Not a single tree was left standing anywhere within half a league of the mine. Down on a slope on the lakeside was a humped cemetery in which sat a few hundred shallow graves. The water just offshore was lifeless and stained red, with a muddy bottom bright orange in colour.
Scented cloth held to his face, Gorlas Vidikas observed the operation which he now managed, although perhaps ‘managed’ was the wrong word. The day to day necessities were the responsibility of the camp workmaster, a scarred and pock-faced man in his fifties with decades-old scraps of raw metal still embedded in his hands. He hacked out a cough after every ten words or so, and spat thick yellow mucus down between his bronze-capped boots.
‘The young ’uns go the fastest, of course.’ Cough, spit. ‘Our moles or so we call ’em, since they can squeeze inta cracks no grown-up can get through,’ cough, spit, ‘and this way if there’s bad air it’s none of our stronger workers get killed.’ Cough… ‘We was havin’ trouble gettin’ enough young ’uns for a time there, until we started buyin’ ’em from the poorer fam’lies both in and outa the city – they got too many runts t’feed, ye see? An’ we got special rules for the young ’uns – nobody gets their hands on ’em, if you know what I mean.
‘From them it goes on up. A miner lasts maybe five years, barring falls and the like. When they get too sick we move ’em outa the tunnels, make ’em shift captains. A few might get old enough for foreman – I was one of them, ye see. Got my hands dirty as a lad and ’ere I am and if that’s not freedom I don’t know what is, hey?’
This workmaster, Gorlas Vidikas silently predicted, would be dead inside three years. ‘Any trouble with the prisoners?’ he asked.
‘Nah, most don’t live long enough to cause trouble. We make ’em work the deadlier veins. It’s the arsenic what kills ’em, mostly – we’re pullin’ gold out too, you know. Profit’s gone up three thousand per cent in the past year. E’en my share I’m looking at maybe buying a small estate.’
Gorlas glanced across at this odious creature. ‘You married?’
Cough, spit. ‘Not yet,’ and he grinned, ‘but you know what a rich man can buy, hey?’
‘As part of what I am sure will be an exceptional relationship,’ Gorlas said, where I profit from your work, ‘I am prepared to finance you on such an estate. A modest down payment on your part, at low interest…’
‘Really? Why, noble sir, that would be fine. Yessy, very fine. We can do that all right.’
And when you kick off with no heirs I acquire yet another property in the Estate District. ‘It is my pleasure,’ he said with a smile. ‘Those of us who have done well in our lives need to help each other whenever we can.’
‘My thoughts too, ’bout all that. My thoughts exactly.’
Smoke and stenches, voices ringing through dust, oxen lowing as they strained with overloaded wagons. Gorlas Vidikas and the dying workmaster looked down on the scene, feeling very pleased with themselves.
Harllo squirmed his way out from the fissure, the hand holding the candle stretched out in front of him, and felt a calloused grip wrap round his narrow wrist. The candle was taken and then Bainisk was pulling Harllo out, surprisingly tender but that was Bainisk, a wise veteran all of sixteen years old, half his face a streak of shiny scar tissue through which peered the glittering blue of his eyes – both of which had miraculously escaped damage. He was grinning now as he helped Harllo on to his feet.
‘Well, Mole?’
‘Iron, raw and cold and wide across as three of my hands laid flat.’
‘The air?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
Laughing, Bainisk slapped him on the back. ‘You’ve earned the afternoon. Back to Chuffs you go.’
Harllo frowned. ‘Please, can’t I stay on here?’
‘Venaz giving you more trouble?’
‘Bullies don’t like me,’ Harllo said.
‘That’s ’cause you’re smart. Now listen, I warned him off once already and once is all the warning I give and he knows that so he won’t be bothering you. We need our moles happy and in one piece. It’s a camp law. I’m in charge of Chuffs, right?’
Harllo nodded. ‘Only you won’t be there, will you? Not this afternoon.’
‘Venaz is in the kitchen today. It’ll be all right.’
Nodding, Harllo collected his small sack of gear, which was a little heavier than usual, and set out for upside. He liked the tunnels, at least when the air wasn’t foul and burning his throat. Surrounded by so much solid stone made him feel safe, protected, and he loved most those narrowest of cracks that only he could get through – or the few others like him, still fit with no broken bones and still small enough. He’d only cracked one finger so far and that was on his right hand which he used to hold the candle and not much else. He could pull himself along with his left, his half-naked body slick with sweat despite the damp stone and the trickles of icy water.
Exploring places no one had ever seen before. Or dragging the thick snaking hoses down into the icy pools then calling out for the men on the pumps to get started, and in the candle’s fitful flickering light he’d watch the water level descend and see, sometimes, the strange growths on the stone, and in the crevices the tiny blind fish that – if he could reach – he slid into his mouth and chewed and swallowed, so taking something of this underworld into himself, and, just like those fish, at times he didn’t even need his eyes, only his probing fingers, the taste and smell of the air and stone, the echoes of water droplets and the click-click of the white roaches skittering away.
Earlier this morning he’d been sent down a crevasse, ropes tied to his ankles as he was lowered like a dead weight, down, down, three then four knots of rope, before his outstretched hands found warm, dry rock, and here, so far below ground, the air was hot and sulphurous and the candle when he lit it flared in a crossflow of sweet rich air.
In the yellow light he looked round and saw, sitting up against a wall of the crevasse not three paces away, a corpse. Desiccated, the face collapsed and the eye sockets shrunken holes. Both legs were shattered, clearly from a fall, the shards sticking through the leathery skin.
Furs drawn up like a blanket; and within reach of one motionless, skeletal hand was a rotted bag now split open, revealing two antler picks, a bone punch and a ground-stone mallet. A miner, Harllo realized, just like him. A miner of long, long ago.
Another step closer, eyes on those wonderful tools which he’d like to take, and the corpse spoke.
‘As you please, cub.’
Harllo lunged backward. His heart pounded wild in the cage of his chest. ‘A demon!’
‘Patron of miners, perhaps. Not a demon, cub, not a demon.’
The candle had gone out with Harllo’s panicked retreat. The corpse’s voice, sonorous, with a rhythm like waves on a sandy beach, echoed out from the pitch black darkness.
‘I am Dev’ad Anan Tol, of the Irynthal Clan of the Imass, who once lived on the shores of the Jhagra Til until the Tyrant Raest came to enslave us. Sent us down into the rock, where we all died. Yet see, I did not die. Alone of all my kin, I did not die.’
Harllo shakily fumbled with the candle, forcing the oiled wick into the spring spark tube. Three quick hissing pumps of the sparker and flame darted up.
‘Nice trick, that.’
‘The tube’s got blue gas, not much and runs out fast so it needs refilling. There’s bladders upside. Why didn’t you die?’
‘I have had some time to ponder that question, cub. I have reached but one conclusion that explains my condition. The Ritual of Tellann.’
‘What made the evil T’lan Imass! I heard about that from Uncle Gruntle! Undead warriors at Black Coral – Gruntle saw them with his own eyes! And they kneeled and all their pain was taken from them by a man who then died since there was so much pain he took from them and so they built a barrow and it’s still there and Gruntle said he wept but I don’t believe that because Gruntle is big and the best warrior in the whole world and nothing c
ould make him weep nothing at all!’ And Harllo had to stop then so that he could regain his breath. And still his heart hammered like hailstones on a tin roof.
From the Imass named Dev’ad Anan Tol, silence.
‘You still there?’ Harllo asked.
‘Cub. Take my tools. The first ever made and by my own hand. I was an inventor. In my mind ideas bred with such frenzy that I lived in a fever. At times, at night, I went half mad. So many thoughts, so many notions – my clan feared me. The Bonecaster feared me. Raest himself feared me, and so he had me thrown down here. To die. And my ideas with me.’
‘Should I tell everyone about you? They might decide to lift you out, so you can see the world again.’
‘The world? That tiny flame you hold has shown me more of the world than I can comprehend. The sun…oh, the sun…that would destroy me, I think. To see it again.’
‘We have metal picks now,’ Harllo said. ‘Iron.’
‘Skystone. Yes, I saw much of it in the tunnels. The Jaghut used sorcery to bring it forth and shape it – we were not permitted to witness such things. But I thought, even then, how it might be drawn free, without magic. With heat. Drawn out, given shape, made into useful things. Does Raest still rule?’
‘Never heard of any Raest,’ said Harllo. ‘Bainisk rules Chuffs and Workmaster rules the mine and in the city there’s a council of nobles and in faraway lands there’re kings and queens and emperors and empresses.’
‘And T’lan Imass who kneel.’
Harllo glanced up the shaft – he could hear faint voices, echoing down. ‘They want to pull me back up. What should I tell them about this place?’
‘The wrong rock, the white grit that sickens people. Foul air.’
‘So no one else comes down here.’
‘Yes.’
‘But then you’ll be alone again.’
‘Yes. Tell them, too, that a ghost haunts this place. Show them the ghost’s magical tools.’
‘I will. Listen, could be I might sneak back down here, if you like.’
‘Cub, that would be most welcome.’
‘Can I bring you anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Splints.’
And now Harllo was making his way back to daylight, and in his extra-heavy bag there clunked the tools of the corpse. Antler and bone hardened into stone, tines jabbing at his hip.
If Venaz found out about them he might take them, so Harllo knew he had to be careful. He had to hide them somewhere. Where nobody went or looked or picked through things. Plenty to think about, he had.
And he needed to find something called ‘splints’. Whatever they were.
She insisted on taking his arm as they walked towards the Phoenix Inn, down from the Estate District, through Third Tier Wall, and into the Daru District. ‘So many people,’ she was saying. ‘This is by far the biggest city I’ve ever been in. I think what strikes me is how many familiar faces I see – not people I actually know, just people who look like people I’ve known.’
Duiker thought about that, and then nodded. ‘The world is like that, aye.’
‘Is it now? Why?’
‘I have no idea, Scillara.’
‘Is this all the wisdom you can offer?’
‘I even struggled with that one,’ he replied.
‘All right. Let’s try something else. I take it you see no point in history.’
He grunted. ‘If by that you mean that there is no progress, that even the notion of progress is a delusion, and that history is nothing more than a host of lessons nobody wants to pay attention to, then yes, there is no point. Not in writing it down, not in teaching it.’
‘Never mind, then. You choose.’
‘Choose what?’
‘Something to talk about.’
‘I don’t think I can – nothing comes to mind, Scillara. Well, I suppose I’d like to know about Heboric.’
‘He was losing his mind. We were trying to get to Otataral Island, where he wanted to give something back, something he once stole. But we never made it. Ambushed by T’lan Imass. They were going after him and the rest of us just got in the way. Me, Cutter, Greyfrog. Well, they also stole Felisin Younger – that seemed to be part of the plan, too.’
‘Felisin Younger.’
‘That’s the name Sha’ik gave her.’
‘Do you know why?’
She shook her head. ‘I liked her, though.’
‘Sha’ik?’
‘Felisin Younger. I was training her to be just like me, so it’s no wonder I liked her.’ And she gave him a wide smile.
Duiker answered with a faint one of his own – hard indeed to be miserable around this woman. Better if he avoided her company in the future. ‘Why the Phoenix Inn, Scillara?’
‘As I said earlier, I want to embarrass someone. Cutter, in fact. I had to listen to him for months and months, about how wonderful Darujhistan is, and how he would show me this and that. Then as soon as we arrive he ducks away, wanting nothing to do with us. Back to his old friends, I suppose.’
She was being offhand, but Duiker sensed the underlying hurt. Perhaps she and Cutter had been more than just companions. ‘Instead,’ he said, ‘you found us Malazans.’
‘Oh, we could have done much worse.’
‘Barathol had kin,’ said Duiker. ‘In the Bridgeburners. An assassin. Seeing your friend was like seeing a ghost. For Picker, Antsy…Blend. Bluepearl. The old marines.’
‘One of those familiar faces belonging to someone you don’t know.’
He smiled again. ‘Yes.’ Oh, yes, Scillara, you are clever indeed.
‘And before you know it, some old marine healer is out doing whatever he can to help Barathol Mekhar. Only there’s this history – the stuff that doesn’t matter – with our blacksmith friend. Having to do with Aren and the—’
‘Red Blades, aye.’
She shot him a look. ‘You knew?’
‘We all know. The poor bastard. Getting such a raw deal in his own homeland. Things like that, well, we can sympathize with, because we have our histories. The kind that can’t be ignored because they’ve put us right where we are, right here, a continent away from our home.’
‘Progress?’
‘That remains to be seen. And here we are. Phoenix Inn.’
She stood studying the decrepit sign for a long moment. ‘That’s it? It’s a dump.’
‘If the story is accurate, Kalam Mekhar himself went in there once or twice. So did Sorry, who later took the name of Apsalar, and that was where young Crokus met her – who is now known as Cutter, right? Putting it all together isn’t easy. Mallet was there for most of that. In there,’ he added, ‘you might even find a man named Kruppe.’
She snorted. ‘Cutter talked about him. Some oily fence and ex-thief.’
‘Ambassador at large during the Pannion War. The man who stood down Caladan Brood. Single-handedly confounding most of the great leaders on the continent.’
Her eyes had widened slightly. ‘Really? All that? Cutter never mentioned any of that.’
‘He wouldn’t have known, Scillara. He went off with Fiddler, Kalam and Apsalar.’
‘That’s a tale I’m slowly putting together myself,’ she said. ‘Apsalar. The woman Cutter loves.’
Ah.
‘Let’s go, then.’
And they set out across the street.
‘The kid’s been snatched, is my guess,’ Murillio concluded, settling back in his chair. ‘I know, Kruppe, it’s one of those things that just happens. Tanners grab children, trader ships, fishing crews, pimps and temples, they all do given the chance. So I know, there may not be much hope—’
‘Nonsense, Murillio loyal friend of Kruppe. In appealing to this round self you have displayed utmost wisdom. Moreover, Kruppe applauds this new profession of yours. Instructor yes, in all fine points of fine pointiness – the art of duelling is writ bold in blood, yes? Bold too is this Stonny Menackis, old partner to none other tha
n Gruntle of the Barbs, and was there not a third? A long-armed man who did not return from Capustan? And was his name not Harllo? Kruppe must plumb deeper depths of memory to be certain of such details, yet his instinct cries out true! And how can such a voice be denied?’
Cutter rubbed at the bristle on his chin. ‘I could head back down to the ship I came in on, Murillio. Talk to the dock waifs and the old women under the piers.’
‘I’d appreciate that, Cutter.’
‘Kruppe suspects a whispery warming of heart in dear Murillio for his new employer – ah, does Kruppe flinch at vehement expostulation? Does he wince at savage denial? Why, the answer is no to both!’
‘Leave off that, Kruppe,’ Murillio said. ‘The lad’s her son.’
‘Left in the care of others – is she so cold of heart, then? Do you rise to extraordinary challenge, mayhap? The best kind, of course, ever the best kind.’
‘There’s a story there,’ Murillio said. ‘Not all women make good mothers, true enough. But she doesn’t seem that kind. I mean, well, she struck me as someone with fierce loyalties. Maybe. Oh, I don’t know. It’d be nice to find the runt, that’s all.’
‘We understand, Murillio,’ Cutter said.
‘Rely upon Kruppe, dearest friend. All truths will yield themselves in the fullness of revelatory revelation, anon. But wait, fortuitous reunion of another sort beckons,’ and he leaned forward, small eyes fixing upon Cutter. Eyebrows waggled.
‘You’re scaring me—’
‘Terror shall burgeon imminently for poor Cutter.’
‘What are you—’
A hand settled on his shoulder, soft, plump.
Cutter closed his eyes and said, ‘I’ve got to stop sitting with my back to the door.’
Murillio rose, suddenly formal as he bowed to someone standing behind Cutter. ‘Historian. We have met once or—’
‘I recall,’ the man replied, moving round into Cutter’s sight as he collected two chairs from a nearby table. Thank the gods, not his hand.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 741