The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Oh, this was a nightmare. He had done nothing, he had been too much the coward. And he had watched her leave, with all the others so struck by loss, as they set out on a hopeless pilgrimage, a fatal search to find Her once again. What a journey that must have been! Before the last crazed one fell for the final time, punctuating a trail of corpses leagues long. A crusade of the insane, wandering into the nowhere.

  Kharkanas was virtually an empty city after they’d gone. Anomander Rake’s first lordship over echoing chambers, empty houses. There would be many more.

  A calm, then, drifting on like flotsam in the stream, not yet caught by the rushes, not yet so waterlogged that it vanished, tumbled like a severed moon into the muddy bed. Of course it couldn’t last. One more betrayal was needed, to shatter the world once and for all.

  The night just past Endest Silann, making his way to a back storeroom on the upper level, came upon the Son of Darkness in a corridor. Some human, thinking the deed one of honour, had hung a series of ancient Andii tapestries down both walls of the passage. Scenes of Kharkanas, and one indeed showing Dorssan Ryl – although none would know if not familiar with that particular vantage point, for the river was but a dark slash, a talon curled round the city’s heart. There was no particular order, arrayed so in ignorance, and to walk this corridor was to be struck by a collage of images, distinct as memories not one tethered to the next.

  Anomander Rake had been standing before one, his eyes a deep shade of amber. Predatory, fixed as a lion’s before a killing charge. On the faded tapestry a figure stood tall amidst carnage. The bodies tumbled before him all bled from wounds to the back. Nothing subtle here, the weaver’s outrage dripped from every thread. White-skinned, onyx-eyed, sweat-blackened hair braided like hanging ropes. Slick swords in his hands, he looked out upon the viewer, defiant and cold. In the wracked sky behind him wheeled Locqui Wyval with women’s heads, their mouths open in screams almost audible.

  ‘He did not mean it,’ said Anomander Rake.

  But he did. ‘Your ability to forgive far surpasses mine, Lord.’

  ‘The body follows the head, but sometimes it’s the other way round. There was a cabal. Ambitious, hungry. They used him, Endest, they used him badly.’

  ‘They paid for it, didn’t they?’

  ‘We all did, old friend.’

  Endest Silann looked away. ‘I so dislike this hallway, Lord. When I must walk it, I look neither left nor right.’

  Rake grunted. ‘It is indeed a gauntlet of recrimination.’

  ‘Reminders, Lord, of the fact that some things never change.’

  ‘You must wrest yourself loose, Endest. This despondency can…ravage the soul.’

  ‘I have heard, there is a river that empties into Coral Bay. Eryn or Maurik. Which seems depthless.’

  Anomander Rake, still studying the tapestry, nodded.

  ‘Spinnock Durav has seen it, walked its shores. He says it reminds him of Dorssan Ryl…his childhood.’

  ‘Yes, there are some similarities.’

  ‘I was thinking, if I could be spared…’

  His Lord glanced over and smiled. ‘A pilgrimage? Of course, Endest. If, that is, you can return before a month passes.’

  Ah, are we so close, then? ‘I will not stay long, Lord. Only to see, with my own eyes, that is all.’

  The glance had become something more focused, and the amber glare had dimmed to something like…like mud. ‘I fear you may be disappointed. It is but a deep river. We cannot touch the past, old friend.’ He looked back once more on the tapestry. ‘And the echoes we imagine we hear, well, they deceive. Do not be surprised, Endest, if you find nothing you seek, and everything you fear.’

  And what is it, Lord, that you think I seek? I would not ask what you think I fear for you know the answer to that one. ‘I thought the walk might do me some good.’

  ‘And so it shall.’

  Now, the next day, he sat in his chamber. A small leather pack of supplies rested beside the door. And the thought of a walk, a long one, up rugged mountainsides beneath hard sunlight, no longer seemed so appetizing. Age did such things, feeding the desire then starving the will. And what, after all, would seeing the river achieve?

  A reminder of illusions, perhaps, a reminder that, in a realm for ever beyond reach, there stood the ruin of a once-great city, and, flowing round it, Dorssan Ryl, living on, ceaseless in its perfect absence, in playing its game of existence. A river of purest darkness, the life water of the Tiste Andii, and if the children were gone, well, what difference did that make?

  Children will leave. Children will abandon the old ways, and the old fools with all their pointless advice can mutter and grumble to empty spaces and nod at the answering echoes. Stone and brickwork make ideal audiences.

  No, he would make this journey. He would defy the follies of old age, unmeasured and unmocked under the eyes of the young. A solitary pilgrimage.

  And all these thoughts, seeming so indulgent and wayward, will perhaps reveal their worth then, driving dire echoes forward to that future moment of revelation. Hah. Did he believe such things? Did he possess the necessary faith?

  ‘Ask no question, the river shall answer.’

  ‘Question the river, find the answer.’

  The Mad Poets spent lifetimes waging profound wars in their rendered prose. Achieving what? Why, the implosive obliteration of their tradition.

  Summarize that in two clauses.

  ‘I need you to make a journey.’

  Spinnock Durav managed a smile. ‘When, Lord?’

  Anomander Rake stretched out his legs until his boots were very nearly in the flames of the hearth. ‘Soon, I think. Tell me, how goes the game?’

  He squinted at the fire. ‘Not well. Oh, I win each time. It’s just that my finest opponent does poorly of late. His mind is on other matters, unfortunately. I am not pressed, and this removes much of the pleasure.’

  ‘This would be Seerdomin.’

  Spinnock glanced up, momentarily surprised. But of course, he told himself, he is the Son of Darkness, after all. They may well call him the Ghost King, but I doubt there is a single detail he does not know in Black Coral. They will not heed that until they make a terrible mistake and then it will be too late. ‘Seerdomin, yes. The Benighted.’

  A faint smile from Anomander Rake. ‘Itkovian was a most extraordinary man. This newborn cult interests me, and I am not so sure it would have pleased him. He saw himself as a soldier, a failed one at that – the fall of Capustan devastated him.’ He paused for a moment, clearly remembering, then he said, ‘They were but a mercenary company, modest in complement – nothing like the Crimson Guard. I dare say even the Crimson Guard would have failed to hold Capustan.’

  Spinnock Durav remained silent, attentive. He had been away during that time. Another journey on behalf of his Lord. Hunting a dragon, of all things. Conversations like the one he’d found at the end of that quest were not worth repeating.

  ‘He could forgive everyone but himself.’

  No wonder you liked him.

  Anomander Rake sighed. ‘I cannot say how long you will need, Spinnock. As long, perhaps, as you can manage.’

  As the significance of that statement settled into Spinnock Durav he felt an uncharacteristic flash of dismay. Angry at himself, he slowly settled his hands on the arms of the chair, fingers curling round the smooth wood, hoping he’d left nothing in his expression. This is what I do and will do. Until my end. She is young, so young – oh, there’s no point in thinking about…about any of that. About her at all. Was he able to keep the anguish from his eyes? What thoughts – doubts – rustled through his Lord now as he watched his old friend? Feeling defeated, Spinnock Durav glanced over at Anomander Rake.

  The ruler of Black Coral sat frowning at his smouldering boots.

  So, how long has he been thus? ‘I have always…managed, Lord.’

  ‘Yes, you have. I am curious. What so afflicts Seerdomin?’

  ‘A crisis of faith,
I think.’ Life like Kef Tanar, this skipping across paths. He does it so well, this man whom I have never defeated in our tabletop wars, not in ten thousand years. But I can stay with you, Lord, at least this far. ‘He has ceased making his daily pilgrimage. Among those living out there, there have grown…expectations. Which, it seems, he is unable to meet.’

  ‘You tread carefully, Spinnock Durav. That is unlike you.’

  ‘I do not possess all the details yet.’

  ‘But you shall.’

  ‘Eventually, yes.’

  ‘And then?’

  Spinnock looked across at Rake. ‘I will do what needs doing.’

  ‘Best hurry, then.’

  Ah, yes, I see now.

  ‘The Redeemer is a most helpless god,’ Anomander Rake said after a time. ‘Unable to refuse, unable to give. A sea sponge swallowing the entire sea. Then the next one and the one after that. Can it simply go on for ever? But for Itkovian, I would think not.’

  ‘Is that a sort of faith, Lord?’

  ‘Perhaps it is. Is his ability to forgive truly endless? To take on the pain and guilt of others for all eternity? I admit, I have some serious difficulties with this cult’s root tenets – oh, as I said, I greatly admired Itkovian, the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords. I even understand, to some extent, his gesture with the Kron T’lan Imass. As the Redeemer, however…I cannot but wonder at a god so willing to assume the crimes and moral flaws of its followers, while in turn demanding nothing – no expectation of a change in behaviour, no threat of punishment should they continue to transgress. Absolution – yes, I grasp the notion, but absolution is not the same as redemption, is it? The former is passive. The latter demands an effort, one with implicit sacrifice and hardship, one demanding all the higher qualities of what we call virtues.’

  ‘Yet he is called the Redeemer.’

  ‘Because he takes on the task of redemption for all who come to him, all who pray to him. And yes, it is an act of profound courage. But he does not expect the same of his people – he appears to possess no expectations whatsoever.’

  This was most loquacious of his Lord, evidence of a long, careful condensation of thought, of considerable energy devoted to the nature of the cult clinging to the very edge of Black Coral and Night, all of which seemed…unusual. ‘He leads by example, then.’

  A sudden glitter of interest in Anomander Rake’s eyes and he studied Spinnock Durav intently. ‘Has any one follower stumbled on to that possibility, Spinnock Durav?’

  ‘I do not know. I, er, don’t think so – but, Lord, I am too far outside all of it at the moment.’

  ‘If the Redeemer cannot deny, then he is trapped in a state of imbalance. I wonder, what would be needed to redress that imbalance?’

  Spinnock Durav found his mouth dry, and if he’d built proud castles of comprehension, if he’d raised sound fortifications to guard his assumptions, and arrayed vast armies to argue his case and to shift and align and manoeuvre to defend his cherished notions – if he had done all this to then sit in comfort, secure in his place in this conversation – if this was indeed a game of Kef Tanar, then in one simple question posed, his foe had crashed his empire to ruin.

  What would be needed to redress that imbalance?

  A man who refuses.

  You tell me time is short, my Lord. You lead me to elucidate what bothers me – for you can see that something does – and then, amidst the lofty clouds of religious discussion, you lash a lightning bolt down, striking my very heart.

  If I am to do something, I must do it soon.

  My Lord, my awe of you is unbounded. My love for you and the compassion you so delicately unveil leads me into this willingness, to storm without hesitation what you would have me storm, to stand for as long as needed, for it is what you need.

  ‘It is well I am immune to heat,’ Anomander Rake said, ‘for I have scorched my boots most severely.’

  And so the fire grows round you, yet you do not flinch.

  I will not fail you, my Lord.

  ‘Endest Silann is upon the mountain road now,’ Anomander Rake said, rising. ‘And Crone has returned but soon must wing away again. I shall ask her to send a few grandchildren to guard him on his journey. Unless, of course, you think it might offend Endest Silann should he see them wheeling overhead?’

  ‘It might, Lord, but that should not change your decision.’

  A faint smile. ‘Agreed. Send my regards to the priestess, Spinnock.’

  Until that moment, he had not known he was going to visit the High Priestess – who had scoured away her very name in service to her role in the Temple of Darkness, to make of her ever-open legs an impersonal act, that made her body a vessel and nothing more – but he now knew that he needed to do just that. Kurald Galain was a most troubled warren right now. Storms rumbled within it, drumming every thread of power. Energies crackled. Making her insatiable. So, she will want me – but that is not what concerns Anomander Rake. There is something else. I must go to her, and I don’t even know why.

  But he does.

  Spinnock Durav found himself sitting alone in the small chamber. The fire was down to coals. The air smelled of burned leather.

  The High Priestess of the Temple of Dark had cut her hair even shorter, making her disturbingly boyish as she pushed him on to his back, straddling him with her usual eagerness. Normally, he would now begin to slow her down, providing a force of resistance defying her impatience, and so drawing out her pleasure. This time, however, he let her have her way. This was all incidental. Since that unknown force had trembled through Kurald Galain, all the priestesses had been frantic in their desire, forcing male Tiste Andii into the temple and the rooms with the plush beds. If the rumours were true, then even the occasional human was dragged in for the same needful interrogation.

  But no answers could be found in the indulgences of the flesh, and perhaps all this was a kind of metaphorical revelation of that raw truth, one that extended far beyond the temple and the prescriptions of priestesses. Yet, did he not want answers from Salind? From that young human woman who could not be more than twenty years of age? From another High Priestess?

  He had seen too much, had lived too long. All she faced ahead and all the experiences still awaiting her – they belonged to her age, and should indeed be shared – if at all – by one of similar years. He had no desire to be a mentor, for the student soon grows past the need of one (if the mentor has done his job well), and then it is the mentor who rails against the notion of equality, or of being surpassed. But the impossibility of the notion went further. She would never surpass him. Instead, she would grow old all too quickly, and the sensibilities of her life, a life so truncated, could never match his.

  Korlat had not hesitated with the Malazan sergeant Whiskeyjack – Spinnock had heard the tragic tale, bound up as it was in the conquest of Black Coral and the fall of the Pannion Domin. And the prolonged absence of both Korlat and her brother, Orfantal. Nevertheless, Whiskeyjack had been a man in his late forties – he had lived most of a life. And who could say if the union could have lasted? When, in a terribly short span of years, Korlat would have seen her beloved descend into decay, his back bent, hands atremble, memory failing.

  Spinnock could almost imagine the end of that, as, broken-hearted, Korlat would face a moment with a knife in her hands, contemplating the mercy of ending her husband’s life. Was this a thing to look forward to? Do we not possess enough burdens as it is?

  ‘If not for your desire I could feel in my nest,’ said the woman now lying beneath him, ‘I would think you disinterested, Spinnock Durav. You have not been with me here, it seems, and while it’s said a man’s sword never lies, now I truly wonder if that is so.’

  Blinking, he looked down into her face. A most attractive face, one that both suited the nature of her devotion and yet seemed far too innocent – too open – for this life of uninhibited indulgence. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I waited for you to…leave.’

  She pushed ou
t from under him, sat up and ran her long-fingered hands through the brush of her hair. ‘We fail in that of late,’ she said.

  Ah, so that is the reason for your desperation, your avidness.

  ‘It will return,’ she said. ‘It must. Something…changes, Spin.’

  He stared at her unblemished back, the graceful curve of her spine, the slight rounding on her hips that he knew to be soft and cool to the touch. The angle of her shoulders bespoke either temporary satiation or a more prolonged weariness. ‘Our Lord sends his regards.’

  She turned to look down at him, brows lifted in surprise. ‘He does? That would be a first.’

  Spinnock frowned. Yes, it would. I hadn’t thought of that. ‘I will be leaving soon.’

  Her eyes hardened. ‘Why does he treat you so? As if he possessed you, to do with as he pleases.’

  ‘I stand in his stead.’

  ‘But you are not the Son of Darkness.’

  ‘No, that is true.’

  ‘One day you are going to die in his stead.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And then he will need to find another fool.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She glared down at him, then turned and swiftly rose. Black skin polished in the glow of the lanterns – nothing boy-like now, a figure all curves and softened planes. Spinnock smiled. ‘I will miss you as well.’

  Faint surrender as she sighed. And when she faced him again, there was nothing veiled in her eyes. ‘We do what we can.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. The Temple – my priestesses. We try as Anomander Rake tries, both of us, seeking to hold on to some meaning, some purpose. He imagines it can be found in the struggles of lesser folk – of humans and all their miserable squabbles. He is wrong. We know this and so too does he. The Temple, Spin, chooses another way. The rebirth of our Gate, the return of Mother Dark, into our lives, our souls.’

  ‘Yes. And?’

  Something crumpled in her expression. ‘We fail as he does. We know and he knows. The Son of Darkness does not send me his regards.’