The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘The shifty-eyed sentinels of truth—’

  Throatslitter’s laugh pierced the night.

  Sinter winced at the cry behind them. ‘Gods, I wish he’d stop doing that.’

  ‘Nothing very funny about this,’ Badan Gruk agreed. ‘But then it’s Throatslitter, isn’t it? That man would laugh over his dying sister.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t get people like him. Taking pleasure in misery, in torture, all that. What’s to laugh about? Talk about a messed-up mind.’

  She glanced at him curiously. His face was lit in the green glow of the Jade Spears. Ghoulish. Ethereal. ‘What’s eating you, Badan?’

  ‘That conspiracy of Wid’s.’ He shot her a suspicious look. ‘It’s got to include you, Sinter, don’t it?’

  ‘Like Hood it does.’

  ‘You had a chat with Masan Gilani – and’ – he nodded towards the wagon rocking and creaking just ahead of them – ‘your sister.’

  ‘We was just trying to work out stuff to help the Adjunct—’

  ‘Because you knew something. Those feelings you get. You knew we were in trouble, long before the lizards showed up.’

  ‘Little good it did us. Don’t you see? I knew but I didn’t know. Do you have any idea how helpless that made me feel?’

  ‘So what’s coming, Sinter?’

  ‘No idea – and that’s just how I want it.’ She tapped her helm. ‘All quiet, not a whisper. You think I’m in some inner circle? You’re wrong.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Forget it.’

  The silence stretched between them, and to Sinter it felt like a cocoon, or a web they were snared in. Struggling just made it worse. In the hills high above the savanna of her homeland there were ancient tombs carved into cliff faces. Barely past her first blooding, she’d journeyed with her sister and two others to explore those mysterious caves.

  Nothing but dust. The stone sarcophagi were stacked a dozen to each chamber, and Sinter remembered standing in the relative chill, one hand holding a makeshift torch, and in the flickering, wavering orange light staring at the lowest coffin in a stack rising before her. Other peoples buried their dead, instead of gifting the corpse to the vulture goddess and her get. Or sealed them beneath heavy lids of stone. And she remembered thinking, with a chill rippling through her: but what if they got it wrong? What if you weren’t dead?

  In the years since, she’d heard horrifying tales of hapless people buried alive, trapped within coffins of stone or wood. Life in the barracks was rife with stories intended to make one shiver. Worse than the haranguing threats from priests behind a pulpit – and everyone knew those ones were doing it for the coin. And all that delicious sharing out of fear.

  And now…now, I feel as if I’m about to wake up. From a long sleep. From my mouth, a sighing breath – but all I see is darkness, all I hear is a strange dull echo all around me. And I reach up, and find cold, damp stone. It was the drops that awakened me. The condensation of my own breathing.

  I am about to wake up, to find that I have been buried alive.

  The terror would not let her go. This desert belongs to the dead. Its song is the song of dying.

  In the wagon lumbering a few strides ahead sat her sister. Head lolling as if asleep. Was it that easy for her? That leg was slow in mending, and now that they were in this lifeless place no healer could help her. She must be in pain. Yet she slept.

  While we march.

  The deserter never deserted after all. Who could have guessed she’d find something inside, something that reached out beyond, outside her damned self? We can never know, can we? Can never know someone else, even one of our own blood.

  Kisswhere. You should have run. Limped. Done whatever you needed to do. I could manage all of this, I could. If I knew you were safe – far away.

  She thought back to when her sister had appeared, in the company of the Khundryl – that ragged, wretched huddle of survivors. Young mothers, old mothers, crippled warriors, unblooded children. Elders tottering like the harbingers of shattered faith. And there she was, struggling with a makeshift crutch – the kind one saw among broken veterans on foreign streets as they begged for alms. Gods below, at least the Malazan Empire knew how to honour their veterans. You don’t just up and forget them. Ignore them. Step over them in the gutters. You honour them. Even the kin of the lost get coin and a holyday in their honour…

  There were, she knew, all kinds of coffins. All kinds of ways of finding out you’ve been buried alive. How many people dreaded opening their eyes? Opening them for real? How many were terrified of what they would find? That stone box. That solid darkness. The immovable walls and lid and the impossible weight.

  Her sister would not meet her eye. Would not even speak to her. Not since Kisswhere’s return to the ranks. But return she did. And soldiers saw that. Saw, and realized that she’d gone to get the Khundryl, to find help for that awful day.

  They understood, too, how Kisswhere must feel, there in that ruined haggle of survivors. Aye, she’d sent the rest of them to their deaths. Enough to destroy the strongest among them, aye. But look at her. Seems able to bear it. The broken leg? She was riding Hood-bent for leather, friends – would’ve been in that fatal charge, too, if not for her horse going down.

  No, they now looked on Kisswhere with a seriousness to their regard that spoke tomes about finally belonging, that spoke of seeing on her the fresh scars from the only rite of passage worth respecting – surviving, with the coin paid in full for the privilege.

  Well. That is my sister, isn’t it? No matter what, she will shine. She will shine.

  Kisswhere could feel her teeth grinding, on the edge of cracking, as the wagon clunked over yet another rock, and with breath held she waited for the rush of stunning pain. Up from the bones of her leg, spreading like bright flowers through her hips, rising through her torso like a tree with a thousand stabbing branches and ten thousand needled twigs. Higher still, the mad serrated leaves unfurling in her skull, lacerating her brain.

  She rode the manic surge, the insane growth of agony, and then, as it pulsed back down, as it ebbed, she slowly released her sour breath. She stank of suffering; she could taste it on her swollen tongue. She leaked it out on the grimy boards beneath her.

  They should have left her behind. A lone tent in the rubbish of the abandoned camp. That would have been an act of mercy. But since when did armies think about that? Their whole business was the denial of mercy, and like a water mill the huge stone wheel of destruction rolled on, and on. No one allowed to get off, on…on what? She found herself grinning. On pain of death, that’s what.

  Staring at her own knees, at the thick bundling of myrid skins surrounding her splinted leg. Hair hanging down, hiding from her eyes Badan Gruk, Sinter and all the rest, so useless in their clumping along, so bitter in all the ghosts they now carried, the weight bowing them down.

  Was it Pores or Kindly? Yes, Pores. ‘Grow that hair, woman!’ Or was it ‘Cut it’? I can’t remember – how can I not remember? Was it that long ago?

  Pores, pretending to be Kindly. Where does that kind of courage come from? That…audacity? That knowing look will be in his eye right up until he’s shoved through Hood’s Gate. It will, won’t it?

  How I admire people like that. How I wanted to be like them.

  Badan Gruk, take a lesson from Pores, I beg you. No more of the sad eyes, the hurt look. I see it and I want to stab deeper. Lash out. I want to make true all your miserable worries, all those wounds upon your heart. Let’s see them bleed!

  The wagon jarred beneath her. She gasped. Flowers and trees, leaves of fire igniting behind her eyes. No time to think. Every thought tried running, only to explode in the forest. Bursting awake all the leaves, high in the canopy, and every thought wings away. Like birds into the sky.

  The leg was infected. There was fever, and nothing anyone could do about it. Herbs fought the good war, or they would if there were any. If she asked for them. If she told someone.
Pastes and poultices, elixirs and unguents, all the ranks of grim-faced soldiers, banners waving, marching into disease’s grinning face.

  No one’s allowed to get off. On pain of death, aye.

  Stay right here, this rocking wagon, the rank sweat of the oxen so sweet in our nostrils. We got us a war, comrades. Can’t stop and chat. We got us a war, and no one’s allowed to get off. No one’s allowed to get off. No one’s allowed to—

  Badan grunted and looked up.

  ‘Shit,’ said Sinter, starting forward.

  Kisswhere had been leaning forward over her thighs, one leg dangling off the wooden tail, the other splinted straight, thrust out at an angle. She’d just fallen back, head cracking as it bounced on the slats.

  Sinter clambered on to the wagon. ‘Gods below, she’s on fire. Badan – get us a cutter, fast.’ Straightening, she faced forward and leaned over the bundles of gear. ‘Ruffle! Pull this thing over to one side – hurry! Out of the line!’

  ‘Aye, Sergeant!’

  ‘They’re pulling outa line, Sergeant. Should we go back and see what’s up?’

  Hellian scowled. ‘Just march, Corporal.’

  It was dark but not so dark as it maybe should be. People glowed green, but then, could be that was how it always was, when she didn’t drink. No wonder I drink. ‘Listen, all of you,’ she said, ‘keep an eye out.’

  ‘For what?’ Breathy asked.

  ‘For a tavern, of course. Idiot.’

  They’d gotten two transfers. From the Seventh Squad. A pair of swords, one of them with a bad knee and the other one with the face of a gut-sick horse. Limp’s the name of one of them. But which one? That other one… Crump. A sapper? Is Crump the sapper? But sappers ain’t worth much now, are they? Big enough to be a sword, though, unless Crump is the one with the bad knee. Imagine, a sapper with a bad knee. Set the charge and run! Well, hobble. Fast as you can. Guess you looking like a horse was some kind of joke, huh?

  Sappers. Nothing but a bad idea that stayed bad. Bust up one leg on all of ’em, that’d make the breed extinct quick enough.

  Aye, Limp’s the sapper. Crump’s the other one. Crump goes the knee. Limp goes the sapper. But wait, which one’s got the bad knee again? I could turn round. I suppose. Turn round and, say, take a look. Which one’s limping? Get the limper sorted and I got Crump, meaning the sapper’s the other one, with the bad knee. Limp, then. He’s named Limp on account of the bad knee of his buddy’s, since he has to help the fool along all the time. But then, if he got that name at the start, why, he’d not make it as a soldier at all. He’d of been drummed out, or planted behind a desk. So, the sapper didn’t run fast enough from some fuse, that’s how he earned his name. Got the name Crump, on account of a crumpling knee. Now I get it. Whew.

  But what’s the point of a horse with a bad knee?

  ‘’S getting cold, Sergeant.’

  Hellian’s scowl deepened. ‘What do you want me to do about it, fart in your face?’

  ‘No. Was just saying. Oh, and Limp’s lagging – we should’ve stuck ’im on the wagon.’

  ‘Who are you again?’

  ‘I’m Maybe, Sergeant. Been with you since the beginning.’

  ‘Which door?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The street we lived on in Kartool City. Which door was you in?’

  ‘I ain’t from Kartool, Sergeant. I meant, the beginning of the squad. That’s what I meant. Aren. Seven Cities. The first time we marched across a Hood-rotting desert.’

  ‘Back to Y’Ghatan? No wonder I’m so thirsty. Got water in that jug there, soldier?’

  ‘Just my piss, Sergeant.’

  ‘Lucky you ain’t a woman. Try pissing into a bottle when you’re a woman. Y’Ghatan. Gods below, how many times do we got to take that place?’

  ‘We ain’t marching to Y’Ghatan, Sergeant. We’re – oh, never mind. It’s a desert for sure, though. Cold.’

  ‘Corporal Touchless!’

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘What you got in that jug there?’

  ‘Piss.’

  ‘Who’s selling that stuff anyway? Bloody genius.’

  Maybe said, ‘Heard the quartermaster was tying bladders on the Khundryl stallions.’

  Hellian frowned. ‘They’d explode. Why would he do that? And more to the point, how? Stick your hand up its—’

  ‘Not the horse’s bladder, Sergeant. Waterskins, right? Cow bladders. Tied to the stallion’s cock.’

  ‘Duck, you mean.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Horses hate cocks, but they don’t mind ducks. But that bladder would slow ’em down something awful. Quite the farm where you grew up, Maybe.’

  ‘I ain’t fooled, you know,’ said Maybe, leaning close. ‘But I see the point, right? You’re keeping us entertained. It’s like a game, pieces jumping every which way.’

  She eyed him. ‘Oh, I’m just fooling with ya, am I?’

  He met her gaze, and then his eyes shied away. ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Feeling it, huh?’

  Hellian said nothing. Glowing green, aye. And all those rocks and shards out there, where the spiders are. Tiny eyes all heaped up, all watching me pass. I’m sober. Can’t pretend they’re not there, not any more.

  And not a tavern in sight.

  This is going to be bad. Very bad. ‘Hear that?’ she asked. ‘That was a damned hyena.’

  ‘That was Throatslitter, Sergeant.’

  ‘He killed a hyena? Good for him. Where’s Balgrid anyway?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Damned slacker. I’m going to sleep. Corporal, you’re in charge—’

  ‘Can’t sleep now,’ Brethless objected. ‘We’re walking, Sergeant—’

  ‘Best time for it, then. Wake me when the sun comes up.’

  ‘Now that ain’t fair how she does that.’

  Brethless grunted. ‘You hear about them all the time, though. Those veterans who can sleep on the march.’ He mused, and then grunted a second time. ‘Didn’t know she was one of them.’

  ‘Sober now,’ Maybe muttered. ‘That’s what’s new with her.’

  ‘Did you see her and Urb and Tarr heading back into the trench? I’d just about given up, and then I saw her, and she pulled me along as if I was wearing chains round my neck. I had nothing left – me and Touchy – remember, Touchy?’

  ‘Aye. What of it?’

  ‘We were finished. When I saw Quick Ben go down, it was like someone carved out my gut. I went all hollow inside. Suddenly, I knew it was time to die.’

  ‘You were wrong,’ said Maybe in a growl.

  ‘We got us a good sergeant, is what I’m saying.’

  Maybe nodded, and glanced back at Crump. ‘You listening, soldier? Don’t mess it up.’

  The tall, long-faced man with the strangely wide-spaced eyes blinked confusedly. ‘They stepped on my cussers,’ he said. ‘Now I ain’t got any more.’

  ‘Can you use that sword on your belt, sapper?’

  ‘What? This? No, why would I want to do that? We’re just marching.’

  Lagging behind, breath coming in harsh gasps, Limp said, ‘Crump had a bag of munitions. Stuck his brain in there, too. For, uh, safekeeping. It all went up, throwing Nah’ruk everywhere. He’s just an empty skull now, Maybe.’

  ‘So he can’t fight? What about using a crossbow?’

  ‘Never seen him try one of those. But fight? Crump fights, don’t worry about that.’

  ‘Well, with what, then? That stupid bush knife?’

  ‘He uses his hands, Maybe.’

  ‘Well, that’s just great then.’

  ‘We’re just marching,’ said Crump again, and then he laughed.

  Urb glanced back at the squad trudging five paces behind his own. She had nothing to drink now. She was waking up. To who she really was. And maybe she didn’t like what she saw. Wasn’t that what drinking was all about to begin with? He rubbed the back of his neck, faced forward again.

  Sober now. Eyes clear. Clear enough to see…well,
it wasn’t like she’d really shown any interest. And besides, did he really want to get tangled with someone like that? Standing up only to probably fall down again. It was a narrow path for people like her, and they needed to want to walk it. If they didn’t, off they went again, sooner or later. Every time.

  Of course, if what Fid had said was true, what did any of it even matter? They were the walking dead, looking for a place to finish up with all the walking. So in the meantime, if there was a chance at anything, why not take it? She’d not be serious about it, though, would she? She’d just mock the whole idea of love, of what he would end up cutting out and slapping down wet and red on the table between them – she’d just laugh.

  He wasn’t brave enough for that. In fact, he wasn’t brave at all, about anything. Not fighting Nah’ruk, or Letherii, or Whirlwind fanatics. Every time he had to draw his sword, he went cold as ice inside. Loose, quaking, dread shivering out from his stomach to steal the heat from his limbs. He drew his sword expecting to die, and die poorly.

  But he’d do what he could to keep her alive. Always had. Always would. Usually she was too drunk to even see it, or maybe she was so used to him being there when it counted that he was no different from a stone wall for her to throw her back against. But wasn’t even that enough for him?

  It would have to be, because he didn’t have the courage for anything more. Being the walking dead didn’t have a thing to do with bravery. It was just a way of looking at the time left, of ducking down and pushing on and not complaining. He could do that. He’d been doing that all his life, in fact.

  I’ve been the walking dead all along, and I didn’t even know it. The thought left him weakened, as if some hidden knife had just pushed deep inside, piercing his soul. I’ve been telling myself this was being alive. This here. This…hiding. Wishing. Dreaming. Wanting. And all the while, what does anyone else see when they look at me?

  Quiet Urb. Not much going on in there, is there? But a fair soldier. Adequate. Made sergeant, sure, but don’t ever think he’ll go higher. Hasn’t got it inside, you see. It’s quiet as a cave in there, but you got to, well, admire him. He’s a man without troubles. He’s a man who lives it easy, if you know what I mean.