The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ Grub said, shrugging.

  ‘I could just set it on fire.’

  ‘No sorcery, Sinn, not here.’

  ‘I thought you said the house was dead.’

  ‘It is . . . I think. But maybe the yard isn’t.’

  She glanced round. ‘People been digging here.’

  ‘You ever gonna talk to anybody but me?’ Grub asked.

  ‘No.’ The single word was absolute, immutable, and it did not invite any further discussion on that issue.

  He eyed her. ‘You know what’s happening tonight, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere near that.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Maybe, if we hide inside the house, it won’t reach us.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Grub allowed. ‘But I doubt the Deck works like that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, I don’t. Only, Uncle Keneb told me Fiddler talked about me last time, and I was jumping into the sea around then—I wasn’t in the cabin. But he just knew, he knew exactly what I was doing.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I went to find the Nachts.’

  ‘But how did you know they were there? You don’t make sense, Grub. And anyway, what use are they? They just follow Withal around.’

  ‘When they’re not hunting little lizards,’ Grub said, smiling.

  But Sinn was not in the mood for easy distraction. ‘I look at you and I think . . . Mockra.’

  To that, Grub made no reply. Instead, he crept forward on the path’s uneven pavestones, eyes fixed on the wasp nest.

  Sinn followed. ‘You’re what’s coming, aren’t you?’

  He snorted. ‘And you aren’t?’

  They reached the threshold, halted. ‘Do you think it’s locked?’

  ‘Shh.’

  Grub crouched down and edged forward beneath the huge nest. Once past it, he slowly straightened and reached for the door’s latch. It came off in his hand, raising a puff of sawdust. Grub glanced back at Sinn, but said nothing. Facing the door again, he gave it a light push.

  It crumpled like wafer where his fingers had prodded. More sawdust sifted down.

  Grub raised both hands and pushed against the door.

  The barrier disintegrated in clouds and frail splinters. Metal clunked on the floor just beyond, and a moment later the clouds were swept inward as if on an indrawn breath.

  Grub stepped over the heap of rotted wood and vanished in the gloom beyond.

  After a moment, Sinn followed, ducking low and moving quickly.

  From the gloom beneath a nearly dead tree in the grounds of the Azath, Lieutenant Pores grunted. He supposed he should have called them back, but to do so would have revealed his presence, and though he could never be sure when it came to Captain Kindly’s orders—designed and delivered as they were with deliberate vagueness, like flimsy fronds over a spike-filled pit—he suspected that he was supposed to maintain some sort of subterfuge when following the two runts around.

  Besides, he’d made some discoveries. Sinn wasn’t mute at all. Just a stubborn little cow. What a shock. And she had a crush on Grub, how sweet—sweet as tree sap, twigs and trapped insects included—why, it could make a grown man melt, and then run down a drain into that depthless sea of sentimentality where children played, and, occasionally, got away with murder.

  Well, the difference was Pores had a very good memory. He recalled in great detail his own childhood, and could he have reached back, into his own past, he’d give that snot-faced jerk a solid clout to the head. And then look down at that stunned, hurt expression, and say something like ‘Get used to it, little Pores. One day you’ll meet a man named Kindly . . .’

  Anyway, the mice had scurried into the Azath House. Maybe something would take care of them in there, bringing to a satisfying conclusion this stupid assignment. A giant, ten-thousand-year-old foot, stomping down, once, twice. Splat, splot, like stinkberries, Grub a smear, Sinn a stain.

  Gods no, I’d get blamed! Growling under his breath, he set out after them.

  In retrospect, he supposed he should have remembered that damned wasp nest. At the very least, it should have caught his attention as he leapt for the doorway. Instead, it caught his forehead.

  Sudden flurry of enraged buzzing, as the nest rocked out and then back, butting his head a second time.

  Recognition, comprehension, and then, appropriately enough, blind panic.

  Pores whirled and ran.

  A thousand or so angry black wasps provided escort.

  Six stings could drop a horse. He shrieked as a fire ignited on the back of his neck. And then again, as another stinger stabbed, this time on his right ear.

  He whirled his arms. There was a canal somewhere ahead—they’d crossed a bridge, he recalled, off to the left.

  Another explosion of agony, this time on the back of his right hand.

  Never mind the canal! I need a healer—fast!

  He could no longer hear any buzzing, but the scene before him had begun to tilt, darkness bleeding out from the shadows, and the lights of lanterns through windows blurred, lurid and painful in his eyes. His legs weren’t working too well, either.

  There, the Malazan Barracks.

  Deadsmell. Or Ebron.

  Staggering now, struggling to fix his gaze on the compound gate—trying to shout to the two soldiers standing guard, but his tongue was swelling up, filling his mouth. He was having trouble breathing. Running . . .

  Running out of time—

  ‘Who was that?’

  Grub came back from the hallway and shook his head. ‘Someone. Woke up the wasps.’

  ‘Glad they didn’t come in here.’

  They were standing in a main chamber of some sort, a stone fireplace dominating one wall, framed by two deep-cushioned chairs. Trunks and chests squatted against two other walls, and in front of the last one, opposite the cold hearth, there was an ornate couch, above it a large faded tapestry. All were little more than vague, grainy shapes in the gloom.

  ‘We need a candle or a lantern,’ said Sinn. ‘Since,’ she added with an edge to her tone, ‘I can’t use sorcery—’

  ‘You probably can,’ said Grub, ‘now that we’re nowhere near the yard. There’s no one here, no, um, presence, I mean. It really is dead.’

  With a triumphant gesture Sinn awakened the coals in the fireplace, although the flames flaring to life there were strangely lurid, spun through with green and blue tendrils.

  ‘That’s too easy for you,’ Grub said. ‘I didn’t even feel a warren.’

  She said nothing, walking up to study the tapestry.

  Grub followed.

  A battle scene was depicted, which for such things was typical enough. It seemed heroes only existed in the midst of death. Barely discernible in the faded weave, armoured reptiles of some sort warred with Tiste Edur and Tiste Andii. The smoke-shrouded sky overhead was crowded with both floating mountains—most of them burning—and dragons, and some of these dragons seemed enormous, five, six times the size of the others even though they were clearly more distant. Fire wreathed the scene, as fragments of the aerial fortresses broke apart and plunged down into the midst of the warring factions. Everywhere was slaughter and harrowing destruction.

  ‘Pretty,’ murmured Sinn.

  ‘Let’s check the tower,’ said Grub. All the fires in the scene reminded him of Y’Ghatan, and his vision of Sinn, marching through the flames—she could have walked into this ancient battle. He feared that if he looked closely enough he’d see her, among the hundreds of seething figures, a contented expression on her round-cheeked face, her dark eyes satiated and shining.

  They set off for the square tower.

  Into the gloom of the corridor once more, where Grub paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. A moment later green flames licked out from the chamber they had just quit, slithering across the stone floor, drawing closer.

  In the ghoulish glow, Sinn smile
d.

  The fire followed them up the saddled stairs to the upper landing, which was bare of all furnishings. Beneath a shuttered, web-slung window was slumped a desiccated corpse. Leathery strips of skin here and there were all that held the carcass together, and Grub could see the oddity of the thing’s limbs, the extra joints at knee, elbow, wrist and ankle. The very sternum seemed horizontally hinged midway down, as were the prominent, birdlike collarbones.

  He crept forward for a closer look. The face was frontally flattened, sharpening the angle where the cheekbones swept back, almost all the way to the ear-holes. Every bone he could see seemed designed to fold or collapse—not just the cheeks but the mandibles and brow-ridges as well. It was a face that in life, Grub suspected, could manage a bizarre array of expressions—far beyond what a human face could achieve.

  The skin was bleached white, hairless, and Grub knew that if he so much as touched the corpse, it would fall to dust.

  ‘Forkrul Assail,’ he whispered.

  Sinn rounded on him. ‘How do you know that? How do you know anything about anything?’

  ‘On the tapestry below,’ he said, ‘those lizards. I think they were K’Chain Che’Malle.’ He glanced at her, and then shrugged. ‘This Azath House didn’t die,’ he said. ‘It just . . . left.’

  ‘Left? How?’

  ‘I think it just walked out of here, that’s what I think.’

  ‘But you don’t know anything! How can you say things like that?’

  ‘I bet Quick Ben knows, too.’

  ‘Knows what?’ she hissed in exasperation.

  ‘This. The truth of it all.’

  ‘Grub—’

  He met her gaze, studied the fury in her eyes. ‘You, me, the Azath. It’s all changing, Sinn. Everything—it’s all changing.’

  Her small hands made fists at her sides. The flames dancing from the stone floor climbed the frame of the chamber’s entranceway, snapping and sparking.

  Grub snorted, ‘The way you make it talk . . .’

  ‘It can shout, too, Grub.’

  He nodded. ‘Loud enough to break the world, Sinn.’

  ‘I would, you know,’ she said with sudden vehemence, ‘just to see what it can do. What I can do.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’

  She grimaced as she turned away. ‘You might shout back.’

  Tehol the Only, King of Lether, stepped into the room and, arms out to the sides, spun in a circle. Then beamed at Bugg. ‘What do you think?’

  The manservant held a bronze pot in his battered, blunt hands. ‘You’ve had dancing lessons?’

  ‘No, look at my blanket! My beloved wife has begun embroidering it—see, there at the hem, above my left knee.’

  Bugg leaned forward slightly. ‘Ah, I see. Very nice.’

  ‘Very nice?’

  ‘Well, I can’t quite make out what it’s supposed to be.’

  ‘Me neither.’ He paused. ‘She’s not very good, is she?’

  ‘No, she’s terrible. Of course, she’s an academic.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Tehol agreed.

  ‘After all,’ said Bugg, ‘if she had any skill at sewing and the like—’

  ‘She’d never have settled for the scholarly route?’

  ‘Generally speaking, people useless at everything else become academics.’

  ‘My thoughts inexactly, Bugg. Now, I must ask, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘We’ve known each other for a long time,’ said Tehol. ‘My senses are exquisitely honed for reading the finest nuances in your mood. I have few talents but I do assert, howsoever immodestly, that I possess exceptional ability in taking your measure.’

  ‘Well,’ sighed Bugg, ‘I am impressed. How could you tell I’m upset?’

  ‘Apart from besmirching my wife, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, apart from that.’

  Tehol nodded towards the pot Bugg was holding, and so he looked down, only to discover that it was no longer a pot, but a mangled heap of tortured metal. Sighing again, he let it drop to the floor. The thud echoed in the chamber.

  ‘It’s the subtle details,’ said Tehol, smoothing out the creases in his Royal Blanket. ‘Something worth saying to my wife . . . casually, of course, in passing. Swift passing, as in headlong flight, since she’ll be armed with vicious fishbone needles.’

  ‘The Malazans,’ said Bugg. ‘Or, rather, one Malazan. With a version of the Tiles in his sweaty hands. A potent version, and this man is no charlatan. He’s an adept. Terrifyingly so.’

  ‘And he’s about to cast the Tiles?’

  ‘Wooden cards. The rest of the world’s moved on from Tiles, sire. They call it the Deck of Dragons.’

  ‘Dragons? What dragons?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Well, is there nowhere you can, um, hide, O wretched and miserable Elder God?’

  Bugg made a sour face. ‘Not likely. I’m not the only problem, however. There’s the Errant.’

  ‘He’s still here? He’s not been seen for months—’

  ‘The Deck poses a threat to him. He may object to its unveiling. He may do something . . . precipitous.’

  ‘Hmm. The Malazans are our guests, and accordingly if they are at risk, it behoves us to protect them or, failing that, warn them. If that doesn’t work, we can always run away.’

  ‘Yes, sire, that might be wise.’

  ‘Running away?’

  ‘No, a warning.’

  ‘I shall send Brys.’

  ‘Poor Brys.’

  ‘Now, that’s not my fault, is it? Poor Brys, exactly. It’s high time he started earning his title, whatever it is, which at the moment escapes me. It’s that bureaucratic mindset of his that’s so infuriating. He hides in the very obscurity of his office. A faceless peon, dodging this way and that whenever responsibility comes a-knocking at his door. Yes, I’ve had my fill of the man, brother or not—’

  ‘Sire, you put Brys in charge of the army.’

  ‘Did I? Of course I did. Let’s see him hide now!’

  ‘He’s waiting for you in the throne room.’

  ‘Well, he’s no fool. He knows when he’s cornered.’

  ‘Rucket is there, too,’ said Bugg, ‘with a petition from the Rat Catchers’ Guild.’

  ‘A petition? For what, more rats? On your feet, old friend, the time has come to meet our public. This whole kingship thing is a real bother. Spectacles, parades, tens of thousands of adoring subjects—’

  ‘You’ve not had any spectacles or parades, sire.’

  ‘And still they adore me.’

  Bugg rose and preceded King Tehol across the chamber, through the door, and into the throne room.

  The only people awaiting them were Brys, Rucket and Queen Janath. Tehol edged closer to Bugg as they ascended the dais. ‘See Rucket? See the adoration? What did I tell you?’

  The King sat down on the throne, smiled at the Queen who was already seated in a matching throne to his left, and then leaned back and stretched out his legs—

  ‘Don’t do that, brother,’ advised Brys. ‘The view from here . . .’

  Tehol straightened. ‘Oops, most royally.’

  ‘About that,’ said Rucket.

  ‘I see with relief that you’ve shed countless stones of weight, Rucket. Most becoming. About what?’

  ‘That adoration bit you whispered to Bugg.’

  ‘I thought you had a petition?’

  ‘I want to sleep with you. I want you to cheat on your wife, Tehol. With me.’

  ‘That’s your petition?’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  Queen Janath spoke. ‘It can’t be cheating. Cheating would be behind my back. Deceit, deception, betrayal. I happen to be sitting right here, Rucket.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Rucket replied, ‘let’s do without such grim details. Free love for all,’ and she smiled up at Tehol. ‘Specifically, you and me, sire. Well, not entirely free, since I expect you to buy me dinner.’

  ‘I ca
n’t,’ said Tehol. ‘Nobody wants my money any more, now that I actually have some, and isn’t that always the way? Besides, a public dalliance by the King? What sort of example would that set?’

  ‘You wear a blanket,’ Rucket pointed out. ‘What kind of example is that?’

  ‘Why, one of airy aplomb.’

  Her brows lifted. ‘Most would view your aired aplomb with horror, sire. But not,’ she added with a winning smile, ‘me.’

  ‘Gods below,’ Janath sighed, rubbing at her brow.

  ‘What sort of petition is this?’ Tehol demanded. ‘You’re not here representing the Rat Catchers’ Guild at all, are you?’

  ‘Actually, I am. To further cement our ties. As everyone knows, sex is the glue that holds society together, so I figured—’

  ‘Sex? Glue?’ Tehol sat forward. ‘Now I’m intrigued. But let’s put that aside for the moment. Bugg, prepare a proclamation. The King shall have sex with every powerful woman in the city, assuming she can be definitively determined to actually be a woman—we’ll need to devise some sort of gauge, get the Royal Engineers on it.’

  ‘Why stop with powerful women?’ Janath asked her husband. ‘Don’t forget the power that exists in a household, after all. And what about a similar proclamation for the Queen?’

  Bugg said, ‘There was a tribe once where the chief and his wife had the privilege of bedding imminent brides and grooms the night before the marriage.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, sire,’ admitted Bugg, ‘I just made that up.’

  ‘I can write it into our histories if you like,’ said Janath in barely concealed excitement.

  Tehol made a face. ‘My wife becomes unseemly.’

  ‘Just tossing my coin into this treasure trove of sordid idiocy, beloved. Rucket, you and I need to sit down and have a little talk.’

  ‘I never talk with the other woman,’ pronounced Rucket, standing straighter and lifting her chin.

  Tehol slapped his hands. ‘Well, another meeting done! What shall we do now? I’m for bed.’ And then, with a quick glance at Janath, ‘In the company of my dearest wife, of course.’

  ‘We haven’t even had supper yet, husband.’

  ‘Supper in bed! We can invite—oh, scratch that.’