Something whipped his right shoulder, stinging, hard, and he ducked – then felt the object slide down the right side of his chest. The strap of a harness.
From above: ‘I’m climbing down!’
Koryk called behind him, ‘Shard, you still with us?’ The man had been gibbering – they’d all discovered an unexpected horror. That of stopping. Moving forward had been a tether to sanity, for it had meant that, somewhere ahead, Bottle was still crawling, still finding a way through. When everyone had come to a halt, terror had slipped among them, closing like tentacles around throats, and squeezing.
Shrieks, panicked fighting against immovable, packed stone and brick, hands clawing at feet. Rising into a frenzy.
Then, voices bellowing, calling back – they’d reached a shaft of some kind – they needed rope, belts, harness straps – they were going to climb down.
There was still a way ahead.
Koryk had, through it all, muttered his chant. The Child Death Song, the Seti rite of passage from whelp into adulthood. A ritual that had, for girl and boy alike, included the grave log, the hollowed-out coffin and the night-long internment in a crypt of the bloodline. Buried alive, for the child to die, for the adult to be born. A test against the spirits of madness, the worms that lived in each person, coiled at the base of the skull, wrapped tight about the spine. Worms that were ever eager to awaken, to crawl, gnawing a path into the brain, whispering and laughing or screaming, or both.
He had survived that night. He had defeated the worms.
And that was all he needed, for this. All he needed.
He had heard those worms, eating into soldiers ahead of him, soldiers behind him. Into the children, as the worms raced out to take them as well. For an adult to break under fear – there could be no worse nightmare for the child that witnessed such a thing. For with that was torn away all hope, all faith.
Koryk could save none of them. He could not give them the chant, for they would not know what it meant, and they had never spent a night in a coffin. And he knew, had it gone on much longer, people would start dying, or the madness would devour their minds, completely, permanently, and that would kill everyone else. Everyone.
The worms had retreated, and now all he could hear was weeping – not the broken kind, but the relieved kind – weeping and gibbering. And he knew they could taste it, could taste what those worms had left behind, and they prayed: not again. No closer, please. Never again.
‘Corporal Shard?’
‘W-what, damn you?’
‘Limp. How is he? I keep kicking at him, hitting what I think is an arm, but he’s not moving. Can you climb ahead, can you check?’
‘He’s knocked out.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘I crawled onto him and pounded his head against the floor until he stopped screaming.’
‘You sure he’s alive?’
‘Limp? His skull’s solid rock, Koryk.’
He heard movement back there, asked, ‘What now?’
‘I’ll prove it to you. Give this broke leg a twist—’
Limp shrieked.
‘Glad you’re back, soldier,’ Shard said.
‘Get away from me, you bastard!’
‘Wasn’t me who panicked. Next time you think about panicking, Limp, just remind yourself I’m here, right behind you.’
‘I’m going to kill you someday, Corporal—’
‘As you like. Just don’t do it again.’
Koryk thought back to the babbling noises he’d heard from Shard, but said nothing.
More scuffling sounds, then a bundle of rope and leather straps – most of them charred – was pushed into Koryk’s hands. He dragged it close, then shoved it out ahead to the small boy huddled behind Tavos Pond. ‘Push it on, lad,’ he said.
‘You,’ the boy said. ‘I heard you. I listened.’
‘And you was all right, wasn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll teach it to you. For the next time.’
‘Yes.’
Someone had shouted back instructions, cutting through the frenzy of terror, and people had responded, stripping away whatever could be used as a rope. Chilled beneath a gritty layer of sweat, Tarr settled his forehead onto the stones under him, smelling dust mingled with the remnants of his own fear. When the bundle reached him he drew it forward, then struggled out of what was left of his own harness and added it to the pathetic collection.
Now, at least, they had a reason to wait, they weren’t stopped because Bottle had run out of places to crawl.
Something to hold onto. He prayed it would be enough.
Behind him, Balgrid whispered, ‘I wish we was marching across the desert again. That road, all that space on both sides…’
‘I hear you,’ Tarr said. ‘And I also remember how you used to curse it. The dryness, the sun—’
‘Sun, hah! I’m so crisp I’ll never fear the sun again. Gods, I’ll kneel in prayer before it, I swear it. If freedom was a god, Tarr…
If freedom was a god. Now that’s an interesting thought…
‘Thank Hood all that screaming’s stopped,’ Balm said, plucking at whatever was tingling against all his skin, tingling, prickling like some kind of heat rash. Heat rash, that was funny—
‘Sergeant,’ Deadsmell said, ‘it was you doing all that screaming.’
‘Quiet, you damned liar. Wasn’t me, was the kid ahead of me.’
‘Really? I didn’t know he spoke Dal Honese—’
‘I will skewer you, Corporal. Just one more word, I swear it. Gods, I’m itchy all over, like I been rolling in Fool’s pollen—’
‘You get that after you been panicking, Sergeant. Fear sweat, it’s called. You didn’t piss yourself too, did you? I’m smelling—’
‘I got my knife out, Deadsmell. You know that? All I got to do is twist round and you won’t be bothering me no more.’
‘You tossed your knife, Sergeant. In the temple—’
‘Fine! I’ll kick you to death!’
‘Well, if you do, can you do it before I have to crawl through your puddle?’
‘The heat is winning the war,’ Corabb said.
‘Aye,’ answered Strings behind him, his voice faint, brittle. ‘Here.’
Something was pushed against Corabb’s feet. He reached back, and his hand closed on a coil of rope. ‘You were carrying this?’
‘Was wrapped around me. I saw Smiles drop it, outside the temple – it was smouldering, so that’s not a surprise…’
As he drew it over him, Corabb felt something wet, sticky on the rope. Blood. ‘You’re bleeding out, aren’t you?’
‘Just a trickle. I’m fine.’
Corabb crawled forward – there was some space between them and the next soldier, the one named Widdershins. Corabb could have kept up had he been alone back here, but he would not leave the Malazan sergeant behind. Enemy or no, such things were not done.
He had believed them all monsters, cowards and bullies. He had heard that they ate their own dead. But no, they were just people. No different from Corabb himself. The tyranny lies at the feet of the Empress. These – they’re all just soldiers. That’s all they are. Had he gone with Leoman… he would have discovered none of this. He would have held onto his fierce hatred for all Malazans and all things Malazan.
But now… the man behind him was dying. A Falari by birth – just another place conquered by the empire. Dying, and there was no room to get to him, not here, not yet.
‘Here,’ he said to Widdershins. ‘Pass this up.’
‘Hood take us, that’s real rope!’
‘Aye. Move it along fast now.’
‘Don’t order me around, bastard. You’re a prisoner. Remember that.’
Corabb crawled back.
The heat was building, devouring the thin streams of cool air sliding up from below. They couldn’t lie still for much longer. We must move on.
From Strings: ‘Did you say something, Corabb?’
&
nbsp; ‘No. Nothing much.’
From above came sounds of Cuttle making his way down the makeshift rope, his breath harsh, strained. Bottle reached the rubble-filled base of the fissure. It was solidly plugged. Confused, he ran his hands along both walls. His rat? Ah, there – at the bottom of the sheer, vertical wall his left hand plunged into air that swept up and past. An archway. Gods, what kind of building was this? An archway, holding the weight of at least two – maybe three – storeys’ worth of stonework. And neither the wall nor the arch had buckled, after all this time. Maybe the legends are true. Maybe Y’Ghatan was once the first Holy City, the greatest city of all. And when it died, at the Great Slaughter, every building was left standing – not a stone taken. Standing, to be buried by the sands.
He lowered himself to twist feet-first through the archway, almost immediately contacting heaps of something – rubble? – nearly filling the chamber beyond. Rubble that tipped and tilted with clunking sounds, rocked by his kicking feet.
Ahead, his rat roused itself, startled by the loud sounds as Bottle slid into the chamber. Reaching out with his will, he grasped hold of the creature’s soul once more. ‘All right, little one. The work begins again…’ His voice trailed away.
He was lying on row upon row of urns, stacked so high they were an arm’s reach from the chamber’s ceiling. Groping with his hands, Bottle found that the tall urns were sealed, capped in iron, the edges and level tops of the metal intricately incised with swirling patterns. The ceramic beneath was smooth to the touch, finely glazed. Hearing Cuttle shouting that he’d reached the base behind him, he crawled in towards the centre of the room. The rat slipped through another archway opposite, and Bottle sensed it clambering down, alighting on a clear, level stone floor, then waddling ahead.
Grasping the rim of one urn’s iron cap, he strained to pull it loose. The seal was tight, his efforts eliciting nothing. He twisted the rim to the right – nothing – then the left. A grating sound. He twisted harder. The cap slid, pulled loose from its seal. Crumbled wax fell away. Bottle pulled upward on the lid. When that failed, he resumed twisting it to the left, and quickly realized that the lid was rising, incrementally, with every full turn. Probing fingers discovered a canted, spiralling groove on the rim of the urn, crusted with wax. Two more turns and the iron lid came away.
A pungent, cloying smell arose.
I know that smell… honey. These things are filled with honey. For how long had they sat here, stored away by people long since dust? He reached down, and almost immediately plunged his hand into the cool, thick contents. A balm against his burns, and now, an answer to the sudden hunger awakening within him.
‘Bottle?’
‘Through here. I’m in a large chamber under the straight wall. Cuttle, there’s urns here, hundreds of them. Filled with honey.’ He drew his hands free and licked his fingers. ‘Gods, it tastes fresh. When you get in here, salve your burns, Cuttle—’
‘Only if you promise we’re not going to crawl through an ant nest anywhere ahead.’
‘No ants down here. What’s the count?’
‘We got everybody.’
‘Strings?’
‘Still with us, though the heat’s working its way down.’
‘Enough rope and straps, then. Good.’
‘Aye. So long as they hold. Seems Urb’s proposing to carry Hellian down. On his back.’
‘Is the next one on their way?’
‘Aye. How do these lids come off?’
‘Turn them, widdershins. And keep turning them.’
Bottle listened as the man worked on one of the lids. ‘Can’t be very old, this stuff, to still be fresh.’
‘There’s glyphs on these lids, Cuttle. I can’t see them, but I can feel them. My grandmother, she had a ritual blade she used in her witchery – the markings are the same, I think. If I’m right, Cuttle, this iron work is Jaghut.’
‘What?’
‘But the urns are First Empire. Feel the sides. Smooth as eggshell – if we had light I’d wager anything they’re sky-blue. So, with a good enough seal…’
‘I can still taste the flowers in this, Bottle.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re talking thousands and thousands of years.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s your favourite rat?’
‘Hunting us a way through. There’s another chamber opposite, but it’s open, empty, I mean – we should move in there to give the others room…’
‘What’s wrong?’
Bottle shook his head. ‘Nothing, just feeling a little… strange. Cut my back up some… it’s gone numb—’
‘Hood’s breath, there was some kind of poppy in that honey, wasn’t there? I’m starting to feel… gods below, my head’s swimming.’
‘Yeah, better warn the others.’
Though he could see nothing, Bottle felt as if the world around him was shuddering, spinning. His heart was suddenly racing. Shit. He crawled towards the other archway. Reached in, pulled himself forward, and was falling.
The collision with the stone floor felt remote, yet he sensed he’d plunged more than a man’s height. He remembered a sharp, cracking sound, realized it had been his forehead, hitting the flagstones.
Cuttle thumped down on top of him, rolled off with a grunt.
Bottle frowned, pulling himself along the floor. The rat – where was she? Gone. I lost her. Oh no, I lost her.
Moments later, he lost everything else as well.
Corabb had dragged an unconscious Strings down the last stretch of tunnel. They’d reached the ledge to find the rope dangling from three sword scabbards wedged across the shaft, and vague sounds of voices far below. Heat swirled like serpents around him as he struggled to pull the Malazan up closer to the ledge.
Then he reached out and began drawing up the rope.
The last third of the line consisted of knots and straps and buckles – he checked each knot, tugged on each strand, but none seemed on the verge of breaking. Corabb bound the Malazan’s arms, tight at the wrists; then the man’s ankles – one of them sheathed in blood, and, checking for bandages, he discovered none remaining, just the ragged holes left by the spear – and from the rope at the ankles he made a centre knot between the sergeant’s feet. With the rope end looped in one hand, Corabb worked the man’s arms over his head, then down so that the bound wrists were against his sternum. He then pushed his own legs through, so that the Malazan’s bound feet were against his shins. Drawing up the centre-knotted rope he looped it over his head and beneath one arm, then cinched it into a tight knot.
He worked his way into the shaft, leaning hard for the briefest of moments on the wedged scabbards, then succeeding in planting one foot against the opposite wall. The distance was a little too great – he could manage only the tips of his feet on each wall, and as the weight of Strings on his back fully settled, the tendons in his ankles felt ready to snap.
Gasping, Corabb worked his way down. Two man-heights, taken in increasing speed, control slipping away with every lurch downward, then he found a solid projection on which he could rest his right foot, and the gap had narrowed enough to let his left hand reach out and ease the burden on that leg.
Corabb rested.
The pain of deep burns, the pounding of his heart. Some time later, he resumed the descent. Easier now, the gap closing, closing.
Then he was at the bottom, and he heard something like laughter from his left, low, which then trailed away.
He searched out that side and found the archway, through which he tossed the rope, hearing it strike a body a little way below.
Everyone’s asleep. No wonder. I could do with that myself.
He untied Strings, then clambered through, found his feet balancing on tight-packed, clunking jars, the sounds of snoring and breathing on all sides and a sweet, cloying smell. He pulled Strings after him, eased the man down.
Honey. Jars and jars of honey. Good for burns, I think. Good for wounds. Finding an open
ed jar, Corabb scooped out a handful, crawled over to the sergeant and pushed the honey into the puncture wounds. Salved the burns, on Strings and on himself. Then he settled back. Numbing bliss stole through him.
Oh, this honey, it’s Carelbarra. The God Bringer. Oh…
Fist Keneb tottered into the morning light, stood, blinking, looking round at the chaotic array of tents, many of them scorched, and all the soldiers – stumbling, wandering or standing motionless, staring across the blasted landscape towards the city. Y’Ghatan, blurred by waves of rising heat, a misshapen mound melted down atop its ragged hill, fires still flickering here and there, pale orange tongues and, lower down, fierce deep red.
Ash filled the air, drifting down like snow.
It hurt to breathe. He was having trouble hearing – the roar of that firestorm still seemed to rage inside his head, as hungry as ever. How long had it been? A day? Two days? There had been healers. Witches with salves, practitioners of Denul from the army itself. A jumble of voices, chanting, whispers, some real, some imagined.
He thought of his wife. Selv was away from this accursed continent, safe in her family estate back on Quon Tali. And Kesen and Vaneb, his children. They’d survived, hadn’t they? He was certain they had. A memory of that, strong enough to convince him of its truth. That assassin, Kalam, he’d had something to do with that.
Selv. They had grown apart, in the two years before the rebellion, the two years – was it two? – that they had been in Seven Cities, in the garrison settlement. The uprising had forced them both to set aside all of that, for the children, for survival itself. He suspected she did not miss him; although his children might. He suspected she would have found someone else by now, a lover, and the last thing she would want was to see him again.
Well, there could be worse things in this life. He thought back on those soldiers he’d seen with the fiercest burns – gods how they had screamed their pain.
Keneb stared at the city. And hated it with all his soul.
The dog Bent arrived to lie down beside him. A moment later Grub appeared. ‘Father, do you know what will come of this? Do you?’
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