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

  She grasped his hair to wrench back his head. His cheeks ran with tears. The figure raised a hand to the mask, lifted it from its head.

  When he saw what was revealed beneath Jeshin managed one soul-shattering scream before the suffocating metal was pressed to his face.

  Scorch and Leff paused in their card game at a table next to the rear servants’ entrance of Lim manor. Leff cocked his head. ‘Hear that? You hear something?’

  Scorch took a stiff sip from a jug of cooking wine, set it down with a grimace of disgust. ‘Hunh?’

  ‘I said, did you hear something?’

  Scorch listened fiercely, cocking his head.

  Leff raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Not now! A minute ago – anything ?’

  Scorch shook a negative. He set a hand on the crossbow leaning against the table. ‘Should we … you know …’

  ‘Should we what?’

  ‘I dunno. ’Vestigate?’

  Leff examined his cards. Tower, magus, mercenary. It was a good hand. ‘Naw. Not right now.’ He eyed the pot. ‘Raise you ten copper crescents.’

  Scorch made a face. ‘I don’t got ten crescents. You cleaned me out.’ He threw down the cards crossed his arms and eyed the great mound of copper on the table. ‘Where’s all our silver gone, anyway?’

  Spindle sat cradling a tankard from the last barrel of beer in K’rul’s bar. The former Imperial historian, Duiker, sat with him. Fisher was at another table, leaning back, tuning a long-necked instrument. Blend and Picker were at the bar staring at the door as if willing customers to enter.

  It seemed to him that he’d done quite enough to answer the Malazans’ request for intelligence. He’d told them all they’d discovered that night out on the Dwelling Plain. He’d even poked around where they were salvaging stone blocks out of the harbour. He saw the scholar there, the one who’d been down the well. He seemed to be working for these scary mages. And weren’t they a hair-raising lot, too. Reminded him of the old gang who used to work for the Empire. It was enough to make his shirt squirm. He wasn’t going to tempt their notice, no sir. Ma told me ’bout mages like that.

  Everyone was quiet, as they had been for the last few nights. Even Fisher’s plucking was subdued. Waitin’. Waitin’ for the storm to break. The historian had been frowning at his glass of tea for some time and now he raised one cocked eye to Spindle.

  ‘Did you get a good look at these stones?’ he asked.

  Spindle nodded, frowning thoughtfully. ‘Pretty good. They got masons cleaning them. Chisellin’ off growths and barnacles and such, then polishing them. The stone’s white beneath. Like purest marble.’ He paused, his brows crimping. ‘But not like any marble I ever seen. Not hard white like solid. Kinda clear, smoky almost …’

  Everyone flinched at a discordant jangle from the instrument in Fisher’s hands. All eyes turned to the bard, who was watching Spindle, his brows raised. ‘Smoky?’ he repeated. ‘As in see-through, or translucent?’

  Spindle nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah. That’s it. Like you said, see-through. ’

  From the bar Picker’s voice sounded, low and warning. ‘What is it, bard?’

  Fisher lowered his gaze to the instrument and strummed a few idle bars. ‘Has anyone noticed how among all the towers and buildings and temples here in the city, none uses white stone?’

  ‘I’m not a damned architect,’ Picker grumbled.

  Spindle had noticed, but he’d put it down to some sort of local shortage. ‘Well, those’re building stones awright. And they’re digging a trench there too, come to think of it. A foundation.’

  Fisher shrugged, returned to his tuning. ‘It’s a local superstition. White stone’s considered bad luck here – even a symbol of death. It’s only used in sepulchres or mausoleums … And then there are the old songs too …’

  The bard’s voice trailed away and no one spoke for a time. Finally Blend ground out from where she leaned against the bar, chin in hands. ‘What songs?’

  Fisher shrugged as if uninterested. ‘Oh, just local folk tales, really. Rhymes and sayings.’

  Blend shifted to return her attention to the door again. Picker, arms crossed, hands tucked up under her armpits, nodded to herself for a time. Spindle took a small sip from his tankard. He watched her over its rim. ‘Like?’ she finally asked, almost resentfully.

  ‘Well, there’s one titled … “The Throne of White Stone”.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Picker snorted.

  ‘Not our fight,’ Blend muttered, facing the door and hunching her shoulders higher.

  ‘It exists only in fragments,’ Fisher continued, apparently unaware of their reactions, or unconcerned. ‘It’s very old. Thought to date back to the Daru migrations into the region. It tells of tormented spirits imprisoned in an underworld of white stone ruled by demons and guarded by …’ The bard’s voice trailed away.

  ‘All right!’ Picker snapped. ‘We get the picture.’

  ‘Not our fight,’ Blend repeated, her jaws set and eyes fixed on the door.

  Neither saw Fisher’s expression turn to one almost of alarm as he sat upright. Spindle noticed the man’s change in mood but didn’t know what to make of it. Duiker’s gaze, however, steady upon the man, narrowed suspiciously.

  Much later that night only Fisher and the old Imperial historian remained within the bar’s common room. Fisher, it seemed to Duiker, appeared to be waiting for him to retire for the night. He finished his cold tea and turned a speculative eye on the tall bard, who had appeared preoccupied all evening. Perhaps even worried.

  ‘I’ve not heard that lay,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not local,’ Fisher said, his gaze on his hands. ‘It’s a travellers’ tale, told of a distant land.’

  ‘A land distant from where?’

  Fisher offered a wry smile. ‘A land rather distant from here.’

  ‘And who is it that guards those tormented souls?’

  The bard took a troubled breath, glanced down once more. ‘A prison of white stone guarded by … faceless warriors.’ He stood, brushed his trousers. ‘I’m … going for a walk.’

  Duiker watched the man go. The lock of the door fell into place behind him. He returned his attention to the empty teacup, its leaves drying on the bottom. He swirled the dregs, studying them. There are patterns here. The trick is in being able to identify them.

  Faceless warriors …

  Fisher had prepared himself but he could not quell his start when the masked figure of Thurule opened the door to Lady Envy’s manor. ‘I wish to see the Lady,’ he said. ‘I take it she is up.’

  Silent, of course, Thurule motioned him in.

  Fisher knew he hadn’t given the fellow much thought before, other than that he was Seguleh, and a rarity. Now, however, with fresh suspicions gnawing at his mind, he could not help but distance himself slightly from the man as walked along. Though he knew that even a Seguleh would find in him a far from easy challenge. The manor house was dark, and, it must be said, still almost entirely unfurnished. Thurule guided him to the rear terrace where Fisher glimpsed Envy standing at a short brick wall overlooking the unkempt grounds, peering up into the night sky. She was shimmering bright in some sort of glowing sheer pale-green dress.

  ‘Bored with your simple-minded friends already?’ she said without even turning round.

  He noted that she held a drink in one hand, elbow on her hip.

  Fisher took a steadying breath. ‘You know what is coming …’ he began, and then a new thought struck him. ‘You’ve known all along … that’s why you’re here.’

  She flashed a satisfied smile over her shoulder. ‘A proper court at last. It’s been ages. I’ll finally be able to get a decent wardrobe.’

  The callousness, the monumental self-interest, struck him dumb. He realized there was nothing he could possibly say to change her mind. He spoke his anger instead. ‘It does not matter to you then that untold thousands must be ground into the dirt so that you can wear fashionable dresses and attend your da
mned balls?’

  She slowly turned. The smile was still there, but it was as brittle as crystal. An emerald fire simmered in her eyes. ‘Really, Fisher, such hypocrisy. If you cared so much why are you not beating your chest already? There are poor in the city now. There will always be those who rule and those who are ruled.’ She gave the faintest shrug of her bare, shapely shoulders. ‘And come now, be honest. If you could choose, which would you really prefer?’

  What he saw saddened him. He’d seen how Anomander’s death had touched her, yet he knew now it registered only because it was personal. Sympathy for any other’s loss or suffering was beyond her. He should have said nothing then, simply left. But his own anger was up – or was it bitterness and disappointment? ‘I would choose rulership that generated wealth rather than that of a parasite sucking blood and contributing nothing. Rather like a leech.’

  The thrown glass struck him on the side of his face, shattering. ‘Said the bard – who contributes nothing save hot air! Thurule!’ she called. ‘See this man out. And never admit him again.’

  Fisher touched his face where warmth ran down to his neck. His fingers came away wet with blood. Then Thurule was there, silent, one arm indicating the way out. He bowed his exit to Lady Envy though her back was turned.

  There is nothing for me here anyway.

  CHAPTER IX

  For ages the citizens of Darujhistan were amazed by the riches dug from the tunnels and vaults beneath the region known as the Dwelling Plain. Yet while sitting in a tavern this visitor did overhear one fellow opining the following: ‘Is it not so that better these ancients had been men and women of worth than to possess things of worth?’

  Silken Glance, traveller, of One Eye Cat

  A KICK TO HER FOOT WOKE KISKA AND SHE BLINKED UP TO SEE

  Leoman kneeling next to her. He motioned her to follow. ‘They’re on the move.’

  He led her up the slope of one of the dunes of black sand. Together they lay down just short of the crest and peered over. The troop of misfits and malformed survivors of the Vitr were shuffling off round a headland of jagged tumbled stone. Back the way she and Leoman had come.

  Kiska pushed herself away from the crest. ‘We missed him?’

  ‘Perhaps he crossed back when we were in the cave,’ Leoman suggested, thoughtfully brushing at his moustache.

  The sight irked Kiska and she climbed to her feet, taking care to remain crouched. ‘Let’s circle round inland.’ She jogged off without waiting to see whether he followed or not.

  Soon the faint metallic jingle of armour and the chains of morningstars sounded just to her rear and she knew he’d caught up. Please Oponn and the Enchantress – let this be it! This is no place for me … or even Leoman. This is a land for gods and Ascendants, not plain old mortals such as us. Let us please complete our mission and meekly slink away!

  Keeping to the highlands and cliff-tops, they shadowed the file of waddling creatures as they made their slow awkward way along the shore. Against the sky she could just make out the mountain-tall shadowy figure of Maker as he continued his unending labour. Some, she knew, would consider his task a divine curse. For her own part she had yet to decide. After all, he was holding back the Vitr – wasn’t he?

  Below, the creatures had gathered on a stretch of shallow beach where a broad strand ran out to the glimmering sea of light – what on any body of water would be called a tidal flat. And she wondered, could this ocean of seething energy even be said to have a tide? She’d seen no sign of any.

  The creatures faced the shallow waves, perhaps waiting for something, or someone. Kiska shaded her gaze into the blinding brightness, but saw nothing.

  ‘Anything?’ she asked Leoman.

  The man shook his head, his eyes slitted against the glare. ‘We’ll wait.’ He sat down, his back to the rocks, and stretched his legs out before him. ‘Kiska,’ he began after a time, tentatively, ‘if he wanted to return … don’t you think—’

  ‘Quiet,’ she hissed, not even glancing down.

  She heard him shift impatiently, exhale his irritation, then ease into a reluctant silence. She kept watch. He had to be out there. Why else would these outcasts be waiting?

  Eventually, after staring into the stabbing brilliance, her eyes came to water so furiously she couldn’t see anything at all and she had to cuff Leoman to signal him to take over. She sat down blinking and rubbing her gritty eyes. Please all the gods come and gone, let this be it.

  After a time there came a tap on her shoulder. ‘Movement.’ She leapt up – the hand on her shoulder pressed her back down. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’

  Crouched, she scanned the expanse of scintillating shimmering glare. At first she saw nothing: the stunning intensity of the sea of brightness blinded her to all else. ‘On the left,’ Leoman murmured. She edged her gaze aside, shaded her eyes. Movement there: a shadowy flickering among the silver-bright waves. A shape approaching like a dark flame almost lost amid all that brightness.

  Over time the figure resolved itself into a tall man pushing his way to shore through the knee-high waves of liquid Vitr. Kiska surged to her feet. ‘It’s him!’

  ‘We don’t know …’ Leoman began, then some instinct made him throw himself round hands going to the morningstars at his sides, and at the same time someone else spoke.

  ‘Yes. I do believe it is he.’

  The hair on Kiska’s head actually rose. I know that voice! Slowly, dreading what she would find, she willed herself to turn round. There stood a haggard battered man in torn robes, his face scalded livid red and swollen. The Seven Cities mage and holy Faladan, Yathengar.

  Ye gods – he was supposed to have been destroyed by the Liosan! How could he still live? The man who summoned the Chaos Whorl to avenge himself against the Malazan Empire and in the end consuming him and Tayschrenn, flinging them both to this edge of creation. ‘You live!’ she gasped in shocked disbelief.

  The rabid gaze swung to her. ‘So I wished you to never suspect. Ingrates! Did you not consider that I could follow where you—’

  Leoman leapt upon him, his morningstars keening, only to fly aside, the weapons clashing together about his head. Kiska lunged as well, stave flashing in a thrust, but Yathengar merely tilted his head and the weapon flashed searingly hot and she cast it away yelling her agony. Hands useless, she spun a backward kick. Her foot rebounded from the man’s torso, which seemed as hard as oak. He scowled his irritation, gesturing, and a vice-grip took her at the neck to lift her from the ground. He gestured with his other hand and Leoman lurched upright. The morningstars hung wrapped about his neck.

  Starting forward, Yathengar marched the two of them along, each fighting for breath. ‘Let us go and say hello to our old friend, shall we? I’m sure he will be very pleased to see the two of you.’

  They descended the rocks. Kiska fought to yell a warning. Leoman’s face darkened alarmingly, the veins at his neck swelling. At the shore the pressure eased off a touch. Perhaps Yathengar was worried they would expire before he could torment them any further. However, the grip at Kiska’s throat was still too fierce for any shout. The shambling creatures caught sight of them and scattered gabbling their panic and terror. Kiska had no time for them: her gaze was fixed upon the slim man slowly advancing through the last of the shallow surf.

  It was Tayschrenn, former High Mage of the Malazan Empire.

  He’d changed, of course, as would be expected of anyone who had endured the passage he had experienced. His hair was now almost entirely grey, and short, as if growing out from having been shaved, or burned off. He’d lost weight. A simple shirt was loose upon him, hanging down over ragged trousers. Oddly he wasn’t wet. The glimmering Vitr merely ran from him in beads, like quicksilver.

  But what troubled her was his expression: it was all open puzzlement. Not one hint of recognition touched his night-dark eyes.

  ‘Tayschrenn! You have eluded me for the last time,’ Yathengar called out.

  The lean aristocr
atic head tilted to one side, apparently bewildered. ‘You are from my past then, are you?’

  ‘He is your enemy!’ Kiska managed to grind out, feeling as if her throat were tearing.

  Snarling, Yathengar threw her and Leoman down, punching them into the sands.

  ‘So … I had enemies,’ Tayschrenn said, speaking almost to himself.

  ‘Do not take me for a fool! No play-acting will help you now.’

  ‘You are harming those two.’

  ‘This is as nothing compared to what I will do to you.’

  ‘What will you—’

  But Yathengar had had enough of talk. He thrust with both hands. A storm of roaring energies engulfed Tayschrenn, who fell back into the Vitr bellowing his pain. In the sands Kiska struggled to draw her long-knife.

  Yet the smoking blackened figure that was Tayschrenn arose from the Vitr. ‘Why …’ He spat aside through blistered bleeding lips.

  A howl of rage took everyone by surprise and Kiska snapped her head round to glimpse the giant demon launching itself upon Yathengar. An eruption of puissance threw the fearsome entity to the ground where it lay groaning, the fur on its armoured torso smoking.

  ‘So …’ said Tayschrenn, agony making his voice faint, ‘you are a mage.’

  Yathengar scowled, disbelief obvious on his ravaged face. ‘What is this … ?’

  Tayschrenn advanced a step. ‘Then you are my enemy …’

  The mage’s hands fell, so startled was he by the statement. Tayschrenn lunged at him just as his huge friend had. This time the Seven Cities mage was too slow to react and the two went down grappling.

  Kiska could only stare, baffled. What was he doing? Fighting? Why didn’t he just …

  Then she realized – the man must have forgotten everything about his prior life. Everything. Perhaps he no longer even knew how to channel power. Gods! How could he defeat this madman? By punching him?