The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  More often than not, Banaschar — who had once been a priest, who had once immersed himself within a drone of voices singing the cadence of prayer and chant — sought out such denizens for the dubious pleasure of their company.

  Through the haze of durhang and rustleaf smoke, the acrid black-tail swirls from the lamp wicks, and something that might have been mist gathered just beneath the ceiling, he saw, hunched in a booth along the back wall, a familiar figure. Familiar in the sense that Banaschar had more than a few times shared a table with the man, although Banaschar was ignorant of virtually everything about him, including his given name, knowing him only as Foreigner.

  A foreigner in truth, who spoke Malazan with an accent Banaschar did not recognize — in itself curious since the ex-priest's travels had been extensive, from Korel to Theft to Mare in the south; from Nathilog to Callows on Genabackis in the east; and, northward, from Falar to Aren to Yath Alban. And in those travels he had met other travellers, hailing from places Banaschar could not even find on any temple map. Nemil, Perish, Shal-Morzinn, Elingarth, Torment, Jacuruku and Stratem. Yet this man whom he now approached, weaving and pushing through the afternoon crowd of sailors and the local murder of veterans, this man had an accent unlike any Banaschar had ever heard.

  Yet the truth of things was never as interesting as the mystery preceding the revelation, and Banaschar had come to appreciate his own ignorance. In other matters, after all, he knew far too much — and what had that availed him?

  Sliding onto the greasy bench opposite the huge foreigner, the ex-priest released the clasp on his tattered cloak and shrugged free from its folds — once, long ago it seemed now, such lack of consideration for the unsightly creases that would result would have horrified him — but he had done his share since of sleeping in that cloak, senseless on a vomit-spattered floor and, twice, on the cobbles of an alley — correct comportment, alas, had ceased being a moral necessity.

  He leaned back now, the rough cloth bunching behind him, as one of Coop's serving wenches arrived with a tankard of Coop's own Leech Swill, a weak, gassy ale that had acquired its name in an appropriately literal fashion. Warranting the now customary affectation of a one-eyed squint into the brass-hued brew before the first mouthful.

  The foreigner had glanced up once, upon Banaschar's arrival, punctuating the gesture with a sardonic half-grin before returning his attention to the fired-clay mug of wine in his hands.

  'Oh, Jakatakan grapes are all very well,' the ex-priest said, 'it's the local water that turns that wine you like so much into snake's piss.'

  'Aye, bad hangovers,' Foreigner said.

  'And that is desirable?'

  'Aye, it is. Wakes me up again and again through the night, almost every bell, with a pounding skull and a bladder ready to explode — but if I didn't wake up that bladder would explode. See?'

  Banaschar nodded, glanced round. 'More heads than usual for an afternoon.'

  'You only think that because you ain't been here roun' this time lately. Three transports and an escort come in three nights past, from Korel.'

  The ex-priest studied the other customers a little more carefully this time. 'They talking much?'

  'Sounds it to me.'

  'About the campaign down there?'

  Foreigner shrugged. 'Go ask 'em if you like.'

  'No. Too much effort. The bad thing about asking ques­tions—'

  'Is gettin' answers, aye — you've said that before.'

  'That is another bad thing — the way we all end up saying the same things over and over again.'

  'That's you, not me. And, you're gettin' worse.'

  Banaschar swallowed two mouthfuls, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'Worse. Yes indeed.'

  'Never good,' Foreigner observed, 'seeing a man in a hurry.'

  'It's a race,' Banaschar said. 'Do I reach the edge and plunge over or does my salvation arrive in time? Lay down a few coins on the outcome — I'd suggest the former but that's just between you and me.'

  The huge man — who rarely met anyone's eyes while talk­ing, and whose massive hands and wrists were scarred and puckered with weals — shook his head and said, 'If that salvation's a woman, only a fool would wager agin me.'

  Banaschar grimaced and lifted his tankard. 'A fine idea. Let's toast all the lost loves in the world, friend. What happened to yours or is that too personal a question for this dubious relationship of ours?'

  'You jumped on the wrong stone,' the man said. 'My love ain't lost, an' maybe some days I'd think of swapping places wi' you, but not today. Not yesterday neither, nor the day afore that. Come to think of it—'

  'No need to continue. My salvation is not a woman, or if she was, it wouldn't be because she's a woman, if you under­stand me.'

  'So, we just had one of them hypothetical conversations?'

  'Learned Malazan from an educated sailor, did you? In any case, hypothetical is the wrong word for what you mean, I think. More like, metaphorical.'

  'You sure of that?'

  'Of course not, but that's not the point, is it? The woman's a broken heart, or maybe just a mud slide you ride until it buries you, until it buries all of us.' Banaschar finished his ale, waved the tankard in the air for a moment, then settled back with a belch. 'Heard about a Napan sailor, drank a keg's worth of Leech Swill, then, standing too close to a lit wick, went and blew off most of his backside. How does that illuminate matters, I wonder?'

  'Momentarily, I'd imagine.'

  Satisfied with that answer, Banaschar said nothing. A server arrived with a pitcher with which she refilled the ex-priest's tankard. He watched her leave, swaying through the press, a woman with things that needed doing.

  It was easy to think of an island as isolated — certainly most islanders shared a narrow perspective, a blend of smug arrogance and self-obsession — but the isolation was superficial, a mere conceit. Drain the seas and the rocky ground linking everything was revealed; the followers of D'rek, the Worm of Autumn, understood this well enough. Rumours, attitudes, styles, beliefs rattling chains of conviction, all rolled over the waves as easily as the wind, and those that fitted comfortably soon became to the islanders their own – and indeed, as far as they were concerned, had originated with them in the first place.

  There had been a purge, and the air still smelled of ash from the Mouse Quarter, where mobs had descended on the few dislocated Wickan families resident there — stablers, stitchers and riveters of leather tack, weavers of saddle blankets, an old woman who healed dray horses and mules – and had, with appalling zeal, dragged them from their hovels and shacks, children and elders and all in between; then, after looting them of their scant possessions, the mob had set fire to those homes. Herded into the street and surrounded, the Wickans had then been stoned to death.

  Coltaine wasn't dead, people said. That entire tale was a lie, as was the more recent rumour that Sha'ik had been killed by the Adjunct. An imposter, it was said, a sacrificial victim to deflect the avenging army. And as for the rebellion itself, well, it had not been crushed. It had simply disappeared, the traitors ducking low once more, weapons sheathed and hidden beneath telaba. True enough, the Adjunct had even now chased down Leoman of the Flails, tapping him in Y'Ghatan, but even that was but a feint. The Red Blades were once more free in Aren, the bones of the betrayed High Fist Pormqual broken and scattered along Aren Way, the grasses already growing thick on the barrows holding Pormqual's betrayed army.

  Had not concerned residents of Aren journeyed out to the hill known as The Fall? And there dug holes into the barrow in search of the cursed Coltaine's bones? And Bult's, Mincer's, Lull's? Had they not found nothing? All lies. The traitors had one and all disappeared, including Duiker, the imperial historian whose betrayal of his Empress — and of the empire itself — was perhaps the foulest moment of them all.

  And finally, the latest news. Of a disastrous siege. Of terrible plague in Seven Cities. Disparate, disconnected, yet like pokers thrust into the fire, sending
sparks bursting into the dark. And, in whispers harsh with the conviction of truth, Sha'ik Reborn had reappeared, and now called to her more followers.

  The last pebbles on the cart.

  Down in the Mouse, the mob had acted on its own. The mob needed no leaders, no imperial directives — the mob understood justice, and on this island — this birthplace of the empire — justice was held in red hands. The battered, pulped corpses were dumped in the river, which was too turgid, too thick with sewage and refuse, the culverts beneath the bridges too narrow to carry those bodies through and out into the bay.

  And this too was seen as an omen. The ancient sea god had rejected those corpses. Mael, empowered by the enlivening of faith here on the island, would not accept them into the salty bay of Malaz Harbour — what greater proof was needed?

  The Emperor's ghost had been seen, in the overgrown yard of the Deadhouse, a ghost feeding on the souls of the slaughtered Wickans.

  In the D'rek temples in Jakata and here in Malaz City, the priests and priestesses had vanished, sent out at night, it was whispered, to hunt down the rest of the Wickans left on the island — the ones who'd fled upon hearing of the purge in Malaz City — for the Worm of Autumn herself hungered for Wickan blood.

  An army of citizens was said to be massing on the old borders, at the edge of the Wickan Plains on the mainland, and was about to march, with the aim of destroying every last damned betrayer in their squalid, stinking huts. And had the Empress sent out her legions to disperse that army? No, of course not, for she approved.

  The Imperial High Mage Tayschrenn was in Malaz City, ensconced in Mock's Hold. What had brought him here? And why so public a visit — the strange sorceror was legendary for moving unseen, for acting behind the scenes to ensure the health of the empire. He was the very foundation of Laseen's power, after all, her left hand where the right belonged to the Claw. If he was here, it was to oversee—

  He is here. Banaschar could feel the bastard, an aura brooding and ominous drifting down from Mock's Hold. Day upon day, night after night. And why? Oh, all you fools.

  For the same reason I am here.

  Six messengers thus far. Six, all paid enough to be reliable, all swearing afterwards that they had passed the urgent missive on — to the Hold's gate watchman, that bent creature said to be as old as Mock's Hold itself, who had in turn nodded each time, saying he would deliver the missive to the High Mage.

  And yet, no reply. No summons.

  Someone is intercepting my messages. There can be no other possibility. True, I was coy in what I said — how could I not be? But Tayschrenn would recognize my sigil, and he would under­stand... with heart suddenly pounding, cold sweat on the skin, with trembling hands... he would have understood. Instantly.

  Banaschar did not know what to do. The last messenger had been three weeks ago.

  'It's that desperate glint in your eye,' the man opposite him said, half-grinning once again, though his gaze slid away as soon as Banaschar focused on him.

  'Enamoured, are you?'

  'No, but close to curious. Been watching you these weeks. Giving up, but slowly. Most people do that in an instant. Rising from bed, walking to the window, then standing there, motionless, seeing nothing, as inside it all falls down with nary a whisper, nary a cloud of dust to mark its collapse, its vanishing into nothingness.'

  'You do better talking and thinking like a damned sailor,' Banaschar said.

  'The more I drink, the clearer and steadier I get.'

  'That's a bad sign, friend.'

  'I collect those. You ain't the only one cursed with waiting.'

  'Months!'

  'Years for me,' the man said, dipping into his cup with one blunt finger, fishing out a moth that had landed in the wine.

  'Sounds like you're the one who should have given up long ago.'

  'Maybe, but I've come to a kind of faith. Not long now, I'd swear it. Not long.'

  Banaschar snorted. 'The drowning man converses with the fool, a night to beggar acrobats, jugglers and dancers, come one come all, two silvers buys you endless — and I do mean endless — entertainment.'

  'I ain't too unfamiliar with drowning, friend.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Something tells me, when it comes to fools, you might say the same thing.'

  Banaschar looked away. Saw another familiar face, another huge man — shorter than the foreigner opposite but equally as wide, his hairless pate marked with liver spots, scars seaming every part of his body. He was just collecting a tankard of Coop's Old Malazan Dark. The ex-priest raised his voice. 'Hey, Temper! There's room to sit here!' He sidled along the bench, watched as the old yet still formidable man — a veteran without doubt — made his way over.

  At least now the conversation could slip back into the meaningless.

  Still. Another bastard waiting... for something. Only, with him, I suspect it'd be a bad thing if it ever arrived.

  ****

  Somewhere in the vaults of a city far, far away, rotted a wall hanging. Rolled up, home to nesting mice, the genius of the hands that had woven it slowly losing its unwitnessed war to the scurry-beetle grub, tawryn worms and ash moths. Yet, for all that, the darkness of its abandonment hid colours still vibrant here and there, and the scene depicted on that huge tapestry retained enough elements of the narrative that meaning was not lost. It might survive another fifty years before finally surrendering to the ravages of neglect.

  The world, Ahlrada Ahn knew, was indifferent to the necessity of preservation. Of histories, of stories layered with meaning and import. It cared nothing for what was forgotten, for memory and knowledge had never been able to halt the endless repetition of wilful stupidity that so bound peoples and civilizations.

  The tapestry had once commanded an entire wall, to the right when facing the Obsidian Throne — from which, before the annexation, the High King of Bluerose, Supreme Servant to the Black Winged Lord, had ruled, and flanking the dais, the Council of the Onyx Wizards, all attired in their magnificent cloaks of supple, liquid stone — but no, it was the tapestry that so haunted Ahlrada Ahn.

  The narrative began at the end furthest from the throne. Three figures against a midnight background. Three brothers, born in pure Darkness and most cherished by their mother. All cast out, now, although each had come to that in his own time. Andarist, whom she saw as the first betrayer, an accusation all knew was mistaken, yet the knot of falsehoods had closed tight round him and none could pry it loose except Andarist himself — and that he could or would not do. Filled with unbearable grief, he had accepted his banishment, making his final words these: welcome or not, he would continue his guardianship of Mother Dark, in isolation, and in this would be found the measure of his life. Yet even to that promise, she had turned away. His brothers could not but recognize the crime of this, and it was Anomandaris Purake who was first to confront Mother Dark. What words passed between them only they knew, although the dire consequence was witnessed by all – Anomander turned his back on her. He walked away, denying the Darkness in his blood and seeking out, in its stead, the Chaos that ever warred in his veins. Silchas Ruin, the most enigmatic of the brothers, had seemed a man riven by indecision, trapped by impossible efforts at mitigation, at reconciliation, until all constraint was sundered, and so he committed the greatest crime of all. Alliance with Shadow. Even as war broke out among the Tiste — a war that continues unchecked to this day.

  There had been victories, defeats, great slaughters, then, in that final gesture of despair, Silchas Ruin and his followers joined with the legions of Shadow and their cruel commander Scabandari — who would come to be known as Bloodeye — in their flight through the gates. To this world. But betrayal ever haunts those three brothers. And so, in the moment of supreme victory against the K'Chain Che'Malle, Silchas Ruin had fallen to Scabandari's knife, and his followers had in turn fallen to Tiste Edur swords. :

  Such was the second scene in the tapestry. The betrayal, the slaughter. But that slaughter had n
ot been as thorough as the Edur believed. Tiste Andii had survived — the wounded, the stragglers, the elders and mothers and children left well behind the field of battle. They had witnessed. They had fled.

  The third scene portrayed their fraught flight, the desperate defence against their pursuers by four barely grown sorcerors — who would become the founders of the Onyx Order — the victory that gave them respite, enough to make good their escape and, through new unfoldings of magic, elude the hunters and so fashion a sanctuary—

  In caves buried beneath mountains on the shore of the inland sea, caves in which grew flowers of sapphire, intricate as roses, from which kingdom, mountains and sea derived their common name. Bluerose, and so, the last and most poignant scene, closest to the throne, closest to my heart. His people, the few thousand that remained, once more hid in those deep caves, as the tyranny of the Edur raged like madness over all of Lether. A madness that has devoured me.

  The Hiroth bireme drummed like thunder in the heaving swells of this fierce north sea the locals called Kokakal, and Ahlrada gripped the rail with both hands as bitter cold spray repeatedly struck his face, as if he was the subject of an enraged god's wrath. And perhaps he was, and if so, then it was well-earned as far as he was concerned.

  He had been born the child of spies, and through gener­ation after generation, his bloodline had dwelt in the midst of the Tiste Edur, thriving without suspicion in the chaos of the seemingly endless internecine disputes between the tribes. Hannan Mosag had ended that, of course, but by then the Watchers, such as Ahlrada Ahn and others, were well in place, their blood histories thoroughly mixed and inseparable from the Edur.

  Bleaches for the skin, the secret gestures of communi­cation shared among the hidden Andii, the subtle manipulations to ensure a presence among eminent gather­ings — this was Ahlrada Ahn's life — and had the tribes remained in their northern fastness, it would have been... palatable, until such time as he set out on a hunting expedition, from which he would never return — his loss mourned by his adopted tribe, while in truth Ahlrada would have crossed the south edge of the ice wastes, would have walked the countless leagues until he reached Bluerose. Until he came home.