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

  Orchid nodded, took a drink of water. Her gaze lost its focus and she spoke slowly, as if parsing some text visible only to her. ‘No one really knows the origins of what we call Moon’s Spawn. It emerged from Elder Night, but what was it before then? Some argue it is the remnant of a K’Chain Che’Malle artefact that ventured into Kurald Galain and was taken by the Andii. Perhaps. Others suggest it was found abandoned and empty deep within the greatest depths of Utter Night. In any case, Anomander Rake brought it into this realm together with a legion of his race, the Tiste Andii, who followed him as he was the son of their sole deity, Mother Dark.’

  Antsy gaped his amazement. He’d heard all kinds of legends and tales touching upon these ancient events, but this girl spoke them as if they were the literal truth!

  She resumed after another sip. ‘For ages the Spawn floated over the continents, roving everywhere. We know this to be true as it figures in almost every mythology in every land. During these ages its inhabitants rarely involved themselves in human, or Jaghut, or K’Chain affairs. All that changed however with the rise of the Malazan Empire and its ruler, Kellanved. For some reason the Emperor gained Anomander’s enmity. Some suggest a failed assault upon the Spawn by Dancer and Kellanved.’

  She shrugged, clearing her throat. ‘In any case, Anomander opposed Malazan expansion here in Genabackis. From that fell out the engagements up north, the siege of Pale, the Spawn’s fracturing and fall, and all the unleashing of Elemental Night at Black Coral.’

  Listening to this litany a memory suddenly possessed Antsy: staring up at the dark underside of that suspended mountain while below Pale burned, a city aflame. Then, the ground shuddering, his ears deafened, as all the old Emperor’s High Mages summoned their might against its master …

  He shivered, blinking and wiping his eyes.

  Neither Malakai nor Orchid seemed to have noticed. The man was nodding, his gaze distant as if in meditation. ‘He would’ve won, I think, had not the Pale Hand thaumaturges betrayed him and gone over to the Malazans.

  ‘You wanted him to win?’ said Orchid, outraged.

  Malakai continued nodding. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘You’d support the inhuman over the human?’

  The man’s smile was a knife blade. ‘I admired his style.’

  Antsy cleared his throat. ‘So, tomorrow. Supplies? Equipage?’

  Malakai leaned back, swung his lizard gaze to him. ‘In my room. I have rope, oil, lamps, dried food. We need only purchase water.’

  ‘And crossbow bolts. I’ll need more of them.’

  Malakai shook his head. ‘I think you’ll find that more than enough of them have already been taken out to the island. Those and other things.’ His dark gaze fixed on the gouged tabletop. ‘There’s probably continual warfare on the isle. We may be attacked the moment we land. For our food, our supplies. The ruins have been a lawless hunting ground for over a year. The stronger parties have probably carved out claims, territory. There might even be a form of taxation for passage. Very probably slavery. I’ve heard that no one has returned for over two months now. It may be that newcomers are simply killed out of hand as useless mouths to feed.’

  Orchid stared, plainly shaken by this calm assessment.

  ‘And you were prepared to step into the teeth of that alone?’ Antsy said.

  The man smiled as if relishing the prospect. ‘Of course. Weren’t you, too?’

  Antsy took a drink to wet his throat. ‘Well … I suppose so.’ Truth was, he hadn’t really given much thought to what might be awaiting him on the islands. All his plans had been fixed on just getting out there. After that, well, he imagined he’d see which way the wind was blowing. Stupid, maybe. But he had his shaved knuckles in the hole and rare skills to offer. Besides, things may not be as bleak as this morbid fellow would have it.

  ‘Friends of yours, Red?’ Malakai whispered into the silence.

  Startled, Antsy looked up from his scarred knuckles. Three men now crowded the table. His friend from last night, Jallin, and two toughs. The Jumper sported a large purple bruise on his temple where Antsy knouted him. Antsy rolled his eyes. ‘For the love of Burn, lad! What is it now?’

  Jallin carried a truncheon tight in both white-knuckled hands. His lips drew back from his small sharp teeth. ‘Three councils is what it is now.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Interest.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ Orchid asked.

  Jallin’s eyes, sunken and bloodshot, flicked to her. His lips twisted into a leer. ‘Seen you around. Finally broke down and sold the last thing you got left, hey?’

  Antsy cut off Orchid’s shout. ‘Call it a day, lad. Don’t push this one.’

  The youth’s laugh of contempt was fevered. Antsy wondered when he’d last had a meal. Jallin glanced at his companions. ‘Hear that? The man arrives yesterday and all of the sudden he’s the governor. Well, I’ll tell you, old man – you hand over them bags and we’re even and no one gets hurt.’

  ‘That I cannot allow,’ said Malakai.

  Jallin jerked a glance down to the man as if seeing him for the first time. He gave a twitched shrug of dismissal. ‘Stay out of this if you know what’s good for you.’

  Malakai’s slash of a mouth spread in a big wide smile. Antsy noted that Jallin’s companions were nowhere near as confident as he. One licked his lips nervously while the other eyed Malaki with open unease.

  Malakai raised his gloved hands, palm down. He turned them over and suddenly both held throwing knives. He turned them over again and the knives disappeared. He did this over and over again, faster and faster, the blades seeming almost to flicker in and out of existence. The two thugs stared, fascinated, almost hypnotized by the demonstration. For his part, Antsy wondered whether what he was watching was the product of Warren manipulation or pure skill.

  Finally, jarring everyone, a blade slammed into the table before each of the two hired toughs. Both flinched back, and then, sharing a quick glance, continued their retreat leaving Jallin standing absolutely still, his mouth working. All eyes shifted to the youth, whose chest heaved as if winded. ‘Damn you to Hood’s paths. I swear I’ll have your head!’ He threw the truncheon, which Antsy deflected with a raised forearm. Then he marched out after his companions.

  Orchid clearly wanted to ask what all that had been about, but instead her gaze swung to Malakai and Antsy watched her begin to wonder just who this was she’d entered the service of. As for himself, he now understood why the man was willing to venture out to the Spawns alone: there were probably damned few out there who could trouble him. The fellow struck him as a cross between his old army companions Quick Ben and Kalam. He wondered who he was and what he wanted out there. And just what he had sold himself into for fifty gold councils.

  Malakai simply returned to studying the tabletop as if he’d already forgotten the incident and was unaware of their quiet regard.

  CHAPTER III

  In ancient times a Seguleh came shipwrecked to the shores near Nathilog. The local ruler, thinking to impress upon him the strength and power of his city state, took the warrior upon a tour of the ringed-round cyclopean walls, the thick towers, and the deep donjons that was the fortress of Nathilog of that age. When the long detailed demonstration was finished the ruler turned to the man, saying, ‘There! Now you may return to your home and convince your fellows of our impregnability and might!’

  The Seguleh replied: ‘I have but one question.’

  ‘Yes?’ the ruler invited.

  ‘Why do you live in a prison?’

  Histories of Genabackis

  Sulerem of Mengal

  AS WAS HIS HABIT, SCHOLAR EBBIN ROSE EARLY AND WAS THE FIRST to have tea. He found that the old hag was three times as sullen as before now she had to cook for three times the men. One of Humble’s new guards was also up, pacing over the beaten dusty ground of the Dwelling Plain, a cloak wrapped tightly about him. The two guards Ebbin had hired weeks ago lay snoring next to the smouldering remain
s of a bonfire. He sighed.

  Still, somehow he’d felt safer with just those two incompetents watching camp. Captain – and he doubted the man really was a captain – Drin had made it very clear that he worked for Humble Measure, just as did he, Ebbin. This uncomfortable truth rankled as he’d always thought of himself as a free hand, more independent iconoclast than employee.

  Also, from time to time he’d seen the guards watching inwards towards camp as much as outwards towards any potential thieves or marauders. Sometimes Ebbin felt more like a prisoner than a client. Shrugging, he tossed away the rest of his tea and went to collect his equipment and to wake the two Gadrobi youths.

  At the well, he unlocked the cover and shoved it aside. Captain Drin was there with his four men. Ebbin’s two guards had also tagged along uninvited. Ebbin almost laughed. Seven guards! For what? A few potsherds. A handful of votive funerary offerings. Nothing of any true monetary worth. Some silver perhaps, but little gold. It was the artistic style and the subject matter that would be explosive. Potential proof of an erased, or systematically suppressed, Darujhistani Imperial Age.

  The captain peered down into the dark pit. He motioned to his men. ‘Strap your gear.’

  Ebbin eyed the man while he secured his helmet and tied his shield to his back. ‘Ah … Captain. Only I need go down.’

  ‘No longer.’

  An almost speechless panic gripped Ebbin. He wiped his sweaty hands on his thighs. ‘It’s dangerous – the rope. The youths are not strong enough …’

  The captain yanked on the rope, grunted his satisfaction. He pointed to Ebbin’s guards. ‘You two – you can man the winch.’

  Ebbin’s panic turned to a sudden possessive anger. He stepped up before the hired sword. ‘My find, Captain,’ he said, low and firm. ‘There’s no need for you or your men. You’ll only get in the way. You’ll unknowingly damage or trample precious artefacts. You would be interfering in a delicate excavation.’

  A lazy smile crooked up behind the man’s beard. He touched a finger to the point of a long iron chisel protruding from Ebbin’s shoulder bag. ‘Delicate. Right.’ The man was peering down with oddly veiled eyes, as if he were not really seeing him at all. ‘It’s settled, scholar. Humble Measure’s orders. We come along to oversee his interests. Whatever you find – it’s his.’ He motioned to the sling seat. ‘Now, if you please … you first.’

  Down in the tunnel opening Ebbin crouched, lit lantern in hand, awaiting the captain. His dread was now like a caged rabid animal racing round and round his skull. What of … it? The figure? What if they … disturbed it? Yet what if they did? Gold held no fascination for him. Humble Measure was welcome to all the loot he wanted. Why should this alarm him?

  Yet it did. He felt an unreasoning dread of that supine waiting figure. So exposed, so … inviting. He wanted to cringe from it in terror.

  When the captain arrived Ebbin helped him find his footing in the tunnel, then backed up a ways to make room for the others. Drin had picked two of his men to accompany him, leaving two at the well-top – along with Ebbin’s men, of course.

  ‘Captain,’ he said, whispering in the dark, ‘there’s a figure in the tomb … I don’t want you or your men touching it … disturbing it. Do I have your word?’

  The man squinted at him, his face wrinkling up in scepticism. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘A body, lying on a plinth. It’s not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Whatever you say, scholar.’

  Somehow Ebbin was not reassured.

  When the next two had entered the tunnel, Drin motioned for Ebbin to go on. Lantern raised high before him, the scholar edged his way forward on hand and knees. Once within the large round burial chamber the three guards stood stock still for a long time, hands on strapped sword hilts, their eyes bright and big in the gloom. Eventually their gazes found the figure lying exactly as before, at the very centre of the chamber, within the arches that resembled two large rings carved of stone. The beaten gold mask gleamed in the lantern light. The graven smile seemed to welcome them. Their gazes rarely left the figure as Ebbin led them to the remaining sealed side-niche. He set down his shoulder bag, began getting out his tools.

  ‘Since your men are here, Captain,’ he said, ‘I could use some help.’

  Peering back over his shoulder at the figure, Drin grunted his agreement. He motioned to one of his men. Ebbin handed the guard one of the special alloyed chisels supplied by Aman. ‘If you’ll hold this steady …’ He showed the man where he wanted the chisel on the door slab, then raised the hammer he’d packed down the tunnel.

  While Ebbin carefully tapped, the captain stood behind, watching. ‘Twelve,’ Drin mused, sounding much more subdued now in the dark confines of the tomb. ‘Like the stories my old grandpa used to tell. The Twelve Fiends …’ He shook his head in remembrance. ‘“Be good”, the old guy used to warn, “or they’ll come steal ya away.”’

  ‘This one’s still sealed,’ Ebbin said, and he blew on the scarring now visible on the face of the slab.

  ‘Aye. The others all looted. But not this one … nor him,’ and he jerked a thumb to the chamber’s centre. ‘Like they was interrupted, maybe.’

  Ebbin swept at the face of the slab with a fine horsehair brush. It looked as if a crack was developing. ‘Perhaps they meant to return to finish the job – but never made it back.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The captain sounded unconvinced.

  A desperate urge to hurry was on Ebbin, yet at the same time he was painfully aware that this was his one chance, his gods’ sent opportunity to salvage his reputation. To make a name for himself and overturn many past insults. And so he took his time despite the guard’s wandering attention and the heat that gathered in the confines of the tomb sending drops of sweat down his nose and neck, and making his hands slick.

  Boredom had driven the captain and the second guard from his side. They poked through the other chambers only to report them all empty, as Ebbin knew.

  A crack now ran horizontally across the slab, close to the top. He planned to take off the upper section then reach behind to pull or strike the rest outward, thereby avoiding damaging any artefacts which might lie near the entrance. He grunted his frustration as a few shards fell within. The guard with him could not suppress a flinching retreat as the seal was broken. ‘It’s okay,’ Ebbin murmured. He raised the lantern to peer within, but couldn’t make out anything defining. The niche appeared no different from the eleven others. ‘Could you …’ He mimicked a yank on the remaining section of stone slab.

  The guard reluctantly put down the chisel. Behind, the captain came from where he’d been leaning against one of the stone arches, staring at the figure on its black onyx plinth.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Drin said to his man. The fellow took hold and pulled. The stone ground and scraped. The man tried again, jerking, pushing against the wall with one booted foot. He grunted, cursing, but the slab would not budge.

  ‘Let me.’ Drin pushed the man aside and took hold, tensing. Ebbin was impressed by the breadth of his bunched shoulders, his thick roped forearms. The man snarled, his breath hissing from him as he pulled. A crack shot through the slab like the strike of a slingstone. Dust billowed from the seal round its edges, then it juddered outwards to fall crashing to their feet.

  Studying the fallen rock, Ebbin suddenly recognized the pattern. All the other niches shared it. All their doors had been pulled outwards to fall into the chamber. Pulled out … or pushed. Sudden renewed panic clenched his throat. He could not swallow; his heart seemed to be bashing against his ribs. He raised the lantern to reveal something lying on the plinth within. A corpse.

  It was nothing like the figure behind them. This thing was quite obviously dead. And not human. It was massive, its bones far thicker and more robust than those of any human. Its desiccated fingers ended in bear-like yellowed talons, as did the toes of its naked feet.

  ‘Demon,’ Captain Drin breathed.

  Ebbin stepped within for a clo
ser look. He was confused. This was not what he’d expected. Not at all. Where was the artwork? The funerary offerings?

  Something caught his eye: a cold white gleam shone from deep within the cadaver’s hollow chest cavity. Ebbin bent closer. It was a pale stone bearing the oily shimmer of the insides of shells. Perhaps it was a pearl itself. Ebbin reached for it.

  ‘Find something?’ the captain warned, his voice suddenly tense.

  Startled, Ebbin snatched his hand away, glanced over. ‘I’m sorry … ?’

  Drin was reaching out one hand while his other closed on the kit of his drawn weapon. ‘No, scholar. It’s me that’s sorry. Measure’s orders, y’see …’

  A yell of warning from behind snapped the man’s attention round. He gaped, ‘Shit!’ and ran, drawing his sword.

  Ebbin ducked from the niche to see the two guards struggling with the figure from the plinth beneath the spans of the arches. The two mouthed yells and screams yet no sound reached Ebbin. The captain was running for them.

  ‘No!’ Ebbin shouted too late. The captain swung a great two-handed blow that appeared to have no effect on the cloaked and masked figure, which had lashed out and caught one of the guards. While Ebbin watched, petrified, it gripped the man’s neck with one hand and with the other pulled the gold mask from its own face. Ebbin glimpsed a ruin of sinew and rotted flesh over bone, and stood rooted to the ground in horror as the fiend ignored the increasingly frenzied attacks of Drin and the other guard and slowly, inexorably, pressed the mask to its victim’s face.

  The guard fell to his knees, pulling frantically at the mask, but he was unable to move it. Transfixed, Ebbin watched as the cloaked figure disappeared in a great swirling cloud of dust and the dark cloak fell empty to the floor.

  Some sort of invisible barrier held the captain and the remaining guard beneath the intersecting arches. They screamed unheard commands at Ebbin, who could only shake his head in mute appalled terror, while behind the two men the corpse of their fellow climbed to his feet. The gold mask shimmered brightly in the lantern light, its mysterious graven smile now horrifying in its promise. Ebbin pointed, his other hand covering his mouth.