The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Bavedict!’ he called to his alchemist, ‘get ’em on their feet!’

  The alchemist gathered up his long braid and with a practised twist spun it into a coil atop his head, where the grease held it fast, and then rose from the peculiar spike-stool he’d set up outside his hide tent. ‘Captain Hedge, the last mix is ready to set and the special rain-capes were delivered by my brother half a bell ago. I have what I need to do some painting.’

  ‘That’s great. This is all of them?’ he asked, nodding towards the recruits.

  Bavedict’s thin lips tightened in a grimace. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How long have they been sitting in that stench?’

  ‘A while. Not ready to do any thinking for themselves yet—but that’s what’s to be expected from us Letherii. Soldiers do what they’re told to do and that’s that.’

  Hedge sighed.

  ‘There’s two acting sergeants,’ Bavedict added. ‘The ones with their backs to us.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Sunrise—he’s the one with the moustache. And Nose Stream.’

  ‘Well now,’ Hedge said, ‘who named them?’

  ‘Some Master Sergeant named Pores.’

  ‘I take it he wasn’t around when you snatched them.’

  ‘They’d been tied to some squads and those squads were none too pleased about it anyway. So it wasn’t hard cutting them loose.’

  ‘Good.’ Hedge glanced over at Bavedict’s carriage, a huge, solid-looking thing of black varnished wood and brass fittings; he then squinted at the four black horses waiting in their harnesses. ‘You was making a good living, Bavedict, leading me to wonder all over again what you’re doing here.’

  ‘Like I said, I got too close a look at what one of those cussers of yours can do—to a damned dragon, no less. My shop’s nothing but kindling.’ He paused and balanced himself on one foot, the other one set against the leg just below the knee. ‘But mostly professional curiosity, Captain, ever a boon and a bane both. So, you just keep telling me anything and everything you recall about the characteristics of the various Moranth alchemies, and I’ll keep inventing my own brand of munitions for your sappers.’

  ‘My sappers, aye. Now I better go and meet—’

  ‘Here come two of ’em now, Captain.’

  He turned and almost stepped back. Two enormous, sweaty women had fixed small eyes on him and were closing in.

  They saluted and the blonde one said, ‘Corporal Sweetlard, sir, and this is Corporal Rumjugs. We got a request, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We want to move from where we was put down. Too many flies, sir.’

  ‘An army never marches or camps alone, Corporal,’ said Hedge. ‘We got rats, we got mice, we got capemoths and crows, ravens and rhizan. And we got flies.’

  ‘That’s true enough, sir,’ said the black-haired one, Rumjugs, ‘but even over here there ain’t so many of ’em. Ten more paces between us and the trench there, sir, is all we’re asking.’

  ‘Your first lesson,’ said Hedge. ‘If the choice is between comfortable and miserable, choose comfortable—don’t wait for any damned orders neither. Distracted and irritated makes you more tired. Tired gets you killed. If it’s hot look for shade. If it’s cold bundle t’gether when not on post. If you’re in a bad spot for flies, find a better one close by and move. Now, I got a question for you two. Why are you bringing me this request and not your sergeants?’

  ‘They was going to,’ said Rumjugs, ‘but then me and Sweet here, we pointed out that you’re a man and we’re whores or used to be, and you was more likely to be nice to us than to them. Assuming you prefer women an’ not men.’

  ‘Good assumption and smart thinking. Now, go back there and get everybody on their feet and over here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He returned their salute and watched them wheeze and waddle back to the others.

  Bavedict moved up beside him. ‘Maybe there’s hope for them after all.’

  ‘Just needs teasing out, that’s all,’ said Hedge. ‘Now, find a wax tablet or something—I need a list of their names made up—my memory is bad these days, ever since I died and came back, in fact.’

  The alchemist blinked, and then recovered. ‘Right away, Captain.’

  All in all, Hedge concluded, a decent start.

  Lostara slammed the knife back into its sheath, then walked to examine an array of tribal trophies lining one wall of the presence chamber. ‘Fist Keneb is not at his best,’ she said. Behind her in the centre of the room, the Adjunct said nothing. After a moment Lostara went on. ‘Grub’s disappearance hit him hard. And the thought that he might have been swallowed up by an Azath is enough to curdle anyone’s toes. It’s not helping that Fist Blistig seems to have decided he’s already good as dead.’

  She turned to see the Adjunct slowly drawing off her gauntlets. Tavore’s face was pale, a taut web of lines trapping her eyes. She’d lost weight, further reducing the few feminine traits she possessed. Beyond grief waited emptiness, a place where loneliness haunted in mocking company, and memories were entombed in cold stone. The woman that was the Adjunct had decided that no one would ever take T’amber’s place. Tavore’s last tie to the gentler gifts of humanity had been severed. Now there was nothing left. Nothing but her army, which looked ready to unravel all on its own—and even to this she seemed indifferent.

  ‘It’s not like the King to keep us waiting,’ Lostara muttered, reaching to unsheathe her knife.

  ‘Leave it,’ the Adjunct snapped.

  ‘Of course. My apologies, Adjunct.’ She dropped her hand and resumed her uninterested examination of the artifacts. ‘These Letherii devoured a lot of tribes.’

  ‘Empires will, Lieutenant.’

  ‘I imagine this Kolanse did the same. It is an empire, is it not?’

  ‘I do not know,’ the Adjunct replied, then added, ‘it does not matter.’

  ‘It doesn’t?’

  But with her next words it was clear that the Adjunct was not interested in elaborating. ‘My predecessor, a woman named Lorn, was murdered in a street in Darujhistan. She had, by that point, completed her tasks, insofar as anyone can tell. Her death seemed to be little more than ill luck, a mugging or something similar. Her corpse was deposited in a pauper’s pit.’

  ‘Forgive me, Adjunct, but what is this story in aid of?’

  ‘Legacies are never what one would hope for, are they, Captain? In the end, it does not matter what was achieved. Fate holds no tally of past triumphs, courageous deeds, or moments of profound integrity.’

  ‘I suppose not, Adjunct.’

  ‘Conversely, there is no grim list of failures, moments of cowardice or dishonour. The wax is smooth, the past melted away—if it ever existed at all.’ Those snared eyes fixed briefly on Lostara before sliding away once more. ‘She died on a street, just one more victim of mischance. A death devoid of magic.’

  Lostara’s attention dropped down to the sword strapped at Tavore’s hip. ‘Most deaths are, Adjunct.’

  Tavore nodded. ‘The wax melts. There is, I think, some comfort to be found in that. A small measure of . . . release.’

  Is that the best you can hope for, Tavore? Gods below. ‘Lorn was not there to gauge the worth of her legacy, if that is what you mean, Adjunct. Which was probably a mercy.’

  ‘I sometimes think that fate and mercy are often one and the same.’

  The notion chilled Lostara.

  ‘The army,’ continued the Adjunct, ‘will sort itself out once on the march. I give them this touch of chaos, of near anarchy. As I do for Fists Keneb and Blistig. I have my reasons.’

  ‘Yes, Adjunct.’

  ‘In the King’s presence, Captain, I expect you to refrain from any undue attention to the knife at your side.’

  ‘As you command, Adjunct.’

  Moments later an inner door swung open and King Tehol strode in, trailed by the Chancellor. ‘My sincerest apologies, Adjunct. It’s all my Ceda’s fault, not th
at you need to know that, but then’—and he smiled as he sat down on the raised chair—‘now you do, and I don’t mind telling what a relief that is.’

  ‘You summoned us, Majesty,’ said Adjunct.

  ‘Did I? Oh yes, so I did. Relax, there’s no crisis—well, none that concerns you directly. Well, not in Letheras, anyway. Not at the moment, I mean. Ceda, step forward there now! Adjunct Tavore, we have a gift for you. In expression of our deepest gratitude.’

  Queen Janath had arrived as well, moving up to stand to one side of her husband, one hand resting on the chair’s high back.

  Bugg was holding a small hand-polished wooden case, which he now set into the Adjunct’s hands.

  The chamber was silent as Tavore unlatched the lid and tilted it back to reveal a water-etched dagger. The grip and pommel were both plain, functional, and as far as Lostara could see, the blade itself, barring the etched swirls, was unspectacular. After a moment’s examination, the Adjunct shut the lid and looked up at the King. ‘Thank you, sire. I shall treasure this—’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Tehol, rising and walking over. ‘Let’s see that thing—’ and he lifted the lid once more, and then faced Bugg. ‘Couldn’t you have selected something prettier than that, Ceda? Why, I imagine the Chancellor is mortified now that he’s seen it!’

  ‘He is, sire. Alas, the Ceda was under certain constraints—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the Adjunct, ‘am I to understand that this weapon is ensorcelled? I am afraid that such piquancy will be lost in my presence.’

  The old man smiled. ‘I have done what I can, Tavore of House Paran. When you face your most dire necessity, look to this weapon.’

  The Adjunct almost stepped back and Lostara saw what little colour there had been in her face suddenly drain away. ‘My most . . . dire . . . necessity? Ceda—’

  ‘As I said, Adjunct,’ Bugg replied, his gaze unwavering. ‘When blood is required. When blood is needed. In the name of survival, and in that name alone.’

  Lostara saw that Tavore was at a loss for words—and she had no idea why. Unless the Adjunct already knows what that necessity will be. Knows, and is horrified by this gift. Bowing, Adjunct closed the lid a second time and stepped back.

  Tehol was frowning at Bugg. After a moment he returned to the modest chair and sat down once more. ‘Fare you well on your journey, Adjunct. And you as well, Lostara Yil. Do not neglect my brother, he has many talents. A lot more than me, that’s for certain—’ and at seeing Bugg’s nod he scowled.

  Janath reached down and patted his shoulder.

  Tehol’s scowl deepened. ‘Look to Brys Beddict during your traverse of Bolkando Kingdom. We are very familiar with our neighbours, and his advice should prove valuable.’

  ‘I shall, sire,’ the Adjunct said.

  And suddenly it was time to go.

  Moments after the Malazans had departed, Tehol glanced over at Bugg. ‘My, you look miserable.’

  ‘I dislike departures, sire. There is ever a hint of . . . finality.’

  Janath came round and sat on one of the flanking benches. ‘You do not expect to see the Malazans again?’

  He hesitated, and then said, ‘No.’

  ‘What of Brys?’ Tehol asked.

  Bugg blinked and opened his mouth to reply but the King raised a hand. ‘No, that question should not have been asked. I’m sorry, old friend.’

  ‘Sire, your brother possesses unexplored . . . depths. Fortitude, unassailable fidelity to honour—and, as you well know, he carries within him a certain legacy, and while I cannot gauge the measure of that legacy, I believe it has the potential to be vast.’

  ‘You danced carefully there,’ Janath observed.

  ‘I did.’

  Sighing, Tehol leaned back on the chair. ‘This seems a messy conclusion to things, doesn’t it? Little that amuses, even less that entertains. You must know I prefer to leap from one delightful absurdity to another. My last gesture on the Malazan stage should have been the highest of dramas is my feeling. Instead, I taste something very much like ashes in my mouth and that is most unpleasant.’

  ‘Perhaps some wine will wash things clean,’ suggested Bugg.

  ‘Won’t hurt. Pour us some, please. You, guard, come and join us—standing there doing nothing must be a dreadful bore. No need to gape like that, I assure you. Doff that helm and relax—there’s another guard just like you on the other side of that door, after all. Let him bear the added burden of diligence. Tell us about yourself. Family, friends, hobbies, scandals—’

  ‘Sire,’ warned Bugg.

  ‘Or just join us in a drink and feel under no pressure to say anything at all. This shall be one of those interludes swiftly glossed over in the portentous histories of great and mediocre kings. We sit in the desultory aftermath, oblivious to omens and whatever storm waits behind yonder horizon. Ah, thank you, Bugg—my Queen, accept that goblet and come sit on my knee—oh, don’t make that kind of face, we need to compose the proper scene. I insist and since I’m King I can do that, or so I read somewhere. Now, let’s see . . . yes, Bugg, stand right over there—oh, massaging your brow is the perfect pose. And you, dearest guard—how did you manage to hide all that hair? And how come I never knew you were a woman? Never mind, you’re an unexpected delight—ow, calm down, wife—oh, that’s me who needs to calm down. Sorry. Women in uniforms and all that. Guard, that dangling helm is exquisite by the way, take a mouthful and do pass judgement on the vintage, yes, like that, oh, most perfect!

  ‘Now, it’s just occurred to me that we’re missing something crucial. Ah, yes, an artist. Bugg, have we a court artist? We need an artist! Find us an artist! Nobody move!’

  Chapter Twelve

  The sea is blind to the road

  And the road is blind to the rain

  The road welcomes no footfalls

  The blind are an ocean’s flood

  On the road’s shore

  Walk then unseeing

  Like children with hands outstretched

  Down to valleys of blinding darkness

  The road leads down through shadows

  Of weeping gods

  This sea knows but one tide flowing

  Into sorrow’s depthless chambers

  The sea is shore to the road

  And the road is the sea’s river

  To the blind

  When I hear the first footfalls

  I know the end has come

  And the rain shall rise

  Like children with hands

  Outstretched

  I am the road fleeing the sun

  And the road is blind to the sea

  And the sea is blind to the shore

  And the shore is blind

  To the sea

  The sea is blind . . .

  RIDDLE OF THE ROAD OF GALLAN

  SHAKE CHANT

  When leading his warriors, warchief maral eb of the Barahn White Face Barghast liked to imagine himself as the tip of a barbed spearhead, hungry to wound, unerring in its drive. Slashes of red ochre cut through the white paint of his death-face, ran jagged tracks down his arms. His bronze brigandine hauberk and scaled skirt bore the muted tones of blood long dead, and the red-tipped porcupine quills jutting from the spikes of his black, greased hair clattered as he trotted in front of four thousand seasoned warriors.

  The stink from the severed heads swinging from the iron-sheathed standards crowding behind the warchief left a familiar sting in the back of his broad, flattened nose, a cloying presence at the close of his throat, and he was pleased. Pleased, especially, that his two younger brothers carried a pair of those standards.

  They’d stumbled upon the Akrynnai caravan late yesterday afternoon. A pathetic half-dozen guards, five drovers, the merchant and her family. It had been quick work, yet no less delicious for its brevity, tainted only when the merchant took a knife to her daughters and then slit her own throat—gestures of impressive courage that cheated his warriors of their fun. The puny horses in the herd they
had slaughtered and feasted upon that night.

  Beneath a cloudless sky, the war-party was cutting westward. A week’s travel would find it in the Kryn Freetrade, the centre of all eastern commerce with Lether. Maral Eb would slaughter everyone and then assume control of the caravanserai and all the trader forts. He would make himself rich and his people powerful. His triumph would elevate the Barahn to the position they rightfully deserved among the White Faces. Onos Toolan would be deposed and the other clans would flock to join Maral. He would carve out an empire, selling Akrynnai and D’ras slaves until the vast plains belonged to the Barghast and no one else. He would set heavy tariffs on the Saphii and Bolkando, and he would build a vast city in Kryn, raising a palace and establishing impregnable fortresses along the borderlands.

  His allies among the Senan had already been instructed to steal for him the twin daughters of Hetan. He would bring them into his own household and when they reached blooding age he would take them as his wives. Hetan’s fate he left to others. There was the young boy, the true son of the Imass, and he would have to be killed, of course. Along with Cafal, to end once and for all Humbrall Taur’s line.

  His musings on the glory awaiting him were interrupted by the sudden appearance ahead of two of his scouts, carrying a body between them.

  Another Barghast—but not one of his own.

  Maral Eb held up one hand, halting his war-party, and then jogged forward to meet the scouts.

  The Barghast was a mess. His left arm was gone below the elbow and the stump seethed with maggots. Fires had melted away half his face and fragments of his armour of tin coinage glittered amidst the weltered ruin of skin and meat on his chest. By the fetishes dangling from his belt Maral knew him to be a Snakehunter, one of the smaller clans.

  He scowled and waved at the flies. ‘Does he live?’

  One of the scouts nodded and then added, ‘Not for much longer, Warchief.’

  ‘Set him down, gently now.’ Maral Eb moved up and knelt beside the young warrior. He swallowed down his disgust and said, ‘Snakehunter, open your eyes. I am Maral Eb of the Barahn. Speak to me, give me your last words. What has befallen you?’