The Second Collected Tales of Bauchelain & Korbal Broach: Three Short Novels of the Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Smart thinking, Symon,’ said Plaintly. ‘All right then, take the lead, will you? Barunko’s right behind you, and then it’s me taking up the rear.’

  ‘Watch out for that darkness behind you, Plaintly,’ said Symon. ‘It’s been chasing us all night!’

  ‘I will, Symon, thanks for reminding me. Now let’s get going!’

  Ophal D’Neeth Flatroq stepped out through the side postern gate and paused to brush at his green silks. All things considered, the audience had gone rather well, he decided. Formal proclamation announced and here he was, still in possession of his head. Indeed, it occurred to him that he might have to revise his notions regarding maniacal tyrants, as King Bauchelain had proved surprisingly polite, and not in any way inclined to either foam at the mouth or enact highly unjust but altogether expected punishment to the hapless messenger delivering unwelcome news.

  Unfortunately for the citizens of Farrog, the approaching forces of Nightmaria weren’t much interested in anything but the thorough sacking of the city, the slaughter of its modest army, and the ousting of both the Church of the Indifferent God and the new Royal Line of King Bauchelain, the latter two as messily as possible.

  Of course, it seemed likely that neither the king nor his grand bishop would be found anywhere in the city once the defences collapsed and raging Firends ran amok through the streets. This at least was consistent with his assessment of tyrants. When the dung hits the wall, why, the source of all incumbent misery and suffering has long-since hightailed it out of harm’s way.

  Typical. He wondered, as he made his way back to the embassy, if there existed some high, impregnable keep, situated atop a mountain or on an isolated island in a sea swarming with savage beasts, where all tyrants fled to as soon as the inevitable occurred. If so, why, wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing to, say, drop a whole other mountain on top of them? Crushing into paste every last one!

  Slithering along dank alleys, creeping against moss-gummed walls, crossing foul trenches, he came at last to the embassy. Producing a key, he let himself in through the well-hidden back door, and then made his way to where waited the Royal Messenger.

  The man was covered in spider’s webs and dozing on a settee.

  Ophal cleared his throat, although that merely produced a strange hissing sound. Still, that proved sufficient, as Beetle Praata flinched upright, blinking owlishly in the gloom.

  He started clawing strands of web from his face. ‘Ambassador! It is a relief to see you again.’

  ‘Prrlll, yeth, fank you. Now, my fwend, we must pweepare to prrllll deparrrth, ath the wocalllth willl be motht angwy with uth, yeth?’

  Beetle nodded. ‘I shall inform the stabler, then, to ready us some mounts.’

  ‘Prrlll, flip thvlah! Vewy good. In the meantwime, I thalll dethtwoy documenth and whatnot.’

  ‘It is sad, is it not, Ambassador, that you must quit this city. Please, sir, do not deem this a failure on your part – the Council and the Emperor wish to make that as clear as possible. You did your best.’

  ‘Fank you, sir. Motht kind of you. Thuch a welief!’

  Beetle Praata dipped his head in a bow and then strode from the chamber.

  In the yard outside, the Royal Messenger found Puny Sploor collapsed against the carcass of his horse. The man was weeping, his small hands curled tight into fists with which he beat weakly and futilely on the dead animal’s well-groomed flank. A bucket of water had been dragged up beside the horse’s mouth, along with a few handfuls of straw.

  Beetle frowned down at the stabler. ‘You should know by now,’ he said, ‘there’s no point trying to feed and water a dead horse. Now then, Puny, we have to flee the city. Ready the remaining horses, with saddles upon three of them. The Ambassador will be here shortly.’

  Puny Sploor blinked up at Beetle, and then with a shriek he launched himself at the messenger, fingers closing about Beetle’s throat.

  ‘Tiny can grow as many new teeth as he wants,’ said Tiny, still sitting on the stone steps. ‘Tiny has been attacked by demons before.’

  ‘That wasn’t a demon,’ said Steck Marynd from two steps down, his hands at his temples and a pool of vomit between his feet.

  ‘Tiny says it was a demon, so it was a demon, right Midge?’

  ‘Demon,’ said Midge, still trying to push his right eyeball back into its socket, but it kept popping back out. ‘Midge can see up his own nose.’

  Flea leaned close to his brother. ‘Can you see up mine, Midge?’

  ‘I could always see up yours, Flea.’

  ‘But now it must be different, right?’

  Midge nodded. ‘Different.’

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Flea smiled.

  Apto had ripped a strip from his filthy tunic and given it to Shartorial, to help stop the blood flowing from her broken nose. Now he said, ‘The problem is the Mortal Sword’s broken legs. He needs splints, or at least binding, if Tiny or Flea are to carry him.’

  ‘Tiny carries no-one,’ said Tiny. ‘Midge and Flea don’t neither. The fool can crawl for all Tiny cares.’

  ‘Fub fab bib,’ said Brash Phluster, and then he burst into tears again.

  ‘There is a cutter’s room,’ said Shartorial Infelance, ‘containing the Royal Apothecary. Healing salves, unguents and some High Denul elixirs. It’s not far.’

  Brash leapt to his feet, eyes fervent with sudden hope. He still held his severed tongue.

  Apto sighed, ‘Right, I suppose we’ll have to make for that then. But Tulgord still needs help to get him there, and I have a bad back and all. It’s a chronic condition, had it since, uh, since birth.’

  Groaning, Steck Marynd straightened. ‘I will carry him, then. With luck, he’ll pass out with the pain.’

  ‘Pass out?’ Tulgord glowered up at Steck. ‘More like die!’

  ‘Pray to your goddess for salvation, sir,’ advised Steck, making his way down the steps. ‘I’ll be as gentle as possible, but I make no promises.’

  ‘There is mercy in your soul, sir,’ said Tulgord Vise, grudgingly.

  ‘Tiny can grow as many new teeth as he wants. Tiny has been attacked by demons before.’

  ‘You said that just a moment ago,’ Apto pointed out.

  ‘Tiny never repeats himself. Never.’

  ‘I think you’re addled.’

  ‘Tiny’s not addled. The world is addled. That’s why the walls are leaking and his fingernails are buzzing.’

  Amidst grunts, yelps, groans and moans, Steck Marynd worked Tulgord Vise onto his back, gripping the man’s thick wrists. This meant the legs dangled and bounced along the steps, and after a few moments of this, Tulgord Vise passed out.

  ‘Lead on, Milady,’ rasped Steck Marynd.

  Nodding, she resumed the journey up the stairs, Apto right behind her followed by the Chanters and then Brash Phluster behind them with Steck and Tulgord taking up the rear.

  ‘Might get your tongue back, Phluster,’ said Apto, ‘proving the universe’s essential indifference to justice.’

  ‘Buh ovv,’ the poet replied.

  They reached a landing and Sharotrial led them through a doorway, down another passageway, through another doorway and then went left at a T-intersection, coming at last to a final door. ‘We’re here,’ she said, turning the latch and swinging it open.

  Crowded inside were thirty-two demons. Sixty-three eyes fixed upon the newcomers, and then in a collective roar, the demons attacked.

  Apto grasped hold of Shartorial and pulled her behind the door as the swarm poured out in a shrieking, slavering mob.

  Bellowing, the Chanters vanished beneath a mound of writhing, spitting, snarling, biting, clawing creatures. Farther down the corridor, Steck was dragging Tulgord into a side-passage, Brash Phluster trying to push past them.

  Apto risked a peek into the chamber. ‘It’s clear!’ he hissed, dragging Shartorial around and inside, whereupon he slammed shut the door. ‘That was close!’

  �
�But Steck—’

  ‘Made his escape, Milady, I promise you! I saw it with my own eyes!’ He paused, and then said, ‘But if the demons followed, well, he’s finished. Dead. The poet too. In fact, Milady, we’re probably the last ones left.’

  Beyond the door the demons were now screaming along with the Chanters. Bodies struck walls, the floor, the ceiling and the door itself, the meaty impacts rattling the thick planks and popping bronze rivets.

  ‘Sounds lively out there,’ said Apto, offering Shartorial a modest smile. ‘But I judge us safe, at least for the next little while.’

  The door opened and Tiny barged into the Apothecary with three demons clinging to him and more rushing in behind.

  Apto shrieked, grasping Shartorial Infelance and pushing her forward. ‘It’s all her fault! Not me! Not me!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bauchelain as he adjusted his cloak, ‘here he is. Korbal Broach old friend, are you well?’

  The Grand Bishop stepped into the courtyard and looked round. ‘I think it’s going to rain,’ he said, peering up at the night sky and sniffing.

  ‘Quite possible,’ Bauchelain agreed.

  ‘Your Demon Prince has escaped.’

  ‘Yes well, these things happen. What of your god?’

  ‘Gone, too.’

  ‘No matter. As you can see, Mister Reese has made us ready to depart this ungrateful city and its humourless neighbours. Our carriage awaits, as it were.’

  ‘There is an army coming,’ said Korbal Broach. ‘I can feel them. With many powerful sorcerers. They are all very angry. Why are they angry, Bauchelain?’

  ‘Misapprehensions, alas, for which I have decided to blame Grand General Pin Dollop.’

  ‘Shall I kill him for you?’ Korbal Broach asked.

  ‘Alas, he has already led his army out of the city and will momentarily march straight into the maw of the punitive Firrwend forces. I would imagine he’ll not survive the encounter.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Bauchelain as he drew on his leather gloves. ‘It comforts, does it not, when justice is seen to be served. Mister Reese.’

  Emancipor was leaning against the tall front wheel of the carriage. ‘Yes, Master?’

  ‘The Royal Treasury.’

  ‘With all the other loot, Master, in that clever Warren you created beneath the floorboards. You know,’ he added, ‘I’ve been dumping stuff in there for years now.’

  ‘Mmhmm, yes?’

  ‘Well, I was just wondering, Master, when is enough enough?’

  Bauchelain turned to face him, one thin brow arching. ‘Dear me, Mister Reese. Very well, allow me to explain. Ideally, one – in this case yours truly – envisages a world with a single, indeed global, economy, wherein wealth flows from all quarters in a seemingly ceaseless river, or series of rivers, all gathering in one particular place, that place being, of course, my coffers.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Emancipor Reese.

  ‘Like a massive body bearing a million small cuts, the blood draining into a single gutter.’

  ‘And, er, you’re the gutter then?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘But what about everyone else, Master? The ones trying to make enough to live well, or even enough to eat and maybe raise a family?’

  ‘Accord them no sympathy, Mister Reese. They make their own fate, after all, and if through incompetence, laziness or stupidity they must live a life of abject suffering and hopeless, despairing misery, why, no-one ever said the world was fair. In the meantime,’ he added with a faint sigh, ‘it falls to the capable ones, such as me, to bleed the suckers dry. And then to convince them – given their innate stupidity it proves rather easy, by the way – of just how fortunate they are that I am running things.’

  ‘Aye, sir, sly as a fox you are, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I am not sure, Mister Reese, if I like the comparison. Foxes are often the prey of frenzied packs of dogs let loose by the inbred classes, after all. I do not see myself as the object of such sport.’

  ‘Sport, huh? Aye, Master. My apologies, then.’

  ‘Now, Mister Reese, I think it best we take our leave. Korbal, dearest, will you ensure the path before us is unobstructed all the way to the South Gate?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Emancipor prepared to climb up to the driver’s bench, but then he glanced over at Bauchelain. ‘Master, just one thing’s got me wondering.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘All that loot, sir. You never seem to use any of it.’

  ‘Well of course not, Mister Reese. I simply wish to possess it, thereby exercising my absolute power in preventing anyone else from ever using it. In fact, my special Warren is designed in such a manner that there are no exits from it. What goes in stays in. Unless I choose otherwise. I point this out to make certain you do not concoct any grand deception, or thievery, although I remain confident of your loyalty.’

  ‘Uh, right. Thank you, Master. I had no plans in that direction.’

  ‘I didn’t think you had, Mister Reese. Now then, I believe Korbal Broach is ready?’

  Korbal Broach nodded. ‘Yes, Bauchelain. Everybody I’ve killed and worked on since we got here is now in the street outside.’

  ‘Ah, excellent … yes, I think I hear the screaming begin. Mister Reese?’

  Emancipor gathered the traces. The four black horses, their hides steaming as was their wont, lifted their heads, mouths opening as they sank their fangs into the bits, eyes flaring a lurid, blazing amber. He flicked the straps. ‘Move along now,’ he said, making clicking noises.

  Mortari’s head was now swollen on the other side, but Plaintly Grasp was relieved to see him smiling. Le Groutt’s jaw had been unhinged by Barunko’s punch and was shifted well off to one side, so that the lower half of his face was misaligned with the upper half. He could now close his mouth with nary a single clack of teeth, a trick that made even Barunko giggle.

  Lurma Spilibus had also regained consciousness and was even now creeping stealthily towards the postern door they had passed through earlier that night. Watching Lurma slip from side to side in the narrow corridor filled Plaintly with an almost overwhelming sense of well-being.

  ‘Another successful mission by the Party of Five,’ she said, glancing at Symon The Head Niksos. ‘Into the very palace itself and back out again! Another legend to our name, friends. I don’t know why we ever split up in the first place.’

  ‘Artistic differences,’ said Symon. ‘Overblown egos, too much drugs and hard liquor.’

  ‘No,’ Plaintly said, scowling, ‘that’s what ruined The Seven Thieves of The Baker’s Dozen and the Fancy Pillagers.’

  ‘And the Masons, too,’ added Barunko.

  Symon frowned. ‘What masons?’

  ‘The Grand High Order of the Wax Masons,’ said Barunko, rolling up a sleeve to reveal a tattoo of a bee on his forearm. ‘I was Chief Rumpah of the Lavender Hive of the Full Moon.’

  ‘You were a Honeymooner?’ Symon asked, eyes widening. ‘I never knew!’

  ‘Once a month at the third bell before midnight,’ said Barunko, ‘I ate a basketful of lavender flowers and then bared my ass to the heavens, letting out aromatic farts – none of the others could fart as many times as me! That’s when the jealousy started, and Borbos started sneaking in lima beans and cabbage to try and beat me so I had to kill him, right? Since he was a cheater! And besides, his farts were killing bees!’

  ‘You had a whole secret life!’ Symon accused Barunko. ‘And you didn’t tell any of us!’

  Barunko blinked sleepily. ‘Everything masons do is secret. That’s the whole point of it. Being, uh, secret. And secretive, and keeping secrets, too. I drink a bottle of d’bayang oil every day to keep me from knowing my own secrets! I think,’ he added, ‘it’s wearing off.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ Symon asked.

  ‘Well, I can see straight, for one.’

  Lurma hissed impatiently from the door and then waved them over.

  ‘Gr
anma used to keep a kitten up her—’

  ‘Not now, Mortari!’ hissed Lurma, scowling, ‘I can hear a crowd out there! In the street! They’re partying or something – did we miss a fête? Never mind, we need to slink out, quiet like, so nobody notices us, and just blend in with the crowd, in case guards are watching or something.’

  ‘Our last challenge,’ said Plaintly. ‘We can do it! The Party of Five went and retrieved the Head of the Thieves’ Guild! Imagine that!’

  ‘Actually,’ said Barunko, ‘There’s six of us, provided you count yourself, too.’

  ‘What?’ Plaintly stared at Barunko.

  ‘Never mind. Let’s get out of here. I’m getting the shakes.’

  Lurma fumbled for the latch for a moment, found it at last, and then edged open the door. Plaintly pushed Le Groutt forward, and then Mortari. ‘Symon, have that head ready just in case,’ she whispered, nudging him past her. ‘Barunko, take up the rear.’

  Barunko let out a loud fart, and then shrugged. ‘Sorry, what you said was a code phrase. It’s all coming back.’

  Plaintly reeled against the wall. ‘Hood’s wind, Barunko, what have you been eating?’

  ‘It’s the d’bayang oil, Plaintly. You can’t really drink it straight. Instead, you fill the bottle with slugs and let them soak it all up, then you swallow down the slugs.’

  ‘That’s what I’m smelling all right,’ nodded Plaintly. ‘Slug farts! I thought it was familiar. Now, stay right behind me, will you, as we make our way through the crowd.’

  Barunko nodded.

  Heart thudding with excitement, Plaintly slipped through the doorway after the others, and out into the street.

  She caught a momentary glimpse of Symon, screaming soundlessly as he fought with a headless undead. Both had a grip on Dam Loudly Heer’s head, and then Plaintly saw that the headless body was Dam Loudly Heer herself. Then she saw that almost the entire mob consisted of undead, most of them headless though a few sported two, even three heads, artlessly sewn onto shoulders. Still other figures were writhing jumbles of arms and legs, sprouting from mangled torsos. In the midst of this seething crowd were citizens shrieking in panic, along with palace guards busy getting their armour torn off, ears ripped off and eyes gouged from the sockets. Here and there swords swung, punctuated by meaty thuds or shocked screams; spears jabbed, fists flew, pitchforks stabbed – Barunko pushed past her. ‘It’s a fête!’ he shouted, wading in.