‘They don’t make taverns dry,’ Hellian said.
‘I’m sure you didn’t say that quite right—’
‘Corporal, you hearing all this?’
‘Yes.
‘Aye.’
‘Good. String this fool up. By his nostrils. From that beam right there.’
‘By his nostrils, Sergeant?’
‘That you again, Snortface?’
Hellian smiled as the corporal used four arms to grab the barkeep and drag him across the counter. The man was suddenly nowhere near as laconic as he was a moment ago. Sputtering, clawing at the hands gripping him, he shouted, ‘Wait! Wait!’
Everyone halted.
‘In the cellar,’ the man gasped.
‘Give my corporal directions and proper ones,’ Hellian said, so very satisfied now, except for her dribbling ear, but oh, if any of her soldiers got out of line she could pick the scab and bleed all over them and wouldn’t they feel just awful about it and then do exactly what she wanted them to do, ‘which is guard the door.’
‘Sergeant?’
‘You heard me, guard the door, so we’re not disturbed.’
‘Who are we on the lookout for?’ Snivelnose asked. ‘Ain’t nobody—’
‘The captain, who else? She’s probably still after us, damn her.’
Memories, Icarium now understood, were not isolated things. They did not exist within high-walled compartments in a mind. Instead, they were like the branches of a tree, or perhaps a continuous mosaic on a floor that one could play light over, illuminating patches here and there. Yet, and he knew this as well, for others that patch of light was vast and bright, encompassing most of a life, and although details might be blurred, scenes made hazy and uncertain with time, it was, nevertheless, a virtual entirety. And from this was born a sense of a self.
Which he did not possess and perhaps had never possessed. And in the grip of such ignorance, he was as malleable as a child. To be used; to be, indeed, abused. And many had done so, for there was power in Icarium, far too much power.
Such exploitation was now at an end. All of Taralack Veed’s exhortations were as wind in the distance, and he was not swayed. The Gral would be Icarium’s last companion.
He stood in the street, all of his senses awakened to the realization that he knew this place, this modest patch of the mosaic grey with promise. And true illumination was finally at hand. The measuring of time, from this moment and for ever onward. A life begun again, with no risk of losing his sense of self.
My hands have worked here. In this city, beneath this city.
And now awaits me, to be awakened.
And when I have done that, I will begin anew. A life, a host of tesserae to lay down one by one.
He set out, then, for the door.
The door into his machine.
He walked, unmindful of those scurrying in his wake, of the figures and soldiers moving out of his path. He heard but held no curiosity for the sounds of fighting, the violence erupting in the streets to either side, the detonations as of lightning although this dawn was breaking clear and still. He passed beneath diffused shadows cast down by billowing smoke from burning buildings, wagons and barricades. He heard screams and shouts but did not seek out where they came from, even to lend succour as he would normally have done. He stepped over bodies in the street.
He walked alongside an ash-laden greasy canal for a time, then reached a bridge and crossed over into what was clearly an older part of the city. Down another street to an intersection, whereupon he swung left and continued on.
There were more people here in this quarter – with the day growing bolder and all sounds of fighting a distant roar to the west – yet even here the people seemed dazed. None of the usual conversations, the hawkers crying their wares, beasts pulling loaded carts. The drifting smoke wafted down like an omen, and the citizens wandered through it as if lost.
He drew nearer the door. Of course, it was nothing like a door in truth. More like a wound, a breach. He could feel its power stir to life, for as he sensed it so too did it sense him.
Icarium then slowed. A wound, yes. His machine was wounded. Its pieces had been twisted, shifted out of position. Ages had passed since he had built it, so he should not be surprised. Would it still work? He was no longer so sure.
This is mine. I must make it right, no matter the cost.
I will have this gift. I will have it.
He started forward once more.
The house that had once disguised this nexus of the machine had collapsed into ruin and no efforts had been made to clear the wreckage. There was a man standing before it.
After a long moment, Icarium realized that he recognized this man. He had been aboard the ships, and the name by which he had been known was Taxilian.
As Icarium walked up to him, Taxilian, his eyes strangely bright, bowed and stepped back. ‘This, Icarium,’ he said, ‘is your day.’
My day? Yes, my first day.
Lifestealer faced the ruin.
A glow was now rising from somewhere inside, shafts slanting up between snapped timbers and beams, lancing out in spears from beneath stone and brick. The glow burgeoned, and the world beneath him seemed to tremble. But no, that was no illusion – buildings groaned, shuddered. Splintering sounds, shutters rattling as from a gust of wind.
Icarium drew a step closer, drawing a dagger.
Thunder sounded beneath him, making the cobbles bounce in puffs of dust. Somewhere, in the city, structures began to break apart, as sections and components within them stirred into life, into inexorable motion. Seeking to return to a most ancient pattern.
More thunder, as buildings burst apart.
Columns of dust corkscrewed skyward.
And still the white glow lifted, spread out in a fashion somewhere between liquid and fire, pouring, leaping, the shafts and spears twisting in the air. Engulfing the ruin, spilling out onto the street, lapping around Icarium, who drew the sharp-edged blade diagonally, deep, up one forearm; then did the same with the other – holding the weapon tight in a blood-soaked hand.
Who then raised his hands.
To measure time, one must begin. To grow futureward, one must root. Deep into the ground with blood.
I built this machine. This place that will forge my beginning. No longer outside the world. No longer outside time itself. Give me this, wounded or not, give me this. If K’rul can, why not me?
All that poured from his wrists flared incandescent. And Icarium walked into the white.
Taxilian was thrown back as the liquid fire exploded outward. A moment of surprise, before he was incinerated. The eruption tore into the neighbouring buildings, obliterating them. The street in front of what had once been Scale House became a maelstrom of shattered cobbles, the shards of stone racing outward to stipple walls and punch through shutters. The building opposite tilted back, every brace snapping, then collapsed inward.
Fleeing the sudden storm, Taralack Veed and Senior Assessor ran – a half-dozen strides before both were thrown from their feet.
The Cabalhii monk, lying on his back, had a momentary vision of a mass of masonry rushing down, and in that moment he burst out laughing – a sound cut short as the tons of rubble crushed him.
Taralack Veed had rolled with his tumble, narrowly avoiding that descending wall. Deafened, half blind, he used his hands to drag himself onward, tearing his nails away and lacerating his palms and fingers on the broken cobbles.
And there, through the dust, the billowing white fire, he saw his village, the huts, the horses in their roped kraal, and there, on the hill beyond, the goats huddled beneath the tree, sheltering from the terrible sun. Dogs lying in the shade, children on their knees playing with the tiny clay figurines that some travelling Malazan scholar had thought to be of great and sacred significance, but were in truth no more than toys, for all children loved toys.
Why, he had had his very own collection and this was long before he killed his woman and her lov
er, before killing the man’s brother who had proclaimed the feud and had drawn the knife.
But now, all at once, the goats were crying out, crying out in dread pain and terror – dying! The huge tree in flames, branches crashing down.
The huts were burning and bodies sprawled in the dust with faces red with ruin. And this was death, then, death in the breaking of what had always been, solid and predictable, pure and reliable. The breaking – devastation, to take it all away.
Taralack Veed screamed, bloodied hands reaching for those toys – those beautiful, so very sacred toys—
The enormous chunk of stone that slanted down took the top of Taralack Veed’s head at an angle, crushing bone and brain, and, as it skidded away, it left a greasy smear of red- and grey-streaked hair.
Throughout the city, buildings erupted into clouds of dust. Stone, tile, bricks and wood sailed outward, and white fire poured forth, shafts of argent light arcing out through walls, as if nothing could exist that could impede them. A shimmering, crazed web of light, linking each piece of the machine. And the power flowed, racing in blinding pulses, and they all drew inward, to one place, to one heart.
Icarium.
The north and west outer walls detonated as sections of their foundations shifted, moved four, five paces, twisting as if vast pieces of a giant puzzle were being moved into place. Rent, sundered, parts of those walls toppled and the sound of that impact rumbled beneath every street.
In the courtyard of an inn that had, through nefarious schemes, become the property of Rautos Hivanar, a huge piece of metal, bent at right angles, now lifted straight upward to twice the height of the man standing before it. Revealing, at its base, a hinge of white fire.
And the structure then tilted, dropped forward like a smith’s hammer.
Rautos Hivanar dived to escape, but not quickly enough, as the massive object slammed down onto the backs of his legs.
Pinned, as white fire licked out towards him, Rautos could feel his blood draining down from his crushed legs, turning the compound’s dust into mud.
Yes, he thought, as it began with mud, so it now ends—
The white fire enveloped him.
And sucked out from his mind every memory he possessed.
The thing that died there a short time later was not Rautos Hivanar.
The vast web’s pulsing lasted but a half-dozen heartbeats. The shifting of the pieces of the machine, with all the destruction that entailed, was even more short-lived. Yet, in that time, all who were devoured by the white fire emptied their lives into it. Every memory, from the pain of birth to the last moment of death.
The machine, alas, was indeed broken.
As the echoes of groaning stone and metal slowly faded, the web flickered, then vanished. And now, dust warred with the smoke in the air above Letheras.
A few remaining sections of stone and brick toppled, but these were but modest adjustments in the aftermath of what had gone before.
And in this time of settling, the first voices of pain, the first cries for help, lifted weakly from heaps of rubble.
The ruins of Scale House were naught but white dust, and from it nothing stirred.
The bed of a canal had cracked during the earthquake, opening a wide fissure into which water plunged, racing down veins between compacted bricks and fill. And in the shaking repercussions of falling structures, buried foundations shifted, cracked, slumped.
Barely noticed amidst all the others, then, the explosion that tore up through that canal in a spray of sludge and water was relatively minor, yet it proved singular in one detail, for as the muddy rain of the canal’s water sluiced down onto the still-buckling streets, a figure clawed up from the canal, hands reaching for mooring rungs, pulling itself from the churning foam.
An old man.
Who stood, ragged tunic streaming brown water, and did not move while chaos and spears of blinding light tore through Letheras. Who remained motionless, indeed, after those terrifying events vanished and faded.
An old man.
Torn between incandescent rage and dreadful fear.
Because of who he was, the fear won out. Not for himself, of course, but for a mortal man who was, the old man knew, about to die.
And he would not reach him in time.
Well, so it would be rage after all. Vengeance against the Errant would have to wait its turn. First, vengeance against a man named Karos Invictad.
Mael, Elder God of the Seas, had work to do.
Lostara Yil and the Adjunct rode side by side at the head of the column of cavalry. Directly ahead they could see the west wall of the city. Enormous cracks were visible through the dust, and the gate before them remained open.
The horses were winded, their breaths gusting from foam-flecked nostrils.
Almost there.
‘Adjunct, was that munitions?’
Tavore glanced across, then shook her head.
‘Not a chance,’ Masan Gilani said behind them. ‘Only a handful of crackers in the whole lot. Something else did all that.’
Lostara twisted in her saddle.
Riding beside Masan Gilani was Sinn. Not riding well, either. Gilani was staying close, ready to reach out a steadying hand. The child seemed dazed, almost drunk. Lostara swung back. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ she asked the Adjunct.
‘I don’t know.’
As the road’s slope climbed towards the gate, they could see the river on their left. Thick with sails. The Malazan fleet and the two Thrones of War had arrived. The main army was only two or three bells behind the Adjunct’s column, and Fist Blistig was pushing them hard.
They drew closer.
‘That gate’s not going to close ever again,’ Lostara observed. ‘In fact, I’m amazed it’s still up.’ Various carved blocks in the arch had slipped down, jamming atop the massive wooden doors, which served to bind them in place.
As they rode up, two marines emerged from the shadows. Had the look of heavies, and both were wounded. The Dal Honese one waved.
Reining in before them, the Adjunct was first to dismount, one gloved hand reaching for her sword as she approached.
‘We’re holding still,’ the Dal Honese marine said. Then he raised a bloodied arm. ‘Bastard cut my tendon – it’s all rolled up under the skin – see? Hurts worse than a burr in the arse…sir.’
The Adjunct walked past both marines, into the shadow of the gate. Lostara gestured for the column to dismount, then set out after Tavore. As she came opposite the marines, she asked, ‘What company are you?’
‘Third, Captain. Fifth Squad. Sergeant Badan Gruk’s squad. I’m Reliko and this oaf is Vastly Blank. We had us a fight.’
Onward, through the dusty gloom, then out into dusty, smoke-filled sunlight. Where she halted, seeing all the bodies, all the blood.
The Adjunct stood ten paces in, and Keneb was limping towards her and on his face was desperate relief.
Aye, they had them a fight all right.
Old Hunch Arbat walked into the cleared space and halted beside the slumbering figure in its centre. He kicked.
A faint groan.
He kicked again.
Ublala Pung’s eyes flickered open, stared up uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then the Tarthenal sat up. ‘Is it time?’
‘Half the damned city’s fallen down which is worse than Old Hunch predicted, isn’t it? Oh yes it is, worse and more than worse. Damned gods. But that’s no mind to us, Old Hunch says.’ He cast a critical eye on the lad’s efforts, then grudgingly nodded. ‘It’ll have to do. Just my luck, the last Tarthenal left in Letheras and he’s carrying a sack of sun-baked hens.’
Frowning, Ublala stretched a foot over and nudged the sack. There was an answering cluck and he smiled. ‘They helped me clean,’ he said.
Old Hunch Arbat stared for a moment, then he lifted his gaze and studied the burial grounds. ‘Smell them? Old Hunch does. Get out of this circle, Ublala Pung, unless you want to join in.’
Ublala scratc
hed his jaw. ‘I was told not to join in on things I know nothing about.’
‘Oh? And who told you that?’
‘A fat woman named Rucket, when she got me to swear fealty to the Rat Catchers’ Guild.’
‘The Rat Catchers’ Guild?’
Ublala Pung shrugged. ‘I guess they catch rats, but I’m not sure really.’
‘Out of the circle, lad.’
Three strides by the challenger onto the sands of the arena and the earthquake had struck. Marble benches cracked, people cried out, many falling, tumbling, and the sand itself shimmered then seemed to transform, as conglomerated, gritty lumps of dried blood rose into view like garnets in a prospector’s tin pan.
Samar Dev, shivering despite the sun’s slanting light, held tight to one edge of a bouncing bench, eyes fixed on Karsa Orlong who stood, legs wide to keep his balance but otherwise looking unperturbed – and there, at the other end of the arena, a swaying, hulking figure emerged from a tunnel mouth. Sword sweeping a furrow in the sand.
White fire suddenly illuminated the sky, arcing across the blue-grey sky of sunrise. Flashing, pulsing, then vanishing, as trembles rippled in from the city, then faded away. Plumes of dust spiralled skyward from close by – in the direction of the Old Palace.
On the imperial stand the Chancellor – his face pale and eyes wide with alarm – was sending runners scurrying.
Samar Dev saw Finadd Varat Taun standing near Triban Gnol. Their gazes locked – and she understood. Icarium.
Oh, Taxilian, did you guess aright? Did you see what you longed to see?
‘What is happening?’
The roar brought her round, to where stood the Emperor. Rhulad Sengar was staring up at the Chancellor. ‘Tell me! What has happened?’
Triban Gnol shook his head, then raised his hands. ‘An earthquake, Emperor. Pray to the Errant that it has passed.’
‘Have we driven the invaders from our streets?’
‘We do so even now,’ the Chancellor replied.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 692