The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

Shouts from the street below, muted by the wailing winds and lashing rain. Lostara Yil moved to stand at the sill, leaned out. A moment later she stepped back and turned, her expression grave. ‘Broken neck. I’m sorry, Sandalath. But I have questions…’

  Mother, wife, Withal’s lover, was still staring into Nimander’s eyes – a look that said loss was rearing from the dark, frightened places in her mind, rearing, yes, to devour the love she held for her husband – for the man with the innocent face; that told him, with the answer he might give to her question, two more lives might be destroyed. Did she? Through the window? Did she…die?

  Nimander nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Another dead woman screamed in his skull and he almost reeled. Dead eyes, devouring all love. ‘You have lied, Nimander!’

  Yes. To save Withal. To save Sandalath Drukorlat—

  ‘To save yourself!’

  Yes.

  ‘My love, what has happened to you?’

  I heard a spinning sound. A whispering promise – we must stay here, you see. We must. Andarist chose me. He knew he was going to die. He knew that there would be no Anomander Rake, no Silchas Ruin, no great kin of our age of glory – no-one to come to save us, take care of us. There was only me.

  My love, to lead is to carry burdens. As did the heroes of old, with clear eyes.

  So look at my eyes, my love. See my burden? Just like a hero of old—

  Sandalath reached up again, those two long-fingered hands. Not to take his face, but to wipe away the rain streaming down his cheeks.

  My clear eyes.

  We will stay here, on this island – we will look to the Shake, and see in them the faint threads of Tiste Andii blood, and we will turn them away from the barbarity that has taken them and so twisted their memories.

  We will show them the shore. The true shore.

  Burdens, my love. This is what it is to live, while your loved ones die.

  Sandalath, still ignoring Lostara Yil’s questioning, now stepped back and turned to settle into her husband’s arms.

  And Withal looked across at Nimander.

  Outside, the wind screamed.

  Yes, my love, see it in his eyes. Look what I have done to Withal. All because I failed.

  Last night’s storm had washed the town clean, giving it a scoured appearance that made it very nearly palatable. Yan Tovis, Twilight, stood on the pier watching the foreign ships pull out of the harbour. At her side was her half-brother, Yedan Derryg, the Watch.

  ‘Glad to see them go,’ he said.

  ‘You are not alone in that,’ she replied.

  ‘Brullyg’s still dead to the world – but was that celebration or self-pity?’

  Yan Tovis shrugged.

  ‘At dawn,’ Yedan Derryg said after a long moment of silence between them, ‘our black-skinned cousins set out to build the tomb.’ His bearded jaw bunched, molars grinding, then he said, ‘Only met the girl once. Sour-faced, shy eyes.’

  ‘Those broken arms did not come from the fall,’ Yan Tovis said. ‘Too bruised – the tracks of fingers. Besides, she landed on her head, bit through her tongue clean as a knife cut.’

  ‘Something happened in that room. Something sordid.’

  ‘I am pleased we did not inherit such traits.’

  He grunted, said nothing.

  Yan Tovis sighed. ‘Pully and Skwish seem to have decided their sole purpose in living these days is to harry me at every turn.’

  ‘The rest of the witches have elected them as their representatives. You begin your rule as Queen in a storm of ill-feeling.’

  ‘It’s worse than that,’ she said. ‘This town is crowded with ex-prisoners. Debt-runners and murderers. Brullyg managed to control them because he could back his claim to being the nastiest adder in the pit. They look at me and see an Atri-Preda of the Imperial Army – just another warden – and you, Derryg, well, you’re my strong-arm Finadd. They don’t care a whit about the Shake and their damned queen.’

  ‘Which is precisely why you need the witches, Twilight.’

  ‘I know. And if that’s not misery enough, they know it, too.’

  ‘You need clout,’ he said.

  ‘Clever man.’

  ‘Even as a child, you were prone to sarcasm.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘The answer, I think, will be found with these Tiste Andii.’

  She looked across at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Who knows more of our past than even the witches? Who knows it as a clean thing? A thing not all twisted by generations of corruption, of half-remembrances and convenient lies?’

  ‘Your tongue runs away with you, Yedan.’

  ‘More sarcasm.’

  ‘No, I find myself somewhat impressed.’

  The jaw bunched as he studied her.

  She laughed. Could not help it. ‘Oh, brother, come – the foreigners are gone and probably won’t be back – ever.’

  ‘They sail to their annihilation?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Twilight. That child mage, Sinn…’

  ‘You may be right. News of her imminent departure had Pully and Skwish dancing.’

  ‘She destroyed a solid wall of ice half as long as Fent Reach. I would not discount these Malazans.’

  ‘The Adjunct did not impress me,’ Yan Tovis said.

  ‘Maybe because she didn’t need to.’

  Twilight thought about that, then thought about it some more.

  Neither spoke as they turned away from the glittering bay and the now-distant foreign ships.

  The morning sun was actually beginning to feel warm – the final, most poignant proof that the ice was dead, the threat past. The Isle would live on.

  On the street ahead the first bucket of night-soil slopped down onto the clean cobbles from a second-storey window, forcing passers-by to dance aside.

  ‘The people greet you, Queen.’

  ‘Oh, be quiet, Yedan.’

  Captain Kindly stood by the port rail, staring across the choppy waves to the Silanda. Soldiers from both of the squads on that haunted ship were visible on the deck, a handful gathered about a game of bones or some such nefarious activity, whilst the sweeps churned the water in steady rhythm. Masan Gilani was up near the steering oar, keeping Sergeant Cord company.

  Lucky bastard, that Cord. Lieutenant Pores, positioned on Kindly’s right, leaned his forearms on the rail, eyes fixed on Masan Gilani – as were, in all likelihood, the eyes of most of the sailors on this escort, those not busy readying the sails at any rate.

  ‘Lieutenant.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Uh, nothing, sir.’

  ‘You’re leaning on the gunnel. At ease. Did I at any time say “at ease”, Lieutenant?’

  Pores straightened. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘That woman should be put up on report.’

  ‘Aye, she’s not wearing much, is she?’

  ‘Out of uniform.’

  ‘Damned distracting, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Disappointing, you mean, surely, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Ah, that’s the word I was looking for, all right. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘The Shake make the most extraordinary combs,’ Kindly said. ‘Turtleshell.’

  ‘Impressive, sir.’

  ‘Expensive purchases, but well worth it, I should judge.’

  ‘Yes sir. Tried them yet?’

  ‘Lieutenant, do you imagine that to be amusing?’

  ‘Sir? No, of course not!’

  ‘Because, as is readily apparent, Lieutenant, your commanding officer has very little hair.’

  ‘If by that you mean on your head, then yes sir, that is, uh, apparent indeed.’

  ‘Am I infested with lice, then, that I might need to use a comb elsewhere on my body, Lieutenant?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir. I mean, of course not.’

  ‘Lieutenant, I want you to go to my cabin and prepare
the disciplinary report on that soldier over there.’

  ‘But sir, she’s a marine.’

  ‘Said report to be forwarded to Fist Keneb when such communication is practicable. Well, why are you still standing here? Get out of my sight, and no limping!’

  ‘Limp’s long gone, sir!’

  Pores saluted then hurried away, trying not to limp. The problem was, it had become something of a habit when he was around Captain Kindly. Granted, a most pathetic attempt at eliciting some sympathy. Kindly had no sympathy. He had no friends, either. Except for his combs. ‘And they’re all teeth and no bite,’ he murmured as he descended to Kindly’s cabin. ‘Turtleshell, ooh!’

  Behind him, Kindly spoke, ‘I have decided to accompany you, Lieutenant. To oversee your penmanship.’

  Pores cringed, hitched a sudden limp then rubbed at his hip before opening the cabin hatch. ‘Yes sir,’ he said weakly.

  ‘And when you are done, Lieutenant, my new turtleshell combs will need a thorough cleansing. Shake are not the most fastidious of peoples.’

  ‘Nor are turtles.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I will be most diligent, sir.’

  ‘And careful.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  ‘In fact, I think I had better oversee that activity as well.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘That wasn’t a limp I saw, was it?’

  ‘No sir, I’m much better now.’

  ‘Otherwise we would have to find a good reason for your limping, Lieutenant. For example, my finding a billy club and shattering your legs into pieces. Would that do, do you think? No need to answer, I see. Now, best find the ink box, yes?’

  ‘I’m telling you, Masan, that was Kindly himself over there. Drooling over you.’

  ‘You damned fool,’ she said, then added, ‘Sergeant.’

  Cord just grinned. ‘Even at that distance, your charms are, uh, unmistakable.’

  ‘Sergeant, Kindly has probably not lain with a woman since the night of his coming of age, and that time was probably with a whore his father or uncle bought for the occasion. Women can tell these things. The man’s repressed, in all the worst ways.’

  ‘Oh, and what are the good ways of being repressed?’

  ‘For a man? Well, decorum for one, as in not taking advantage of your rank. Listen closely now, if you dare. All real acts of chivalry are forms of repressed behaviour.’

  ‘Where in Hood’s name did you get that? Hardly back on the savannas of Dal Hon!’

  ‘You’d be surprised what the women in the huts talk about, Sergeant.’

  ‘Well, soldier, I happen to be steering this damned ship, so it was you who walked up here to stand with me, not the other way round!’

  ‘I was just getting away from Balm’s squad – not to mention that sapper of yours, Crump, who’s decided I’m worthy of worship. Says I’ve got the tail of some salamander god.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘Aye. And if he grabs it it’s liable to come off. I think he means he thinks I’m too perfect for the likes of him. Which is something of a relief. Doesn’t stop him ogling me, though.’

  ‘You get the ogles because you want the ogles, Masan Gilani. Keep your armour on and we’ll all forget about you quick enough.’

  ‘Armour on a ship? No thanks. That’s a guarantee of a fast plunge to the mucky bottom, Sergeant.’

  ‘We won’t be seeing any battle on the waves,’ Cord pronounced.

  ‘Why not? The Letherii got a fleet or three, don’t they?’

  ‘Mostly chewed up by years at sea, Masan Gilani. Besides, they’re not very good at the ship-to-ship kind of fighting – without their magic, that is.’

  ‘Well, without our marines, neither are we.’

  ‘They don’t know that, do they?’

  ‘We haven’t got Quick Ben any more either.’

  Cord leaned on the steering oar and looked across at her. ‘You spent most of your time in the town, didn’t you? Just a few trips back and forth to us up the north side of the island. Masan Gilani, Quick Ben had all the moves, aye, and even the look of an Imperial High Mage. Shifty, mysterious and scary as Hood’s arse-crack. But I’ll tell you this – Sinn, well, she’s the real thing.’

  ‘If you say so.’ All Masan Gilani could think of, when it came to Sinn, was the little mute child curling up in the arms of every woman in sight, suckling on tits like a newborn. Of course, that was outside Y’Ghatan. Long ago, now.

  ‘I do say so,’ Cord insisted. ‘Now, if you ain’t interested in getting unofficial with this sergeant here, best take your swaying hips elsewhere.’

  ‘You men really are all the same.’

  ‘And so are you women. Might interest you,’ he added as she turned to leave, ‘Crump’s no whiskered shrew under those breeches.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’ But she paused at the steps leading down to the main deck and glanced back at the sergeant. ‘Really?’

  ‘Think I’d lie about something like that?’

  He watched Masan Gilani sashay her way up the main deck to where Balm and the rest were gambling, Crump with all the winnings, thus far. They’d reel him in later, of course. Although idiots had a way of being damnably lucky.

  In any case, the thought of Masan Gilani ending up with Crump, of all people, was simply too hilarious to let pass. If she wasn’t interested in decent men like Sergeant Cord, well, she could have the sapper and so deserve everything that came with him. Aye, he’ll worship you all right. Even what you cough up every morning and that sweet way you clear your nose before going into battle. Oh, wait till I tell Shard about this. And Ebron. And Limp. We’ll set up a book, aye. How long before she runs screaming. With Crump loping desperate after her, knees at his ears.

  Ebron climbed onto the aft deck. ‘What’s got you looking so cheerful, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Dropped out of the game?’

  ‘Crump’s still winning.’

  ‘Ain’t turned it yet?’

  ‘We tried, half a bell ago, Sergeant. But the damned fool’s luck’s gone all uncanny.’

  ‘Really? He’s not a mage or something, is he?’

  ‘Gods no, the very opposite. All my magics go awry – the ones I tried on him and on the bones and skull. Those Mott Irregulars, they were mage-hunters, you know. High Marshal this and High Marshal that – if Crump really is a Bole, one of the brothers, well, they were legendary.’

  ‘You saying we’re underestimating the bastard, Ebron?’

  The squad mage looked morose. ‘By about three hundred imperial jakatas and counting, Sergeant.’

  Hood’s balls, maybe Masan Gilani will like being Queen of the Universe.

  ‘What was that you were going to tell me about, Sergeant?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Shurq Elalle stood on the foredeck of the Froth Wolf and held a steady, gauging eye on the Undying Gratitude five reaches ahead. All sails out, riding high. Skorgen Kaban was captaining her ship and would continue to do so until they reached the mouth of the Lether River. Thus far, he’d not embarrassed himself – or, more important, her.

  She wasn’t very happy about all of this, but these Malazans were paying her well indeed. Good-quality gold, and a chestful of that would come in handy in the days, months and probably years to come.

  Yet another invasion of the Letherii Empire, and in its own way possibly just as nasty as the last one. Were these omens, then, signalling the decline of a once great civilization? Conquered by barbaric Tiste Edur, and now in the midst of a protracted war that might well bleed them out, right down to a lifeless corpse.

  Unless, of course, those hapless abandoned marines – whatever ‘marines’ were; soldiers, anyway – were already jellied and dissolving into the humus. A very real possibility, and Shurq was not privy to any details of the campaign so she had no way of knowing either way.

  So, here she was, returning at last to Letheras…maybe just in time to witness its conquest.
Witness – now really, darling Shurq, you’ve a bigger role than that. Like leading the damned enemy right up to the docks. And how famous will that make you then? How many more curses on your name?

  ‘There is a ritual,’ said a voice behind her.

  She turned. That odd man, the one in the ratty robes, whose face was so easily forgotten. The priest. ‘Banaschar, is it?’

  He nodded. ‘May I join you, Captain?’

  ‘As you please, but at the moment I am not a captain. I’m a passenger, a guest.’

  ‘As am I,’ he replied. ‘As I mentioned a moment ago, there is a ritual.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘To find and bind your soul to your body once more – to remove your curse and make you alive again.’

  ‘A little late for that, even if I desired such a thing, Banaschar.’

  His brows rose. ‘You do not dream of living again?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I am probably the last living High Priest of D’rek, the Worm of Autumn. The face of the aged, the dying and the diseased. And of the all-devouring earth that takes flesh and bone, and the fires that transform into ashes—’

  ‘Yes, fine, I grasp the allusions.’

  ‘I, more perhaps than most, do understand the tension between the living and the dead, the bitterness of the season that finds each and every one of us—’

  ‘Do you always go on like this?’

  He looked away. ‘No. I am trying to resurrect my faith—’

  ‘By the Tiles, Banaschar, don’t make me laugh. Please.’

  ‘Laugh? Ah, yes, the play on words. Accidental—’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  That elicited a mocking smile – which was better than the grave misery that had been there a moment earlier. ‘Very well, Shurq Elalle, why do you not wish to live once again?’

  ‘I don’t get old, do I? I stay as I am, suitably attractive—’

  ‘Outwardly, yes.’

  ‘And have you taken the time to look inward, Banaschar?’

  ‘I would not do such a thing without your permission.’

  ‘I give it. Delve deep, High Priest.’

  His gaze fixed on her, but slowly surrendered its focus. A moment passed, then he paled, blinked and stepped back. ‘Gods below, what is that?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, good sir.’