The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (175 page)

Duiker's gaze fixed on the short stretch of silver chain visible around the man's neck. “Whatever that gift is that you're wearing, it'll only work once. What you do now is what a war chief of the Wickans would, but not a Fist of the Empire.”

The man snapped around at that and the historian found the barbed point of the lance pricking his throat.

“And just when,” Coltaine rasped, “can I choose to die in the manner I desire? You think I will use this cursed bauble?” Freeing his shield hand, he reached up and tore the chain from his neck. “You wear it, Historian. All that we have done avails the world naught, unless the tale is told. Hood take Dujek Onearm! Hood take the Empress!” He flung the bottle at Duiker and it struck unerringly the palm of his right hand. Fingers closing around the object, he felt the serpentine slither of chain against calluses. The lance-point kissing his neck had not moved.

Their eyes locked.

“Excuse me, sirs,” List said. “It appears this is not an instance of desired combat. If you would both observe…”

Coltaine pulled the weapon away, swung around.

The Khundryl war chiefs waited in a row before them, not thirty paces away. They wore, beneath skins and furs and fetishes, a strange grayish armor that looked almost reptilian. Long mustaches, knotted beards and spiked braids—all black—disguised most of their features, though what remained visible was sun-darkened and angular.

One nudged his pony a step closer and spoke in broken Malazan. “Blackwing! How think you the odds this day?”

Coltaine twisted in his saddle, studied the dust clouds now both north and south, then settled back. “I would make no wager.”

“We have long awaited this day,” the war chief said. He stood in his stirrups and gestured to the south hills. “Tregyn and Bhilard both, this day.” He waved northward. “And Can'eld, and Semk, aye, even Tithansi—what's left, that is. The great tribes of the south odhans, yet who among them all is the most powerful? The answer is with this day.”

“You'd better hurry,” Duiker said.
We're running out of soldiers for you to show your prowess on, you pompous bastard
.

Coltaine seemed to have similar thoughts, though his temper was cooler. “The question belongs to you, nor do I care either way its answer.”

“Are such concerns beyond the Wickan clans, then? Are you not yourselves a tribe?”

Coltaine slowly settled the lance's butt in its socket. “No, we are soldiers of the Malazan Empire.”

Hood's breath, I got through to him
.

The war chief nodded, unperturbed by that answer. “Then be watchful, Fist Coltaine, while you attend to this day.”

The riders wheeled about, parting to rejoin their clans.

“I believe,” Coltaine said, looking around, “you have selected a good vantage, Historian, so here shall I remain.”

“Fist?”

A faint smile touched his lean features. “For a short time.”

 

The Crow Clan and the Seventh gave it their all, but the forces holding the mouth of the valley—from their high ground to either side and farther down the valley's throat—did not yield. The Chain of Dogs contracted between the hammer of Korbolo Dom and the anvil of the Tregyn and Bhilard. It was only a matter of time.

The actions of the Khundryl clans changed all that. For they had come, not to join in the slaughter of Malazans, but to give answer to the one question demanded of their pride and honor. The south mass struck the Tregyn position like a vengeful god's scythe. The north was a spear thrusting deep into Korbolo Dom's flank. A third, hitherto unseen force swept up from the valley itself, behind the Bhilard. Within minutes of the perfectly timed contacts, the Malazan forces found themselves unopposed, while the chaos of battle reigned on all sides.

Korbolo Dom's army quickly recovered, reforming with as much precision as they could muster, and drove back the Khundryl after more than four hours of pitched battle. One aim had been achieved, however, and that was the shattering of the Semk, the Can'eld and whatever was left of the Tithansi.
Half an answer
, Coltaine had muttered at that point, in a tone of utter bewilderment.

The southern forces broke the Tregyn and Bhilard an hour later, and set off in pursuit of the fleeing remnants.

With dusk an hour away, a lone Khundryl war chief rode up to them at a slow canter, and as he neared they saw that it was the spokesman. He'd been in a scrap and was smeared in blood, at least half of it his own, yet he rode straight in his saddle.

He reined in ten paces from Coltaine.

The Fist spoke. “You have your answer, it seems.”

“We have it, Blackwing.”

“The Khundryl.”

Surprise flitted on the warrior's battered face. “You honor us, but no. We strove to break the one named Korbolo Dom, but failed. The answer is not the Khundryl.”

“Then you do honor to Korbolo Dom?”

The war chief spat at that, growled his disbelief. “Spirits below! You cannot be such a fool! The answer this day…” The war chief yanked free his tulwar from its leather sheath, revealing a blade snapped ten inches above the hilt. He raised it over his head and bellowed, “
The Wickans! The Wickans! The Wickans!
”

Seagulls wheeled above them, the first they'd seen in a long while. The horizon ahead, on their course bearing of south by southeast, revealed an uneven smudge that grew steadily even as the day prepared for its swift demise.

Not a single cloud marred the sky and the wind was brisk and steady.

Salk Elan joined Kalam on the forecastle. Both of them were wrapped in cloaks against the rhythmic spray kicked up by
Ragstopper's
headlong plunge into the troughs. To the sailors manning stations on the main deck and aft, the sight of them standing there at the bow like a pair of Great Ravens was black-wrought with omens.

Oblivious to all this, Kalam's gaze held on the island that awaited them.

“By midnight,” Salk Elan said with a loud sigh. “Ancient birthplace of the Malazan Empire—”

The assassin snorted. “Ancient? How old do you think the Empire is? Hood's breath!”

“All right, too romantic by far. I was but seeking a mood—”

“Why?” Kalam barked.

Elan shrugged. “No particular reason, except perhaps this brooding atmosphere of anticipation, nay, impatience, even.”

“What's to brood about?”

“You tell me, friend.”

Kalam grimaced, said nothing.

“Malaz City,” Elan resumed. “What should I expect?”

“Imagine a pigsty by the sea and that'll do. A rotten, festering bug-ridden swamp—”

“All right, all right! Sorry I asked!”

“The captain?”

“No change, alas.”

Why am I not surprised? Sorcery—gods, how I hate sorcery!

Salk Elan rested long-fingered hands on the rail, revealing once again his love of green-hued gems set in gaudy rings. “A fast ship could take us across to Unta in a day and a half…”

“And how would you know that?”

“I asked a sailor, Kalam, how else? That salt-crusted friend of yours pretending to be in charge, what's his name again?”

“I don't recall asking.”

“It's a true, admirable talent, that.”

“What is?”

“Your ability to crush your own curiosity, Kalam. Highly practical in some ways, dreadfully risky in others. You're a hard man to know, harder even to predict—”

“That's right, Elan.”

“Yet you like me.”

“I do?”

“Aye, you do. And I'm glad, because it's important to me—”

“Go find a sailor if you're that way, Elan.”

The other man smiled. “That is not what I meant, but of course you're well aware of that, you just can't help flinging darts. What I'm saying is, I enjoy being liked by someone I admire—”

Kalam spun around. “
What
do you find so admirable, Salk Elan? In all your vague suppositions, have you discovered a belief that I'm susceptible to flattery?
Why
are you eager for a partnership?”

“Killing the Empress won't be easy,” the man replied. “But just imagine succeeding! Achieving what all thought to be impossible! Oh yes, I want to be part of that, Kalam Mekhar! Right there alongside you, driving blades into the heart of the most powerful Empire in the world!”

“You've lost your mind,” Kalam said in a quiet voice, barely audible above the seas. “Kill the Empress? Am I to join you in this madness? Not a chance, Salk Elan.”

“Spare me the dissembling,” he sneered.

“What sorcery holds this ship?”

Salk Elan's eyes widened involuntarily. Then he shook his'head. “Beyond my abilities, Kalam, and Hood knows I've tried. I've searched every inch of Pormqual's loot, and nothing.”

“The ship herself?”

“Not that I could determine. Look, Kalam, we're being tracked by someone in a warren—that's my guess. Someone who wants to make certain of that cargo. A theory only, but it's all I've got. Thus, friend, all my secrets unveiled.”

Kalam was silent a long moment, then he shook himself. “I have contacts in Malaz City—an unexpected converging well ahead of schedule, but there it is.”

“Contacts, excellent—we'll need them. Where?”

“There's a black heart in Malaz City, the blackest. The one thing every denizen avoids mention of, willfully ignores—and there, if all goes well, we will await our allies.”

“Let me guess: the infamous tavern called Smiley's, once owned by the man who would one day become an Emperor—the sailors tell me the food is quite awful.”

Kalam stared at the man in wonder.
Hood alone knows, either breathtakingly sardonic or…or what, by the Abyss?
“No, a place called the Deadhouse. And not inside it, but at the gates, though by all means, Salk Elan, feel free to explore its yard.”

The man leaned both arms on the rail, squinting out at the dull lights of Malaz City. “Assuming a long wait for your friends, perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall at that.”

It was unlikely he noticed Kalam's feral grin.

 

Iskaral Pust gripped the latch with both hands, his feet planted against the door, and, gibbering his terror, pulled frantically—to no avail. With a growl, Mappo stepped over Icarium where he lay at the foot of Tremorlor's entrance, and prised the High Priest from the unyielding barrier.

Fiddler heard the Trell straining at the latch, but the sapper's attention was fixed on the swarm of bloodflies. Tremorlor was resisting them, but the advance was inexorable. Blind stood at his side, head lifted, hackles raised. The four other Hounds had reappeared on the trail and were charging toward the yard's vine-wreathed gate. The shadow cast down by the D'ivers swept over them like black water.

“It either opens at the touch,” Apsalar said in a startlingly calm voice, “or it does not open at all. Stand back, Mappo, let us all try.”

“Icarium stirs!” Crokus cried out.

“It's the threat,” the Trell answered. “Gods below, not here, not now!”

“No better time!” Iskaral Pust shrieked.

Apsalar spoke again. “Crokus, you're the last to try but Fiddler. Come here, quickly.”

The silence that followed told Fiddler all he needed to know. He risked a glance back to where Mappo crouched over Icarium. “Awaken him,” he said, “or all is lost.”

The Trell lifted his face and the sapper saw the anguished indecision writ there. “This close to Tremorlor—the risk, Fiddler—”

“What—”

But he got no further.

As if speared by lightning, the Jhag's body jolted, a high-pitched keening rising from him. The sound buffeted the others and sent them tumbling. Fresh blood streaming from the wound on his head and his eyes struggling to open, Icarium surged to his feet. The ancient single-edged long sword slipped free, the blade's strange, shivering blur.

The Hounds and the D'ivers swarm reached the yard simultaneously. The grounds and ragged trees erupted, chaotic webs of root and branch twisting skyward like black sails, billowing, spreading wide. Other roots snapped out for the Hounds—the beasts screamed. Blind was gone from Fiddler's side, down among her kin.

At that moment, in the midst of all he saw, Fiddler grinned inwardly.
Not just Shadowthrone for treachery—how could an Azath resist the Hounds of Shadow?

A hand gripped his shoulder.

“The latch!” Apsalar hissed. “Try the door, Fid!”

The D'ivers struck. Tremorlor's last, desperate defense. Wood exploded.

The sapper was pushed against the door by a pair of hands on his back, catching a momentary glimpse of Mappo, his arms wrapped around a still mostly unaware Icarium, holding the Jhag back even as that keening sound rose and with it an overwhelming, inexorable power burgeoned. The pressure slapped Fiddler against the door's sweaty, dark wood and held him there in effortless contempt, whispering its promise of annihilation. He struggled to work his arm toward the latch, straining every muscle to that single task.

Hounds howled from the farthest reaches of the yard, a triumphant, outraged sound that rose toward fear as Icarium's own rage swallowed all else. Fiddler felt the wood tremble, felt that tremble spread through the House.

His sweat mingling with Tremorlor's, the sapper gave one last surge of all his strength, willing success, willing the achievement of moving his arm, closing a hand on the latch.

And failed.

Behind him another blood-curdling noise reached through, that of the bloodflies, breaking through the wooden nets, coming ever closer, only moments from clashing with Icarium's deadly anger
—the Jhag will awaken then. No other choice—and our deaths will be the least of it. The Azath, the maze and all its prisoners…oh, be very thorough in your rage, Icarium, for the sake of this world and every other—

Stabbing pain lanced the back of Fiddler's hand
—Bloodflies!—
but there was a weight behind it. Not stings, but the grip of small claws. The sapper cocked his head and found himself staring into Moby's fanged grin.

The familiar made its way down the length of his arm, claws puncturing skin. The creature seemed to be shifting in and out of focus before Fiddler's eyes, and with each blur the weight on his arm was suddenly immense. He realized he was screaming.

Moby clambered beyond the sapper's hand onto the door itself, reached out a tiny, wrinkled hand to the latch, touched it.

Fiddler tumbled onto damp, warm flagstones. He heard shouts behind him, the scrabbling of boots, while the House groaned on all sides. He rolled onto his back, and in the process came down on something that snapped and crackled beneath his weight, lifting to him a bitter smell of dust.

Then Icarium's deathly keening was among them.

Tremorlor shook.

Fiddler twisted into a sitting position.

They were in a hallway, the limestone walls shedding a dull yellow, throbbing light. Mappo still held Icarium and as the sapper watched, the Trell struggled to retain his embrace. A moment later the Jhag subsided, slumping once again in the Trell's arms. The golden light steadied, the walls themselves stilled. Icarium's rage was gone.

Mappo sagged to the floor, head hanging over the insensate body of his friend.

Fiddler slowly looked around to see if they'd lost anyone. Apsalar crouched beside her father, their backs to the now shut door. Crokus had dragged a cowering Iskaral Pust in with him, and the High Priest looked up, blinking as if in disbelief.

Fiddler's voice was a croak. “The Hounds, Iskaral Pust?”

“Escaped! And yet, even in the midst of betrayal, they threw their power against the D'ivers!” He paused, sniffed the dank air. “Can you smell it? Tremorlor's satisfaction—the D'ivers has been taken.”

“That betrayal might have been instinctive, High Priest,” Apsalar said. “Five Ascendants in the House's yard—the vast risk to Tremorlor itself, given Shadow's own penchant for treachery—”

“Lies! We played true!”

“A first time for everything,” Crokus muttered. He looked across to Fiddler. “Glad it opened to you, Fid.”

The sapper started, searched the hallway. “It didn't. Moby opened the door and ripped my arm to shreds in the process—where is that damned runt? It's in here somewhere—”

“You're sitting on a corpse,” Apsalar's father observed.

Fiddler glanced down to find himself on a nest of bones and rotted clothing. He clambered clear, cursing.

“I don't see him,” Crokus said. “You sure he made it inside, Fid?”

“Aye, I'm sure.”

“He must have gone deeper into the House—”

“He seeks the gate!” Pust squealed. “The Path of Hands!”

“Moby's a famil—”

“More lies! That disgusting bhok'aral is a Soletaken, you fool!”

“Relax. There is no gate in here that offers a shapeshifter anything,” Apsalar said, slowly rising, her eyes on the withered corpse behind Fiddler. “That would have been the Keeper—each Azath has a guardian. I'd always assumed they were immortal…” She stepped forward, kicked at the bones. She grunted. “Not human—those limbs are too long, and look at the joints—too many of them. This thing could bend every which way.”

Mappo lifted his head. “Forkrul Assail.”

“The least known of the Elder Races, then. Not even hinted of in any Seven Cities legend I've heard.” She swung her attention to the hallway.

Five paces from the door the passage opened on a T-intersection, with double doors directly opposite the entrance.

“The layout's almost identical,” Apsalar whispered.

“To what?” Crokus asked.

“Deadhouse, Malaz City.”

Pattering feet approached the intersection, and a moment later Moby scampered into view. The creature flapped up and into the Daru's arms.

“He's shaking,” Crokus said, hugging the familiar.

“Oh, great,” Fiddler muttered.

“The Jhag,” Pust hissed from where he knelt a few paces from Mappo and Icarium. “I saw you crushing him in your arms—is he dead?”

The Trell shook his head. “Unconscious. I don't think he'll awaken for some time—”

“Then let the Azath take him! Now! We are within Tremorlor. Our need for him has ended!”

“No.”

“Fool!”

A bell clanged somewhere outside. They all looked at each other in disbelief.

“Did we hear that?” Fiddler wondered. “A
merchant's
bell?”

“Why a merchant?” Pust growled, eyes darting suspiciously.

But Crokus was nodding. “A merchant's bell. In Darujhistan, that is.”

The sapper went to the door. From within, the latch moved smoothly under his hand, and he swung the door back.

Thin sheets of tangled root now rose from the yard, towering over the House itself in a clash of angles and planes. Humped earth steamed on all sides. Waiting just outside the arched gate were three huge, ornate carriages, each drawn by nine white horses. A roundish figure stood beneath the arch, wearing silks. The figure raised a hand toward Fiddler and called out in Daru, “Alas, I can go no farther! I assure you, all is calm out here. I seek the one named Fiddler.”