It might have been her imagination, but it seemed as if the moon shone brighter for her as she worked.
After one particularly screeching note Old Man Moon caught her glaring in the youth’s direction. He smiled indulgently. ‘Never you mind Ripan, child. He and my other offspring, they have no sympathy for me. That is just how it is. Not as among you humans, I know. So long as I remain strong and whole they will remain in my shadow – so to speak. They are merely waiting. Waiting for my destruction or dissolution. Then all my power will devolve upon them. Then they will rule all that is the province of the sublunary. Is that not so, Ripan?’
The youth blew a long eerie note, and winked. ‘I can hardly wait.’
Saeng sat back from her work, appalled. ‘That is awful.’ She shook the long-handled needle at Ripan. ‘You should honour your father. Wish him long life, health, prosperity.’
Old Man Moon chuckled. ‘Yet is this not how it is among you living kind? When you strip away all the sentiment and affection – real or not – the old must make way for the young. The new generation replaces the prior. Is this not so?’
Saeng bit at her lip ‘Well. In the harshest possible light, yes.’
‘That light is the cold radiance of the moon, child. That is one aspect of the sublunary. I call to that most basic of drives. The unsaid half of procreation. A drive that supersedes even the urge to survival.’
Moon reached down to scratch his buttock and Saeng had to comment silently: I’m feeling no such urge right now, old man.
‘Did you know,’ Moon went on, oblivious, ‘that on one certain moon every year animals of the depths heave themselves up on to beaches on many lands to lay their eggs, to procreate, even though it means their death? This is what I speak of.’
Saeng spat into another roughly formed earthenware cup. ‘It’s different for people.’
He sighed. ‘So they tell themselves.’
She forced herself to examine the man’s flank. She’d been given a rag to wipe away the blood and excess dye from the tattooing and this she balled up once more to wipe the skin. Yet in the pale watery moonlight the stain looked more like melted silver than dark like blood. ‘How much more am I to do? The moon will set, surely.’
The old man chuckled again. ‘Do not worry. We will have as long as is necessary. You are almost done, in any case. Just the one side.’
Well, thank the ancestors for that mercy! ‘Very good. What’s next?’
‘Ah! This one is tricky.’ He scratched in the dirt. ‘A circle with a line through it and an undulating line beneath. The line beneath must be marked in the fifth cup’s ink, if you please.’
‘Fine.’ Saeng clamped that needle between her teeth and asked through it, ‘Why me? Why not Ripan, or anyone else?’
The old man now had his chin on his flat hands. ‘Ripan? Tiam’s blood, no. He is not suited for such service. You, however, are perfect.’
‘Oh? How?’
‘Thyrllan moves through your heart and your hands, child. I feel it like a surge, a tidal pull, when you touch me.’
‘Thyrllan? Whatever do you mean, Thyrllan?’
‘Light, child.’
Saeng jerked, stabbing, and the old man hissed. Mercury drops ran down his tattooed flesh. Saeng wiped them away. ‘Sorry.’
‘Quite all right. Unfortunately, there is no narcotic in creation powerful enough to dull my senses.’
Light again, dammit. But what was she to do? She took the second needle from her mouth and began working on the undulating line. ‘I’m looking for a temple to Light. The Great Temple.’
‘It lies within Ardata’s demesnes.’
‘Where?’
The old man shrugged. ‘I do not know. You must simply look for it. You will meet the multiform denizens of Ardata’s protection. Some will be of no help. Others will help you.’
How very helpful. ‘I was warned that something was coming. Something terrible.’
He straightened an arm to point to the west. There the unearthly jade light of the Visitor played through the trees. ‘Perhaps it has something to do with that.’
‘Don’t you know? I mean, the moon. The stars. Divination! Foretelling the future and all that?’
An indulgent chuckle from the man. ‘Oh, yes. All that. My child – the moon rises, the moon sets. Every day is the same to me. I cannot see the future any more than I can revisit the past. I see only what I am looking down upon.’
‘But people…’
‘People will always believe what they want to believe. Grant things as much power as they choose to give them.’ He shrugged again. ‘Such is how it is.’
‘But you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? The prophecies. The Visitor. Some name it the Sword of the Gods. An evil curse. It would be a cataclysm.’
The old man rubbed a shoulder and grimaced as if at an old wound. ‘Yes. As it happens, I know exactly what you mean … but child, what is that to me? The world revolves on. The moon rises. The moon sets. It matters not who walks upon the face of the land.’
Saeng sat back once more, the needle forgotten in her hand. Such indifference! It almost took her breath away. Didn’t he care? And he’d seemed so kind. Then she remembered the angry snarled words of the leopard-man: those who would stand aside …
‘So you won’t help me.’
‘I am helping you, child. A service for a service. And you are almost done. Just a few last symbols and we are finished.’
She was tired. Bleary with exhaustion, in fact. To see clearly for the work she had to squint her eyes until they hurt and her back felt as if daggers were stabbing it. ‘Then you will heal Hanu,’ she said, blinking heavily.
‘Yes. Surely. For if I do not all that you have given me will drain away into nothing. Like moonbeams cupped in your hands.’
‘Fine. What’s next?’
He sketched once more in the dirt.
In the end she could not remember whether she finished or not. All she knew was that she found herself jerking her eyes open again and again. The needle wavering in her hand. She remembered a sea of beautiful arcane symbols dancing and gyring before her as if in a sea of stormy night-black ink. Then the old man’s voice rang as if from afar, deep and profound. ‘That is enough. You have given me so very much, Priestess of Light. Sleep now, safe and warded, under the light of the moon.’
And she remembered no more.
* * *
The heat of the sun upon her face woke her. She sat up, blinking and wincing, and covered her gaze. Morning mist hovered over the clearing and among the trees. Thick clouds half obscured the sky. The humidity was choking. Already beads of sweat pricked her arms and face.
Hanu! She leaped to her feet only to stagger, almost falling, hands to her head. Gods! What happened? She was hardly able to walk. Of course, fool! You expect to walk away from an all-night ritual? You’ve just done the most demanding work of your life!
She peered around for Moon’s hut but couldn’t see it. What she did spot was Hanu lying in the glade among the tall grass. She stumbled over to fall to her knees next to him. She shook him.
‘Hanu! Can you hear me? Hanu?’
He groaned and rolled on to his back.
She covered her mouth to smother a yell of triumph.
He fumbled at his great full helm, drew it off, then blinked in the bright light just as she had. His mild brown eyes found her, sent a look of wonder.
‘You fell.’
He cocked his head, thinking. Then he nodded.
‘I came down for you, then an underground stream took us.’
He nodded again, holding his head. An inarticulate groan of pain escaped his lips.
‘You hit your head.’
He gave the sign for emphatic agreement – three times.
‘Can you walk?’
By way of answer he slowly began heaving himself up. She tried to help but didn’t think she made much difference. He stood weaving, as unsure on his feet as she felt. He signed, ‘Where
?’
‘We’re in Himatan now. The stream brought us.’ He peered around, confused, obviously searching for the stream. ‘I dragged you as far as I could.’
He grunted, signed, ‘Heavy.’
Smiling indulgently, Saeng reached out in her thoughts: ‘Don’t you remember I opened the path between our thoughts?’
He rubbed his forehead, grimacing at himself. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘I couldn’t bring you too far. Can you walk?’
He nodded, picked up the helm and tucked it under an arm, checked his weapons. Saeng started east. ‘This way.’
But Hanu did not follow. She peered back to see him near the centre of the sunlit glade staring down at something. As she returned he gestured to his feet.
Hidden among the tall grass was a tiny house no taller than her knees. It stood on short poles and had a doll’s ladder that led up to its front opening. Peering down at it Saeng felt as if she would faint. Her vision darkened and a roaring gathered in her ears. Hanu’s strong grip on her shoulder steadied her. ‘A spirit house,’ she breathed. A symbol above the opening proclaimed who it was made for. And Saeng knew who that was, of course.
The moon spirit. Am I the one who has lost her mind?
‘Careful,’ Hanu sent.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I know. Bad luck to disturb them … Let’s go.’
She never made it to the edge of the open glade. Her knees gave way and she collapsed. Utterly spent. Gods! No strength left at all … Can barely think.
The next thing she became aware of was the sensation of floating. The tree canopy of arching branches passing overhead. Firm arms under her knees and shoulders. Hanu’s turn, she thought, and tucked her head into his shoulder to sleep.
* * *
The scene outside the hanging cloth of Golan’s litter remained depressingly repetitive. Jungle and more jungle. Ancient Elders, will it ever end? And their pace was slowing. Each day’s march crossed less ground. Ground! As if it could be called that! A morass of rotting vegetation, tangled creepers, and hidden swamp. At times the land seemed indistinguishable from the water.
He opened the loose yellowed and brittle pages that were his copy of Brother Fel-esh’s Travels in the Most Ancient of Lands:
And so it was less than twelve days’ journey after the village of Payam Tani, that we beheld floating above the wide jungle canopy the golden edifices that were the assembled temples and palaces of Jakal Viharn …
Golan carefully closed the pages and bound them up once more. So, some fifteen days to the village … less than one moon’s travel, all told. Yet Bakar wrote that it took them nearly twice that time to reach the Gangrek Mounts after fleeing the capital … None of these travel times match up!
It was most frustrating.
Someone cleared their throat outside the litter and Golan said, ‘Yes, U-Pre?’ He moved the cloth a fraction aside to see the man. The second in command walked bent with hands clasped behind his back. He seemed reluctant to meet Golan’s gaze. His leathers bore dark stains and the white dusting of dried salts. He was unshaven, his face glistening with sweat, and he appeared to have lost weight. The thought struck Golan that perhaps the man was sick. He is pushing himself hard; I mustn’t blame him. ‘More bad news, Second?’
The man nodded. ‘The train is bogged down, Master. We won’t be able to get them moving again any time soon. We may as well hold here.’
We’ve hardly moved today! Golan bit back his outburst. He took a long calming breath as he had been trained a lifetime to do. ‘I see, Second. This is unwelcome news. We are behind schedule. What is it this time?’
‘The wagons, Master. The ground is too soft and the obstacles too thick.’
‘Yet we need those stores, Second. We are travelling in a hostile land.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Very well, Second. It would not do to get too far ahead, would it?’
‘No, Master.’
Golan gave a small wave to dismiss the man and let the cloth fall back. He noted how tattered the gauze had become. These voracious jungle insects are eating it. Soon there will be nothing left … Oh dear …
U-Pre’s scrawny shadow, Principal Scribe Thorn, was not far behind. Golan lay back yet kept the fellow in the edge of his vision until the man’s awkward gait brought him close enough for him to pronounce: ‘Welcome, Principal Scribe! What news?’
The man gaped up, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing like a swallowed ball. ‘Master! How did you know? Astounding!’
Every day it was so – and by now Golan was beginning to wonder if perhaps the man had been making fun of him all this time. ‘Your report?’
The man’s unusually long neck bent as he peered down at his woven fibre sheets. ‘Twelve wagons, Master.’
‘Total?’
‘Today.’
Golan glared at the man. ‘Today? Twelve wagons lost all in one day?’
The Principal Scribe was consulting his notes and so unaware of his angry stare. ‘Broken axles, rotted beds. Disassembled for spare parts, Master.’
‘And their stores?’
‘Abandoned, Master.’
‘Abandoned, Principal Scribe? What stores would they be?’
The man noted that tone, hunching. He consulted the thick sheaves of manifests in the bulging shoulder bag at his side. ‘Firewood, mostly, Master,’ he announced, obviously pleased to have so quickly located the requested information.
Golan straightened so abruptly he had to grasp the side of the litter to steady himself. ‘Firewood?’ he said, disbelieving. ‘We are dragging wood into a forest?’ He waved the blackwood baton in a wide circle. ‘False gods, man! Have a look around. We’re surrounded by trees.’
The scribe nervously fingered the globular jade inkwell hanging from his neck. ‘With the greatest of respect, Master – none of these trees are suitable. They are too green and damp to burn.’
Golan was almost at a loss for words. ‘Well … then … dead trees. Fallen trees!’
‘Again, Master. I am most sorry, but they rot immediately, never truly drying out.’
‘I see.’ Golan studied the man. His uneven eyes, one higher than the other, and gawking cross-eyed bird-like stare. His lips ink-stained from his habit of holding his writing instrument in his mouth. Was he truly mocking him all this time? ‘So, you are trying to tell me that nothing ever burns in this jungle?’
‘Oh, no, m’lord. Fires rage through here regularly during the dry season. But only the leaves and bracken and such on the forest floor are consumed. The trees endure.’
‘Thank you for that lesson in natural philosophy, Principal Scribe. I am most illuminated.’
‘Ever glad to be of service, Master.’
Golan eyed the fellow closely for a time. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes.’ Thorn retrieved a new set of sheets. ‘The rate of troop disappearances is growing. We believe it is a combination of desertions and unfortunate attacks.’
‘Unfortunate attacks?’
‘Yes, m’lord. For example, four soldiers spotted something that resembled a pig and despite your orders against entering the jungle they chased after it. None was seen again. It is presumed they were victims of wild animals, or some other jungle denizen.’
‘Jungle denizen. A delicate euphemism, Thorn.’
‘So it is entered in the official campaign history.’
I am beginning to fear that that official record is all that will be left of us. ‘My thanks, Principal Scribe. Until tomorrow’s report.’
The scribe bowed then scuttled off in quick small steps.
Golan tapped the Rod of Execution to his chin. He reflected that Brother Fel-esh wrote in his account of his discoveries, and his groundbreaking exploration, all the while conveniently failing to mention the full army of attendants, guards and servants, some three hundred strong in total, who supported him in his ‘adventure’.
And he barely made it out alive.
Whereas I lead five thousand troo
ps and two hundred yakshaka, supported by fifteen thousand slaves, labourers, bearers and assorted camp followers.
I hope to do slightly better. He tapped the baton to his litter. ‘Set me down and have my tent erected.’
The yakshaka bowed.
* * *
That night there came an attack that Golan knew even the most creative record-keeping could not cover up as unfortunate. He was in his tent reporting to the Circle of Nine when the first of the shouts and calls reached him through the layered cloth walls. Standing before the glowing silver chasing on his baton of office, Golan groaned inwardly at what the alarms announced. He cleared his throat and interjected: ‘That is all for now, then. Am continuing to press forward.’
‘See that you do,’ came the stern whisper of Master Surin. ‘We are counting on your advance to divert all attention from us. This is your purpose and role—’
‘Understood, Masters. Thank you. Goodnight.’
‘You are encountering difficulties?’ Master Surin enquired, his voice becoming silky soft, as it always did when he sensed prevarication or, worse, failure.
Golan switched to vague honesty. ‘Of course, Masters. We all knew this would be difficult.’
The yells had turned to screams and a general tumult outside the tent.
‘Well,’ Surin answered, grudgingly appeased, ‘see to it.’
‘Of course. My thanks, Masters.’
The frosty blue glow faded leaving Golan in the dark. Arms extended, he felt about for the opening, heaved aside the thick cloth. And stepped into chaos.
A storm of some sort appeared to have engulfed the camp. Labourers and workers, male and female, all ran pell-mell, waving their arms over their heads, even covering their faces. Clouds of insects choked the air like a sandstorm. They swooped over the ground in great swarms. U-Pre stood next to the opening, batting at his face and arms and hopping from foot to foot. ‘What are we to do, sir?’ he shouted.
‘What of the Isturé mages?’ Golan called back. A warm rush spread over his feet and he peered down to see a thick crimson carpet of swarming ants. He hopped and kicked at the tide.
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 288