‘Those who hate need little cause, Seerdomin.’
The man nodded – Spinnock caught the motion peripherally.
There was a silence. The tale had been told, Spinnock recalled, more than once. How the Bridgeburner named Whiskeyjack – a man Anomander Rake called friend – had intervened in the slaughter of the Pannion witches, the mad mothers of Children of the Dead Seed. Whiskeyjack, a human, had sought to grant the Son of Darkness a gift, taking away the burden of the act. A gesture that had shaken his Lord to the core. It is not in our nature to permit others to share our burden.
Yet we will, unhesitatingly, take on theirs.
‘I wonder if we blazed his trail.’
‘What?’
Spinnock rubbed at his face, feeling slightly drunk. ‘Itkovian’s.’
‘Of course you didn’t. The Grey Swords—’
‘Possessed a Shield Anvil, yes, but they were not unique in that. It’s an ancient title. Are we the dark mirror to such people?’ Then he shook his head. ‘Probably not. That would be a grand conceit.’
‘I agree,’ Seerdomin said in a slurred growl.
‘I love her.’
‘So you claimed. And presumably she will not have you.’
‘Very true.’
‘So here you sit, getting drunk.’
‘Yes.’
‘Once I myself am drunk enough, Spinnock Durav, I will do what’s needed.’
‘What’s needed?’
‘Why, I will go and tell her she’s a damned fool.’
‘You’d fail.’
‘I would?’
Spinnock nodded. ‘She’s faced you down before. Unflinchingly.’
Another stretch of silence. That stretched on, and on.
He was drunk enough now to finally shift his gaze, to fix his attention on Seerdomin’s face.
It was a death mask, white as dust. ‘Where is she?’ the man asked in a raw, strained voice.
‘On her way back out to the barrow, I should think. Seerdomin, I am sorry. I did not lie when I said I was a fool—’
‘You were,’ and he rose, weaving slightly before steadying himself with both hands on the back of his chair. ‘But not in the way you think.’
‘She didn’t want my help,’ Spinnock Durav said.
‘And I would not give her mine.’
‘Your choice—’
‘You should not have listened, my friend. To her. You should not have listened to her!’
Spinnock stood as Seerdomin spun round and marched for the door. He was suddenly without words, numbed, stunned into confusion. What have I done?
What have I not done?
But his friend was gone.
In her irritation, Samar Dev discovered traits in herself that did not please. There was no reason to resent the manner in which her two companions found so much pleasure in each other’s company. The way they spoke freely, unconstrained by decorum, unaffected even by the fact that they barely knew one another, and the way the subjects flowed in any and every direction, flung on whims of mood, swirling round heady topics like eddies round jagged rocks. Most infuriating of all, they struck on moments of laughter, and she well knew – damn the gods, she was certain – that neither man possessed such ease of humour, that they were so far removed from that characterization that she could only look on in stunned disbelief.
They spoke of their respective tribes, traded tales of sexual conquests. They spoke of weapons and neither hesitated in handing over his sword for the other to examine and, indeed, try a few experimental swings and passes with. Traveller told of a friend of old named Ereko, a Tartheno of such pure, ancient blood that he would have towered over Karsa Orlong had the two been standing side by side. And in that story Samar Dev sensed deep sorrow, wounds of such severity that it was soon apparent that Traveller himself could not venture too close, and so his tale of Ereko reached no conclusion. And Karsa Orlong did not press, revealing his clear understanding that a soul could bleed from unseen places and often all that kept a mortal going depended on avoiding such places.
He reciprocated in his speaking of the two companions who had accompanied him on an ill-fated raid into the settled lands of humans, Bairoth Gild and Delum Thord. Whose souls, Karsa blithely explained, now dwelt within the stone of his sword.
Traveller simply grunted at that detail, and then said, ‘That is a worthy place.’
By the second day of this, Samar Dev was ready to scream. Tear her hair from her head, spit blood and curses and teeth and maybe her entire stomach by the time she was done. And so she held her silence, and held on to her fury, like a rabid beast chained to the ground. It was absurd. Pathetic and ridiculous, this crass envy she was feeling. Besides, had she not learned more about both men since their fateful meeting than she had ever known before? Like a tickbird flitting between two bull bhederin, her attention was drawn to first one, then the other. While the peace lasted it would do to say nothing, to make no commotion no matter how infuriated she happened to be.
They rode on, across the vast plain, along a worn caravan track angling into the Cinnamon Wastes. Those few merchant trains they met or overtook were singularly taciturn, the guards edgy, the traders unwelcoming. Just before dusk last night, four horsemen had passed close by their camp, and, after a long look, had ridden on without a word ventured.
Karsa had sneered and said, ‘See that, Samar Dev? As my grandfather used to say, “The wolf does not smell the bear’s anus.”’
‘Your grandfather,’ Traveller had replied, ‘was an observant man.’
‘Mostly he was a fool, but even fools could spout tribal wisdom.’ And he turned to Samar Dev again. ‘You are safe, witch.’
‘From other people, yes,’ she had growled in reply.
And the bastard had laughed.
The Cinnamon Wastes were well named. One species of deep-rooted grass quickly predominated, rust-red and hip-high, with serrated edges and thorny seed-pods on thin wavering stalks. Small red-banded lizards swarmed these grasses, tails whipping and rustling as they scattered from their path. The land levelled until not a single rise or hill was in sight.
Amidst this monotony, Traveller and Karsa Orlong seemed intent on wearing out their vocal cords.
‘Few recall,’ Traveller was saying, ‘the chaos of the Malazan Empire in those early days. The madness only began with Kellanved, the Emperor. His first cadre of lieutenants were all Napan, each one secretly sworn to a young woman named Surly, who was heiress to the crown of the Nap Isles – in hiding ever since the Untan conquest.’ He paused. ‘Or so goes the tale. Was it true? Was Surly truly the last of the Napan royal line? Who can say, but it came in handy when she changed her name to Laseen and attained the throne of the Empire. In any case, those lieutenants were crocked, every one of them. Urko, Crust, Nok, all of them. Quick to fanaticism, willing to do anything and everything to advance the Empire.’
‘The Empire, or Surly?’ asked Karsa Orlong. ‘Does it not seem just as likely that they were simply using Kellanved?’
‘A fair suspicion, except that only Nok remained once Laseen became Empress. The others each…drowned.’
‘Drowned?’
‘Officially. That cause of death quickly became euphemistic. Put it this way. They disappeared.’
‘There was someone else,’ Samar Dev said.
‘Dancer—’
‘Not him, Traveller. There was the First Sword. There was Dassem Ultor, commander of all the Emperor’s armies. He was not Napan. He was Dal Honese.’
Traveller glanced across at her. ‘He fell in Seven Cities, shortly before Laseen took power.’
‘Surly had him assassinated,’ said Samar Dev.
Karsa Orlong grunted. ‘Eliminating potential rivals – she needed to clear the path. That, witch, is neither savage nor civilized. You will see such things in dirt-nosed tribes and in empires both. This truth belongs to power.’
‘I would not dispute your words, Toblakai. Do you want to know what happened after
you killed Emperor Rhulad?’
‘The Tiste Edur quit the Empire.’
‘How – how did you know that?’
He bared his teeth. ‘I guessed, witch.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes. They did not want to be there.’
Traveller said, ‘I expect the Tiste Edur discovered rather quickly the curse of occupation. It acts like a newly opened wound, infecting and poisoning both the oppressors and the oppressed. Both cultures become malformed, bitter with extremes. Hatred, fear, greed, betrayal, paranoia, and appalling indifference to suffering.’
‘Yet the Malazans occupied Seven Cities—’
‘No, Samar Dev. The Malazans conquered Seven Cities. That is different. Kellanved understood that much. If one must grip hard in enemy territory, then that grip must be hidden – at the very cusp of local power. And so no more than a handful is being strictly controlled – everyone else, merchants and herders and farmers and tradefolk – everyone – is to be shown better circumstances, as quickly as possible. “Conquer as a rogue wave, rule in quiet ripples.” The Emperor’s own words.’
‘This is what the Claw did, isn’t it? Infiltrate and paralyse the rulers—’
‘The less blood spilled, the better.’
Karsa Orlong barked a laugh. ‘That depends,’ he said. ‘There are other kinds of conquest.’
‘Such as?’
‘Traveller, my friend, you speak of conquest as a means of increasing one’s power – the more subjects and the more cities under your control is the measure of that power. But what of the power of destruction?’
Samar Dev found she was holding her breath, and she watched Traveller considering Karsa’s words, before he said, ‘There is nothing then to be gained.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Karsa, pausing to stretch his back. Havok’s head tossed, a chopping motion like an axe blade. ‘I have looked upon the face of civilization, and I am not impressed.’
‘There is no flaw in being critical.’
‘He’s not just being critical,’ said Samar Dev. ‘He intends to destroy it. Civilization, I mean. The whole thing, from sea to sea. When Karsa Orlong is done, not a single city in the world will remain standing, isn’t that right, Toblakai?’
‘I see no value in modest ambitions, witch.’
Traveller was quiet then, and the silence was like an expanding void, until even the moan of the incessant wind seemed distant and hollow.
Gods, how often have I wished him well? Even as the thought horrifies me – he would kill millions. He would crush every symbol of progress. From ploughs back to sticks. From bricks to caves. From iron to stone. Crush us all back into the ground, the mud of waterholes. And the beasts will hunt us, and those of us who remain, why, we will hunt each other.
Traveller finally spoke. ‘I dislike cities,’ he said.
‘Barbarians both,’ she muttered under her breath.
Neither man responded. Perhaps they hadn’t heard. She shot each of them a quick glance, right and then left, and saw that both were smiling.
Riding onward, the day rustling in waves of red grass.
Until Traveller once again began speaking. ‘The first law of the multitude is conformity. Civilization is the mechanism of controlling and maintaining that multitude. The more civilized a nation, the more conformed its population, until that civilization’s last age arrives, when multiplicity wages war with conformity. The former grows ever wilder, ever more dysfunctional in its extremities; whilst the latter seeks to increase its measure of control, until such efforts acquire diabolical tyranny.’
‘More of Kellanved?’ Samar Dev asked.
Traveller snorted. ‘Hardly. That was Duiker, the Imperial Historian.’
Through the course of the night just past, Nimander Golit had led his meagre troupe through the city of Bastion. Children of Darkness, with Aranatha’s quiet power embracing them, they had moved in silence, undetected as far as they could tell, for no alarms were raised. The city was a thing seemingly dead, like a closed flower.
At dusk, shortly before they set out, they had heard clattering commotion out on the main avenue, and went to the gates to watch the arrival into the city of scores of enormous wagons. Burdened with trade goods, the carters slack-faced, exhausted, with haunted eyes above brown-stained mouths. Bales of raw foodstuffs, casks of figs and oils, eels packed in salt, smoked bhederin, spiced mutton, and countless other supplies that had been eagerly pressed upon them in exchange for the barrels of kelyk.
There was cruel irony to be found in the sordid disinterest the locals displayed before such essential subsistence – most were past the desire for food. Most were starving in an ecstatic welter of saemankelyk, the black ink of a god’s pain.
The Tiste Andii wore their armour. They wore their gear for fighting, for killing. Nimander did not need a glance back to know the transformation and what it did to the expressions on all but one of the faces of those trailing behind him. Skintick, whose smile had vanished, yet his eyes glittered bright, as if fevered. Kedeviss, ever rational, now wore a mask of madness, beauty twisted into something terrible. Nenanda, for all his postures of ferocity, was now ashen, colourless, as if the truth of desire soured him with poison. Desra, flushed with something like excitement. Only Aranatha was unchanged. Placid, glassy-eyed with concentration, her features somehow softer, blurred.
Skintick and Kedeviss carried Clip between them. Nenanda held over one shoulder the man’s weapons, his bow and quiver, his sword and knife belt – all borne on a single leather strap that could be loosed in a moment should the need arise.
They had slipped past buildings in which worshippers danced, starved limbs waving about, distended bellies swaying – doors had been left open, shutters swung back to the night. Voices moaned in disjointed chorus. Even those faces that by chance turned towards the Tiste Andii as they moved ghostly past did not awaken with recognition, the eyes remaining dull, empty, unseeing.
The air was warm, smelling of rancid salt from the dying lake mixed with the heavier stench of putrefying corpses.
They reached the edge of the central square, looked out across its empty expanse. The altar itself was dark, seemingly lifeless.
Nimander crouched down, uncertain. There must be watchers. It would be madness to think otherwise. Could they reach the altar before some hidden mob rushed forth to accost them? It did not seem likely. They had not seen Kallor since his march to the altar the previous day. Nenanda believed the old man was dead. He believed they would find his body, cold and pale, lying on the tiled floor somewhere within the building. For some reason, Nimander did not think that likely.
Skintick whispered behind him, ‘Well? It’s nearing dawn, Nimander.’
What awaited them? There was only one way to find out. ‘Let’s go.’
All at once, with their first strides out into the concourse, the air seemed to swirl, thick and heavy. Nimander found he had to push against it, a tightness forming in his throat and then his chest.
‘They’re burning the shit,’ Skintick hissed. ‘Can you smell it? The kelyk—’
‘Quiet.’
Fifteen, twenty paces now. Silence all around. Nimander set his eyes on the entrance to the altar, the steps glistening with dew or something far worse. The black glyphs seemed to throb in his eyes, as if the entire structure was breathing. He could feel something dark and unpleasant in his veins, like bubbles in his blood, or seeds, eager to burst into life. He felt moments from losing control.
Behind him, hard gasping breaths – they were all feeling this, they were all—
‘Behind us,’ grunted Nenanda.
And to the sides, crowds closing in from every street and alley mouth, slowly, dark shapes pushing into the square. They look like the scarecrows, cut loose from their stakes – Mother’s blessing—
Forty strides, reaching the centre of the concourse. Every avenue closed to them now, barring that to the building itself.
‘We’re being herded,’ sa
id Kedeviss, her voice tight. ‘They want us inside.’
Nimander glanced back, down upon the limp form of Clip, the man’s head hanging and hair trailing on the ground. Clip’s eyes were half open. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘Barely,’ said Kedeviss.
Hundreds of figures drew yet closer, blackened eyes gleaming, mouths hanging open. Knives, hatchets, pitchforks and hammers dangled down from their hands. The only sound that came from them was the shuffle of their bare feet.
Twenty paces now from the steps. To the right and left, and in their wake, the worshippers in the front lines began lifting their weapons, then those behind them followed suit.
‘Skintick,’ said Nimander, ‘take Clip by yourself. Aranatha, his weapons. Desra, ward your sister. Kedeviss, Nenanda, prepare to rearguard – once we’re inside, hold them at the entrance.’
Two against a thousand or more. Fanatics, fearless and senseless – gods, we are unleashed.
He heard a pair of swords rasp free of scabbards. The sound sliced through the air, and it was as if the cold iron touched his brow, startling him awake.
The crowd was close now, a bestial growl rising.
Nimander reached the first step. ‘Now!’
They rushed upward. Skintick was immediately behind Nimander, Clip on his hunched back as he gripped one wrist and one thigh. Then Aranatha, flowing up the steps like an apparition, Desra in her wake. Nenanda and Kedeviss, facing the opposite way with swords held ready, backed up more slowly.
The front ranks of worshippers moaned and then surged forward.
Iron rang, clashed, thudded into flesh and bone. Nimander plunged through the entranceway. There was no light – every torch in its sconce had been capped – yet his eyes could penetrate the gloom, in time to see a score of priests rushing for him.
Shouting a warning, Nimander unsheathed his sword—
The fools were human. In this darkness they were half blind. He slashed out, saw a head roll off shoulders, the body crumpling. A back swing intercepted an arm thrusting a dagger at his chest. The sword’s edge sliced through wrist bones and the severed hand, still gripping the weapon, thumped against his chest before falling away. Angling the sword point back across his torso, Nimander stabbed the one-handed priest in the throat.
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