“Perhaps,” Fiddler said, “you and Icarium are Pust’s last line of defense. Should the Path converge here.” Aye, preventing the shapeshifters from reaching the gate’s a good thing, but the effort may prove fatal…or, it seems, something worse.
“Possibly,” Mappo admitted glumly.
“Well, you could leave.”
The Trell looked up, smiled wryly. “Icarium has his own quest, I’m afraid. Thus, we shall remain.”
Fiddler’s eyes narrowed. “You two would seek to prevent the gate from being used, wouldn’t you? That’s what Iskaral Pust knows, that’s what he relies upon, isn’t it? He’s used your sense of duty and honor against you.”
“A powerful ploy. And given its efficacy, he might well use it again—with the three of you.”
Fiddler scowled. “He’d be hard-pressed to find me that loyal about anything. While being a soldier relies on such things as duty and honor, it’s also something that beats Hood out of both of them. As for Crokus, his loyalty is to Apsalar. And as for her…” He fell silent.
“Aye.” Mappo reached out and settled a hand on the sapper’s shoulder. “And so I can see the cause of your distress, Fiddler. And empathize.”
“You say you’ll escort us to Tremorlor.”
“We shall. The journey will be fraught. Icarium has decided to guide you.”
“Then it truly exists.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“I think it’s time we rejoined the others.”
“And recount for them our thoughts?”
“Hood’s breath, no!”
The Trell nodded, pushing himself to his feet.
Fiddler hissed.
“What is it?” Mappo asked.
“The lantern’s out. Has been for some time. We’re in the dark, Trell.”
The temple was oppressive to Fiddler’s mind. The squat, cyclopean walls leaned and sagged in the lower levels, as if buckling under the weight of the stone overhead. Dust sifted like water from the ceiling joins in places, leaving pyramids on the paving stones. He limped in Mappo’s wake as they made their way to the spiral stairs that would take them back up to the others.
Half a dozen bhok’arala shadowed them on the way, each gripping leafy branches that they used to sweep and swat the stones as they scampered along. The sapper would have been more amused if the creatures had not achieved such perfection in their mimicry of Iskaral Pust and his obsession with spiders—right down to the fierce concentration on their round, wrinkled black faces.
Mappo had explained that the creatures worshipped the High Priest. Not like a dog its master, but like acolytes their god. Offerings, obscure symbols and fitful icons crowded their awkward rituals. Many of those rituals seemed to involve bodily wastes. When you can’t produce holy books, produce what you can, I suppose. The creatures drove Iskaral Pust to distraction. He cursed them, and had taken to carrying rocks in a sack. He flung the missiles at the bhok’arala at every opportunity.
The winged creatures gathered those god-sent objects and clearly revered them—the High Priest had found the sack carefully refilled when he awoke this morning. Pust had flown into a spitting rage at the discovery.
Mappo nearly stumbled over a cache of torches on the way. Darkness was anathema to shadows. Pust wanted to encourage an escort of his god’s minions. They lit one each, sardonically aware of their ulterior value. While Mappo could see well enough without their aid, Fiddler had been left groping, one hand clutching the Trell’s chest harness.
They reached the staircase and paused. The bhok’arala held back a dozen paces down the aisle, twittering among themselves in some obscure but vehement argument.
“Icarium has passed this way recently,” Mappo said.
“Does sorcery heighten your sensitivity?” Fiddler asked.
“Not precisely. More like centuries of companionship—”
“That which links you to him, you mean.”
The Trell grunted. “Not one chain but a thousand, soldier.”
“Is your friendship such a burden, then?”
“Some burdens are willingly embraced.”
Fiddler was silent for a few breaths. “It’s said Icarium is obsessed with time, true?”
“Aye.”
“He builds bizarre constructs to measure it, places those constructs in locations all over the world.”
“His temporal maps, yes.”
“He feels he is nearing his goal, doesn’t he? He’s about to find his answer—the one you would do anything to prevent. Is that your vow, Mappo? To keep the Jhag ignorant?”
“Ignorant of the past, yes. His past.”
“That notion frightens me, Mappo. Without history there’s no growth—”
“Aye.”
The sapper fell silent again. He’d run out of things he dared to say. There’s such pain in this giant warrior. Such sadness. Has Icarium never wondered? Never questioned this centuries-long partnership? And what is friendship to the Jhag? Without memory it’s an illusion, an agreement taken on faith and faith alone. How on earth is Icarium’s generosity born from that?
They resumed their journey, climbing the saddle-backed stone steps. After a short pause, punctuated by what Fiddler was convinced was heated whispering, the bhok’arala fell silent and slipped into their wake once again.
Emerging onto the main level, Mappo and Fiddler were accosted with the harsh echo of a shouting voice, bouncing down the hallway from the altar chamber. The sapper grimaced. “That would be Crokus.”
“Not in prayer, I take it.”
They found the young Daru thief at the extreme edge of his patience. He held Iskaral Pust by the front of his robe, pushed up against the wall behind the dusty altarstone. Pust’s feet dangled ten inches above the flagstones, kicking feebly. Off to one side stood Apsalar, arms crossed, watching the scene without expression.
Fiddler stepped forward and laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “You’re choking the life out of him, Crokus—”
“Precisely what he deserves, Fiddler!”
“I won’t argue that, but in case you haven’t noticed, there’s shadows gathering.”
“He’s right,” Apsalar said. “Like I said before, Crokus. You’re moments from Hood’s Gates yourself.”
The Daru hesitated; then, with a snarl, he flung Pust away. The High Priest skidded along the wall, gasping, then straightened and began adjusting his robe. He spoke in a rasp. “Precipitous youth! I am reminded of my own melodramatic gestures when I but toddled about in Aunt Tulla’s yard. Bullying the chickens when they objected to the straw hats I had spent hours weaving. Incapable of appreciating the intricate plaits I devised. I was deeply offended.” He cocked his head, grinned up at Crokus. “She’ll look good in my new and improved straw hat—”
Fiddler intercepted Crokus’s lunge and grappled with the lad. With Mappo’s help he pulled him back as the High Priest scampered away, giggling.
The giggle broke into a fit of coughing that had Pust staggering about as if suddenly blinded. One groping hand found a wall, which he sagged against like a drunkard. The cough ended with a last hack, then he wiped his eyes and looked up.
Crokus growled, “He wants Apsalar to—”
“We know,” Fiddler said. “We worked that much out, lad. The point is, it’s up to her, isn’t it?”
Mappo glanced at him in surprise. The sapper shrugged. Late in this wisdom, but I got there eventually.
“I have been used by an Ascendant once,” Apsalar said. “I’ll not willingly be used again.”
“You are not to be used,” Iskaral Pust hissed, beginning a strange dance, “you lead! You command! You impose your will! Dictate terms! Free to express every tantrum, enforce every whim, act like a spoiled child and be worshipped for it!” He ducked down suddenly, paused, then said in a whisper, “Such lures as to entice! Self-examination is dispensed with at the beck and at the call of privileges unfettered! She wavers, she leans—see it in her eyes!”
“I do
not,” Apsalar said coolly.
“She does! Such percipience in the lass as to sense my every thought—as if she could hear them aloud! The Rope’s shadow remains within her, a linkage not to be denied! Gods, I am brilliant!”
With a disgusted snort Apsalar strode from the chamber.
Iskaral Pust scurried after her.
Fiddler held back the Daru’s attempt to pursue. “She can handle him, Crokus,” the sapper said. “That should be plain—even to you.”
“There are more mysteries here than you imagine,” Mappo said, frowning after the High Priest.
They heard voices in the hall, then Icarium appeared at the entrance, wearing his deer-hide cloak with the dust of the desert on his dusky green skin. He saw the question in Mappo’s eyes and shrugged. “He’s left the temple—I trailed him as far as the storm’s edge.”
Fiddler asked, “Who are you talking about?”
“Servant,” Mappo answered, his frown deepening. He glanced at Crokus. “We think he’s Apsalar’s father.”
The lad’s eyes widened. “Is he one-armed?”
“No,” Icarium replied. “Iskaral Pust’s servant is a fisherman, however. Indeed, his barque can be found in a lower chamber of this temple. He speaks Malazan—”
“Her father lost an arm at the siege of Li Heng,” Crokus said, shaking his head. “He was among the rebels who held the walls, and had his arm burned off when the Imperial Army retook the city.”
“When a god intervenes…” Mappo said, then shrugged. “One of his arms looks…young…younger than the other, Crokus. Servant was sent into hiding when we brought you back here. Pust was hiding him from you. Why?”
Icarium spoke. “Was it not Shadowthrone who arranged the possession? When Cotillion took her, Shadowthrone may well have taken him. There is little point in trying to guess at motivations—the Lord of the Shadow Realm is notoriously obscure. Nonetheless, I see a certain logic in the possibility.”
Crokus had gone pale. His gaze snapped to the vacant entranceway. “Leverage,” he whispered.
Fiddler instantly grasped the Daru’s meaning. He turned to Icarium. “You said Servant’s trail led into the Whirlwind storm. Is there a particular place where Sha’ik is expected to be reborn?”
“The High Priest says her body has not been moved from where it fell at the hands of the Red Blades.”
“Within the storm?”
The Jhag nodded.
“He’s telling her right now,” Crokus growled, his hands balling into fists, the knuckles whitening. “ ‘Be reborn, and you shall be reunited with your father.’ ”
“ ‘A life given for a life taken,’ ” Mappo muttered. The Trell eyed the sapper. “Are you mended well enough for a pursuit?”
Fiddler nodded. “I can ride, walk…or crawl if it comes to that.”
“I shall prepare for our departure, then.”
In the small storage room where the gear and travel packs had been assembled, Mappo crouched down over his own sack. He rummaged amidst the bedrolls and canvas tent until his hands found the hard, hide-wrapped object he sought. The Trell pulled it forth and slipped the waxed elk hide away, revealing a solid long-bone half again the length of his forearm. The shaft was golden in lustre, polished by age. Leather cord was wrapped around the grip, enough for two hands. The distal end was ringed in similarly polished spike-shaped teeth—each the size of his thumb—set in an iron collar.
A hint of sage reached Mappo’s nostrils. The sorcery within the weapon was still potent. The efforts of seven Trell witches was not a thing to fade with time. The long-bone had been found in a mountain stream. The mineral-rich water had made it hard as iron, and just as heavy. Other parts of the strange, unknown beast’s skeleton had been recovered as well, though those had remained with the Clan as revered objects, each invested with power.
Only once had Mappo seen all the fragments laid out together, hinting at a beast twice the mass of a plains bear, the upper and lower jaws both sporting a row of fangs that roughly interlocked. The thigh bone—which he now held in his hands—had the shape of a bird’s, yet impossibly huge and twice as thick as the hollow shaft it surrounded. Ridges appeared here and there along the shaft, where what must have been massive muscles were attached.
His hands trembled beneath the burden of the weapon.
Icarium spoke behind him. “I do not recall you ever using that, friend.”
Unwilling as yet turn to to the Jhag, Mappo closed his eyes. “No.” You do not.
“I am continually astonished,” Icarium went on, “at just how much you manage to fit into that tattered sack.”
Another trick of the Clan witches—this small, private warren beyond the drawstrings. Should never have lasted this long. They said a month, maybe two. Not centuries. His gaze fell again to the weapon in his hands. There was power in these bones to start with—the witches simply did some enhancements, spells of binding to keep the parts together and such. Perhaps the bone feeds the warren in the sack somehow…or the handful of irritating people I’ve stuffed inside in my own fits of ill temper. Wonder where they all went… He sighed and rewrapped the weapon, returned it to the sack and cinched tight the drawstrings. Then he straightened, turning to offer Icarium a smile.
The Jhag had collected his own weapons. “It seems our journey to find Tremorlor shall have to wait a while longer,” he said, shrugging. “Apsalar has set off in pursuit of her father.”
“And thus will be led to the place where Sha’ik’s body awaits.”
“We are to go after her,” Icarium said. “Perhaps we can circumvent Iskaral Pust’s intentions.”
“Not just Pust, it seems, but the Whirlwind goddess—who may well have shaped this from the very start.”
The Jhag frowned.
Mappo sighed again. “Think on it, friend. Sha’ik was anointed as the Seeress of the Apocalypse almost as soon as she was born. Forty or more years in Raraku, preparing for this year…Raraku is not a kind place, and four decades will wear down even a chosen one. Perhaps preparation was all the Seeress was meant to achieve—the war itself requires new blood.”
“Yet did not the soldier say that Cotillion’s relinquishing of the lass was forced upon him by the threat of Anomander Rake? The possession was meant to last much longer, taking the lass ever closer to the Empress herself…”
“So everyone assumes,” Mappo said. “Iskaral Pust is a High Priest of Shadow. I think it best to assume that no matter how devious Pust is, Shadowthrone and Cotillion are more devious. By far. A truly possessed Apsalar would never get close to Laseen—the Claws would sniff it out, not to mention the Adjunct and her Otataral sword. But an Apsalar no longer possessed…well…and Cotillion’s made sure she’s not just a simple fishergirl any more, hasn’t he?”
“A scheme within a scheme. Have you discussed this with Fiddler?”
Mappo shook his head. “I may be wrong. It may be that the Rulers of Shadow simply saw an opportunity here, a means to take advantage of the convergence—the dagger is honed, then slipped in amidst the tumult. I have been wondering why Apsalar’s memories are returning so swiftly…and so painlessly.”
“And we have no role in this?”
“That I do not know.”
“Apsalar becomes Sha’ik. Sha’ik defeats the Malazan armies, liberates the Seven Cities. Laseen, forced to take charge herself, arrives with an army to reconquer the unruly citizens of this land.”
“Armed with Cotillion’s skill and knowledge, Sha’ik kills Laseen. End of Empire—”
“End?” Icarium’s brows rose. “More likely a new Emperor or Empress with Shadow the patron gods…”
Mappo grunted. “A worrying thought.”
“Why?”
The Trell scowled. “I had a sudden vision of Emperor Iskaral Pust…” He shook himself, lifted the sack and swung it over a shoulder. “For the moment, I think it best we keep this conversation to ourselves, friend.”
Icarium nodded. He hesitated, then said, “I h
ave one question, Mappo.”
“Aye?”
“I feel closer to discovering…who I am…than ever before. Tremorlor is said to be time-aspected—”
“Aye, so it’s said, though what that means is anyone’s guess.”
“Answers, I believe. For me. For my life.”
“What do you ask, Icarium?”
“Should I discover my past, Mappo, how will that change me?”
“You are asking me? Why?”
Icarium’s gaze was half-lidded as he smiled at Mappo. “Because, friend, within you reside my memories—none of which you are prepared to reveal.”
And so we come to this point…again. “Who you are, Icarium, is not dependent on me, nor on my memories. What value would it be to seek to become my version of you? I accompany you, friend, in your quest. If the truth—If your truth—is to be found, then you shall find it.”
Icarium was nodding, past echoes of this conversation returning to him—but little else, by the Ancients, little else, please—“Yet something tells me that you, Mappo, are a part of that hidden truth.”
Ice filled the Trell’s heart. He’s not taken it that far before—is Tremorlor’s proximity nudging open the locked gate? “Then, when the time comes, you shall face a decision.”
“I think I shall.”
They studied each other, their eyes searching the altered reflection before them, one set plagued with innocent questing, the other disguising devastating knowledge. And between us, hanging in the balance, a friendship neither understands.
Icarium reached out and clasped Mappo’s shoulder. “We should join the others.”
Fiddler sat astride the Gral gelding as they waited at the base of the cliff. Bhok’arala scampered along the temple face, squealing and barking as they struggled with the lowering of the mule packs and assorted supplies. One had got its tail snagged in the rope and screamed pitifully as it slowly descended with the gear. Iskaral Pust hung half out of the tower window, throwing rocks at the hapless creature—none of which came close.
The Malazan Empire Page 110