The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  Fiddler halted. He turned round to face them all.

  The Adjunct continued until she was ten paces from him and then slowed, and with her last step, she tottered and almost fell. Banaschar moved close but stopped when Tavore straightened once more.

  Henar took hold of Lostara’s left arm, and they were still, and she looked down at the ground, as if to make it familiar to her eyes, knowing that from this place she would not move, ever again. Not her, not Henar. This, this is my grave.

  The Fists and their officers were arriving. Faradan Sort with Skanarow and, beside her, Ruthan Gudd. Kindly, his face puffy and red, as if he’d stumbled and driven it into something. Raband standing close, one hand on his sword as he eyed Fist Blistig. That man, Lostara saw, had taken a punch – the evidence was plain in his swollen, misaligned nose, his split lips and the smears of dried blood. Bruises had spread out under his reddened eyes, and it seemed as if those eyes were nailed to the Adjunct. Fevered, burning with malice.

  Behind them all, the army slowly ground down into something motionless, and she could see the faces of the nearest soldiers – this legion of old men and old women – all staring. Equipment bags slumped to the ground. A few, here and there, followed their kit to the ground.

  It’s done, then.

  All eyes were on the Adjunct.

  Tavore Paran suddenly looked small. A person none would notice on a street, or in a crowd. The world was filled with such people. They bore no proof of gifts, no lines of beauty or grace, no bearing of confidence or challenge. The world is filled with them. Filled. For ever unnoticed. For ever…unwitnessed.

  Her plain face was ravaged by the sun, blistered and cracked. The weight she had lost made her gaunt, shrunken. Yet she stood, weathering this multitude of stares, the rising heat of hatred – as every need was refused, as every hope was answered with nothing but silence.

  Now the T’lan Imass arrived. They held their weapons of stone in their lifeless hands, drawing closer to the Adjunct.

  Blistig snarled. ‘Bodyguards, bitch? Can they kill us all? We’ll get to you. I swear it.’

  The Adjunct studied the man, but said nothing.

  Please, Tavore. Give us some words. Give us something. To make this dying…palatable. We tried, didn’t we? We followed where you led. That was duty. That was loyalty. And all you kept asking of us, the battles, the marches…we did them. See how many have died for you, Tavore. See us who remain. Now we too will die. Because we believed.

  Gods below, say something!

  The Adjunct twisted round, to where Fiddler was standing, and then she faced Ruthan Gudd. ‘Captain,’ her voice was a dull croak, ‘where lies Icarias?’

  ‘South and east of us, Adjunct. Nine, ten days.’

  ‘And directly east? Where is the edge of this desert?’

  He clawed at his beard, and then shook his head. ‘Another ten, eleven days, if we continue angling northeast – if we continue following this shallow basin as we have been doing since yesterday.’

  ‘Is there water beyond the desert, Captain? On the Elan Plain?’

  ‘Not much, I would warrant, or so the children have told us.’

  Tavore looked to the T’lan Imass. ‘Upon the Elan Plain, Beroke, can you find us water?’

  One of the undead creatures faced her. ‘Adjunct, we are then within the influence of Akhrast Korvalain. It is possible, but difficult, and the efforts we make will be felt. We would not be able to hide.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you, Beroke.’

  She still thinks we can make it. Ten more days! Has she lost her mind?

  Blistig laughed, a sound like the tearing open of his own throat. ‘We have followed a mad woman. Where else would she lead us?’

  Lostara could not understand where Blistig found the energy for his rage, but he now raised his arms, shouted, ‘Malazans! She gave us nothing! We pleaded – we begged! In the name of our soldiers, in the name of all of you – we begged her!’ He faced the army. ‘You saw us! Marching to her tent again and again – all our questions she spat back into our faces! Our fears, our concerns – they told us this desert was impassable – but she ignored them all!’

  Before him stood the ranks, and from them, not a sound.

  Blistig spun, advanced on the Adjunct. ‘What power is this? Within you, woman? That they now die without a complaint?’

  Kindly, Raband, Sort and Skanarow had all drawn closer, and all at once Lostara knew that if Blistig sought to attack Tavore now he would never reach her, never mind the T’lan Imass. Yet, for all that, those officers kept looking to the Adjunct, and Lostara saw the yearning in their eyes.

  No one could withstand this much longer – even a god would fall to his knees. But still the Adjunct stood. ‘Banaschar,’ she said.

  The ex-priest limped over to Lostara. ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘your kit bag, please.’

  She frowned at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Can I have your kit bag, Captain?’

  Henar helped her lift it off her shoulders. They set it down.

  Kneeling before it, Banaschar fumbled at the straps. ‘She judged you the strongest,’ he murmured. ‘Gift of a god? Possibly. Or,’ and he glanced up at her, ‘maybe you’re just the most stubborn one of us all.’ He pulled back the sun-cracked flap, rummaged inside, and then drew out a small wooden box.

  Lostara gasped. ‘That’s not—’

  ‘You stayed close,’ Banaschar said. ‘We knew you would.’

  He struggled to straighten, nodding his thanks when Lostara helped him, and then he walked slowly over to the Adjunct.

  In Lostara’s mind, a memory…a throne room. That Ceda. The king…complaining, such a plain gift, that dagger. And what did the Ceda tell her? Dire necessity…

  Banaschar opened the box. The Adjunct reached in, withdrew the dagger. She held it before her.

  “When blood is required. When blood is needed.”

  Tavore glanced over at her, and Lostara realized that she had spoken those words aloud.

  Banaschar said, ‘Adjunct, the king’s Ceda—’

  ‘Is an Elder God, yes.’ Tavore continued studying the knife, and then, slowly, she looked up, her gaze moving from one face to the next. And something flickered in her expression, that parched mask of plainness. A crack through to…to such hurt. And then it was gone again, and Lostara wondered if she’d ever seen it, wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing. She is only what you see. And what you see isn’t much.

  Banaschar said, ‘Your blood, Adjunct.’

  She saw Fiddler then, well behind the Adjunct, saw him turn away as if in shame.

  The Adjunct was studying them all. Lostara found herself at Tavore’s side, with no memory of moving, and she saw the faces before her, all fixed upon the Adjunct. She saw their broken lips, the glint of unbearable need in their eyes.

  And beside her, in a voice that could crush stones, Tavore Paran said, ‘Haven’t you drunk enough?’

  Fiddler could hear music, filled with such sorrow that he felt everything breaking inside. He would not turn round, would not watch. But he knew when she took that knife and cut deep into her hand. He felt it as if that hand was his own. The blood was bright on that simple iron blade, covering the faint swirling etching. He could see it in his mind’s eye – there was no need to lift his head, no need to look over at them all, the way they stood, the thirst and the wound she had delivered so raw in their eyes.

  And then, in the weight of a silence too vast to comprehend, blood flowing, the Adjunct fell to her knees.

  When she drove that knife into the hard ground, Fiddler flinched, and the music deepened its timbre, grew suddenly faint, and then, in a whisper, returned to him.

  His knees were cold.

  Lostara Yil lifted her head. Were they killing the last of the horses? She’d not even known that any were left, but now she could hear them, somewhere in the mass of soldiers. Stepping forward, her boot skidded.

  Beside her, Henar cursed under his breath – but
not in anger. In wonder.

  Now voices cried out, and the sound rippled through the army.

  There was a whispering sound, from below, and she looked down. The ground was dark, stained.

  Wet.

  Banaschar was at the Adjunct’s side, lifting her to her feet. ‘Fists!’ he snapped. ‘Have them ready the casks! Move it!’

  Water welled up beneath them, spread over the ground. As the sun’s light brightened, Lostara could see, on all sides, a glistening tide flowing ever outward. Through the holes and tears in her boots she could now feel it, cold, almost numbing. Rising to her ankles.

  What did Ruthan Gudd say? We’re in a basin? How deep is this going to get?

  She fell to her knees, drew her head down, and like an animal in the wilds, she drank.

  And still the water rose.

  Chaos in the army. Laughter. Howls, voices lifted to gods. She knew there would be those – fools – who drank too much too quickly, and it would kill them. But there were officers, and sergeants, and hands would be stayed. Besides, most of the fools were already dead.

  With casks full, with all the waterskins heavy and sweating…could they march another eleven days? They would eat, now, and soak in as much water as they could. They would feel strength return to their limbs. Their thoughts would awaken from the sluggish torpor they had known for days now.

  Still the water rose.

  Horns sounded. And suddenly, the Bonehunters were on the move. Seeking high ground. For all they knew, that knife had delivered an entire sea.

  Thick as blood, the smell of water filled the air.

  Book Seven

  Your Private Shore

  Lie still!

  The jagged urgent heat

  The horn-twisted acts

  So unconscionable

  I have run far from the mob

  Torn the veil and bled in holes

  Under your very feet

  Take my word not for a day

  Not a year not a century

  What I will say charges the echo

  Of a thousand years unchained

  And all the pillagers of derision

  Pacing the mouths of caves

  March legions of dust

  Back and forth

  Like conquerors

  And the juddering ways

  The skittered agitations

  The bridled and the umbraged

  My tears appease not your thirst

  My blood was never for you

  I am running still

  Alone as I have ever been

  And this kissing air on my face

  From here to for ever

  Is clean and pure

  As wonder

  Legions of Dust

  Atalict

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘He was not a modest man. Contemplating suicide, he summoned a dragon.’

  Gothos’ Folly

  Gothos

  ‘EVEN SHOULD YOU SUCCEED, COTILLION. BEYOND ALL EXPECTATION, beyond, even, all desire. They will still speak of your failure.’

  He stood in the place where the Whorl had manifested – a wounding in the fabric of Shadow, a place now slowly healing. There was nothing else here, nothing to give evidence to the struggles that had occurred, the blood that had been spilled. Still, Chaos felt closer than it ever had, as if moments from erupting once again. The madness of sorcerers, the ambitions of the starved…we’re surrounded by fools wanting more than what they have. And, alas, it’s all too familiar company, and the ugly truth is that we may not be out of place in that crowd. Edgewalker’s words haunted him. The breathtaking ambition, the sheer verve of all that they had set in motion. But now we have finally arrived – it’s all cut loose, and so much – so much – is out of our hands.

  He saw footprints in the grey dust, reminding him that there were other arenas, distant places where battles raged on. Nothing was simple, and in the spilling of blood no one could guess the myriad channels it would carve.

  Shadowthrone, old friend, we have done what we could – but the game is much bigger than we ever imagined. This gamble…gods, this gamble. One hand drifted to one of the knives at his belt. And then he shook himself, straightening.

  Take a deep breath, lad. Here goes…

  ‘What you ask of me, it is too much. Yes, of course I see the necessity – I may have sickened, even threatened, but magic is not my enemy. It never was. Indeed, I envy its gifts to this world. Upon my own…ah, no matter. Belief can be rotten. All it takes is one betrayal to steal away an entire future.

  ‘You would not have recognized me in my anger. It shone blinding bright. There remain those, among the multitudes I left behind, who imagine themselves gods, for all their mortal trappings. They would maintain a tyranny such as no true god could ever imagine. They would enslave generation upon generation – all those sharing the same soil, the same water, the same air. They conspire to keep them on their knees. Bowed in servitude. And each slave, measuring his or her life, can see – if they dare – only the truth, and so most of my world, most of my children, live a life of despair and suffering, and ever growing rage.

  ‘Is this all there must be? The tyrants would have it so. I sometimes dream…yes, I know you have little time… I dream of returning, swords blazing with holy vengeance. I dream, Shadowthrone, of murdering every one of those fuckers. Is this what it means to be a god? To be an implacable weapon of justice?

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice. I agree.

  ‘No, I’m not that much of a fool. It will be no different. And should you achieve the impossible with your handful of mortals, should you free me…and find the path, the moment I take my first step upon the soil of my home they will emasculate me. Bleed me. Gut me, and then stretch my hide overhead. They’ll need shade from the torrid heat of all the fires they themselves lit. That is the problem with tyrants, they outlive us all.

  ‘I will do what you ask. Rather, I shall try. Pieces of me remain missing and I despair of ever seeing them again. It is my understanding that the one named Skinner, usurper and tyrant king of my House of Chains, has many enemies. He can now count me among them. Do you imagine he loses sleep?

  ‘No, I don’t either. Betrayers never do.

  ‘Shadowthrone. You will not betray me, will you?’

  ‘Karsa Orlong, where are all the gods of peace?’

  He stepped outside, straightening. ‘I know not.’

  Picker turned to face the city. Many troubles there. Perhaps at last they had begun to settle. But…all that boiled beneath the surface, well, that never went away. ‘Do you know how to get there?’

  He eyed her. ‘I know how to get there.’

  She drew a deep breath – she could hear movement inside the hut behind the giant. Picker lifted her gaze until it locked with the Toblakai’s. ‘I call upon the vow you made long ago, Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. When you walk to where you must go, a crippled priest will find you. In the street, a broken man, a beggar, and he will speak to you. And by his words, you shall understand.’

  ‘I already understand, Malazan.’

  ‘Karsa—’

  ‘There are too many gods of war.’ And then he took up his sword, and inside the hut a woman began weeping. ‘And not one of them understands the truth.’

  ‘Karsa—’

  His teeth were bared as he said, ‘When it comes to war, woman, who needs gods?’

  She watched as he set off. And under her breath she whispered, ‘Darujhistan, I beg you, do not get in this man’s way.’

  Dust roiled over the distant encampment. Squinting, Paran took another bite of the alien fruit his foragers had found, and wiped at the juices dribbling down into his beard.

  ‘That is not helping, High Fist.’

  He glanced over. Ormulogun was scratching desperately on a bleached board with his willow charcoal stick. At his feet squatted a fat toad, watching his efforts with gimlet eyes.

  ‘Nothing will help that,’ the toad sighed.

  ‘Posterity
!’ snapped the Imperial Artist.

  ‘Posterity my ass,’ Gumble replied. ‘Oh, was that not droll of me? Critics are never appreciated for what they truly are.’

  ‘What? Leeches sucking on the talent of others, you mean?’

  ‘It is my objectivity that you so envy, Ormulogun.’

  ‘And you,’ the artist muttered, ‘can stick that objectivity up your posterity, toad.’

  Paran took a last bite of the fruit, examined the furry pit, and then flung it over the wall. He wiped his hands on his thighs and turned. ‘Fist Rythe Bude.’

  The woman was leaning out over a parapet. She straightened. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Assemble the companies at their stations. It’s time.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Lounging nearby, Noto Boil drew the fish spine from between his front teeth and stepped forward. ‘Is it truly?’

  ‘Weapons,’ said Paran. ‘Kept hidden away. But there comes a time, Noto, when they must be unsheathed. A time, in fact, to put proof to the pretensions.’ He eyed the cutter. ‘The gods have been kicking us around for a long time. When do we say enough?’

  ‘And in their absence, High Fist, will we manage things any better?’

  ‘No,’ Paran said, walking past him, ‘but at least then we won’t have the option of blaming someone else.’

  Sister Belie scanned the distant walls. Suddenly, not a soldier in sight. ‘They’ve quit,’ she said. ‘Now, the question is, do they leave the way they came, or do they march out from the gate – or what’s left of it – and try to break the siege?’

  Standing beside her, Watered Exigent glanced back at the camp. ‘If the latter, Sister, then we are, perhaps, in trouble.’

  Sister Belie pretended not to hear him. If his seed of doubt thirsted for water, he would have to find it elsewhere. Another week. That is all we need. And then Brother Serenity will be here, with five thousand heavily armoured foreigners. The besieging forces were damaged – that last assault had been brutal. She was down to half strength. Her hold on them was fragile, and this was not a familiar feeling.