The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (171 page)

Coltaine stared a moment longer, then swung around and met Duiker's eyes with such comic pleasure that the historian's exhaustion was simply swept away, flashburned into oblivion. The Fist struggled to keep a straight face, and Duiker bit his lip in his own effort. His gaze caught on Lull, whose face showed the same struggle, even as the captain winked and mouthed three silent words.

Sleight of hand
.

The question remained how Coltaine would now play it. Composing his face into stern regard, the Fist turned about again. He eyed Mincer, then the woman named Bungle. “That will be fine, Sergeant,” he said. “Captain Bungle, I would advise you to listen to your sergeant in all matters. Understood?”

The woman shook her head.

Mincer grimaced and said, “She's no experience with that, Fist. I never asked
her
advice, I'm afraid.”

“From what I have gathered, you never asked
anyone
's advice when you were captain.”

“Aye, that's a fact.”

“Nor did you attend any staff briefings.”

“No, sir.”

“And why was that?”

Mincer shrugged.

Captain Bungle spoke. “Beauty sleep, sir. That's what he always said.”

“Hood knows the man needs it,” Bult muttered.

Coltaine raised an eyebrow. “And did he sleep, Captain? During those times?”

“Oh yes, sir. He sleeps when we march, too, sir. Sleeps while walking—I've never seen the like. Snoring away, sir, one foot in front of the other, a bag full of rocks on his back—”

“Rocks?”

“For when he breaks his sword, sir. He throws them, and there ain't a damned thing he can't hit.”

“Wrong,” Mincer growled. “That lapdog…”

Bult seemed to choke, then spat in sympathy.

Coltaine had drawn his hands behind him, and Duiker saw them clench in a white-knuckled grip. As if sensing that attention, the Fist called out without turning, “Historian!”

“I am here, Fist.”

“You will record this?”

“Oh, aye, sir. Every blessed word.”

“Excellent. Engineers, you are dismissed.”

The group wandered off, muttering. One man clapped Mincer on the shoulder and received a blistering glare in return.

Coltaine watched them leave, then strode to Duiker, Bult and Lull following.

“Spirits below!” Bult hissed.

Duiker smiled. “Your soldiers, Commander.”

“Aye,” he said, suddenly beaming with pride. “Aye.”

“I did not know what to do,” Coltaine confessed.

Lull grunted. “You played it perfectly, Fist. That was exquisite, no doubt already making the rounds as a Hood-damned full-blown legend. If they liked you before, they love you now, sir.”

The Wickan remained baffled. “But why? I just demoted a man for unsurpassed bravery!”

“Returned him to the ranks, you mean. And that lifted every one of 'em up, don't you see that?”

“But Mincer—”

“Never had so much fun in his life, I'd bet. You can tell, when they get even uglier. Hood knows, I can't explain it—only sappers know a sapper's way of thinking and behaving, and sometimes not even them.”

“You've a captain named Bungle, now, nephew,” Bult said. “Think she'll be there in polish and shine next briefing?”

“Not a chance,” Lull opined. “She's probably packing her gear right now.”

Coltaine shook his head. “They win,” he said, in evident wonder. “I am defeated.”

Duiker watched the three men walk away, still discussing what had just happened.
Not lies after all. Tears and smiles, something so small, so absurd…the only possible answer…
The historian shook himself, and looked around until he found List. “Corporal, I recall you had something to show me…”

“Yes, sir. Up ahead, not far, I think.”

 

They came to the ruined tower before reaching the forward outlying pickets. A squad of Wickans had commandeered the position, filling the ringed bedrock floor with supplies and leaving in attendance a lone, one-armed youth.

List laid a hand on one of the massive foundation stones. “Jaghut,” he said. “They lived apart, you know. No villages, no cities, just single, remote dwellings. Like this one.”

“Enjoyed their privacy, I take it.”

“They feared each other almost as much as they feared the T'lan Imass, sir.”

Duiker glanced over at the Wickan youth. The lad was fast asleep.
We're doing a lot of that these days. Just dropping off
. “How old?” he asked the corporal.

“Not sure. A hundred, two, maybe even three.”

“Not years.”

“No. Millennia.”

“So, this is where the Jaghut lived.”

“The first tower. From here, pushed back, then again, then again. The final stand—the last tower—is in the heart of the plain beyond the forest.”

“Pushed back,” the historian repeated.

List nodded. “Each siege lasted centuries, the losses among the T'lan Imass staggering. Jaghut were anything but wanderers. When they chose a place…” His voice fell off. He shrugged.

“Was this a typical war, Corporal?”

The young man hesitated, then shook his head. “A strange bond, unique among the Jaghut. When the mother was in peril, the children returned, joined the battle. Then the father. Things…escalated.”

Duiker nodded, looked around. “She must have been…special.”

Tight-lipped and pale, List pulled off his helm, ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Aye,” he finally whispered.

“Is she your guide?”

“No. Her mate.”

Something made the historian turn, as if in answer to a barely felt shiver of air. North, through the trees, then above them. His mind struggled to encompass what he saw: a column, a spear lit gold, rising…rising.

“Hood's breath!” List muttered. “What is that?”

A lone word thundered through Duiker, flooding his mind, driving out every thought, and he knew with utter certainty the truth of it, the single word that was answer to List's question.

“Sha'ik.”

 

Kalam sat in his gloomy cabin, inundated with the sound of hammering waves and shrieking wind.
Ragstopper
shuddered with every remorseless crash of the raging seas, the room around the assassin pitching in, it seemed, a dozen directions at once.

Somewhere in their wake, a fast trader battled the same storm, and her presence—announced by the lookout only minutes before the green and strangely luminescent cloud rolled over them—gnawed at Kalam, refusing to go away.
The same fast trader we'd seen before. Was the answer a simple one? While we squatted in that shithole of a home port, she'd been calmly shouldering the Imperial pier at Falar, no special rush in resupplying when you have a shore leave worth the name
.

But that did not explain the host of other details that plagued the assassin—details that, each on their own, rang a minor note of discord, yet together they created a cacophony of alarm in Kalam. Blurred passages of time, perhaps born of the man's driving aspiration to complete this voyage, at war with the interminable reality of day upon day, night upon night, the very sameness of such a journey.

But no, there's more than just a conflict of perspective. The hour-glasses, the dwindled stores of food and fresh water, the captain's tortured hints of a world amiss aboard this damned ship
.

And that fast trader, it should have sailed past us long ago…

Salk Elan. A mage—he stinks of it. Yet a sorcerer who could twist an entire crew's mind so thoroughly…that sorcerer would have to be a High Mage. Not impossible. Just highly unlikely among Mebra's covert circle of spies and agents
.

There was no doubt in Kalam's mind that Elan had woven about himself a web of deceit, inasmuch as it was in such a man's nature to do so, whether necessary or not. Yet which strand should the assassin follow in his quest for the truth?

Time. How long has this journey been? Tradewinds where none should be, now a storm, driving us ever southeastward, a storm that had therefore not come from the ocean wastes—as the immutable laws of the sea would demand—but from the Falari Isles. In its dry season—a season of unbroken calm
.

So, who plays with us here? And what role does Salk Elan have in this game, if any?

Growling, the assassin rose from his bunk, grabbing in mid-swing his satchel from its hook, then made his rocking way to the door.

The hold was like a siege tower under a ceaseless barrage of rocks. Mist filled the salty, close air and the keel was awash in shin-deep water. There was no one about, every hand committed to the daunting task of holding
Ragstopper
together. Kalam cleared a space and dragged a chest free. He rummaged in his satchel until his hand found and closed on a small, misshapen lump of stone. He drew it out and set it on the chest-top.

It did not roll off; indeed, it did not move at all.

The assassin unsheathed a dagger, reversed his grip, then drove the iron pommel down on the stone. It shattered. A gust of hot, dry air washed over Kalam. He crouched lower.

“Quick! Quick Ben, you bastard, now's the time!”

No voice reached him through the storm's incessant roar.

I'm beginning to hate mages
. “Quick Ben, damn you!”

The air seemed to waver, like streams of heat rising from a desert floor. A familiar voice tickled the assassin's ears. “Any idea the last time I've had a chance to sleep? It's all gone to Hood's shithole over here, Kalam—where are you and what do you want? And hurry up with it—this is killing me!”

“I thought you were my shaved knuckle in the hole, damn you!”

“You in Unta? The palace? I never figured—”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” the assassin cut in. “No, I'm not in the Hood-cursed palace, you idiot. I'm at sea—”

“Aren't we all. You've just messed up, Kalam—I can't do this more than once.”

“I know. So I'm on my own when I get there. Fine, nothing new in that. Listen, what can you sense of where I am at this moment? Something's gone seriously awry on this ship, and I want to know what, and who's responsible.”

“Is that all? OK, OK, give me a minute…”

Kalam waited. The hair rose on his neck as he felt his friend's presence fill the air on all sides, a probing emanation that the assassin knew well. Then it was gone.

“Uh.”

“What does
that
mean, Quick?”

“You're in trouble, friend.”

“Laseen?”

“Not sure. Not directly—that ship stinks of a warren, Kalam, one of the rarest among mortals. Been confused lately, friend?”

“I was right, then! Who?”

“Someone, maybe on board, maybe not. Maybe sailing a craft within that warren, right alongside you, only you'll never see it. Anything valuable aboard?”

“You mean apart from my hide?”

“Yes, apart from your hide, of course.”

“Only a despot's ransom.”

“Ah, and someone wants it getting somewhere fast, and when it gets there that someone wants every damned person on board to forget where that place is. That's my guess, Kalam. I could be very wrong, though.”

“That's a comfort. You said you're in trouble over there? Whiskeyjack? Dujek, the squad?”

“Scraping through so far. How's Fiddler?”

“No idea. We decided on separate ways…”

“Oh no, Kalam!”

“Aye, Tremorlor. Hood's breath, it was your idea, Quick!”

“Assuming the House was…at peace. Sure, it should've worked. Absolutely. I think. But something's gone bad there—every warren's lit up, Kalam. Chanced on a Deck of Dragons lately?”

“No.”

“Lucky you.”

Realization struck the assassin with a sharply drawn breath. “The Path of Hands…”

“The Path…oh.” The mage's voice rose, “Kalam! If you knew—”

“We didn't
know
a damned thing, Quick!”

“They might have a chance,” Quick Ben muttered a moment later. “With Sorry—”

“Apsalar, you mean.”

“Whatever. Let me think, damn you.”

“Oh, terrific,” Kalam growled. “More schemes…”

“I'm losing hold here, friend. Too tired…lost too much blood yesterday, I think. Mallet says…”

The voice trailed away. Cool mist seeped back in around the assassin. Quick Ben was gone.
And that's that. On my own in truth, now. Fiddler…oh, you bastard, we should have guessed, figured it out. Ancient gates…Tremorlor
.

He did not move for a long time. Finally he sighed, wiped the top of the chest, removing the last of the crushed rock from its damp surface, and rose.

The captain was awake, and he had company. Salk Elan grinned as Kalam entered the cramped room. “We were just talking about you, partner,” Elan said. “Knowing how set you get in your mind, and wondering how you'd take the news…”