The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  'He wants room to manoeuvre,' said Blistig from where he sat. 'Panic in the streets won't do. We shouldn't read too much into it, Keneb.'

  'I suspect,' Tene Baralta said, 'we're not reading enough into it. I am nervous, Adjunct. About this whole damned situ­ation. Leoman didn't come here to defend the last rebel city. He didn't come to protect the last believers — by the Seven Holies, he has driven them from their very homes, from their very own city! No, his need for Y'Ghatan was tactical, and that's what worries me, because I can make no sense of it.'

  The Adjunct spoke: 'Did Temul have anything else to say, Keneb?'

  'He had thoughts of a night attack, with sappers, taking out a section of wall. Presumably, we would then follow through in strength, into that breach, thrusting deep into Y'Ghatan's heart. Cut through far enough and we can isolate Leoman in the Falah'd's palace...'

  'Too risky,' Tene Baralta said in a grumble. 'Darkness won't cover those sappers from their mages. They'd get slaughtered—'

  'Risks cannot be avoided,' Tavore said.

  Keneb's brows rose. 'Temul said much the same, Adjunct, when the danger was discussed.'

  'Tene Baralta,' Tavore continued after a moment, 'you and Blistig have been directed as to the disposition of your companies. Best you begin preparations. I have spoken directly with Captain Faradan Sort on what will be required of her and her squads. We shall not waste time on this. We move tonight. Fist Keneb, remain, please. The rest of you are dismissed.'

  Keneb watched Blistig and Baralta leave, reading in an array of small signs — posture, the set of their shoulders and the stiffness of their gaits — the depth of their demoralization.

  'Command does not come from consensus,' the Adjunct said, her tone suddenly hard as she faced Keneb. 'I deliver the orders, and my officers are to obey them. They should be relieved that is the case, for all responsibility lies with me and me alone. No-one else shall have to answer to the Empress.'

  Keneb nodded, 'As you say, Adjunct. However, your officers do feel responsible — for their soldiers—'

  'Many of whom will die, sooner or later, on some field of battle. Perhaps even here in Y'Ghatan. This is a siege, and sieges are messy. I do not have the luxury of starving them out. The longer Leoman resists, the greater the risk of flare-ups all over Seven Cities. High Fist Dujek and I are fully agreed on this.'

  'Then why, Adjunct, did we not accept his offer of more troops?'

  She was silent for a half-dozen heartbeats, then, 'I am aware of the sentiments among the squads of this army, none of whom, it seems, are aware of the true condition of Onearm's Host.'

  'The true condition?'

  She stepped closer. 'There's almost nothing left, Keneb. The core — the very heart — of Onearm's Host — it's gone.'

  'But — Adjunct, he has received replacements, has he not?'

  'What was lost cannot be replaced. Recruits: Genabarii, Nathii, half the Pale Garrison, oh, count the boots and they look to be intact, up to full complement, but Keneb, know this — Dujek is broken. And so is the Host.'

  Shaken, Keneb turned away. He unstrapped his helm and drew the battered iron from his head, then ran a hand through his matted, sweaty hair. 'Hood take us, the last great imperial army…'

  'Is now the Fourteenth, Fist.'

  He stared at her.

  She began pacing. 'Of course Dujek offered, for he is, well, he is Dujek. Besides, the ranking High Fist could do no less. But he — they — have suffered enough. Their task now is to make the imperial presence felt — and we should all pray to our gods that they do not find their mettle tested, by anyone.'

  'That is why you are in such a hurry.'

  'Leoman must be taken down. Y'Ghatan must fall. Tonight.'

  Keneb said nothing for a long moment, then he asked, 'Why, Adjunct, are you telling me this?'

  'Because Gamet is dead.'

  Gamet? Oh, I see.

  'And T'amber is not respected by any of you. Whereas,' she glanced at him, with an odd expression, 'you are.'

  'You wish for me to inform the other Fists, Adjunct?'

  'Regarding Dujek? Decide that for yourself, but I advise you, Fist, to think very carefully before reaching that decision.'

  'But they should be told! At least then they will understand…'

  'Me? Understand me? Perhaps. But that is not the most important issue here.'

  He did not comprehend. Not at once. Then, a growing realization. 'Their faith, beyond you, beyond the Fourteenth, lies with Dujek Onearm. So long as they believe he is there, poised behind us and ready to march to our aid, they will do as you command. You do not want to take that away from them, yet by your silence you sacrifice yourself, you sacrifice the respect they would accord you—'

  'Assuming such respect would be granted, Fist, and of that I am not convinced.' She returned to the map-table. 'The decision is yours, Fist.'

  He watched her studying the map, then, concluding he had been dismissed, Keneb left the tent. He felt sick inside. The Host — broken? Was that simply her assessment? Maybe Dujek was just tired... yet, who might know better? Quick Ben, but he wasn't here. Nor that assassin, Kalam Mekhar. Leaving... well, one man. He paused outside the tent, studied the sun's position. There might be time, before Sort spoke to them all, if he hurried.

  Keneb set out towards the camps of the marines.

  ****

  'What do you want me to say, Fist?' The sergeant had laid out a half-dozen heavy quarrels. He had already tied sharpers to two of them and was working on a third.

  Keneb stared at the clay-ball grenado in Strings's hands. 'I don't know, but make it honest.'

  Strings paused and looked over at his squad, eyes narrowing. 'Adjunct's hoping for reinforcements if things go bad?' He was speaking in a low voice.

  'That's just it, Sergeant. She isn't.'

  'So, Fist,' Strings said, 'she thinks Dujek's finished. And so's the Host. Is that what she thinks?'

  'Yes. You know Quick Ben, and the High Mage was there, after all. At Coral. He's not here for me to ask him, so I'm asking you. Is the Adjunct right?'

  He resumed affixing the grenado to the quarrel head.

  Keneb waited.

  'Seems,' the sergeant muttered, 'I misjudged the Adjunct.'

  'In what way?'

  'She's better at reading signs than I thought.'

  Hood's balls, I really did not want to hear that.

  ****

  'You are looking well, Ganoes Paran.'

  His answering smile was wry. 'My new life of ease, Apsalar.'

  Shouts from the sailors on the deck as the carrack swung towards the harbour of Kansu, the sound of gulls a muted accompaniment to the creak of cordage and timber. A cool breeze rode the salty air coming through the cabin's round window portside, smelling of the shore.

  Apsalar studied the man seated across from her a moment longer, then returned to her task of roughing with a pumice stone the grip of one of her in-fighting knives. Polished wood was pretty, but far too slick in a sweaty hand. Normally she used leather gloves, but it never hurt to con­sider less perfect circumstances. For an assassin, the ideal situation was choosing when and where to fight, but such luxuries were not guaranteed.

  Paran said, 'I see that you're as methodical as ever. Although at least now, there's more animation in your face. Your eyes…'

  'You've been at sea too long, Captain.'

  'Probably. Anyway, I'm not a captain any more. My days as a soldier are done.'

  'Regrets?'

  He shrugged. 'Some. I was never where I wanted to be with them. Until the very end, and then,' he paused, 'well, it was too late.'

  'That might have been for the better,' Apsalar said. 'Less... sullied.'

  'Odd, how the Bridgeburners mean different things for us. Memories, and perspectives. I was treated well enough among the survivors—'

  'Survivors. Yes, there's always survivors.'

  'Picker, Antsy, Blend, Mallet, a few others. Proprietors of K'rul's Bar, now,
in Darujhistan.'

  'K'rul's Bar?'

  'The old temple once sanctified to that Elder God, aye. It's haunted, of course.'

  'More than you realize, Paran.'

  'I doubt that. I've learned a lot, Apsalar, about a lot of things.'

  A heavy thud to starboard, as the harbour patrol arrived to collect the mooring fees. The slap of lines. More voices.

  'K'rul played a very active role against the Pannion Domin,' Paran went on. 'Since that time, I've grown less easy with his presence — the Elder Gods are back in the game—'

  'Yes, you've already said something to that effect. They are opposing the Crippled God, and one cannot find fault in that.'

  'Are they? Sometimes I'm convinced... other times,' he shook his head. Then rose. 'We're pulling in. I need to make arrangements.'

  'What kind of arrangements?'

  'Horses.'

  'Paran.'

  'Yes?'

  'Are you now ascended?'

  His eyes widened. 'I don't know. Nothing feels different. I admit I'm not even sure what ascendancy means.'

  'Means you're harder to kill.'

  'Why?'

  'You have stumbled onto power, of a personal nature, and with it, well, power draws power. Always. Not the mundane kind, but something other, a force in nature, a confluence of energies. You begin to see things differently, to think differently. And others take notice of you — that's usually bad, by the way.' She sighed, studying him, and said, 'Perhaps I don't need to warn you, but I will. Be careful, Paran; of all the lands in this world, there are two more dangerous than all others—'

  'Your knowledge, or Cotillion's?'

  'Cotillion's for one, mine for the other. Anyway, you're about to set foot on one of those two. Seven Cities, Paran, is not a healthy place to be, especially not for an ascendant.'

  'I know. I can feel that... what's out there, what I have to deal with.'

  'Get someone else to do your fighting for you, if possible.'

  His gaze narrowed on her. 'Now that's a clear lack of faith.'

  'I killed you once—'

  'And you were possessed by a god, by the Patron of Assassins himself, Apsalar.'

  'Who played by the rules. There are things here that do not.'

  'I'll give that some consideration, Apsalar. Thank you.'

  'And remember, bargain from strength or don't bargain at all.'

  He gave her a strange smile, then headed topside.

  A skittering sound from one corner, and Telorast and Curdle scampered into view, bony feet clattering on the wooden floor.

  'He is dangerous, Not-Apsalar! Stay away, oh, you've spent too long with him!'

  'Don't worry about me, Telorast.'

  'Worry? Oh, we have worries, all right, don't we, Curdle?'

  'Endless worries, Telorast. What am I saying? We're not worried.'

  Apsalar said, 'The Master of the Deck knows all about you two, no doubt compounding those worries.'

  'But he told you nothing!'

  'Are you so certain of that?'

  'Of course!' The bird-like skeleton bobbed and weaved in front of its companion. 'Think on it, Curdle! If she knew she'd step on us! Wouldn't she?'

  'Unless she has a more devious betrayal in mind, Telorast! Have you thought of that? No, you haven't, have you? I have to do all the thinking.'

  'You never think! You never have!'

  Apsalar rose. 'They've dropped the gangplank. Time to leave.'

  'Hide us under your cloak. You have to. There are dogs out there, in the streets!'

  She sheathed the knife. 'All right, but no squirming.'

  ****

  A squalid port, four of the six piers battered into treacher­ous hulks by Nok's fleet a month earlier, Kansu was in no way memorable, and Apsalar was relieved as they rode past the last sprawl of shanties on the inland road and saw before them a scattering of modest stone buildings, mark­ing the herders, the pens and the demon-eyed goats gathered beneath guldindha trees. And beyond that, tharok orchards with their silvery, thread-like bark prized for rope-making, the uneven rows looking ghostly with their boles shimmering in the wind.

  There had been something odd in the city behind them, the crowds smaller than was normal, the voices more muted. A number of merchant shops had been shut, and this during peak market time. The modest garrison of Malazan soldiers was present only at the gates and down at the docks, where at least four trader ships had been denied berths. And no-one seemed inclined to offer explanations to outsiders.

  Paran had spoken quietly with the horse trader and Apsalar had watched as more coin than was necessary changed hands, but the ex-captain had said nothing during their ride out.

  Reaching a crossroads, they drew rein.

  'Paran,' Apsalar said, 'did you note anything strange about Kansu?'

  He grimaced. 'I don't think we need worry,' he said. 'You've been possessed by a god, after all, and as for me, well, as I said, there's no real cause for worry.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Plague. Hardly surprising, given all the unburied corpses following this rebellion. It began a week or so ago, some­where east of Ehrlitan. Any ships that made port or hail from there are being turned away.'

  Apsalar said nothing for a time. Then she nodded. 'Poliel.'

  'Aye.'

  'And not enough healers left to intercede.'

  'The horse trader said officials went to the Temple of D'rek, in Kansu. The foremost healers are found there, of course. They found everyone within slaughtered.'

  She glanced over at him.

  'I take the south track,' Paran said, fighting with his edgy gelding.

  Yes, there is nothing more to be said, is there. The gods are indeed at war. 'The west for us,' Apsalar replied, already uncomfortable with the Seven Cities style of saddle. Neither she nor Cotillion had ever had much success with horses, but at least the mare beneath her seemed a docile beast. She opened her cloak and dragged out Telorast, then Curdle, tossing them both onto the ground, where they raced ahead, long tails flicking.

  'All too short,' Paran said, meeting her eyes.

  She nodded. 'But just as well, I think.'

  Her comment was not well received. 'I am sorry to hear you say that.'

  'I do not mean to offend, Ganoes Paran. It's just that, well, I was rediscovering... things.'

  'Like comradeship?'

  'Yes.'

  'And that is something you feel you cannot afford.'

  'Invites carelessness,' she said.

  'Ah, well. For what it is worth, Apsalar, I believe we will see each other again.'

  She allowed that sentiment, and nodded. 'I will look forward to that.'

  'Good, then there's hope for you yet.'

  She watched him ride away, his two packhorses trailing. Changes came to a man in ways few could imagine. He seemed to have let go of so much... she was envious of that. And already, she realized with a faint stab of regret, already she missed him. Too close, too dangerous by far. Just as well.

  As for plague, well, he was probably right. Neither he nor Apsalar had much to fear. Too bad for everyone else, though.

  ****

  The broken remnants of the road made for an agonized tra­verse up the limestone hillside, rocks tumbling and skittering down in clouds of dust. A flash flood had cut through the passage unknown years or decades past, reveal­ing countless layers of sediments on the channel's steep-cut walls. Leading her horse and the pack-mules by the reins, Samar Dev studied those multi-hued layers. 'Wind and water, Karsa Orlong, without end. Time's endless dialogue with itself.'

  Three paces ahead, the Toblakai warrior did not reply. He was nearing the summit, taking the down-flow path of the past flood, ragged, gnawed rock rising to either side of him. The last hamlet was days behind them now; these lands were truly wild. Reclaimed, since surely this road must have led somewhere, once, but there were no other signs of past civilization. In any case, she was less interested in what had gone before. W
hat was to come was her fascination, the wellspring of all her inventions, her inspi­rations.

  'Sorcery, Karsa Orlong, that is the heart of the problem.'

  'What problem now, woman?'

  'Magic obviates the need for invention, beyond certain basic requirements, of course. And so we remain eternally stifled—'

  'To the Faces with stifled, witch. There is nothing wrong with where we are, how we are. You spit on satisfaction, leaving you always unsettled and miserable. I am a Teblor — we live simply enough, and we see the cruelty of your so-called progress. Slaves, children in chains, a thousand lies to make one person better than the next, a thousand lies telling you this is how things should be, and there's no stopping it. Madness called sanity, slavery called freedom. I am done talking now.'

  'Well, I'm not. You're no different, calling ignorance wisdom, savagery noble. Without striving to make things better, we're doomed to repeat our litany of injustices—'

  Karsa reached the summit and turned to face her, his expression twisting. 'Better is never what you think it is, Samar Dev.'

  'What does that mean?'

  He raised a hand, suddenly still. 'Quiet. Something's not right.' He slowly looked round, eyes narrowing. 'There's a... smell.'

  She joined him, dragging the horse and mules onto level ground. High rocks to either side, the edge of a gorge just beyond — the hill they were on was a ridge, blade-edged, with more jagged rock beyond. A twisted ancient tree squatting on the summit. 'I don't smell anything...'

  The Toblakai drew his stone sword. 'A beast has laired here, nearby, I think. A hunter, a killer. And I think it is close...'

  Eyes widening, Samar Dev scanned the area, her heart pounding hard in her chest. 'You may be right. There are no spirits here...'

  He grunted. 'Fled.'

  Fled. Oh.

  ****

  Like a mass of iron filings, the sky was slowly lowering on all sides, a heavy mist that was dry as sand. Not that that made any sense, Kalam Mekhar allowed, but this was what came of sustained terror, the wild pathetic conjurations of a beleaguered imagination. He was clinging with every part of his body that was capable of clinging to the sheer, battered underside of a sky keep, the wind or whatever it was moaning in his ears, a trembling stealing the strength from his limbs as he felt the last of Quick Ben's magic seep away.