'And did not the Bridgeburners return the favour, time and again, Commander? And indeed, before long, so did the rest of Dujek Onearm's soldiers.'
'Most campaigns get nastier the longer they drag on,' Whiskeyjack mused, 'but not that one. It got more… civilized. Unspoken protocols…'
'Much of that was undone when you took Pale.'
He nodded. 'More than you know.'
Her hand was still on his shoulder. 'Come with me back to my tent, Whiskeyjack.'
His brows rose, then he smiled and said in a dry tone, 'Not a night to be alone—'
'Don't be a fool!' she snapped. 'I did not ask for company—I asked for you. Not a faceless need that must be answered, and anyone will do. Not that. Am I understood?'
'Not entirely.'
'I wish us to become lovers, Whiskeyjack. Beginning tonight. I wish to awaken in your arms. I would know if you have feelings for me.'
He was silent for a long moment, then he said, 'I'd be a fool not to, Korlat, but I had also considered it even more foolish to attempt any advance. I assumed you were mated to another Tiste Andü—a union no doubt centuries long—'
'And what would be the point of such a union?'
He frowned, startled. 'Well, uh, companionship? Children?'
'Children arrive. Rarely, as much a product of boredom as anything else. Tiste Andü do not find companionship among their own kind. That died out long ago, Whiskeyjack. Yet even rarer is the occasion of a Tiste Andü emerging from the darkness, into the mortal world, seeking a reprieve from… from—'
He set a finger to her lips. 'No more. I am honoured to accept you, Korlat. More than you will ever realize, and I will seek to be worthy of your gift.'
She shook her head, eyes dropping. 'It is a scant gift. Seek my heart and you may be disappointed in what you find.'
The Malazan stepped back and reached for his belt-pouch. He untied it, upended the small leather sack into one cupped hand. A few coins fell out, then a small, bedraggled, multicoloured knot of cloth strips, followed by a lone dark, smooth pebble. 'I'd thought,' he said slowly, eyes on the objects in his hand, 'that one day I might have the opportunity to return what was clearly of value to those fallen Tiste Andü. All that was found in that search… I realized—even then—that I could do naught but honour them.'
Korlat closed her hand over his, trapping the objects within their joined clasp. She led him down the first row of tents.
The Mhybe dreamed. She found herself clinging to the edge of a precipice, white-knuckled hands gripping gnarled roots, the susurration of trickling dirt dusting her face as she strained to hold on.
Below waited the Abyss, racked with the storm of dismembered memories, streamers of pain, fear, rage, jealousy and dark desires. That storm wanted her, was reaching up for her, and she was helpless to defend herself.
Her arms were weakening.
A shrieking wind wrapped around her legs, yanked, snatched her away, and she was falling, adding her own scream to the cacophony. The winds tossed her this way and that, twisting, tumbling—
Something hard and vicious struck her hip, glanced away. Air buffeted her hard. Then the hard intrusion was back—talons closing around her waist, scaled, cold as death. A sharp tug snapped her head back, and she was no longer falling, but rising, carried higher and higher.
The storm's roar faded below her, then dwindled away to one side.
The Mhybe twisted her head, looked up.
An undead dragon loomed above her, impossibly huge. Desiccated, dried flaps of skin trailing from its limbs, its almost translucent wings thundering, the creature was bearing her away.
She turned to study what lay below.
A featureless plain stretched out beneath her, dun brown. Long cracks in the earth were visible, filled with dully glowing ice. She saw a darker patch, ragged at its edges, flow over a hillside. A herd. I have walked that land before. Here, in my dreams… there were footprints…
The dragon banked suddenly, crooked its wings, and began a swift spiral earthward.
She found herself wailing—was shocked to realize that it was not terror she was feeling, but exhilaration. Spirits above, this is what it is to fly! Ah, now I know envy in truth!
The land rushed up to meet her. Moments before what would have been a fatal impact, the dragon's wings snapped wide, caught the air, then, the leg directly above curling upward to join its twin, the creature glided silently an arm's length above the loamy ground. Forward momentum abated. The leg lowered, the talons releasing her.
She landed with barely a thump, rolled onto her back, then sat up to watch the enormous dragon rising once more, wings thundering.
The Mhybe looked down and saw a youthful body—her own. She cried out at the cruelty of this dream. Cried out again, curling tight on the cool, damp earth.
Oh, why did you save me! Why? Only to awaken—spirits below—to awaken—
'She was passing through.' A soft voice—a stranger's voice, in the language of the Rhivi—spoke in her mind.
The Mhybe's head snapped up. She looked around. 'Who speaks? Where are you?'
'We're here. When you are ready to see us, you shall. Your daughter has a will to match yours, it seems. To have so commanded the greatest of the Bonecasters—true, she comes in answer to the child's summons. The Gathering. Making the detour a minor one. None the less… we are impressed.'
'My daughter?'
'She still stings from harsh words—we can feel that. Indeed, it is how we have come to dwell here. That small, round man hides obsidian edges beneath his surfeit of flesh. Who would have thought? "She has given to you all she has, Silverfox. The time has come for you to gift in answer, lass. Kruppe is not alone in refusing to abandon her to her fate." Ah, he opened her eyes, then, swept away her obsessing with her selves, and she only a child at the time, but she heeded his words—though in truth he spoke only within her dreams at that time. Heeded. Yes indeed.
'So,' the voice continued, 'will you see us now?'
She stared down at her smooth hands, her young arms, and screamed. 'Stop torturing me with this dream! Stop! Oh, stop—''
Her eyes opened to the musty darkness of her tent. Aches and twinges prodded her thinned bones, her shrunken muscles. Weeping, the Mhybe pulled her ancient body into a tight ball. 'Gods,' she whispered, 'how I hate you. How I hate you!'
Book Three
Capustan
The Last Mortal Sword of Fener's Reve was Fanald of Cawn Vor, who was killed in the Chaining. The last Boar-cloaked Destriant was Ipshank of Korelri, who vanished during the Last Flight of Manask on the Stratem Icefields. Another waited to claim that title, but was cast out from the temple before it came to him, and that man's name has been stricken from all records. It is known, however, that he was from Unta; that he had begun his days as a cutpurse living on its foul streets, and that his casting out from the temple was marked by the singular punishment of Fener's Reve…
Temple Lives
Birrin Thund
Chapter Fourteen
If you can, dear friends, do not live through a siege.
Ubilast (the Legless)
THE INN COMMANDING THE SOUTHEAST CORNER OF OLD DARU STREET held no more than half a dozen patrons, most of them visitors to the city who, like Gruntle, were now trapped. The Pannion armies surrounding Capustan's walls had done nothing for five days and counting. There had been clouds of dust from beyond the ridgeline to the north, the caravan captain had heard, signalling… something. But that had been days ago and nothing had come of it.
What Septarch Kulpath was waiting for, no-one knew, though there was plenty of speculation. More barges carrying Tenescowri had been seen crossing the river, until it seemed that half the empire's population had joined the peasant army. 'With numbers like that,' someone had said a bell earlier, 'there'll be barely a mouthful of Capan citizen each.' Gruntle had been virtually alone in appreciating the jest.
He sat at a table near the entrance, his back to the rough-plastered,
double-beamed door-frame, the door itself on his right, the low-ceilinged main room before him. A mouse was working its way along the earthen floor beneath the tables, scampering from shadow to shadow, slipping between the shoes or boots of whatever patron its path intersected. Gruntle watched its progress with low-lidded eyes. There was still plenty of food to be found in the kitchen—or so its nose was telling it. That bounty, Gruntle well knew, would not last if the siege drew out.
His gaze flicked up to the smoke-stained main truss spanning the room, where the inn's cat slept, limbs dangling from the crossbeam. The feline hunted only in its dreams, for the moment at least.
The mouse reached the foot-bar of the counter, waddled parallel to it towards the kitchen entrance.
Gruntle took another mouthful of watered wine—more water than wine after almost a week's stranglehold on the city by the Pannions. The six other patrons were each sitting alone at a table or leaning up against the counter. Words were exchanged among them every now and then, a few desultory comments, usually answered by little more than a grunt.
Over the course of a day and night, the inn was peopled by two types, or so Gruntle had observed. The ones before him now virtually lived in the common room, nursing their wine and ale. Strangers to Capustan and seemingly friendless, they'd achieved a kind of community none the less, characterized by a vast ability to do nothing together for long periods of time. Come the night the other type would begin to assemble. Loud, boisterous, drawing the street whores inside with their coins which they tumbled onto the tabletops with no thought of tomorrow. Theirs was a desperate energy, a bluff hail to Hood. We're yours, you scything bastard, they seemed to say. But not till the dawn!
They'd churn like a foaming sea around the immovable, indifferent rocks that were the silent, friendless patrons.
The sea and the rocks. The sea celebrates in the face of Hood as soon as he looms close. The rocks have stared the bastard in the eye for so long they're past budging, much less celebrating. The sea laughs uproariously at its own jokes. The rocks grind out a terse line that can silence an entire room. A Capan mouthful…
Next time, I'll keep my tongue to myself.
The cat rose on the crossbeam, stretching, its banded black stripes rippling across its dun fur. Cocked its head downward, ears pricking.
The mouse was at the edge of the kitchen entrance, frozen.
Gruntle hissed under his breath.
The cat looked his way.
The mouse darted into the kitchen and out of sight.
With a loud creak, the inn door swung inward. Buke stepped inside, crossed Gruntle's view then sank down into the chair beside him.
'You're predictable enough,' the old man muttered, gesturing for two of the same when he caught the barkeep's eye.
'Aye,' Gruntle replied. 'I'm a rock.'
'A rock, huh? More like a fat iguana clinging to one. And when the big wave comes—'
'Whatever. You've found me, Buke. Now what?'
'Just wanted to thank you for all the help, Gruntle.'
'Was that subtle irony, old man? A little honing—'
'Actually, I was almost serious. That muddy water you made me drink—Keruli's concoction—it's done wonders.' His narrow face revealed a slightly secretive smile. 'Wonders…'
'Glad to hear you're all better. Any more earth-shattering news? If not…'
Buke leaned back as the barkeep delivered the two tankards, then said after the man shambled away, 'I've met with the elders of the Camps. At first they wanted to go straight to the prince—'
'But then they came to their senses.'
'With a little prodding.'
'So now you've got all the help you need in keeping that insane eunuch from playing doorman to Hood's gate. Good. Can't have panic in the streets, what with a quarter-million Pannions laying siege to the city.'
Buke's eyes thinned on Gruntle. 'Thought you'd appreciate the calm.'
'Now that's much better.'
'I still need your help.'
'Can't see how, Buke. Unless you want me to kick down the door and separate Korbal Broach's head from his shoulders. In which case you'll need to keep Bauchelain distracted. Set him on fire or something. I only need a moment. Of course, timing's everything. Once the walls have been breached, say, and there's Tenescowri mobbing the streets. That way we can all go hand in hand to Hood singing a merry tune.'
Buke smiled behind his tankard. 'That'll do,' he said, then drank.
Gruntle drained his own cup, reached for the new one. 'You know where to find me,' he said after a moment.
'Until the wave comes.'
The cat leapt down from the crossbeam, pounced forward, trapping a cockroach between its paws. It began playing.
'All right,' the caravan captain growled after a moment, 'what else do you want to say?'
Buke shrugged offhandedly. 'I hear Stonny has volunteered. Latest rumours have it the Pannions are finally ready for the first assault—any time now.'
'The first? Likely they'll only need the one. As for being ready, they've been ready for days, Buke. If Stonny wants to throw away her life defending the indefensible, that's her business.'
'What's the alternative? The Pannions won't take prisoners, Gruntle. We'll all have to fight, sooner or later.'
That's what you think.
'Unless,' Buke continued after a moment as he raised his tankard, 'you plan on switching sides. Finding faith as a matter of expedience—'
'What other way is there?'
The old man's eyes sharpened. 'You'd fill your belly with human flesh, Gruntle? Just to survive? You'd do that, would you?'
'Meat is meat,' Gruntle replied, his eyes on the cat. A soft crunch announced that it had finished playing.
'Well,' Buke said, rising, 'I didn't think you were capable of shocking me. I guess I thought I knew you—'
'You thought.'
'So this is the man Harllo gave his life for.'
Gruntle slowly raised his head. Whatever Buke saw in his eyes made him step back. 'Which Camp are you working with right now?' the caravan captain calmly asked.
'Uldan,' the old man whispered.
'I'll look in on you, then. In the meantime, Buke, get out of my sight.'
The shadows had retreated across most of the compound, leaving Hetan and her brother, Cafal, in full sunlight. The two Barghast were squatting on a worn, faded rug, heads bowed. Sweat—blackened with ash—dripped from them both. Between them was a broad, shallow brazier, perched on three hand-high iron legs and filled with smouldering coals.
Soldiers and court messengers flowed around them on all sides.
Shield Anvil Itkovian studied the siblings from where he stood near the headquarters entrance. He had not known the Barghast as a people enamoured of meditation, yet Hetan and Cafal had done little else, it seemed, since their return from the Thrall. Fasting, uncommunicative, inconveniently encamped in the centre of the barracks compound, they had made of themselves an unapproachable island.
Theirs is not a mortal calm. They travel among the spirits. Brukhalian demands that I find a way through—by any means. Does Hetan possess yet one more secret? An avenue of escape, for her, her brother, and for the bones of the Founding Spirits? An unknown weakness in our defence? A flaw in the Pannion investiture?
Itkovian sighed. He had tried before, without success. He would now try once again. As he prepared to step forward, he sensed a presence at his side and turned, to find Prince Jelarkan.
The young man's face was etched deep with exhaustion. His long-fingered, elegant hands trembled despite being knitted together just above his robe's belt. His gaze was fixed on the swirling activity in the compound as he said, 'I must know, Shield Anvil, what Brukhalian intends. He holds what you soldiers call a shaved knuckle in the hole—that much is clear. And so I have come, once again, seeking audience with the man in my employ.' He made no effort to hide the sardonic bitterness of that statement. 'To no avail. The Mortal Sword has no time for me. No time f
or the Prince of Capustan.'
'Sir,' Itkovian said, 'you may ask your questions of me, and I shall do all I can to answer you.'
The young Capan swung to the Shield Anvil. 'Brukhalian has given you leave to speak?'
'He has.'
'Very well. The Kron T'lan Imass and their undead wolves. They have destroyed the Septarch's K'Chain demons.'
'They have.'
'Yet the Pannion Domin has more. Hundreds more.'
'Yes.'
'Then why do the T'lan Imass not march into the empire? An assault into the Seer's territory may well achieve the withdrawal of Kulpath's besieging forces. The Seer would have no choice but to pull them back across the river.'
'Were the T'lan Imass a mortal army, the choice would indeed be obvious, and consequently beneficial to our own needs,' Itkovian replied. 'Alas, Kron and his undead kin are bound by unearthly demands, of which we know virtually nothing. We have been told of a gathering, a silent summoning for purposes unknown. This, for the moment, takes precedence over all else. Kron and the T'lan Ay destroyed the Septarch's K'Chain Che'Malle because their presence was deemed a direct threat to the gathering.'
'Why? That explanation is insufficient, Shield Anvil.'
'I do not disagree with your assessment, sir. There does appear to be another reason for Kron's reluctance to march southward. A mystery concerning the Seer himself. It seems the word "Pannion" is Jaghut. The Jaghut were the mortal enemies of the T'lan Imass, as you may know. It is my personal belief that Kron awaits the arrival of… allies. Other T'lan Imass, come to this impending gathering.'
'You are suggesting that Kron is intimidated by the Pannion Seer—'
'Aye, in his belief that the Seer is Jaghut.'
The prince was silent for a long moment, then he shook his head. 'Even should the T'lan Imass decide to march upon the Pannion Domin, the decision will come too late for us.'
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