The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  'Well.'

  'That's what I thought.' The High Mage sighed, then he reached out and grasped the assassin's arm as a figure emerged from the gloom before them.

  The Adjunct. 'High Mage,' she said in a low voice, 'I want you to cross over to the Silanda, by warren.'

  'Now?'

  'Yes. Is that a problem?'

  Kalam sensed his friend's unease, and the assassin cleared his throat. 'Adjunct. The Imperial High Mage Tayschrenn is, uh, dead ahead.'

  'He does not quest,' she replied. 'Does he, Quick Ben?'

  'No. How did you know that?'

  She ignored the question. 'By warren, immediately, High Mage. You are to collect Fiddler, and the soldier named Bottle. Inform the sergeant that the time has come.'

  'Adjunct?'

  'For a game. He will understand. Then, the three of you are to return here, where you will join myself, Kalam, Fist Keneb, T'amber and Apsalar, in my cabin. You have a quarter of a bell, High Mage. Kalam, come with me now, please.'

  One of Fiddler's games.

  Gods below, a game!

  ****

  A moccasined foot thumped into Bottle's side. Grunting, he sat up, still mostly asleep. 'That you, Smiles? Not now...' but no, it wasn't Smiles. His heart thumped awake in a savage drumbeat. 'Oh, High Mage, uh. Um. What is it?'

  'On your feet,' Quick Ben hissed. 'And quietly, damn you.'

  'Too late,' muttered Koryk from his bedroll nearby.

  'It had better not be, soldier,' the wizard said. 'Another sound from you and I'll push your head up the next soldier's backside.'

  A head lifted from blankets. 'That'd beat the view I got now... sir.' Then he settled back down.

  Bottle climbed to his feet, chilled yet sweating.

  And found himself looking at Fiddler's miserable face, hovering there behind the High Mage. 'Sergeant?'

  'Just follow us aft, Bottle.'

  The three of them picked their way clear of the sleeping forms on the mid deck.

  There was a strange scent in the air, Bottle realized. Familiar, yet... 'Sergeant, you're carrying that new Deck of yours...'

  'You and your damned rat,' muttered Fiddler. 'I knew it, you lying bastard.'

  'Wasn't me,' Bottle began, then fell quiet. Gods below, even for me that was lame. Try something better. 'Just looking out for you, Sergeant. Your shaved knuckle in the hole, that's me.'

  'Hah, where have I heard that before, eh Quick?'

  'Quiet, you two. We're going across now. Grab belts...'

  Bottle blinked, and found himself on another deck, and directly ahead, steps leading down. Abyss take me, that was fast. Fast and... appalling. Quick Ben waved them into his wake as he descended, ducking the frame, then halting three strides down the corridor, knocking upon a door to his left. It opened at once.

  T'amber, the eyes that gave her her name scanning the three men cramped in the narrow corridor. Then she stepped back.

  The Adjunct stood behind her chair at the map-table. The rest were seated, and Bottle stared wildly from one to the next. Fist Keneb. Apsalar. Kalam Mekhar.

  A low moan from Fiddler.

  'Sergeant,' the Adjunct said, 'you have your players.'

  Players?

  Oh.

  Oh no.

  ****

  'I really don't think this is a good idea,' the sergeant said.

  'Perhaps,' the Adjunct replied.

  'I agree,' T'amber said. 'Or, rather, my participation... as a player. As I said earlier, Tavore—'

  'Nonetheless,' the Adjunct cut in, drawing out the empty chair opposite the one reserved for Fiddler and sitting herself down on Keneb's left. She pulled her gloves free. 'Explain the rules, please.'

  Keneb watched as Fiddler cast helpless, desperate looks to both Kalam and Quick Ben, but neither would meet his eyes, and both were clearly miserable. Then the sergeant slowly walked over to the last chair. He settled into it. 'That's just it, Adjunct, there ain't no rules, except those I make up as I go.'

  'Very well. Begin.'

  Fiddler scratched at his greying beard, his eyes fixing on T'amber who sat to the Adjunct's left, directly opposite Keneb. 'This is your Deck,' he said, lifting it into view and setting it down on the tabletop. 'It has new cards in it.'

  'Your point?' the young woman demanded.

  'Just this. Who in Hood's name are you?'

  A shrug. 'Does it matter?'

  A grunt from Kalam Mekhar on Keneb's right. Beyond the assassin, on the same side and immediately to Fiddler's left was Apsalar. Bottle was on the sergeant's right, with the High Mage beside him. The only one who really doesn't belong is me. Where's Blistig? Nok? Temul, Nil and Nether?

  'Last chance,' Fiddler said to the Adjunct. 'We stop this now—'

  'Begin, Sergeant.'

  'Bottle, find us some wine.'

  'Sergeant?'

  'First rule. Wine. Everybody gets a cup. Except the dealer, he gets rum. Go to it, Bottle.'

  As the young soldier rose Fiddler collected the cards. 'Player on dealer's right has to serve drinks during the first hand.' He flung out a card, face-down, and it slid crookedly I to halt in front of Quick Ben. 'High Mage has last carcfl Last card's dealt out first, but not shown until the end.'

  Bottle came back with cups. He set the first one down in front of the Adjunct, then T'amber, Keneb, Quick, Kalam, Apsalar, Fiddler and finally one into the place before his empty chair. As he returned with two jugs, one of wine and the other Falari rum, Fiddler held up a hand and halted him.

  In quick succession the sergeant flung out cards, matching the order Bottle had used in setting down the cups.

  Suddenly, eight face-up cards marked the field, and Fiddler, gesturing Bottle over with the rum, began talking. 'Dealer gets Soldier of High House Life but it's bittersweet, meaning it's for him and him alone, given this late hour. Empty chair gets Weaver of Life and she needs a bath but nobody's surprised by that. So we got two Life's to start.' Fiddler watched as Bottle poured rum into his cup. 'And that's why Kalam's looking at an Unaligned. Obelisk, the Sleeping Goddess — you're getting a reversed field, Kal, sorry but there's nothing to be done for it.' He downed his rum and held out his cup again, interrupting Bottle's efforts to fill the others with wine. 'Apsalar's got Assassin of High House Shadow, oh, isn't that a surprise. It's the only card she gets—'

  'You mean I win?' she asked, one brow lifting sardonically.

  'And lose, too. Nice move, interrupting me like that, you're catching on. Now, nobody else say a damned thing unless you want to up the ante.' He drank down his second cupful. 'Poor Quick Ben, he's got Lifeslayer to deal with, and that puts him in a hole, but not the hole he thinks he's in — a different hole. Now T'amber, she's opened the game with that card. Throne, and it's shifting every which way. The pivot card, then—'

  'What's a pivot card?' Bottle asked, finally sitting down.

  'Bastard — knew I couldn't trust you. It's the hinge, of course. Finish that wine — you got to drink rum now. You're a sharp one, ain't you? Now Fist Keneb, well, that's a curious one. Lord of Wolves, the throne card of High House War, and aren't they looking baleful — Fist, where's Grub hiding these days?'

  'On Nok's ship,' Keneb replied, bewildered and strangely frightened.

  'Well, that knocks you outa the game, though you still get four more cards, since we've made a course correction and the northeast headland's rising up two pegs to star­board. In seventy heartbeats we'll be sliding closest to that rocky coast, and Nok's ship will be even closer, and Grub will dive overboard. He's got three friends living in the caves in the cliff and here are their cards—' Three more skidded out to just beyond the centre of the table. 'Crown, Sceptre, Orb. Hmm, let's ignore those for now.'

  Keneb half-rose. 'Diving overboard?'

  'Relax, he'll be back. So, we get to the Adjunct's card. House of War, Guardians of the Road, or the Dead — title's uncertain so take your pick.' He threw another card and it slid up beside it. 'Oponn. As I thought. Decisions yet
to be made. Will it be the Push or the Pull? And what's that got to do with this one?' A skitter, ending up in the middle, opposite both Kalam and Quick Ben — 'Herald of High House Death. A distinctly inactive and out-of-date card in this field, but I see a Rusty Gauntlet—'

  'A what?' demanded Kalam Mekhar.

  'Right here before me. A new drink that Bottle in his inebriated state just invented. Rum and wine — half and half, soldier, fill us up — you too, that's what you get for making that face.'

  Keneb rubbed at his own face. He'd taken but a single mouthful of the wine, but he felt drunk. Hot in here. He started as four cards appeared in a row in front of the one already before him.

  'Spinner of Death, Queen of Dark, Queen of Life and, ho, the King in Chains. Like hopping stones across a stream, isn't it? Expecting to see your wife any time soon, Fist? Forget it. She's set you aside for an Untan noble, and my, if it isn't Exent Hadar — I bet he kept his gaze averted back then, probably ignored you outright, that's both guilt and smugness, you know. Must have been the weak chin that stole her heart — but look at you, sir, you look damned relieved and that's a hand that tops us all and even though you were out when it comes to winning you're back in when it comes to losing, but in this case you win when you lose, so relax.'

  'Well,' muttered Bottle, 'hope I nev'win one a theez'ands.'

  'No,' Fiddler said to him, 'you got it easy. She plays and she takes, and so—' A card clattered before the owl-eyed soldier. 'Deathslayer. You can sleep now, Bottle, you're done as done for the night.'

  The man's eyes promptly closed and he slid down from his chair, the piece of furniture scraping back. Keneb heard the man's head thump on the boards, once.

  Yes, that'd be nice. Exent Hadar. Gods, woman, really!

  'So how does Kalam get from Herald Death to Obelisk? Let's see. Ah, King of High House Shadows! That shifty slime bung, oh, doesn't he look smug! Despite the sweat on his upper lip — who's gone all chilled in here? Hands up, please.'

  Reluctantly... Kalam, T'amber, then Apsalar all lifted hands.

  'Well, that's ugly as ugly gets — you've got the bottles now, Apsalar, now that Bottle's corked. This one's for you, T'amber. Virgin of Death, as far as you go. You're out, so relax. Kalam's cold, but he don't get another card 'cause he don't need one and now I know who gets pushed and who gets pulled and I'll add the name to the dirge to come. Now for the hot bloods. Quick Ben gets the Consort in Chains but he's from Seven Cities and he just saved his sister's life so it's not as bad as it could've been. Anyway, that's it for you. And so, who does that leave?'

  Silence for a moment. Keneb managed to lift his leaden head, frowning confusedly at the scatter of cards all over the table.

  'That would be me and you, Sergeant,' the Adjunct said in a low voice.

  'You cold?' Fiddler asked her, drinking down yet another cup of Rusty Gauntlet.

  'No.'

  'Hot?'

  'No.'

  Fiddler nodded, slamming his empty cup down for Apsalar to refill with wine and rum. 'Aye,' He floated a card down the length of the table. It landed atop the first card. 'Master of the Deck. Ganoes Paran, Adjunct. Your brother. Even cold iron, Tavore Paran, needs tempering.' He lifted up another card and set it down before him. 'Priest of Life, hah, now that's a good one. Game's done.'

  'Who wins?' the Adjunct, her face pale as candlewax, asked in a whisper.

  'Nobody,' Fiddler replied. 'That's Life for you.' He suddenly rose, tottered, then staggered for the door.

  'Hold it!' Quick Ben demanded behind him. 'There's this face-down card in front of me! You said it closes the game!'

  'It just did,' mumbled the sergeant as he struggled with the latch.

  'Do I turn it over, then?'

  'No.'

  Fiddler stumbled out into the corridor and Keneb listened to the man's ragged footsteps receding towards the stairs leading to the deck. The Fist, shaking his head, pushed himself upright. He looked at the others.

  No-one else had moved.

  Then, with a snort, Apsalar rose and walked out. If she was as drunk as Keneb felt, she did not show any signs of it.

  A moment later both Quick Ben and Kalam followed.

  Under the table, Bottle was snoring.

  The Adjunct and T'amber, Keneb slowly realized, were both looking at the unturned card. Then, with a hiss of frustration, Tavore reached out and flipped it over. After al moment, she half-rose and leaned forward on the table to read its title. 'Knight of Shadow. I have never heard of such a card. T'amber, who, what did you—'

  'I didn't,' T'amber interrupted.

  'You didn't what?'

  She looked up at the Adjunct. 'Tavore, I have never seen that card before, and I certainly didn't paint it.'

  Both women were silent again, both staring down at the strange card. Keneb struggled to focus on its murky image. 'That's one of those Greyskins,' he said.

  'Tiste Edur,' T'amber murmured.

  'With a spear,' the Fist continued. 'A Greyskin, like the ones we saw on those black ships...' Keneb leaned back, his head swimming. 'I don't feel very well.'

  'Please stay for a moment, Fist. T'amber, what just happened here?'

  The other woman shook her head. 'I have never seen a field laid in such a manner. It was... chaotic — sorry, I did not mean that in an elemental sense. Like a rock bouncing down a gorge, ricocheting from this and that, yet, every­where it struck, it struck true.'

  'Can you make sense of it?'

  'Not much. Not yet.' She hesitated, scanning the cards scattered all over the map-table. 'Oponn's presence was... unexpected.'

  'The push or the pull,' Keneb said. 'Someone's undecided about something, that's what Fiddler said. Who was it again?'

  'Kalam Mekhar,' the Adjunct replied. 'But the Herald of Death intervenes—'

  'Not the Herald,' cut in T'amber, 'but an inactive version, a detail I believe is crucial.'

  Muted shouts from beyond announced the sighting of Malaz Harbour. The Adjunct faced Keneb. 'Fist, these are your orders for this night. You are in command of the Fourteenth. No-one is to disembark, barring those I will dispatch on my own behalf. With the exception of the Froth Wolf all other ships are to remain in the harbour itself — all commands directing the fleet to tie up at a pier or jetty are to be ignored until I inform you otherwise.'

  'Adjunct, any such orders, if they reach me, will be from the Empress herself. I am to ignore those?'

  'You are to misunderstand, Fist. I leave the details of that misunderstanding to your imagination.'

  'Adjunct, where will you be?'

  The woman studied him for a moment, then it seemed she reached a decision. 'Fist Keneb, the Empress awaits me in Mock's Hold. I expect she will not wait until morning to issue her summons.' A flicker of emotion in her face. 'The soldiers of the Fourteenth Army do not return as heroes, it would appear. I will not expose their lives to unnecessary risks. In particular I speak of the Wickans and the Khundryl Burned Tears. As for the Perish, the nature of their alliance depends upon my conversation with the Empress. Unless circumstances warrant a change, I assume their disposition tests with Laseen, but I must await her word on that. Ultimately, Fist, it is for Mortal Sword Krughava — do the Perish disembark and present to the Empress as they did with us, or, if events turn unfortunate, do they leave? My point is this, Keneb, they must be free to choose.'

  'And Admiral Nok's view on that?'

  'We are agreed.'

  Adjunct,' said Keneb, 'if the Empress decides to attempt to stay the Perish, we could end up with a battle in Malaz Harbour. Malazan against Malazan. This could start a damned civil war.'

  Tavore frowned. 'I do not anticipate anything so extreme, Fist.'

  But Keneb persisted. 'Forgive me, but I believe it is you who misunderstands. The Perish swore service to you, not the Empress.'

  'She will not listen to that,' T'amber said, with an un­expected tone of frustration in her voice, even as she walked to where Bottle slept. A kick elicted a
grunt, then a cough. 'Up, soldier,' T'amber said, seemingly unmindful of the glare the Adjunct had fixed upon her.

  No you fool, Keneb, hardly unmindful.

  'You have your orders, Fist,' Tavore said.

  'Aye, Adjunct. Do you wish me to drag this marine here out with me?'

  'No. I must speak with Bottle in private. Go now, Keneb. And thank you for attending this night.'

  I'm fairly certain I had no choice. At the doorway he looked back once more at the cards. Lord of Wolves, Spinner of Death, Queens of Dark and Life, and the King in Chains. Lord of Wolves... that has to be the Perish.

  Gods below, I think it's begun.

  ****

  On the harbour-facing wall of Mock's Hold, Pearl stood at the parapet, watching the dark shapes of the imperial fleet slowly swing round into the calm waters of the bay. Huge transports, like oversized bhederin, and the dromon escorts on the flanks lean as wolves. The Claw's eyes narrowed as he attempted to make out the foreign ships in the midst of the others. Enormous, twin-hulled... formidable. There seemed to be a lot of them.

  How had they come here so quickly? And how did the Empress know that they would? The only possibility in answer to the first question was: by warren. Yet, who among the Adjunct's retinue could fashion a gate of such power and breadth? Quick Ben? Pearl did not think that likely. That bastard liked his secrets, and he liked playing both a weakling and something considerably deadlier, but neither conceit impressed Pearl. No, Tavore's High Mage didn't have what was necessary to open such a massive rift.

  Leaving those damned foreigners. And that was very troubling indeed. Perhaps it might prove a propitious moment for some kind of pre-emptive, covert action. Which would, now that the Empress had arrived, be possible after all. And expedient — for we have no idea who has now come among us, right to the heart of the empire. A foreign navy, arriving virtually unopposed... within striking distance of the Empress herself.

  It was going to be a busy night.

  'Pearl.'

  The voice was low, yet he did not need to turn round to know who had spoken. He knew, as well, that Empress Laseen would frown disapprovingly should he turn to face her. Odd habits, that way. No, just paranoia. 'Good evening, Empress.'

  'Does this view please you?'