The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Now. The Seer is removed, a High Fist and Malazan-style governance replaces it. The result? Peace, reparation, law, order.’ He scanned the others, then slowly raised a single eyebrow. ‘Fifteen years ago, Genabaris was a fetid sore on the northwest coast, and Nathilog even worse. And now, under Malazan rule? Rivals to Darujhistan herself. If you truly wish the best for the common citizens of Pannion, why do you not welcome the Empress?

  ‘Instead, Dujek and Whiskeyjack are forced into an elaborate charade to win us as allies. They’re soldiers, in case you’ve forgotten. Soldiers are given orders. If they don’t like them, that’s just too bad. If it means a false proclamation of outlawry – without letting every private in the army in on the secret and thereby eliminating the chance of it ever remaining a secret – then a good soldier grits his teeth and gets on with it.

  ‘The truth is simple – to me at least. Brood, you and I, we have fought the Malazans as liberators in truth. Asking no coin, no land. Our motives aren’t even clear to us – imagine how they must seem to the Empress? Inexplicable. We appear to be bound to lofty ideals, to nearly outrageous notions of self-sacrifice. We are her enemy, and I don’t think she even knows why.’

  ‘Sing me the Abyss,’ Kallor sneered. ‘In her Empire there would be no place for us – not one of us.’

  ‘Does that surprise you?’ Rake asked. ‘We cannot be controlled. The truth laid bare is we fight for our own freedom. No borders for Moon’s Spawn. No world-spanning peace that would make warlords and generals and mercenary companies obsolete. We fight against the imposition of order and the mailed fist that must hide behind it, because we’re not the ones wielding that fist.’

  ‘Nor would I ever wish to,’ Brood growled.

  ‘Precisely. So why begrudge the Empress possessing the desire and its attendant responsibilities?’

  Korlat stared at her Lord. Stunned once again, thrown off-balance yet one more time. The Draconian blood within him. He does not think as we do. Is it that blood? Or something else? She had no answer, no true understanding of the man she followed. A sudden welling of pride filled her. He is the Son of Darkness. A master worth swearing fealty to – perhaps the only one. For me. For the Tiste Andii.

  Caladan Brood let out a gusting sigh. ‘Pour me another, damn you.’

  ‘I shall set aside my disgust,’ Kallor said, rising from his chair in a rustle of chain armour, ‘and voice a subject only marginally related to what’s been said thus far. Capustan has been cleansed. Before us, the river. South of that, three cities to march on. To do so in succession as a single army will slow us considerably. Setta, in particular, is not on our path to Coral. So, the army must divide in two, meeting again south of Lest and Setta, perhaps at Maurik, before striking for Coral. Now, the question: along what lines do we divide?’

  ‘A reasonable subject,’ Rake murmured, ‘for discussion at this pending meeting.’

  ‘And none other, aye,’ Caladan Brood rumbled. ‘Won’t they be surprised?’

  They will indeed. Regret seeped through Korlat’s thoughts. And more, I have done Whiskeyjack an injustice. I hope it is not too late to make reparations. It is not well for a Tiste Andii to judge in haste. My vision was clouded. Clouded? No, more like a storm. Of emotions, born of need and of love. Can you forgive me, Whiskeyjack?

  The tent flap was drawn back and the two Malazan commanders entered, trailed by the standard-bearer, Artanthos. Dujek’s face was dark. ‘Sorry we were delayed,’ he growled. ‘I have just been informed that the Tenescowri are on the move. Straight for us.’

  Korlat sought to meet Whiskeyjack’s eyes, but the man was studying the warlord as he added, ‘Expect another battle, at dawn. A messy one.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Anomander Rake drawled.

  The voice pulled Whiskeyjack round in surprise. ‘Lord, forgive me. I didn’t see you. I’m afraid I was somewhat … preoccupied.’

  Dujek asked, ‘You are offering to set your Tiste Andii against the Tenescowri, Lord?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Rake replied. ‘I mean to scare them witless. In person.’

  No-one spoke for a moment, then Caladan Brood began rummaging in a trunk for more cups. ‘We have another issue to discuss, High Fist,’ he said.

  ‘So I gather.’

  The old man looked positively sick, while Whiskeyjack’s colour was high.

  The warlord poured more wine, then gestured at the cups he had filled. ‘Help yourselves. Kallor has noted a pending problem in the disposition of our forces.’

  Oh, the bastards are making fun of this. Enough. Korlat spoke, ‘High Fist, to the south await three cities. Lest and Setta should be taken simultaneously, if possible, with a rejoining of our forces at Maurik, before continuing on to Coral. We would like to discuss with you how to divide the armies.’

  Whiskeyjack’s eyes found hers. She offered him a half-smile. He frowned in reply.

  ‘I see,’ Dujek said after a moment. He collected his cup and sat down on a camp chair. ‘Well enough.’ And, for the moment, said no more.

  Whiskeyjack cleared his throat and spoke, ‘The division, at least initially, seems fairly obvious. Onearm’s Host southwest to Setta – which will close our lines of communication with our Black Moranth, who remain in place in the Vision Mountains. The warlord and his forces straight south to Lest. Once we have taken Setta, we strike for the headwaters of the Maurik River, then follow the course south to Maurik itself. Possibly, you will have arrived there first, but that is not especially problematic.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Brood said.

  ‘I said initially, alas,’ Whiskeyjack continued.

  The others turned to him.

  The man shrugged. ‘The White Face Barghast are joining the campaign. We also have to consider the surviving elements of Capustan’s defenders – they might well desire to accompany us. Finally, there is the looming question of Silverfox, and her T’lan Imass.’

  ‘If we allow the bitch and her T’lan Imass into this war,’ Kallor snarled, ‘we will have lost all hope of guiding it.’

  Whiskeyjack studied the ancient warrior. ‘Yours is a singular obsession, Kallor. It has twisted your mind—’

  ‘And sentiment has twisted yours, soldier. Perhaps a day will come when you and I can test our respective resolve—’

  ‘Enough,’ Brood cut in. ‘It seems, then, that this meeting must be adjourned. We can reconvene when all the relevant commanders are present.’ The warlord turned to Rake. ‘How fares Moon’s Spawn?’

  The Tiste Andii Lord shrugged. ‘We will rendezvous at Coral as planned. It might be worth noting that the Seer has been under serious assault from the south, which he answers with Omtose Phellack sorcery. My Great Ravens have caught sight of his enemy, or at least some of them. A T’lan Imass, a she-wolf and a very large dog. Thus, the old battle: Omtose Phellack, ever retreating from Tellann. There might well be other players as well – lands to the south of Outlook have been completely shrouded in mists born of dying ice. The significance of all this is that the Seer has fled Outlook, and is heading by warren to Coral.’

  There was silence as the implications of Rake’s revelations slowly settled in the minds of those present.

  Whiskeyjack was the first to speak. ‘A lone T’lan Imass? A Bonecaster, then, to have sufficient power to single-handedly sunder a Jaghut’s sorcery.’

  ‘Having heard the summons made by Silverfox,’ Dujek added. ‘Yes, that’s likely.’

  ‘This T’lan Imass is a warrior,’ Rake responded laconically. ‘Wielding a two-handed flint sword. Bonecasters carry no weapons. Clearly, he has singular skill. The wolf is an ay, I believe, a creature thought long extinct. The hound rivals those of Shadow.’

  ‘And they are driving the Seer into our laps,’ Brood rumbled. ‘It seems that Coral will not simply be the last city we can reach this campaigning season. We’ll be facing the Seer himself.’

  ‘Damn well ensuring that the battle will be fraught with sorcery,’ Dujek muttered. ‘Bloody terrific.’<
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  ‘We’ve plenty of time to formulate our tactics,’ Brood said after a moment. ‘This meeting is adjourned.’

  * * *

  Thirty paces from the command tent, as darkness settled ever deeper on the camp, Silverfox slowed her steps.

  Kruppe glanced at her. ‘Ah, lass, you sense the storm’s passing unbroken. As do I. Shall we pay a visit to formidable personages in any case?’

  She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘No, why precipitate a confrontation? I must now turn to my own … destiny. If you please, Kruppe, inform no-one of my departure. At least not for a while.’

  ‘The Gathering is come.’

  ‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘I sense the imminent convergence of the T’lan Imass, and would rather it occur somewhere beyond the sight of anyone else.’

  ‘A private matter, of course. None the less, Silverfox, would you resent company? Kruppe is wise – wise enough to keep silent when silence is called for, and yet wiser still to speak when wise words are required. Wisdom, after all, is Kruppe’s blood brother.’

  She smiled down at him. ‘You would witness the Second Gathering?’

  ‘There is no better witness to all things wondrous than Kruppe of Darujhistan, lass. Why, the tales that could flow effortlessly from these rather oily lips, should you ever but prod with curiosity—’

  ‘Forgive me if I refrain from doing so,’ she replied. ‘At least in the near future.’

  ‘Lest you become distracted, of course. It is clear, is it not, that even Kruppe’s mere presence generates wisdom in bounty.’

  ‘Very clear. Very well. We’ll have to find you a horse, since I plan to ride.’

  ‘A horse? Horrors! Foul beasts. Nay, I hold to my trusty mule.’

  ‘Tightly.’

  ‘To the limits of my physical abilities, aye.’ He turned at a clopping sound behind them. ‘Ah, speak of the demon! And look, a moonstruck horse follows like a pup on a leash, and is it any wonder, when one looks upon my handsome, proud beast?’

  Silverfox studied the saddled horse trailing the mule with narrowed eyes. ‘Tell me, Kruppe, who else will be witness to the Gathering through you?’

  ‘Through Kruppe? Why, naught but Kruppe himself! He swears!’

  ‘Not the mule, surely?’

  ‘Lass, the mule’s capacity for sleep – in no matter what the circumstances – is boundless, unaffected and indeed, admirable. I assure you, none shall witness through its eyes!’

  ‘Sleep, is it? No doubt, to dream. Very well, let us be on with it, Kruppe. I trust you’re comfortable with a ride through the night?’

  ‘Not in the least, but perseverance is Kruppe’s closest cousin…’

  * * *

  ‘Walk with me.’

  Pausing as he emerged from the tent entrance, Whiskeyjack looked left, to see Anomander Rake standing in the gloom. Ah, not Korlat, then. Oh well … ‘Of course, Lord.’

  The Son of Darkness led him through the tent rows, southward, out to the very edge of the encampment, then beyond. They ascended a ridge and came within sight of Catlin River. Starlight played on its swirling surface two hundred paces away.

  Moths fluttered like flecks of snow fleeing the warm wind.

  Neither man spoke for a long while.

  Finally, Anomander Rake sighed, then asked, ‘How fares the leg?’

  ‘It aches,’ Whiskeyjack answered truthfully. ‘Especially after a full day in the saddle.’

  ‘Brood is an accomplished healer. High Denul. He would not hesitate should you ask.’

  ‘When there’s time—’

  ‘There has been plenty of that, as we both know. None the less, I share something of your stubbornness, so I’ll not raise the subject again. Have you been contacted by Quick Ben?’

  Whiskeyjack nodded. ‘He’s in Capustan. Or should be by now.’

  ‘I am relieved. The assault on the warrens has made being a mage somewhat perilous. Even Kurald Galain has felt the poison’s touch.’

  ‘I know.’

  Rake slowly turned to regard him. ‘I had not expected to find in her such … renewal. A heart I’d believed closed for ever. To see it flowering so…’

  Whiskeyjack shifted uneasily. ‘I may have wounded it this evening.’

  ‘Momentarily, perhaps. Your false outlawry is known.’

  ‘Thus the meeting, or so we thought.’

  ‘I pulled the thorn before you and the High Fist arrived.’

  The Malazan studied the Tiste Andii in the gloom. ‘I wasn’t sure. The suspicion could find no root, however.’

  ‘Because, to you, my position makes no sense.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Rake shrugged. ‘I rarely see necessity as a burden.’

  Whiskeyjack thought about that, then nodded. ‘You still need us.’

  ‘More than ever, perhaps. And not just your army. We need Quick Ben. We need Humbrall Taur and his White Face clans. We need your link to Silverfox and through her to the T’lan Imass. We need Captain Paran—’

  ‘Ganoes Paran? Why?’

  ‘He is the Master of the Deck of Dragons.’

  ‘It’s no secret, then.’

  ‘It never was.’

  ‘Do you know,’ Whiskeyjack asked, ‘what that role signifies? A genuine question, because, frankly, I don’t and wish I damn well did.’

  ‘The Crippled God has fashioned a new House and now seeks to join it to the Deck of Dragons. A sanction is required. A blessing, if you will. Or, conversely, a denial.’

  Whiskeyjack grunted. ‘What of the House of Shadow, then? Was there a Master of the Deck around who sanctioned its joining?’

  ‘There was no need. The House of Shadow has always existed, more or less. Shadowthrone and Cotillion simply reawakened it.’

  ‘And now, you want Paran – the Master of the Deck – to deny the Crippled God’s House.’

  ‘I believe he must. To grant the Fallen One legitimacy is to grant him power. We see what he is capable of in his present weakened state. The House of Chains is the foundation he will use to rebuild himself.’

  ‘Yet, you and the gods took him down once before. The Chaining.’

  ‘A costly endeavour, Whiskeyjack. One in which the god Fener was vital. Tell me, among your soldiers, the Tusked One is a popular god – have you priests as well?’

  ‘No. Fener’s popular enough, being the Lord of Battle. Malazans are somewhat … relaxed when it comes to the pantheon. We tend to discourage organized cults within the military.’

  ‘Fener is lost to us,’ Rake said.

  ‘Lost? What do you mean?’

  ‘Torn from his realm, now striding the mortal earth.’

  ‘How?’

  There was a grim smile in Rake’s tone as he explained. ‘By a Malazan. A once-priest of Fener, a victim of the Reve.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘His hands were ritually severed. The power of the Reve then sends those hands to the hooves of Fener himself. The ritual must be the expression of purest justice, but this one wasn’t. Rather, there was a perceived need to reduce the influence of Fener, and in particular that High Priest, by agents of the Empire – likely the Claw. You mentioned the discouraging of cults within the army. Perhaps that was a factor – my knowledge is not complete, alas. Certainly the High Priest’s penchant for historical analysis was another – he had completed an investigation that concluded that the Empress Laseen in fact failed in her assassination of the Emperor and Dancer. Granted, she got the throne she so badly wanted, but neither Kellanved nor Dancer actually died. Instead, they ascended.’

  ‘I can see why Surly’s back would crawl at that revelation.’

  ‘Surly?’

  ‘The Empress Laseen. Surly was her old name.’

  ‘In any case, those severed hands were as poison to Fener. He could not touch them, nor could he remove them from his realm. He burned the tattoos announcing his denial upon the high priest’s skin, and so sealed the virulent power of the hands, at least for the time being
. And that should have been that. Eventually, the priest would die, and his spirit would come to Fener to retrieve what had been cruelly and wrongfully taken from him. That spirit would then become the weapon of Fener’s wrath, his vengeance upon the priests of the fouled temple, and indeed upon the Claw and the Empress herself. A dark storm awaited the Malazan Empire, Whiskeyjack.’

  ‘But something’s happened.’

  ‘Aye. The High Priest has, by design or chance, come into contact with the Warren of Chaos – an object, perhaps, forged within that warren. The protective seal around his severed hands was obliterated by that vast, uncontrolled surge of power. And, finding Fener, those hands … pushed.’

  ‘Hood’s breath,’ Whiskeyjack muttered, his eyes on the glittering river.

  ‘And now,’ Rake continued, ‘the Tiger of Summer ascends to take his place. But Treach is young, much weaker, his warren but a paltry thing, his followers far fewer in number than Fener’s. All is in flux. No doubt the Crippled God is smiling.’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Whiskeyjack objected. ‘Treach has ascended? That’s one huge coincidence.’

  ‘Some fates were foreseen, or so it seems.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The Elder Gods.’

  ‘And why are they so interested in all this?’

  ‘They were there when the Crippled God fell – was dragged – down to this earth. The Fall destroyed many of them, leaving but a few survivors. Whatever secrets surround the Fallen One – where he came from, the nature of his aspect, the ritual itself that captured him – K’rul and his kin possess them. That they have chosen to become directly involved, now that the Crippled God has resumed his war, has dire implications as to the seriousness of the threat.’

  ‘Quite an understatement, Lord.’ Whiskeyjack said nothing for a time, then he sighed. ‘Leading us back to Ganoes Paran and the House of Chains. All right, I understand why you want him to deny the Crippled God’s gambit. I should warn you, however, Paran doesn’t take orders well.’