The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Quick Ben bowed. “You are the Hound called Blind,” he said, “mate to Baran and mother of Gear. I come seeking no harm. I would speak with your master.”

  He heard a growl beside him and froze. Slowly, he turned his head and looked down. Less than a foot from his right leg lay another Hound, mottled brown and tan, lean and scarred. Its eyes were fixed on Blind. “Baran.” He nodded. Another growl answered Baran’s, this one behind the wizard. He turned further to see, ten feet away, a third Hound, this one long, black and sleek. Its eyes, fixed on him, glowed red. “And Shan,” he said quietly. He faced Blind again. “Have you found your quarry, or are you my escort?”

  Baran rose silently beside him, its shoulders level with his chest. Blind stood, then trotted off to the left. She stopped and looked back. Twin growls spurred Quick Ben after them.

  The land around them changed slowly, details slipping into sourceless shadows and re-emerging subtly altered. On what the wizard thought of as the north horizon, a gray forest climbed a slope to what might have been a wall. This wall was in place of sky—maybe it was sky—but to Quick Ben it looked strangely close, even though the forest was leagues away. Glancing overhead did not help him confirm or refute his feeling that this realm was bordered by a magical wall, for it, too, seemed close, almost within reach. Yet black clouds rode winds above him, skewing his perceptions and making him dizzy.

  Another Hound had joined their company. This one, a male, was dark gray, one of its eyes blue, the other yellow. Though it didn’t come close, Quick Ben judged that it was the largest of those around him, and its movement hinted at deadly speed. He knew it as Doan, firstborn to the pack’s leader, Rood, and its first mate, Pallick.

  Doan trotted alongside Blind for a time, then, when they came to the crest of a low rise, he bolted forward. Reaching the crest, Quick Ben saw their destination. He sighed. Just as the image carved upon the altar within the temples dedicated to Shadowthrone, Shadowkeep rose from the plain like an enormous lump of black glass, fractured with curving planes, rippled in places, with some corners glistening white as if crushed. The largest surface facing them—a wall, he supposed—was mottled and dull, as if it was a cortex, the weathered surface of obsidian.

  There were no windows as such, but many of the slick surfaces looked semi-translucent and seemed to glow with an inner light. As far as Quick Ben could see, there was no door, no gate, no drawbridge.

  They arrived, and the wizard exclaimed in surprise as Blind strode into the stone and disappeared. He hesitated, and Baran came as close to nudging him as Quick Ben allowed. He walked up to the mottled stone and held out his hands as he stepped into it. He felt nothing, passing through effortlessly to find himself in a hallway that could have been found in any mundane estate.

  Barren of trappings, the corridor led straight forward for, perhaps, thirty feet and ended at double doors. Blind and Doan sat to either side of these doors, which now opened of their own accord.

  Quick Ben entered the room beyond. The chamber was domed. Opposite him stood a simple obsidian throne on a slightly raised dais. The dull, cobbled floor bore no rugs, and the walls were bare except for torches spaced every ten feet. Quick Ben counted forty, but the light was fitful, seeming to struggle against encroaching shadows.

  At first he thought the throne unoccupied, but as he approached he saw the figure seated there. It seemed composed of almost translucent shadows, vaguely human in form, but hooded, preventing even the glint of eyes. Still, Quick Ben could feel the god’s attention fixed solely on him, and he barely repressed a shiver.

  Shadowthrone spoke, his voice calm and clear. “Shan tells me you know the names of my Hounds.”

  Quick Ben stopped before the dais. He bowed. “I was once an acolyte within your temple, Lord.”

  The god was silent for a time, then he said, “Is it wise to admit such a thing, Wizard? Do I look kindly upon those who once served me but then abandoned my ways? Tell me. I would hear from you what my priests teach.”

  “To begin upon the Path of Shadow and then to leave it is rewarded by the Rope.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I am marked for assassination by all who follow your ways, Lord.”

  “Yet here you stand, Wizard.”

  Quick Ben bowed again. “I would strike a deal, Lord.”

  The god giggled, then raised a hand. “No, dear Shan. Strike naught.”

  Quick Ben stiffened. The black Hound stepped around him, and ascended the dais. She lay down before her god and eyed the wizard blankly.

  “Do you know why I just saved your life, Wizard?”

  “I do, Lord.”

  Shadowthrone leaned forward. “Shan wants you to tell me.”

  Quick Ben met the Hound’s red stare. “Shadowthrone loves deals.”

  The god sighed and sank back. “Acolyte, indeed. Well, then, Wizard, speak on, while you can.”

  “I must begin with a question, Lord.”

  “Ask it.”

  “Does Gear still live?”

  Shan’s eyes flared and she half rose before the god’s hand touched her head.

  “Now that,” Shadowthrone said, “is quite a question. You’ve managed something few, alas, have been able to do. Wizard, my curiosity is piqued. So, I answer you: yes, Gear survives. By all means, continue.”

  “Lord, I would deliver into your hands the one who offended your Hound.”

  “How? He belongs to Oponn.”

  “Not him, Lord. But the one who led Gear to that chamber. The one who sought to take Gear’s soul, and would have succeeded if not for Oponn’s mortal tool.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  Quick Ben cursed inwardly. He could read nothing from the god’s tone, and that made things even trickier than he’d expected. “My life, Lord. I wish the Rope’s reward lifted from me.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated, then continued, “I wish to choose the time and place, Lord. Otherwise, this one of whom I speak will escape your Hounds through its Warren of Chaos. Only I can prevent that. Thus, it must be part of the deal. All that you need do is have your Hounds ready. I will call upon you at the proper moment, providing you with the creature’s precise location. The rest is up to your Hounds.”

  “You’ve planned this well, Wizard,” Shadowthrone said. “As of yet, I can think of no way to kill both the creature and you. I commend you. How then, do you intend to call upon me? Surely, you’ll not once again enter my realm.”

  “Lord, you will be contacted. I guarantee this, but I can say no more about it.”

  “And if I were to lay my powers upon you now, Wizard? If I were to wring whatever lies hidden in that frail brain of yours, how would you prevent me?”

  “To answer that, Lord, you must answer my proposal first.”

  Shan growled and this time the god made no motion to still her.

  Quick Ben went on hastily, “Given that you will seek to betray me at every opportunity, given that you’ll hunt for the weaknesses in my plan, given all this, I would have your word that you will complete your part of the deal if all else fails you, Lord. Give me that, and I will answer your last question.”

  Shadowthrone was silent for a long minute. “Ah well,” he muttered. “Your cunning is admirable, Wizard. I am astonished and, I must admit, delighted by this duel. My only regret is that you departed the Paths of Shadow—you would have risen far. Very well. You have my word. The Hounds will be ready. Now, why shouldn’t I shred your brain here and now, Wizard?”

  “Your answer, Lord, is in your very words.” Quick Ben raised his arms. “I did indeed rise far, Shadowthrone, in service to you.” He opened his Warren. “You’ll not have me, Lord, because you can’t.” Quick Ben whispered his word of recall, a word born of Chaos. Power burst around him, and he felt as if a giant hand had closed around him. As it pulled him back into his Warren, he heard Shadowthrone’s scream of recognition.

  “It is you! Delat! You shape-shifting bastard!”
<
br />   Quick Ben smiled. He’d done it. He was out of reach. He’d done it—again.

  Kruppe was ushered into Baruk’s study with none of the delays he was so fond of confounding. Slightly disappointed, he took his seat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  Baruk entered. “You took your time getting here,” he growled. “Well, never mind. Have you any news?”

  Kruppe laid his handkerchief on his lap and began carefully to fold it. “We continue to protect the Coin Bearer, as instructed. As for the presence of Malazan infiltrators, no luck.” It was a major lie, but necessary. “I am to convey a message to you,” he continued, “most unusual in its source. Indeed, strange in fact was its delivery to Kruppe.”

  “Get on with it.”

  Kruppe winced. Baruk was in a terrible mood. He sighed. “A message to you personally, Master.” He completed folding his handkerchief and looked up. “From the Eel.”

  Baruk stiffened, then a scowl darkened his features. “Why not?” he muttered. “The man even knows who my agents are.” His gaze cleared and he watched Kruppe. “I’m waiting,” he growled.

  “Of course!” Kruppe shook loose his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “‘Look to the streets to find those you seek.’ That, and no more. Delivered to Kruppe by the smallest child he’d ever seen—” He stopped and shook his head. No, such exaggeration would never do, not with Baruk’s mood as foul as it appeared to be. “A small child, in any case.”

  Baruk stood glowering at the dying embers in the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, fingers twisting a large silver ring. “Tell me, Kruppe,” he asked slowly, “what do you know of this Eel?”

  “Little, Kruppe admits. Man, woman? Unknown. Origins? A mystery. Designs? Perpetuating a status quo defined by aversion to tyranny. Or so it’s said. Influence? Far-reaching; even if one discounts nine out of ten rumors associated with the Eel, his or her agents must number in the hundreds. All devoted to protecting Darujhistan. ’Tis said that Councilman Turban Orr is even now hunting them down, convinced they’ve ruined all his schemes. Mayhap they have, and for that we can all be relieved.”

  Baruk seemed anything but relieved. Kruppe thought he could almost hear the man’s teeth grinding. However, he turned to Kruppe and nodded. “I have an assignment. For it, you will need to round up Murillio, Rallick, and Coll. And take the Coin Bearer with you, just to keep him safe.”

  Kruppe raised an eyebrow. “Out of the city?”

  “Yes. Paramount is the Coin Bearer—keep him beyond anyone’s reach. As for your mission, you will observe. Nothing more. Do you understand me, Kruppe? Observe. To do anything else will be to risk the Coin Bearer falling into the wrong hands. While he is Oponn’s tool, he also is the means by which another Ascendant can reach Oponn. The last thing we need is gods battling on the mortal plain.”

  Kruppe cleared his throat. “What are we to observe, Master?”

  “I’m not sure, possibly a foreign work party, digging here and there.”

  Kruppe started. “As in . . . road repairs?”

  The alchemist frowned. “I will be sending you to the Gadrobi Hills. Remain there until either someone comes or I contact you with further instructions. If someone comes, Kruppe, you’re to remain hidden. Avoid detection at all costs—use your Warren, if need be.”

  “None shall find Kruppe and his worthy, loyal comrades,” Kruppe said, smiling and waggling his fingers.

  “Good. That will be all, then.”

  Surprised, Kruppe climbed to his feet. “When are we to leave, Master?”

  “Soon. I’ll let you know at least a day beforehand. Is that sufficient time?”

  “Yes, friend Baruk. Kruppe deems that more than enough time. Rallick appears temporarily indisposed, but with luck he shall be available.”

  “Get him if you can. If the Coin Bearer’s influence turns against us, the assassin is charged with killing the boy. Does he understand this?”

  “We’ve discussed it,” Kruppe said.

  Baruk inclined his head and fell silent.

  Kruppe waited a moment, then quietly left.

  Less than an hour after Quick Ben’s soul had left the body seated on the hut’s floor and journeyed into the Shadow Realm, it creaked back into life. Red-eyed with an exhaustion born of unrelenting tension, Kalam pushed himself to his feet and waited for his friend to come round.

  The assassin laid his hands on his long-knives, just to be on the safe side. If Quick Ben had been taken, whatever controlled him might well announce its arrival by attacking anyone within range. Kalam held his breath.

  The wizard’s eyes opened, the glaze slipping away as awareness returned. He saw Kalam, and smiled.

  The assassin released his breath. “Done? Success?”

  “Yes, on both counts. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  Kalam found he was grinning uncontrollably. He stepped forward and helped Quick Ben to stand. The wizard leaned heavily against him, also grinning.

  “He realized who I was just as I left.” Quick Ben’s grin broadened. “You should have heard him scream.”

  “Well, are you surprised? How many High Priests burn the robes of their vestment?”

  “Not enough, if you ask me. Without temples and priests the gods’ bloody meddling couldn’t touch the mortal realm. Now, that would be paradise, right, friend?”

  “Perhaps,” said a voice at the doorway. Both men turned to see Sorry standing within the entrance, her half-cloak drawn about her slim body. She was wet with rain, and only now did Kalam notice the water dripping through cracks all around them. The assassin stepped away from Quick Ben to free his hands. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “You dream of paradise, Wizard? I wish I’d heard the entire conversation.”

  “How did you find us?” Quick Ben asked.

  Sorry stepped inside and pushed back her hood. “I’ve found an assassin,” she said. “I’ve marked him. He is in a place called the Phoenix Inn, in the Daru District. Are you interested?” she asked, dully eyeing both men.

  “I want answers,” Kalam said, in a low voice.

  Quick Ben backed to the far wall, to give the assassin room and to prepare his spells if need be—though he was in no real shape to manage his Warren at the moment. Nor, he noticed, did Kalam look up to a scrap, not that the assassin would allow that to stop him. Right now, he was at his most dangerous—that low tone had said it all.

  Sorry held her dead eyes on Kalam. “The sergeant has sent me to you—”

  “A lie,” Kalam interjected softly. “Whiskeyjack doesn’t know where we are.”

  “Very well. I sensed your power, Wizard. It has a notable signature.”

  Quick Ben was stunned. “But I established a shield around this place,” he said.

  “Yes. I, too, was surprised, Wizard. Usually I cannot find you. It seems cracks appeared.”

  Quick Ben thought about that. “Cracks,” he decided, wasn’t the right word—but Sorry didn’t know that. She’d sensed his whereabouts because she was what they’d suspected, a pawn of the Rope. The Shadow Realm had been linked, however briefly and however tenuously, to his flesh and blood. Yet none but a servant of Shadow possessed the necessary sensitivity to detect that link. The wizard moved to stand beside Kalam and laid a hand on the burly man’s shoulder.

  Kalam threw him a startled glare.

  “She’s right. Cracks appeared, Kalam. She’s obviously a natural Talent in the ways of sorcery. Come on, friend, the girl’s found what we’ve been looking for. Let’s move on it.”

  Sorry pulled up the hood around her head. “I am not accompanying you,” she said. “You’ll know the man when you see him. I suspect it is his task to make his profession obvious. Perhaps the Guild is anticipating you. In any case, find the Phoenix Inn.”

  “What the hell are you up to?” Kalam demanded.

  “I will be completing an assignment for the sergeant.” She turned and left the hut.

  Kalam’s shoulders slump
ed and he let out a long breath.

  “She’s the one we thought her to be,” Quick Ben said quietly. “So far, so good.”

  “In other words,” the assassin growled, “if I’d attacked her I’d be a dead man right now.”

  “Exactly. We’ll take her out, when the time’s right. But for now we need her.”

  Kalam nodded.

  “Phoenix Inn?”

  “Damn right. And when we get there the first thing I’m doing is buying a drink.”

  Quick Ben smiled. “Agreed.”

  Rallick looked up as the heavyset man entered the bar. His black skin marked him a southerner, which in itself was not unusual. What caught Rallick’s attention, however, was the horn-handled, silver-pommeled long-knives tucked into the man’s narrow belt. Those weapons were anything but southern, and stamped on the pommels was a cross-hatched pattern, recognizable to all within the trade as the mark of an assassin.

  The man swaggered into the room as if he owned it, and none of the locals he shouldered aside seemed inclined to disagree with him. He reached the bar and ordered an ale.

  Rallick studied the dregs in his own tankard. Obviously the man wanted to be marked, precisely by someone like Rallick Nom, a Guild assassin. So, who was the bait, then? This didn’t fit.

  Ocelot, his Clan Leader, was convinced, along with everyone else in the Guild, that Empire Claws had come into the city and now waged war against them. Rallick wasn’t so sure. The man standing at the bar could as easily be Seven Cities as a traveler from Callows. He had the look of Malazan Empire about him. Was he Claw? If so, why show himself? Up until now the enemy hadn’t left a single clue, or a single eyewitness, as to their identity. The brazenness he now observed either didn’t fit, or marked a reversal of tactics. Had Vorcan’s order to go to ground triggered it?

  Alarm bells rang in Rallick’s head. None of this felt right.

  Murillio leaned close to him. “Something wrong, friend?”

  “Guild business,” Rallick replied. “You thirsty?”