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

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’ She eased him down.

  Next was the Seti, Sweetgrass. He was breathing but shallowly, wetly. His eyes tracked her when she moved. He mouthed something to her. She bent her head close. ‘…She did it…’ came the faintest whisper.

  Hurl nodded, ‘Yes. Yes, she did.’

  ‘…Maybe she really was…really…’

  Hurl soothed him with a hand on his hot brow. ‘Yes – maybe.’ Or maybe she was just a crazy old mage.

  The guards came running down the hillside, gesturing, while the column of Seti horsemen overtook them. The riders threw themselves from their mounts, ran to the wounded. Hurl saw among them many who looked like shamans and shamanesses, but none carried any animal totems that she could see. She left them to it as a number came to Sweetgrass and she crossed to Rell.

  For some reason she’d come to him last. The moment she realized this she knew why. Something in the way he’d fallen. So limp. So…final. He lay now as he’d struck the earth. She knelt on her knees at his side. He was dead; his throat torn out and scarred face further gashed by the flesh-rending talons of the man-jackal. Oh, Rell. I am so sorry. She smoothed his ragged, newly grown hair. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. Heng had taken you as its new protector. You were to take her place in the city temple. Usher in a long and prosperous future…yet here you lie. You gave your life to end the curse. Perhaps that was what they sensed. That somehow you would end it for them. This was just not the way anyone wanted it to happen.

  What will we do? Go on, I suppose. Rebuild. Ha! Build. And only Silk and I are left. We alone survived the curse. If there ever was one. Yet there was, wasn’t there? Ryllandaras himself.

  She stood, walked the grounds around the dying fire just to be sure but found no sign of Liss. So she succeeded where all others had failed. She’d delivered the Seti of their curse. And hadn’t she given her own? What had it been…?

  Seti shamanesses came and spoke to her but she ignored them, shaking her head. No, not yet. What had it been? Ah, yes! That they would wander lost until they prayed for her forgiveness! Well, Lissarathel or not, the woman had just assured herself a place in their pantheon, or at least their legends. Certainly their prayers.

  She rubbed her face, glanced around, sighing her exhaustion. Hours till dawn. She waved the corporal of the guard detachment to her. He ran up, saluted smartly, his eyes hugely wide. She motioned to Rell. ‘Wrap him up. We’ll return him for burial. And bring the swords. They have to be returned. It’s time to go home.’

  Epilogue

  A BENT FIGURE DRAPED IN RAGS EMERGED FROM A SAGGING, dilapidated tent of hides and felt blankets. He hobbled down to a broad white sand beach, leaning heavily on a stick of driftwood, pausing occasionally to catch his breath. He came to the surf where a turquoise lagoon washed up weakly in a thin line of spume. An armoured giant of a man lay half-buried in sand at the surf’s edge. The bent figure stood looking down for a time then gave the figure a sharp rap with his stick. The man gasped, fumbling awkwardly, pushed himself heavily to his feet. He yanked off his tall helm to let it fall into the wet sand, clutched at his neck just beneath his blond beard. His eyes filled with wonder.

  ‘Yes, you are healed, Skinner.’

  The man, Skinner, towered over the bent figure. ‘You answered…’ he rumbled.

  ‘Of course. Have I not been nearby for some time now? I know you sensed my aid here and there, yes? I have had my eye on you, Skinner of the Avowed.’ The figure, his shape obscured in the layered hanging rags, gestured to his tent. ‘The question is, what can you do…for me?’

  Skinner ignored the invitation, peered up and down the shore. ‘Where are my people?’

  Turning away, the figure shuffled haltingly back up the strand. ‘They are being held in abeyance until we have reached an accord, Skinner.’

  ‘We have an accord, Chained One,’ Skinner growled, straightening and wincing. He still touched at his neck.

  The figure glanced back, his rag-wrapped head bent almost to the sands. ‘Oh? We do?’

  ‘Yes.’ Skinner studied the shore, squinted in the dazzling light reflected from the white sands. ‘Here are my terms – I deliver to you myself and some forty Avowed and in return I claim the title of King.’

  ‘Oh? You claim it?’

  Skinner drew off his gauntlets, let them fall on to the sands. He nodded, his gaze hooded, almost sleepy, on the bent-double figure. ‘Yes. It is mine.’

  ‘Good.’ The figure hobbled off. ‘It’s about time somebody took it.’

  ‘My people!’

  A negligent wave of a misshapen hand over his shoulder and the figure ducked within the low sagging tent. Skinner turned to examine the surf. In ones and twos men and women appeared washed up in the lazy waves. He went to help pull them up on to the strand.

  It was night, and the battlefield of gouged, naked soil and blackened stubble was empty but for sniffing, hopeful jackals and the odd human scavenger searching for loot. A man in a mail coat under laced leathers stood motionless, his head lowered. His long black hair blew about his scarred dark face.

  ‘Greetings, Dessembrae,’ spoke a nearby gnawed skull, once buried but since dug up by scavengers. ‘And I say Dessembrae for I see you are here now in that aspect.’

  The man let go a long breath, rolled his neck to ease its tension. ‘A long time, Hood.’

  ‘Indeed. Dare I say how just like those old times?’

  The man’s face twisted in loathing. ‘No, you may not.’

  ‘Yet here you are – why are you here?’

  ‘I am bearing witness to a death. A soldier’s death.’

  ‘How…commonplace.’

  ‘He was no common soldier, though he knew it not. Had the Seti remained he would have out-generalled the Imperial forces, and had his bodyguard been a fraction of an instant faster, would have proven victorious over the Guard as well. He would have made High Fist and risen to become one of the greatest commanders ever thrown up by the Empire. But all that potential died here today, unrealized. Known to none.’

  ‘I know, Dessembrae. I took him.’

  ‘Yes. As you take everyone – eventually. And I will not ask what all others ask of you – why? Because what I have come to understand is that there is no why. To ask why is to impose expectations on mute existence – expectations it is in no way obliged to meet or even extend. And so I make no more, ask no more.’

  The skull was silent for a time – as skulls are. ‘So that is the course of your thoughts,’ said Hood, and the man believed he detected a note of…surprise.

  ‘What of it?’

  Silence.

  We will speak again, I promise you.

  Lurin, Amagin and Shurll were out throwing stones at the Deadhouse. That was what everyone in Malaz city called the old abandoned building in its creepy grounds of trees that never grew leaves in any season. They’d always thrown stones at it, and their mothers and fathers before them had tossed their share as well. This night the streets gleamed from a cold rain that had swept in from the south. Lurin, barefoot, felt the chill so he put an extra effort into his arm to warm himself up.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he called to Amagin and Shurll. ‘Went right in that window – I swear.’

  ‘Didn’t,’ Amagin sniffed.

  ‘Did too!’ He looked to Shurll for support but the older girl was just hugging herself, staring off down the street where it descended to the waterfront, the wharf and the sea glimmering beyond. She’d been doing that more often these days. ‘It did too, Shurll,’ he called. She shrugged her bony shoulders.

  Amagin held out a stone, grinning, his nose wet and running. ‘No way you can hit that window.’

  Lurin snatched it from him. ‘You’ll see.’

  He held the stone out before himself to sight on the window – heavier than he’d have chosen – Amagin always picked poor throwing stones which was why he couldn’t hit any target to save his life. Tongue tucked firmly between his teeth, he drew
back, raised one foot and threw.

  The instant he released something changed on the grounds. A man now stood where Lurin couldn’t recall ever having seen anyone walk. The man’s hand snapped up then held something to his pale face. While they gaped, dumbfounded, he walked up to the wall near them.

  Amagin was already sobbing. Shurll stared, immobile. Lurin flinched, tensed to run but unable. The man’s clothes hung open in sliced folds. Dark wetness gleamed beneath down his torso and arms. Scars gleamed also at his neck like lines of pearl. He held up Lurin’s stone between thumb and forefinger, leaned over the wall.

  ‘Run.’

  Blubbering, Amagin ran. Lurin threw himself at Shurll. She had not moved, perhaps not even blinked. He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her chest, too terrified to look. They were dead. It was a spirit come to drag them away to the Abyss. He waited for that bony touch that was Hood’s beckon.

  But after a time, heart in a frenzy, nothing happened. Shurll made quiet soothing sounds while her hands brushed his shoulders.

  ‘Welcome, Topper!’ Lurin heard the spirit call, his voice distant.

  He dared a glance: the spirit, or man, had moved away and now faced the low front wall.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Cowl,’ another voice answered.

  Lurin turned completely, pressed his back to Shurll, glanced up to her; she watched, avid, her eyes huge.

  Cowl, the one within the grounds of the Deadhouse, gestured an invitation to the other with his blades. ‘Come in – let us finish our debate here. Who will have the last word, do you think?’

  The other, Topper, stepped into view: long tangled white hair, dark-faced, clothes hanging rags. But his eyes! Angular and bright like lamps. He shrugged. ‘By my hand or the House’s…is of no matter to me.’

  Cowl spread his arms wide. ‘I choose my own fate, Topper. I remain undefeated. You lack the will to challenge me? So be it – the defeat is yours.’

  ‘Dancer took you.’

  Cowl’s eyes rolled as he made a show of considering. He pointed a blade to his neck. ‘I call this a draw.’

  ‘You are mistaking desperation for defiance. You only fool yourself.’

  ‘And you are a coward.’

  Topper motioned to the grounds. ‘Time is short. Flee while you can.’

  Lurin glanced across the yard and jerked, terrified. The tree branches were moving. Never had he seen those black limbs shiver or bend, even in the strongest of storms. Steam as of freshly turned earth climbed from the heaps that littered the grounds. The heavy mist gathered to carpet the yard.

  Cold like a winter morning bit at Lurin. He shivered uncontrollably.

  ‘Fool!’ Topper called. ‘It will have you! Flee, now!’

  Cowl stumbled as if something had yanked upon him. But his smile was fixed, his teeth bright and sharp. ‘I choose defiance!’ he yelled, wild fever in his voice.

  ‘You choose despair.’

  Falling, the one called Cowl went on one knee. He laughed, low at first, but climbing in pitch and volume until it rang so loud it drowned out a comment from Topper. And then Lurin’s skin crawled in horror as the one named Cowl appeared to sink – yes, sink straight down into the steaming earth as if pulled. ‘Come join me!’ he shouted, laughing mockingly.

  Topper lunged forward to grip the top of the stone wall. ‘Fool! You are Avowed! You will never die!’ The man sounded genuinely horrified.

  Cowl’s answer to that was to burst forth with even greater fevered, ardent laughter – exulting, darkly triumphant – the mirth of a man gone truly mad. Lurin buried his face once more in Shurll’s chest. Eventually, the peals choked off, fell to silence. When Lurin looked back the grounds were empty.

  His gaze caught the one called Topper staring directly at them. Lurin’s breath caught and he froze. The eyes burned in the night as he’d heard some jewels do. Then the man bowed, an arm across his stomach, the other held out. Stepping back he disappeared into darkness.

  Eventually, Lurin found he could breathe again. He peered up at Shurll, whispered: ‘What happened?’

  And she, looking off into the night, her gaze so distant, stroking his head, murmured repeatedly, ‘Nothing. It’s all right. Nothing happened. It was nothing.’

  In the morning Talia demanded he recite it all again – from the mad ride through the Abyss, to the battle, and Laseen’s funeral cortège to Cawn – even the dull journey by coastal merchantman to Unta.

  ‘And the Imperial Funeral?’ she asked.

  Rillish laughed, sitting up. ‘Gods no. We aren’t invited to that.’

  ‘But you’re a member of the official Wickan delegation to the Throne!’

  Rillish leaned back, tucked a rolled blanket behind his back. ‘Believe me – I am no more welcome in Unta than the Wickans themselves. We are there on sufferance only.’

  ‘And this Mallick creature is to really succeed Laseen?’

  ‘By unanimous acclaim of the Assembly and all regional governors, Fists and all.’

  She shook her head, her brows crimping. ‘And I’ve never even heard of the man.’

  ‘You should get out more, sergeant.’

  She made a face. He pushed the sheets off her belly, eased his head on to her stomach. ‘Huh. Funny…You don’t look pregnant.’

  ‘Not yet, you fool! Gods, you men.’

  ‘Humph…If you say so.’ He gently pressed a hand there on her belly. Son or daughter – you might grow up in a world where all this is but an ugly memory. And perhaps those decades from now if I am still around I will be able to show you all that might be yours by right of your name. And perhaps I will be able to give you more than my love. Though I know that even that is precious enough. And more than some.

  Proprietor, merchant, innkeeper and ex-Imperial sailor, Aron Hul knew a dangerous man when he saw one and this newcomer sent all his nerves jangling the moment he dismounted from his well-fed and well-shod horse that bore new, well-oiled tack. Aron noted the man’s soft leather boots, the studded leather wrappings at his legs, his fitted armour of boiled cuirass, vambraces, the twin ivory-handled sabres worn high under his arms, and his rich travelling cloak. But what fixed his attention was the extraordinary scar running across the man’s face from left temple, notching the bridge of his flattened nose, to mar his right cheek. The man stood for a time in front of his trading establishment, stared south to the Idryn flowing so brown and wide on its way to the Bay of Cawn, and the Nap Sea. Then he turned and entered the trading post.

  Aron quickly set out his most expensive wine and spirits. The man sat at one of his two tables. ‘Yes, sir?’ Aron asked from behind his counter.

  ‘A drink.’

  ‘I have Talian winter wine, spirits of juniper berry from Bloor.’

  ‘The Talian.’

  ‘Excellent, sir.’ He brought out a glass and the bottle. The man pressed a gold Imperial to the gouged slats of the table. Aron almost tipped the bottle. An Imperial Sun – didn’t see too many of those these days. ‘You don’t have anything smaller, do you, sir? We’re just a small river station, you know.’

  The man leaned back, smiled in a way that Aron knew was meant to reassure him. ‘I know. It’s yours for the bottle and a little information.’

  Aron allowed his brows to rise as if in dubious surprise. ‘Really, sir? Information, you say? Out here? What could we possibly know out here?’

  He gestured vaguely to the river. ‘Oh, travel. Shipments and cargo. People coming and going. That sort of thing.’

  Aron’s nerves now reached a screaming pitch; he kept his good-natured smile. ‘Really, sir? Such as?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone who may have come through here about a month ago. During the troubles. A young woman. She would have been travelling alone. You’d remember her if you saw her, if you know what I mean,’ and he winked.

  Aron walked back to his counter. ‘A woman, you say…’ He shook his head. ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Slim, dark hair. A pretty
face. As I said, a woman men notice. Hear anything like that? She may have hired a boat to take her upriver.’

  That hired hand who came through on his run south to Cawn – what was his name? Jestan? Jeth? Damn it to Hood!

  Aron rubbed his stubbled cheeks; his gaze flicked to the gold Sun shining, winking, on the table. ‘I may have heard something about a female passenger on one of the riverboats…’

  The man’s hand covered the coin. He lost his smile. Sighing, he pushed himself up from the table.

  Jhal! It was Jhal! What had he said? He’d been up at the Falls transferring cargo and he joked about a boatman fawning over some passenger of his—

  The man had come to the counter. He pushed the gold Sun across. ‘Think harder. Because you can stare all you like but this coin won’t multiply itself.’

  Aron licked his lips, swallowed. He smiled nervously. ‘I’m trying to remember, sir.’

  ‘Good. Take your time.’ He returned to his table, came back with the glass and bottle, poured another drink and slid it across.

  Nodding his thanks Aron took it and tossed the entire glass back. He had to open his D’rek blasted mouth! Now there was no going back. This one doesn’t care about the money. This is about more than coin. No one sends a man like this out when only money is in question. And the man was watching him carefully, his eyes lazy, calm…patient.

  Aron cleared his throat. He pressed a rag to his face. Who would have been going upriver then? Oddfoot? No, he’s south. Cat? No, idiot! It was a man. Old Pick? He won’t go past Heng. Tullen! Must’ve been Tullen. Been gone for ages now.

  ‘I heard something about a boatman who’d picked up a woman at about that time…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That he’d taken up past Heng.’

  The man nodded, frowning his appreciation. ‘And do you have a name for this boatman?’

  Ask, man. Those that don’t ask don’t get! ‘Well, sir. You wouldn’t have another of those gold Suns on you somewhere, would you?’ and he tried his easiest smile.