The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  “It’s the threat,” the Trell answered. “Gods below, not here, not now!”

  “No better time!” Iskaral Pust shrieked.

  Apsalar spoke again. “Crokus, you’re the last to try but Fiddler. Come here, quickly.”

  The silence that followed told Fiddler all he needed to know. He risked a glance back to where Mappo crouched over Icarium. “Awaken him,” he said, “or all is lost.”

  The Trell lifted his face and the sapper saw the anguished indecision writ there. “This close to Tremorlor—the risk, Fiddler—”

  “What—”

  But he got no further.

  As if speared by lightning, the Jhag’s body jolted, a high-pitched keening rising from him. The sound buffeted the others and sent them tumbling. Fresh blood streaming from the wound on his head and his eyes struggling to open, Icarium surged to his feet. The ancient single-edged long sword slipped free, the blade’s strange, shivering blur.

  The Hounds and the D’ivers swarm reached the yard simultaneously. The grounds and ragged trees erupted, chaotic webs of root and branch twisting skyward like black sails, billowing, spreading wide. Other roots snapped out for the Hounds—the beasts screamed. Blind was gone from Fiddler’s side, down among her kin.

  At that moment, in the midst of all he saw, Fiddler grinned inwardly. Not just Shadowthrone for treachery—how could an Azath resist the Hounds of Shadow?

  A hand gripped his shoulder.

  “The latch!” Apsalar hissed. “Try the door, Fid!”

  The D’ivers struck. Tremorlor’s last, desperate defense. Wood exploded.

  The sapper was pushed against the door by a pair of hands on his back, catching a momentary glimpse of Mappo, his arms wrapped around a still mostly unaware Icarium, holding the Jhag back even as that keening sound rose and with it an overwhelming, inexorable power burgeoned. The pressure slapped Fiddler against the door’s sweaty, dark wood and held him there in effortless contempt, whispering its promise of annihilation. He struggled to work his arm toward the latch, straining every muscle to that single task.

  Hounds howled from the farthest reaches of the yard, a triumphant, outraged sound that rose toward fear as Icarium’s own rage swallowed all else. Fiddler felt the wood tremble, felt that tremble spread through the House.

  His sweat mingling with Tremorlor’s, the sapper gave one last surge of all his strength, willing success, willing the achievement of moving his arm, closing a hand on the latch.

  And failed.

  Behind him another blood-curdling noise reached through, that of the bloodflies, breaking through the wooden nets, coming ever closer, only moments from clashing with Icarium’s deadly anger—the Jhag will awaken then. No other choice—and our deaths will be the least of it. The Azath, the maze and all its prisoners…oh, be very thorough in your rage, Icarium, for the sake of this world and every other—

  Stabbing pain lanced the back of Fiddler’s hand—Bloodflies!—but there was a weight behind it. Not stings, but the grip of small claws. The sapper cocked his head and found himself staring into Moby’s fanged grin.

  The familiar made its way down the length of his arm, claws puncturing skin. The creature seemed to be shifting in and out of focus before Fiddler’s eyes, and with each blur the weight on his arm was suddenly immense. He realized he was screaming.

  Moby clambered beyond the sapper’s hand onto the door itself, reached out a tiny, wrinkled hand to the latch, touched it.

  Fiddler tumbled onto damp, warm flagstones. He heard shouts behind him, the scrabbling of boots, while the House groaned on all sides. He rolled onto his back, and in the process came down on something that snapped and crackled beneath his weight, lifting to him a bitter smell of dust.

  Then Icarium’s deathly keening was among them.

  Tremorlor shook.

  Fiddler twisted into a sitting position.

  They were in a hallway, the limestone walls shedding a dull yellow, throbbing light. Mappo still held Icarium and as the sapper watched, the Trell struggled to retain his embrace. A moment later the Jhag subsided, slumping once again in the Trell’s arms. The golden light steadied, the walls themselves stilled. Icarium’s rage was gone.

  Mappo sagged to the floor, head hanging over the insensate body of his friend.

  Fiddler slowly looked around to see if they’d lost anyone. Apsalar crouched beside her father, their backs to the now shut door. Crokus had dragged a cowering Iskaral Pust in with him, and the High Priest looked up, blinking as if in disbelief.

  Fiddler’s voice was a croak. “The Hounds, Iskaral Pust?”

  “Escaped! And yet, even in the midst of betrayal, they threw their power against the D’ivers!” He paused, sniffed the dank air. “Can you smell it? Tremorlor’s satisfaction—the D’ivers has been taken.”

  “That betrayal might have been instinctive, High Priest,” Apsalar said. “Five Ascendants in the House’s yard—the vast risk to Tremorlor itself, given Shadow’s own penchant for treachery—”

  “Lies! We played true!”

  “A first time for everything,” Crokus muttered. He looked across to Fiddler. “Glad it opened to you, Fid.”

  The sapper started, searched the hallway. “It didn’t. Moby opened the door and ripped my arm to shreds in the process—where is that damned runt? It’s in here somewhere—”

  “You’re sitting on a corpse,” Apsalar’s father observed.

  Fiddler glanced down to find himself on a nest of bones and rotted clothing. He clambered clear, cursing.

  “I don’t see him,” Crokus said. “You sure he made it inside, Fid?”

  “Aye, I’m sure.”

  “He must have gone deeper into the House—”

  “He seeks the gate!” Pust squealed. “The Path of Hands!”

  “Moby’s a famil—”

  “More lies! That disgusting bhok’aral is a Soletaken, you fool!”

  “Relax. There is no gate in here that offers a shapeshifter anything,” Apsalar said, slowly rising, her eyes on the withered corpse behind Fiddler. “That would have been the Keeper—each Azath has a guardian. I’d always assumed they were immortal…” She stepped forward, kicked at the bones. She grunted. “Not human—those limbs are too long, and look at the joints—too many of them. This thing could bend every which way.”

  Mappo lifted his head. “Forkrul Assail.”

  “The least known of the Elder Races, then. Not even hinted of in any Seven Cities legend I’ve heard.” She swung her attention to the hallway.

  Five paces from the door the passage opened on a T-intersection, with double doors directly opposite the entrance.

  “The layout’s almost identical,” Apsalar whispered.

  “To what?” Crokus asked.

  “Deadhouse, Malaz City.”

  Pattering feet approached the intersection, and a moment later Moby scampered into view. The creature flapped up and into the Daru’s arms.

  “He’s shaking,” Crokus said, hugging the familiar.

  “Oh, great,” Fiddler muttered.

  “The Jhag,” Pust hissed from where he knelt a few paces from Mappo and Icarium. “I saw you crushing him in your arms—is he dead?”

  The Trell shook his head. “Unconscious. I don’t think he’ll awaken for some time—”

  “Then let the Azath take him! Now! We are within Tremorlor. Our need for him has ended!”

  “No.”

  “Fool!”

  A bell clanged somewhere outside. They all looked at each other in disbelief.

  “Did we hear that?” Fiddler wondered. “A merchant’s bell?”

  “Why a merchant?” Pust growled, eyes darting suspiciously.

  But Crokus was nodding. “A merchant’s bell. In Darujhistan, that is.”

  The sapper went to the door. From within, the latch moved smoothly under his hand, and he swung the door back.

  Thin sheets of tangled root now rose from the yard, towering over the House itself in a clash of angles and plan
es. Humped earth steamed on all sides. Waiting just outside the arched gate were three huge, ornate carriages, each drawn by nine white horses. A roundish figure stood beneath the arch, wearing silks. The figure raised a hand toward Fiddler and called out in Daru, “Alas, I can go no farther! I assure you, all is calm out here. I seek the one named Fiddler.”

  “Why?” the sapper barked.

  “I deliver a gift. Gathered in great haste and at vast expense, I might add. I suggest we complete the transaction as quickly as possible, all things considered.”

  Crokus now stood beside Fiddler. The Daru was frowning at the carriages. “I know the maker of those,” he said quietly. “Bernuk’s, just back of Lakefront. But I’ve never seen them that big before—gods, I’ve been away too long.”

  Fiddler sighed. “Darujhistan.”

  “I’m certain of it,” Crokus said, shaking his head.

  Fiddler stepped outside and studied the surroundings. Things seemed, as the merchant had said, calm. Quiescent. Still uneasy, the sapper made his way down the path. He halted two paces from the archway and eyed the merchant warily.

  “Karpolan Demesand, sir, of the Trygalle Trade Guild, and this is a run that I and my shareholders shall never regret, yet hope never to repeat.” The man’s exhaustion was very evident, and his silks hung soaked in sweat. He gestured and an armored woman with a deathly pale face stepped past him, carrying a small crate. Karpolan continued, “Compliments of a certain mage of the Bridgeburners, who was advised—in timely fashion—of your situation in a general way, by the corporal you share.”

  Fiddler accepted the box, now grinning. “The efforts of this delivery surpass me, sir,” he said.

  “Me as well, I assure you. Now we must flee—ah, a rude bluntness—I meant ‘depart,’ of course. We must depart.” He sighed, looking around. “Forgive me, I am weary, beyond even achieving the expected courtesies of civil discourse.”

  “No need for apologies,” Fiddler said. “While I have no idea how you got here and no idea how you’ll get back to Darujhistan, I wish you a safe and swift journey. One last question, however: did the mage say anything about where the contents of this crate came from?”

  “Oh, indeed he did, sir. From the Blue City’s streets. An obscure reference you are clearly fortunate to understand in an instant, I see.”

  “Did the mage give you any warning as to the handling of this package, Karpolan?”

  The merchant grimaced. “He said we were not to jostle too much. However, this last stretch of our journey was somewhat…rough. I regret to say that some of the crate’s contents may well be broken.”

  Fiddler smiled. “I am pleased to inform you that they have survived.”

  Karpolan Demesand frowned. “You have not yet examined the contents—how can you tell?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me on that one, sir.”

  Crokus closed the door once Fiddler had carried the crate inside. The sapper gingerly set the container down and prised open the lid. “Ah, Quick Ben,” he whispered, eyes scanning the objects nestled within, “one day I shall raise a temple in your name.” He counted seven cussers, thirteen masonry crackers and four flamers.

  “But how did that merchant get here?” Crokus asked. “From Darujhistan! Hood’s breath, Fid!”

  “Don’t I know it.” He straightened, glanced at the others. “I’m feeling good, comrades. Very good indeed.”

  “Optimism!” Pust snarled in a tone close to bursting with disgust. The High Priest yanked at the wispy remnants of his hair. “While that foul monkey pisses terror into the lad’s lap! Optimism!”

  Crokus now held the familiar out from him and stared disbelieving at the stream pouring down to splash the flagstones. “Moby?” The creature was grinning sheepishly.

  “Soletaken, you mean!”

  “A momentary lapse,” Apsalar said, eyeing the squirming creature. “The realization of what has come about. That, or an odd sense of humor.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Pust demanded, eyes narrowing.

  “He thought he’d found the Path, thought that what called him here was the ancient promise of Ascendancy—and in a way, Moby was right in thinking that. The bhok’aral there in your hands, Crokus, is demonic. In true form, it could hold you as you now hold it.”

  Mappo grunted. “Ah, I see now.”

  “Then why not enlighten us?” Crokus snapped.

  Apsalar nudged the corpse at her feet. “Tremorlor needed a new guardian. Need I be any clearer?”

  Crokus blinked, looking again at Moby, the trembling creature in his hands. “My uncle’s familiar?”

  “A demon, at the moment somewhat intimidated by expectation, we might assume. But I’m sure the creature will grow into the role.”

  Fiddler had been packing the Moranth munitions into his leather sack while this had been going on. Now he rose and gingerly swung the bag over a shoulder. “Quick Ben believed we’d find a portal somewhere in here, a warren’s gate—”

  “Linking the House!” Pust crowed. “Outrageous audacity—this cunning mage of yours has charmed me, soldier. He should have been a servant of Shadow!”

  He was, but never mind that. If your god’s of a mind to, he’ll tell you—though I wouldn’t hold my breath…“It’s time to find that portal—”

  “To the T-intersection, down the left passage to the two doors. The one to the left takes us into the tower. Top floor.” Apsalar smiled.

  Fiddler stared at her a moment, then nodded. Your borrowed memories…

  Moby led the way, revealing a return of nerve, and something like possessive pride. Just beyond the intersection, in the left-hand passage, there was an alcove set in the wall, on which hung resplendent scale armor suited to a wearer over ten foot tall and of massive girth. Two double-bladed axes leaned against the niche walls, one to either side. Moby paused there to play a tiny, loving hand over one iron-sheathed boot, before wistfully moving on. Crokus stumbled in passing as it momentarily gripped his full attention.

  Upon opening the door, they entered the tower’s ground floor. A stone staircase spiraled up from its center. At the foot of the saddlebacked steps lay another body, a young, dark-skinned woman who looked as if she had been placed there but an hour before. She was dressed in what were clearly underclothes, though the armor that had once covered them was nowhere to be seen. Vicious wounds crisscrossed her slight form.

  Apsalar approached, crouched down and rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I know her,” she whispered.

  “Eh?” Rellock growled.

  “The memory of the one who possessed me, Father,” she said. “His mortal memory—”

  “Dancer,” Fiddler said.

  She nodded. “This is Dassem Ultor’s daughter. The First Sword recovered her after Hood was done using her, and brought her here, it seems.”

  “Before breaking his vow to Hood—”

  “Aye, before Dassem cursed the god he once served.”

  “That was years ago, Apsalar,” Fiddler said.

  “I know.”

  They were silent, all studying the frail young woman lying at the foot of the stairs. Mappo shifted Icarium’s weight in his arms, as if uneasy with the echo he knew he had become, even though it was understood that he would not do with his burden what Dassem Ultor had done.

  Apsalar straightened and cast her eyes up the staircase. “If Dancer’s memory serves, the portal awaits.”

  Fiddler swung to the others. “Mappo? You will join us?”

  “Aye, though perhaps not all the way—assuming there’s a means to leave that warren when one so chooses—”

  “Quite an assumption,” the sapper said.

  The Trell simply shrugged.

  “Iskaral Pust?”

  “Oh, aye. Of course, of course! Why not, why ever not? To walk the maze back out? Insanity! Iskaral Pust is anything but insane, as you all well know. Aye, I shall accompany you…and silently add to naught but myself: perhaps an opportunity for betrayal wil
l yet arise! Betray what? Betray whom? Does it matter? It is not the goal that brings pleasure, but the journey taken to achieve it!”

  Fiddler met Crokus’s sharp gaze. “Watch him,” he said.

  “I shall.”

  The sapper then glanced down to Moby. The familiar squatted by the doorway, quietly playing with its own tail. “How does one say goodbye to a bhok’aral?”

  “With a boot in the backside, how else?” Pust offered.

  “Care to try that with this one?” Fiddler asked.

  The High Priest scowled, made no move.

  “He was out there when we traveled the storms, wasn’t he?” Crokus said, approaching the tiny wizened creature. “Recall those battles we could not see? He was protecting us…all along.”

  “Aye,” the sapper said.

  “Ulterior motives!” Pust hissed.

  “Nonetheless.”

  “Gods, he’ll be lonely!” Crokus gathered the bhok’aral into his arms. There was no shame to the tears in the lad’s eyes.

  Blinking, Fiddler turned away, grimacing as he studied the staircase. “It’ll do you no good to draw it out, Crokus,” he said.

  “I’ll find a way to visit,” the Daru whispered.

  “Think on what you see, Crokus,” Apsalar said. “He looks content enough. As for being alone, how do you know that will be the case? There are other Houses, other guardians…”

  The lad nodded. Slowly he released his grip on the familiar and set it down. “With luck, there won’t be any crockery lying around.”

  “What?”

  Crokus smiled. “Moby always had bad luck around crockery, or should I say it the other way around?” He rested a hand on the creature’s blunt, hairless head, then rose. “Let’s go.”

  The bhok’aral watched the group ascend the stairs. A moment later there was a midnight flash from above, and they were gone. The creature listened carefully, cocking its tiny head, but there was no more sound from the chamber above.

  It sat unmoving for a few more minutes, idly plucking at its own tail, then swung about and scampered into the hallway, coming to a stop before the suit of armor.

  The massive, closed great helm tilted with a soft creak, and a ragged voice came from it. “I am pleased my solitude is at an end, little one. Tremorlor welcomes you with all its heart…even if you have made a mess on the hallway floor.”