The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  The gale lifted loose suddenly, slammed a fist into the port side of the craft. A mast splintered, the sail billowing round, sheets snapping, and like a huge wing the sail tore itself loose, carrying the mast with it. Rigging snatched up hapless figures from the deck and flung them skyward. A second mast toppled, this one heavy enough to tug its sail downward. Yet more tinny screams reaching through the howl.

  The ferry seemed to slump, as if moments from plunging into the deep. Yan Tovis found herself gripping the lines as if they could pull her loose, into the sky – as if they could take her from all of this. The Queen commands. Her people die.

  At least I will join—

  A shout from Yedan Derryg, who had gone forward into the chaos of the deck, a shout that reached her.

  And now she saw. Two enormous ships had come upon them from astern, one to each side, heaving like hunting behemoths, their sails alone dwarfing the ferry pitching in their midst. The one to port stole the gale’s fierce breath and all at once the ferry righted itself amidst choppy waves.

  Yan Tovis stared across, saw figures scrambling about side-mounted ballistae, saw others moving to the rail beneath huge coils of rope.

  Pirates? Now?

  The crew of the ship to starboard, she saw with growing alarm, was doing much the same.

  Yet it was the ships that most frightened her. For she recognized them.

  Perish. What were they called? Yes, Thrones of War. She well remembered that battle, the lash of sorceries ripping the crests of waves, the detonations as Edur galleys disintegrated before her very eyes. The cries of drowning warriors—

  Ballistae loosed their robust quarrels, yet the missiles arced high, clearing the deck by two or more man-heights. And from them snaked out ropes. The launching had been virtually simultaneous from both ships. She saw those quarrels rip through the flimsy sails, slice past rigging, then the heavy-headed missiles dipped down to the seas in between.

  She saw as the ropes were hauled taut. She felt the crunching bite of the quarrels as they lifted back clear of the water and anchored barbs deep into the gunnels of the ferry.

  And, as the wind pushed them all onward now, the Thrones of War drew closer.

  Massive fends of bundled seaweed swung down to cushion the contact of the hulls.

  Sailors from the Perish ships scrambled along the lines, many of them standing upright as they did so – impossibly balanced despite the pitching seas – and dropped down onto the ferry deck with ropes and an assortment of tools.

  The ropes were cleated to stanchions and pills on the ferry.

  An armoured Perish emerged from the mass of humanity on the main deck and climbed her way to where stood Yan Tovis.

  In the language of the trader’s tongue, the woman said, ‘Your craft is sinking, Captain. We must evacuate your passengers.’

  Numbed, Yan Tovis nodded.

  ‘We are sailing,’ said the Perish, ‘for Second Maiden Isle.’

  ‘As were we,’ Yan Tovis responded.

  A sudden smile, as welcome to Yan Tovis’s eyes as dawn after a long night. ‘Then we are most well met.’

  Well met, yes. And well answered. Second Maiden Fort. The silent Isle has been conquered. Not just the Malazans then. The Perish. Oh, look what we have awakened.

  He’d had months to think things over, and in the end very little of what had happened back in the Malazan Empire surprised Banaschar, once Demidrek of the Worm of Autumn. Perhaps, if seen from the outside, from some borderland where real power was as ephemeral, as elusive, as a cloud on the face of the moon, there would be a sense of astonishment and, indeed, disbelief. That the mortal woman commanding the most powerful empire in the world could find herself so…helpless. So bound to the ambitions and lusts of the faceless players behind the tapestries. Folk blissfully unaware of the machinations of politics might well believe that someone like Empress Laseen was omnipotent, that she could do entirely as she pleased. And that a High Mage, such as Tayschrenn, was likewise free, unconstrained in his ambitions.

  For people with such simplistic world views, Banaschar knew, catastrophes were disconnected things, isolated in and of themselves. There was no sense of cause and effect beyond the immediate, beyond the directly observable. A cliff collapses onto a village, killing hundreds. The effect: death. The cause: the cliff’s collapse. Of course, if one were to then speak of cutting down every tree within sight, including those above that cliff, as the true cause of the disaster – a cause that, in its essence, lay at the feet ofthe very victims, then fierce denial was the response; or, even more pathetic, blank confusion. And if one were to then elaborate on the economic pressures that demanded such rapacious deforestation, ranging from the need for firewood among the locals and the desire to clear land for pasture to increase herds all the way to the hunger for wood to meet the shipbuilding needs of a port city leagues distant, in order to go to war with a neighbouring kingdom over contested fishing areas – contested because the shoals were vanishing, leading to the threat of starvation in both kingdoms, which in turn might destabilize the ruling families, thus raising the spectre of civil war…well, then, the entire notion of cause and effect, suddenly revealing its true level of complexity, simply overwhelmed.

  Rebellion in Seven Cities, followed by terrible plague, and suddenly the heart of the Malazan Empire – Quon Tali – was faced with a shortage of grain. But no, Banaschar knew, one could go yet further back. Why did the rebellion occur at all? Never mind the convenient prophecies of apocalypse. The crisis was born in the aftermath of Laseen’s coup, when virtually all of Kellanved’s commanders vanished – drowned, as the grisly joke went. She sat herself down on the throne, only to find her most able governors and military leaders gone. And into the vacuum of their departure came far less capable and far less reliable people. She should not have been surprised at their avarice and corruption – for the chapter she had begun in the history of the empire had been announced with betrayal and blood. Cast bitter seeds yield bitter fruit, as the saying went.

  Corruption and incompetence. These were rebellion’s sparks. Born in the imperial palace in Unta, only to return with a vengeance.

  Laseen had used the Claw to achieve her coup. In her arrogance she clearly imagined no-one could do the same; could infiltrate her deadly cadre of assassins. Yet, Banaschar now believed, that is what had happened. And so the most powerful mortal woman in the world had suddenly found herself emasculated, indeed trapped by a host of exigencies, unbearable pressures, inescapable demands. And her most deadly weapon of internal control had been irrevocably compromised.

  There had been no civil war – the Adjunct had seen to that – yet the enfilade at Malaz City might well have driven the final spike into the labouring heart of Laseen’s rule. The Claw had been decimated, perhaps so much so that no-one could use it for years to come.

  The Claw had declared war on the wrong people. And so, at long last, Cotillion – who had once been Dancer – had his revenge on the organization that had destroyed his own Talon and then lifted Laseen onto the throne. For, that night in Malaz City, there had been a Shadow Dance.

  Causes and effects, they were like the gossamer strands spanning the towers of Kartool City, a deadly web, a skein tethered to a thousand places. And to imagine that things were simple was to be naive, often fatally so.

  A crime that he himself had been guilty of, Banaschar now understood. D’rek’s rage against her worshippers had not been an isolated, internal event. It belonged to a vast war, and in war people died. Perhaps, unlike Banaschar, Tayschrenn had not been greatly affected by the tragedy. Perhaps, indeed, the Imperial High Mage had known all along.

  Such unpleasant thoughts were in the habit of wandering into his mind when the sun had long fled the sky, when he should have been asleep – plummeted into the drunken stupor of oblivion here in the decrepit room he had rented opposite the Harridict Tavern on this damned island. Instead he stood by the window, wide awake, listening to the cold wind creak its way thr
ough the shutters. And even if it had been a warm night, he doubted he would have opened those shutters. Better to see nothing but those weathered slats; better to be reminded that there was no way out.

  The Worm of Autumn stirred in his gut; an immortal parasite and he its mortal host. The goddess was within him once more, after all these years. Again, no surprise. After all, I’m the only one left. Yet D’rek remained as no more than a presence, a faint taste on his tongue. There had been no battle of wills; but he knew it would come. The goddess needed him and sooner or later she would reach out and close a cold fist about his soul.

  This was no way to be called by one’s god.

  He heard skittering noises behind him and slowly closed his eyes.

  ‘Smells. Smells, smells, smells.’

  The words were a whining whisper in Banaschar’s head.

  ‘That’s the problem, Telorast. With this island. With this entire continent! Oh, why did we come here? We should have stolen the bodies of two gulls, never mind these rotting stick-things with empty bellies we can’t never fill! How many rats have we killed, Telorast? Answer me!’

  ‘So we couldn’t eat them,’ muttered Telorast. ‘Killing them was fun, wasn’t it? Cleanest ships in the world. Enough of your complaining, Curdle. Can’t you feel how close we are?’

  ‘She’s walked here!’ Now there was terror in Curdle’s voice. ‘What are we doing in this place?’

  Banaschar turned. The two knee-high skeletal reptiles were pacing back and forth the length of the cot, clambering awkwardly amidst the dishevelled folds of bedding. ‘A good question,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? In my room? And who is “she”?’

  Curdle’s head bobbed, jaws clacking. ‘Not-Not-Apsalar drove us away. But we need to tell someone!’

  ‘Anyone!’ chimed Telorast. ‘Even you!’

  ‘Her name is Lostara Yil,’ Banaschar said. ‘Not Not-Not-Apsalar – gods, did I just say that?’

  ‘“She”,’ Curdle said, tail whipping, ‘is the one who walked here. Long ago. More long ago than you could even think of, that long ago. Telorast is mad. She’s excited, but how can anyone be excited when we’re so close to her? Madness!’

  ‘Just because she walked here,’ Telorast said, ‘doesn’t mean she’s still hanging around. Got no big skulls to push her fist through, not for a long time, right? And look at us, Curdle. We could dance in the palm of her hand. Either one. Or both, one for me and one for you – and she wouldn’t be able to tell anything about us, not anything.’ The creature swung to face Banaschar again. ‘So there’s no reason to panic, and that’s what you need to tell Curdle, Wormfood. So, go on, tell her.’

  Banaschar slowly blinked, then said, ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Curdle. Now, will you two leave? I have more brooding to do and half the night’s gone.’

  Telorast’s razor-beaked head swung to Curdle. ‘See? Everything’s fine. We’re close because we have to be. Because it’s where Edgewalker wants—’

  ‘Quiet!’ Curdle hissed.

  Telorast ducked. ‘Oh. We have to kill him now, don’t we?’

  ‘No, that would be messy. We just have to hope for a terrible accident. Quick, Telorast, think of a terrible accident!’

  ‘I’ve never heard of Edgewalker,’ Banaschar said. ‘Relax and go away and forget thinking about killing me. Unless you want to awaken D’rek, that is. The goddess might well know who this Edgewalker is, and from that might be able to glean something of your deadly secret mission, and from that she might decide it would be better if you two were crushed into dust.’

  Curdle leapt down from the cot, crept closer to Banaschar, then began to grovel. ‘We didn’t mean anything by any of that. We never mean anything, do we, Telorast? We’re most useless and tiny besides.’

  ‘We can smell the Worm all right,’ Telorast said, head bobbing. ‘On you. In you. Just one more dread smell hereabouts. We don’t like it at all. Let’s go, Curdle. He’s not the one we should be talking to. Not as dangerous as Not-Apsalar, but just as scary. Open those shutters, Wormfood; we’ll go out that way.’

  ‘Easy for you,’ Banaschar muttered, turning back to pull the slatted barriers aside. The wind gusted in like Hood’s own breath, and the reborn priest shivered.

  In a flash the two reptiles were perched on the sill.

  ‘Look, Telorast, pigeon poo.’

  Then the two creatures leapt from sight. After a moment, Banaschar closed the shutters once more. Making right his vision of the world. His world, at least.

  ‘Shillydan the dark-eyed man

  Pokes his head up for a look round

  Hillyman the black-clawed man

  Came up the well for a look round

  “Well and and!” says the twelve-toed man

  And round down the hill he bound

  Still-me-hand the dead-smile man

  Went bounding bound down he did bound

  Shillydan the red-water man

  Croaks and kisses the lass’s brow

  Hillyman the blue-cocked man—’

  ‘For Hood’s sake, Crump, stop that damned singing!’

  The gangly sapper straightened, stared with mouth agape, then ducked down once more and resumed digging the pit. Under his breath he began humming his mad, endless swamp song.

  Corporal Shard watched the dirt flying out, caught by the whipping wind in wild swirls, for a moment longer. Twenty paces beyond the deep hole and Crump’s flashing shovel squatted the low-walled stone enclosure where the squad had stashed their gear, and where now crouched Sergeant Cord, Masan Gilani, Limp and Ebron, taking shelter from the blustery wind. In a short while, Cord would call everyone to their feet, and the patrol of this part of the coast would begin.

  In the meantime, Crump was digging a pit. A deep pit, just like the sergeant ordered. Just like the sergeant had been ordering every day for nearly a week now.

  Shard rubbed at his numbed face, sick with worry over his sister. The Sinn he knew was gone and no sign of her remained. She’d found her power, creating something avid, almost lurid, in her dark eyes. He was frightened of her and he was not alone in that. Limp’s bad knees knocked together whenever she came too close, and Ebron made what he thought were subtle, unseen gestures of warding behind her back. Masan Gilani seemed unaffected – that at least was something, maybe a woman thing at that, since Faradan Sort had been pretty much the same.

  That simple? Terrifying to men but not women? But why would that be the case?

  He had no answer for that.

  Crump’s humming was getting louder, drawing Shard’s attention once again. Loud enough to very nearly overwhelm the distant groans of dying ice from the other side of the strait. Worth yelling at the fool again? Maybe not.

  Dirt flying out, skirling skyward then racing out on the wave of the gelid wind.

  There were holes dotted along half a league of this island’s north coast. Crump was proud of his achievement, and would go on being proud, probably for ever. Finest holes ever dug. Ten, fifty, a hundred, however many the sergeant wanted, yes sir.

  Shard believed that Cord’s fervent hope that one such pit would collapse, burying the damned idiot once and for all, was little more than wishful thinking.

  After all, Crump digs great holes.

  He heard a piping shriek from some way behind him and turned. And there she was. Sinn, the girl he used to throw onto a shoulder like a sack of tubers – a giggling sack – and rush with through room after room as her laughter turned to squeals and her legs started kicking. Straggly black hair whipping about, a bone flute in her hands, its music flung out into the bitter tumult like inky strands, as she cavorted in the face of the weather as if spider-bitten.

  Sinn, the child witch. The High Mage with a thirst for blood.

  Child of the rebellion. Stolen from the life she should have lived, fashioned by horror into something new. Child of Seven Cities, of the Apocalyptic, oh yes. Dryjhna’s blessed spawn.

  He wondered how many such creatures wer
e out there, stumbling through the ruins like starved dogs. Uprising, grand failure, then plague: how many scars could a young soul carry? Before it twisted into something unrecognizable, something barely human?

  Did Sinn find salvation in sorcery? Shard held no faith that such salvation was in truth benign. A weapon for her will, and how far could a mortal go with such a weapon in their hands? How vast the weight of their will, unbound and unleashed?

  They were right to fear. So very right.

  A gruff command from Sergeant Cord and it was time to begin the patrol. A league’s worth of blasted, wind-torn coastline. Crump climbed out of the pit and dusted his palms, his face shining as he looked down on his handiwork.

  ‘Isn’t she fine, Corporal? A hole dug by a High Marshal of Mott Wood, and we know how to dig ’em, don’t we just. Why, I think it might be the best one yet! Especially with all the baby skulls on the bottom, like cobbles they are, though they break too easy – need to step light! Step light!’

  Suddenly chilled in a place far deeper than any wind could reach, Shard walked to the edge of the pit and looked down. Moments later the rest of the squad joined him.

  In the gloom almost a man’s height down, the glimmer of rounded shapes. Like cobbles they are.

  And they were stirring.

  A hiss from Ebron and he glared across at Sinn, whose music and dancing had reached a frenzied pitch. ‘Gods below! Sergeant—’

  ‘Grab that shovel again,’ Cord growled to Crump. ‘Fill it in, you fool! Fill it in! Fill them all in!’

  Crump blinked, then collected up his shovel and began pushing the dry soil back into the hole. ‘Best hole-fillers t’be found anywhere! You’ll see, Sergeant! Why, you won’t never see holes filled so good as them’s done by a High Marshal of Mott Wood!’

  ‘Hurry up, you damned fool!’

  ‘Yes sir, hurry up. Crump can do that!’

  After a moment, the sapper began singing.