The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  The Bridgeburners were filing out through the East Gate.

  First in, last out. They’re always mindful of such gestures.

  Sergeant Antsy was in the lead, with Corporal Picker a step behind. The two looked to be arguing, which was nothing new. Behind them, the soldiers of the other seven squads had lost all cohesion; the company marched in no particular order. The captain wondered at that. He’d met the other sergeants and corporals, of course. He knew the names of every surviving Bridgeburner and knew their faces as well. None the less, there was something strangely ephemeral about them. His eyes narrowed as he watched them walk the road, veiled in dust, like figures in a sun-bleached, threadbare tapestry. The march of armies, he reflected, was timeless.

  Horse hooves sounded to his right and he swung to see Silverfox ride up to halt at his side.

  ‘Better we’d stayed avoiding each other,’ Paran said, returning his gaze to the soldiers on the road below.

  ‘I’d not disagree,’ she said after a moment. ‘But something’s happened.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, you don’t. What you no doubt refer to is not what I’m talking about, Captain. It’s my mother – she’s gone missing. Her and those two Daru who were caring for her. Somewhere in the city they turned their wagon, left the line. No-one seems to have seen a thing, though of course I cannot question an entire army—’

  ‘What of your T’lan Imass? Could they not find them easily enough?’

  She frowned, said nothing.

  Paran glanced at her. ‘They’re not happy with you, are they?’

  ‘That is not the problem. I have sent them and the T’lan Ay across the river.’

  ‘We’ve reliable means of reconnoitring already, Silverfox—’

  ‘Enough. I do not need to explain myself.’

  ‘Yet you’re asking for my help—’

  ‘No. I am asking if you knew anything about it. Those Daru had to have had assistance.’

  ‘Have you questioned Kruppe?’

  ‘He’s as startled and dismayed as I am, and I believe him.’

  ‘Well,’ Paran said, ‘people have a habit of underestimating Coll. He’s quite capable of pulling this off all on his own.’

  ‘You do not seem to realize the severity of what they’ve done. In kidnapping my mother—’

  ‘Hold on, Silverfox. You left your mother to their care. Left? No, too calm a word. Abandoned her. And I have no doubt at all that Coll and Murillio took the charge seriously, with all the compassion for the Mhybe you do not seem to possess. Consider the situation from their point of view. They’re taking care of her, day in and day out, watching her wither. They see the Mhybe’s daughter, but only from a distance. Ignoring her own mother. They decide that they have to find someone who is prepared to help the Mhybe. Or at the very least grant her a dignified end. Kidnapping is taking someone away from someone else. The Mhybe has been taken away, but from whom? No-one. No-one at all.’

  Silverfox, her face pale, was slow to respond. When she did, it was in a rasp, ‘You have no idea what lies between us, Ganoes.’

  ‘And it seems you’ve no idea of how to forgive – not her, not yourself. Guilt has become a chasm—’

  ‘That is rich indeed, coming from you.’

  His smile was tight. ‘I’ve done my climb down, Silverfox, and am now climbing up the other side. Things have changed for both of us.’

  ‘So you have turned your back on your avowed feelings for me.’

  ‘I love you still, but with your death I succumbed to a kind of infatuation. I convinced myself that what you and I had, so very briefly, was of far vaster and deeper import than it truly was. Of all the weapons we turn upon ourselves, guilt is the sharpest, Silverfox. It can carve one’s own past into unrecognizable shapes, false memories leading to beliefs that sow all kinds of obsessions.’

  ‘Delighted to have you clear the air so, Ganoes. Has it not occurred to you that clinical examination of oneself is yet another obsession? What you dissect has to be dead first – that’s the principle of dissection, after all.’

  ‘So my tutor explained,’ Paran replied, ‘all those years ago. But you miss a more subtle truth. I can examine myself, my every feeling, until the Abyss swallows the world, yet come no closer to mastery of those emotions within me. For they are not static things; nor are they immune to the outside world – to what others say, or don’t say. And so they are in constant flux.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ she murmured. ‘Captain Ganoes Paran, the young master of self-control, the tyrant unto himself. You have indeed changed. So much so that I no longer recognize you.’

  He studied her face, searching for a hint of the feelings behind those words. But she had closed herself to him. ‘Whereas,’ he said slowly, ‘I find you all too recognizable.’

  ‘Would you call that ironic? You see me as a woman you once loved, while I see you as a man I never knew.’

  ‘Too many tangled threads for irony, Silverfox.’

  ‘Perhaps pathos, then.’

  He looked away. ‘We’ve wandered far from the subject. I am afraid I can tell you nothing of your mother’s fate. Yet I am confident, none the less, that Coll and Murillio will do all they can for her.’

  ‘Then you’re an even bigger fool than they are, Ganoes. By stealing her, they have sealed her doom.’

  ‘I didn’t know you for the melodramatic type.’

  ‘I am not—’

  ‘She is an old woman, an old, dying woman. Abyss take me, leave her alone—’

  ‘You are not listening!’ Silverfox hissed. ‘My mother is trapped in a nightmare – within her own mind, lost, terrified. Hunted! I have stayed closer to her than any of you realized. Far closer!’

  ‘Silverfox,’ Paran said quietly, ‘if she is within a nightmare, then her living has become a curse. The only true mercy is to see it ended, once and for all.’

  ‘No! She is my mother, damn you! And I will not abandon her!’

  She wheeled her horse, drove her heels into its flanks.

  Paran watched her ride off. Silverfox, what machinations have you wrapped around your mother? What is it you seek for her? Would you not tell us, please, so that we are made to understand that what we all see as betrayal is in fact something else?

  Is it something else?

  And these machinations – whose? Not Tattersail, surely. No, this must be Nightchill. Oh, how you’ve closed yourself to me, now. When once you reached out, incessantly, relentlessly seeking to pry open my heart. It seems that what we shared, so long ago in Pale, is as nothing.

  I begin to think, now, that it was far more important to me than it was to you. Tattersail … you were, after all, an older woman. You’d lived your share of loves and losses. On the other hand, I’d barely lived at all.

  What was, then, is no more.

  Flesh and blood Bonecaster, you’ve become colder than the T’lan Imass you now command.

  I suppose, then, they have indeed found a worthy master.

  Beru fend us all.

  * * *

  Of the thirty transport barges and floating bridges the Pannions had used to cross the Catlin River, only a third remained serviceable, the others having fallen prey to the overzealous White Face Barghast during the first day of battle. Companies from Caladan Brood’s collection of mercenaries had begun efforts at salvaging the wrecks with the intention of cobbling together a few more; while a lone serviceable floating bridge and the ten surviving barges already rode the lines across the river’s expanse, loaded with troops, mounts and supplies.

  Itkovian watched them as he walked the shoreline. He’d left his horse on a nearby hillock where the grasses grew thick, and now wandered alone, with only the shift of pebbles underfoot and the soft rush of the river accompanying him. The wind was sweeping up the river’s mouth, a salt-laden breath from the sea beyond, so the sounds of the barges behind him – the winches, the lowing of yoked cattle, the shouts of drivers – did not reach him.

&nbs
p; Glancing up, he saw a figure on the beach ahead, seated cross-legged and facing the scene of the crossing. Wild-haired, wearing a stained collection of rags, the man was busy painting on wood-backed muslin. Itkovian paused, watching the artist’s head bob up and down, the long-handled brush darting about in his hand, now hearing his mumbling conversation with himself.

  Or, perhaps, not with himself. One of the skull-sized boulders near the artist moved suddenly, revealing itself to be a large, olive-green toad.

  And it had just replied to the artist’s tirade, in a low, rumbling voice.

  Itkovian approached.

  The toad saw him first and said something in a language Itkovian did not understand.

  The artist looked up, scowled. ‘Interruptions,’ he snapped in Daru, ‘are not welcome!’

  ‘My apologies, sir—’

  ‘Wait! You’re the one named Itkovian! Defender of Capustan!’

  ‘Failed defen—’

  ‘Yes, yes, everyone’s heard your words from the parley. Idiocy. When I paint you in the scene, I’ll be sure to include the noble failure – in your stance, perhaps, in where your eyes rest, maybe. A certain twist to the shoulders, yes, I think I see it now. Precisely. Excellent.’

  ‘You are Malazan?’

  ‘Of course I’m Malazan! Does Brood give one whit for history? He does not. But the old Emperor! Oh yes, he did, he did indeed! Artists with every army! On every campaign! Artists of purest talent, sharp-eyed – yes, dare I admit it, geniuses. Such as Ormulogun of Li Heng!’

  ‘I am afraid I’ve not heard that name – he was a great artist of the Malazan Empire?’

  ‘Was? Is! I am Ormulogun of Li Heng, of course. Endlessly mimicked, never surpassed! Ormulogun seraith Gumble!’

  ‘An impressive title—’

  ‘It’s not a title, you fool. Gumble is my critic.’ With that he gestured at the toad, then said to it, ‘Mark him well, Gumble, so that you note the brilliance of my coming rendition. He stands straight, does he not? Yet his bones may well be iron, their burden that of a hundred thousand foundation stones … or souls, to be more precise. And his features, yes? Look carefully, Gumble, and you will see the fullest measure of this man. And know this, though I capture all he is on the canvas recording the parley outside Capustan, know this … in that image you will see that Itkovian is not yet done.’

  The soldier started.

  Ormulogun grinned. ‘Oh yes, warrior, I see all too well for your comfort, yes? Now Gumble, spew forth your commentary, for I know its tide is building! Come now!’

  ‘You are mad,’ the toad observed laconically. ‘Forgive him, Shield Anvil, he softens his paint in his own mouth. It has poisoned his brain—’

  ‘Poisoned, pickled, poached, yes, yes, I’ve heard every variation from you until I’m sick to my stomach!’

  ‘Nausea is to be expected,’ the toad said with a sleepy blink. ‘Shield Anvil, I am no critic. Merely a humble observer who, when able, speaks on behalf of the tongue-tied multitudes otherwise known as the commonalty, or, more precisely, the rabble. An audience, understand, wholly incapable of self-realization or cogent articulation, and thus possessors of depressingly vulgar tastes when not apprised of what they truly like, if only they knew it. My meagre gift, therefore, lies in the communication of an aesthetic framework upon which most artists hang themselves.’

  ‘Ha, slimy one! Ha! So very slimy! Here, have a fly!’ Ormulogun plunged his paint-smeared fingers into a pouch at his side. He withdrew a deerfly and tossed it at the toad.

  The still living but dewinged insect landed directly in front of Gumble, who lunged forward and devoured it in a pink flash. ‘As I was saying—’

  ‘A moment, if you please,’ Itkovian interrupted.

  ‘I will allow a moment,’ the toad said, ‘if possessing admirable brevity.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Ormulogun, you say it was the practice of the Emperor of Malaz to assign artists to his armies. Presumably to record historical moments. Yet is not Onearm’s Host outlawed? For whom, then, do you paint?’

  ‘A record of the outlawry is essential! Besides, I had little choice but to accompany the army. What would you have me do, paint sunsets on cobbles in Darujhistan for a living? I found myself on the wrong continent! As for the so-called community of artisans and patrons in the so-called city of Pale and their so-called styles of expression—’

  ‘They hated you,’ Gumble said.

  ‘And I hated them! Tell me, did you see anything worthy of mention in Pale? Did you?’

  ‘Well, there was one mosaic—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fortunately, the attributed artist was long dead, permitting my effusiveness in its praise.’

  ‘You call that effusive? “It shows promise…” Isn’t that what you said? You well know it’s precisely what you said, as soon as that foppish host mentioned the artist was dead!’

  ‘Actually,’ Itkovian commented, ‘rather droll, to say such a thing.’

  ‘I am never droll,’ the toad said.

  ‘Though you do drool on occasion! Ha! Slimy one, yes? Ha!’

  ‘Suck another lump of paint, will you? There, that quicksilvered white. Looks very tasty.’

  ‘You just want me dead,’ Ormulogun muttered, reaching for the small gummy piece of paint. ‘So you can get effusive.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You’re a leech, you know that? Following me around everywhere. A vulture.’

  ‘Dear man,’ Gumble sighed, ‘I am a toad. While you are an artist. And for my fortune in the distinction, I daily thank every god that is and every god that ever was.’

  Itkovian left them exchanging ever more elaborate insults, and continued on down the shoreline. He forgot to look at Ormulogun’s canvas.

  Once the armies were across the river, they would divide. The city of Lest lay directly south, four days’ march, while the road to Setta angled west-southwest. Setta was at the very feet of the Vision Mountains, rising on the banks of the river from which it took its name. That same river continued on to the sea south of Lest, and would need to be crossed by both forces, eventually.

  Itkovian would accompany the army that struck for Lest, which consisted of the Grey Swords, elements of Tiste Andii, the Rhivi, Ilgres Barghast, a regiment of cavalry from Saltoan, and a handful of lesser mercenary companies from North Genabackis. Caladan Brood remained in overall command, with Kallor and Korlat as his seconds. The Grey Swords were attached in the manner of an allied force, with the Shield Anvil considered Brood’s equal. This distinction did not apply to the other mercenary companies, for they were one and all contracted to the warlord. The Daru, Gruntle, and his motley followers were being viewed as wholly independent, welcome at the briefings but free to do as they pleased.

  All in all, Itkovian concluded, the organization of the command was confused, the hierarchies of rank ephemeral. Not unlike our circumstances in Capustan, with the prince and the Mask Council ever muddying the waters. Perhaps this is a characteristic of the north and its independent city-states – before the Malazan invasion forced them into a confederacy of sorts, that is. And even then, it seemed, old rivalries and feuds perennially undermined the unification, to the invaders’ advantage.

  The structure imposed by the Malazan High Fist upon those forces accompanying him was far clearer in its hierarchy. The imperial way was instantly recognizable to Itkovian, and indeed was similar to what he would have established, were he in Dujek Onearm’s place. The High Fist commanded. His seconds were Whiskeyjack and Humbrall Taur – the latter displaying his wisdom by insisting upon Dujek’s pre-eminence – as well as the commander of the Black Moranth, whom Itkovian had yet to meet. These three were considered equal in rank, yet distinct in their responsibilities.

  Itkovian heard horse hooves and turned to see the Malazan second, Whiskeyjack, riding towards him along the strand. That he had paused to speak with the artist was evident in Ormulogun’s hastily gathering up his supplies in the soldier’s wake
.

  Whiskeyjack reined in. ‘Good day to you, Itkovian.’

  ‘And to you, sir. Is there something you wish of me?’

  The bearded soldier shrugged, scanning the area. ‘I am looking for Silverfox. Her, or the two marines who are supposed to be accompanying her.’

  ‘Following her, you no doubt mean. They passed me earlier, first Silverfox, then the two soldiers. Riding east.’

  ‘Did any of them speak with you?’

  ‘No. They rode at some distance from me, so courtesies were not expected. Nor did I endeavour to hail them.’

  The commander grimaced.

  ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Quick Ben’s been using his warrens to assist in the crossing. Our forces are on the other side and are ready to march, since we’ve the longer road.’

  ‘Indeed. Is Silverfox not of the Rhivi, however? Or do you simply wish to make formal your goodbye?’

  His frown deepened. ‘She’s as much Malazan as Rhivi. I would ask her to choose whom to accompany.’

  ‘Perhaps she has, sir.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Whiskeyjack replied, eyes now fixed on something to the east.

  Itkovian turned, but since he was on foot it was a moment longer before the two riders came into his line of sight. The marines, approaching at a steady canter.

  They drew up before their commander.

  ‘Where is she?’ Whiskeyjack asked.

  The marine on the right shrugged. ‘We followed her to the coast. Above the tide-line was a row of lumpy hills surrounded by swampy ditches. She rode into one of the hills, Whiskeyjack—’

  ‘Rode into the side of one of ’em,’ the other elaborated. ‘Vanished. Not a pause nor a stumble from her horse. We rode up to the spot but there was nothing there but grass, mud and rocks. We’ve lost her, which is, I guess, what she wanted.’

  The commander was silent.

  Itkovian had expected a heartfelt curse at the very least, and was impressed at the man’s self-control.

  ‘All right. Ride back with me. We’re crossing to the other side.’