Among the Tarthenal, all that existed in the physical world possessed symbolic meaning, and these meanings were mutually connected, bound into correspondences that were themselves part of a secret language.
Faeces was gold. Piss was ale. The mixed-breeds had forgotten most of the old knowledge, yet the tradition guiding Old Hunch Arbat’s rounds remained, even if most of its significance was lost.
Once he’d completed his task, a final journey was left to him: pulling the foul cart with its heap of dripping, fly-swarmed waste onto a little-used trail in the Breeder’s Wood, and eventually into the glade where stood the mostly buried statues.
As soon as he arrived, just past sunset, he knew that something had changed. In a place that had never changed, not once in his entire life.
There had been visitors, perhaps earlier that day but that was the least of it. Old Hunch Arbat stared at the statues, seeing the burnt grasses, the faint glow of heat from the battered granite. He grimaced, revealing the blackened stumps of teeth—all that was left after decade upon decade of Letherii sweet-cakes—and when he reached for his shovel he saw that his hands were trembling.
He collected a load, carried it over to the nearest statue. Then flung the faeces against the weathered stone.
‘Splat,’ he said, nodding.
Hissing, then blackening, smoke, then ashes skirling down.
‘Oh. Could it be worse? Ask yourself that, Old Hunch Arbat. Could it be worse? No, says Old Hunch Arbat, I don’t think so. You don’t think so? Aren’t you sure, Old Hunch Arbat? Old Hunch Arbat ponders, but not for long. You’re right, I say, it couldn’t be worse.
‘Gold. Gold and ale. Damn gold damn ale damn nothing damn everything.’ Cursing made him feel slightly better. ‘Well then.’ He walked back to the cart. ‘Let’s see if a whole load will appease. And, Old Hunch Arbat, your bladder’s full, too. You timed it right, as always. Libations. The works, Old Hunch Arbat, the works.
‘And if that don’t help, then what, Old Hunch Arbat? Then what?
‘Why, I answer, then I spread the word—if they’ll listen. And if they do? Why, I say, then we run away.
‘And if they don’t listen?
‘Why, I reply, then I run away.’
He collected another load onto his wooden shovel. ‘Gold. Gold and ale…’
‘Sandalath Drukorlat. That is my name. I am not a ghost. Not any more. The least you can do is acknowledge my existence. Even the Nachts have better manners than you. If you keep sitting there and praying, I’ll hit you.’
She had been trying since morning. Periodic interruptions to his efforts. He wanted to send her away, but it wasn’t working. He’d forgotten how irritating company could be. Uninvited, unwelcome, persistent reminder of his own weaknesses. And now she was about to hit him.
Withal sighed and finally opened his eyes. The first time that day. Even in the gloom of his abode, the light hurt, made him squint. She stood before him, a silhouette, unmistakably female. For a god swathed in blankets, the Crippled One seemed unmindful of the nakedness among his chosen.
Chosen. Where in Hood’s name did he find her? Not a ghost, she said. Not any more. She just said that. She must have been one, then. Typical. He couldn’t find anyone living. Not for this mission of mercy. Who better for someone starved of companionship than someone who’s been dead for who knows how long? Listen to me. I’m losing my mind.
She raised a hand to strike him.
He flinched back. ‘All right, fine! Sandalath something. Pleased to meet you—’
‘Sandalath Drukorlat. I am Tiste Andii—’
‘That’s nice. Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I was in the midst of prayers—’
‘You’re always in the midst of prayers, and it’s been two days now. At least, I think two days. The Nachts slept, anyway. Once.’
‘They did? How strange.’
‘And you are?’
‘Me? A weaponsmith. A Meckros. Sole survivor of the destruction of my city—’
‘Your name!’
‘Withal. No need to shout. There hasn’t been any shouting. Well, some screaming, but not by me. Not yet, that is—’
‘Be quiet. I have questions that you are going to answer.’
She was not particularly young, he noted as his eyes adjusted. Then again, neither was he. And that wasn’t good. The young were better at making friends. The young had nothing to lose. ‘You’re being rather imperious, Sandalath.’
‘Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Dreadfully sorry. Where did you get those clothes?’
‘From the god, who else?’
‘What god?’
‘The one in the tent. Inland. You can’t miss it. I don’t see how—two days? What have you been doing with yourself? It’s just up from the strand—’
‘Be quiet.’ She ran both hands through her hair.
Withal would rather she’d stayed a silhouette. He looked away. ‘I thought you wanted answers. Go ask him—’
‘I didn’t know he was a god. You seemed preferable company, since all I got from him was coughing and laughter—at least, I think it was laughter—’
‘It was, have no doubt about that. He’s sick.’
‘Sick?’
‘Insane.’
‘So, an insane hacking god and a muscle-bound, bald aspirant. And three Nachts. That’s it? No-one else on this island?’
‘Some lizard gulls, and ground-lizards, and rock-lizards, and lizard-rats in the smithy—’
‘So where did you get that food there?’
He glanced over at the small table. ‘The god provides.’
‘Really. And what else does this god provide?’
Well, you, for one. ‘Whatever suits his whim, I suppose.’
‘Your clothes.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want clothes.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean, “yes”? Get me some clothes.’
‘I’ll ask.’
‘Do you think I like standing here, naked, in front of some stranger? Even the Nachts leer.’
‘I wasn’t leering.’
‘You weren’t?’
‘Not intentionally. I just noticed, you’re speaking the Letherii trader language. So am I.’
‘You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve had lots of practice, I suppose.’ He rose. ‘It occurs to me that you’re not going to let me resume my prayers. At least until you get some clothes. So, let’s go talk to the god.’
‘You go talk to him. I’m not. Just bring me clothes, Withal.’
He regarded her. ‘Will that help you…relax?’
Then she did hit him, a palm pounding into the side of his head. She’d caught him unprepared, he decided a moment later, after he picked himself free of the wreckage of the wall he’d gone through. And stood, weaving, the scene around him spinning wildly. The glaring woman who’d stepped outside and seemed to be considering hitting him again, the pitching sea, and the three Nachts on a sward nearby, rolling in silent hilarity.
He walked down towards the sea.
Behind him, ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the god.’
‘He’s the other way.’
He reversed direction. ‘Talking to me like I don’t know this island. She wants clothes. Here, take mine.’ He pulled his shirt over his head.
And found himself lying on his back, staring up through the bleached weave of the cloth, the sun bright and blinding—
—suddenly eclipsed. She was speaking. ‘…just lie there for a while longer, Withal. I wasn’t intending to hit you that hard. I fear I’ve cracked your skull.’
No, no, it’s hard as an anvil. I’ll be fine. See, I’m getting up…oh, why bother. It’s nice here in the sun. This shirt smells. Like the sea. Like a beach, with the tide out, and all the dead things rotting in fetid water. Just like the Inside Harbour. Got to stop the boys from swimming in there. I keep telling them…oh, they’re dead. All dead now, my boys, my appre
ntices.
You’d better answer me soon, Mael.
‘Withal?’
‘It’s the tent. That’s what the Nachts are trying to tell me. Something about the tent…’
‘Withal?’
I think I’ll sleep now.
The trail ran in an easterly direction, roughly parallel to the Brous Road at least to start, then cut southward towards the road itself once the forest on the left thinned. One other farm had been passed through by the deserters, but there had been no-one there. Signs of looting were present, and it seemed a wooden-wheeled wagon had been appropriated. Halfpeck judged that the marauders were not far ahead, and the Crimson Guardsmen would reach them by dawn.
Seren Pedac rode alongside Iron Bars. The new stirrups held her boots firmly in place; she had never felt so secure astride a horse. It was clear that the Blueroses had been deceiving the Letherii for a long time, and she wondered if that revealed some essential, heretofore unrecognized flaw among her people. A certain gullibility, bred from an unfortunate mixture of naivety and arrogance. If Lether survived the Edur invasion and the truth about the Bluerose deception came to light, the Letherii response would be characteristically childish, she suspected, some kind of profound and deep hurt, and a grudge long held on to. Bluerose would be punished, spitefully and repeatedly, in countless ways.
The two women soldiers in the squad had dismantled a hide rack at the first farm, using the frame’s poles to fashion a half-dozen crude lances, half again as tall as a man. The sharpened, fire-hardened points had been notched transversely, the thick barbs bent outward from the shaft. Each tip had been smeared with blood from the breeder and his family, to seal the vengeful intent.
They rode through the night, halting four times to rest their horses, all but one of the squad managing a quarterbell’s worth of sleep—a soldier’s talent that Seren could not emulate. By the time the sky paled to the east, revealing mists in the lowlands, she was grainy-eyed and sluggish. They had passed a camp of refugees on the Brous Road, an old woman wakening to tell them the raiders had caught up with them earlier and stolen everything of value, as well as two young girls and their mother.
Two hundred paces further down, they came within sight of the deserters. The wagon stood in the centre of the raised road, the two oxen that had been used to pull it off to one side beneath a thick, gnarled oak on the other side of the south ditch. Chains stretched from one of the wheels, along which three small figures were huddled in sleep. A large hearth still smouldered, its dying embers just beyond the wagon.
The Crimson Guardsmen halted at some distance to regard the raiders.
‘No-one’s awake,’ one of the women commented.
Iron Bars said, ‘These horses aren’t well trained enough for a closed charge. We’ll go four one four. You’ll be the one, Acquitor, and stay tight behind the leading riders.’
She nodded. She was not prepared to raise objections. She had been given a spare sword, and she well knew how to use it. Even so, this charge was to be with lances.
The soldiers cinched the straps of their helmets then donned gauntlets, shifting their grips on the lances to a third of the way up from the butts. Seren drew her sword.
‘All right,’ Iron Bars said. ‘Corlo, keep them asleep until we’re thirty paces away. Then wake ’em quick and panicky.’
‘Aye, Avowed. It’s been a while, ain’t it?’
Halfpeck asked, ‘Want any of ’em left alive, sir?’
‘No.’
Iron Bars, with Halfpeck on his left and the two women on his right, formed the first line. Walk to trot, then a collected canter. Fifty paces, and no-one was stirring among the deserters. Seren glanced back at Corlo, and he smiled, raising one hand and waggling the gloved fingers.
She saw the three prisoners at the wagon sit up, then quickly crawl beneath the bed.
Lances were levelled, the horses rolling into a gallop.
Sudden movement among the sleeping deserters. Leaping to their feet, bewildered shouts, a scream.
The front line parted to go round the wagon, and Seren pulled hard to her left after a moment of indecision, seeing the glitter of wide eyes from beneath the wagon’s bed. Then she was alongside the tall wheels.
Ahead, four lances found targets, three of them skewering men from behind as they sought to flee.
A deserter stumbled close to Seren and she slashed her sword, clipping his shoulder and spinning him round in a spray of blood. Cursing at the clumsy blow, she pushed herself forward on the saddle and rose to stand in her stirrups. Readied the sword once more.
The leading four Guardsmen had slowed their mounts and were drawing swords. The second line of riders, in Seren’s wake, had spread out to pursue victims scattering into the ditches to either side. They slaughtered with cold efficiency.
A spear stabbed up at Seren on her right. She batted the shaft aside, then swung as her horse carried her forward. The blade rang in her grip as it connected with a helmet. The edge jammed and she pulled hard, dragging the helm from the man’s head. It came free and flew forward to bounce on the road, red-splashed and caved in on one side.
She caught a moment of seeing Iron Bars ten paces ahead. Killing with appalling ease, a single hand gripping the reins as he guided his horse, sword weaving a murderous dance around him.
Someone flung himself onto her sword-arm, his weight wrenching at her shoulder. She shouted in pain, felt herself being pulled from her saddle.
His face, bearded and grimacing, seemed to surge towards her as if hunting some ghastly kiss. Then she saw the features go slack. Blood filled his eyes. The veins on his temples collapsed into blue stains blossoming beneath the skin. More blood, spraying from his nostrils. His grip fell away and he toppled backward.
Drawing in close, a long, thin-bladed knife in one hand, Corlo came alongside her. ‘Push yourself up, lass! Use my shoulder—’
Hand fisted around the grip of her sword, she set it against him and righted herself. ‘Thanks, Corlo—’
‘Rein in, lass, we’re about done here.’
She looked round. Three Guardsmen had dismounted, as had Iron Bars, and were among the wounded and dying, swords thrusting down into bodies. She glanced back. ‘That man—what happened to him?’
‘I boiled his brain, Acquitor. Messy, granted, but the Avowed said to keep you safe.’
She stared at him. ‘What sort of magic does that?’
‘Maybe I’ll tell you sometime. That was a nice head-shot back there. The bastard came close with that spear.’
He did. She was suddenly shaking. ‘And this is your profession, Corlo? It’s…disgusting.’
‘Aye, Acquitor, that it is.’
Iron Bars approached. ‘All is well?’
‘We’re fine, sir. All dead?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘That’s all of them,’ the mage said, nodding.
‘Less than a half-dozen actually managed to draw their weapons. You fouled ’em up nicely, Corlo. Well done.’
‘Is that how you soldiers win your battles?’ Seren asked.
‘We wasn’t here to give battle, Acquitor,’ Iron Bars said. ‘Executions, lass. Any mages among the lot, Corlo?’
‘One minor adept. I got him right away.’
Executions. Yes. Best to think of it that way. Not butchery. They were murderers and rapists, after all. ‘You didn’t leave me any alive, Avowed?’
He squinted up at her. ‘No, none.’
‘You don’t want me to…do what I want. Do you?’
‘That’s right, lass. I don’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you might enjoy it.’
‘And what business is that of yours, Iron Bars?’
‘It’s not good, that’s all.’ He turned away. ‘Corlo, see to the prisoners under the wagon. Heal them if they need it.’
He’s right. The bastard’s right. I might enjoy it. Torturing some helpless man. And that wouldn’t be good at all, because I might get hungry for
more. She thought back to the feeling when her sword’s blade had connected with that deserter’s helmed head. Sickening, and sick with pleasure, all bound together.
I hurt. But I can make others hurt. Enough so they answer each other, leaving…calm. Is that what it is? Calm? Or just some kind of hardening, senseless and cold.
‘All right, Iron Bars,’ she said. ‘Keep it away from me. Only,’ she looked down at him, ‘it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.’
‘Aye. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Not ever,’ she said. ‘I know, you’re thinking time will bring healing. But you see, Avowed, it’s something I keep reliving. Every moment. It wasn’t days ago. It was with my last breath, every last breath.’
She saw the compassion in his eyes and, inexplicably, hated him for it. ‘Let me think on that, lass.’
‘To what end?’
‘Can’t say, yet.’
She looked down at the sword in her hand, at the blood and snarled hair along the notched edge where it had struck the man’s head. Disgusting. But they’ll expect it to be wiped away. To make the iron clean and gleaming once more, as if it was nothing more than a sliver of metal. Disconnected from its deeds, its history, its very purpose. She didn’t want that mess cleaned away. She liked the sight of it.
They left the bodies where they had fallen. Left the lances impaled in flesh growing cold. Left the wagon, apart from the food they could transport—the refugees coming up on the road could have the rest. Among the dead were five youths, none of them older than fifteen years. They’d walked a short path, but as Halfpeck observed, it had been the wrong path, and that was that.
Seren pitied none of them.
Book Four
Midnight Tides
Kin mourn my passing, all love is dust
The pit is cut from the raw, stones piled to the side
Slabs are set upon the banks, the seamed grey wall rises
The Malazan Empire Page 435