‘Must I, Moon?’ the youth sighed.
‘Ripan…’
The youth rose, sullen, rolling his eyes. Kicking at the stones and spinning his flute, he wandered into the jungle. The old man followed. His pace seemed no slower than when he emerged. Saeng brought up the rear.
As they went, Saeng heard the youth, Ripan, unseen ahead through the dense leafed underbrush, begin singing: ‘Poor Old Man Moon! How he has waned! Forgot his powers and learnin’. Now he is no more than a beast of burden!’
‘Ripan…’ the old man warned once again, his voice quite unstrained beneath his enormous burden. ‘We have guests.’
In answer the youth blew a blast upon his flute. Then he started up once more: ‘Poor Hanu stone soldier! Banged his head. Now I wonder … is their blood red?’
‘Ripan! Manners…’
A raw piercing blast from the flute answered that. Silent throughout this exchange, Saeng found it oddly reassuring that no matter where you were, or who, or what, it seemed that family relations were the same everywhere. After a time Ripan contented himself with playing quick irreverent tunes upon the flute, as if in sly counterpoint to Moon’s ponderous progress.
They came to a small clearing and at its centre a hut on tall poles, its walls and roof built of woven leaves. A rickety ladder of lashed branches led up to the slouched dwelling. It reminded Saeng of the poorest and most wretched huts of any village she’d ever visited. It frankly wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting.
To her gathering horror Moon started up the ladder, her brother draped over his back like a great sack of rice far larger than its bearer. She rushed forward. ‘Perhaps we could remain outside…’
‘No, no. No problem at all.’ He climbed a rung. The wood creaked and bent, but held. ‘You are my guests! You must stay within.’
‘What – both of us?’
‘Most assuredly. I insist.’
Grunting, he reached the top of the ladder, and in a great heave deposited her brother inside, his arms scraping the sides of the entrance, his legs sticking out. Moon pushed him in further then crawled in behind. A tattooed arm emerged to beckon: ‘Come, come!’
Fearing the entire structure would collapse at any moment, Saeng set one tentative foot on the ladder. The lad, Ripan, now leaned with his back to a post. He sighed his boredom while studying his flute. Gritting her teeth, she climbed. Within, there was only enough room for her to sit cross-legged next to the opening. Moon knelt at Hanu’s side, studying him. Her brother lay on bedding of grass and rough woven blankets, all tattered and moth-eaten. Other than this, the hut was empty: utterly without any other feature, possession, or item. No bowl, no pots, no utensils or any other personal touch.
This fact made Saeng the most uneasy. After watching Moon hunched over her brother for a time, she opened her mouth to ask how he was but noticed something that stilled the words in her throat. The dense forest of tattooed symbols and glyphs that covered Moon’s back in band after band were actually moving. Each pulsed, individually, almost imperceptibly. Waxing and waning, they revolved in their separate bands while the entire panoply appeared to be edging ever so slowly across the curve of his bent back.
Like the arch of the night sky turning came the thought, unbidden.
She swallowed and steadied herself against the pole of the opening. ‘How is he?’ she managed, her voice weak.
‘He has suffered a severe blow to the head. His mind has become unmoored and wanders now in a deep fugue.’ Grunting, the old man shifted, facing her. ‘He may never awaken again.’
‘Can you – is it in your power – to heal him?’
The man’s gaze flashed again with humour. ‘It just so happens that such matters are my particular area of specialty. You are lucky to have met me.’
And what does luck have to do with anything here in Himatan? was Saeng’s first thought, but she smiled her gratitude, letting out her breath. ‘I am so very relieved. Would you … please?’
His tangled salt and pepper brows rose. ‘Ah … as to that. We must strike a bargain, you and I.’
‘I would give anything to have him healed.’
Now those brows lowered in disapproval. ‘Do not be so quick to give everything away, child. There are those in these wilds who would take advantage of such an offer.’ Then he barked, loudly, ‘Ripan!’
The ladder swayed, then the youth’s comely head appeared. ‘Yes?’ he sighed.
‘Bring food for our guests.’
Ripan eyed Saeng up and down, almost grimacing his distaste. ‘Food?’
‘Yes.’
‘Such as…?’
‘Fowl, I would suggest. Cooked over a fire on a stick.’
Disgust twisted the youth’s angelic face. ‘That’s a vile thing to do to a bird.’
‘Do so in any case.’ He waved the youth away. ‘Go on.’
Ripan rolled his eyes again and heaved a sigh. ‘If I must.’ He slid out of sight.
Moon faced Saeng. ‘Now. As to our bargain. Over many years I have struck countless such. A favour for a favour. And with each bargain I have always asked just one service in particular.’
It was difficult for Saeng to find her voice but eventually she managed to ask, hoarsely, ‘And that is…?’
In a silent yet eloquent gesture the old man swept a hand down his bony ribcage and the round pot of his stomach, over the tangled maze of tattoos that covered every exposed wrinkle and bulge of skin.
Saeng drew a shuddering breath. Her palms suddenly pricked with sweat and her heart lurched from beat to beat. ‘Ah. I see…’
* * *
It was now only in passing that Osserc noted how the gathering glow of daylight outside the House’s grimed glazing dimmed into night and the watery green wash of the Visitor rippled across the table and Gothos opposite, only to give way to the bronze of dawn, and again, and once more, until he ignored the count of the changing light.
What does this creature want? More than all else, this troubled him. Jaghut! How they troubled everyone. He’d never been satisfied with his understanding of them. He studied the figure, as immobile as if carved from stone. What cast was that he saw in the line of the lips, the crinkle of the lined flesh at the corner of the amber eyes? Sublime amused condescension? More of their typical assumed superiority? Or was that just what he saw within them? If only he could know for certain.
Finally, he could no longer fight the rising strength of his resentment and he cleared his dust-dry throat to demand, loudly and harshly, ‘And why are you here? What do you believe will accrue to you?’
The bright golden eyes slit by their vertical pupils blinked. Gothos stirred, brushed cobwebs from his gnarled hands. ‘Nothing, I assure you. In this I am the mere messenger. The disinterested observer. As always.’
‘Why am I not assured?’
Gothos plucked another cobweb from his elbow. ‘Yes, why are you not? It would seem that otherwise this effort is entirely futile. Yes?’
‘Assure me.’
The glowing eyes narrowed almost dangerously. A long hissed breath escaped the Jaghut. Then, his lips drawing down in obvious distaste, he began, ‘For how long have I been accused of scheming, conniving, or otherwise plotting dark plots? Ages of machination…’ He lifted his hands to gesture about the empty room. ‘And look where I am…’
‘I propose you are just where you choose to be.’
‘It is true that my choices have brought me to where I am.’ Gothos tilted his head, his long grimed hair swinging. ‘The same is true for everyone.’
‘Events and the agency of others always intervene…’
‘True. One exists in the world. Categorically speaking, things will always happen. The test, then, is the choices one makes in response.’
Osserc noted a cobweb on his own shoulder. He brushed it away. ‘Can we set aside the mountain ascetic philosophizing?’
‘Yes, can we? I find it tiresome.’
Now Osserc glared. He clenched his teeth until they grated. Through
clamped jaws he ground out: ‘So … why are you here?’
The Jaghut touched his fingertips together. ‘I do not know for certain. Nothing was said, of course. I merely found myself here. For a time I wondered – why me? Why of all those the Azath have at their disposal should I find myself here? And of course the obvious answer came that it is something of me, a quality or character, that is desired. Therefore, I am merely being me. That is all that is required. I am here to be your goad. Your adversary. A spur.’ He bared his scarred yellowed tusks in a mocking grin. ‘In short, I am to act as a prick.’
Osserc could not resist throwing his head back to bark a laugh. Even if the Jaghut’s expression displayed his awareness of the many layers he commented upon. Osserc’s answering smile was just as frosty. ‘Well … it is as if you were born to the role.’
Nothing more was said, as nothing more need be said. Osserc stared out the opaque window glazing, layered in grime and dirt, that cast a dim limpid glow within, the source of which he could not be certain was day or night. So. What was he to make of the fellow’s words? Jaghut. So many lies had they woven over the millennia. Yet false claims had been made on all sides. No one was innocent – they were always the first to die, the first to be trampled in others’ ruthless scramble for power and Ascension.
Yet Anomandaris … Cursing beneath his breath, Osserc broke off his musing to blink and refocus upon the room. Someone, or thing, had entered. He heard the pad and shush of light footsteps, yet saw nothing. Then the one other chair at the table, empty, scraped backwards as if of its own volition. A head appeared, brown and knobbly, shaped rather like the stone ammunition of an onager. Dark sly eyes slid side to side to regard him and Gothos, then the mouth parted in the wide expanse of a red yawn.
Osserc regarded the monkey-like creature that seemed to have the run of the House. While he watched, the beast arranged its wrinkled features into something resembling fixed concentration. Yet even as Osserc’s own gaze narrowed in annoyance, the creature began to nod, its head sinking, jerking, catching itself, glaring about panicked. Only to blink heavily yet again, its eyelids falling once more.
Osserc raised his gaze to the murk disguising the ceiling. Ancient Primordial Entities. Why had the Azath chosen to torture him in this fashion? They would have their revenge, wouldn’t they? And of course this – pricking – stung so much worse than any slap to the face.
CHAPTER V
The natives of this land are difficult and obstinate in the extreme. Those we capture to serve as our bearers are sullen and lazy workers at best. Some deliberately sabotage the columns by dropping their loads into streams or over cliffs. I was forced to kill a great number of them before they learned to cooperate and understand the benefits of friendship with civilized people.
Hemach Stenay
Journey to the City of Gold
Golan did not mention to his superiors that the great meandering beast that was the invasion force, with all its supporting trains of baggage pulled by oxen and carried on the backs of groaning labourers, together with the wagons of the field surgeries, the smithies, the various messes, and the well-ordered miscellaneous supplies of tents and shovels and whatnot, was well behind schedule. The landscape they were entering descended away from the broken jagged peaks of rock and caves and deadly sinkholes of the Gangrek Mounts into a soggy maze of dense brush and tangled vines overtopped by a layered canopy that blocked out nearly all light and enclosed everything beneath in a choking miasma of air so thick one could hardly push oneself through it. Nor did it help at all that these conditions were of course faithfully recorded in the memoirs and field diaries from prior expeditions in his possession – those few who returned alive, of course – as it was one thing to read of such an environment and quite another to wake up to it one choking steamy morning after another.
It was, in a word, all so very enervating. And not just physically, though quite sufficiently so. Golan also felt a strange sort of creeping mental and spiritual malaise. Even the most mundane and fundamental of tasks became tiresome, even somehow unnecessary. Some days ago, for example, he had run a hand over his normally cleanly shaven pate and cheeks to find an unseemly stubble. A rather shocking slip of standards that he could not quite recall having allowed.
Yet such outward fleshly betrayals were as nothing compared to the disturbing dreaminess he sometimes found himself slipping into while enduring the mind-numbing monotony of the march, bobbing from side to side in his litter. Odd musings came to him as his mind drifted unmoored, as it were, within this ocean of green. Why all these strivings, he wondered? To what end? Surely his masters could do nothing with so unpromising a wasteland. Even if it were all burned to the ground it would take generations to squeeze even the least profit from it. And even if they succeeded in ousting Ardata and replacing her with a tame figurehead, either drawn from among these foreigners, or another, what then? The character of this land had escaped them for generations. What were they trying to accomplish?
Come to think of it, he could not recall one single instance of the Queen of Monsters invading their territory. It was not as if she was an inimical neighbour. It was just that this huge expanse ought to be ruled by someone who would do something productive with it instead of leaving it to run wild, home to sports and oddities that never amounted to anything.
Golan’s wandering thoughts latched on to this familiar line of logic out of his days at the Academy. He could even remember the circumstances: he and his fellow apprentices walking the carefully manicured gardens of the school following the lean stick-figure of Master Legem as he held forth. Utility. Order. Service. Following such a rationale one could argue that these jungle leagues were in truth without any prior claim whatsoever. This so-called ‘Queen’, in her negligence and inattention, hardly counted as in possession in any practical sense at all. These lands lay unspoken for, virgin, open to seizure by responsible conscientious stewards.
‘And make no mistake,’ ferocious Master Legem announced, turning upon them one crooked accusing finger. ‘We are this responsible party. And not through any self-serving myth of divine ordination or selection. We are this party because we alone are conscientious enough to reach out and act in this capacity. We have stemmed countless threats to the wider order. All without recognition or reward! For such frivolities are not our goal. Our goal is order. The ordering of the world. And the taming of the threats to that order. That is our calling.’
Rocking in his litter, Golan pulled his sodden shirt from his sweaty chest and sighed. Yes, all very laudable and noble. Why then these misgivings? His mission was, in a sense, heroic. Bringing order, light and rationalism to where only darkness, ignorance and superstition ruled. Really, if there was any justice in the world he ought to be given a medal when all this was over and done.
Snorting, Golan hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it to the ground. But of course, as Master Legem constantly reminded him and his fellow aspirants, anything so juvenile as honours or rewards were beneath them. The Circle of Masters strove not for personal gain but for the betterment of the human condition. Their work was for the common good. These doubts and odd misgivings that came wafting in this sickly miasma were therefore unworthy; an insult to generations of selfless labour.
He must work harder to find the proper state of right-thinking.
Chief of Staff U-Pre appeared next to his litter, saluted with fingertips pressed to forehead then swept down. Golan nodded in answer to the salute. ‘Yes, Second in Command?’
The man’s face shone with sweat; it ran in streams from under his stained leather helmet. His face was ghostly pale as well, as if he were struggling against exhaustion, or constant pain. ‘Trouble at the van, Master. I’ve ordered a temporary halt.’
Golan cocked his head to listen but heard nothing beyond the surrounding crash of the march. Shortly, however, the litter swayed as his yakshaka bearers stopped. The noise lessened, but only slightly as bearers coughed and hawked, oxen lowed, and overseers sh
outed orders. ‘What sort of trouble?’ he enquired mildly.
U-Pre gestured, inviting him onward. Golan ordered his bearers forward once again. They carried him alongside the main column.
‘We have come to a wide clearing, Master,’ U-Pre explained as he walked. ‘A meadow, I imagine you might call it. Full of rather pretty white flowers. I ordered a party ahead to scout. They did not return. I then ordered a second group … they too have not returned.’
Golan nodded his approval. ‘I see. Your caution is commendable. However, must I remind you that we are behind schedule?’
U-Pre bowed his head at this rebuke. ‘I understand, Master.’
His bearers brought him to the front where soldiers had formed line facing the startlingly bright opening in the canopy. Golan shaded his gaze to squint between the last screen of trees to the expanse of a huge clearing floored, as his second reported, by a seeming ocean of creamy-white blossoms.
‘Were they attacked?’ he asked U-Pre. ‘Did you see anything?’
‘We saw nothing. Both parties advanced out of sight. The meadow climbs, as you see. It appears to be higher ground. Excellent position for an encampment.’
‘Perhaps.’ Golan tapped the blackwood baton to his chin. ‘You were right to order the halt, Second in Command. Something is not right. I shall have a look.’
‘Master, you mustn’t…’
‘Down!’ The yakshaka knelt. Golan stepped out only to wince and knead his numb legs. ‘You presume to tell me what I may or may not do, Second?’
U-Pre appeared stricken. ‘No, Master! Not at all … We merely daren’t risk losing you.’
‘Ah! I see.’ He extended the Rod of Execution to U-Pre, who stared at it in disbelief before reluctantly raising a hand to take it. ‘Is it not for such strange manifestations that I was sent? Should I not return, report my failure.’
‘Yes, Master. That is, no, Master. You shall return.’
‘We shall see. Now, you are keeping up with your journal of the campaign?’
‘Yes, Master.’
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) Page 282