The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Anarchy, I’d wager. Slaughter and frenzy. Hearts of ice and the mercy of cold steel. Even if the illusion of Sha’ik is being maintained—her ranking followers now issuing commands—she’s not led her army out to make it the rebellion’s lodestone. Doesn’t sit well proclaiming an uprising, then not showing up to lead it…

  Apsalar would have her hands full, should she accept the role. An assassin’s skills might keep her alive, but they offered nothing of the intangible magnetism necessary to lead armies. Commanding armies was easy enough—the traditional structures ensured that, as the barely competent Fists of the Malazan Empire clearly showed—but leading was another thing entirely.

  Fiddler could think of only a handful of people possessing that magnetic quality. Dassem Ultor, Prince K’azz D’Avore of the Crimson Guard, Caladan Brood and Dujek Onearm. Tattersail if she’d had the ambition. Likely Sha’ik herself. And Whiskeyjack.

  As alluring as Apsalar was, the sapper had seen nothing of such force of personality. Competence, without a doubt. Quiet confidence as well. But she clearly preferred observing over participating—at least until the time came to draw the sticker. Assassins don’t bother honing their powers to persuade—why bother? She’ll need the right people around her…

  Fiddler scowled to himself. He’d already taken it as given that the lass would assume the guise, twined to the central thread of this goddess-woven tapestry. And here we are, racing through the Whirlwind…to arrive in time to witness the prophetic rebirth.

  Eyes narrowed against the blowing grit, the sapper glanced at Crokus. The lad strode half a dozen paces ahead, a step behind Icarium. Even leaning as he did into the biting wind, he betrayed something fraught and fragile in his posture. She’d said nothing to him before leaving—she’d dismissed him and his concerns as easily as she did the rest of us. Pust offered her father to seal the pact. But sent him out here first. That suggested the old man was a willing player in the scheme, a co-conspirator. If I was that lass, I’d have some hard questions for ol’ Dadda…

  On all sides, the Whirlwind seemed to howl with laughter.

  The bruise was vaguely door-shaped and twice a man’s height. Pearl paced before it, muttering to himself, while Lostara Yil watched in weary patience.

  Finally he turned, as if suddenly recalling her presence. “Complications, my dear. I am…torn.”

  The Red Blade eyed the portal. “Has the assassin left the warren, then? This does not look the same as the other one…”

  The Claw wiped ash from his brow, leaving a dusky streak. “Ah, no. This represents a…a detour. I’m the last surviving operative, after all. The Empress so despises idle hands…” He gave her a wry smile, then shrugged. “This is not my only concern, alas. We are being tracked.”

  She felt a chill at those words. “We should double back, then. Prepare an ambush—”

  Pearl grinned, waved an arm. “Choose us a likely place, then. Please.”

  She glanced around. Flat horizons in all directions. “What of those raised humps we passed a while back?”

  “Never mind those,” the Claw said. “Safe distance the first time and no closer now.”

  “Then that pit…”

  “Mechanisms to measure futility. I think not, my dear. For the moment, I fear, we must ignore that which stalks us—”

  “What if it’s Kalam?”

  “It isn’t. Thanks to you, we’re keeping our eyes on him. Our assassin’s mind wanders, and so therefore does his path. An embarrassing lack of discipline for one so weighty. I admit I am disappointed in the man.” He swung to face the portal. “In any case, we have digressed a rather vast distance here. A small measure of assistance is required—not lengthy, I assure you. The Empress agrees that Kalam’s journey suggests…personal risks to her person, and so must take ultimate precedence. Nonetheless…”

  The Claw removed his half-cloak, carefully folding it before setting it down. Across his chest was a belt containing throwing stars. A brace of knives jutted pommel-forward under his left arm. Pearl went through a ritual of checking every weapon.

  “Do I wait here?”

  “As you like. While I cannot guarantee your safety if you accompany me, I am for a skirmish.”

  “The enemy?”

  “Followers of the Whirlwind.”

  Lostara Yil unsheathed her tulwar.

  Pearl grinned, as if well aware of the effect his words would have. “When we appear, it shall be night. Thick mists, as well. Our foes are Semk and Tithansi, and our allies—”

  “Allies? This is a skirmish already underway?”

  “Oh, indeed. Wickans and marines of the Seventh.”

  Lostara bared her teeth. “Coltaine.”

  His grin broadening, Pearl drew on a pair of thin leather gloves. “Ideally,” he continued, “we should remain unseen.”

  “Why?”

  “If help appears once, the expectation is it will appear again. The risk is dulling Coltaine’s edge, and by the Nameless Ones, the Wickan will need that edge in the weeks to come.”

  “I am ready.”

  “One thing,” the Claw drawled. “There’s a Semk demon. Stay away from it, for while we know virtually nothing of its powers, what we do know suggests an appalling…temper.”

  “I shall be right behind you,” Lostara said.

  “Hmm, in that case, once we’re through, pull left. I’ll go right. Not an auspicious entry my getting trampled, after all.”

  The portal flared. In a blur Pearl slid forward and vanished. Lostara jabbed her heels into her mount’s flanks. The horse bolted through the portal—

  —her hooves thumping hard soil. Fog twisted wildly around her, through a darkness that was alive with screams and detonations. She’d already lost Pearl, but that concern was quickly flung aside as four Tithansi warriors on foot stumbled into view.

  A sharper had chewed them up, and none was prepared as Lostara charged them, her tulwar flashing. They scattered, but their wounds made them fatally slow. Two fell to her blade with the first pass. She spun her horse to ready a return charge.

  The other two warriors were nowhere to be seen, the mists closing in like slowly tumbling blankets. A flurry of sound to her left brought her wheeling her horse around, in time to see Pearl sprint into view. He spun in midstride and sent a star flashing behind him.

  The huge, bestial man that lumbered into sight had his head rocked back as the iron star embedded itself in his forehead. It barely slowed him.

  Lostara snarled, quickly dropping the tulwar to swing wildly from the loop around her wrist as she brought her crossbow around.

  Her shot went low, the quarrel sinking in just below the Semk’s sternum and above the odd thick leather belts protecting his midriff. It proved far more efficacious than Pearl’s star. As the man grunted and buckled, she saw with shock that his mouth and nostrils had been sewn shut. He draws no breath! Here’s our demon!

  The Semk straightened, flinging his arms forward. The power that erupted from them was unseen, but both Pearl and Lostara were thrown, tumbling through the air. The horse screamed in mortal agony amidst a rapid crunching and cracking of bones.

  The Red Blade landed on her right hip, feeling the bone resound within her like a fractured bell. Then waves of pain closed taloned hands around her leg. Her bladder went, flooding her underclothes in a hot bloom.

  Moccasined feet landed beside her. A knife grip was thrust into her hand. “Take yourself once I’m done! Here it comes!”

  Teeth clenched, Lostara Yil twisted around.

  The Semk demon was ten paces away, huge and unstoppable. Pearl crouched between them, holding knives that dripped red fire. Lostara knew he considered himself already dead.

  The thing that suddenly closed from the demon’s left was a nightmare. Black, three-limbed, a jutting shoulder blade like a cowl behind a long-necked head, a grinning jaw crowded with fangs, and a single, flat black eye that glistened wetly.

  Even more terrifying was the humanoid figure th
at sat behind that shoulder blade, its face a mocking mimicry of the beast it rode, the lips peeled back to reveal daggerlike fangs as long as a toddler’s fingers, its lone eye flashing.

  The apparition struck the Semk demon like a runaway armored wagon. The single forelimb snapped forward to plunge deep into the demon’s belly, then pulled back in an explosion of spurting fluids. Clenched in that forelimb’s grip was something that radiated fury in palpable waves. The air went icy.

  Pearl backed away until his heels struck Lostara, then he reached down one hand, eyes still on the scene, and gripped her weapon harness.

  The Semk’s body seemed to fold in on itself as it staggered back. The apparition reared, still clutching the fleshy, dripping object.

  Its rider made a grab for it, but the creature hissed, twisting to keep it out of his reach. Instead it flung the object away into the mists.

  The Semk stumbled after it.

  The apparition’s long head swung to face Lostara and Pearl with that ghastly grin.

  “Thank you,” Pearl whispered.

  A portal blossomed around them.

  Lostara blinked up at a dull, ash-laden sky. There was no sound but their breathing. Safe. A moment later unconsciousness slipped over her like a shroud.

  Chapter Thirteen

  An exquisite match of dog to master, the Wickan cattle-dog is a vicious, unpredictable breed, compact yet powerful, though by far its most notable characteristic is its stubborn will.

  LIVES OF THE CONQUERED

  ILEM TRAUTH

  As Duiker strode between the large, spacious tents, a chorus of shouts erupted ahead. A moment later one of the Wickan dogs appeared, head low, a surging rush of muscle, heading straight for the historian. Duiker fumbled for his sword, already knowing it was far too late. At the last instant the huge animal dodged lithely around him, and the historian saw that it held in its mouth a lapdog, its eyes dark pools of terror.

  The cattle-dog ran on, slipping between two tents and disappearing from sight.

  Ahead of the historian, a number of figures appeared, armed with large rocks and—bizarrely—Kanese parasols. One and all, they were dressed as if about to attend a royal function, although in their expressions Duiker saw raw fury.

  “You there!” one yelled imperiously. “Old man! Did you see a mad hound just now?”

  “I saw a running cattle-dog, aye,” the historian quietly replied.

  “With a rare Hengese roach dog in its mouth?”

  A dog that eats cockroaches? “Rare? I assumed it was raw.”

  The nobles grew quiet as gazes focused on Duiker.

  “A foolish time for humor, old man,” the spokesman growled. He was younger than the others, his honey-colored skin and large eyes denoting his Quon Talian lineage. He was lean, with the physical assurance of a duellist—the identification confirmed by the basket-hilted rapier at his belt. Moreover, there was something in the man’s eyes that suggested to Duiker that here was someone who enjoyed killing.

  The man approached, his walk becoming a swagger. “An apology, peasant—though I’ll grant it won’t save you from a beating, at least you’ll stay breathing…”

  A horseman approached from behind at a canter.

  Duiker saw the duellist’s eyes dart over the historian’s shoulder.

  Corporal List reined in, ignoring the nobleman. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “I was delayed at the smithy. Where is your horse?”

  “With the main herd,” Duiker replied. “A day off for the poor beast—long overdue.”

  For a young man of low rank, List managed an impressive expression of cold regard as he finally looked down at the nobleman. “If we arrive late, sir,” he said to Duiker, “Coltaine will demand an explanation.”

  The historian addressed the nobleman. “Are we done here?”

  The man gave a curt nod. “For now,” he said.

  Escorted by the corporal, Duiker resumed his journey through the nobles’ camp. When they had gone a dozen paces, List leaned over his saddle. “Alar looked ready to call you out, Historian.”

  “He’s known, then? Alar.”

  “Pullyk Alar—”

  “How unfortunate for him.”

  List grinned.

  They came to a central clearing in the encampment and discovered a whipping underway. The short, wide man with the leather cat-tail in one heat-bloated hand was familiar. The victim was a servant. Three other servants stood off to one side, their eyes averted. A few other nobleborn stood nearby, gathered around a weeping woman and voicing murmurs of consolation.

  Lenestro’s gold-brocaded cloak had lost some of its brilliant sheen, and in his red-faced frenzy as he swung the cat-tail he looked like a frothing ape performing the traditional King’s Mirror farce at a village fair.

  “I see the nobles are pleased by the return of their servantfolk,” List said dryly.

  “I suspect this has more to do with a snatched lapdog,” the historian muttered. “In any case, this stops now.”

  The corporal glanced over. “He’ll simply resume it later, sir.”

  Duiker said nothing.

  “Who would steal a lapdog?” List wondered, staying alongside the historian as he approached Lenestro.

  “Who wouldn’t? We’ve water but we’re still hungry. In any case, one of the Wickan cattle-dogs thought it up before the rest of us—to our collective embarrassment.”

  “I blame preoccupation, sir.”

  Lenestro noted their approach and paused his whipping, his breath loud as a bellows.

  Ignoring the nobleman, Duiker went to the servant. The man was old, down on his elbows and knees, hands held protectively behind his head. Red welts rode his knuckles, his neck and down the length of his bony back. Beneath the ruin were the tracks of older scars. A jewel-studded leash with a broken collar lay in the dust beside him.

  “Not your business, Historian,” Lenestro snapped.

  “These servants stood a Tithansi charge at Sekala,” Duiker said. “That defense helped to keep your head on your shoulders, Lenestro.”

  “Coltaine stole property!” the nobleman squealed. “The Council so judged him, the fine has been issued!”

  “Issued,” List said, “and duly pissed on.”

  Lenestro wheeled on the corporal, raised his whip.

  “A warning,” Duiker said, straightening. “Striking a soldier of the Seventh—or, for that matter, his horse—will see you hung.”

  Lenestro visibly struggled with his temper, his arm still raised, the whip quivering.

  Others were gathering, their sympathy clearly united with Lenestro. Even so, the historian did not anticipate violence. The nobles might well possess unrealistic notions, but they were anything but suicidal.

  Duiker spoke, “Corporal, we’ll take this man to the Seventh’s healers.”

  “Yes, sir,” List replied, briskly dismounting.

  The servant had passed out. Together they carried him to the horse and laid him belly-down across the saddle.

  “He shall be returned to me once healed,” Lenestro said.

  “So you can do it all over again? Wrong, he’ll not be returned to you.” And if you and your comrades are outraged, wait till an hour from now.

  “All such acts contrary to Malazan law are being noted,” the nobleman said shrilly. “There shall be recompense, with interest.”

  Duiker had heard enough. He suddenly closed the distance to grasp Lenestro’s cloak collar with both hands, and gave the man a teeth-rattling shake. The whip fell to the ground. The nobleman’s eyes were wide with terror—reminding the historian of the lapdog’s as it rode the hound’s mouth.

  “You probably think,” Duiker whispered, “that I’m about to tell you about the situation we’re all in. But it’s already quite evident that there’d be little point. You are a small-brained thug, Lenestro. Push me again, and I’ll have you eating pigshit and liking it.” He shook the pathetic creature again, then dropped him.

  Lenestro collapsed.r />
  Duiker frowned down at the man.

  “He’s fainted, sir,” List said.

  “So he has.” Old man scared you, did he?

  “Was that really necessary?” a voice asked plaintively. Nethpara emerged from the crowd. “As if our ongoing petition is not crowded enough, now we have personal bullying to add to our grievances. Shame on you, Historian—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” List said, “but you might wish to know—before you resume berating the historian—that scholarship came late to this man. You will find his name among the Noted on the First Army’s Column at Unta, and had you not just come late to this scene, you would have witnessed an old soldier’s temper. Indeed, it was admirable restraint that the historian elected to use both hands to grip Lenestro’s cloak, lest he use one to unsheathe that well-worn sword at his hip and drive it through the toad’s heart.”

  Nethpara blinked sweat from his eyes.

  Duiker slowly swung to face List.

  The corporal noted the dismay in the historian’s face and answered it with a wink. “We’d best move on, sir,” he said.

  They left behind a gathering in the clearing that broke its silence only after they’d entered the opposite aisle.

  List walked alongside the historian, leading his horse by the reins. “It still astonishes me that they persist in the notion that we will survive this journey.”

  Duiker glanced over in surprise. “Are you lacking such faith, then, Corporal?”

  “We’ll never reach Aren, Historian. Yet the fools compile their petitions, their grievances—against the very people keeping them alive.”

  “There’s great need to maintain the illusion of order, List. In us all.”

  The young man’s expression turned wry. “I missed your moment of sympathy back there, sir.”

  “Obviously.”

  They left the nobles’ encampment and entered the mayhem of the wagons bearing wounded. Voices moaned a constant chorus of pain. A chill crept over Duiker. Even wheeled hospitals carried with them that pervasive atmosphere of fear, the sounds of defiance and the silence of surrender. Mortality’s many comforting layers had been stripped away, revealing wracked bones, a sudden comprehension of death that throbbed like an exposed nerve.