the threshold of a tavern.’ True, some list of mysterious, crushing debts had invited his ignoble fall to alcohol and misery, but this grand commemoration had taken a slanted view on the hands guiding the man’s fate. And now…Brullyg would be Rise. Will you wear the crown as well as Teyan did?

  She pushed open the door and strode inside.

  The low-ceilinged room was crowded, every face turned to her.

  A familiar figure pushed into view, her face a mass of wrinkles twisted into a half-smile.

  ‘Pully,’ Twilight said, nodding. ‘I have just sent the Watch down to the village to find you.’

  ‘Be well he’ll find Skwish and a score others. They be well weaving cob to web on th’ close sea beyond the shore, Queen, an’ all the truths writ there. Strangers—’

  ‘I know,’ Yan Tovis interjected, looking past the old hag and scanning the other witches and warlocks, the Shoulderfolk of the Old Ways. Their eyes glittered in the smoky gloom, and Twilight could now smell these Shake elders – half-unravelled damp wool and patchy sealskin, fish-oil and rank sweat, the breath coming from mouths dark with sickened gums or rotting teeth.

  If there was a proprietor to this tavern he or she had fled. Casks had been broached and tankards filled with pungent ale. A huge pot of fish soup steamed on the centre hearth and there were countless gourd-shell bowls scattered on the tables. Large rats waddled about on the filthy floor.

  Far more witches than warlocks, she noted. This had been a discernible trend among the demon-kissed – fewer and fewer males born bearing the accepted number of traits; most were far too demonic. More than two hundred of the Shoulderfolk. Gathered here.

  ‘Queen,’ Pully ventured, ducking her head. ‘Cob to web, all of Shake blood know that you now rule. Barring them that’s on the Isle, who only know that your mother’s dead.’

  ‘So Brullyg is there, anticipating…’

  ‘Aye, Twilight, that be well he will be Rise, King of the Shake.’

  Errant take me. ‘We must sail to the Isle.’

  A murmur of agreement amidst the eager quaffing of ale.

  ‘You intend, this night,’ Yan Tovis said, ‘a ritual.’

  ‘We are loosening the chains as they say, Queen. There are nets be strung across the path of the world, t’see what we catch.’

  ‘No.’

  Pully’s black eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘No. There will be no ritual tonight. Nor tomorrow night, nor the next. Not until we are on the Isle, and perhaps not even then.’

  Not a sound in the tavern now.

  Pully opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again. ‘Queen, the shore be alive wi’ voices as they say and the words they are for us. These – these they be the Old Ways, our ways—’

  ‘And my mother was in the habit of looking away, yes. But I am not.’ She lifted her head and scanned once more the array of faces, seeing the shock, the anger, the growing malice. ‘The Old Ways failed us. Then and now. Your ways,’ she told them in a hard voice, ‘have failed us all. I am Queen. Twilight on the shore. At my side in my rule is the Watch. Brullyg would be Rise – that remains to be seen, for your proclamation is not cause enough, not even close. Rise is chosen by all the Shake. All.’

  ‘Do not mar us, Queen.’ Pully’s smile was gone. Her face was a mask of venom.

  Yan Tovis snorted. ‘Will you send a curse my way, old woman? Do not even think it. I mean to see my people survive, through all that will happen. From all of you, I will need healing, I will need blessing. You rule no longer – no, do not speak to me of my mother. I know better than any of you the depths of her surrender. I am Queen. Obey me.’

  They were not happy. They had been the true power for so long – if that pathetic curse-weaving in the shadows could be called power – and Yan Tovis knew that this struggle had but just begun, for all their apparent acquiescence. They will begin planning my downfall. It is to be expected.

  Yedan Derryg, never mind watching the shore. You must now watch my back.

  Fiddler opened his eyes. Dusk had just begun to settle. Groaning, he rolled onto his back. Too many years of sleeping on hard, cold ground; too many years of a tattered rain cape for a mattress, a single blanket of coarse wool for cover. At least now he was sleeping through the day, easing his old bones with the sun’s warmth.

  Sitting up, he looked round the glade. Huddled figures on all sides. Just beyond them was Koryk, the sleep’s last watch, sitting on a tree stump. Aye, woodcutters in this forest.

  Not that we’ve seen any.

  Three nights since the landing. Ever moving eastward, inland. A strange empire, this. Roads and tracks and the occasional farmstead, barely a handful of towns on the coast that we saw. And where in Hood’s name are these Tiste Edur?

  Fiddler climbed to his feet, arching his back to work out the aches and twinges. He’d wanted to be a soldier named Strings, here among the Bonehunters, a different man, a new man. But that hadn’t worked so well. The conceit had fooled no-one. Even worse, he could not convince himself that he had begun anew, that the legacy of past campaigns could be put aside. A life don’t work that way. Dammit. He trudged over to Koryk.

  The Seti half-blood glanced up. ‘Some damned war we got ourselves here, Sergeant. I’d even take one of Smiles’s knives in the leg just to get us the smell of blood. Let’s forget these damned Edur and go ahead and start killing Letherii.’

  ‘Farmers and swineherds, Koryk? We need them on our side, remember?’

  ‘So far there ain’t been enough of them to muster a damned squad. Least we should show ourselves—’

  ‘Not yet. Besides, it’s probably been just bad luck we haven’t met the enemy yet. I’d wager other squads have already been in a scrap or two.’

  Koryk grunted. ‘I doubt it. All it takes is just one squad to kick the nest and these woods should be swarming. They ain’t.’

  Fiddler had nothing to say to that. He scratched himself, then turned away. ‘Shut your eyes for a time now, soldier. We’ll wake you when breakfast’s ready.’

  Do your complainin’ now, Koryk, because when this lets loose we’ll look back on sunsets like this one like it was idyllic paradise. Still, how many times could he make that promise? The legacy of the Bonehunters thus far was nothing to s
ing songs about. Even Y’Ghatan had been a mess, with them whistling a song while they walked right into a trap. It galled him still, that one. He should have smelled trouble. Same for Gesler – aye, we let them down that day. Badly.

  Malaz City had been worse. True, weapons had been drawn. There’d even been a shield-line for a few squads of marines. Against Malazans. An undisciplined mob of our own people. Somehow, somewhere, this army needed to fight for real.

  The Adjunct had thrown them onto this coast, like a handful of ticks onto a dog’s back. Sooner or later the beast was going to scratch.

  As the others wakened to the coming of night, Fiddler walked over to his pack. Stood studying it for a time. The Deck was in there, waiting. And he was sorely tempted. Just to get a taste of what was coming. Don’t be a fool, Fid. Remember Tattersail. Remember all the good it did her.

  ‘Bad idea, Sergeant.’

  Fiddler glanced over, scowled. ‘Stop reading my mind, Bottle. You’re not as good at it as you think.’

  ‘You’re like a man who’s sworn off drink but carries a flask in his pouch.’

  ‘Enough of that, soldier.’

  Bottle shrugged, looked round. ‘Where’s Gesler gone?’

  ‘Probably off fertilizing the trees.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Bottle said, sounding unconvinced. ‘It’s just that I woke up earlier, and didn’t see him then either.’

  Gods below. Waving at midges, Fiddler walked over to the far end of the glade, where the other squad was positioned. He saw Stormy standing like a sleep-addled bear – his red hair and beard a wild mass of twig-filled tangles – repeatedly kicking the side of a loudly snoring Shortnose.

  ‘Stormy,’ Fiddler called out softly, ‘where’s your sergeant gone to?’

  ‘No idea,’ the huge man replied. ‘He had last watch on this side, though. Hey, Fid, she wouldn’t have burned the Silanda, would she?’

  ‘Of course not. Listen, if Gesler ain’t back soon you’re going to have to go looking for him.’

  Stormy’s small porcine eyes blinked at him. ‘Might be he’s lost? I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Never mind that dimwitted act, Corporal.’

  ‘Yeah. That Koryk you got, he any good at tracking?’

  ‘No. Damned near useless in fact, although don’t say that to his face. Bottle—’

  ‘Oh, him. That one gives me the creeps, Fid. Masturbates like I pick my nose. Now sure, soldiers will do that, but—’

  ‘He says it’s not him.’

  ‘Well, if Smiles wants to reach in under the covers—’

  ‘Smiles? What are you going on about, Stormy?’

  ‘I mean—’

  ‘Look, Bottle’s haunted by a damned ghost of some kind – Quick Ben confirmed it, so stop giving me that look. Anyway, that ghost’s, uh, female, and she likes him way too much—’

  ‘Mages are sick, Fid.’

  ‘Not a relevant point here, Stormy.’

  ‘So you say,’ the corporal said, shaking himself then turning away. ‘“Not a relevant point here,”’ he mimicked under his breath.

  ‘I can still hear you, Corporal.’

  Stormy waved a wide, hairy hand but did not turn round, instead making his way towards the hearth. He paused in his first step to set his boot down on one of Shortnose’s hands. There was an audible crack and the heavy infantryman made a small sound, then sat up. Stormy continued on, while Shortnose looked down at his hand, frowning at the oddly angled third finger, which he then reset with a tug, before rising and wandering off to find somewhere to empty his bladder.

  Fiddler scratched at his beard, then swung about and walked back to his squad.

  Aye, we’re a lethal bunch.

  Gesler wandered the strange ruins. The light was fast fading, making the place seem even more spectral. Round wells on all sides, at least a dozen scattered among the old trees. The stones were exquisitely cut, fitted without mortar – as he had discovered upon peeling back some moss. He had caught sight of the regular shapes from the edge of the glade, had first thought them to be the pedestals for some colonnaded structure long since toppled over. But the only other stone he found was paving, buckled by roots, making footing treacherous.

  Seating himself on the edge of one of the wells, he peered down into the inky blackness, and could smell stagnant water. He felt oddly pleased with himself to find that his curiosity had not been as thoroughly dulled as he’d once believed. Not nearly as bad as, say, Cuttle. Now there was a grim bastard. Still, Gesler had seen a lot in his life, and some of it had permanently stained his skin – not to mention other, more subtle changes. But mostly that host of things witnessed, deeds done, not done, they just wore a man down.

  He could not look at the tiny flames of the squad’s hearth without remembering Truth and that fearless plunge into Y’Ghatan’s palace. Or he’d glance down at the crossbow in his hands as they stumbled through this damned forest and recall Pella, skewered through the forehead, sagging against the corner of a building barely a hundred paces into Y’Ghatan itself. With every crow’s cackle he heard the echoes of the screams when dread ghosts had assailed the camp of the Dogslayers at Raraku. A glance down at his bared hands and their battered knuckles, and the vision rose in his mind of that Wickan, Coltaine, down on the banks of the Vathar – gods, to have led that mob that far, with more still to go, with nothing but cruel betrayal at the Fall.

  The slaughter of the inhabitants of Aren, when the Logros T’lan Imass rose from the dust of the streets and their weapons of stone began to rise and fall, rise and fall. If not for that ex-Red Blade driving open the gates and so opening a path of escape, there would have been no survivors at all. None. Except us Malazans, who could only stand aside and watch the slaughter. Helpless as babes…

  A dragon through fire, a ship riding flames – his first sight of a Tiste Edur: dead, pinned to his chair by a giant’s spear. Oar benches where sat decapitated rowers, hands resting on the sweeps, and their severed heads heaped in a pile round the mainmast, eyes blinking in the sudden light, faces twisting into appalling expressions—

  So who built twelve wells in a forest? That’s what I want to know.

  Maybe.

  He recalled a knock at the door, and opening it to see, with absurd delight, a drenched T’lan Imass whom he recognized. Stormy, it’s for you. And aye, I dream of moments like this, you red-haired ox. And what did that say about Gesler himself? Wait, I’m not that curious.

  ‘There you are.’

  Gesler looked up. ‘Stormy. I was just thinking of you.’

  ‘Thinking what?’

  He waved at the well’s black hole. ‘If you’d fit, of course. Most of you would go, but not, alas, your head.’

  ‘You keep forgetting, Gesler,’ the corporal said as he drew nearer, ‘I was one of the ones who punched back.’

  ‘Got no recollection of that at all.’

  ‘Want me to remind you?’

  ‘What I want is to know why you’re bothering me.’

  ‘We’re all gettin’ ready to head out.’

  ‘Stormy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you think about all this?’

  ‘Someone liked building wells.’

  ‘Not this. I mean, the war. This war, the one here.’

  ‘I’ll let you know once we start busting heads.’

  ‘And if that never happens?’

  Stormy shrugged, ran thick fingers through his knotted beard. ‘Just another typical Bonehunter war, then.’

  Gesler grunted. ‘Go on, lead the way. Wait. How many battles have we fought, you and me?’

  ‘You mean, with each other?’

  ‘No, you damned idiot. I mean against other people. How many?’

  ‘I lost count.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘All right. Thirty-seven, but not counting Y’Ghatan since I wasn’t there. Thirty-eight for you, Gesler.’

  ‘And how many did we manage to avoid?’

  ‘Hundreds.’


  ‘So maybe, old friend, we’re just getting better at this.’

  The huge Falari scowled. ‘You trying to ruin my day, Sergeant?’

  Koryk tightened the straps of his bulky pack. ‘I just want to kill someone,’ he growled.

  Bottle rubbed at his face then eyed the half-blood Seti. ‘There’s always Smiles. Or Tarr, if you jump him when he’s not looking.’

  ‘You being funny?’

  ‘No, just trying to deflect your attention from the weakest guy in this squad. Namely, me.’

  ‘You’re a mage. Sort of. You smell like one, anyway.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘If I kill you, you’d just curse me with your last breath, then I’d be miserable.’

  ‘So what would change, Koryk?’

  ‘Having a reason to be miserable is always worse than having no reason but being miserable anyway. If it’s just a way of life, I mean.’ He suddenly drew out the latest weapon in his arsenal, a long-knife. ‘See this? Just like the kind Kalam used. It’s a damned fast weapon, but I can’t see it doing much against armour.’

  ‘Where Kalam stuck them there wasn’t no armour. Throat, armpit, crotch – you should give it to Smiles.’

  ‘I grabbed it to keep it from her, idiot.’

  Bottle looked over to where Smiles had, moments earlier, disappeared into the forest. She was on her way back, the placid expression on her face hiding all sorts of evil, no doubt. ‘I hope we’re not expected to stand against Edur the way heavies are,’ he said to Koryk while watching Smiles. ‘Apart from you and Tarr, and maybe Corabb, we’re not a big mailed fist kind of squad, are we? So, in a way, this kind of war suits us – subterfuge, covert stuff.’ He glanced over and saw the half-blood glaring at him. Still holding the long-knife. ‘But maybe we’re actually more versatile. We can be half mailed fist and half black glove, right?’

  ‘Anyway,’ Koryk said, resheathing the weapon, ‘when I said I wanted to kill someone I meant the enemy.’

  ‘Tiste Edur.’

  ‘Letherii bandits will do – there must be bandits around here somewhere.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why? There’s always bandits in the countryside, Bottle. Led by moustached rogues with fancy names. Zorala Snicker, or Pamby Doughty—’