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

  Outside, the horse was brought up and he mounted. Wishing the men good luck, he urged his mount inland. He was a good few leagues off, climbing the gentle rolling hillside, when something tugged at him from the Strait. Something’s gathering. He reined in and turned. Shading his eyes, he could just make out the distant Blue and Talian men-of-war anchored in the bay. What were they up to? Then he felt it: the puissance literally pushed him backwards. Ye gods, what was this? Ruse, awakening? Had an Ascendant taken to the field?

  A great wave bulged in the bay, heaving shoreward. That renegade Mare mage! Sweeping the shore clear! Where came she by such might? Too much. Far too much for him to contest. That was one battle he had to concede. She could have the shore – but this was her one and only throw. He still had many more. He sawed the reins around and made inland as fast as he could urge the horse.

  Warran took Kiska through Shadow – just how he did it she wasn’t sure. He simply invited her to walk to the darkened rear of the tent and she found herself stepping on much farther than its dimensions. The gloom then brightened to the familiar haziness of the Chaos region and she turned to him. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Within the boundary threshold of the Whorl itself.’ The short fellow clasped his hands at his front. ‘Myself, I have no wish to go any farther.’

  ‘But it was dark …’

  ‘To those looking from the outside, yes. It would appear that those within create their own local conditions.’

  Kiska peered around, dubious. ‘I don’t think I understand …’

  The old priest cocked his head. ‘Some say every consciousness is like a seed. Perhaps that is true. I know of small pocket realms that act in this manner. Perhaps we create our own – for a time. Now I understand why the Liosan would come in such numbers. Their local conditions would be that much stronger, and more enduring.’

  ‘Enduring?’

  Warran gave a serious nod. ‘You don’t really think you can forestall the eroding effects for ever, do you? Eventually you will be consumed.’ He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Or perhaps you will drift in nothingness dreaming for ever … Hmm. An interesting problem …’

  Kiska stared at the ragged fellow. ‘That’s supposed to reassure me?’

  Warran blinked. ‘Does it? It certainly wouldn’t reassure me.’

  Exasperated, she raised her arms to turn full circle. ‘Well, which direction should I go?’

  ‘I really do not think it matters. Here, all directions lead to the centre.’

  ‘All directions lead – that doesn’t make any sense!’

  The priest pursed his lips, head cocked. ‘You could say it has its own kind of logic … you just have to learn to think a different way.’

  ‘You sound as if you’ve done this before.’

  The greying tangled brows rose in surprise. ‘Time is wasting. You’d better start searching.’ He raised a finger. ‘Oh! I took the liberty …’ He reached into his dirty torn robes and pulled out Kiska’s staff.

  Mute with wonder, she accepted it, then stared from it to him: it was taller than he. ‘How …’

  He waved goodbye, started off. Over his shoulder he called, ‘Take care. Remember the logic!’ He’d taken only a few steps when he disappeared.

  Kiska stared, squinting. Was that the border of her own personal space? The thought unnerved her utterly. She squeezed the staff in her hands, feeling emboldened by its familiarity, and started off in the opposite direction from the one in which the priest had gone.

  She had no sense of time passing, of course. It might have been a moment, or a day, but eventually the sky darkened, seeming to close in until she jogged beneath a night sky blazing with stars that showed no constellation she knew. The ground to either side fell away in steep slopes down to an equally dark abyss, leaving a narrow walk, and here someone was waiting for her.

  It was Jheval-Leoman, arms crossed, an almost embarrassed look on his wind-tanned face. Kiska noted he once more wore his morningstars on his belt – that damned priest! She lowered her staff. ‘Keep your distance.’

  He held up his opened hands. ‘Kiska. I have no vendetta. Believe me. My only motive is to get you damned Malazans off my back.’

  She motioned him to walk ahead of her. ‘So you say. But I can’t trust that, can I?’

  He let out a long breath, his arms slowly falling. ‘No. I suppose not.’ He walked ahead of her. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me of this manifestation, and I’m worried. You said Tayschrenn didn’t create this—’

  ‘Agayla would not deceive me! I trust her completely!’

  He turned, walking backwards. ‘Kiska. She did not object to me …’

  She stopped. Objections crowded her throat but none could escape. Agayla was deceived? Hardly. She didn’t know? The Queen of Dreams, ignorant? Even less likely. And yet … how could she accept this criminal? Nothing less than a mass murderer?

  A dark shape caught her eye ahead. A figure, prone, wearing dark torn robes. Tayschrenn! She dashed ahead.

  ‘Kiska! Wait!’

  She dropped to her knees next to the figure, an old man on his back, thin, with long grey hair. ‘Tayschrenn!’ She touched a shoulder. ‘It’s me …’

  The figure stirred, turning over. A hand grasped her wrist. Kiska stared, stunned. For it was not Tayschrenn. The man stood, his grip on her wrist inhumanly strong. He was sun-darkened, with a great hooked nose and black glittering eyes. ‘And you are?’ he grated in accented Talian.

  Kiska could not speak, couldn’t think. Impossible. All this … impossible …

  The avid eyes slid aside, narrowing. ‘And who is this?’

  Kiska followed his gaze to Leoman, kneeling, bowed.

  ‘Arise,’ the man growled.

  Leoman straightened, inclined his head in obeisance. ‘Greetings, Yathengar. Faladan, priest of Ehrlitan. The Seven bless us.’

  The man, Yathengar, pushed Kiska away. He took an uncertain step, his gaze furrowed. ‘Leoman? In truth? Leoman – Champion of Sha’ik?’ He clasped Leoman’s shoulders and laughed. ‘The Seven Gods are not so easily swept aside, yes? How they must have schemed to bring us together! We shall return, you and I. All Seven Cities will rise aflamed! You shall be my general. We will destroy them.’

  Leoman bowed again. ‘I am yours to command.’

  To one side a brightening disturbed the uniformity of this island, or eye of calm, at the centre of the Whorl. Yathengar peered aside, frowning. ‘What is this?’

  Leoman shot Kiska a warning glance. ‘Tiste Liosan, m’lord. This place touches upon their Realm and they are here to destroy it.’

  ‘Fools to challenge me here. I will sweep them aside like chaff.’

  Leoman had backed away a step. ‘No doubt, m’lord.’

  Kiska eyed him – what was the bastard up to? Has he deceived everyone? Every friend or loyalty he has ever established, he has betrayed. And now he would whip this madman upon the Liosan? Was there no limit to his debasement? Was it all nothing more than gleeful nihilism?

  Leoman looked up, directing her gaze to the sky. Unwilling to cooperate, she reluctantly glanced up anyway. And she saw it. A tiny bat-like dot flapping overhead.

  Her gaze snapped back to him, her heart lurching. The man took another careful step away from Yathengar. She followed suit.

  ‘Watch, Leoman,’ the priest commanded. ‘See how I have grown in might here.’

  Leoman bowed again. ‘Yes, m’lord.’

  Kiska cast quick furtive glances to their little guide. It descended to the rear, behind them, where the ground fell away to the dark abyss that seemed to surround them. It disappeared, arcing down into the gulf, and Kiska’s gaze rose to Leoman, appalled.

  He nodded, his gaze steady, insistent.

  And she, hardly able to breathe, terrified, nodded back.

  Leoman kicked her staff over the edge. Yathengar turned. ‘What?’

  Kiska leapt into the black emptiness. A surprised roar burst behind her. Then, a bellow of
pure outrage: ‘Leoman!’

  It seemed Leoman could not help but remain true to his character.

  Bakune imagined himself the most coddled prisoner in the history of Banith’s Carceral Quarters. Guards smuggled food and wine to him; guards’ wives whispered news from the countryside through the grate of his door. Even the commander of the quarters, Ibarth, a man who once openly scorned his judgements from the bench, appeared at his door to express his horror at the Malazans’ treatment of him.

  ‘Imagine,’ the man had huffed, ‘after all your efforts to be civil. These Malazans are barbarians!’ He assured Bakune that he’d have him out in an instant if it was up to him – but that the Malazans had his hands tied.

  Bakune gave his understanding and the man fairly fainted his relief; he wiped his flushed sweating face and bowed his gratitude. News came only later via a guard’s wife that the Roolian resistance had named Bakune a patriot of the freedom struggle – a title he personally could not make any sense of.

  The next night he was startled awake by a rattling at his door. A guard holding a lantern gently swung it open to wink and touch the side of his nose in a sort of comical pantomime. Bakune stared sleepily at the man. Whatever was he up to?

  Another fellow slipped inside, wrapped in a cloak, hood up, a heavyset great lump of a fellow who sat on the end of his pallet. The guard set the lantern on a hook and backed away.

  Bakune eyed the figure. ‘And who are you?’

  The man threw back his hood. ‘Really, Assessor. Don’t you recognize old friends?’

  It was Karien’el, just as fat, nose just as swollen, if a touch more tanned. Bakune jumped up. ‘Whatever are you doing here? You’re a wanted man!’

  ‘I was here in town so I thought I’d break you out.’

  That silenced Bakune for a moment. He flexed his arm, massaging it and wincing. ‘Here? In town? Why? I told Hyuke there was to be no trouble here.’

  Chuckling, Karien’el raised his hands. ‘Granted. The Malazans can have this pimple.’ He pointed to Bakune. ‘It’s you I want.’

  ‘Me?’

  Karien’el chuckled again, shaking his head. ‘From anyone else I would take that as false modesty – but not you. I know you. That’s why I want you. I need an administrator. One I can trust.’

  ‘An administrator? What for?’

  Karien’el lost his grin. ‘Gods you’re dense, man! For the bloody kingdom, that’s what!’

  Bakune sat heavily. ‘There are others much more qualified …’

  Karien made a farting noise. ‘Lady forgive you, but you’re taking all this fairness too damned far. Why them? Why not you? No, at this point it’s all about relationships. I know you. For example, I know you won’t waste both our time by scheming against me. Or trying to undermine my power to further your own.’ The man raised his eyes to the ceiling, sighing. ‘You have no idea what a relief that would be.’

  Bakune couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. ‘But the Malazans …’

  ‘Neither the new Malazans nor the old Malazans have the men to hold the kingdom. And they both know it. It’s ours for the meantime – and we’re already fighting over it. Oh, they can try to retake it. But until then someone has to enforce order.’

  Bakune looked him up and down. ‘And that would be you?’

  If the man was offended he didn’t show it. ‘Or the next lucky bastard in line.’ Leaning over, he tapped a knuckle on the door.

  Four armoured soldiers crowded the hall. Karien’el nodded to them and stood, letting out a long tired breath. ‘Welcome to the struggle, Chancellor, and Lord High Assessor of Rool.’

  The guards bowed. One gestured up the hall. ‘This way, if you please, m’lord.’

  Outside, it was a dark overcast night. Snow lay gathered against walls, melting, the streets glistening with water. He was hurried into a covered carriage. Two of the guards sat with him. Karien’el excused himself, saying he still had other business. Bakune did not like the sound of that, but he could hardly show such ingratitude now after the man had broken him out of prison.

  As they rattled through the streets he peered out at lit windows. The town appeared just as it had, if a touch quieter, if not anxious. The garrison, he noted, sat completely black without sentries or watchfires. ‘The garrison is dark,’ he said to a guard.

  ‘They moved out. They’re building a fort outside the town.’

  ‘Ah. And us? Where are we headed?’

  ‘To Paliss, m’lord.’

  Paliss? The capital? He sat back astounded. Karien’el controlled the capital? All the gods sustain him! He’d imagined a tent camp near some front, not the High Court itself! And without any interference from Karien’el, as well. Just as Karien’el said he knew him, so too did he know Karien’el. Just as he had no interest in ruling, so did Karien’el have no interest in the law itself.

  But he mustn’t get ahead of himself. He found a horse blanket under the seat and pulled it over his legs. He flexed his hand – still a touch numb. Karien’el would have to win out, after all. And if he did … then he would have his chance to put his stamp on the laws of the land.

  And he most certainly intended to.

  For some reason the city of Ring made Ivanr uneasy. He preferred to stay out in the field, occupying his tent in Martal’s fortress, with a view of the city walls. He and the wrapped bodies of Martal and the Priestess. Many flocked to him now, begging for his blessing, hounding him. Inside the city it would be ten times worse.

  He was the inheritor of a polytheistic movement nurtured and prepared by Beneth, inflamed by the Priestess, directed by Martal, and now in control of over half of Jourilan – and it terrified him. He had no idea what to do, or how to proceed. What next? March on the capital, Jour? Already Orman was harassing him with intelligence from the Dourkan border: news of Imperial loyalists negotiating for an alliance against the Reformist movement. He was no politician! Orman could handle that; he seemed to relish it.

  He rested a hand on the cloth-wrapped body of the Priestess, the head and body reverently brought together, packed in salt, and lovingly bound. Such a small frame to have brought about such enormous change! Yet, as the churgeon said, nothing happened. Why did you allow it? Did you see, in the end, that nothing short of your complete sacrifice to the cause could assure their complete devotion as well?

  ‘Deliverer!’ a young girl’s voice called from without. Ivanr stirred from what was perhaps the closest he’d come to prayer in many years. Gods! Not another one!

  He tossed aside the flap to see a young girl lying prone, hands out before her. ‘Stand up!’ he grated, much more ferociously than he meant. She stood, quivering her fear. ‘It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. Worship as you wish. There are no proscriptions now. The paths to the Divine are infinite.’

  She nodded, gulping. ‘Yes, Deliverer. My father sent me. He is too old to come. He believes in your message of forgiveness.’ The girl visibly gathered her nerve to plunge on: ‘My lord, with the death of the Black Queen there is such anger among the troops. They thirst for revenge … M’lord, in the city they are rounding people up. People accused of worshipping the Lady. They are killing them all.’

  ‘What!’

  The girl flinched, falling prone once more. ‘No! Not you!’ He glanced about the tent, found his staff. ‘Show me.’

  The streets were utterly deserted but for roving bands of Reformist troops, drunk, breaking into shops, looting. Along the narrow streets of two-storey shops and houses many gaped empty, ransacked from the rioting. Looted broken furniture and private belongings littered the street along with the burned remains of bonfires and street barricades.

  After a few blocks, the girl leading, it became easy to find the source of the trouble as the echoing roar of shouting and cheering reached him. They came on to a market square. A great crowd of Reform troops mixed with Ring citizens, obvious victors in the bloody street-to-street civil clashes, choked the square. Some had even climbed broken statues and foun
tains for a better view, and everyone was peering across the way to where an informal archery range had been set up. Reform archers fired down the narrow cleared alleys between the crowds to targets of crossed lumber on which men and women hung limp, studded with arrows. A great cheer greeted every volley.

  Enraged, Ivanr bulled his way forward. He slammed men and women aside and stepped out to where tables supported bows and quivers of arrows. Archers gaped at him, astonished, and most lowered their bows. All save one, a youth who deliberately ignored him to take his time firing one last shot into a woman hanging by her arms. The shot went true, though the woman’s body didn’t flinch, supporting as it did an entire forest of arrows.

  Two quick strides brought Ivanr to the fellow and he slapped the bow from his hands. ‘How dare you, you evil bastard!’ he raged. The archer whipped round and he found himself staring straight into the scarred young face of the boy he’d rescued.

  For Ivanr everything stopped.

  The noise from the crowd faded to nothing. Even his vision darkened at its edges. He staggered backwards, his heart lurching as if impaled. Gods forgive me! No! The boy’s face was different now – a kind of habitual cruelty twisted it. The youth snatched up his bow and defiantly nocked another arrow. No! Please … Ivanr started forward, reaching out for him. Please don’t do this – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …

  The youth spun about and fired point-blank into Ivanr’s chest.

  The answering roar of the crowd dazzled him. He stood confused. Hordes crowded in upon him. Hundreds of hands snatched the youth, tearing his clothes, his hair. The boy seemed to disintegrate before his eyes. All he could think of was that there was something he meant to do; he just couldn’t quite remember what it was. Someone was talking to him – the man’s mouth was moving but Ivanr couldn’t make out his words among all the roaring noise. He peered down at the palm’s breadth of shaft and fletching protruding from his chest. Something had to be done about this!