‘The Nemil,’ Nil said, ‘were not reluctant to speak of the Edur.’
‘Yet they would say nothing at all of the Perish,’ Nether added.
‘History between them,’ Keneb suggested.
The others turned to him.
Keneb shrugged. ‘Just a thought. The Nemil are clearly expansionist, and that entails a certain… arrogance. They devoured the Trell peoples, providing a reassuring symbol of Nemil prowess and righteousness. It may be that the Perish delivered an opposing symbol, something that both shocked and humbled the Nemil – neither sentiment quite fitting with their own notions of grandiosity. And so they will not speak of it.’
‘Your theory makes sense,’ the Adjunct said. ‘Thank you, Fist.’ She turned and studied the riotous eastern sky. ‘Humbled, yes,’ she said in a low voice. ‘In the writings of Duiker, he speaks of the manifold scales to be found in war, from the soldier facing another soldier, to the very gods themselves locked in mortal combat. At first glance, it seems an outrage to consider that such extremes can coexist, yet Duiker then claims that the potential for cause and effect can proceed in both directions.’
‘It would be comforting to think so,’ Keneb said. ‘I can think of a few gods that I’d love to trip up right now.’
‘It may be,’ the Adjunct said, ‘that someone has preceded you.’
Keneb frowned. ‘Do you know who, Adjunct?’
She glanced at him, said nothing.
Thus ends her momentary loquaciousness. Well. And what did it tell me? She’s well read, but I already knew that. Anything else?
No.
Kalam pushed his way forward, slumped once more at Quick Ben’s side. ‘It’s official,’ he said in the gloom of the musty hold.
‘What is?’
‘We’re still alive.’
‘Oh, that’s good, Kal. I was sitting on coals down here waiting for that news.’
‘I prefer that image to the reality, Quick.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the idea that you were hiding, your loincloth suddenly baggy and a puddle spreading beneath you.’
‘You don’t know anything. I do. I know more than I’d ever want to—’
‘Impossible. You drink in secrets like Hellian does rum. The more you know the drunker and more obnoxious you get.’
‘Oh yeah? Well, I know things you’d want to know, and I was going to tell you, but now I think I’ll change my mind—’
‘Out with it, wizard, before I go back up and tell the Adjunct where she can find you.’
‘You can’t do that. I need time to think, damn you.’
‘So talk. You can think while you’re doing that, since with you the two activities are clearly distinct and mostly unrelated.’
‘What’s got you so miserable?’
‘You.’
‘Liar.’
‘All right, me.’
‘That’s better. Anyway, I know who saved us.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, sort of – he started the big rock rolling, at least.’
‘Who?’
‘Ganoes Paran.’
Kalam scowled. ‘All right, I’m less surprised than I should be.’
‘Then you’re an idiot. He did it by having a conversation with Hood.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was there, listening in. At Hood’s Gate.’
‘What were you doing hanging around there?’
‘We were all going to die, weren’t we?’
‘Oh, so you wanted to beat the rush?’
‘Hilarious, Kalam. No, I was planning on doing some bargaining, but that’s irrelevant now. Ended up, it was Paran who did the bargaining. Hood said something. He wants something – by his own damned breath, it shocked me, let me tell you—’
‘So do that.’
‘No. I need to think.’
Kalam closed his eyes and leaned back against the bale. It smelled of oats. ‘Ganoes Paran.’ A pause, then, ‘Do you think she knows?’
‘Who, Tavore?’
‘Yes, who else?’
‘I have no idea. Wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing about her would surprise me, in fact. She might even be listening in right now—’
‘Wouldn’t you sense that?’
‘Kalam, something’s wandering through this fleet tonight, and it isn’t pleasant, whatever it is. I keep feeling it brush by… close, then, before I can grab it by the throat, it whispers away again.’
‘So, you are hiding down here!’
‘Of course not. Not any more, I mean. Now I’m staying here, in order to lay a trap.’
‘A trap. Right. Very clever, High Mage.’
‘It is. For the next time it sidles close.’
‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’
‘Believe what you like, Kalam. What do I care, even if it’s my oldest friend who no longer trusts me—’
‘For Hood’s sake, Quick Ben, I’ve never trusted you!’
‘Now that’s hurtful. Wise, but still hurtful.’
‘Tell me something, Quick, exactly how did you manage hiding at Hood’s Gate, with both Paran and the god himself standing there?’
A sniff. ‘They were distracted, of course. Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight.’
‘And between them, they saved the world.’
‘Gave the rock a nudge, Kal. The rest belonged to someone else. Don’t know who, or what. But I will tell you one thing, those falling suns, they were filled with voices.’
‘Voices?’
‘Enormous pieces of stone. Jade, sailing down from the stars. And in those broken mountains or whatever they were, there were souls. Millions of souls, Kalam. I heard them.’
Gods, no wonder you hid down here, Quick. ‘That’s… uncanny. You’re sending shivers all through me.’
‘I know. I feel the same way.’
‘So, how did you hide from Hood?’
‘I was part of the Gate, of course. Just another corpse, just another staring face.’
‘Hey, now that was clever.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘What was it like, among all those bones and bodies and stuff?’
‘Kind of… comforting…’
I can see that. Kalam scowled again. Hold on… I wonder… is there maybe something wrong with us? ‘Quick, you and me.’
‘Yes?’
‘I think we’re insane.’
‘You’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re too slow. You can’t be insane if you only just realized that we’re insane. Understand?’
‘No.’
‘As I said, then.’
‘Well,’ the assassin grunted, ‘that’s a relief.’
‘For you, yes. Shh!’ The wizard’s hand clutched Kalam’s arm. ‘It’s back!’ he hissed. ‘Close!’
‘Within reach?’ Kalam asked in a whisper.
‘Gods, I hope not!’
A solitary resident in this cabin, and in the surrounding alcoves and cubby berths, a cordon of Red Blades, fiercely protective of their embittered, broken commander, although none elected to share the Fist’s quarters, despite the ship’s crowded conditions. Beyond those soldiers, the Khundryl Burned Tears, seasick one and all, filling the air below-decks with the sour reek of bile.
And so he remained alone. Wreathed by his own close, fetid air, no lantern light to beat back the dark, and this was well. For all that was outside matched what was inside, and Fist Tene Baralta told himself, again and again, that this was well.
Y’Ghatan. The Adjunct had sent them in, under strength, knowing there would be slaughter. She didn’t want the damned veterans and their constant gnawing at her command. She wanted to be rid of the Red Blades, and the marines – soldiers like Cuttle and Fiddler. She had probably worked it out, conspiring with Leoman himself. That conflagration, its execution had been too perfect, too well-timed. There had been signals – those fools with the lanterns on the rooft
ops, along the wall’s battlements.
And the season itself – a city filled with olive oil, an entire year’s harvest – she hadn’t rushed the army after Leoman, she hadn’t shown any haste at all, when any truly loyal commander would have… would have chased that bastard down, long before he reached Y’Ghatan.
No, the timing was… diabolical.
And here he was, maimed and trapped in the midst of damned traitors. Yet, again and again, events had transpired to befoul the Adjunct and her treasonous, murderous plans. The survival of the marines – Lostara among them. Then, Quick Ben’s unexpected countering of those Edur mages. Oh yes, his soldiers reported to him, every morsel of news. They understood – although they revealed nothing of their suspicions – he could well see it in their eyes, they understood. That necessary things were coming. Soon.
And it would be Fist Tene Baralta himself who would lead them. Tene Baralta, the Maimed, the Betrayed. Oh yes, there would be names for him. There would be cults to worship him, just as there were cults worshipping other great heroes of the Malazan Empire. Like Coltaine. Bult. Baria Setral and his brother, Mesker, of the Red Blades.
In such company, Tene Baralta would belong. Such company, he told himself, was his only worthy company.
One eye left, capable of seeing… almost… In daylight a blurred haze swarmed before his vision, and there was pain, so much pain, until he could not even so much as turn his head – oh yes, the healers had worked on him – with orders, he now knew, to fail him again and again, to leave him with a plague of senseless scars and phantom agonies. And, once out of his room, they would laugh, at the imagined success of their charade.
Well, he would deliver their gifts back into their laps, all those healers.
In this soft, warm darkness, he stared upward from where he lay on the cot. Things unseen creaked and groaned. A rat scuttled back and forth along one side of the cramped chamber. His sentinel, his bodyguard, his caged soul.
A strange smell reached him, sweet, cloying, numbing, and he felt his aches fading, the shrieking nerves falling quiescent.
‘Who’s there?’ he croaked.
A rasping reply, ‘A friend, Tene Baralta. One, indeed, whose visage matches your own. Like you, assaulted by betrayal. You and I, we are torn and twisted to remind us, again and again, that one who bears no scars cannot be trusted. Ever. It is a truth, my friend, that only a mortal who has been broken can emerge from the other side, whole once more. Complete, and to all his victims, arrayed before him, blindingly bright, yes? The searing white fires of his righteousness. Oh, I promise you, that moment shall taste sweet.’
‘An apparition,’ Tene Baralta gasped. ‘Who has sent you? The Adjunct, yes? A demonic assassin, to end this—’
‘Of course not – and even as you make such accusations, Tene Baralta, you know them to be false. She could kill you at any time—’
‘My soldiers protect me—’
‘She will not kill you,’ the voice said. ‘She has no need. She has already cast you away, a useless, pathetic victim of Y’Ghatan. She has no realization, Tene Baralta, that your mind lives on, as sharp as it has ever been, its judgement honed and eager to draw foul blood. She is complacent.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am named Gethol. I am the Herald of the House of Chains. And I am here, for you. You alone, for we have sensed, oh yes, we have sensed that you are destined for greatness.’
Ah, such emotion here, at his words… no, hold it back. Be strong… show this Gethol your strength. ‘Greatness,’ he said. ‘Yes, of that I have always been aware, Herald.’
‘And the time has come, Tene Baralta.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you feel our gift within you? Diminishing your pain, yes?’
‘I do.’
‘Good. That gift is yours, and there is more to come.’
‘More?’
‘Your lone eye, Tene Baralta, deserves more than a clouded, uncertain world, don’t you think? You need a sharpness of vision to match the sharpness of your mind. That seems reasonable, indeed, just.’
‘Yes.’
‘That will be your reward, Tene Baralta.’
‘If I do what?’
‘Later. Such details are not for tonight. Until we speak again, follow your conscience, Tene Baralta. Make your plans for what will come. You are returning to the Malazan Empire, yes? That is good. Know this, the Empress awaits you. You, Tene Baralta, more than anyone else in this army. Be ready for her.’
‘Oh, I shall, Gethol.’
‘I must leave you now, lest this visitation be discovered – there are many powers hiding in this army. Be careful. Trust no-one—’
‘I trust my Red Blades.’
‘If you must, yes, you will need them. Goodbye, Tene Baralta.’
Silence once more, and the gloom, unchanged and unchanging, inside and out. Destined, yes, for greatness. They shall see that. When I speak with the Empress. They shall all see that.
Lying in her bunk, the underside of the one above a mere hand’s-breadth away, knotted twine and murky tufts of bedding, Lostara Yil kept her breathing slow, even. She could hear the beat of her own heart, the swish of blood in her ears.
The soldier in the bunk beneath her grunted, then said in a low voice, ‘He’s now talking to himself. Not good.’
The voice from within Tene Baralta’s cabin had been murmuring through the wall for the past fifty heartbeats, but had now, it seemed, stopped.
Talking to himself? Hardly, that was a damned conversation. She closed her eyes at the thought, wishing she had been asleep and unmindful of the ever more sordid nightmare that was her commander’s world: the viscous light in his eye when she looked upon him, the muscles of his frame sagging into fat, the twisted face beginning to droop, growing flaccid where there were no taut scars. Pallid skin, strands of hair thick with old sweat.
What has burned away is what tempered his soul. Now, there is only malice, a mottled collection of stains, fused impurities.
And I am his captain once more, by his own command. What does he want with me? What does he expect?
Tene Baralta had ceased speaking. And now she could sleep, if only her mind would cease its frantic racing.
Oh Cotillion, you knew, didn’t you? You knew this would come. Yet, you left the choice to me. And now freedom feels like curse.
Cotillion, you never play fair.
The western coast of the Catal Sea was jagged with fjords, high black cliffs and tumbled boulders. The mountains rising almost immediately behind the shoreline were thick with coniferous trees, their green needles so dark as to be almost black. Huge red-tailed ravens wheeled overhead, voicing strange, harsh laughter as they banked and pitched towards the fleet of ominous ships that approached the Malazans, swooping low only to lift with heavy, languid beats of their wings.
The Adjunct’s flagship was now alongside Nok’s own, and the Admiral had just crossed over to join Tavore as they awaited the arrival of the Perish.
Keneb stared with fascination at the massive warships drawing ever nearer. Each was in fact two dromons linked by arching spans, creating a catamaran of cyclopean proportions. The sudden dying of the wind had forced oars into the becalmed waters, and this included a double bank of oars on the inward side of each dromon, foreshortened by the spans.
The Fist had counted thirty-one of the giant craft, arrayed in a broad, flattened wedge. He could see ballistae mounted to either side of the wolf-head prows, and attached to the outer rails along the length of the ships was a double row of overlapping rectangular shields, their bronze facings polished and glinting in the muted sunlight.
As the lead ship closed, oars were lifted, shipped.
One of Nok’s officers said, ‘Look beneath the surface between the hulls, Admiral. The spans above are matched by ones below the waterline… and those possess rams.’
‘It would be unwise indeed,’ Nok said, ‘to invite battle with these Perish.’
‘Yet someone
had done just that,’ the Adjunct said. ‘Mage-fire damage, there, on the one flanking the flagship. Admiral, what do you imagine to be the complement of soldiers aboard each of these catamarans?’
‘Could be as many as two hundred marines or the equivalent for each dromon. Four hundred per craft – I wonder if some of them are at the oars. Unless, of course, there are slaves.’
The flag visible beneath the crow’s nest on the lead ship’s mainmast showed a wolf’s head on a black field bordered in grey.
They watched as a long craft resembling a war canoe was lowered between the flagship’s two hulls, then armoured soldiers descended, taking up paddles. Three more figures joined them. All but one wore iron helms, camailed at the back, with sweeping cheek-guards. Grey cloaks, leather gauntlets. The lone exception was a man, tall, gaunt and bald, wearing a heavy woollen robe of dark grey. Their skins were fair, but all other characteristics remained unseen beneath armour.
‘That’s a whole lot of chain weighing down that canoe,’ the same officer muttered. ‘If she rolls, a score lumps rusting on the bottom…’
The craft slid over the submerged ram, swiftly propelled by the paddlers whose blades flashed in perfect unison. Moments later a soft-voiced command triggered a withdrawal of the paddles, barring that of the soldier at the very stern, who ruddered, bringing the canoe around to draw up alongside the Malazan flagship.
At Nok’s command, sailors rushed over to help the Perish contingent aboard.
First to appear was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, black-cloaked. Beneath the thick wool was a surcoat of blackened chain that glistened with oil. The longsword at the left hip revealed a silver wolf’s-head pommel. The Perish paused, looked round, then approached the Adjunct as others appeared from the rail. Among them was the robed man, who called out something to the one Keneb surmised was the commander. That person halted, half-turned, and the voice that emerged from behind the visored helm startled Keneb, for it was a woman’s.
She’s a damned giant – even the women heavies in our army would hesitate facing this one.
Her question was short.
The bald man replied with a single word, at which the woman in armour bowed and stepped to one side.
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