‘I already told my mule to do that.’
‘It’s a mule, you idiot…’ Her words trailed away as she noted the flicker of firelight off to one side. Turning, she studied the large canvas tent, expertly erected, and the stone-ringed hearth where a pot of water already steamed beneath a tripod. Nearby stood the mule, eating from its bag of oats. Mogora frowned, then shook her head and returned to her work. ‘Tend to the tea, then. Be useful.’
‘I was being useful! Until you arrived and messed everything up! The most powerful High Priest in Seven Cities does not need a woman! In fact, that’s the very last thing he needs!’
‘You couldn’t heal a hangnail, Iskaral Pust. This Trell has the black poison in his veins, the glittering vein-snake. We shall need more than High Denul for this—’
‘Oh here we go! All your witchy rubbish. High Denul will conquer the black poison—’
‘Perhaps, but the dead flesh will remain dead. He will be crippled, half-mad, his hearts will weaken.’ She paused and glared over at him. ‘Shadowthrone sent you to find him, didn’t he? Why?’
Iskaral Pust smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, she’s suspicious now, isn’t she? But I won’t tell her anything. Except the hint, the modest hint, of my vast knowledge. Yes indeed, I know my dear god’s mind – and a twisted, chaotic, weaselly mind it is. In fact, I know so much I am speechless – hah, look at her, those beetle eyes narrowing suspiciously, as if she dares grow aware of my profound ignorance in all matters pertaining to my cherished, idiotic god. Dares, and would challenge me openly. I would crumble before that onslaught, of course.’ He paused, reworked his smile, then spread his hands and said, ‘Sweet Mogora, the High Priest of Shadow must have his secrets, kept even from his wife, alas. And so I beg you not to press me on this, else you suffer Shadowthrone’s random wrath—’
‘You are a complete fool, Iskaral Pust.’
‘Let her think that,’ he said, then added a chuckle. ‘Now she’ll wonder why I have laughed – no, not laughed, but chuckled, which, all things considered, is far more alarming. I mean, it sounded like a chuckle so it must have been one, though it’s the first I’ve ever tried, or heard, for that matter. Whereas a chortle, well, that’s different. I’m not fat enough to chortle, alas. Sometimes I wish—’
‘Go sit by your mule’s fire,’ Mogora said. ‘I must prepare my ritual.’
‘See how that chuckle has discomfited her! Of course, my darling, you go and play with your little ritual, that’s a dear. Whilst I make tea for myself and my mule.’
Warmed by the flames and his tralb tea, Iskaral Pust watched – as best as he was able in the darkness – Mogora at work. First, she assembled large chunks of stone, each one broken, cracked or otherwise rough-edged, and set them down in the sand, creating an ellipse that encompassed the Trell. She then urinated over these rocks, achieving this with an extraordinary half-crab half-chicken wide-legged waddle, straddling the stones and proceeding widdershins until returning to the place she had started. Iskaral marvelled at the superior muscle control, not to mention the sheer volume, that Mogora obviously possessed. In the last few years his own efforts at urination had met with mixed success, until even starting and stopping now seemed the highest of visceral challenges.
Satisfied with her piddle, Mogora then started pulling hairs from her head. She didn’t have that many up there, and those she selected seemed so deeply rooted that Iskaral feared she would deflate her skull with every successful yank. His anticipation of seeing such a thing yielded only disappointment, as, with seven long wiry grey hairs in one hand, Mogora stepped into the ellipse, one foot planted to either side of the Trell’s torso. Then, muttering some witchly thing, she flung the hairs into the inky blackness overhead.
Instinct guided Iskaral’s gaze upward after those silvery threads, and he was somewhat alarmed to see that the stars had vanished overhead. Whereas, out on the horizons, they remained sharp and bright. ‘Gods, woman! What have you done?’
Ignoring him, she stepped back out of the ellipse and began singing in the Woman’s Language, which was, of course, unintelligible to Iskaral’s ears. Just as the Man’s Language – which Mogora called gibberish – was beyond her ability to understand. The reason for that, Iskaral Pust knew, was that the Man’s Language was gibberish, designed specifically to confound women. It’s a fact that men don’t need words, but women do. We have penises, after all. Who needs words when you have a penis? Whereas with women there are two breasts, which invites conversation, just as a good behind presents perfect punctuation, something every man knows.
What’s wrong with the world? You ask a man and he says, ‘Don’t ask.’ Ask a woman and you’ll be dead of old age before she’s finished. Hah. Hah ha.
Strange streams of gossamer began descending through the reflected light of the fire, settling upon the Trell’s body.
‘What are those?’ Iskaral asked. Then started as one brushed his forearm and he saw that it was a spider’s silk, and there was the spider at one end, tiny as a mite. He looked skyward in alarm. ‘There are spiders up there? What madness is this? What are they doing up there?’
‘Be quiet.’
‘Answer me!’
‘The sky is filled with spiders, husband. They float on the winds. Now I’ve answered you, so close that mouth of yours lest I send a few thousand of my sisters into it.’
His teeth clacked and he edged closer to the hearth. Burn, you horrid things. Burn!
The strands of web covered the Trell now. Thousands, tens, hundreds of thousands – the spiders were wrapping about Mappo Runt’s entire body.
‘And now,’ Mogora said, ‘time for the moon.’
The blackness overhead vanished in a sudden bloom of silver, incandescent light. Squealing, Iskaral Pust fell onto his back, so alarming was the transformation, and he found himself staring straight up at a massive, full moon, hanging so low it seemed within reach. If he but dared. Which he did not. ‘You’ve brought the moon down! Are you mad? It’s going to crash on us!’
‘Oh, stop it. It only seems that way – well, maybe I nudged it a bit – but I told you this was a serious ritual, didn’t I?’
‘What have you done with the moon?’
She crowed with manic laughter. ‘It’s just my little ritual, darling. How do you like it?’
‘Make it go away!’
‘Frightened? You should be! I’m a woman! A witch! So why don’t you just drag that scrawny behind of yours into that tent and cower, dear husband. This is real power, here, real magic!’
‘No it isn’t! I mean, it’s not witch magic, not Dal Honese – I don’t know what this is—’
‘You’re right, you don’t. Now be a good little boy and go to sleep, Iskaral Pust, while I set about saving this Trell’s miserable life.’
Iskaral thought to argue, then decided against it. He crawled into the tent.
From outside, ‘Is that you gibbering, Iskaral?’
Oh be quiet.
Lostara Yil opened her eyes, then slowly sat up.
A grey-cloaked figure was standing near a stone-arched portal, his back to her. Rough-hewn walls to either side, forming a circular chamber with Lostara – who had been lying on an altar – in the centre. Moonlight was flooding in from in front of the figure, yet it seemed to be sliding in visible motion. As if the moon beyond was plunging from the sky.
‘What—?’ she asked, then began to cough uncontrollably, sharp pain biting in her lungs. Finally recovering, she blinked tears from her eyes, looked up once again.
He was facing her now.
The Shadow Dancer. The god. Cotillion. Seemingly in answer to her initial question, he said, ‘I am not sure. Some untoward sorcery is at work, somewhere in the desert. The moon’s light has been…stolen. I admit I have never seen anything like it before.’
Even as he was speaking, Lostara’s memories returned in a rush. Y’Ghatan. Flames, everywhere. Blistering heat. Savage burns – oh how her flesh screamed its pain – ‘What – what happene
d to me?’
‘Oh, that was what you meant. My apologies, Lostara Yil. Well, in short, I pulled you out of the fire. Granted, it’s very rare for a god to intervene, but T’riss kicked open the door—’
‘T’riss?’
‘The Queen of Dreams. Set the precedent, as it were. Most of your clothes had burned – I apologize if you find the new ones not to your liking.’
She glanced down at the rough-woven shift covering her.
‘A neophyte’s tunic,’ Cotillion said. ‘You are in a Temple of Rashan, a secret one. Abandoned with the rebellion, I believe. We are a league and a half from what used to be Y’Ghatan, forty or so paces north of the Sotka Road. The temple is well concealed.’ He gestured with one gloved hand at the archway. ‘This is the only means of ingress and egress.’
‘Why – why did you save me?’
He hesitated. ‘There will come a time, Lostara Yil, when you will be faced with a choice. A dire one.’
‘What kind of choice?’
He studied her for a moment, then asked, ‘How deep are your feelings for Pearl?’
She started, then shrugged. ‘A momentary infatuation. Thankfully passed. Besides, he’s unpleasant company these days.’
‘I can understand that,’ Cotillion said, somewhat enigmatically. ‘You will have to choose, Lostara Yil, between your loyalty to the Adjunct…and all that Pearl represents.’
‘Between the Adjunct and the Empress? That makes no sense—’
He stayed her with a raised hand. ‘You need not decide immediately, Lostara. In fact, I would counsel against it. All I ask is that you consider the question, for now.’
‘What is going on? What do you know, Cotillion? Are you planning vengeance against Laseen?’
His brows lifted. ‘No, nothing like that. In fact, I am not directly involved in this…uh, matter. At the moment, anyway. Indeed, the truth is, I am but anticipating certain things, some of which may come to pass, some of which may not.’ He faced the portalway again. ‘There is food near the altar. Wait until dawn, then leave here. Down to the road. Where you will find…welcome company. Your story is this: you found a way out of the city, then, blinded by smoke, you stumbled, struck your head and lost consciousness. When you awoke, the Fourteenth was gone. Your memory is patchy, of course.’
‘Yes, it is, Cotillion.’
He turned at her tone, half-smiled. ‘You fear that you are now in my debt, Lostara Yil. And that I will one day return to you, demanding payment.’
‘It’s how gods work, isn’t it?’
‘Some of them, yes. But you see, Lostara Yil, what I did for you in Y’Ghatan four days ago was my repayment, of a debt that I owed you.’
‘What debt?’
Shadows were gathering about Cotillion now, and she barely heard his reply, ‘You forget, I once watched you dance…’ And then he was gone.
Moonlight streamed into his wake like quicksilver. And she sat for a time, bathed in its light, considering his words.
Snoring from the tent. Mogora sat on a flat stone five paces from the dying fire. Had he been awake, Iskaral Pust would be relieved. The moon was back where it belonged, after all. Not that she’d actually moved it. That would have been very hard indeed, and would have attracted far too much attention besides. But she’d drawn away its power, somewhat, briefly, enough to effect the more thorough healing the Trell had required.
Someone stepped from the shadows. Walked a slow circle round the recumbent, motionless form of Mappo Trell, then halted and looked over at Mogora.
She scowled, then jerked a nod towards the tent. ‘Iskaral Pust, he’s the Magi of High House Shadow, isn’t he?’
‘Impressive healing, Mogora,’ Cotillion observed. ‘You do understand, of course, that the gift may in truth be a curse.’
‘You sent Pust here to find him!’
‘Shadowthrone, actually, not me. For that reason, I cannot say if mercy counted for anything in his decision.’
Mogora glanced again at the tent. ‘Magi…that blathering idiot.’
Cotillion was gazing steadily at her, then he said, ‘You’re one of Ardata’s, aren’t you?’
She veered into a mass of spiders.
The god watched as they fled into every crack and, moments later, were gone. He sighed, took one last look round, momentarily meeting the placid eyes of the mule, then vanished in a flowing swirl of shadows.
Chapter Ten
When the day knew only darkness,
the wind a mute beggar stirring ashes and stars
in the discarded pools beneath the old
retaining wall, down where the white rivers
of sand slip grain by grain into the unseen,
and every foundation is but a moment
from a horizon’s stagger, I found myself
among friends and so was made at ease
with my modest list of farewells.
Soldier Dying
Fisher kel Tath
They emerged from the warren into the stench of smoke and ashes, and before them, in the growing light of dawn, reared a destroyed city. The three stood unmoving for a time, silent, each seeking to comprehend this vista.
Stormy was the first to speak. ‘Looks like the Imperial Warren’s spilled out here.’
Ash and dead air, the light seeming listless – Kalam was not surprised by the marine’s observation. They had just left a place of death and desolation, only to find themselves in another. ‘I still recognize it,’ the assassin said. ‘Y’Ghatan.’
Stormy coughed, then spat. ‘Some siege.’
‘The army’s moved on,’ Quick Ben observed, studying the tracks and rubbish where the main encampment had been. ‘West.’
Stormy grunted, then said, ‘Look at that gap in the wall. Moranth munitions, a whole damned wagon of ’em, I’d say.’
A viscous river had flowed out through that gap, and, motionless now, it glittered in the morning light. Fused glass and metals. There had been a firestorm, Kalam realized. Yet another one to afflict poor Y’Ghatan. Had the sappers set that off?
‘Olive oil,’ said Quick Ben suddenly. ‘The oil harvest must have been in the city.’ He paused, then added, ‘Makes me wonder if it was an accident.’
Kalam glanced over at the wizard. ‘Seems a little extreme, Quick. Besides, from what I’ve heard of Leoman, he’s not the kind to throw his own life away.’
‘Assuming he stayed around long enough.’
‘We took losses here,’ Stormy said. ‘There’s a grave mound there, under that ash.’ He pointed. ‘Scary big, unless they included rebel dead.’
‘We make separate holes for them,’ Kalam said, knowing that Stormy knew that as well. None of this looked good, and they were reluctant to admit that. Not out loud. ‘The tracks look a few days old, at least. I suppose we should catch up with the Fourteenth.’
‘Let’s circle this first,’ Quick Ben said, squinting at the ruined city. ‘There’s something…some residue…I don’t know. Only…’
‘Sound argument from the High Mage,’ Stormy said. ‘I’m convinced.’
Kalam glanced over at the mass burial mound, and wondered how many of his friends were lying trapped in that earth, unmoving in the eternal dark, the maggots and worms already at work to take away all that had made each of them unique. It wasn’t something he enjoyed thinking about, but if he did not stand here and gift them a few more moments of thought, then who would?
Charred rubbish lay strewn on the road and in the flats to either side. Tent stakes still in place gripped burnt fragments of canvas, and in a trench beyond the road’s bend as it made its way towards what used to be the city’s gate, a dozen bloated horse carcasses had been dumped, legs upthrust like bony tree-stumps in a flyblown swamp. The stench of burnt things hung in the motionless air.
Apsalar reined in on the road as her slow scan of the devastation before her caught movement a hundred paces ahead and to her left. She settled back in the saddle, seeing familiarity in the gaits and
demeanours of two of the three figures now walking towards what remained of Y’Ghatan. Telorast and Curdle scampered back to flank her horse.
‘Terrible news, Not-Apsalar!’ Telorast cried. ‘Three terrible men await us, should we continue this course. If you seek to destroy them, well then, that is fine. We wish you well. Otherwise, I suggest we escape. Now.’
‘I agree,’ Curdle added, small skeletal head bobbing as the creature paced, grovelled, then paced again, tail spiking the air.
Her horse lifted a front hoof and the demonic skeletons scattered, having learned that near proximity to the beast was a treacherous thing.
‘I know two of them,’ Apsalar said. ‘Besides, they have seen us.’ She nudged her mount forward, walking it slowly towards the mage, his assassin companion, and the Malazan soldier, all of whom had now shifted direction and approached with a measured pace.
‘They will annihilate us!’ Telorast hissed. ‘I can tell – oh, that mage, he’s not nice, not at all—’
The two small creatures raced for cover.
Annihilation. The possibility existed, Apsalar allowed, given the history she shared with Quick Ben and Kalam Mekhar. Then again, they had known of the possession, and she had since travelled with Kalam for months, first across the Seeker’s Deep, from Darujhistan all the way to Ehrlitan, during which nothing untoward had occurred. This eased her mind somewhat as she waited for them to arrive.
Kalam was the first to speak. ‘Few things in the world make sense, Apsalar.’
She shrugged. ‘We have each had our journeys, Kalam Mekhar. I, for one, am not particularly surprised to find our paths converging once more.’
‘Now that,’ said Quick Ben, ‘is an alarming statement. Unless you’re here to satisfy Shadowthrone’s desire for vengeance, there is no possible reason at all that our paths should converge. Not here. Not now. I certainly haven’t been pushed and pulled by any conniving god—’
‘You have the aura of Hood about you, Quick Ben,’ Apsalar said, an observation that clearly startled Kalam and the soldier. ‘Such residue comes only from long conversations with the Lord of Death, and so, while you might claim freedom for yourself, perhaps your motives for what you do and where you choose to go are less purely your own than you would have others believe. Or, for that matter, than what you yourself would like to believe.’ Her gaze slid across to Kalam. ‘Whilst the assassin has known the presence of Cotillion, only a short while ago. And as for this Falari soldier here, his spirit is bound to a T’lan Imass, and to the Fire of Life that passes for worship among the T’lan Imass. Thus, fire, shadow and death, drawn together even as the forces and gods of such forces find alignment against a single foe. Yet, I feel I should warn you all – that foe is no longer singular and, perhaps, never was. And present alliances may not last.’
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