‘Me? Understand me? Perhaps. But that is not the most important issue here.’
He did not comprehend. Not at once. Then, a growing realization. ‘Their faith, beyond you, beyond the Fourteenth, lies with Dujek Onearm. So long as they believe he is there, poised behind us and ready to march to our aid, they will do as you command. You do not want to take that away from them, yet by your silence you sacrifice yourself, you sacrifice the respect they would accord you—’
‘Assuming such respect would be granted, Fist, and of that I am not convinced.’ She returned to the map-table. ‘The decision is yours, Fist.’
He watched her studying the map, then, concluding he had been dismissed, Keneb left the tent. He felt sick inside. The Host – broken? Was that simply her assessment? Maybe Dujek was just tired… yet, who might know better? Quick Ben, but he wasn’t here. Nor that assassin, Kalam Mekhar. Leaving… well, one man. He paused outside the tent, studied the sun’s position. There might be time, before Sort spoke to them all, if he hurried.
Keneb set out towards the camps of the marines.
‘What do you want me to say, Fist?’ The sergeant had laid out a half-dozen heavy quarrels. He had already tied sharpers to two of them and was working on a third.
Keneb stared at the clay-ball grenado in Strings’s hands. ‘I don’t know, but make it honest.’
Strings paused and looked over at his squad, eyes narrowing. ‘Adjunct’s hoping for reinforcements if things go bad?’ He was speaking in a low voice.
‘That’s just it, Sergeant. She isn’t.’
‘So, Fist,’ Strings said, ‘she thinks Dujek’s finished. And so’s the Host. Is that what she thinks?’
‘Yes. You know Quick Ben, and the High Mage was there, after all. At Coral. He’s not here for me to ask him, so I’m asking you. Is the Adjunct right?’
He resumed affixing the grenado to the quarrel head.
Keneb waited.
‘Seems,’ the sergeant muttered, ‘I misjudged the Adjunct.’
‘In what way?’
‘She’s better at reading signs than I thought.’
Hood’s balls, I really did not want to hear that.
‘You are looking well, Ganoes Paran.’
His answering smile was wry. ‘My new life of ease, Apsalar.’
Shouts from the sailors on the deck as the carrack swung towards the harbour of Kansu, the sound of gulls a muted accompaniment to the creak of cordage and timber. A cool breeze rode the salty air coming through the cabin’s round window portside, smelling of the shore.
Apsalar studied the man seated across from her a moment longer, then returned to her task of roughing with a pumice stone the grip of one of her in-fighting knives. Polished wood was pretty, but far too slick in a sweaty hand. Normally she used leather gloves, but it never hurt to consider less perfect circumstances. For an assassin, the ideal situation was choosing when and where to fight, but such luxuries were not guaranteed.
Paran said, ‘I see that you’re as methodical as ever. Although at least now, there’s more animation in your face. Your eyes…’
‘You’ve been at sea too long, Captain.’
‘Probably. Anyway, I’m not a captain any more. My days as a soldier are done.’
‘Regrets?’
He shrugged. ‘Some. I was never where I wanted to be with them. Until the very end, and then,’ he paused, ‘well, it was too late.’
‘That might have been for the better,’ Apsalar said. ‘Less… sullied.’
‘Odd, how the Bridgeburners mean different things for us. Memories, and perspectives. I was treated well enough among the survivors—’
‘Survivors. Yes, there’s always survivors.’
‘Picker, Antsy, Blend, Mallet, a few others. Proprietors of K’rul’s Bar, now, in Darujhistan.’
‘K’rul’s Bar?’
‘The old temple once sanctified to that Elder God, aye. It’s haunted, of course.’
‘More than you realize, Paran.’
‘I doubt that. I’ve learned a lot, Apsalar, about a lot of things.’
A heavy thud to starboard, as the harbour patrol arrived to collect the mooring fees. The slap of lines. More voices.
‘K’rul played a very active role against the Pannion Domin,’ Paran went on. ‘Since that time, I’ve grown less easy with his presence – the Elder Gods are back in the game—’
‘Yes, you’ve already said something to that effect. They are opposing the Crippled God, and one cannot find fault in that.’
‘Are they? Sometimes I’m convinced… other times,’ he shook his head. Then rose. ‘We’re pulling in. I need to make arrangements.’
‘What kind of arrangements?’
‘Horses.’
‘Paran.’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you now ascended?’
His eyes widened. ‘I don’t know. Nothing feels different. I admit I’m not even sure what ascendancy means.’
‘Means you’re harder to kill.’
‘Why?’
‘You have stumbled onto power, of a personal nature, and with it, well, power draws power. Always. Not the mundane kind, but something other, a force in nature, a confluence of energies. You begin to see things differently, to think differently. And others take notice of you – that’s usually bad, by the way.’ She sighed, studying him, and said, ‘Perhaps I don’t need to warn you, but I will. Be careful, Paran; of all the lands in this world, there are two more dangerous than all others—’
‘Your knowledge, or Cotillion’s?’
‘Cotillion’s for one, mine for the other. Anyway, you’re about to set foot on one of those two. Seven Cities, Paran, is not a healthy place to be, especially not for an ascendant.’
‘I know. I can feel that… what’s out there, what I have to deal with.’
‘Get someone else to do your fighting for you, if possible.’
His gaze narrowed on her. ‘Now that’s a clear lack of faith.’
‘I killed you once—’
‘And you were possessed by a god, by the Patron of Assassins himself, Apsalar.’
‘Who played by the rules. There are things here that do not.’
‘I’ll give that some consideration, Apsalar. Thank you.’
‘And remember, bargain from strength or don’t bargain at all.’
He gave her a strange smile, then headed topside.
A skittering sound from one corner, and Telorast and Curdle scampered into view, bony feet clattering on the wooden floor.
‘He is dangerous, Not-Apsalar! Stay away, oh, you’ve spent too long with him!’
‘Don’t worry about me, Telorast.’
‘Worry? Oh, we have worries, all right, don’t we, Curdle?’
‘Endless worries, Telorast. What am I saying? We’re not worried.’
Apsalar said, ‘The Master of the Deck knows all about you two, no doubt compounding those worries.’
‘But he told you nothing!’
‘Are you so certain of that?’
‘Of course!’ The bird-like skeleton bobbed and weaved in front of its companion. ‘Think on it, Curdle! If she knew she’d step on us! Wouldn’t she?’
‘Unless she has a more devious betrayal in mind, Telorast! Have you thought of that? No, you haven’t, have you? I have to do all the thinking.’
‘You never think! You never have!’
Apsalar rose. ‘They’ve dropped the gangplank. Time to leave.’
‘Hide us under your cloak. You have to. There are dogs out there, in the streets!’
She sheathed the knife. ‘All right, but no squirming.’
A squalid port, four of the six piers battered into treacherous hulks by Nok’s fleet a month earlier, Kansu was in no way memorable, and Apsalar was relieved as they rode past the last sprawl of shanties on the inland road and saw before them a scattering of modest stone buildings, marking the herders, the pens and the demon-eyed goats gathered beneath guldindha trees. And beyond that, tharo
k orchards with their silvery, thread-like bark prized for rope-making, the uneven rows looking ghostly with their boles shimmering in the wind.
There had been something odd in the city behind them, the crowds smaller than was normal, the voices more muted. A number of merchant shops had been shut, and this during peak market time. The modest garrison of Malazan soldiers was present only at the gates and down at the docks, where at least four trader ships had been denied berths. And no-one seemed inclined to offer explanations to outsiders.
Paran had spoken quietly with the horse trader and Apsalar had watched as more coin than was necessary changed hands, but the ex-captain had said nothing during their ride out.
Reaching a crossroads, they drew rein.
‘Paran,’ Apsalar said, ‘did you note anything strange about Kansu?’
He grimaced. ‘I don’t think we need worry,’ he said. ‘You’ve been possessed by a god, after all, and as for me, well, as I said, there’s no real cause for worry.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Plague. Hardly surprising, given all the unburied corpses following this rebellion. It began a week or so ago, somewhere east of Ehrlitan. Any ships that made port or hail from there are being turned away.’
Apsalar said nothing for a time. Then she nodded. ‘Poliel.’
‘Aye.’
‘And not enough healers left to intercede.’
‘The horse trader said officials went to the Temple of D’rek, in Kansu. The foremost healers are found there, of course. They found everyone within slaughtered.’
She glanced over at him.
‘I take the south track,’ Paran said, fighting with his edgy gelding.
Yes, there is nothing more to be said, is there. The gods are indeed at war. ‘The west for us,’ Apsalar replied, already uncomfortable with the Seven Cities style of saddle. Neither she nor Cotillion had ever had much success with horses, but at least the mare beneath her seemed a docile beast. She opened her cloak and dragged out Telorast, then Curdle, tossing them both onto the ground, where they raced ahead, long tails flicking.
‘All too short,’ Paran said, meeting her eyes.
She nodded. ‘But just as well, I think.’
Her comment was not well received. ‘I am sorry to hear you say that.’
‘I do not mean to offend, Ganoes Paran. It’s just that, well, I was rediscovering… things.’
‘Like comradeship?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that is something you feel you cannot afford.’
‘Invites carelessness,’ she said.
‘Ah, well. For what it is worth, Apsalar, I believe we will see each other again.’
She allowed that sentiment, and nodded. ‘I will look forward to that.’
‘Good, then there’s hope for you yet.’
She watched him ride away, his two packhorses trailing. Changes came to a man in ways few could imagine. He seemed to have let go of so much… she was envious of that. And already, she realized with a faint stab of regret, already she missed him. Too close, too dangerous by far. Just as well.
As for plague, well, he was probably right. Neither he nor Apsalar had much to fear. Too bad for everyone else, though.
The broken remnants of the road made for an agonized traverse up the limestone hillside, rocks tumbling and skittering down in clouds of dust. A flash flood had cut through the passage unknown years or decades past, revealing countless layers of sediments on the channel’s steep-cut walls. Leading her horse and the pack-mules by the reins, Samar Dev studied those multi-hued layers. ‘Wind and water, Karsa Orlong, without end. Time’s endless dialogue with itself.’
Three paces ahead, the Toblakai warrior did not reply. He was nearing the summit, taking the down-flow path of the past flood, ragged, gnawed rock rising to either side of him. The last hamlet was days behind them now; these lands were truly wild. Reclaimed, since surely this road must have led somewhere, once, but there were no other signs of past civilization. In any case, she was less interested in what had gone before. What was to come was her fascination, the wellspring of all her inventions, her inspirations.
‘Sorcery, Karsa Orlong, that is the heart of the problem.’
‘What problem now, woman?’
‘Magic obviates the need for invention, beyond certain basic requirements, of course. And so we remain eternally stifled—’
‘To the Faces with stifled, witch. There is nothing wrong with where we are, how we are. You spit on satisfaction, leaving you always unsettled and miserable. I am a Teblor – we live simply enough, and we see the cruelty of your so-called progress. Slaves, children in chains, a thousand lies to make one person better than the next, a thousand lies telling you this is how things should be, and there’s no stopping it. Madness called sanity, slavery called freedom. I am done talking now.’
‘Well, I’m not. You’re no different, calling ignorance wisdom, savagery noble. Without striving to make things better, we’re doomed to repeat our litany of injustices—’
Karsa reached the summit and turned to face her, his expression twisting. ‘Better is never what you think it is, Samar Dev.’
‘What does that mean?’
He raised a hand, suddenly still. ‘Quiet. Something’s not right.’ He slowly looked round, eyes narrowing. ‘There’s a… smell.’
She joined him, dragging the horse and mules onto level ground. High rocks to either side, the edge of a gorge just beyond – the hill they were on was a ridge, blade-edged, with more jagged rock beyond. A twisted ancient tree squatting on the summit. ‘I don’t smell anything…’
The Toblakai drew his stone sword. ‘A beast has laired here, nearby, I think. A hunter, a killer. And I think it is close…’
Eyes widening, Samar Dev scanned the area, her heart pounding hard in her chest. ‘You may be right. There are no spirits here…’
He grunted. ‘Fled.’
Fled. Oh.
Like a mass of iron filings, the sky was slowly lowering on all sides, a heavy mist that was dry as sand. Not that that made any sense, Kalam Mekhar allowed, but this was what came of sustained terror, the wild pathetic conjurations of a beleaguered imagination. He was clinging with every part of his body that was capable of clinging to the sheer, battered underside of a sky keep, the wind or whatever it was moaning in his ears, a trembling stealing the strength from his limbs as he felt the last of Quick Ben’s magic seep away.
Unanticipated, this sudden repudiation of sorcery – he could see no otataral, nothing veined through this brutal, black basalt. No obvious explanation. Leather gloves cut through, blood slicking his hands, and above, a mountain to climb, with this dry silver mist closing in around him. Somewhere far below crouched Quick Ben and Stormy, the former wondering what had gone wrong and, hopefully, trying to come up with an idea for dealing with it. The latter likely scratching his armpits and popping lice with his fingernails.
Well, there was no point in waiting for what might not come, when what was going to come was inevitable. Groaning with the effort, Kalam began pulling himself along the rock.
The last sky keep he had seen had been Moon’s Spawn, and its pocked sides had been home to tens of thousands of Great Ravens. Fortunately, this did not seem to be the case here. A few more man-heights’ worth of climbing and he would find himself on a side, rather than virtually upside-down as he was now. Reach there, he knew, and he would be able to rest.
Sort of.
That damned wizard. That damned Adjunct. Damned everybody, in fact, since not one of them was here, and of course they weren’t, since this was madness and nobody else was this stupid. Gods, his shoulders were on fire, the insides of his thighs a solid ache edging towards numbness. And that wouldn’t be good, would it?
Too old for this by far. Men his age didn’t reach his age falling for stupid plans like this one. Was he getting soft? Soft-brained.
He pulled himself round a chiselled projection, scrabbled with his feet for a moment, the
n edged over, drew himself up and found ledges that would take his weight. A whimper escaped him, sounding pathetic even to his own ears, as he settled against the stone.
A while later, he lifted his head and began looking round, searching for a suitable outcrop or knob of rock that he could loop his rope over.
Quick Ben’s rope, conjured out of nothing. Will it even work here, or will it just vanish? Hood’s breath, I don’t know enough about magic. Don’t even know enough about Quick, and I’ve known the bastard for bloody ever. Why isn’t he the one up here?
Because, if the Short-Tails noticed the gnat on their hide, Quick was better backup, even down there, than Kalam could have been. A crossbow quarrel would be spent by the time it reached this high – you could just pluck it out of the air. As for Stormy – a whole lot more expendable than me, as far as I’m concerned – the man swore he couldn’t climb, swore that as a babe he never once made it out of his crib without help.
Hard imagining that hairy-faced miserable hulk ever fitting into a crib in the first place.
Regaining control of his breathing, Kalam looked down.
To find Quick Ben and Stormy nowhere in sight. Gods below, now what? The modest features of the ash-laden plain beneath offered little in the way of cover, especially from this height. Yet, no matter where he scanned, he saw no-one. The tracks they had made were faintly visible, leading to where the assassin had left them, and at that location there was… something dark, a crack in the ground. Difficult to determine scale, but maybe… maybe big enough to swallow both of the bastards.
He resumed his search for projections for the rope. And could see none. ‘All right, I guess it’s time. Cotillion, consider this a sharp tug on your rope. No excuses, you damned god, I need your help here.’
He waited. The moan of the wind, the slippery chill of the mist.
‘I don’t like this warren.’
Kalam turned his head to find Cotillion alongside him, one hand and one foot holding the god in place. He held an apple in the other hand, from which he now took a large bite.
‘You think this is funny?’ Kalam demanded.
Cotillion chewed, then swallowed. ‘Somewhat.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re clinging to a sky keep, and it’s got companions, a whole damned row of them.’
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