The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (174 page)

The white, screaming train was at full gallop—as if in headlong flight from whatever warren it had come from—and the carriage pitched wildly, alarmingly, as the beasts plunged straight for the pickets.

Wickans scattered to either side.

Staring with disbelief, Duiker saw all three figures sawing the reins, bellowing, flinging themselves against the backrest of their tottering perch.

The horses drove hooves into the earth, biting down on their momentum, the towering carriage slewing behind them, raising a cloud of smoke, dust and an emanation that the historian recognized with a jolt of alarm as
outrage
. The outrage, he now understood, of a warren—and its god.

Behind the lead carriage came another, then another, each pitching to one side or the other to avoid collision as they skidded to a halt.

As soon as the lead carriage ceased its headlong plunge, figures poured from it, armored men and women, shouting, roaring commands that no one seemed to pay any attention to, and waving blackened, smeared and dripping weapons.

A moment later, even as the other two carriages stopped, a loud bell clanged.

The frenzied, seemingly aimless activities of the figures promptly ceased. Weapons were lowered, and sudden silence filled the air behind the fading echo of the bell. Snorting and stamping, the lathered horses tossed their heads, ears twitching, nostrils wide.

The lead carriage was no more than fifteen paces from where Duiker and the others stood.

The historian saw a severed hand clinging to an ornate projection on one side of the carriage. After a moment it fell to the ground.

A tiny barred door opened and a man emerged, with difficulty squeezing his considerable bulk through the aperture. He was dressed in silks that were drenched in sweat. His round, glistening face revealed the passing echoes of some immense, all-consuming effort. In one hand he carried a stoppered bottle.

Stepping clear, he faced Coltaine and raised the bottle. “You, sir,” he said in strangely accented Malazan, “have much to answer for.” Then he grinned, displaying a row of gold-capped, diamond-studded teeth. “Your exploits tremble the warrens! Your journey is wildfire in every street in Darujhistan, no doubt in every city, no matter how distant! Have you no notion how many beseech their gods on your behalf? Coffers overflow! Grandiose plans of salvation abound! Vast organizations have formed, their leaders coming to us, to the Trygalle Trade Guild, to pay for our fraught passage—though,” he added in a lower tone, “
all
the Guild's passages are fraught, which is what makes us so expensive.” He unstoppered the bottle. “The great city of Darujhistan and its remarkable citizens—dismissing in an instant your Empire's voracious desires on it and on themselves—bring you this gift! By way of the shareholders—” he waved back at the various men and women behind him, now gathering into a group—” of Trygalle—the foulest-tempered, greediest creatures imaginable, but that is neither here nor there, for here we are, are we not? Let it not be said of the citizens of Darujhistan that they are insensitive to the wondrous, and, dear sir, you are truly wondrous.”

The preposterous man stepped forward, suddenly solemn. He spoke softly. “Alchemists, mages, sorcerers have all contributed, offering vessels with capacities belying their modest containers. Coltaine of Crow Clan, Chain of Dogs, I bring you food. I bring you water.”

 

Karpolan Demesand was one of the original founders of the Trygalle Trade Guild, a citizen of the small fortress city of the same name, situated south of the Lamatath Plain on the continent of Genabackis. Born of a dubious alliance between a handful of mages, Karpolan among them, and the city's benefactors—a motley collection of retired pirates and wreckers—the Guild came to specialize in expeditions so risk-laden as to make the average merchant pale. Each caravan was protected by a heavily armed company of shareholders—guards who possessed a direct stake in the venture, ensuring the fullest exploitation of their abilities. And such abilities were direly needed, for the caravans of the Trygalle Trade Guild—as was clear from the very outset—traveled the warrens.

“We knew we had a challenge on our hands,” Karpolan Demesand said with a beatific, glittering smile as they sat in Coltaine's command tent, with only the Fist and Duiker for company because everyone else was working outside, dispensing the caravan's life-giving supplies with all speed. “That foul Warren of Hood is wrapped about you tighter than a funeral shroud on a corpse…if you'll forgive the image. The key is to ride fast, to stop for nothing, then get out as soon as humanly possible. In the lead wagon, I maintain the road, with every sorcerous talent at my command—a grueling journey, granted, but then again, we don't come cheap.”

“I still find it hard to fathom,” Duiker said, “that the citizens of Darujhistan, fifteen hundred leagues distant, should even know of what's happening here, much less care.”

Karpolan's eyes thinned. “Ah, well, perhaps I exaggerated somewhat—the heat of the moment, I confess. You must understand—soldiers who not long ago were bent on conquering Darujhistan are now locked in a war with the Pannion Domin, a tyranny that would dearly love to swallow the Blue City if it could. Dujek Onearm, once Fist of the Empire and now outlaw to the same, has become an ally. And this, certain personages in Darujhistan know well, and appreciate…”

“But there is more to it,” Coltaine said quietly.

Karpolan smiled a second time. “Is this water not sweet? Here, let me pour you another cup.”

They waited, watching the trader refill the three tin cups arrayed on the small table between them. When he was done, Karpolan sighed and sat back in the plush chair he had had removed from the carriage. “Dujek Onearm.” The name was spoken half in benediction, half in wry dismay. “He sends his greetings, Fist Coltaine. Our office in Darujhistan is small, newly opened, you understand. We do not advertise our services. Not openly, in any case. Frankly, those services include activities that are, on occasion, clandestine in nature. We trade not only in material goods but in information, the delivery of gifts, of people themselves…and other creatures.”

“Dujek Onearm was the force behind this mission,” Duiker said.

Karpolan nodded. “With financial assistance from a certain cabal in Darujhistan, yes. His words were thus: ‘The Empress cannot lose such leaders as Coltaine of the Crow Clan.' ” The trader grinned. “Extraordinary for an outlaw under a death sentence, wouldn't you say?” He leaned forward and held out a hand, palm up. Something shimmered into existence on it, a small oblong bottle of smoky gray glass on a silver chain. “And, from an alarmingly mysterious mage among the Bridgeburners, this gift was fashioned.” He held it out to Coltaine. “For you. Wear it. At all times, Fist.”

The Wickan scowled and made no move to accept it.

Karpolan's smile was wistful. “Dujek is prepared to pull rank on this, friend—”

“An outlaw pulling rank?”

“Ah, well, I admit I voiced the same query. His reply was this: ‘Never underestimate the Empress.' ”

Silence descended, the meaning behind that statement slowly taking shape.
Locked in a war against an entire continent…stumbling onto a recognition of an even greater threat—the Pannion Domin…shall the Empire alone fight on behalf of a hostile land? Yet…how to fashion allies among enemies, how to unify against a greater threat with the minimum of fuss and mistrust? Outlaw your occupying army, so they've “no choice” but to step free of Laseen's shadow. Dujek, ever loyal Dujek—even the ill-conceived plan of killing the last of the Old Guard—Tayschrenn's foolishness and misguided idea—insufficient to turn him. So now he has allies—those who were once his enemies—perhaps even Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake themselves…
Duiker turned to Coltaine and saw the same knowledge there in his drawn, stern visage.

The Wickan reached out and received the gift.

“The Empress
must not
lose you, Fist. Wear it, sir. Always. And when the time comes, break it—against your own chest. Even if it's your last act, though I suggest you do not leave it until then. Such were its creator's frantic instructions.” Karpolan grinned again. “And such a man, that creator! A dozen Ascendants would dearly love his head served up on a plate, his eyes pickled, his tongue skewered and roasted with peppers, his ears grilled—”

“Your point is made,” Duiker cut in.

Coltaine placed the chain around his neck and slipped the bottle beneath his buckskin shirt.

“A dire battle awaits you come dawn,” Karpolan said after a time. “I cannot stay, will not stay. Though mage of the highest order, though merchant of ruthless cunning, I admit to a streak of sentimentality, gentlemen. I will not stand witness to this tragedy. More, we have one more delivery to make before we begin our return journey, and its achievement shall demand all of my skills, indeed, may exhaust them.”

“I had never before heard of your Guild, Karpolan,” Duiker said, “but I would hear more of your adventures, some day.”

“Perhaps the opportunity will arise, Historian. For now, I hear my shareholders gathering, and I must see to reviving and quelling the horses—although, it must be said, they seem to have acquired a thirst for wild terror. No different from us, eh?” He rose.

“My thanks to you,” Coltaine growled, “and your shareholders.”

“Have you a word for Dujek Onearm, Fist?”

The Wickan's response startled Duiker, slipping a rough blade of suspicion into him that would remain, nagging and fearful.

“No.”

Karpolan's eyes widened momentarily, then he nodded. “We must be gone, alas. May your enemy pay dearly come the morrow, Fist.”

“They shall.”

 

Sudden bounty could not effect complete rejuvenation, but the army that rose with the dawn revealed a calm readiness that Duiker had not seen since Gelor Ridge.

The refugees remained tightly packed in a basin just north of the valley mouth. The Weasel and Foolish Dog clans guarded the position, situating themselves along a rise that faced the assembled forces of Korbolo Dom. More than thirty rebel soldiers stood ready to challenge each and every Wickan horsewarrior, and the inevitable outcome of that clash was so obvious, so brutally clear, that panic ripped through the massed refugees in waves, hopeless rippling surges this way and that, and wails of despair filled the dust-laden air above them.

Coltaine sought to drive through the tribesmen blocking the valley mouth, and do so quickly, and he thus concentrated his Crow Clan and most of the Seventh at the front. A fast, shattering breakthrough offered the only hope for the rear-guard clans, and indeed for the refugees themselves.

Duiker sat on his emaciated mare, positioned on a low rise slightly to the east of the main track where he could just make out the two Wickan clans to the north—Korbolo Dom's army somewhere unseen beyond them.

The carriages of the Trygalle Trade Guild had departed, vanishing with the last minutes of darkness before the eastern horizon began its pale awakening.

Corporal List rode up, reining in beside the historian. “A fine morning, sir!” he said. “The season is turning—change rides the air—can you feel it?”

Duiker eyed the man. “One as young as you should not be so cheerful this day, Corporal.”

“Nor one as old as you so dour, sir.”

“Hood-damned upstart, is this what familiarity breeds?”

List grinned, which was answer enough.

Duiker's eyes narrowed. “And what has your Jaghut ghost whispered to you, List?”

“Something he himself never possessed, Historian. Hope.”

“Hope? How, from where? Does Pormqual finally approach?”

“I don't know about that, sir. You think it's possible?”

“No, I do not.”

“Nor I, sir.”

“Then what in Fener's hairy balls are you going on about, List?”

“Not sure, sir. I simply awoke feeling…” he shrugged, “feeling as if we'd just been blessed, god-touched, or something…”

“A fine enough way to meet our last dawn,” Duiker muttered, sighing.

The Tregyn and Bhilard tribes were readying themselves, but the sudden blaring of horns from the Seventh made it clear that Coltaine was not interested in the courtesy of awaiting them. The Crow lancers and mounted archers surged forward, up the gentle slope toward the eastern hill of the Bhilard.

“Historian!”

Something in the corporal's tone brought Duiker around. List was paying no attention to the Crow's advance—he faced the northwest, where another tribe's riders had just appeared, spreading out as they rode closer in numbers of appalling vastness.

“The Khundryl,” Duiker said. “Said to be the most powerful tribe south of Vathar—as we can now acknowledge.”

Horse hooves thundered toward the rise and they turned to see Coltaine himself approach. The Fist's expression was impassive, almost calm as he stared northwestward.

Clashes had begun at the rearguard position—the day's first drawing of blood, most of it likely to be Wickan. Already the refugees had begun pushing southward, in the hope that will alone could see the valley prised open.

The Khundryl, in the tens of thousands, formed two distinct masses, one directly west of Sanimon's mouth, the other farther to the north, on a flank of Korbolo Dom's army. Between these two was a small knot of war chiefs, who now rode directly toward the rise where sat Duiker, List and Coltaine.

“Looks like personal combat is desired, Fist,” Duiker said. “We'd best ride back.”

“No.”

The historian's head turned. Coltaine had uncouched his lance and was readying his black-feathered round shield on his left forearm.

“Damn you, Fist—this is madness!”

“Watch your tongue, Historian,” the Wickan said distractedly.