The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

and there’s nothing left to save

  In the mirror you walk away

  In the mirror you walk away

  Song of the Last Prayer

  (in the age of adjudication)

  Sevul of Kolanse

  HE FELT THE NUDGE AND IMAGINED HIMSELF IN THE HOLD OF A SHIP, rolling in heavy swells. When the nudge came a second time, he thought of drunken nights, sprawled beneath a table with someone’s booted foot thudding against him. With the third nudge – harder this time, delivered with irritation or impatience – he muttered a curse. But something had gummed together his lips, so the word came out as a moan.

  He decided it was time to open his eyes.

  That too proved a struggle, lids pulling apart as if glued, stinging viciously once he blinked his way clear. Gloom, blurred shapes, something like a face hovering over him. The air smelled of decay. The taste in his mouth was of old, old blood. And something else. Bitter. It was, he decided, the taste of failure.

  ‘Get up.’

  Another figure, now kneeling beside him. A soft hand pressing against the side of his face – but his beard was stiff and it crackled under the palm, and the hand slipped away. Only to come back, hard enough to rock his head.

  And a woman said, ‘We don’t have time for this. The door’s open. Some people round here got a feel for things like that.’

  The first speaker said, ‘Poison’s gone inert. Long ago. But he ain’t moved in a while.’

  ‘The guardian should’ve—’

  ‘Off wandering the warrens, is my guess. Lucky us.’

  ‘Just help him to his feet, will you?’

  Hands under his arms, a grunt, and he felt himself leave the stone floor except for his heels. Sudden pain in his lower back and his legs as they tried to take his weight. He couldn’t remember being this heavy – was he ever this heavy?

  ‘Stand up, damn you – I can’t hold you up long.’

  ‘How do you think I felt?’ the woman asked beside him. ‘He made all my bones creak.’

  He swore at the sharp stabs lancing out from his legs, tottered—

  ‘There, back a step – lean against the wall. Good, like that. Now look at me, idiot. Look at me like you know me.’

  It was dark, but he could make out the man’s face now. Studied the eyes fixing on his own, and frowned.

  ‘What’s my name?’ the man demanded.

  He worked until he had some spit in his mouth, pushed with his tongue to force open his lips. ‘I know you,’ he managed to say. ‘Your name… Blob.’

  ‘Blob?’ The man’s head turned towards the woman. ‘He says my name is Blob.’

  ‘Should I slap him again?’

  ‘Blur,’ he now said, blinking at the woman. ‘Blob and Blur. I remember now. You got me drunk. Took advantage of me. I should probably kill you both. Where are my trousers?’

  Still leaning against the wall, still using it to prop himself up, he glared at the man and the woman, watched them both back off a step. They were all in a corridor, and to his right was a thick wooden door, pushed open, revealing a snarled lumpy mess of a yard just beyond, and a cool draught was slinking in, smelling of brackish water and rubbish.

  The man spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘You’re wearing your trousers.’

  ‘Of course I am. Think I can’t dress myself? Where are my knives?’

  The woman swore under her breath and then said, ‘The fool’s lost his mind. Not hard, since it wasn’t great to begin with, but it’s gone now. He’s useless to us – Cotillion lied. Just wanted me out from underfoot, so he sent me riding wild as a she-witch – all for nothing!’

  ‘I’d agree with you on that assessment,’ said the other man, now crossing his arms, ‘except for one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Blob and Blur? The bastard’s having us on, Minala. And he thinks it’s funny, too. See that glare? Like every ocean storm’s come home to roost on his forehead. Thing is, Kalam never glares. Almost never scowls. Kalam’s got the face of an assassin.’

  Kalam sneered. ‘I’m having you on, am I? Tell you what, Wizard, am I having you on the way you had me on when I cracked that acorn and you never showed? With about a hundred Claws closing in on me?’

  ‘Not my fault. Besides, look at you. You came out the other end still walking—’

  ‘Crawling, actually,’ corrected Minala. ‘According to Shadowthrone, I mean. In fact, the wispy runt had to drag Kalam up to the door here. It’s a wonder he even managed it.’

  Quick Ben snorted. ‘So you ain’t nearly as good as you think you are. What a shock. Look at your clothes and armour – you’re chopped to pieces, O mighty assassin. A handful of Laseen’s weasels made a mess of you, and you’ve got the nerve to blame me.’

  ‘So where is she?’ Kalam demanded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Laseen. I got to settle with her – she cut Tavore loose. She said the Wickans have to be sacrificed – and Korbolo Dom. I want that bastard’s knobby head bouncing down every step from Mock’s Hold to the mouth of the sewer – where the fuck are my knives?’

  Minala drew out a belted brace and flung the gear at his feet. ‘So I come riding through a thousand warrens, nearly get blasted by lightning, and you ain’t got a single word for your Hood-damned wife?’

  ‘You threw me out, remember?’

  ‘Remember? I’m remembering why, is what I’m remembering. This is all Cotillion’s fault.’

  Quick Ben said, ‘She won’t say it, but she misses you—’

  She rounded on him. ‘You stay out of this!’

  ‘I’d love to, but we haven’t got time. Look, Kalam, she’s sincere – she even found you a horse—’

  ‘What do I need a horse for? We’re in Malaz City! If Laseen’s run away, I don’t need a horse – I need a ship.’

  ‘Kalam, listen to me. Shadowthrone delivered you to the Deadhouse. You were dying. Poisoned. And then you were just, er, left here. Lying there on the floor. For some time – well, a fair bit of time, in fact.’

  ‘Did you kill Laseen, then? Did you avenge me? And you have the nerve to call yourself my friend – you didn’t kill her, did you? Did you?’

  ‘No I didn’t – just close that trap of yours and try listening for a change. Never mind the Malazan Empire. Never mind the Regent or Protector or whatever title Mallick Rel’s come up with. And maybe Laseen got killed like they say she did, or maybe she didn’t – it doesn’t matter. We’re not hanging around, Kalam. We’re needed elsewhere. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Not a word. But it sounds to me like we’re wasting time.’ He looked at Minala. ‘So you got me a horse, did you? Is it big enough? Better not be a stallion – you know how they get jealous when I’m around you.’

  ‘I wasn’t picky,’ she said. ‘But if I’d thought about it, I’d have gotten you a fat one-eared three-legged ass, and you could take turns riding each other. Not that anybody’d tell the difference.’

  ‘Gods below, you two!’ hissed Quick Ben, with a sharp look out into the yard. ‘Trying to wake up the whole waterfront? We’ve got to go. Now.’

  Kalam collected the weapon belt, checked to confirm that the sheaths held his long knives. But his memory still wasn’t the way it should have been, so he couldn’t be sure. But they looked to be decent weapons anyway. ‘Fine. Shut up the both of you and let’s get going.’

  Outside, beneath a strangely green cloudy night sky, Quick Ben led the way down the winding path between overgrown mounds and dead trees. They reached the gate and the wizard gestured off to their left.

  The horses were tethered to a hitching post in front of a sunken tavern thirty paces away. Rising waters had flooded the taproom, leaving the place abandoned and dark. As they set off for them, Kalam narrowed his gaze on one of the beasts. His steps slowed. ‘Hold on,’ he whispered, ‘that ain’t a horse.’

  ‘Best I could do,’ Quick Ben muttered. ‘Don’t worry, it’s mine.’

  Four paces from the rail and a hul
king, armoured figure stepped out from the tavern’s nearest alley. Two heavy blades clashed together, and then lifted threateningly.

  Quick Ben swore. ‘Look, Temper, I knocked. Nobody home.’

  The visored face swung to study the Deadhouse, and then a deep voice rumbled out. ‘I might have to kill you three anyway.’

  ‘Why?’ yelped Quick Ben.

  Temper pointed with one of his huge swords. ‘You didn’t close the fucking door.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  They watched the wizard hurry back to the Deadhouse.

  Temper turned to Kalam. ‘He never fooled me, you know. I don’t know what Whiskeyjack was thinking.’

  ‘You smell of Coop’s Ale,’ said Kalam. ‘I’m thirsty. Listen, Minala – when Quick gets back, tell him—’

  ‘Don’t even try,’ she said in a growl. ‘Besides, here he comes.’

  ‘Done,’ said Quick Ben when he returned. His teeth flashed white as he smiled.

  Temper slid his weapons back into their sheaths. ‘I suppose I don’t really need to say this to any of you. But…don’t come back. We like it sleepy here. I see any of you again…’

  Quick Ben’s smile vanished and he sighed and shook his head. ‘Temper, you should’ve bolted to the Bridgeburners when you had the chance.’

  ‘I hear they’re all dead.’

  The wizard swung atop his ethereal horse and grinned down. ‘Exactly.’

  Examining the natty gelding Minala had found for him, Kalam glanced over. ‘Do you like being retired, Temper? No, it’s an honest question. Do you like it?’

  ‘Night like this…seeing you all eager to ride out…into serious trouble, no doubt…aye, Assassin, I like it. And if you want to do the same, I’ll stand you a tankard of Coop’s in yonder inn, before throwing you into the harbour.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you on that,’ Kalam replied, mounting up. He looked across to Minala, and then Quick Ben. ‘All right, unless these horses can run on water, someone needs to crack open a warren.’

  ‘Well,’ said Quick Ben, ‘mine can.’

  ‘Smug as ever, I see.’

  ‘In any case, warrens are my business—’

  ‘And how’s business?’ Kalam asked.

  ‘Awful. But that’s all about to change.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘Gods below, Kalam. Because I’m back, that’s why. Now stop talking and leave me to it, will you?’

  When the three riders were gone, and the tattered wisps of foul-smelling smoke had drifted away, Temper swung round, stepped back into the gloom of the alley, and studied the wraith-like figure standing amidst the rubbish. ‘Old loyalties,’ he said. ‘The only reason I let them go. The Deadhouse isn’t a damned toll booth, Emperor.’

  A cane cracked its silver heel hard on the grimy stones. ‘Emperor? I left that behind long ago. And as for the days when I gave kindly advice, well, they never existed. But for this once, and for you alone, Temper, a word of caution. Watch how you talk to gods, mortal, lest they…’ he suddenly giggled, ‘take umbrage.’

  Temper grunted, said nothing for a dozen heartbeats, and then: ‘Umbrage…huh.’ He turned to leave, and Shadowthrone struck the cobbles again. The huge warrior paused, looked over.

  Shadowthrone hissed. ‘Well? Is that it?’

  ‘Is what it?’

  ‘That’s all you have to say? This is a momentous scene, you fat fool! This is where everything really, truly, finally begins! So squeeze the ale from your brain, mortal, and say something worthy of your kind. You stand before a god! Speak your eloquence for all posterity. Be profound!’

  ‘Profound…huh.’ Temper was silent for a long moment, studying the cobbles of the alley mouth. And then he lifted his helmed head, faced Shadowthrone, and said, ‘Fuck off.’

  Sister Belie watched the man pick his way carefully through the mass of rubble that had once been the citadel gate. He wasn’t especially tall. He had nothing of the brawn common to a veteran soldier, though a white scar was visible climbing one side of his jaw, up to a clipped ear – that didn’t look like a sword cut, she decided. Something bit him. Would Sister Reverence appreciate that? A Jaghut’s tusk, perchance? Not likely. No, there wasn’t much to this man, nothing to explain the source of his defiance, his infuriating resistance to the will and voice of the Watered.

  This was about to change, of course. The enemy commander had just made a fatal error in agreeing to this parley. For Sister Belie’s blood was not watered, and this man was about to discover the power in the voice of a pure-born Forkrul Assail.

  The smoke-stained, cracked walls of the citadel were proof of the effort the Watered commanders had made in seeking to conclude this siege; and the thousand or so rotting corpses lying on the killing ground beneath those walls marked the savage determination of the Shriven. But every assault thus far had ended in defeat.

  Yes, the enemy has done well. But our patience is at an end. It is time to finish this.

  The fool was unguarded. He came out alone – not that it would have mattered, for she would have used his own bodyguards to cut him down. Instead, she would make him take his own life, here, before the horrified eyes of his soldiers lining those battlements.

  The enemy commander picked his way past the corpses and then drew to within ten paces of where she stood. Halting, he eyed her curiously for a moment, and then spoke in passable Kolansii. ‘A Pure, then. Is that the correct term? Not mixed blood – the ones you call Watered, as in “watered down”, presumably. No, you are a true Forkrul Assail. Have you come to…adjudicate?’ And he smiled.

  ‘Human arrogance ever takes my breath away,’ Sister Belie observed. ‘Perhaps, under certain circumstances, it is justified. For example, when dealing with your own kind, whom you have made helpless and at your mercy. Or in the matter of dealing with lesser beasts, when they presume to defy your tyranny. In the palace of the now dead king of Kolanse, there is a vast chamber crowded with stuffed trophies – animals slain by those of the royal line. Wolves, bears, cats. Eagles. Stags, elk, bhederin. They are given postures of ferocity, to mark that final moment of defiance – their presumption to the right to their own lives, one supposes. You are human – as human as was the king of Kolanse. Can you explain to me this sordid need to slay animals? Are we to believe that each and every beast in that chamber sought to kill its slayer?’

  ‘Well now,’ the man replied, ‘I admit to having a personal opinion on such matters, but you have to understand, I never could comprehend the pleasure of slaughter. Those whom I have met who have enjoyed such activities, well, the reasons they tend to give don’t make much sense to me. You could have simply asked the king of Kolanse.’

  ‘I did,’ Sister Belie said, nodding.

  His brows lifted. ‘And?’

  ‘He said it made him feel one with the animal he killed.’

  ‘Ah. I’ve heard similar.’

  ‘Accordingly,’ she resumed, ‘I killed all his children and had them stuffed and displayed in the same chamber. It was my wish that he feel one with his offspring, too.’

  ‘I imagine that wasn’t very successful.’

  She shrugged. ‘Let us hear your opinion, then.’

  ‘Some needs are so pathetic they cannot be satisfied except by killing. I don’t mean those among us who hunt out of necessity. That’s just food. But let’s face it, as soon as you start planting fields and keeping livestock, you don’t need to hunt for food any more.’

  ‘The king also said it was his means of worshipping nature.’

  ‘By destroying it?’

  ‘Just my thought, human. But then, is that not your principal means of worship?’

  ‘Now that is a perceptive, if slightly painful, observation. But consider this – in killing and stuffing those children, were you not expressing the same detestable arrogance that so offended you in the first place?’

  ‘It was an experiment to see if I too could feel one with those I had slain. Alas, I did not. I felt…sad. Th
at I should have such power in my hands, and should choose to use it for destructive ends. And yet I discovered something else – a truth about myself, in fact. There is pleasure in destroying, and it is a most sordid kind of pleasure. I suspect this is what is confused with the notion of “oneness” by such chronic slayers.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Because they are, in fact, not particularly intelligent.’

  ‘I assumed you would arrive at that opinion sooner or later.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, it sounds as if you feel a need to justify killing us, and while you have pity for the lesser beasts of this world, your definition of “lesser beasts” does not include humans. Yet, ironically, your justification is predicated on the very same notion of arrogant superiority that you found so reprehensible in the Kolanse royal family. The beast that knows no better can be slain with impunity. Of course, there is no logic to that notion at all, is there?’

  Sister Belie sighed. ‘That was most enjoyable. Now I need you to take your own life, so that we may end this pointless battle. I would like to be able to tell you that your army will be well treated, and so on. But the truth is, I will command them – just as I command the Shriven. And with the power of my voice I will set them against my enemies, whoever they may be, and they will fight without fear. They will fight with a ferocity the like of which has never been seen among your kind, because I intend to use them, the way you use horses, or war dogs. In other words, like well-trained beasts.’

  ‘What a depressing notion, Forkrul Assail. Those pathetic needs I talked about? They all come down to power. The king killed those animals because he had the power to do so, and expressing that power made him feel good. But it never lasts long, so out he goes to kill some more. I find it pathetic. And all that you have just said to me here, well, it’s really the same old shit. By your voice and the sorcery of Akhrast Korvalain you will seek to fill that void in your soul, the void that is the hunger for control, when the bitter truth is, you really control nothing, and the universe is destined to swallow you up just as it does everything else.’

  ‘You do not believe in the power to do good? To do what is right?’