The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  The iron beneath Bugg’s words silenced the two others in the throne room, for a time.

  Tehol then spoke, looking at neither his wife nor his closest friend. ‘I will take a walk in the garden.’

  They watched him leave.

  Janath said, ‘Brys is his brother, after all. And to have lost him once . . .’

  Bugg nodded.

  ‘Is there anything more you can do?’ she asked him. ‘To protect him?’

  ‘Who, Brys or Tehol?’

  ‘In this matter, I think, they are one and the same.’

  ‘Some possibilities exist,’ Bugg allowed. ‘Unfortunately, in such circumstances as these, often the gesture proves deadlier than the original threat.’ He held up a hand to forestall her. ‘Of course I will do what I can.’

  She looked away. ‘I know you will. So, friend, you are compelled—when will you leave us?’

  ‘Soon. Some things cannot be resisted for long—I am making him sweat.’ He then grunted and added, ‘and that’s making me sweat.’

  ‘Is this a “binding of blood”?’ she asked.

  He started, eyed her curiously. ‘I keep forgetting you are a scholar, my Queen. That ancient phrase holds many layers of meaning, and almost as many secrets. Every family begins with a birth, but there can never be just one, can there?’

  ‘Solitude is simple. Society isn’t.’

  ‘Just so, Janath.’ He studied her for a moment. She sat on the throne, leaning to one side, head resting on one hand. ‘Did you know you are with child?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Does Tehol?’

  ‘Probably not. It’s early yet—Bugg, I suffered greatly in the hands of the Patriotists, didn’t I? I see scars on my body but have no memory of how they came to be there. I feel pains inside and so I believe there are scars within, as well. I suspect your hand in my strange ignorance—you have scoured away the worst of what I experienced. I don’t know if I should thank you or curse you.’

  ‘An even measure of both, I should think.’

  She regarded him levelly. ‘Yes, you understand the necessity of balance, don’t you? Well, I think I will give it a few more weeks before I terrify my husband.’

  ‘The child is healthy, Janath, and I sense no risks—those pains are phantom ones—I was thorough in my healing.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ She rose. ‘Tell me, was it simply a question of my twisted imagination, or did that Akrynnai artist have something disreputable in mind?’

  ‘My Queen, neither mortal nor immortal can fathom the mind of an artist. But as a general rule, between two possible answers, choose the more sordid one.’

  ‘Of course. How silly of me.’

  ‘Draconus is lost within Dragnipur. Nightchill’s soul is scattered to the winds. Grizzin Farl vanished millennia ago. And Edgewalker might well deny any compulsion out of sheer obstinacy or, possibly, a righteous claim to disassociation.’ Knuckles managed a twisted smile, and then shrugged. ‘If there is one presence I would find unwelcome above all others, Errastas, it is Olar Ethil.’

  ‘She is dead—’

  ‘And supremely indifferent to that condition—she embraced the Ritual of Tellann without hesitation, the opportunistic bitch—’

  ‘And so bound herself to the fate of the T’lan Imass,’ said the Errant, as he eyed Kilmandaros. The huge creature had dragged a massive trunk to the centre of the chamber, snapping the lock with one hand and then flinging back the lid; and now she was pulling out various pieces of green-stained armour, muttering under her breath. On the walls on all sides, seawater was streaming in through widening cracks, swirling ankle-deep and rising to engulf the fire in the hearth. The air was growing bitter cold.

  ‘Not as bound as you might hope for,’ said Sechul Lath. ‘We have discussed K’rul, but there is one other, Errastas. An entity most skilled at remaining a mystery to us all—’

  ‘Ardata. But she is not the only one. I always sensed, Setch, that there were more of us than any of us imagined. Even with my power, my command of the Tiles, I was convinced there were ghosts, hovering at the edge of my vision, my awareness. Ghosts, as ancient and as formidable as any of us.’

  ‘Defying your rule,’ said Sechul slyly, swirling the amber wine in his crystal goblet.

  ‘Afraid to commit themselves,’ the Errant said, sneering. ‘Hiding from each other too, no doubt. Singly, not one poses a threat. In any case, it is different now.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. The rewards we can reap are vast—whatever has gone before is as nothing. Think on it. All that was stolen from us returned once more into our hands. The ghosts, the ones in hiding—they would be fools to hesitate. No, the wise course is to step out from the shadows.’

  Knuckles took a mouthful of wine. The water was soaking the seat of the chair beneath him. ‘The House is eager to wash us out.’

  Kilmandaros had shrugged her way into a sopping hauberk of chain. She reached down to the submerged floor and lifted from the foaming swirl a huge gauntlet through which water gushed in a deluge. She dragged the gauntlet over one gnarled fist, and then reached down to find the other one.

  ‘She’s pleased,’ said Errastas.

  ‘No she isn’t,’ countered Knuckles. ‘You have awakened her anger, and now she must find an enemy worthy of it. Sometimes—even for you—control is a delusion, a conceit. What you unleash here—’

  ‘Is long overdue. Cease your efforts to undermine me, Setch—you only reveal your own weaknesses.’

  ‘Weaknesses I have never run from, Errastas. Can you say the same?’

  The Errant bared his teeth. ‘You are cast. It cannot be undone. We must take our fate into our own hands—look to Kilmandaros—she will show us how it must be. Discard your fears—they sting like poison.’

  ‘I am ready.’

  At her words both men turned. She was clad for war and stood like a bestial statue, a hoary apparition enwreathed in seaweed. Algae mottled her hauberk. Verdigris mapped her helm’s skullcap. The broad, low-slung, grilled cheek-guards looked like iron chelae, the bridge gleaming like a scorpion’s pincer. Her gauntleted hands were closed into fists, like giant mauls at the ends of her apish, multi-jointed arms.

  ‘So you are,’ said Errastas, smiling.

  ‘I have never trusted you,’ Kilmandaros said in a growl.

  He rose, still smiling. ‘Why should I be unique? Now, who among us will open the portal? Knuckles, show us your power.’

  The gaunt man flinched.

  The water had reached hip-level—not Kilmandaros’s hips, of course. The Errant gestured in Sechul Lath’s direction. ‘Let us see you as you should be. This is my first gift, Setch.’ Power blossomed.

  The ancient figure blurred, straightened, revealing at last a tall, youthful Forkrul Assail—who reeled, face darkening. He flung away his goblet. ‘How dare you! Leave me as I was, damn you!’

  ‘My gift,’ snapped Errastas. ‘To be accepted in the spirit in which it is given.’

  Sechul held his elongated hands up over his face. ‘How could you think,’ he rasped, ‘I ever regretted what I left behind?’ He pulled his hands away, glaring. ‘Give me back all that I have earned!’

  ‘You are a fool—’

  ‘We will leave now,’ cut in Kilmandaros, loud enough to thunder in the chamber.

  ‘Errastas!’

  ‘No! It is done!’

  A second gesture, and a portal opened, swallowing an entire wall of the House. Kilmandaros lumbered through, vanishing from sight.

  The Errant faced Knuckles.

  His old friend’s eyes were filled with such wretched distress that Errastas snarled, ‘Oh, have it your way, then—’ and cruelly tore the blessing from the man, watched with satisfaction as the man bowed, gasping in sudden pain.

  ‘There, wear your pathos, Setch, since it fits so damned well. What is this? You do not welcome its return?’

  ‘It pleases you to deliver pain, does it? I see that you are unchanged . . .
in the essential details of your nature.’ Groaning, Sechul conjured a staff and leaned heavily upon it. ‘Lead on then, Errastas.’

  ‘Why must you sour this moment of triumph?’

  ‘Perhaps I but remind you of what awaits us all.’

  The Errant struggled not to strike Knuckles, not to knock that staff away with a kick and watch the old creature totter, possibly even fall. A shortlived pleasure. Unworthy to be sure. He faced the portal. ‘Stay close—this gate will slam shut behind us, I suspect.’

  ‘It’s had its fill, aye.’

  Moments later, water roared in to reclaim the chamber, darkness devoured every room, every hall. Currents rushed, and then settled, until all was motionless once more.

  The House was at peace.

  For a time.

  ______

  Captain Ruthan Gudd was in the habit of grooming his beard with his fingers, an affectation that Shurq Elalle found irritating. Thoughtful repose was all very well, as far as poses went, but the man was so terse she had begun to suspect his genius was of the ineffable kind; in other words, it might be the man was thick but just clever enough to assume the guise of wisdom and depth. The silly thing was how damned successful and alluring the whole thing was—that hint of mystery, the dark veil of his eyes, his potent silences.

  ‘Errant’s sake, get out of here.’

  He started, and then reached for his sword belt. ‘I will miss you.’

  ‘Everyone says that to me sooner or later.’

  ‘A curious observation.’

  ‘Is it? The simple truth is, I wear men out. In any case, I’m about to sail, so all in all it’s just as well.’

  He grunted. ‘I’d rather be standing on a deck, letting the sails do all the work, than marching.’

  ‘Then why did you become a soldier?’

  He raked through his beard, frowned, and then said, ‘Habit.’ As he made his way to the door he paused, and squinted down at an urn sitting against one wall. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘That thing? I’m a pirate, Ruthan. I come by things.’

  ‘Not purchased at a market stall in the city, then.’

  ‘Of course not. Why?’

  ‘The crows caught my eye. Seven Cities, that pot.’

  ‘It’s an urn, not a pot.’

  ‘Fall of Coltaine. You preyed on a Malazan ship—’ he turned and eyed her. ‘Has to have been recently. Did you pounce on one of our ships? There were storms, the fleet was scattered more than once. A few were lost, in fact.’

  She returned his stare flatly. ‘And what if I had? It’s not like I knew anything about you, is it?’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose not. Though the idea that you put some fellow Malazans to the sword doesn’t sit well.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she replied. ‘I pounced on a Tiste Edur ship.’

  After a moment he nodded. ‘That makes sense. We first encountered them outside Ehrlitan.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  His eyes hardened. ‘You are a cold woman, Shurq Elalle.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before, too.’

  He left without another word. It was always better this way, find something annoying to sour the moment, a brief exchange of lashing words, and then it was done with. Yearning goodbyes, dripping with soppy sentimentalities, were never quite as satisfying as one would like.

  She quickly collected the last of her gear—most of her stuff was already stowed aboard Undying Gratitude. Skorgen Kaban the Pretty had taken charge of things, more or less, down at the harbour. Clearing up berth fees, sobering up the crew and whatnot. Her two Bolkando guests were safely stowed in the main cabin; and if Ublala Pung still hadn’t shown up by the time she arrived, that was just too bad—the oaf had the memory of a moth.

  He probably got confused and tried to walk to the islands.

  She buckled her rapier to her hip, slung a modest duffel bag over one shoulder, and left, not bothering to lock the door—the room was rented and besides, the first thief inside was welcome to everything, especially that stupid urn.

  A pleasant and promising offshore breeze accompanied her down to the docks. She was satisfied to see plenty of activity aboard her ship as she strode to the gangplank. Stevedores were loading the last of the supplies, suffering under cruel commentary from the gaggle of whores who’d come down to send off the crew, said whores shooting her withering looks as she swept past them. Hardly deserved, she felt, since she hadn’t been competing with them for months and besides, wasn’t she now leaving?

  She stepped down on to the main deck. ‘Pretty, where did you get that nose?’

  Her First Mate clumped over. ‘Snapper beak,’ he said, ‘stuffed with cotton to hold back on the drip, Captain. I bought it at the Tides Market.’

  She squinted at him. The strings holding the beak in place looked painfully tight. ‘Best loosen it up some,’ she advised, dropping the bag down to one side and then setting her fists on her hips as she surveyed the others on deck. ‘No Pung?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, I want to take advantage of this wind.’

  ‘Good, Captain, the giant’s an ill omen besides—’

  ‘None of that,’ she snapped. ‘He made a fine pirate in his days with us, and there was nothing ill-omened about him.’ Kaban was jealous, of course. But the nose looked ridiculous. ‘Get these dock rats off my ship and crew the lines.’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  She watched him limp off, nodded severely when he roared into the ear of a lounging sailor. Walking to the landward rail up near the bow, she scanned the crowds on the waterfront. No sign of Ublala Pung. ‘Idiot.’

  Captain Ruthan Gudd collected his horse at the stables and set out northward along the main avenue running partway alongside the central canal. He saw no other Malazans among the crowds—he could well be the last left in the city. This suited him fine, and better still if Tavore and her Bonehunters were to pull stakes before he arrived, leaving him behind.

  He’d never wanted to be made a captain since it meant too many people paid attention to him. Given a choice, Ruthan would be pleased to spend his entire life not being noticed by anyone. Except for the occasional woman, of course. He had considered, rather often lately, deserting the army. If he had been a regular foot-soldier, he might well have done just that. But a missing officer meant mages joining in the search, and the last thing he wanted was to be sniffed down by a magicker. Of course Tavore wouldn’t hold back on the army’s march just to await his appearance—but there might well be a mage or two riding for him right now.

  Either way, Fist Blistig was probably rehearsing the tongue-lashing he’d be delivering to Ruthan as soon as the captain showed.

  Under normal circumstances, it was easy to hide in an army, even as an officer. Volunteer for nothing, offer no suggestions, stay in the back at briefings, or better still, miss them altogether. Most command structures made allowances for useless officers—no different from the allowances made for useless soldiers in the field. ‘Take a thousand soldiers. Four hundred will stand in a fight but do nothing. Two hundred will run given the chance. Another hundred will get confused. That leaves three hundred you can count on. Your task in commanding that thousand is all down to knowing where to put that three hundred.’ Not Malazan doctrine, that. Some Theftian general, he suspected. Not Korelri, that was certain. Korelri would just keep the three hundred and execute the rest.

  Greymane? No, don’t be stupid, Ruthan. Be lucky to get five words a year out of that man. Then again, who needs words when you can fight like that? Hood keep you warm, Greymane.

  In any case, Ruthan counted himself among the useless seven hundred, capable of doing nothing, getting confused, or routed at the first clash of weapons. Thus far, however, he’d not had a chance to attempt any of those options. The scraps he’d found himself in—relatively few, all things considered—had forced him to fight like a rabid wolf to stay alive. There was nothing worse in the world than being noticed by someone trying
to kill you—seeing that sudden sharp focus in a stranger’s eyes—

  The captain shook himself. The north gate waited ahead.

  Back into the army. Done with the soft bed and soft but oddly cool feminine flesh; with the decent (if rather tart) Letherii wines. Done with the delicious ease of doing nothing. Attention was coming his way and there was nothing to be done about it.

  You told me to keep my head low, Greymane. I’ve been trying. It’s not working. But then, something in your eyes told me you knew it wouldn’t, because it wasn’t working for you either.

  Ruthan Gudd clawed at his bead, reminding himself of the stranger’s face he now wore.

  Let’s face it, old friend. In this world it’s only the dead who don’t get noticed.

  The place of sacrifice held an air of something broken. Ruined. It was a misery being there, but Ublala Pung had no choice. Old Hunch Arbat’s rasping voice was in his head, chasing him this way and that, and the thing about a skull—even one as big as his—was how it was never big enough to run all the way away, even when it was a dead old man doing the chasing.

  ‘I did what you said,’ he said. ‘So leave me alone. I got to get to the ship. So Shurq and me can sex. You’re just jealous.’

  He was the only living thing in the cemetery. It wasn’t being used much any more, ever since parts of it started sinking. Sepulchres tilted and sagged and then broke open. Big stone urns fell over. Trees got struck by lightning and marsh gases wandered round looking like floating heads. And all the bones were pushing up from the ground like stones in a farmer’s field. He’d picked one up, a leg bone, to give his hands something to play with while he waited for Arbat’s ghost.

  Scuffling sounds behind him—Ublala turned. ‘Oh, you. What do you want?’

  ‘I was coming to scare you,’ said the rotted, half-naked corpse, and it raised bony hands sporting long, jagged fingernails. ‘Aaaagh!’

  ‘You’re stupid. Go away.’

  Harlest Eberict sagged. ‘Nothing’s working any more. Look at me. I’m falling apart.’

  ‘Go to Selush. She’ll sew you back up.’