The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Pardu.

  Drawing rein, cautious, weapons out. Then a gesture. Four more desert warriors appeared, followed by a fifth Pardu, this last one a shaman, Kalam concluded, given the man’s wild hair, fetishes and ratty goat-hide cape. Glaring about, eyes glinting as if raging with some internal fire, the shaman drew out a long bone and began waving it in circles overhead. Then he lifted his head and loudly sniffed the air.

  Kalam slowly eased his long-knives from their scabbards.

  The shaman growled a few words, then pivoted on the high Pardu saddle and slipped to the ground. He landed badly, twisting an ankle, and spent the next few moments hobbling about, cursing and spitting. His warriors swung down from their horses in a more graceful fashion, and Kalam caught the flash of a quickly hidden grin from one of them.

  The shaman began stamping around, muttering under his breath, reaching up with his free hand to tug at his tangled hair every now and then. And in his movements Kalam saw the beginnings of a ritual.

  Something told the assassin that these Pardu did not belong to Sha’ik’s Army of the Apocalypse. They were too furtive by far. He slowly sheathed his otataral long-knife and settled back in the deep shadow of the recess, to wait, and watch.

  The shaman’s muttering had fallen into a rhythmic cadence, and he reached into a bag of sewn hides at his belt, collecting a handful of small objects which he began scattering about as he walked his endless circle. Black and glittering, the objects crackled and popped on the ground as if they had been just plucked from a hearth. An acrid stench wafted out from the ritual circle.

  Kalam never discovered if what occurred next had been intended; without doubt its conclusion was not. The darkness lying heavy on the street seemed to convulsively explode—and then screams tore the air. Two massive beasts had arrived, immediately attacking the Pardu warriors. As if darkness itself had taken form, only the shimmer of their sleek hides betrayed their presence, and they moved with blurring speed, amidst spraying blood and snapping bones. The shaman shrieked as one of the enormous beasts closed. Huge black head swung to one side, jaws opening wide, and the shaman’s head vanished within the maw. A wet crunch as the jaws ground shut.

  The hound—for that, Kalam realized, was what it was—then stepped away, as the shaman’s headless body staggered back, then sat down with a thump.

  The other hound had begun feeding on the corpses of the Pardu warriors, and the sickening sound of breaking bones continued.

  These, Kalam could well see, were not Hounds of Shadow. If anything, they were larger, bulkier, massing more like a bear than a dog. Yet, as they now filled their bellies with raw human flesh, they moved with savage grace, primal and deadly. Devoid of fear and supremely confident, as if this strange place they had come to was as familiar to them as their own hunting grounds.

  The sight of them made the assassin’s skin crawl. Motionless, he had slowed his own breathing, then the pace of his heart. There were no other alternatives available to him, at least until the hounds left.

  But they seemed to be in no hurry, both settling down to split the last long bones and gnaw at joints.

  Hungry, these bastards. Wonder where they came from…and what they’re going to do now.

  Then one lifted its head, and stiffened. With a deep grunt it rose. The other continued crunching through a human knee, seemingly indifferent to its companion’s sudden tension.

  Even when the beast turned to stare at the place where Kalam crouched.

  It came at him fast.

  Kalam leapt up the worn stairs, one hand reaching into the folds of his telaba. He pivoted hard and sprinted, even as he flung his last handful of smoky diamonds—his own cache, not Iskaral Pust’s—into his wake.

  A skittering of claws immediately behind him, and he flung himself to one side, rolling over a shoulder as the hound flashed through the place where he had been a moment earlier. The assassin continued rolling until he was on his feet once more, tugging desperately at the whistle looped around his neck.

  The hound skidded across dusty flagstones, legs cycling wildly beneath it as it twisted around.

  A glance showed the other hound entirely unmindful, still gnawing away in the street beyond.

  Then Kalam clamped the whistle between his teeth. He scrambled in a half-circle to bring the scatter of diamonds between himself and the attacking hound.

  And blew through the bone tube as hard as he could.

  Five azalan demons rose from the ancient stone floor. There seemed to be no moment of disorientation among them, for three of the five closed instantly on the nearer hound, whilst the remaining two flanked Kalam as they clambered, in a blur of limbs, towards the hound in the street. Which finally looked up.

  Curious as he might have been to witness the clash of behemoths, Kalam wasted no time in lingering. He ran, angling southward as he leapt over wall foundations, skirted around black-bottomed pits, and set his gaze fixedly on the higher ground fifteen hundred paces distant.

  Snaps and snarls and the crash and grind of tumbling stones evinced an ongoing battle in the main street behind him. My apologies, Shadowthrone…but at least one of your demons should survive long enough to escape. In which case, you will be informed of a new menace unleashed on this world. And consider this—if there’s two of them, there’s probably more.

  He ran onward through the night, until all sounds behind him vanished.

  An evening of surprises. In a jewelmonger’s kiosk in G’danisban. At a sumptuous, indolent dinner shared by a Kaleffa merchant and one of his prized client’s equally prized wives. And in Ehrlitan, among a fell gathering of flesh-traders and murderers plotting the betrayal of a Malazan collaborator who had issued a secret invitation to Admiral Nok’s avenging fleet—which even now was rounding the Otataral Sea on its way to an ominous rendezvous with eleven transports approaching from Genabackis—a collaborator who, it would turn out, would awaken the next morning not only hale, but no longer facing imminent assassination. And on the coastal caravan trail twenty leagues west of Ehrlitan, the quietude of the night would be broken by horrified screams—loud and lingering, sufficient to awaken a maul-fisted old man living alone in a tower overlooking the Otataral Sea, if only momentarily, before he rolled over and fell once more into dreamless, restful sleep.

  At the distant, virtually inaudible whistle, countless smoky diamonds that had originated from a trader in G’danisban’s market round crumbled into dust—whether placed for safe-keeping in locked chests, worn as rings or pendants, or residing in a merchant’s hoard. And from the dust rose azalan demons, awakened long before their intended moment. But that suited them just fine.

  They had, one and all, appointed tasks that demanded a certain solitude, at least initially. Making it necessary to quickly silence every witness, which the azalan were pleased to do. Proficiently and succinctly.

  For those that had appeared in the ruins of a city in Raraku, however, to find two creatures whose existence was very nearly lost to the demons’ racial memory, the moments immediately following their arrival proved somewhat more problematic. For it became quickly apparent that the hounds were not inclined to relinquish their territory, such as it was.

  The fight was fierce and protracted, concluding unsatisfactorily for the five azalan, who were eventually driven off, battered and bleeding and eager to seek deep shadows in which to hide from the coming day. To hide, and lick their wounds.

  And in the realm known as Shadow, a certain god sat motionless on his insubstantial throne. Already recovered from his shock, his mind was racing.

  Racing.

  Grinding, splintering wood, mast snapping overhead to drag cordage down, a heavy concussion that shivered through the entire craft, then only the sound of water dripping onto a stone floor.

  With a muted groan, Cutter dragged himself upright. ‘Apsalar?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  Their voices echoed. Walls and ceiling were close—the runner had landed in a chamber.

  �
��So much for subtle,’ the Daru muttered, searching for his pack amidst the wreckage. ‘I’ve a lantern. Give me a moment.’

  ‘I am not going anywhere,’ she replied from somewhere near the stern.

  Her words chilled him, so forlorn did they sound. His groping hands closed on his pack and he dragged it close. He rummaged inside until his hand closed on and retrieved first the small lantern and then the tinder box.

  The fire-making kit was from Darujhistan, and consisted of flint and iron bar, wick-sticks, igniting powder, the fibrous inner lining from tree bark, and a long-burning gel the city’s alchemists rendered from the gas-filled caverns beneath the city. Sparks flashed three times before the powder caught with a hiss and flare of flame. The bark lining followed, then, dipping a wick-stick into the gel, Cutter set it alight. He then transferred the flame to the lantern.

  A sphere of light burgeoned in the chamber, revealing the crushed wreckage of the runner, rough-hewn stone walls and vaulted ceiling. Apsalar was still seated near the splintered shaft of the tiller, barely illumined by the lantern’s light. More like an apparition than a flesh and blood person.

  ‘I see a doorway beyond,’ she said.

  He swung about, lifting the lantern. ‘All right, at least we’re not in a tomb, then. More like some kind of storage room.’

  ‘I smell dust…and sand.’

  He slowly nodded, then scowled in sudden suspicion. ‘Let’s do some exploring,’ he grated as he began collecting his gear, including the bow. He froze at a chittering sound from the doorway, looked up to see a score of eyes, gleaming with the lantern’s reflected light. Close-set but framing the doorway on all sides, including the arch where, Cutter suspected, they were hanging upside down.

  ‘Bhok’arala,’ Apsalar said. ‘We’ve returned to Seven Cities.’

  ‘I know,’ the Daru replied, wanting to spit. ‘We spent most of last year trudging across that damned wasteland, and now we’re back where we started.’

  ‘So it would seem. So, Crokus, are you enjoying being the plaything of a god?’

  He saw little value in replying to that question, and chose instead to clamber down to the puddled floor and approach the doorway.

  The bhok’arala scampered with tiny shrieks, vanishing into the darkness of the hallway beyond. Cutter paused at the threshold and glanced back. ‘Coming?’

  Apsalar shrugged in the gloom, then made her way forward.

  The corridor ran straight and level for twenty paces, then twisted to the right, the floor forming an uneven, runnelled ramp that led upward to the next level. There were no side chambers or passages until they reached a circular room, where sealed doorways lining the circumference hinted at entrances to tombs. In one curved wall, between two such doorways, there was an alcove in which stairs were visible.

  And crouched at the base of those stairs was a familiar figure, teeth gleaming in a wide smile.

  ‘Iskaral Pust!’

  ‘Missed me, didn’t you, lad?’ He edged forward like a crab, then cocked his head. ‘I should soothe him now—both of them, yes. Welcoming words, a wide embrace, old friends, yes, reunited in a great cause once more. Never mind the extremity of what will be demanded of us in the days and nights to come. As if I need help—Iskaral Pust requires the assistance of no-one. Oh, she might be useful, but she hardly looks inclined, does she? Miserable with knowledge, is my dear lass.’ He straightened, managing something between an upright stance and a crouch. His smile suddenly broadened. ‘Welcome! My friends!’

  Cutter advanced on him. ‘I’ve no time for any of this, you damned weasel—’

  ‘No time? Of course you have, lad! There’s much to be done, and much time in which to do it! Doesn’t that make for a change? Rush about? Not us. No, we can dawdle! Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘What does Cotillion want of us?’ Cutter demanded, forcing his fists to unclench.

  ‘You are asking me what Cotillion wants of you? How should I know?’ He ducked down. ‘Does he believe me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No what? Have you lost your mind, lad? You won’t find it here! Although my wife might—she’s ever cleaning and clearing up—at least, I think she is. Though she refuses to touch the offerings—my little bhok’arala children leave them everywhere I go, of course. I’ve become used to the smell. Now, where was I? Oh yes, dearest Apsalar—should you and I flirt? Won’t that make the witch spit and hiss! Hee hee!’

  ‘I’d rather flirt with a bhok’aral,’ she replied.

  ‘That too—I’m not the jealous type, you’ll be relieved to hear, lass. Plenty of ’em about for you to choose from, in any case. Now, are you hungry? Thirsty? Hope you brought your own supplies. Just head on up these stairs, and when she asks, you haven’t seen me.’

  Iskaral Pust stepped back and vanished.

  Apsalar sighed. ‘Perhaps his…wife will prove a more reasonable host.’

  Cutter glanced back at her. Somehow I doubt it.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘There is no death in light.’

  ANARMANN, HIGH PRIEST OF OSSERC

  ‘Mezla one and all,’ Febryl muttered as he hobbled along the worn, dusty path, his breath growing harsher. There was little in this world that much pleased him any more. Malazans. His failing body. The blind insanity of power so brutally evinced in the Whirlwind Goddess. In his mind, the world was plunging into chaos, and all that it had been—all that he had been—was trapped in the past.

  But the past was not dead. It merely slept. The perfect, measured resurrection of old patterns could achieve a rebirth. Not a rebirth such as had taken Sha’ik—that had been nothing more than the discarding of one, badly worn vessel for a new one not nearly so battered. No, the rebirth Febryl imagined was far more profound.

  He had once served the Holy Falah’d Enqura. The Holy City of Ugarat and its host of tributary cities had been in the midst of a renaissance. Eleven great schools of learning were thriving in Ugarat. Knowledge long lost was being rediscovered. The flower of a great civilization had turned to face the sun, had begun to open.

  The Mezla and their implacable legions had destroyed…everything. Ugarat had fallen to Dassem Ultor. The schools were assailed by soldiers, only to discover, to their fury, that their many riches and texts had, along with philosophers and academics, vanished. Enqura had well understood the Mezla thirst for knowledge, the Emperor’s lust for foreign secrets, and the city’s Holy Protector would give them nothing. Instead, he had commanded Febryl, a week before the arrival of the Malazan armies, to shut down the schools, to confiscate the hundred thousand scrolls and bound volumes, the ancient relics of the First Empire, and the teachers and scholars themselves. By the Protector’s decree, Ugarat’s coliseum became the site of a vast conflagration, as everything was burned, destroyed. The scholars were crucified—those that did not fling themselves on the pyre in a fit of madness and grief—and their bodies dumped into the pits containing the smashed relics just outside the city wall.

  Febryl had done as he had been commanded. His last gesture of loyalty, of pure, unsullied courage. The terrible act was necessary. Enqura’s denial was perhaps the greatest defiance in the entire war. One for which the Holy Protector paid with his life, when the horror that was said to have struck Dassem Ultor upon hearing of the deed transformed into rage.

  Febryl’s loss of faith had come in the interval, and it had left him a broken man. In following Enqura’s commands, he had so outraged his mother and father—both learned nobles in their own right—that they had disowned him to his face. And Febryl had lost his mind that night, recovering his sanity with dawn staining the horizon, to find that he had murdered his parents. And their servants. That he had unleashed sorcery to flay the flesh from the guards. That such power had poured through him as to leave him old beyond his years, wrinkled and withered, his bones brittle and bent.

  The old man hobbling out through the city gate that day was beneath notice. Enqura searched for him, but Febryl succeeded in evadin
g the Holy Protector, in leaving the man to his fate.

  Unforgivable.

  A hard word, a truth harder than stone. But Febryl was never able to decide to which crime it applied. Three betrayals, or two? Was the destruction of all that knowledge—the slaying of all those scholars and teachers—was it, as the Mezla and other Falad’han later pronounced—the foulest deed of all? Fouler even than the T’lan Imass rising to slaughter the citizens of Aren? So much so that Enqura’s name has become a curse for Mezla and natives of Seven Cities alike? Three, not two?

  And the bitch knew. She knew his every secret. It had not been enough to change his name; not enough that he had the appearance of an old man, when the High Mage Iltara, most trusted servant to Enqura, had been young, tall and lusted after by both men and women? No, she had obliterated, seemingly effortlessly, his every barricade, and plundered the pits of his soul.

  Unforgivable.

  No possessor of his secrets could be permitted to live. He refused to be so…vulnerable. To anyone. Even Sha’ik. Especially Sha’ik.

  And so she must be removed. Even if it means dealing with Mezla. He had no illusions about Korbolo Dom. The Napan’s ambitions—no matter what claims he made at present—went far beyond this rebellion. No, his ambitions were imperial. Somewhere to the south, Mallick Rel, the Jhistal priest of Elder Mael, was trekking towards Aren, there to surrender himself. He would, in turn, be brought before the Empress herself.

  And then what? That snake of a priest would announce an extraordinary reversal of fortunes in Seven Cities. Korbolo Dom had been working in her interests all along. Or some such nonsense. Febryl was certain of his suspicions. Korbolo Dom wanted a triumphant return into the imperial fold. Probably the title of High Fist of Seven Cities as well. Mallick Rel would have twisted his part in the events at the Fall and immediately afterwards. The dead man, Pormqual, would be made the singular focus for the debacle of Coltaine’s death and the slaying of the High Fist’s army. The Jhistal would slip through, somehow, or, if all went awry, he would somehow manage to escape. Korbolo Dom, Febryl believed, had agents in the palace in Unta—what was being played out here in Raraku was but a tremble on a much vaster web.