The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  None had survived. Expressionless, Felisin watched with a dozen other slaves from the rest ramp at Twistings Mouth while they awaited the arrival of refilled water casks. The heat had turned even the deepest reaches of the mines into sweltering, dripping ovens. Slaves were collapsing by the score every hour below ground.

  On the other side of the pit, Heboric tilled the parched earth of Deepsoil. It was his second week there and the cleaner air and the relief from pulling stone carts had improved his health. A shipment of limes delivered at Beneth’s command had helped as well.

  Had she not seen to his transfer, Heboric would now be dead, his body crushed under tons of rock. He owed her his life.

  The realization brought Felisin little satisfaction. They rarely spoke to each other any more. Head clouded with durhang smoke, it was all Felisin could do to drag herself home from Bula’s each night. She slept long hours but gained no rest. The days working in Twistings passed in a long, numb haze. Even Beneth had complained that her lovemaking had become…torpid.

  The thuds and grunts of the water carts on the pitted work road grew louder, but Felisin could not pull her gaze from the rescuers as they laid out the mangled corpses to await the body wagon. A faint residue of pity clung to what she could see of the scene, but even that seemed too much of an effort, never mind pulling away her eyes.

  For all her dulled responses, she went to Beneth, wanting to be used, more and more often. She sought him out when he was drunk, weaving and generous, when he offered her to his friends, to Bula and to other women.

  You’re numb, girl, Heboric had said one of the few times he’d addressed her. Yet your thirst for feeling grows, until even pain will do. But you’re looking in the wrong places.

  Wrong places. What did he know of wrong places? The far reach of Deep Mine was a wrong place. The Shaft, where the bodies would be dumped, that was a wrong place. Everywhere else is just a shade of good enough.

  She was ready to move in with Beneth, punctuating the choices she’d made. In a few days, perhaps. Next week. Soon. She’d made such an issue of her own independence, but it was proving not so great a task to surrender it after all.

  “Lass.”

  Blinking, Felisin looked up. It was the young Malazan guard, the one who’d warned Beneth once…long ago.

  The soldier grinned. “Find the quote yet?”

  “What?”

  “From Kellanved’s writings, girl.” The boy was frowning now. “I suggested you find someone who knew the rest of the passage I quoted.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He reached down, the calluses ridging the index finger and thumb of his sword hand scraping her chin and jawline as he raised her face. She winced in the bright light when he pushed her hair back. “Durhang,” he whispered. “Queen’s heart, girl, you look ten years older than the last time I saw you, and when was that? Two weeks back.”

  “Ask Beneth,” she mumbled, pulling her head away from his touch.

  “Ask him what?”

  “For me. In your bed. He’ll say yes, but only if he’s drunk. He’ll be drunk tonight. He grieves for the dead with a jug. Or two. Touch me then.”

  He straightened. “Where’s Heboric?”

  “Heboric? Deepsoil.” She thought to ask why he wanted him instead of her, but the question drifted away. He could touch her tonight. She’d grown to like calluses.

  Beneth was paying Captain Sawark a visit and he’d decided to take her with him. He was looking to make a deal, Felisin belatedly realized, and he’d offer her to the captain as an incentive.

  They approached Rathole Round from Work Road, passing Bula’s Inn where half a dozen off-duty Dosii guards lounged around the front door, their bored gazes tracking them.

  “Walk a straight line, lass,” Beneth grumbled, taking her arm. “And stop dragging your feet. It’s what you like, isn’t it? Always wanting more.”

  An undercurrent of disgust had come to his tone when he spoke to her. He’d stopped making promises. I’ll make you my own, girl. Move in with me. We won’t need anyone else. Those gruff, whispered assurances had vanished. The realization did not bother Felisin. She’d never really believed Beneth anyway.

  Directly ahead, Sawark’s Keep rose squat from the center of Rathole Round, its huge, rough-cut blocks of stone stained from the greasy smoke that never really left Skullcup. A lone guard stood outside the entrance, a pike held loosely in one hand. “Hard luck,” he said once they were near.

  “What is?” Beneth demanded.

  The soldier shrugged. “This morning’s cave-in, what else?”

  “We might’ve saved some,” Beneth said, “if Sawark had sent us some help.”

  “Saved some? What’s the point? Sawark’s not in the mood if you’ve come here to complain.” The man’s flat eyes flicked to Felisin. “If you’re here with a gift, that would be another matter.” The guard opened the heavy door. “He’s in the office.”

  Beneth grunted. Tugging at Felisin’s arm, he dragged her through the portal. The ground floor was an armory, weapons lining the walls in locked racks. A table and three chairs were off to one side, the leavings of the guards’ breakfast crowding the small tabletop. Up from the room’s center rose an iron staircase.

  They ascended a single flight to Sawark’s office. The captain sat behind a desk that seemed cobbled together from driftwood. His chair was plushly padded with a high back. A large, leather-bound tally book was opened before him. Sawark set down his quill and leaned back.

  Felisin could not recall ever having seen the captain before. He made a point of remaining aloof, isolated here within his tower. The man was thin, devoid of fat, the muscles on his bared forearms like twisted cables under pale skin. Against the present fashion, he was bearded, the wiry black ringlets oiled and scented. The hair on his head was cut short. Watery green eyes glittered from a permanent squint above high cheekbones. His wide mouth was bracketed in deep downturned lines. He stared steadily at Beneth, ignoring Felisin as if she was not there.

  Beneth pushed her down in a chair close to one wall, on Sawark’s left, then sat himself down in the lone chair directly facing the captain. “Ugly rumors, Sawark. Want to hear them?”

  The captain’s voice was soft. “What will that cost me?”

  “Nothing. These are free.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “The Dosii are talking loud at Bula’s. Promising the Whirlwind.”

  Sawark scowled. “More of that nonsense. No wonder you give me this news free, Beneth, it’s worthless.”

  “So I too thought at the beginning, but—”

  “What else have you to tell me?”

  Beneth’s eyes dropped to the ledger on the desk. “You’ve tallied this morning’s dead? Did you find the name you sought?”

  “I sought no particular name, Beneth. You think you’ve guessed something, but there’s nothing there. I’m losing patience.”

  “There were four mages among the victims—”

  “Enough! Why are you here?”

  Beneth shrugged, as if tossing away whatever suspicions he held. “A gift,” he said, gesturing to Felisin. “Very young. Docile, but ever eager. No spirit to resist—do whatever you want, Sawark.”

  The captain’s scowl darkened.

  “In exchange,” Beneth continued, “I wish the answer to a single question. The slave Baudin was arrested this morning—why?”

  Felisin blinked. Baudin? She shook her head, trying to clear it of the fog that marked her waking hours. Was this important?

  “Arrested in Whipcord Lane after curfew. He got away but one of my men recognized him and so the arrest was effected this morning.” Sawark’s watery gaze finally swung to Felisin. “Very young, you said? Eighteen, nineteen? You’re getting old, Beneth, if you call that very young.”

  She felt his eyes exploring her like ghost hands. This time, the sensation was anything but pleasing. She fought back a shiver.

  “She’s fifteen, S
awark. But experienced. Arrived but two transports ago.”

  The captain’s eyes sharpened on her, and she watched, wondering, as all the blood drained from his face.

  Beneth surged to his feet. “I’ll send another. Two young girls from the last shipment.” He stepped close to Felisin and pulled her upright. “I guarantee your satisfaction, Captain. They’ll be here within the hour—”

  “Beneth.” Sawark’s voice was soft. “Baudin works for you, does he not?”

  “An acquaintance, Sawark. Not one of my trusted ones. I asked because he’s on my reach crew. One less strong man will slow us if you’re still holding him tomorrow.”

  “Live with it, Beneth.”

  Neither one believes the other. The thought was like a glimmer of long-lost awareness in Felisin. She drew a deep breath. Something’s happening. I need to think about it. I need to be listening. Listening, right now.

  In answer to Sawark’s suggestion, Beneth sighed heavily. “I shall have to do just that, then. Until later, Captain.”

  Felisin did not resist as Beneth propelled her toward the stairs. Once outside he pulled her across the Round, not answering the Keep guard as the man said something in a sneering tone. Breathing hard, Beneth dragged her into the shadows of an alley, then swung her around.

  His voice was a harsh rasp. “Who are you, girl, his long-lost daughter? Hood’s breath! Clear your wits! Tell me what happened just now in that office! Baudin? What’s Baudin to you? Answer me!”

  “He’s—he’s nothing—”

  The back of his hand when it struck her face was like a sack of rocks. Light exploded behind Felisin’s eyes as she sprawled sideways. Blood streamed from her nose as she lay unmoving in the alley’s rotting refuse. Staring dumbly at the ground six inches away, she watched the red pool spread in the dust.

  Beneth dragged her upright and threw her up against a wood-slatted wall. “Your full name, lass. Tell me!”

  “Felisin,” she mumbled. “Just that—”

  Snarling, he raised his hand again.

  She stared at the marks her teeth had left just above the knuckles. “No! I swear it! I was a foundling—”

  Disbelief crazed his eyes. “A what?”

  “Found outside the Fener Monastery on Malaz Island—the Empress made accusations—followers of Fener. Heboric—”

  “Your ship came from Unta, lass. What do you take me for? You’re nobleborn—”

  “No! Only well cared for. Please, Beneth, I’m not lying. I don’t understand Sawark. Maybe Baudin spun a tale, a lie to save his own skin—”

  “Your ship sailed from Unta. You’ve never even been to Malaz Island. This monastery, near which city?”

  “Jakata. There’s only two cities on the island. The other’s Malaz City, I was sent there for a summer. Schooling. I was in training to be a priestess. Ask Heboric, Beneth. Please.”

  “Name me the poorest quarter of Malaz City.”

  “Poorest?”

  “Name it!”

  “I don’t know! The Fener Temple is in Dockfront! Is it the poorest? There were slums outside the city, lining the Jakata Road. I was there for but a season, Beneth! And I hardly saw Jakata—we weren’t allowed! Please, Beneth, I don’t understand any of this! Why are you hurting me? I’ve done everything you wanted me to do—I slept with your friends, I let you trade me, I made myself valuable—”

  He struck her again, no longer seeking answers or a way through her frantic lies—a new reason had appeared in his eyes, birthing a bright rage. He beat her systematically, in silent, cold fury. After the first few blows, Felisin curled herself tight around the pain, the shadow-cooled alley dust feeling like a balm where her flesh lay upon it. She struggled to concentrate on her breathing, closing in on that one task, drawing the air in, fighting the waves of agony that came with the effort, then releasing it slowly, a steady stream that carried the pain away.

  Eventually she realized that Beneth had stopped, that perhaps he’d only struck her a few times, and that he had left. She was alone in the alley, the thin strip of sky overhead darkening with dusk. She heard occasional voices in the street beyond but no one approached the narrow aisle she huddled in.

  She woke again later. Apparently she had passed out while crawling toward the alley mouth. The torchlit Work Road was a dozen paces away. Figures ran through her line of sight. Through the constant ringing in her ears, she heard shouts and screams. The air stank of smoke. She thought to resume crawling, then consciousness slipped away again.

  Cool cloth brushed her brow. Felisin opened her eyes.

  Heboric was bending over her and seemed to be studying her pupils, each in turn. “You with us, lass?”

  Her jaw ached, her lips were crusted together with scabs. She nodded, only now realizing that she was lying in her own bed.

  “I’m going to rub some oil on your lips, see if we can prise them open without it hurting too much. You need water.”

  She nodded again, and steeled herself against the pain of his ministrations as he dabbed at her mouth with the oil-soaked cloth strapped onto the stub of his left arm. He spoke as he worked. “Eventful night for us all. Baudin escaped the jail, lighting a few buildings to flame for diversion. He’s hiding somewhere here in Skullcup. No one tried the cliff walls or Sinker Lake—the cordon of guards lining Beetle Road up top reported no attempts to breach, in any case. Sawark’s posted a reward—wants the bastard alive, not least because Baudin went and killed three of his men. I suspect there’s more to the tale, what do you think? Then Beneth reports you missing from the Twistings work line this morning, starts me wondering. So I go to talk to him at the midday break—says he last saw you at Bula’s last night, says he’s cut you loose because you’re all used up, sucking more smoke into your lungs than air, as if he ain’t to blame for that. But all the while he’s talking, I’m studying those cut marks on his knuckles. Beneth was in a fight last night, I see, and the only damage he’s sporting is what was done by somebody’s teeth. Well, the weeding’s done and nobody’s keeping an eye an old Heboric, so I spend the afternoon looking, checking alleys, expecting the worst I admit—”

  Felisin pushed his arm away. Slowly she opened her mouth, wincing at the pain and feeling the cool prick of reopened gashes. “Beneth,” she managed. Her chest hurt with every breath.

  Heboric’s eyes were hard. “What of him?”

  “Tell him…from me…tell him I’m…sorry.”

  The old man slowly leaned back.

  “I want him…to take me back. Tell him. Please.”

  Heboric rose. “Get some rest,” he said in a strangely flat voice as he moved out of her line of sight.

  “Water.”

  “Coming up, then you sleep.”

  “Can’t,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Can’t sleep…without a pipe. Can’t.”

  She sensed him staring at her. “Your lungs are bruised. You’ve some cracked ribs. Will tea do? Durhang tea.”

  “Make it strong.”

  Hearing him fill a cup of water from the cask, she closed her eyes.

  “Clever story, lass,” Heboric said. “A foundling. Lucky for you I’m quick. I’d say there’s a good chance Beneth believes you now.”

  “Why? Why do you tell me this?”

  “To put you at ease. I guess what I mean is—” he approached with the cup of water between his forearms “—he just might take you back, lass.”

  “Oh. I…I don’t understand you, Heboric.”

  He watched her raise the clay cup to her lips. “No,” he said, “you do not.”

  Like an enormous wall, the sandstorm descended down the west slope of the Estara Hills and approached the coastal road with a deathly moan. While such inland storms were rare on the peninsula, Kalam had faced their wrath before. His first task was to leave the road. It ran too close to the sea cliff in places, and such cliffs were known to collapse.

  The stallion complained as he angled him down the road’s scree ba
nk. For a thick-muscled, vicious beast, the horse was overfond of comforts. The sands were hot, the footing treacherous with hidden sinkholes. Ignoring the stallion’s neck tugs and head-tossing, he drove him down and onto the basin, then kicked the animal into a canter.

  A league and a half ahead was Ladro Landing, and beyond that, on the banks of a seasonal river, Ladro Keep. Kalam did not plan on staying there if he could help it. The Keep’s commander was Malazan, and so too were his guards. If he could, the assassin would outrun the worst of the storm, hoping to regain the coastal road beyond the Keep, then continue on south to the village of Intesarm.

  Keening, the ochre wall drew the horizon on Kalam’s left ever closer. The hills had vanished. A turgid gloom curtained the sky. The flap and skitter of fleeing rhizan surrounded him. Hissing a curse, the assassin spurred the stallion into a gallop.

  As much as he detested horses in principle, the animal was magnificent when in full stride, seeming to flow effortlessly over the ground with a rhythm forgiving of Kalam’s modest skills. He would come no closer to admitting a growing affection toward the stallion.

  As he rode, he glanced to see the edge of the storm less than a hundred paces away. There would be no outrunning it. A swirling breaker of whipped sand marked where the wind met the ground. Kalam saw fist-sized rocks in that rolling surf. The wall would crash over them within minutes. Its roar filled the air.

  Slightly ahead and on a course that would intercept them, Kalam saw within the ochre cloud a gray stain. He threw himself back in the saddle, sawing the reins. The stallion shrilled, broken out of his rhythm, slewing with his hooves as he stumbled to a stop.

  “You’d thank me if you had half a brain,” Kalam snarled. The gray stain was a swarm of chigger fleas. The voracious insects waited for storms like this one, then rode the winds in search of prey. The worst of it was, one could not see them straight on; only from the side were they visible.

  As the swarm swept past ahead of them, the storm struck.

  The stallion staggered when the wall rolled over them. The world vanished inside a shrieking, whirling ochre haze: Stones and gravel pelted them, drawing flinches from the stallion and grunts of pain from Kalam. The assassin ducked his hooded head and leaned into the wind. Through the slit in his telaba scarf, he squinted ahead, nudging his mount forward at a walk. He leaned down over the animal’s neck, reached out one gloved hand and cupped it over the stallion’s left eye to shield it from flying stones and grit. For being out here, the assassin owed him that much.