The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  All in all, Whiskeyjack concluded, everyone with him had assumed the role of heat-crazed street worker with a facility he found oddly disturbing.

  Hedge and Fiddler had acquired the wagon, loaded down with cobbles, less than an hour after their midnight landing at a public dock on the Lakefront. Exactly how this had been accomplished, Whiskeyjack was afraid to ask. But it suited their plans perfectly. Something nagged at the back of Whiskeyjack’s mind but he dismissed it. He was a soldier and a soldier followed orders. When the time came, there would be chaos at every major intersection of streets in the city.

  “Planting mines ain’t gonna be easy,” Fiddler had pointed out, “so we do it right in front of everyone’s nose. Road repair.”

  Whiskeyjack shook his head. True to Fiddler’s prediction, no one had yet questioned them. They continued ripping up streets and replacing the old cobbles with Moranth munitions encased in fire-hardened clay. Was everything going to be so easy?

  His thoughts returned to Sorry. Not likely. Quick Ben and Kalam had at last convinced him that their half of the mission was better off without her. She’d tagged along with his crew, eyes never still, but otherwise offering little in the way of assistance. He admitted to feeling some relief that he’d sent her off on that fat man’s trail.

  But what had pulled a seventeen-year-old girl into the world of war? He couldn’t understand it—he couldn’t get past her youthfulness, couldn’t see beyond to the cold, murderous killer behind those dead eyes. As much as he told his squad that she was as human as any of them, the doubts grew with every question about her that he could not answer. He knew almost nothing about her. The revelation that she could manage a fishing boat had come from seemingly nowhere. And here in Darujhistan she’d hardly acted like a girl raised in a fishing village. There was a natural poise about her, a measure of assurance more common to the higher, educated classes. No matter where she was, she carried herself as if she belonged there.

  Did that sound like a seventeen-year-old girl? No, but it seemed to match Quick Ben’s assertions, and that galled him. How else to match her with that icy-cold woman torturing prisoners outside Nathilog? He could look at her and part of him would say: “Young, not displeasing to the eye, a confidence that makes her magnetic.” While another part of his mind snapped shut. Young? He’d hear his own harsh, pained laugh. Oh, no, not this lass. She’s old. She walked under a blood-red moon in the dawn of time, did this one. Her face is the face of all that cannot be fathomed, and she’s looking you in the eye, Whiskeyjack, and you’ll never know what she’s thinking.

  He could feel sweat drain down his face and neck. Nonsense. That part of his mind lost itself to its own terror. It took the unknown and fashioned, in blind desperation, a visage it could recognize. Despair, he told himself, always demands a direction, a focus. Find the direction and the despair goes away.

  Of course, it wasn’t that easy. The despair he felt had no shape. It was not just Sorry, not just this endless war, not even the treachery from within the Empire. He had nowhere to look for answers, and he was tired of asking questions.

  When he had looked upon Sorry at Graydog, the source of his horror lay in the unveiling of what he was becoming: a killer stripped of remorse, armored in the cold iron of inhumanity, freed from the necessity to ask questions, to seek answers, to fashion a reasonable life like an island in a sea of slaughter.

  In the empty eyes of this child, he’d seen the withering of his own soul. The reflection had been unblemished, with no imperfections to challenge the truth of what he saw.

  The sweat running down his back beneath the jerkin felt hot against the chill that gripped him. Whiskeyjack lifted a trembling hand to his forehead. In the days and nights ahead, people would die by his command. He’d been thinking of that as the fruition of his careful, precise planning—success measured by the ratio of the enemy’s dead to his own losses. The city—its busy, jostling multitudes unceasing in their lives small and large, cowardly and brave—no more than a gameboard, and the game played solely for the benefit of others. He’d made his plans as if nothing of himself was at stake. And yet his friends might die—there, he’d finally called them what they were—and the friends of others might die, and sons, daughters, parents. The roll-call of shattered lives seemed unending.

  Whiskeyjack pressed his back against the sidewall in an effort to steady his reeling mind. Desperately, he lifted his gaze from the street. He saw a man at a window on the second floor of the estate. The man was watching them, and his hands were bright red.

  Shaken, the sergeant looked away. He bit into the side of his mouth until he felt a sharp stab of pain, then tasted blood. Concentrate, he told himself. Step back from that chasm. Concentrate, or you’ll die. And not just you, but also your squad. They trust you to get them out of this. You’ve got to keep earning that trust. He drew a deep breath through his nostrils, then turned to one side and spat a mouthful of blood. He stared down at the red-slicked cobble. “There,” he hissed. “It’s easy to look at it, isn’t it?”

  He heard footsteps and looked up to see Hedge and Fiddler arrive. Both men wore troubled expressions.

  “You all right, Sarge?” Fiddler asked quietly. Behind the two saboteurs, Mallet approached, his gaze calculating and fixed on Whiskeyjack’s white, sweatsoaked face.

  The sergeant grimaced. “We’re behind schedule. How much longer?”

  Their faces smeared with white dust and sweat, the two men looked at each other, then Hedge answered, “Three hours.”

  “We decided on seven mines,” Fiddler said. “Four Sparkers, two Flamers, and one Cusser.”

  “Will that bring down some of these buildings?” Whiskeyjack asked, avoiding Mallet’s eyes.

  “Sure. No better way to block an intersection.” Fiddler grinned at his companion.

  “You got one in particular you want dropped?” Hedge inquired.

  “The estate behind you is an alchemist’s.”

  “Right,” Hedge said. “That should light the sky all right.”

  “You’ve got two and a half hours,” Whiskeyjack said. “Then it’s on to the Majesty Hill crossroads.”

  Mallet stepped close. “Another headache?” he asked softly.

  Whiskeyjack closed his eyes, then gave a sharp nod.

  The healer raised a hand and passed it over the sergeant’s brow. “Just easing it a little,” he said.

  The sergeant grinned ruefully. “This is getting old, Mallet. You’re even using the same words.” A cool numbness flowed through his thoughts.

  Mallet’s face was drawn. He lowered his hand. “When we have time I’ll find the source, Whiskeyjack.”

  “Right.” The sergeant smiled. “When we have time.”

  “Hope Kal and Quick are doing OK,” Mallet said, turning to watch the street traffic. “You sent Sorry off?”

  “Yes. We’re on our own. They know where to find us, all three of them.” He glanced up at the estate window. The man with the red hands was still there, though now he was studying the distant rooftops. A cloud of dust rose between them, and Whiskeyjack returned his attention to the city map, where every major intersection, the barracks, and Majesty Hill had been circled in red. “Mallet?”

  “Sarge?”

  “Bit the inside of my cheek again.”

  The healer stepped close, once more raising his hand.

  Crokus Younghand strode south on Trallit’s Walk. The first signs of the upcoming Gedderone Fête had appeared. Dyed banners hung from clotheslines over the street, painted flowers and strips of bark framed doorways, and bushels of dried weeds had been tacked to walls at every crossing.

  Outlanders already filled the streets, Gadrobi herders, Rhivi traders, Catlin weavers—a mob of sweaty, shouting, excited people. Animal smells mixed with human, making the narrower alleys so redolent as to be almost impassable, which in turn crowded the main thoroughfares even more.

  In past years Crokus had reveled in the celebration, pushing through the midnight cr
owds and filling his own pockets by emptying those around him. During the Fête, worries of the Malazan Empire’s exploits in the far north disappeared for a time. His uncle always smiled at that, saying the turn of the season gave the efforts of humanity their proper perspective. “The mewling, petty acts,” he’d say, “of a short-lived and short-sighted species, Crokus, can do nothing to mar the Great Cycles of Life.”

  As he walked home Mammot’s words returned to him now. He had always looked upon his uncle as a wise, if slightly ineffectual, old man. Increasingly, however, he found himself troubled by Mammot’s observations.

  Celebrating Gedderone’s Rite of Spring shouldn’t be an excuse to avoid the pressures of reality. It wasn’t just a harmless escape: it was a means of delaying the probable and making it inevitable. We could dance in the streets all year long, he scowled to himself, to a thousand Great Cycles, and with the same certainty reserved for the coming and going of seasons the Malazan Empire would march through our gates. They’d end the dance with the edge of a sword, being industrious, disciplined people, impatient with useless expenditures of energy—grimly short-sighted.

  He came to a tenement and, nodding at the pipe-smoking old woman sitting on the steps, went inside. The hallway was empty, the usual crowd of children no doubt outside playing in the streets, and a calming domestic murmur drifted out from behind closed doors. He climbed the creaking staircase to the first floor.

  Outside Mammot’s door the scholar’s pet winged monkey hovered, scratching and pulling desperately at the latch. It ignored Crokus until he arrived to push it aside, then it squealed and flew in circles around his head.

  “Being a pain again, eh?” Crokus said to the creature, waving a hand as it flew too close and ended up snarled in his hair. Tiny humanlike hands gripped his scalp. “All right, Moby,” he said, relenting, and opened the door.

  Inside, Mammot was preparing herbal tea. Without turning he asked, “Tea, Crokus? And as for that little monster who’s probably riding your head, tell him I’ve had just about enough of him today.”

  Moby sniffed indignantly and flapped over to the scholar’s desk, where he landed with a belly-flop, scattering papers to the floor. He chirped.

  Sighing, Mammot turned with the tray in his hands. His watery eyes fixed on Crokus. “You look tired, lad.”

  Crokus slumped into the less ragged of the two chairs occupying the room. “Yes. Tired, and in a dark mood.”

  “My tea will do its usual wonders,” Mammot said, smiling.

  Crokus grunted, not looking up. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Mammot stepped forward and laid the tray on a small table between the chairs. He sat down with a soft groan. “As you know, I possess few moral qualms about your chosen profession, Crokus, since I question rights of any kind, including ownership. Even privileges demand responsibility, as I’ve always said, and the privilege of ownership demands that the owner be responsible for protecting his or her claim. My only concern, of course, is for risks you must perforce take.” Mammot leaned forward and poured tea. “Lad, a thief must be sure of one thing—his concentration. Distractions are dangerous.”

  Crokus glanced up at his uncle. “What have you been writing all these years?” he asked suddenly, gesturing at the desk.

  Surprised, Mammot picked up his cup and sat back. “Well! A genuine interest in education, then? Finally? As I’ve said before, Crokus, you possess the intelligence to go so far. And while I’m but a humble man of letters, my word will open to you many doors in the city. Indeed, even the City Council is not beyond your reach, if you would choose such a direction. Discipline, lad, the very same requirement you’ve mastered as a thief.”

  A crafty expression glittered in Crokus’s gaze as it held on Mammot. “How long would it take,” he asked quietly, “to become known in such circles?”

  “Well,” said Mammot, “it is the learning that matters, of course.”

  “Of course.” In Crokus’s mind, however, there rose the image of a sleeping maiden.

  Mammot blew on his drink. “With full-time studies, and your youthful eagerness, I would hazard a year, perhaps more, perhaps less. Is there a need for haste?”

  “Just youthful eagerness, I suppose. In any case, you haven’t answered me yet. What are you writing, Uncle?”

  “Ah.” Mammot glanced at his desk, raising an eyebrow at Moby, who had opened an inkwell and was drinking from it. “The history of Darujhistan,” he said. “I am just beginning the fifth volume, which opens with the reign of Ektalm, second to last of the Tyrant Kings.”

  Crokus blinked. “Who?”

  Smiling, Mammot sipped his tea. “Usurper of Letastte and succeeded by his daughter, Sandenay, who brought on the Rising Time and with it the end of the age of tyrants.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Crokus, if you’re serious about all this, Darujhistan’s history is where we’ll begin in the lessons, but that doesn’t mean starting at volume five. It means starting at the very beginning.”

  Crokus nodded. “Born on a rumor,” he said.

  At the desk Moby squawked, then coughed. Mammot shot him a glance, then swung his attention back to Crokus, expression veiled as he replied, “Yes, lad. Darujhistan was born on a rumor.” He hesitated. “You’ve heard that saying elsewhere? Recently?”

  “Someone mentioned it,” Crokus said casually. “Can’t recall who, though.” He could, in fact. It had been spoken by the assassin, Rallick Nom.

  “Do you know what it means?”

  Crokus shook his head.

  Mammot leaned back. “Drink your tea, my lad.” The old man paused, then began, “In the Early Cycles in this Realm, three great peoples struggled for dominion, none of them human as we would know human. Bowing out early in the struggle were the Forkrul Assail, or the Krussail as they are now known. Not through weakness, but . . . well, disinterest. The remaining two peoples warred endlessly. Eventually one fell, for they were a race of individuals, battling as much among themselves as against their racial enemies. They were called the Jaghut, though the term has degenerated these days to Jhag, or Shurl. While losers in the war, they did not disappear entirely—it’s said some Jaghut survive to this day, though, thankfully, not on Genabackis.

  “So,” Mammot cupped his hands around his teacup, “Darujhistan was born on a rumor. Among the indigenous Gadrobi hill tribes survived the legend that a Jaghut’s barrow lay somewhere in the hills. Now, the Jaghut were possessors of great magic, creators of secret Warrens and items of power. Over time the Gadrobi legend made its way beyond the hills, into the Genabackan north and the Catlin south, to kingdoms since crumbled to dust in the east and west. In any case, searchers came to the hills, at first a trickle then hordes—entire tribes led by power-hungry shamans and warlocks. Every hillside was laced with trenches and bore-holes. From the camps and shantytowns, from the thousands of treasure-seekers arriving each spring, a city was born.”

  “Darujhistan,” Crokus said.

  “Yes. The barrow was never found, and the rumor has long since dwindled—few are even aware of it these days, and those who are know better than to resume the search.”

  “Why?”

  Mammot frowned. “Rarely does a Jaghut construction appear in the hands of a human, but it has happened, and the consequences have inevitably been catastrophic.” The old man’s frown deepened. “The lesson is clear for those who would choose to recognize it.”

  Crokus thought for a time. “So the Krussail vanished, the Jhag were defeated. What happened to the third people, then? The ones who won? Why aren’t they here instead of us?”

  Mammot opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, reconsidering.

  Crokus’s eyes narrowed. He wondered what Mammot had been about to reveal, and why he’d chosen not to reveal it.

  Mammot set down his cup. “No one is certain what happened to them, Crokus, or how they became what they are today. They exist, sort of, and are known, to all who have faced the Malazan Empire, as the T’lan Imass.�
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  Sorry pushed through the crowd, struggling to keep the fat man within sight. It was not that he was difficult to follow, but the girl was struggling against a storm within her head, which had been triggered by a single word uttered by Sergeant Whiskeyjack.

  Seer.

  It had felt as if a dark, compacted thing in her brain had burst open with that word, and now warred against all that surrounded it. Though it had initially come upon her with a force that seemed almost overwhelming, she could now sense its waning. Whatever it fought was winning the battle. Yet, faintly, she thought she could hear the weeping of a child.

  “I am Cotillion,” she heard herself murmur, “Patron of Assassins, known to all as the Rope of Shadow.” The weeping grew fainter. “The Seer is dead.”

  A part of her mind cried out at that, while another asked, What Seer?

  “I am within, yet apart. I stand at Shadowthrone’s side, and he is named Ammanas and he is the Lord of Shadows. I am here as the hand of death.” Sorry smiled and nodded to herself, once again in control. Whatever had challenged that was now gone, once more buried deep inside. The luxury of weeping, of anger, of fear did not belong to her, had never belonged to her.

  She drew a deep breath, and her senses narrowed to the task at hand. The fat little man was dangerous. The how and why of this remained to be answered, but every power hissed in alarm each time she caught a glimpse of him amid the crowds. And all that is dangerous, she told herself, must die.

  Beneath the Second Tier Wall in the Lakefront, the market along Salt Walk was at its usual frenzied peak. The sour heat, building all day in the cluttered avenues and alleys, was at its height. Sweating, exhausted merchants screamed curses at competitors over the heads of customers. Fights broke out every few minutes in one or another area, the turgid jostle of the crowds pulling the contestants apart long before the arrival of ill-tempered guards.