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

  Yusen started forward through the dense hanging leaves. A short march later Sweetly emerged from cover to join them. The man’s twig stood straight out from his lips: neutral, or undecided. Murk took this as an encouraging sign.

  It seemed to Murk that the four men waiting ahead amid the tree trunks appeared as if by their own brand of magery. But he knew this for an illusion. They had merely been standing so still and so calm that his eye could not separate them from their surroundings. No magic, no animism or Elder sorcery. Still, it made him profoundly uneasy the way they just seemed to flicker in and out of the jungle background like that. They wore loincloths only, with bands of leather, or fibre ropes, tied round their arms and legs. Some sort of jewellery flashed at ears and noses, and hung from necks and arms. Looking at them carefully now he realized that half their camouflage was swirls of tattooing that splashed across upper thighs, stomachs, arms, necks, and even half-obscured faces.

  They were a wary lot. Two held spears ready while the other two had arrows nocked. The bows were slim but as tall as they. The arrow points were tiny – better suited to bringing down birds, but they gleamed darkly and he realized with a jolt that they were poisoned. His stomach clenched even tighter at the discovery and his hand strayed to the knife at his side.

  The two with the bows straightened taller, the gut strings of the bows creaking.

  Sour suddenly threw his hands out wide, pulling all eyes to him. The squat fellow made an exaggerated pantomime show of untying his weapon-belt and dropping it to the ground. Murk knew this as an empty gesture as the sword was rusted in its sheath. But their friends knew no better.

  The two with the spears eased them up a touch. Murk followed along by throwing down his knife. The spears straightened upright even more. Murk murmured aside to Yusen, ‘Drop your sword.’

  A hissed breath communicated their commander’s unease.

  ‘Has to be done…’

  The man swore under his breath but unbuckled the belt and let it fall.

  Murk glanced sideways to Sweetly. The scout’s twig now rested downward. ‘Slowly and sweetly now…’ he whispered. The man’s slit gaze remained bland but the twig edged straight down. He slowly reached behind his back to draw out two oiled gleaming long-knives that he let fall.

  The two bowmen relaxed their gut strings and lowered the bows to point downward. Murk eased out his clenched breath. Sour started forward with his bandy-legged awkward stride then thumped down, sitting halfway between the two parties. Grumbling inwardly, Murk followed.

  One of the spearmen, perhaps the eldest of the party, handed his weapon to the other and came forward. Closer now, Murk could see that he was quite sun-darkened, and very lean. His hair was straight and black, touched very slightly with grey. Bands of bluish tattooing encircled most of his muscular legs and arms, and his neck. He sat smoothly and Murk was again impressed by the man’s strength – life here in the jungle was obviously very demanding. The man’s dark eyes moved between him and Sour. They were guarded and wary, but also touched by curiosity.

  Murk pointed to himself. ‘Murk.’

  ‘Sour.’

  The leader inclined his lean aristocratic head then nodded to himself. ‘Oroth-en.’

  Murk frowned at an eerie suspicion. ‘You understand Talian?’

  ‘Tal-ian? Is this the speech of the demons? A few of us Elders remember it, and them, too well.’

  A sudden dread took hold of Murk. ‘Demons? We know of no demons. We are lost. We want to find a city. A city? You know city?’ He held his arms out wide. ‘Many people.’

  Unease clouded the man’s features and his brows drew down. ‘You seek the Ritual Centres? Why seek them? There is nothing there. Only death.’

  Murk struggled to make sense of what he was hearing. ‘So … no people?’

  ‘No. No longer. All gone. Fled into the jungle.’

  Murk glanced aside to Yusen.

  The captain looked as if he’d just tasted something exceedingly sour. He cleared his throat. ‘Oroth-en … we are lost and we wish to return home. Can you help us?’

  The local pointed back up their path. ‘Turn round, strangers. Return from where you came. Flee Himatan.’

  Yusen rubbed his neck as if to ease a tightening knot and let out a long troubled breath. ‘I understand. Today, however, my people hunger. Can you spare some food?’

  Oroth-en gave a firm nod. ‘Come with us.’

  * * *

  Ina awoke and surged to her feet, blade ready all in one swift movement. The tiny cell she occupied in the foreign vessel was night-dark but it was not something here that had roused her from her sleep. Rather, it was the lack of something: a lack of movement or noise. No longer did the vessel pitch or roll as if tossed by giants’ hands. No longer did the timbers shudder beneath the crash of great waves washing over them.

  She charged for the ladder and was up in an instant.

  On deck she took in that the storm still dominated the seas encircling them but that some sort of eye or pall of calm currently kept it at bay. Further up the long deck two shadowy figures confronted her mistress. All this she took in even as a great plank-juddering growl sounded near her shoulder. She spun slashing to find only swirling smoke, or shadows, from which pale frosty eyes glared eager hunger.

  ‘Call them off,’ came her mistress’s clear voice.

  A weak flick from one of the obscured figures and the rumbling presence sank as if to haunches, backing away. Ina padded along the wet planks to her mistress’s side. ‘Call these two off,’ she murmured to the Queen of Dreams. ‘I beg of you. We know them’ – she flicked her blade to the near-translucent one who wavered hardly more than a hanging scrap of shadow – ‘the Deceiver, and,’ she motioned to the other far more substantial presence, ‘the patron of killers. They have no honour, m’lady.’

  The Queen of Dreams stood with one thick arm crossed over her heavy bosom, supporting the other, chin in hand while she studied the two. ‘My dealings have been few, Ina. Do not worry yourself.’ She heaved a great sigh as if preparing herself for a distasteful task and let her arms fall. ‘What is it you wish, Usurper? No, wait, let me tell you what it is you wish. In brief, you hope to turn every unfolding, every meeting or event, all to your eventual benefit, yes?’

  Ina could plainly see through to the rolling dark waves behind the hunched figure as it gave what might have been a shrug. ‘You have the truth. I confess that I am no different from you, Enchantress.’

  ‘You may congratulate yourself on some few superficial resemblances. But we differ profoundly, Usurper. You are young while I am old. This persists as an unbridgeable gulf between us that you yet may cross. Eventually … a century at a time.’

  The wavering scarves of shadow that outlined the Deceiver shifted then, as if affronted. ‘That title. You persist in that title. One throne is as good as any other. Are you trying to provoke me?’

  The Enchantress squinted southwards as if tired of the conversation. ‘Shadow has a throne, Usurper.’

  ‘That again. Shadow is … broken. And the throne with it.’

  A tired, almost sad smile came and went from the Queen.

  The slit eyes of the other figure, the Rope, had not left Ina the entire time and he leaned to his cohort to murmur, ‘Time.’

  The Deceiver waved a limp hand once again. ‘Yes, yes. We are currently enmeshed in said unfoldings to the west. Suggestively close to the west, in fact. Many wonder at the peculiar timing of your journey…’

  ‘All will shy away once they are certain of whom I am going to meet. You can be sure of that.’

  The tatters of shadow wavered as if the figure were shifting from foot to foot. ‘Ah, yes. Well … you have our warning! Have a care! Now, we must go. Charming though you may be in your disarming coquetry, we can hardly be expected to idle about here all the day and night. Much to do.’

  The two faded away like passing scraps of shade.

  ‘Warning?’ Ina asked. ‘What does he mean?’ />
  The Queen of Dreams hugged herself, crossing her arms as if chilled. ‘Not even he knows. But I would not have him change. Shadow finds him … amusing. At least for now. And that is a good thing.’

  Ina studied the muted seas. She self-consciously touched a finger to her mask as she did so – it was hopelessly smeared blue now from the constant damp. ‘Have we stopped?’

  ‘No, this calm will pass.’

  ‘And our destination?’

  The Queen of Dreams studied her for a time. ‘Jacuruku. You have heard of it?’

  ‘We have heard the travellers’ tales. City of riches. City of magic. Where any wish may be granted by the one who awaits within. Ardata the Perilous.’

  The Queen of Dreams hugged herself even tighter. ‘Yes, Ina. Perilous. Very perilous.’

  * * *

  Within the plains of Shadow, Ammanas and his cohort, Dancer, kicked their way through the worn stones of an ancient nameless ruin.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Dancer asked, rather irritated. ‘A warning? A warning about what?’

  Shadowthrone gave another negligent flick of his hand. ‘That? Oh, I just throw those out. It confuses them.’

  ‘That it does,’ Dancer breathed aside. Then he stopped as his partner had come to a halt, facing away. Ammanas now peered to where a dark brooding forest dominated the landscape. The hounds surrounding them paced restlessly, uneasy this close to these woods. The forest of the Azathanai.

  Ammanas gave a shudder. His hands tightened on the silver hound’s head of his walking stick. He raised his hooded eyes to Dancer. ‘The Azathanai.’ And he shivered again. ‘Inhuman and thus incomprehensible.’ He raised the walking stick in emphasis. ‘Oh, I try. I do try. But there—’ and he pointed to the woods. ‘But there. There lies true impenetrability. Their goals – if they can even be said to possess such – what are they? They vex me. They truly do.’

  ‘You’re not the first.’

  Ammanas gave a faint laugh. ‘No. Certainly not. Yet…’ and he raised a crooked finger. ‘Perhaps I shall be the last, no?’

  ‘We can only hope – and plan.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Ammanas set off again. His slippered feet shuffled through the dust. After a time he cleared his throat. ‘So, what do you think that damned Azathanai meant – the throne? What sort of nonsense is that?’ His tiny eyes darted about from one shadow to another. ‘You don’t think it’s true … do you?’

  Dancer smiled as if somehow secretly pleased by his cohort’s unease. He gave a mimicked negligent wave. ‘That? Oh, I think she just tossed that off to confuse you.’

  * * *

  For Pon-lor, descending out of the Gangrek Mounts and entering the green abyss that stretched before them to the eastern horizon was like slowly submerging himself into warm poisoned water. The dense high canopy closed over his head like the surface of the sea and beneath he found the atmosphere so humid as to be almost unbreathable. Sweat started from his brow, back and limbs. His robes hung from him as smothering weights.

  Two of the guards he had led from the slaughter within Chanar Keep had not survived their wounds. Of the two remaining, one was already ill beyond his skill to heal. Many, he knew, blamed the air itself; unhealthy, bearer of sicknesses in its heavy wafting miasmas. But Thaumaturg teachings insisted that it was in fact the countless insects. They were a maddening curse. Bites left smears of blood across faces and necks. Some of these wounds refused to heal, becoming swollen livid welts that wept a clear humour that only attracted even greater clouds of the midges, mites and flies of all types. He said nothing, but he knew that many of these creatures carried parasites and fevers, and that some were even laying eggs within the wounds, which would eventually hatch to feast upon the host’s flesh. As for his own bites, he could purify himself through his Thaumaturg arts.

  This morning the sick guard, Lo-sen, would not waken. He lay gripped in a burning fever, delirious, hardly even aware of his surroundings. The remaining guard, Toru, stood aside, scanning the surrounding jungle while Pon-lor studied his companion. He set a hand to the man’s sweaty brow and found it searing hot to the touch. I can heal flesh and break flesh … but I cannot cure a fever.

  He raised his eyes to Toru. ‘There is nothing I can do.’

  Looking away, the man flexed his grip upon his sword. After a time he grated: ‘There is one thing.’

  Pon-lor dropped his gaze. Yes. One last thing. The onus is upon me. He summoned his powers and drew a hand down across the blank staring eyes. He felt the heart racing like a terrified colt trapped in the man’s chest and he soothed it. He eased the mad beating then slowed it even more to a calm easy rest. The man’s clenched frame relaxed and a long breath eased from him. When Pon-lor removed his hand the man’s heart beat no more. Pon-lor stood, straightened his robes.

  ‘Thank you, Magister,’ Toru said.

  Thank me? No – you should curse me. I have led you poorly. Lost my command. My only hope to redeem myself is to return with the damned yakshaka, or this witch herself. Collecting that bastard Jak’s head along the way wouldn’t hurt either.

  He gestured into the jungle. ‘This way.’

  * * *

  After the sun had passed its zenith – from what he could glimpse of it through the layers of canopy – he chanced upon a plant he recognized. It was a thick crimson-hued vine dotted by large cup-shaped flowers, pale and veined, like flesh. Alistophalia. The Pitcher. Also known as Ardata’s Cup.

  He broke off one blossom and examined it while he pushed aside leaves and grasses. Within, trapped by the clear sticky ichors, lay corpses of insects all in varying degrees of decomposition.

  It feeds upon those it attracts.

  He remembered the words of an ancient writer: Beware the Queen’s gifts, for poison and death lie hidden within.

  Yet their Thaumaturg lore had found many uses for poison. This one’s could deaden nerves and mask pain. In larger doses it induced a trance-like sleep that to all outward appearances mimicked death. In just a slightly stronger dose it brought the eternal sleep itself. It was Master Surin’s serum of choice for his dissections. Under its influence a subject lived even as Surin exposed the heart and vital organs. The diaphragm continued to expand, the lungs to operate. Surin’s slick hands slid amid the glistening organs as he indicated this feature and that. Pon-lor and his classmates had crowded close round the table.

  Surin had turned his attention to the head. He’d raised his keen scalpel blade to the immobilized face. ‘And now, gentlemen,’ he’d said, ‘the miracle of adaptation that is the eye.’ And the blade had descended to slide into the exposed clear orb. Pon-lor remembered thinking, appalled: This man is still alive, still aware trapped within.

  Did he watch as the knife-edge penetrated his eye?

  ‘My lord?’ Toru asked.

  Pon-lor halted, blinking. He peered up. ‘Yes?’

  The guard gestured to a gap through the fronds, where the earth was bare and beaten. He squatted to examine the spoor. ‘Some sort of animal track. Heading east for now.’ He raised his helmeted head to look at Pon-lor, cocked a brow.

  ‘If you think it safe…’

  Toru straightened. ‘I believe so, Magister.’

  Pon-lor started forward but Toru stepped in front. ‘With your permission – I will lead.’ He drew his blade.

  ‘Very well.’ Following, Pon-lor returned his attention to the cup-shaped blossom in his hand. Beautiful … but deadly.

  He cast it aside.

  The track veered to the north and then to the south but tended to return to the east. He was grateful; along its relatively clear way they made good time. As the shafts of sunlight that managed to penetrate the canopy slanted ever more and took on a deep rich gold, he began to consider where to stop for the night. A wide tree would offer cover against the rain. However, after a few more hours of walking they came to the perfect cover against the gathering dusk and its inevitable downpour, but Pon-lor did not know if he dared enter.<
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  It was a long-abandoned heap of stones that might have at one time been a temple or shrine, perhaps even a sort of border marker. Roots choked it now, and trees grew tall from its slanted sides. The questing roots had heaved aside the huge blocks of dressed limestone. Some had fallen away from the building. None of this gave Pon-lor pause. What troubled him were the heaped goat skulls. They lay in a great pile before the entrance: bleached white bone beneath black curved horns. Many had been set into the crotches of nearby trees. Some of these had since been overgrown and incorporated into the flesh of the tree. Trees with grinning dead animal faces. Why did this disturb him so?

  An old practice, he realized. All long ago.

  He waved Toru forward to examine the structure. After studying the ground and the interior, the guard returned. By now it was quite dark beneath the trees. ‘No one,’ Toru reported. ‘Only animal tracks.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll spend the night.’ His remaining guard was obviously reluctant but said nothing. ‘What is it?’ he invited.

  ‘An ill-omened place, Magister.’

  ‘This entire jungle is ill-omened, I fear, Toru. We’ll just have to make do, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Magister.’

  They climbed the stone stairs to the enclosure. Geckos scampered from Pon-lor’s path in bright olive streaks. Spiders the size of outstretched hands hung in thick webs about the abandoned shrine. Pon-lor brushed dirt and leaf litter from the stones, wrapped his robes about himself, and sat.

  Toru took first watch. ‘Magister…’ he asked after watching the darkening forest for a time. ‘Was this – do you think this was dedicated to … her?’

  Pon-lor raised his chin from his fists. ‘For a time, perhaps. However, originally, no. This dates back far before her. And what need has she for temples or shrines? The entire jungle of Himatan seems to be dedicated to her.’

  Toru grunted his understanding and was quiet after that. Thunder echoed and rumbled above. Then the rains began again. A spider that had been hunting among the stones padded up to Pon-lor’s side. As if curious it gently stroked his robes with its long hairy forelimbs. It was larger than Pon-lor’s hand. He edged it aside. Perhaps it was merely hoping to escape the rain.