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

  Bronze parted shrieking and something fell to the sands. The body slumped, suddenly quiescent. The priest dived upon the object, cackling and chuckling, and wrapped it round and round with rags.

  Mara released her Warren, suddenly exhausted. Petal stepped up next to her. Pulling on his lower lip he asked, ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘Just a glimpse. It looked like a black rock.’

  The man grunted thoughtfully, still plucking at his lip.

  Mara blinked, remembering Skinner. ‘We must go now!’

  The priest was hugging his prize to his chest. He seemed to be crooning to it. ‘Yes, yes,’ he answered without even glancing up.

  ‘Return us to the column.’

  ‘Of course! Just four more to go.’

  ‘Four? There’s four pieces left?’

  ‘That we know of!’ the priest snapped, and he slid the object behind his back as if Mara had made a lunge for it.

  She raised a finger to his face. ‘Now.’

  The priest backed away. His bloodshot eyes darted about as if seeking escape. ‘Get your commander then! We must all be together.’

  ‘Fine.’ She marched off. The fine sands squeaked and slid under her boots. Back at the fire Skinner had somehow managed to lever himself to his feet. She saw that his sheath hung empty at his side and she remembered that when he emerged from the waters he carried only the automaton and his helm.

  Skinner, it seemed, had lost his sword.

  * * *

  The sky might be partially overcast, but there was no respite from the heat. Their local guide led them past intermittent jungle now. They climbed a rising slope bringing them to the first of the naked stone cliffs of the Gangrek Mounts, known to some as the Fangs, or the Dragon’s Fangs.

  They had lost a man yesterday. He’d disappeared down a crack hardly large enough for anyone to slip through. Pon-lor sent a fellow after him on a rope. The man reported that no one answered his calls and that the torch he dropped fell a great distance before it dashed itself out on rocks. Pressed for time, Pon-lor was forced to call off the search and they’d continued on.

  That concern for time also forced them to march on into the night. Their captured bandit guide, Jak, led carrying a torch while two of Pon-lor’s soldiers followed. Even the sun sliding down behind the steaming ocean of jungle behind them to the west did little for the heat. Though Pon-lor had grown up knowing such heat it felt different here – perhaps because the air was so humid that streamers of water seemed to hang within it. In the middle of the column he pulled his sweat-soaked shirt from his chest and paused for a moment to catch his breath. His guards halted about him.

  He’d known such claustrophobic heat before, and the memory did not sit well with him – his childhood quarters in the Academy at the capital, Anditi Pura. They were taken as children. They were always taken as children. All would-be Aspirants. He did not know what supposedly guided that choice: some demonstrated predilection or talent? In his case he remembered being taken into a hot overcrowded room and led to a low cloth-covered table. There lay an assemblage of trinkets, some bright and rich-looking, others plain and worn: rings, cups, necklaces of beads or of gems (fake no doubt), combs, knives, and assorted other mundane possessions. He remembered his confusion, not knowing what was expected of him, facing these gathered fierce-looking old men and women in that hot smelly room. He’d searched their gazes hoping for some sign, some hint, of what he must do. And thankfully he found it. While a number of them kept their eyes on him, a few kept darting their gazes to the table and those glances kept returning to one area in particular among the proffered bits and pieces. Experimentally, he extended his hand in that direction and was rewarded by an almost imperceptible tension gathering within the tiny room. He moved his hand closer, passing over several of the offerings, a silver wristlet among them: one of the most attractive trinkets, gleaming brightly in the lamplight. The breathing of all those gathered slowed in expectation. A few breaths even caught. Emboldened, he edged his hand further across the table towards the edge. The atmosphere subtly changed. It was as if the room had suddenly expanded, the ancients now distant and withdrawn.

  By then he’d identified it. The object, the thing they seemed to want him to pick but wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say. A silly game. All to get him to pick a plain wooden stick – the least interesting item laid out on the table.

  And so he chose it. And they chose him.

  And now, standing in the dark and the rain, the sweet cloying scent that permeated the jungle slipping from his nostrils, Pon-lor wondered, had it been just that all along: a test of awareness, of a kind of native intelligence? Or were those old Thaumaturgs of the testing board blithely unaware of their own subverting of the entire selection process? If so, so much for the organization’s conviction of its privileged superiority – held by virtue of having passed the test!

  A tautology affirming only the most appalling self-delusion …

  But no. Those of the selection board must be briefed in how to run the test. Acuity of mind, awareness and perception must be the desired traits, and the test designed appropriately. And yet – what of certain youths from certain influential families selected despite any demonstrated virtues or abilities that he could see? What of that? And their quick promotions to positions far above his – one and all! Again, no. He was simply of too low a rank to know the reasons behind such choices. He mustn’t question the sagacity or plans of his superiors.

  His sodden robes now sucked out his warmth and he shivered. He focused upon warming himself and was rewarded by the sensation of heat flowing outwards from his core. Mist began to rise from his clinging robes.

  Torches approached from the van and their youthful guide appeared, though not that much younger than he, Pon-lor had to remind himself. His guards flanked the fellow. Some sort of worry rode the youth’s brows and in his eyes Pon-lor read open hatred and, oddly enough, a kind of prideful contempt for all he viewed.

  ‘You have stopped?’ the youth asked, delivering the question more as a challenge. As if to imply: had enough walking? Too weak? Frightened?

  And now Pon-lor had to come up with a justifiable reason for why he’d stopped. ‘Our destination is close?’ he asked, his tone one of lofty scepticism.

  Insulted, Jak drew himself up tall. ‘Not far. We can camp at the Gates of Chanar.’

  Pon-lor arched a brow. ‘The Gates of Chanar…?’

  The local hunched slightly, lowering his chin. ‘A stone arch. It marks the beginning of the path to the fortress, and the pass.’

  ‘I see. Very good.’ Pon-lor waved him onward. The youth sketched a perfunctory bow. The burning pitch of his torch hissed and spluttered, dripping now and then. He headed back to the van. Soon all that could be seen of him was the floating yellow globe bobbing between the black tree trunks and obscuring leaves. Pon-lor followed, walking slowly. The rain intensified, slashing down to erase all distances and all other noises of the jungle. As Pon-lor was not of sufficient rank to be allowed to hold a parasol – it was the symbol of a master of the order – he gestured to a nearby guard and this man unfurled one to hold above him while he walked.

  And so do we find our ways around rules and prohibitions, he mused, stepping over moss-covered fallen logs, loose talus sliding sometimes beneath his sandals. Was this not the case even among the Thaumaturgs? The thought left him uncomfortable. Though he wished he could forget, he remembered his days – and nights – in the dormitory of the Aspirants. Certain teachers arriving in the dark to take boys off alone for special attention. Including himself. He remembered the fate of the boys who complained to the masters of their treatment. How they were assured steps would be taken – though none ever were. And later, how it was these boys, among the entire class, who failed to advance in the courses, and they who fell behind and came to be relegated to menial positions. Yet the Thaumaturgs prided themselves on an organization based on skill and merit alone. Perhaps it is the case that no organization or hierarchy c
an withstand the closest of scrutiny. Not even a smugly self-touted meritocracy. The success and persistence of utter fools everywhere is sad testament to that.

  The roar of falling water soon overcame all other sounds and they came abreast of a stream of water splashing down a sheer black cliff. Vines hung like groping limbs sent down by the great rearing prominence itself. Bright dashes of white, pink and orange dotted the wall where flowers clung: parasitic orchids whose flesh, curves and coloration he found … disturbing.

  I hear they bear more than a slight similarity to the sex of women – though fortunately, or unfortunately, I would not know.

  His guards showed him the way around slick rocks and over rushing narrow channels, all the while scanning the surrounding jungle, hands on sword grips.

  Jak stood ahead, awaiting him, his torch extinguished. Behind him rose a natural stone arch, an uneven vault eroded from the rock of the prominence itself. Beneath, steps hacked from the rock led upwards. In places streams of run-off writhed across the wide black ledges. ‘The Gates of Chanar,’ Jak announced with the smallest of bows.

  Pon-lor gave no response to the impudent sketch of a bow. He studied the lad while his eyes were downcast. Black hair plastered flat, a widow’s peak, sharp nose and sharp chin. A mouth always tight as if it must hold back so much. The lad hates us. Why? Some past injustice? Or simply that we represent the fist of rulership? Probably that. The Circle rules through fear, and that does not cultivate devotion among those ruled.

  Then he noted the discoloration of the arch to the left and right. Chalk markings ran dissolving in the rain. A dense overlay of new glyphs over old. He recognized the old magic in their appeals: calls for blessings, calls to turn away, curses and damning. And laid out on the stones before the arch, a litter of offerings: clay cups that probably once held rice or plum wine for propitiations; shallow dishes that no doubt would have held blood for curses; prayer flags faded to grey; twists of rotting fibre paper that once held appeals; clay lamps, candle stubs; chips of broken pottery inscribed with names – death wishes, those.

  He turned a raised brow on Jak.

  The young man waved his contempt. ‘Peasants. You know them. Ignorant and superstitious.’

  Superstitious of what? But he did not challenge him. He gestured to his guards. ‘We’ll camp here.’

  Overseer Tun bowed. ‘As you order.’

  ‘Oh, and Overseer,’ Pon-lor added. ‘Tie up our friend here.’

  The man’s fat lips pulled back over greying rotten teeth. ‘Yes, Magister.’

  Their guide said nothing; if anything, his mouth hardened to flint against all that he could have said.

  He is enraged yet he voices no complaint? Interesting …

  Wrapping his soaked robes more tightly about himself, Pon-lor moved to where a rock overhang offered shelter. Here bone-dry leaves crackled beneath his sandals and swirled about him. He crossed his legs, rested his hands palms upward on his knees, and turned inward.

  Up until now his pitiful lack of results had caused him to neglect his obligations. But he could put it off no longer. It was long past time to contact Master Golan.

  It took longer than usual to achieve the necessary centring and no-mind inner calm before he found himself looking down upon himself seated cross-legged, his long black hair draped like an unruly mane down the back of his robes. Having separated his self from that which was the mere flesh, this accidental temporary vessel, he turned away and sought the strong glowing vitality that would be Master Golan.

  So strong in fact was his master’s essence that he found himself drawn as inexorably as a stone down a steep slope. He followed the man’s trail with ease until he reached a point where it suddenly thinned. Here the normally crystal-clear plane of the élan vital, that which inhabits and thus animates the corporal and profane flesh, clouded. Entities swirled ahead. Creatures of energy and essence that could feed upon him. All moved within a larger influence, a permeating misty radiance that appeared to pulse outwards from some central hidden presence.

  Ardata herself. The Queen of the Ancient Kind.

  He was too late. Master Golan had already entered her demesnes.

  He turned about and willed his return to his vessel.

  Under the rock shelf Pon-lor’s chest rose in a shuddering intake of breath and his eyelids fluttered. As always came the agony of ghost-knife jabbings and pricklings tormenting him as he returned to his body. The flesh was chilled in the damp as well, dangerously so. He began the meditative course that would raise his body temperature. Soon tendrils of steam began wafting into the chill night air.

  Overseer Tun knelt awkwardly before him. ‘Orders, Magister?’

  ‘We continue on, Overseer.’

  ‘Very good, lord.’

  Pon-lor eased his effort of focusing his energy and began on a course of muscle relaxation. Dimly, he became aware of the heat of a steady hard stare. Without shifting his gaze he identified the narrowed glittering eyes of their guide out amid the darkness. The usual expected hostility filled them. Yet he was also surprised – and amused – to detect a ferocious pride coupled with an equally ferocious contempt held for him. It seems our village raider all-in-patches harbours a very high opinion of himself. Well, who doesn’t? Yet it is obvious that it has brought him nothing but torment. Pon-lor closed his eyes. No matter. Tomorrow we will be rid of him.

  * * *

  In the morning he broke his fast on a pinch of rice, some smoked fish, and tea. Even as he squatted to take care of the needs of his body, his robes hiked up, two guardsmen kept watch, as it was the philosophy of the Thaumaturgs that such values as modesty and squeamishness no longer pertain once all ties to the profane flesh have been cast aside.

  Overseer Tun determined the order of march. Their guide led, followed immediately by the overseer and two guards. A second unit of four guards followed this group, then Pon-lor and the rest of the detachment. The cliffs of the prominence steamed in the early morning sun. As they climbed, more and more of the jungle expanse to the west came into view. Great streamers of mist clung to the canopy and it seemed to Pon-lor as if suspended rivers were meandering through the treetops.

  The stone ledges also steamed, and were slick with the last of the run-off that came crashing down out of the unseen heights. His guards hacked at the fat hanging leaves and the tangles of roots and vines, or held the worst aside for his passage. Birds startled everyone as they burst screeching and shrieking from the foliage in explosions of brilliant colour. Each time, Pon-lor’s hands clenched. It was the suddenness of it that always shocked him.

  Monkeys scampering through the hanging forest scolded them with their chatter. And once, from far above, came the roar of a jungle cat. That, Pon-lor noted, gave his men pause. While all were armed with swords, shields and knives, they carried very few spears or bows.

  A regrettable oversight, that. Have to let Principal Scribe Thorn know of it when I return.

  What would he do, should such a beast attack the column? Not that any living Thaumaturg had any personal experience in the matter: all such wild animals, the great fanged cat, the lesser fire cat, the man-hunting leopard, the tusk-boar, the titanic cave bear, the two-horned rhinoceros, and all the great river beasts, had all been eradicated from their lands generations ago. Still, a hunting cat shouldn’t attack any large body of men, armed or not. At least that was his learning on the subject. Unless of course the old folk tales were true and all the many fanged and toothed denizens of the jungle obeyed the commands of the Ancient Queen herself; to say nothing of every spirit, demon, shape-changer, ghost, elemental, and all such supernatural entities.

  He wiped his sleeve across his sweaty face. Not a thought to dwell upon as we approach her demesnes …

  The path continued up the side of the rock outcropping, or mount. At times it was no wider than a goat trail. In many places rockslides had ploughed across the trail and only the most rudimentary track had been cleared. He scrambled with his hands over the sha
rp broken rock.

  This path has not seen much commerce! There must be other ways up.

  On his right, empty sky gaped as the route wound round the vertical cliff. The sun was near its highest – and these days the arching glow of the Banner, or Fallen God’s Chariot, as some cults would have it, still marred the sky – when a scream froze them all where they edged along.

  It had come from the rear. Pon-lor began shuffling backwards to investigate. Voices called from the van but the wind rendered them unintelligible. His guards gathered behind him, hands on sword grips. A lone guard came round the nearest curve of the overhanging cliff. He set his hands to his mouth to yell: ‘The last man fell!’

  ‘What happened?’ Pon-lor called.

  ‘I did not see it!’

  Damn. ‘Was there blood? Sign?’

  ‘No, m’lord!’

  He tightened his robes about himself against the rising wind. ‘Very well!’ To his men, ‘Close up. No one walks alone.’

  ‘Aye, m’lord.’

  Past a rockfall Tun waited with the van guards, together with their guide. ‘What happened, Magister?’ the overseer asked, his slit gaze on Jak.

  ‘A man fell. The last.’

  Tun’s eyes almost disappeared in their pockets of fat. His hands tightened in their studded leather wraps. ‘Odd that it should be the very last.’

  ‘No one saw what happened. I do not want to lose anyone else so we will tighten up the order of march.’

  Tun bowed. ‘Very good, Magister.’

  Progress slowed to a hesitant crawl. Now the greatest danger came from each other as rocks turned underfoot and tumbled down the path, threatening those behind. Who are these people? Pon-lor found himself wondering. Mountain goats?

  Late in the day the ground levelled. They had reached the top, or at least a level portion of the heights. He was exhausted. His shirting beneath his robes stuck to him and his calves felt as if they had seized. Here, they re-entered dense jungle of tall fat kapok trees draped in vines. Pink and gold orchids hung in the vines as if snared in the act of climbing. A layer of rotting leaves and other fallen litter carpeted the rocky ground. It was as if they had climbed nothing at all. Except, that was, for the wind; strong gusts now brushed the branches overhead and stirred the hanging parasitical creepers, sending them rustling and whispering.