The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire)

by Ian C. Esslemont

  Tayschrenn continued as if Cowl hadn’t spoken, ‘I have stretched myself further than I have ever dared before probing onward ahead into the possibilities of what might come. I have glimpsed things that both terrify and exult. Can you answer this puzzle, Cowl? How can both of these things be?’

  Despite his dismissal of this Hermetic side of Warren manipulation, Cowl found himself responding by rote, ‘Because the future holds everything.’

  ‘Exactly, Cowl. I see that it is possible that you are in fact worthy of the title High Mage. And so, the question then follows, what course of action should I take in the present? Which steps might lead to all that which terrifies, which steps might lead to all that which exults? The answer is of course that I cannot know for certain. Thus I am held back from all choice. Total awareness, my friend, results in paralysis.’ The head sank once more, as if dismissing Cowl, indeed as if dismissing all physical reality.

  Cowl relaxed, let his hands fall from the crossed baldrics and belts beneath his cloak. He had weapons invested and aspected that might just reach the man, but what he’d found here was no threat to anyone. It was now clear to him that the twisted Gnostic innards of theurgy had claimed the mind of the most promising mage of his generation.

  He turned and left the chamber.

  Once Cowl exited the room light shimmered next to the open door revealing a woman with short black hair in ash-hued tunic and trousers and carrying a long slim stave. This she planted with a sharp blow upon the marble flags. ‘He should never have been allowed to get this close.’

  ‘I am beyond his physical reach,’ Tayschrenn answered mildly.

  ‘Yet he is also a formidable mage, so I understand.’

  ‘In certain narrow and sharp applications, yes.’

  The woman swung the stave across her shoulders, draped her arms over it. ‘And now?’

  ‘They will see that nothing can be decided here. It all lies upon Heng’s walls, as before. And they will go.’

  ‘Before?’

  Tayschrenn nodded, his eyes closed. ‘Yes. When the Protectress fell to Kellanved and Dancer everyone realized that no one was safe from them – all proceeded logically from that.’

  The woman stood still for some time, head cocked as if listening. Tayschrenn’s head sank lower, his breathing shallowed to imperceptibility. She stepped to the open door. ‘Do not involve yourself,’ announced the motionless Tayschrenn.

  The woman froze, mouthed a silent curse. She set the stave against the wall. ‘Just going to keep an eye on things.’ She waited a time for an answer but none came. She cursed again and left.

  Leaning against a street-side stall, Possum watched the ragged, exhausted column of Crimson Guardsmen enter the tall bronze doors of the Palace precincts. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; was this it then? The much vaunted Guard? Had the stories over the years so grown in the telling? And what of Cowl? Had he survived?

  A Hand-commander stopped at his side. One of the second echelon, vice-commanders. Coil was her name. ‘Anand wishes to know if he can count on us cooperating with the barricades.’

  Possum leaned forward blocking one nostril to blow his nose to the street. ‘Yes. Seed the crowds. Tell everyone to keep their distance.’

  ‘Very good.’ Still, the woman did not move. She watched the outer gates swinging ponderously shut.

  ‘Yes, Coil?’

  ‘Hard to believe, yes?’

  Irritated by the familiarity, Possum demanded, ‘What? That they returned? Or the condition in which they did? Or the chances that they should pick this time to show up?’

  Coil did not turn to her head to glance to him. ‘Chance? I don’t believe in it. And I don’t take them.’

  Which is why, Coil, you’ll never stand where I am. ‘You have your orders.’

  Coil glanced to him with her half-lidded hard eyes. ‘And these orders – from the Empress?’

  The Hand-commander’s tone quickened Possum’s pulse. By the Queen’s Mysteries, was she challenging his authority? ‘Immaterial. You’ve just heard them from me.’

  Smiling, Coil inclined her head in the shallowest of bows, and sauntered away. Possum watched her go. Why so bold? No need to advertise what everyone in the ranks understands – that all those beneath you think they can do a better job, and are ever watchful for opportunities to demonstrate such by ousting said superior.

  Blowing his nose once more, Possum dismissed Coil from his mind. She’d been merely angling for news of the Empress. No need to tell her he’d searched the Palace earlier and found no sign of her; sensibly, she’d run off. No point being disappointed about it. What could she be expected to do against some fifty Avowed and seven hundred Guardsmen? Bravely face them only to be captured? Reduced thereafter to a hostage or mere bargaining chip? What would be the sense in that? No, to Possum’s way of thinking she’d done the wise thing. Let the Guard blunder like clod-footed fools through the Palace. What did they expect? To just sit on the throne and be obeyed? No, this whole episode was the shabby and frankly rather embarrassing final chapter to what had once been a noble career. Possum wiped his nose. Yes, thinking about it, he realized that he was quite disappointed by the whole thing and more than a little resentful that they’d bothered showing up at all; they’d ruined the legend for him and for everyone.

  For her part, Shimmer saw the humour. She, Skinner and a handful of Avowed marching through the inner precincts, the majority of the force left behind in the marshalling grounds. What could they hope to accomplish, or more precisely, what did Cowl or Skinner have in mind? Surely Laseen would have fled by now, or carried on the ancient solution and taken poison – one could always hope. Perhaps they would end up joining the queue of petitioners hoping for their turn before the August Personage.

  But no. Skinner did not stop on his relentless march to the Throne room. Functionaries and clerks pressed themselves against walls and gaped as they strode through colonnaded approaches, seating halls, and long reception chambers. All guards were notable by their absence – almost as if they’d been pulled for service elsewhere – and the where of that troubled Shimmer.

  The final tall set of double doors crashed open under Skinner’s armoured forearm and they faced the long sable carpet leading up to an empty throne. The throne of Malaz, assembled from bones. A not so subtle reminder of the true power behind it, the T’lan Imass. A cold grim seat, it seemed to Shimmer. Skinner set his gauntleted hands to his belt and nodded his head within his tall helm, as if confirming to himself what he’d been expecting all along.

  ‘Empty,’ Shimmer said, mostly because someone had to.

  ‘Almost,’ Skinner corrected, pointing aside.

  A short chubby man in rich blue and green robes bowed where he waited next to a pillar. He gestured to a table holding carafes of clear water. ‘Refresh yourselves please, honoured ones. I see that your passage has been a particularly desiccating one.’

  Skinner turned away, dismissing him. ‘Poison is useless against us.’

  The man bowed again. ‘As I know. Which is why I would never make such an ill-advised attempt.’

  Shimmer drew off her helmet, tucked it under one arm. ‘You are?’

  ‘Mallick Rel. Duly elected spokesman for the Assembly of regional governors and representatives.’ He smiled unctuously, bobbing his head.

  Shimmer helped herself to the water, drank deeply and found it wonderfully refreshing. ‘Come to take the measure of your new masters?’

  The man’s lips drew back in a thin smile, revealing sickly green teeth. ‘If the Gods should will it so…’

  It seemed to Shimmer that this man was not nearly as nervous as he should be. Skinner had turned at the man’s words and now regarded him. ‘Perhaps I should kill you,’ he said, his voice bland.

  The man’s eyes fluttered as he blinked his confusion. ‘But wasn’t the water cool and fresh?’

  Shimmer laughed. ‘It was that. My thanks.’

  ‘Excellent. A job well done is its own re
ward.’

  Now it was Shimmer’s turn to stare, uncertain. This man’s game was deep – was he angling to maintain his position, or was that actually…mockery?

  But Skinner waved curt dismissal. ‘Leave us.’

  The man bowed and backed out. Lazar pulled the doors shut.

  ‘This whole thing is a mistake, Skinner,’ Smoky said – for the tenth time. ‘And that guy was the oddest of it.’ Shimmer had to agree. Why had he elected to be here to meet them? What was his purpose?

  Skinner faced them. ‘Yes, enough of this foolish charade. Laseen has fled. What we have shown here is that no one dares face us. Shimmer, take the command back to the ships to withdraw down the coast to the west and link up with the rest of the forces when they arrive. Cowl and I will join you later.’

  Shimmer bowed. ‘You are going on alone?’

  ‘Yes. There is are some…options…Cowl and I wish to look into.’

  Shimmer bowed again. ‘As you order.’ She gestured Smoky behind her, faced Lazar, Black the Lesser, Shijel and Kalt. ‘Form up and have a care.’

  They’d left behind the inner halls and were close to the marshalling grounds when the first ambush took them. A concerted toss of Moranth munitions blew Kalt into fragments. Withering volleys from crossbows and bows kept them pinned until Smoky drove the soldiers back with a liquid wall of flame that billowed down the hall. Shimmer stepped out among the still burning tapestries and furniture, waved the smoke aside, squinting ahead. She pointed Lazar back to get Skinner even though she was certain he was gone – if he’d been around he would have come. Smoky raised a hand for silence. ‘The Brethren clamour. Listen.’

  The muted, distant murmur of battle; her command was under attack.

  Possum strode beneath the fluttering awnings of Collunus Bourse, the second largest of the covered exchanges specializing in imported goods. Deserted, now, in the chaos and rioting of this evening. His guards flanked him and Claw runners came and went reporting developments among the splintered broadening front that, he had to admit, was rapidly gyring beyond his grip. Down narrow passing ways he glimpsed black smoke pluming from the worst of the engagements: burning barricades, the flames of which had surged out of control swallowing defenders, attackers and bystanders alike. Runners reported that the Guard had been held up in its efforts to push through to the harbour. Elements of the 4th had even managed to separate small bands of Guardsmen. He was on his way to one such engagement now, a chance to actually continue with the plan thrown together when the Guard entered the city – to take them out piece by piece.

  A runner arrived from the engagement. ‘They have them pinned down in a tenement.’ He gestured to an alley.

  Possum did not try to answer for now they had entered the clamour of the battle zone. Malazan regulars came and went, hustling equipment to the engagement: flammables, shields, sheaths of arrows and crossbow bolts. The disassembled components of a harbour siege weapon came dragged by. Possum thought that a damned good idea. But the regulars were few, vastly outnumbered by the Untan citizen volunteer militia that had arisen to the challenge with a will and a fury no one, certainly not Possum, had anticipated. He couldn’t help reflecting with a dose of his old cynicism that it mustn’t have hurt that the Claw had spread the offer of ten thousand Imperial gold discs for the head of each Avowed.

  The runner led them to a sunken rear entrance then stairs up to a trap and the roof. Here, an individual Claw awaited them, the local Hand-commander. Scrabbling forward, they looked across and down at the target. Below them the militia kept up a ruthless barrage of crossbow fire into the front of the tenement. To Possum’s experienced eye what the barrage lacked in accuracy it more than made up for in enthusiasm. Yet while the heads of the Guardsmen were being kept down, it was obvious no one on either side was eager for a rush. A standoff. But one that could break either way, depending on how it played out.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘A few – less than ten. Maybe a blade.’

  Possum took the opportunity to look out over the city. The sky was taking on an orange glow, tinted by the flames; the afternoon was giving way to evening. Smoke plumes rose like a handful of tossed markers announcing a ragged line that ran practically half way across the city. Things would soon devolve far beyond any chance of intervention from him. Decisions would fall to the individual judgment of Hand-commanders, so he might as well enter the fray. ‘How many munitions do you have access to?’ he asked the commander.

  ‘Munitions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man, his face marred by a severe youthful dose of the pox, glanced sidelong to the runner and Possum’s own guards. ‘Shouldn’t we wait before trying something like that?’

  ‘Wait?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wait for what? For Gods or Ascendants to appear in the bloody streets? We don’t have to wait for anything! I’m the Lady-damned Clawmaster!’

  The man hunched beneath Possum’s tirade, exchanged glances with his runner as if blaming each other. Once again Possum found himself disheartened by the state of the organization since its gutting on Malaz Isle. Kellanved’s Revenge, some called that night, evoking the stories that this newly arisen Shadowthrone was in fact the old emperor. It was said that in revenge for past slights, his assassination not the least of them, Kellanved had sent the curse of his own Shadow Queen upon them to harrow the ranks. And what a harrowing that night had been!

  Luckily, Possum had then been elsewhere engaged. Now, this night, he almost demoted this Hand-commander on the spot but decided against it; no sense doing what the upcoming fight might accomplish all on its own. ‘Spread the word below. We’re taking over here. We’ll open with a volley of whatever munitions you can pull together then close to finish up the survivors.’ He indicated the roof opposite. ‘Let’s come down from above.’

  ‘As you order,’ barked the Hand-commander, all obedience now.

  Far too late for that, friend.

  They reached the roof together, Possum with his guards and the commander’s Hand of five. Eljin, the man had given his name as. Another Hand now kept watch from the ground where the fusillade of crossbow fire had diminished. Possum hoped the mercenaries wouldn’t get too suspicious. He signed for the attack – before the Guard decided to rush the damned street in the lull.

  Eljin pumped his fist over the lip of the roof then threw himself down. ‘Incoming!’ The entire Hand lay flat on the steeply sloped tiled roof. A moment later the ancient wooden three-storey tenement jumped beneath Possum’s body, tossing him into the air. A Claw screamed as he tumbled down the roof, tiles clattering around him. The building settled with a screeching pained groan like a ship wallowing. Smoke and dust shot up the open roof trap. Possum pushed himself to his feet and stood spread-legged for balance. ‘Go, go, go!’

  They charged down the stairs. Carnage greeted them; the building hadn’t been emptied. Its inhabitants crammed the stairwell, screaming, clambering over one another in a tumble. Flames now flickered below at the first floor and Eljin, to his credit leading the way, found himself facing a tide of panicked citizenry determined to climb the stairs to escape the fire.

  He dealt with this barrier through the simple expediency of kicking down those foremost and pushing over the railing anyone too slow to cooperate. All the while he bellowed, ‘Down! Get down!’

  Possum almost cried his frustration. Time. They were recovering! Get out of the way, you stupid bhederin! Then the wood stairway sagged beneath them, timbers splintering and bursting like small secondary explosions. This cleared the way. Like a herd checked by an immovable obstacle, it turned as one mind and reversed course. Eljin helped them on with the pommels of his knives. After the citizens had fled they found a large open space cleared by the explosions. A number of the interior walls had been swept away. The stairwell hung canted behind them, a hundred years of dust sifting down from it.

  The Hand spread out among the wreckage. Possum walked to the front. Small fires flickered amid the f
allen walls and splintered furniture. Gone. The delay had ruined their attack. He checked the street; had they bulled out the front?

  A wet blow, like that of a butcher’s strike, snapped his attention around. Eljin stared his stunned surprise at a blade now hung caught in his chest having swept down from behind through his collarbone and upper ribs severing his torso almost in two halves. So much for the man’s demotion. The armoured giant behind Eljin raised a mailed foot to push the standing corpse from his blade. All around Guardsmen erupted from the wreckage engaging Claws and Possum could only stare stunned like Eljin. They’d laid their own blasted trap!

  As the first echoes of battle hidden far inland reached them, and plumes of smoke rose shortly thereafter over the city, Nait watched the Guardsman commanding the force at the harbour order a withdrawal. They climbed aboard their two commandeered vessels and oared out to the bay where they dropped anchor, waiting. From the wharf side Nait waved every obscene gesture he knew until Hands cuffed him. ‘Why’d they go?’ she asked Tinsmith. ‘Abandon their friends?’

  Tinsmith merely spat into the water. ‘Don’t have enough men to secure the harbour. They’re safe from the mob out there.’

  ‘But not them,’ Nait said, pointing to the top of the harbour curtain wall. There catapults and mangonels glowed in the light of torches held by their busy attendants. ‘Gonna be a pheasant shoot for them,’ he chuckled gleefully.

  ‘Don’t know about that,’ Honey Boy objected, ‘don’t think I’ve ever seen them actually shoot one of those rusted things.’

  Tinsmith did not look impressed either. ‘Let’s leave them to their job. Now it’s time for us to do ours.’

  Nait adjusted the bird-bone toothpick at the corner of his mouth, his eyes narrowing. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Secure the harbour, of course. We are the harbour guard.’

  Hands pulled her gauntlets from her belt. ‘About bloody time.’