The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (420 page)

She stepped forward. There was a moment's pressure, then she stumbled through, brought up short against the crumbled foundation wall. A sudden…
absence
. Terrifying, bursting like the clearest light where all had been, but a moment earlier, impenetrable gloom. Bereft…
yet free. Gods, free—the light
—‘Ghost Hands!' she gasped. ‘What have you done?'

‘The goddess within you, Sha'ik,' came Heboric's words, ‘is not welcome in my temple.'

Temple?
Roaring chaos was building within her, the vast places in her mind where the Whirlwind Goddess had been now suddenly vacant, filling with the dark, rushing return of…
of all that I was.
Bitter fury grew like a wildfire as memories rose with demonic ferocity to assail her.
Beneth. You bastard. You closed your hands around a child, but what you shaped was anything but a woman. A plaything. A slave to you and your twisted, brutal world.

I used to watch that knife in your hands, the flickering games that were your idle habits. And that's what you taught me, isn't it? Cutting for fun and blood. And oh, how I cut. Baudin. Kulp. Heboric—

A physical presence beside her now, the solid feel of hands—jade green, black-barred—a figure, squat and wide and seemingly beneath the shadow of fronds—no, tattoos.
Heboric
…

‘Inside, lass. I have made you…bereft. An unanticipated consequence of forcing the goddess from your soul. Come.'

And then he was guiding her into the tent's confines. The air chill and damp, a single small oil lamp struggling against the gloom—a flame that suddenly moved as he lifted the lamp and brought it over to a brazier, where he used its burning oil to light the bricks of dung. And, as he worked, he spoke. ‘Not much need for light…the passage of time…before tasked with sanctioning a makeshift temple…what do I know of Treach, anyway?'

She was sitting on cushions, her trembling hands held before the brazier's growing flames, furs wrapped about her. At the name ‘Treach' she started, looked up.

To see Heboric squatting before her.
As he had squatted that day, so long ago now, in Judgement's Round. When Hood's sprites had come to him…to foretell of Fener's casting down. The flies would not touch his spiral tattoos. I remember that. Everywhere else, they swarmed like madness.
Now, those tattoos had undergone a transformation. ‘Treach.'

His eyes narrowed on hers—
a cat's eyes, now—he can see!
‘Ascended into god-hood, Sha'ik—'

‘Don't call me that. I am Felisin Paran of House Paran.' She hugged herself suddenly. ‘Sha'ik waits for me…out there, beyond this tent's confines—beyond your wards.'

‘And would you return to that embrace, lass?'

She studied the brazier's fire, whispered, ‘No choice, Heboric.'

‘No, I suppose not.'

A thunderous shock bolted her upright. ‘Felisin!'

‘What?'

‘Felisin Younger! I have not…not seen her! Days? Weeks? What—where is she!'

Heboric's motion was feline as he straightened, fluid and precise. ‘The goddess must know, lass—'

‘If she does, she's not told
me
!'

‘But why would…'

She saw a sudden knowledge in his eyes, and felt her own answering stab of fear. ‘Heboric, what do you—'

Then he was guiding her to the tent flap, speaking as he drove her back step by step. ‘We spoke, you and I, and all is well. Nothing to concern yourself over. The Adjunct and her legions are coming and there is much to do. As well, there are the secret plans of Febryl to keep an eye on, and for that you must rely upon Bidithal—'

‘Heboric!' She struggled against him, but he would not relent. They reached the flap and he pushed her outside. ‘What are you—' A hard shove and she stumbled back.

Through a flare of wards.

Sha'ik slowly righted herself. She must have stumbled.
Oh yes, a conversation with Ghost Hands. All is well. I'm relieved by that, for it allows me to think on more important things. My nest of betrayers, for example. Must have words with Bidithal again tonight. Yes…

She turned from the ex-priest's tent and made her way back to the palace.

Overhead, the stars of the desert sky were shimmering, as they often did when the goddess had come close…Sha'ik wondered what had drawn her this time. Perhaps no more than casting a protective eye on her Chosen One…

She was unmindful—as was her goddess—of the barely visible shape that slipped out from the entrance to Heboric's tent, flowing in a blur into the nearest shadows. Unmindful, also, of the scent that barbed shape now followed.

Westward, to the city's edge, and then onto the trail, padding between the stone trees, towards a distant glade.

 

Bidithal sat in the seething shadows, alone once more, although the smile remained fixed on his withered face. Febryl had his games, but so did the once High Priest of the Shadow cult. Even betrayers could be betrayed, after all, a sudden turning of the knife in the hand.

And the sands would fold one more time, the way they did when the air breathed hard, in, out, back, forth, stirring and shifting the grains as would waves against a beach, to lay one layer over another in thin seams of colour. There were no limits to the number of layers, and this Febryl and his fellow conspirators would soon discover, to their grief.

They sought the warren for themselves. It had taken Bidithal a long time to
unveil that truth, that deep-buried motivation, for it had remained in the silence between every spoken word. This was not a simple, mundane struggle for power. No. This was usurpation. Expropriation—a detail that itself whispered of yet deeper secrets. They wanted the warren…but why? A question yet to be answered, but find an answer he would, and soon.

In this, he knew, the Chosen One relied upon him, and he would not fail her.
In so far as what she expects from me, yes, I will deliver. Of course, there are other issues that extend far beyond Sha'ik, this goddess and the Whirlwind Warren she would rule. The shape of the pantheon itself is at stake…my long-overdue vengeance against those foreign pretenders to the Throne of Shadow.

Even now, if he listened very—
very
—carefully, he could hear them. And they were coming. Closer, ever closer.

A tremble of fear took his limbs, and shadows scurried away from him momentarily, only returning when he had settled once more.
Rashan…and Meanas. Meanas and Thyr. Thyr and Rashan. The three children of the Elder Warrens. Galain, Emurlahn and Thyrllan. Should it be so surprising that they war once more? For do not we ever inherit the spites of our fathers and mothers?

But a ghost of that fear remained. He had not called them, after all. Had not understood the truth of what lay
beneath
the Whirlwind Warren, the reason why the warren was held in this single place and nowhere else. Had not
comprehended
how the old battles never died, but simply slept, every bone in the sand restless with memory.

Bidithal raised his hands and the army of shadows crowded within his temple gathered closer.

‘My children,' he whispered, beginning the Closing Chant.

‘Father.'

‘Do you remember?'

‘We remember.'

‘Do you remember the dark?'

‘We remember the dark. Father—'

‘Ask it and close this moment, children.'

‘Do you remember the dark?'

The priest's smile broadened. A simple question, one that could be asked of anyone, anyone at all. And perhaps they would understand. But probably not.
Yet I understand it.

Do you remember the dark?

‘I remember.'

As, with sighs, the shadows dispersed, Bidithal stiffened once more to that almost inaudible call. He shivered again. They were getting close indeed.

And he wondered what they would do, when they finally arrived.

 

There were eleven in all. His chosen.

Korbolo Dom leaned back on his cushions, eyes veiled as he studied the silent, shrouded line of figures standing before him. The Napan held a goblet
carved from crystal in his right hand, in which swirled a rare wine from the Grisian valleys on Quon Tali. The woman who had kept him amused earlier this night was asleep, her head resting on his right thigh. He had plied her with enough durhang to ensure oblivion for the next dozen bells, though it was the expedience of security rather than any insipid desire on his part that necessitated such measures.

Drawn from his Dogslayers, the eleven killers were appallingly skilled. Five of them had been personal assassins to Holy Falah'dan in the days before the Empire, rewarded with gifts of alchemy and sorcery to maintain their youthful appearance and vigour.

Three of the remaining six were Malazan—Korbolo Dom's own, created long ago, when he realized he had cause to worry about the Claw.
Cause…now that's a simplification almost quaint in its coyness. A multitude of realizations, of sudden discoveries, of knowledge I had never expected to gain—of things I had believed long dead and gone.
There had been ten such bodyguards, once. Evidence of the need for them stood before him now. Three left, the result of a brutal process of elimination, leaving only those with the greatest skill and the most fortuitous alliance of Oponn's luck—two qualities that fed each other well.

The remaining three assassins were from various tribes, each of whom had proved his worth during the Chain of Dogs. The arrow from one had slain Sormo E'nath, from a distance of seventy paces, on the Day of Pure Blood. There had been other arrows striking true, but it had been the one through the warlock's neck—the assassin's—that had filled the lad's lungs with blood, that had drowned his very breath, so that he could not call upon his damned spirits for healing…

Korbolo sipped wine, slowly licked his lips. ‘Kamist Reloe has chosen among you,' he rumbled after a moment, ‘for the singular task that will trigger all that subsequently follows. And I am content with his choices. But do not think this diminishes the rest of you. There will be tasks—essential tasks—on that night. Here in this very camp. I assure you, you will get no sleep that night, so prepare yourselves. Also, two of you will remain with me at all times, for I can guarantee that my death will be sought before that fateful dawn arrives.'

I expect you to die in my place. Of course. It is what you are sworn to do, should the need arise.

‘Leave me now,' he said, waving his free hand.

The eleven assassins bowed in unison, then filed silently out of the tent.

Korbolo lifted the woman's head from his thigh, by the hair—noting how she remained insensate to the rough handling—and rose from the cushions, letting her head thump back down. He paused to drink a mouthful of the wine, then stepped from the modest dais and approached the side chamber that had been partitioned off by silk hangings.

Within the private room, Kamist Reloe was pacing. Hands wringing, shoulders drawn up, neck taut.

Korbolo leaned against a support post, his mouth twisting into a slight sneer at seeing the High Mage's fretting. ‘Which of your many fears plagues you now, Kamist? Oh do not answer. I admit I've ceased caring.'

‘Foolish complacency on your part, then,' the High Mage snapped. ‘Do you think we are the only clever people?'

‘In the world? No. Here, in Raraku, well, that's another matter. Who should we fear, Kamist Reloe? Sha'ik? Her goddess devours her acuity—day by day, the lass grows less and less aware of what goes on around her. And that goddess barely takes note of us—oh, there are suspicions, perhaps, but that is all. Thus. Who else? L'oric? I've known many a man like him—creating mystery around themselves—and I have found that what it usually hides is an empty vessel. He is all pose and nothing more.'

‘You are wrong in that, I fear, but no, I do not worry about L'oric.'

‘Who else? Ghost Hands? The man's vanished into his own pit of hen'bara. Leoman? He's not here and I've plans for his return. Toblakai? I think we've seen the last of him. Who is left? Why, none other than Bidithal. But Febryl swears he almost has him in our fold—it's simply a question of discovering what the bastard truly desires. Something squalid and disgusting, no doubt. He is slave to his vices, is Bidithal. Offer him ten thousand orphaned girls and the smile will never leave his ugly face.'

Kamist Reloe wrapped his arms about himself as he continued pacing. ‘It's not who we know to be among us that is the source of my concerns, Korbolo Dom, it's who is among us that we do not know.'

The Napan scowled. ‘And how many hundreds of spies do we have in this camp? And what of the Whirlwind Goddess herself—do you imagine she will permit the infiltration of strangers?'

‘Your flaw, Korbolo Dom, is that you think in a strictly linear fashion. Ask that question again, only this time ask it in the context of the goddess having
suspicions
about us.'

The High Mage was too distracted to notice the Napan's half-step forward, one hand lifting. But Korbolo Dom's blow died at that very moment, as the import of Kamist Reloe's challenge reached him. His eyes slowly widened. Then he shook his head. ‘No, that would be too great a risk to take. A Claw let loose in this camp would endanger
everyone
—there would be no way to predict their targets—'

‘Would there be a need to?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We are the
Dogslayers
, Korbolo Dom. The murderers of Coltaine, the Seventh, and the legions at Aren. More, we also possess the mage cadre for the Army of the Apocalypse. Finally, who will be commanding that army on the day of battle? How many reasons do the Claw need to strike at us, and at us specifically? What chance would Sha'ik have if we were all dead? Why kill Sha'ik at all? We can fight this war without her and her damned goddess—we've done it before. And we're about to—'