The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  All well and good, as far as it went. For much of the first day, as Bottle and the others recovered, soldiers would come by just to look at them. It had been unnerving, all that attention, and he still struggled to understand what he saw in those staring eyes. Yes, we're alive. Unlikely, granted, but true nonetheless. Now, what is it that you see?

  The memories of that time beneath the city were a haunting refrain behind every spoken word shared between Bottle and his fellow survivors. It fuelled their terrible dreams at night — he had grown used to awakening to some muffled cry from a squad member; from Smiles, or Cuttle, or Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas. Cries dimly echoed from where other squads slept on the stony ground.

  Their kits had been rifled through in their absence, items and gear redistributed as was the custom, and on that first day soldiers arrived to return what they had taken. By dusk, each survivor had more than they had ever begun with — and could only look on in bemusement at the heaped trinkets, buckles, clasps and charms; the mended tunics, the scrubbed clean quilted under-padding, the buffed leather straps and weapon-rigging. And daggers. Lots of daggers, the most personal and precious of all weapons — the fighter's last resort. The weapon that, if necessary, would be used to take one's own life in the face of something far worse. Now, what significance are we to take from that?

  Crouched nearby on the foredeck, Koryk and Tarr were playing a game of Bones that the former had found among the offerings in his kit. A sailor's version, the cribbed box deep to prevent the playing pieces bouncing out of the field, the underside made stable by iron-tipped eagle talons at each corner, sharp enough to bite into the wood of a galley bench or deck. Tarr had lost every game thus far — over twenty — both to Koryk and Smiles, yet he kept coming back. Bottle had never seen a man so willing to suffer punishment.

  In the captain's cabin lounged Gesler, Stormy, Fiddler and Balm, their conversation sporadic and desultory. Deep in shadows beneath the elongated map-table huddled Y'Ghatan, Bottle's rat — my eyes, my ears... my aching teats.

  No other rats on board, and without his control over Y'Ghatan and her brood, they would have flung themselves overboard long ago. Bottle sympathized. The sorcery engulfing this ship was foul, redolent with madness. It dis­liked anything alive that was not bound by its chaotic will. And it especially disliked... me.

  Only... Gesler and Stormy, they seem immune to it. The bastards — forcing us to join them on this eerie, unwelcome floating barrow.

  Bottle considered talking to Fiddler about it, then dis­missed the idea. Fiddler was like Kalam, who was like Apsalar, who was like Quick Ben. All... evil.

  All right, not evil, but something. I don't know. That stuff in Shadow — what were they up to? And Kalam, ready to stick his knives in Apsalar. And Apsalar, looking like she wanted just that. Then Quick Ben waking up, getting between the two as if this was all some old argument, old wounds ripped open.

  Tavore had claimed Quick Ben, Kalam and Apsalar for her own retinue on the Adjunct's flagship, Froth Wolf — a Quon-built dromon, its workmanship Mapau, its keel and metalwork from somewhere else entirely. Fenn — can't be more than a handful of keel-carvers and blacksmiths left among the squalid remnants... but they made that keel and they made those fittings, and there's nothing insensate or inert about them. In any case, Bottle was glad they were on that ship riding the swells three reaches to starboard. Not quite far enough away for his comfort, but it would have to do. He could picture those two skeletal reptiles scurrying around in the hold below, hunting rats...

  'So it was Grub who held onto that whistle?' Fiddler asked Gesler in the cabin.

  Beneath the table, Y'Ghatan's tattered ears perked up.

  'Aye. Keneb's lad. Now there's a strange one for ya. Said he knew we were coming. Now, maybe I believe that. Maybe I don't. But it was the first thing I got back.'

  'Good thing, too,' Stormy said, audibly scratching his beard. 'I'm feeling right at home—'

  'That's a joke,' Gesler cut in. 'Last time we was on this damned ship, Stormy, you spent most of the time cowering in a corner.'

  'Just took a while getting used to it, that's all.'

  Fiddler said, 'Look what some bright spark left in my loot.' Something thumped onto the table.

  'Gods below,' Sergeant Balm muttered. 'Is it complete?'

  'Hard to say. There are cards in there I've never seen before. One for the Apocalyptic — it's an Unaligned — and there's something called the House of War, showing as its ranked card a bone throne, unoccupied, flanked by two wolves. And in that House there's a card called the Mercenary, and another — done by a different hand — that I think is named something like Guardians of the Dead, and it shows ghostly soldiers standing in the middle of a burn­ing bridge...'

  A moment of silence, then Gesler: 'Recognize any faces, Fid?'

  'Didn't want to look too closely at that one. There's the House of Chains, and the King of that House — the King in Chains — is sitting on a throne. The scene is very dark, swallowed in shadows, except I'd swear that poor bastard is screaming. And the look in his eyes...'

  'What else?' Balm asked.

  'Stop sounding so eager, you Dal Honese rock-toad.'

  'All right, if you don't like your new present, Fiddler, give it to me.'

  'Right, and you'd probably lay a field right here, on this ship.'

  'So?'

  'So, you want to open a door to this Tiste and Tellann nightmare of warrens? To the Crippled God, too?'

  'Oh.'

  'Anyway, there's more Unaligned. Master of the Deck, and aye, him I recognize. And Chain — a knot in the centre, with links stretching out in all directions. Don't like the look of that one.'

  'Some gift, Fid.'

  'Aye, like a rock thrown to a drowning sailor.'

  'Put it away,' Gesler said.

  The rat listened as the Deck was dragged back from the centre of the table.

  'We got us a problem,' Gesler continued.

  'Only,' Stormy added, 'we don't know what it is. We only know that something's rattled Keneb, and that assassin friend of yours, Fid. And Quick Ben. Rattled them all.'

  'The Adjunct,' Fiddler said. 'Kalam and Quick weren't talking, but they're not happy.' A pause, then, 'Could be it's the way Pearl just vanished, right after Y'Ghatan, likely straight back to the Empress. Just a Claw operative deliver­ing his report? Maybe. But even that leaves a sour taste in the mouth — he was too quick to act, too quick to reach conclusions — as if what he thought happened at Y'Ghatan was only confirming suspicions he already held. Think on it — do you really suppose a report like that has anything good to say?'

  'She killed Sha'ik,' Balm said, exasperated. 'She broke open that wasp nest in Raraku and damned nothing came buzzing out. She nabbed Korbolo Dom and sent him back in shackles. And she did all that with us not losing nobody, or almost nobody — the scraps on the way were expected, and not nearly so bad as they could've been. Then she chases Leoman to Y'Ghatan. Unless you got someone on the inside to crack open the gate, sieges are costly, especially when the attackers got no time to wait it out. And we didn't, did we? There was a damned plague on the way!'

  'Calm down,' Fiddler said, 'we lived through all that, too, remember?'

  'Aye, and did any one of us really think Leoman would broil his own people? That he'd turn a whole city into a heap of ashes and rivers of lead? All I'm saying, Fid, is we ain't done too bad, have we? When you think on it.'

  'Balm's right,' Stormy said, scratching again. 'Fiddler, in that Deck you got, that House of War — did you smell Treach there? Those wolves, they got me wondering.'

  'I have real doubt about that version,' Fiddler replied. 'That whole House, in fact. I'm thinking the maker was confused, or maybe what she saw was confused—'

  'She?'

  'I think so, except the rogue one, the Guardians of the Dead. That's a man's hand for sure.'

  There was a sudden tension in Stormy's voice. 'Pull 'em out again, Fid. Let's see that House of War — all t
he cards in that House.'

  Shuffling noises. 'I'll show each one, then. Not on the table, but still in my hand, all right? One at a time. Okay. As for titles, I'm just reading what's in the borders.' A moment, then, 'The Lords of War. Two wolves, one male, one female. Suggests to me the name for this one is wrong. But it's the plural that counts, meaning the unoccupied throne isn't that important. All right, everybody had a look? Good, next one. The Hunter, and aye, that's Treach—'

  'What's with the striped corpse in the foreground? That old man with no hands?'

  'No idea, Gesler.'

  'Next one,' said Stormy.

  'Guardians of the Dead—'

  'Let me get a closer... good. Wait...'

  'Stormy,' said Balm, 'what do you think you're seeing?'

  'What's next?' the Falari corporal demanded. 'Quick!'

  'The Army and the Soldier — I don't know — two names for this, which may be determined by context or something.'

  'Any more?'

  'Two, and I don't like these ones at all. Here, Life Slayer...'

  'Jaghut?'

  'Half-Jaghut,' Fiddler said in a dull voice. 'I know who this is — the horn bow, the single-edged sword. Life Slayer is Icarium. And his protector, Mappo Runt, is nowhere in sight.'

  'Never mind all that,' Stormy said. 'What's the last card?'

  'Icarium's counterpoint, of sorts. Death Slayer.'

  'Who in the Abyss is that supposed to be? That's impossible.'

  A sour grunt from Fiddler, then he said, 'Who? Well, let's see. Squalid hut of skins and sticks, brazier coughing out smoke, a hooded thing inside the hut, broken limbed, shackles sunk into the earth. Now, who might that be?'

  'That's impossible,' Gesler said, echoing Stormy's assertion. 'He can't be two things at once!'

  'Why not?' Fiddler said, then sighed. 'That's it. Now, Stormy, what's lit that fire in your eyes?'

  'I know who made these cards.'

  'Really?' Fiddler sounded unconvinced. 'And how did you come by that?'

  'The Guardians card, something about the stonework on the bridge. Then those last two, the skulls — I got a damned good look at Faradan Sort's medal. So's I could sew the like, you see.'

  There was a long, long silence.

  And Bottle stared, unseeing, as implications settled in his mind — settled momentarily, then burst up and out, like dust-devils, one after another. The Adjunct wants that Deck of Dragons in Fiddler's hands. And either she or T'amber — or maybe Nether and Nil, or someone — is boiling over with arcane knowledge, and isn't afraid to use it. Now, Fid, he never lays a field with those cards. No. He makes up games.

  The Adjunct knows something. Just like she knew about the ghosts at Raraku... and the flood. But she carries an otataral sword. And the two Wickans are nothing like they once were, or so goes the consensus. It must be T'amber.

  What awaits us?

  Is this what's got Quick Ben and the others so rattled?

  What if—

  'Something just nudged my foot — what? Is that a rat? Right under our table?'

  'Ain't no rats on the Silanda, Stormy—'

  'I'm telling you, Ges — there!'

  Fiddler swore, then said, 'That's Bottle's rat! Get it!'

  'After it!'

  Skidding chairs, the crash of crockery, grunts and stamp­ing boots.

  'It's getting away!'

  There were so many places, Bottle knew, on a ship, where only a rat could go. Y'Ghatan made her escape, despite all the cursing and thumping.

  Moments later, Bottle saw Fiddler appear on deck amid­ships — the soldier looked away a moment before the sergeant's searching gaze found him, and Bottle listened — staring out to sea — as the man, pushing past lounging soldiers, approached.

  Thump thump thump up the steps to the foredeck.

  'Bottle!'

  Blinking, he looked over. 'Sergeant?'

  'Oh no I ain't fooled — you was spying! Listening in!'

  Bottle gestured over at Koryk and Tarr, who had looked up from their game and were now staring. 'Ask them. I've been sitting here, not doing a thing, for more than a bell. Ask them.'

  'Your rat!'

  'Her? I lost track of her last night, Sergeant. Haven't bothered trying to hunt her down since — what would be the point? She's not going anywhere, not with her pups to take care of.'

  Gesler, Stormy and Balm were now crowding up behind Fiddler, who looked ready to rip off his own stubbly beard in frustration. 'If you're lying...' Fiddler hissed.

  'Of course he's lying,' Balm said. 'If I was him, I'd be lying right now, too.'

  'Well, Sergeant Balm,' Bottle said, 'you're not me, and that is the crucial difference. Because I happen to be telling the truth.'

  With a snarl, Fiddler turned round and pushed his way back down to the mid deck. A moment later the others followed, Balm casting one last glare at Bottle — as if only now comprehending that he'd just been insulted.

  A low snort from Koryk after they'd left. 'Bottle, I happened to glance up a while back — before Fiddler came out — and, Hood take me, there must have been fifty expressions crossing your face, one after the other.'

  'Really?' Bottle asked mildly. 'Probably clouds passing the sun, Koryk.'

  Tarr said, 'Your rat still has those pups? You must've carried them on the march, then. If I'd been the one carry­ing them, I would've eaten them one by one. Pop into the mouth, crunch, chew. Sweet and delicious.'

  'Well, it was me, not you, wasn't it? Why does everyone want to be me, anyway?'

  'We don't,' Tarr said, returning to study the game. 'We're just all trying to tell you we think you're a raving idiot, Bottle.'

  Bottle grunted. 'All right. Then, I suppose, you two aren't interested in what they were talking about in that cabin just a little while ago.'

  'Get over here,' Koryk said in a growl. 'Watch us play, and start talking, Bottle, else we go and tell the sergeant.'

  'No thanks,' Bottle said, stretching his arms. 'I think I'm in need of a nap. Maybe later. Besides, that game bores me.'

  'You think we won't tell Fiddler?'

  'Of course you won't.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because then this would be the last time — the last time ever — you got any inside information from me.'

  'You lying, snivelling, snake of a bastard—'

  'Now now,' Bottle said, 'be nice.'

  'You're getting worse than Smiles,' Koryk said.

  'Smiles?' Bottle paused at the steps. 'Where is she, by the way?'

  'Mooning away with Corabb, I expect,' Tarr said.

  Really? 'She shouldn't do that.'

  'Why?'

  'Corabb's luck doesn't necessarily extend to people around him, that's why.'

  'What does that mean?'

  It means I talk too much. 'Never mind.'

  Koryk called out, 'They'll get that rat, you know, Bottle! Sooner or later.'

  Nobody's thinking straight around here. Gods, Koryk, you still think those pups are little helpless pinkies. Alas, they are all now quite capable of getting around all by themselves. So, I haven't got just one extra set of eyes and ears, friends. No. There's Baby Koryk, Baby Smiles, Baby Tarr, Baby... oh, you know the rest...

  He was halfway to the hatch when the alarms sounded, drifting like demonic cries across the swollen waves, and on the wind there arrived a scent... no, a stench.

  ****

  Hood take me, I hate not knowing. Kalam swung himself up into the rigging, ignoring the pitching and swaying as the Froth Wolf heeled hard about on a new course, northeast, towards the gap that had — through incompetence or care­lessness — opened between two dromons of the escort. As the assassin quickly worked his way upward, he caught momentary glimpses of the foreign ships that had appeared just outside that gap. Sails that might have been black, once, but were now grey, bleached by sun and salt.

  Amidst the sudden confusion of signals and alarms, one truth was becoming appallingly evident: they had sailed into an a
mbush. Ships to the north, forming an arc with killing lanes between each one. Another crescent, this one bulging towards the Malazans, was fast approaching before the wind from the northeast. Whilst another line of ships formed a bristling barrier to the south, from the shallows along the coast to the west, then out in a saw-toothed formation eastward until the arc curled north.

  Our escorts are woefully outnumbered. Transports loaded down with soldiers, like bleating sheep trapped in a slaughter pen.

  Kalam stopped climbing. He had seen enough. Whoever they are, they've got us in their jaws. He began making his way down once more, an effort almost as perilous as had been the ascent. Below, figures were scrambling about on the decks, sailors and marines, officers shouting back and forth.

  The Adjunct's flagship, flanked still to starboard by the Silanda, was tacking a course towards that gap. It was clear that Tavore meant to engage that closing crescent. In truth, they had little choice. With the wind behind those attackers, they could drive like a spear-point into the midst of the cumbersome transports. Admiral Nok was commanding the lead escorts to the north, and they would have to seek to push through the enemy blocking the way, with as many of the transports following as were able — but all the enemy ships have to do is drive them into the coast, onto whatever uncharted reefs lurk in the shallows.

  Kalam dropped the last distance to the deck, landed in a crouch. He heard more shouts from somewhere far above as he made his way forward. Positioned near the pitching prow, the Adjunct and Quick Ben stood side by side, the wind whipping at Tavore's cloak. The High Mage glanced over as Kalam reached them.

  'They've shortened their sails, drawn up or whatever it is sailors call slowing down.'

  'Now why would they do that?' Kalam asked. 'That makes no sense. Those bastards should be driving hard straight at us.'

  Quick Ben nodded, but said nothing.

  The assassin glanced over at the Adjunct, but of her state of mind as she stared at the opposing line of ships he could sense nothing. 'Adjunct,' he said, 'perhaps you should strap on your sword.'

  'Not yet,' she said. 'Something is happening.'

  He followed her gaze.

  'Gods below, what is that?'