The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Above on the surface, the buildings, the domes and spires and tilted towers; the rooms and the plazas and spiral staircases: they each marked the perfect placement of a single, enormous machine. A machine of light and colours. But not just light, not just colours.

  Saddic walked into the cavern, breathless with wonder.

  Each day, each moment he could manage, Saddic listened to the words of Badalle. He listened and he watched and all that he heard and all that he saw passed through his surface, shifted and bounced, curled and bent until reaching the caverns of his memory, where they re-formed, precise and exact, destined to live on, secure in perfection—for as long as Saddic himself remained alive.

  But this city had defeated mortality and, he realized, it had defeated time as well.

  Far above, the sun’s light fed the city’s memories—all the life it had once held within its chambers and halls, on its streets and in the squares with their fountains. The chaotic angles of the walls around him flowed with scenes, murky and ghostly—not of Rutt and the children now dwelling above, but of the inhabitants of long, long ago, persisting here for all eternity.

  They were tall, with skin the colour of lichen. Their lower jaws bore tusks that rose up to frame the thin-lipped mouths. Men and women both wore long, loose clothing, dyed in deep but vibrant colours. They wore braided belts of grey leather, weaponless, and nowhere could Saddic see armour. This was a city of peace, and everywhere there was water. Flowing down building walls, swirling in pools surrounding fountains. Blossom-filled gardens bled their riotous colours into rooms and down colonnaded hallways.

  Saddic walked through cavern after cavern, seeing all that had once been, but nowhere could he find those moments that must have preceded the city’s death—or, rather, the fall of the tusked people and their rich culture. Invaders? Desert savages? He could find nothing but the succession of seemingly endless days of perfection and tranquillity.

  The scenes seemed to seep into his mind, as if impressing themselves upon his own crystalline brain, and he began to comprehend details of things he had no way of knowing. He came to discover the city’s name. He saw the likeness in the statues and realized that they all belonged to the same individual, and that variations arose solely from the eyes of the sculptors and their skill as artists. And, as he drew closer to what he knew was the centre of the city, to its most cherished heart, he now saw other creatures. In what seemed peaceful co-existence, huge two-legged reptiles began appearing in scenes.

  These were the ones Badalle had spoken about. The ones who had found the city, but Saddic now knew more than she did. They’d found it, yes, but it had not been empty. In finding it, they found the ones who dwelt in it, who called it their home.

  They were called Jaghut. Returned to this way of living, in the cities they had abandoned long before. They were drawn to a humble man, a half-blood. They were drawn to his great machine of memories, this place he made by his own hand. What he did not possess within him, he built around him. To trap all that he was.

  The city is called Icarias.

  He left a cavern, walked down a twisting passage murky with dark hues, and came upon the buried heart of the city.

  Saddic cried out.

  Before him, in a chamber more massive than any of the others . . . Darkness. Destruction. The roots were dead, unfed by light from above. Fissures split the crystals.

  Broken. His heart is broken.

  Brayderal sat, knees drawn up and arms wrapped tightly round them, in the corner of a small room on the fourth level of a tower. She had escaped her captors, leaving her alone with her grief and torment. She had drawn her kin to their deaths. She should have killed Badalle long ago, the first moment she sensed the power of the girl.

  Badalle had shattered the Inquisitors. She had taken their own words and thrown them back, and precious blood had spilled on to the shard-studded ground. At least two of them had died, the other two retreating with grievous wounds. If they still breathed, somewhere out there, it would not be for much longer. They had no food, no water and no shelter, and each day the sun lit the sky on fire.

  Badalle needed to die. Brayderal had raided an orchard not yet found by the others. She could feel her strength returning, her belly full for the first time in months. But guilt and loneliness had stolen all her will. Worse yet, this city itself assailed her. Whatever force still lingered here was inimical to the Forkrul Assail. A despiser of justice—she could almost taste its contempt for her.

  Were the others hunting her? She believed they were. And if they found her they would kill her. They would rend her flesh from her bones and eat until their stomachs were swollen. Perhaps that was fitting. Perhaps, indeed, it served a kind of justice, the kind that recognized the price of failure.

  Still, could she kill Badalle . . . Rutt alone was not enough to oppose her. Saddic was nothing more than Badalle’s pet. Standing over Badalle’s cold corpse, Brayderal could command the others to obedience. Yield, kneel . . . die. Wasn’t it what they wanted? The purest peace of all.

  She stiffened, breath catching, as she heard sounds from somewhere outside. Rising into a crouch, Brayderal edged out of the corner and approached the window overlooking the ruins of the palace. She peered out.

  Badalle. Wielding a crystal sword—but not just any fragment, no, this was from the palace. It blazed in the girl’s hand, blinding enough to make Brayderal snatch her head back in pain. The palace was destroyed, yet somehow it lived on.

  She hated this city.

  And now it is Badalle who hunts me. She will drive that shard into my chest, and it will drink deep.

  She needed to hide.

  Badalle turned at a scuffing sound from one of the towers, catching a glimpse of a face pulling back from a small window halfway up. Was it time, then? So soon?

  She could unleash the power of her voice. She could, she knew, compel Brayderal to come to her. She had been able to overwhelm four adult Quitters. One of their children, weak and alone, would be unable to defend herself.

  But she wanted this death to be a silent one. After all, the battle between these two forces of righteousness had already been decided. The peace that was death had been rejected. But of course we have been fighting that war since the very beginning. Fighting, and now we have won. It’s over.

  Would they live here for ever then? Could the orchards sustain them? What would they do? Was simple survival enough reason to go on living? What of dreams? Desires? What kind of society would they shape?

  No, this is not enough. We cannot stay here. It’s not enough.

  Killing Brayderal will achieve nothing. No. I have a better answer.

  She raised her voice. ‘Child of justice! This city is not for you! You are banished! Return to your kind, if you can. GO!’

  She heard a weak cry from the tower. The Quitters had driven them from their homes, from their families. It was fitting, then, that she now drive from her home a Quitter. My home, my family. Not hers, it was never hers. This family, it is mine. And wherever they are, they are my home.

  They were done with Brayderal.

  Badalle set off to return to Rutt and Held and Saddic. There were things to discuss. A new purpose to find. Something beyond just surviving. Something we deserve. For we have earned the freedom to choose.

  She glanced down at her makeshift sword. It seemed unaccountably bright, as if gathering all the light it could drink. Golden flames seemed to glitter in its heart. It was beautiful, yes, but there was something else there. Something of power . . . a terrible power.

  She remembered, from somewhere, tales about weapons, and those weapons were given names. Thus. She would name hers Fire.

  Fuck! Fiddler spun away from the three worried faces, the sets of frightened eyes, the twitches of incipient panic. He scanned the ground. ‘Stay where you are,’ he told the heavies. ‘No, wait. Shortnose, go and get Bottle. Flashwit, you and Mayfly enforce a cordon round here, especially their tent. No one gets in, understood?’
/>   Solemn nods from the soldiers, and then Shortnose set off at a lumbering run.

  On all sides, the camp was breaking, tents dropping down, stakes rocked loose from the hard stony soil. Soldiers shouted, complained and bickered. The smell of spicy food from the kitchen tents wafted in the cool morning air. Closer by, two other squads were looking over, uneasy, bereft of answers. They’d slept sound, they said. Heard nothing.

  Fiddler’s gaze drew back to the tent. Slashed to ribbons. Inside—what was left of inside—the cots bore rumpled bedding. But no blood. Fuck. Fuck and fire. His breath slowly hissed as he resumed studying the ground, seeking tracks, signs of a scuffle, anything. Nothing caught his eyes. Too scared to concentrate. Where in Hood’s name is Bottle?

  Flashwit had come to him half a bell earlier. He’d barely crawled out from his tent to find her standing in front of him, a look of dread on her broad face.

  ‘They’re gone, Sergeant.’

  ‘What? Who’s gone?’

  ‘Their tent’s all cut up, but no bodies—’

  ‘Flashwit, what are you talking about? Whose tent? Who’s gone?’

  ‘Our sergeant and corporal. Gone.’

  ‘Gesler? Stormy?’

  ‘Their tent’s all cut up.’

  Not cut up, he discovered, after following Flashwit back to the Fifth Squad’s camp. Slashed. The thick canvas was rent from all sides, with what must have been frenzied zeal. And of Gesler and Stormy there was no sign. Their weapons and armour were gone as well. And the heavies were in tents to either side—barely room to walk between them, and in the dark with all the guy ropes and stakes . . . no, this doesn’t make sense.

  He turned to see Shortnose and Bottle jogging up to where stood Mayfly—who held out thick arms as if to bar their passage.

  ‘Let ’em through, Mayfly—but no one else. Not yet, anyway. Bottle, get over here.’

  ‘What’s this I hear about Gesler and Stormy deserting?’

  Fiddler almost cuffed the man. Instead, he hissed, ‘Ain’t nobody’s deserted—but now that rumour’s on its way, isn’t it? Idiot.’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant—it’s too damned early in the morning for me to be thinking straight.’

  ‘Better wake up fast,’ Fiddler snapped. He pointed at the tent. ‘Look for signs, all round it. Someone had to walk in to get that close. And if you find a single drop of blood let me know—but quietly, understood?’

  Licking his lips as he eyed the ravaged tent, Bottle nodded, and then edged past his sergeant.

  Fiddler unstrapped and drew off his helm. He wiped sweat from his brow. Glared across at the nearby squads. ‘Wake up your sergeants and all of you make sure we got a full cordon!’ The soldiers jumped. Fiddler knew that news of his sickness had gone through the ranks—he’d been down for days, stinking with fever. Standing close to Anomander Rake had been miserable enough, he recalled, but nothing compared to this. He didn’t need the Deck of Dragons to know what he knew. Besides, nowhere in the Deck would he find a card called the Consort of Darkness. At least, not that he knew of, though sometimes powers were of such magnitude, such insistence, that they could bleed the paint off a minor card and usurp it. Maybe that had happened with his Deck—but he wasn’t about to shuffle through for a look. In any case, his being down had scared people—damned unfair, but there it was, nothing Fiddler could do about it. And now that he was back on his feet, well, he could see far too much undisguised relief in too many eyes.

  The older he got, he realized, the more sensitive his talent—if it could be called talent. He preferred curse.

  Now Rake went and got himself killed. Unbelievable. Insane. Dragnipur is in pieces. Oh sure, Rake and Hood made sure most of the monsters chained within it were wiped out—nice deal, that. Chained souls and Hood’s own menagerie of scary malcontents, all fed into Chaos. ‘The dead will sleep, and sleep for evermore.’ Amen.

  He clawed at his beard. Barely three days on foot again—he still felt wobbly—and now this. They’ve been snatched. Right out from the middle of a whole damned army. Gesler. Stormy. Why them? Oh don’t be obtuse, Fid. They were annealed in the Forge of Thyrllan. Ascendants both.

  So think about that. Gesler—he can throw a punch heavy enough to stagger a god. Stormy can swing a sword through three bodies if he’s mad enough. But . . . not a drop of blood—

  ‘Found a drop of blood, Sergeant.’

  Bottle was suddenly at his side, head lowered, voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Just one?’

  ‘Well, maybe two drops together. A dollop? It’s thick and it stinks.’

  Fiddler scowled at the man. ‘Stinks?’

  ‘Not human blood.’

  ‘Oh, great. Demonic?’

  ‘More like . . . rhizan.’

  Rhizan? ‘This ain’t the time for jokes, Bottle—’

  ‘I’m not. Listen. There’s not a trace, not a single footprint beyond the kind soldiers make—and we both know it wasn’t no soldiers jumped the tent and the two men inside it. Unless they had talons long as swords, and it was talons that did in that tent. But the hands they belonged to were huge. It gets stranger, Sergeant—’

  ‘Hold on. Let me think a moment.’ Rhizan? Flit around at night, eating insects, small bats . . . winged. They got fucking wings! ‘It came down out of the sky. Of course, it’s bloody obvious now. That’s why there’s no tracks. It just dropped straight down on to the tent—’

  ‘Then someone should’ve heard it—at the very least, Ges and Stormy would’ve been screaming.’

  ‘Aye, that part still doesn’t scry.’

  ‘Let me examine the tent, Sergeant—pick it apart, I mean.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Fiddler walked over to Shortnose. ‘Another trip for you. Find Captain Faradan Sort, and maybe Fist Keneb. And Quick Ben—aye, get Quick Ben first and send him here. And listen, Shortnose, don’t say nothing about desertions—we already got enough of those. Gesler and Stormy didn’t desert—they were kidnapped.’

  Shortnose shook his head. ‘We ain’t seen or heard nothing, Sergeant—and I’m a light sleeper. Stupid light, in fact.’

  ‘I’m guessing some kind of sorcery silenced the whole thing. And the demon was winged. It just picked them both up and flew off into the night. Now, go on, Shortnose.’

  ‘All right. Quick Ben, Sort and then Keneb.’

  ‘Right.’ Turning back, he saw Bottle on his hands and knees, lifting up shreds of canvas. The soldier looked up, nodded him over.

  Fiddler joined him, crouching at his side. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Everything stinks, Sergeant. Feel this cloth—it’s oily.’

  ‘That’s what keeps ’em waterproof—’

  ‘Not this stuff. This stuff smells like a lizard’s armpit.’

  Fiddler stared at Bottle, wondering when the fool last jammed his nose into a lizard’s armpit, then decided that some questions just should never be asked. ‘Enkar’al? Could be, but it would have had to have been a big one, old, probably female. And somehow it got its hands round both their mouths, or round their necks.’

  ‘Then Ges and Stormy are dead,’ whispered Bottle.

  ‘Quiet, I’m still working through this. I can’t recall ever seeing an enkar’al big enough to fly carrying two full-grown men. So, Locqui Wyval? Draconic lapdogs? Not a chance. A bull enkar’al masses more than a wyval. But then, wyval fly in packs—in clouds, I think it’s called—so if a dozen came down, striking fast . . . maybe. But all those wing-beats . . . no, somebody’d hear the ruckus for certain. So, not wyval and probably not an enkar’al. What’s that leave us with?’

  Bottle stared at him. ‘Dragon.’

  ‘Do dragons smell like rhizan armpits?’

  ‘How the Hood would I know?’ Bottle demanded.

  ‘Calm down, sorry I asked.’

  ‘But it doesn’t work anyway,’ said Bottle after a moment. ‘The slashed tent—the rents aren’t big enough for a dragon’s talons, or teeth. And if a dragon did swoop down, wouldn’t it just pick up
the whole thing? Tent, people, cots, the whole works?’

  ‘Good point. So, we’re back to a giant rhizan?’

  ‘I was just saying what it smelled like, Sergeant. I didn’t mean a real rhizan, or even one of those slightly bigger ones we got round here.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for the wings,’ muttered Fiddler, ‘I might think K’Chain Che’Malle.’

  ‘They died out a hundred thousand years ago, Sergeant. Maybe even longer. Even the ones Hedge went up against at Black Coral—they were undead, so probably stinking of crypts, not oil.’

  Quick Ben arrived, pushing through the crowd that had gathered. ‘Shortnose said something about—shit, they have a cat fight or something?’

  ‘Snatched,’ said Fiddler. ‘Something with wings. Big enough to shut them both up—not a sound, Quick. Smells like magic—’

  ‘Like lizards, you mean,’ cut in Bottle. ‘Look at this, High Mage.’

  Quick Ben held out a hand and Bottle gave him the strip of canvas. ‘Lizards, Bottle?’

  ‘Feel the oil?’

  ‘This is K’Chain Che’Malle.’

  ‘They ain’t got wings,’ objected Fiddler.

  But Quick Ben was squinting skyward. Under his breath he said, ‘Some do.’

  ‘But no one heard a damned thing, Quick.’

  ‘The oil is like the breath of a dragon, Fid. Just not as virulent. It came down, sprayed the tent, took off again. The stuff soaked through, filled the air in the tent, and inside you could have knocked their heads together and neither one would’ve woken up. So it came back down, sliced through the tent to keep all the guys and stakes in place, and took them both.’