The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

‘Should I be relieved that you have retracted your compliment?’

  ‘Now you play with me.’

  ‘I do. Chancellor, please, what is all this about?’

  ‘I think it best you think of me in a different capacity, Acquitor. Rather than “chancellor”, may I suggest “Ceda”.’

  Her eyes slowly widened. ‘Ah. Very well. Tehol Beddict had quite the manservant, it seems.’

  ‘I am here,’ said Bugg, eyes dropping momentarily to the swell of her belly, ‘to provide a measure of . . . protection.’

  She felt a faint twist of fear inside. ‘For me, or my baby? Protection from what?’

  He leaned forward, hands entwined. ‘Seren Pedac, your child’s father was Trull Sengar. A Tiste Edur and brother to Emperor Rhulad. He was, however, somewhat more than that.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he was my love.’

  His gaze shied away and he nodded. ‘There is a version of the Tiles, consisting of Houses, a kind of formal structure imposed on various forces at work in the universe. It is called the Deck of Dragons. Within this Deck, the House of Shadow is ruled, for the moment, not by the Tiste Edur who founded that realm, but by new entities. In the House, there is a King, no Queen as yet, and below the King of High House Shadow there are sundry, uh, servants. Such roles find new faces every now and then. Mortal faces.’

  She watched him, her mouth dry as sun-baked stone. She watched as he wrung his hands, as his eyes shifted away again and again. ‘Mortal faces,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Acquitor.’

  ‘Trull Sengar.’

  ‘The Knight of Shadow.’

  ‘Cruelly abandoned, it would seem.’

  ‘Not by choice, nor neglect, Acquitor. These Houses, they are engaged in war, and this war escalates—’

  ‘Trull did not choose that title, did he?’

  ‘No. Choice plays little part in such things. Perhaps even the Lords and Ladies of the Houses are in truth less omnipotent than they would like to believe. The same, of course, can be said for the gods and goddesses. Control is an illusion, a deceptive one that salves thin-skinned bluster.’

  ‘Trull is dead,’ Seren said.

  ‘But the Knight of Shadow lives on,’ Bugg replied.

  The dread had been building within her, an icy tide rising to flood every space within her, between her thoughts, drowning them one by one, and now cold fear engulfed her. ‘Our child,’ she whispered.

  Bugg’s eyes hardened. ‘The Errant invited the murder of Trull Sengar. Tonight, Acquitor, the Deck of Dragons will be awakened, in this very city. This awakening is in truth a challenge to the Errant, an invitation to battle. Is he ready? Is he of sufficient strength to counter-attack? Will this night end awash in mortal blood? I cannot say. One thing I mean to prevent, Seren Pedac, is the Errant striking his enemies through the child you carry.’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ she whispered.

  His brows rose. ‘Acquitor?’

  ‘I said it’s not good enough! Who is this King of High House Shadow? How dare he claim my child! Summon him, Ceda! Here! Now!’

  ‘Summon? Acquitor, even if I could, that would be . . . please, you must understand. To summon a god—even if naught but a fragment of its spirit—will be to set afire the brightest beacon—one that will be seen by not just the Errant, but other forces as well. On this night, Acquitor, we must do nothing to draw attention to ourselves.’

  ‘It is you who needs to understand, Ceda. If the Errant wants to harm my child . . . you may well be a Ceda, but the Errant is a god. Who has already murdered the man I loved—a Knight of Shadow. You may not be enough. My child is to be the new Knight of Shadow? Then the High King of Shadow will come here—tonight—and he will protect his Knight!’

  ‘Acquitor—’

  ‘Summon him!’

  ‘Seren—I am enough. Against the Errant. Against any damned fool who dares to come close, I am enough.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  She stared at him, unable to disguise her disbelief, her terror.

  ‘Acquitor, there are other forces in the city. Ancient, benign ones, yet powerful nonetheless. Would it ease your concern if I summon them on your behalf? On your unborn son’s behalf?’

  Son. The red-eyed midwife was right, then. ‘They will listen to you?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  After a moment, she nodded. ‘Very well. But Ceda, after tonight—I will speak to this King of Shadow.’

  He flinched. ‘I fear you will find the meeting unsatisfactory, Acquitor.’

  ‘I will decide that for myself.’

  Bugg sighed. ‘So you shall, Seren Pedac.’

  ‘When will you summon your friends, Ceda?’

  ‘I already have.’

  Lostara Yil had said there’d be eleven in all not counting Fiddler himself. That was madness. Eleven players for the reading. Bottle glanced across at Fiddler as they marched up the street in the wake of the two women. The man looked sick, rings under his eyes, mouth twisted in a grimace. The darker roots of his hair and beard made the silvered ends seem to hover like an aura, a hint of chaos.

  Gesler and Stormy clumped along behind them. Too cowed for their usual arguing with each other about virtually everything. As bad as a married couple, they were. Maybe they sensed the trouble on the way—Bottle was sure those two marines had more than just gold-hued skin setting them apart from everyone else. Clearly, whatever fates existed displayed a serious lack of discrimination when choosing to single out certain people from the herd. Gesler and Stormy barely had one brain between them.

  Bottle tried to guess who else would be there. The Adjunct and Lostara Yil, of course, along with Fiddler himself, and Gesler and Stormy. Maybe Keneb—he’d been at the last one, hadn’t he? Hard to remember—most of that night was a blur now. Quick Ben? Probably. Blistig? Well, one sour, miserable bastard might settle things out some. Or just make everything worse. Sinn? Gods forbid.

  ‘This is a mistake,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Bottle—what’re you sensing? Truth now.’

  ‘You want the truth? Really?’

  ‘Bottle.’

  ‘Fine, I’m too scared to edge out there—this is an old city, Sergeant. There’s . . . things. Mostly sleeping up until now. I mean, for as long as we’ve been here.’

  ‘But now they’re awake.’

  ‘Aye. Noses in the air. This reading, Sergeant, it’s about as bad an idea as voicing a curse in Oponn’s name while sitting in Hood’s lap.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’

  ‘Can you spike the whole thing, Sergeant? Just say it won’t go, you’re all closed up inside or something?’

  ‘Not likely. It just . . . takes over.’

  ‘And then there’s no stopping it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re going to be exposed, horribly exposed. Like offering our throats to whoever—and they’re probably not merciful types. So, how do we defend ourselves?’

  Fiddler glanced across at him, and then edged closer. Ahead was the HQ—they were running out of time. ‘I can’t do nothing, Bottle. Except take the head off, and with luck some of those nasties will go down with it.’

  ‘You’re going to be sitting on a cusser, aren’t you?’

  Fiddler shifted the leather satchel slung from one shoulder, and that was confirmation enough for Bottle.

  ‘Sergeant, when we get into the room, let me try one last time to talk her out of it.’

  ‘Let’s hope she at least holds to the number.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Eleven is bad, twelve is worse. But thirteen would be a disaster. Thirteen’s a bad number for a reading. We don’t want thirteen, anything but—’

  ‘Lostara said eleven, Sergeant. Eleven.’

  ‘Aye.’ And Fiddler sighed.

  When another knock sounded at the door, Bugg raised a hand. ‘Permit me, please, Acquitor.�
� And he rose at her nod and went to let in their new guests.

  She heard voices, and looked up to see the Ceda appear with two bedraggled figures: a man, a woman, dressed in rags. They halted just inside the main room and a roiling stink of grime, sweat and alcohol wafted towards Seren Pedac. She struggled against an impulse to recoil as the pungent aroma swept over her. The man grinned with greenish teeth beneath a massive, red-veined, bulbous nose. ‘Greetings, Mahybe! Whachoo got t’drink? Ne’er mind,’ and he flourished a clay flask in one blackened hand. ‘Lovey dear moogins, find us all some cups, willya?’

  Bugg was grimacing. ‘Acquitor, these are Ursto Hoobutt and Pinosel.’

  ‘I don’t need a cup,’ Seren said to the woman who was rummaging through a cupboard.

  ‘As you like,’ replied Pinosel. ‘But you won’t be no fun at this party. Tha’s typical. Pregnant women ain’t no fun at all—always struttin’ around like a god’s gift. Smug cow—’

  ‘I don’t need this rubbish. Bugg, get them out of here. Now.’

  Ursto walked up to Pinosel and clopped her on the side of the head. ‘Behave, you!’ Then he smiled again at Seren. ‘She’s jealous, y’see. We bin tryin and, uh, tryin. Only, she’s this wrinkled up bag and I ain’t no better. Soft as a teat, I am, and no amount a lust makes no diff’rence. All I do is dribble dribble dribble.’ He winked. ‘O’course, iffin it wuz you now, well—’

  Pinosel snorted. ‘Now that’s an invitation that’d make any woman abort. Pregnant or not!’

  Seren glared at the Ceda. ‘You cannot be serious.’

  ‘Acquitor, these two are the remnants of an ancient pantheon, worshipped by the original inhabitants of the settlement buried in the silts beneath Letheras. In fact, Ursto and Pinosel are the first two, the Lord and the Lady of Wine and Beer. They came into being as a consequence of the birth of agriculture. Beer preceded bread as the very first product of domesticated plants. Cleaner than water, and very nutritious. The first making of wine employed wild grapes. These two creations are elemental forces in the history of humanity. Others include such things as animal husbandry, the first tools of stone, bone and antler, the birth of music and dance and the telling of tales. Art, on stone walls and on skin. Crucial, profound moments one and all.’

  ‘So,’ she asked, ‘what’s happened to them?’

  ‘Mindful and respectful partaking of their aspects have given way to dissolute, careless excess. Respect for their gifts has vanished, Acquitor. The more sordid the use of those gifts, the more befouled become the gift-givers.’

  Ursto belched. ‘We don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Far worse if we wuz outlawed, becuz that’d make us evil and we don’t wanna be evil, do we, sweet porridge?’

  ‘We’s unber attack alla time,’ snarled Pinosel. ‘Here, les fill these cups. Elder?’

  ‘Half measure, please,’ said Bugg.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Seren Pedac. ‘Ceda, you have just described these two drunks as the earliest gods of all. But Pinosel just called you “Elder”.’

  Ursto cackled. ‘Ceda? Mealyoats, y’hear that? Ceda!’ He reeled a step closer to Seren Pedac. ‘O round one, blessed Mahybe, we may be old, me and Pinosel, compared to the likes a you. But against this one ’ere, we’re just babies! Elder, yes, Elder, as in Elder God!’

  ‘Time to party!’ crowed Pinosel.

  Fiddler halted just within the entrance. And stared at the Letherii warrior standing near the huge table. ‘Adjunct, is this one a new invite?’

  ‘Excuse me, Sergeant?’

  He pointed. ‘The King’s Sword, Adjunct. Was he on your list?’

  ‘No. Nonetheless, he will stay.’

  Fiddler turned a bleak look on Bottle, but said nothing.

  Bottle scanned the group awaiting them, did a quick head count. ‘Who’s missing?’ he asked.

  ‘Banaschar,’ Lostara Yil said.

  ‘He is on his way,’ said the Adjunct.

  ‘Thirteen,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Gods below. Thirteen.’

  Banaschar paused in the alley, lifted his gaze skyward. Faint seepage of light from various buildings and lantern-poled streets, but that did not reach high enough to devour the spray of stars. He so wanted to get out of this city. Find a hilltop in the countryside, soft grass to lie on, wax tablet in his hands. The moon, when it showed, was troubling enough. But that new span of stars made him far more nervous, a swath like sword blades, faintly green, that had risen from the south to slash through the old familiar constellations of Reacher’s Span. He could not be certain, but he thought those swords were getting bigger. Coming closer.

  Thirteen in all—at least that was the number he could make out. Perhaps there were more, still too faint to burn through the city’s glow. He suspected the actual number was important. Significant.

  Back in Malaz City, the celestial swords would not even be visible, Banaschar surmised. Not yet, anyway.

  Swords in the sky, do you seek an earthly throat?

  He glanced over at the Errant. If anyone could answer that, it would be this one. This self-proclaimed Master of the Tiles. God of mischance, player of fates. A despicable creature. But no doubt powerful. ‘Something wrong?’ Banaschar asked, for the Errant’s face was ghostly white, slick with sweat.

  The one eye fixed his gaze for a moment and then slid away. ‘Your allies do not concern me,’ he said. ‘But another has come, and now awaits us.’

  ‘Who?’

  The Errant grimaced. ‘Change of plans. You go in ahead of me. I will await the full awakening of this Deck.’

  ‘We agreed you would simply stop it before it can begin. That was all.’

  ‘I cannot. Not now.’

  ‘You assured me there would be no violence this night.’

  ‘And that would have been true,’ the god replied.

  ‘But now someone stands in your way. You have been outmanoeuvred, Errant.’

  A flash of anger in the god’s lone eye. ‘Not for long.’

  ‘I will accept no innocent blood spilled—not my comrades’. Take down your enemy if you like, but no one else, do you understand me?’

  The Errant bared his teeth. ‘Then just keep them out of my way.’

  After a moment, Banaschar resumed his journey, emerging along one side of the building and then walking towards the entrance. Ten paces away he halted once more, for a final few mouthfuls of wine, before continuing on.

  But that’s the problem with the Bonehunters, isn’t it?

  Nobody can keep them out of anyone’s way.

  Standing motionless in the shadows of the alley—after the ex-priest had gone inside—waited the Errant.

  The thirteenth player in this night’s game.

  Had he known that—had he been able to pierce the fog now thickening within that dread chamber and so make full count of those present—he would have turned round, discarding all his plans. No, he would have run for the hills.

  Instead, the god waited, with murder in his heart.

  As the city’s sand clocks and banded wicks—insensate and indifferent to aught but the inevitable progression of time—approached the sounding of the bells.

  To announce the arrival of midnight.

  Chapter Two

  Do not come here old friend

  If you bring bad weather

  I was down where the river ran

  Running no more

  Recall that span of bridge?

  Gone now the fragments grey

  And scattered on the sand

  Nothing to cross

  You can walk the water’s flow

  Wending slow into the basin

  And find the last place where

  Weather goes to die

  If I see you hove into view

  I’ll know your resurrection’s come

  In tears rising to drown my feet

  In darkening sky

  You walk like a man burned blind

  Groping hands out to the sides

  I’d guide you but this river

&
nbsp; Will not wait

  Rushing me to the swallowing sea

  Beneath fleeing birds of white

  Do not come here old friend

  If you bring bad weather

  BRIDGE OF THE SUN

  FISHER KEL TATH

  He stood amidst the rotted remnants of ship timbers, tall yet hunched, and if not for his tattered clothes and long, wind-tugged hair, he could have been a statue, a thing of bleached marble, toppled from the Meckros city behind him to land miraculously upright on the colourless loess. For as long as Udinaas had been watching, the distant figure had not moved.

  A scrabble of pebbles announced the arrival of someone else coming up from the village, and a moment later Onrack T’emlava stepped up beside him. The warrior said nothing for a time, a silent, solid presence.

  This was not a world to be rushed through, Udinaas had come to realize; not that he’d ever been particularly headlong in the course of his life. For a long time since his arrival here in the Refugium, he had felt as if he were dragging chains, or wading through water. The slow measure of time in this place resisted hectic presumptions, forcing humility, and, Udinaas well knew, humility always arrived uninvited, kicking down doors, shattering walls. It announced itself with a punch to the head, a knee in the groin. Not literally, of course, but the result was the same. Driven to one’s knees, struggling for breath, weak as a sickly child. With the world standing, looming over the fool, slowly wagging one finger.

  There really should be more of that. Why, if I was the god of all gods, it’s the only lesson I would ever deliver, as many times as necessary.

  Then again, that’d make me one busy bastard, wouldn’t it just.

  The sun overhead was cool, presaging the winter to come. The shoulder-women said there would be deep snow in the months ahead. Desiccated leaves, caught in the tawny grasses of the hilltop, fluttered and trembled as if shivering in dread anticipation. He’d never much liked the cold—the slightest chill and his hands went numb.

  ‘What does he want?’ Onrack asked.

  Udinaas shrugged.

  ‘Must we drive him off?’

  ‘No, Onrack, I doubt that will be necessary. For the moment, I think, there’s no fight left in him.’