The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (840 page)

Shurq Elalle turned away. ‘Errant take me,' she muttered. ‘I nearly lost it there.'

‘Lost what?'

‘You do not want to know.'

The launch arrived, thumping up against the hull, and moments later the Adjunct climbed into view. She cast a single glance over at the pinned demons, then nodded greeting to Shurq Elalle as she walked up to Withal.

‘Is it time?' he asked.

‘Almost,' she replied. ‘Come with me.'

Shurq watched the two head below.

Withal, you poor man. Now I'm frightened for you as well.

Damn, forgot to ask permission to leave.
She thought to follow them, then decided not to.
Sorry, Skorgen, but don't worry. We can always outsail a marching army. Those nobles aren't going anywhere, after all, are they?

 

A short time later, while the sailors argued over who'd won what, the three nachts – who had been lying motionless as if dead – stirred and deftly extricated themselves from the shortsword. One of them kicked the weapon into the river, held its hands over its ears at the soft splash.

The three then exchanged hugs and caresses.

Amused and curious from where he sat with his back to a rail on the foredeck, Banaschar, the last Demidrek of the Worm of Autumn, continued watching. And was nevertheless caught entirely by surprise when the nachts swarmed over the side and a moment later there followed three distinct splashes.

He rose and went to the rail, looking down. Three vague heads bobbed on their way to the shore.

‘Almost time,' he whispered.

 

Rautos Hivanar stared down at the crowded array of objects on the tabletop, trying once more to make sense of them. He had rearranged them dozens of times, sensing that there was indeed a pattern, somewhere, and could he but place the objects in their proper position, he would finally understand.

The artifacts had been cleaned, the bronze polished and gleaming. He had assembled lists of characteristics, seeking a typology, groupings based on certain details – angles of curvature, weight, proximity of where they had been found, even the various depths at which they had been buried.

For they had indeed been buried. Not tossed away, not thrown into a pit. No, each one had been set down in a hole sculpted into the clays – he had managed to create moulds of those depressions, which had helped him establish each object's cant and orientation.

The array before him now was positioned on the basis of spatial location, each set precisely in proper relation to the others – at least he believed so, based on his map. The only exception was with the second and third artifacts. The dig at that time – when the first three had been recovered – had not been methodical, and so the removal of the objects had destroyed any chance of precisely specifying their placement. And so it was two of these three that he now moved, again and again. Regarding the third one – the very first object found – he well knew where it belonged.

Meanwhile, outside the estate's high, well-guarded walls, the city of Letheras descended into anarchy.

Muttering under his breath, Rautos Hivanar picked up that first artifact. Studied its now familiar right angle bend, feeling its sure weight in his hands, and wondering anew at the warmth of the metal. Had it grown hotter in the last few days? He wasn't sure and had no real way of measuring such a thing.

Faint on the air in the room was the smell of smoke. Not woodsmoke, as might come from a hundred thousand cookfires, but the more acrid reek of burnt cloth and varnished furniture, along with – so very subtle – the sweet tang of scorched human flesh.

He had sent his servants to their beds, irritated with their endless reports, the fear in their meek eyes. Was neither hungry nor thirsty, and it seemed a new clarity was taking hold of his vision, his mind. The most intriguing detail of all was that he had now found twelve full-scale counterparts throughout the city; and each of these corresponded perfectly with the layout before him – excepting the two, of course. So, what he had on this table was a miniature map, and this, he knew, was important.

Perhaps the most important detail of all.

If he only knew why.

Yes, the object was growing warmer. Was it the same with its much larger companion, there in the back yard of his new inn?

He rose. No matter how late it was, he needed to find out. Carefully replacing the artifact onto the tabletop map, matching the position of the inn, he then made his way to his wardrobe.

The sounds of rioting in the city beyond had moved away, back into the poorer districts to the north. Donning a heavy cloak and collecting his walking stick – one that saw little use under normal circumstances, but there was now the possible need for self-protection – Rautos Hivanar left the room. Made his way through the silent house. Then outside, turning left, to the outer wall.

The guards standing at the side postern gate saluted.

‘Any nearby trouble?' Rautos asked.

‘Not of late, sir.'

‘I wish to go out.'

The guard hesitated, then said, ‘I will assemble an escort—'

‘No no. I intend to be circumspect.'

‘Sir—'

‘Open the door.'

The guard complied.

Passing through, he paused in the narrow avenue, listening to the guard lock the door behind him. The smell of smoke was stronger here, a haze forming haloes round those few lamps still lit atop their iron poles. Rubbish lined the gutters, a most unpleasant detail evincing just how far all order and civil conduct had descended. Failure to keep the streets clean was symbolic of a moribund culture, a culture that had, despite loud and public exhortations to the contrary, lost its sense of pride, and its belief in itself.

When had this happened? The Tiste Edur conquest? No, that defeat had been but a symptom. The promise of anarchy, of collapse, had been whispered long before then. But so soft was that whisper that none heard it.
Ah, that is a lie. We were just unwilling to listen.

He continued looking round, feeling a heavy lassitude settle on his shoulders.

As with Letheras, so with empire.

Rautos Hivanar set out, to walk a dying city.

 

Five men meaning no good were camped out in the old Tarthenal cemetery. Frowning, Ublala Pung strode out of the darkness and into their midst. His fists flew. A few moments later he was standing amidst five motionless bodies. He picked up the first one and carried it to the pit left behind by a huge fallen tree, threw it in the sodden hole. Then went back for the others.

A short time later he stamped out the small fire and began clearing a space, pulling grass, tossing stones. He went down on his knees to tug loose the smaller weeds, and slowly crawled in an expanding spiral.

Overhead, the hazy moon was still on the rise, and somewhere to the north buildings burned. He needed to be done by dawn. The ground cleared, a wide, circular space of nothing but bared earth. It could be lumpy. That was all right, and it was good that it was all right since cemeteries were lumpy places.

Hearing a moan from the hole where the tree had been, Ublala rose, brushed the dirt from his knees and then his hands, and walked over. Edging down into the pit, he stared at the grey forms until he figured out which one was coming round. Then he crouched and punched the man in the head a few more times, until the moaning stopped. Satisfied, he returned to his clearing.

By dawn, yes.

Because at dawn, Ublala Pung knew, the Emperor would lift his cursed sword, and standing across from him, on that arena floor, would be Karsa Orlong.

 

In a secret chamber – what had once been a tomb of some kind – Ormly, the Champion Rat Catcher, sat down opposite an enormously fat woman. He scowled. ‘You don't need that down here, Rucket.'

‘True,' she replied, ‘but I've grown used to it. You would not believe the power being huge engenders. The intimidation. You know, when things finally get better and there's plenty of food to be had again, I'm thinking of doing this for real.'

‘But that's just my point,' Ormly replied, leaning forward. ‘It's all padding and padding don't weigh anything like the real thing. You'll get tired walking across a room. Your knees will hurt. Your breaths will get shorter because the lungs can't expand enough. You'll get stretch marks even though you've never had a baby—'

‘So if I get pregnant too then it'll be all right?'

‘Except for all that other stuff, why yes, I suppose it would. Not that anybody could tell.'

‘Ormly, you are a complete idiot.'

‘But good at my job.'

To that, Rucket nodded. ‘And so? How did it go?'

Ormly squinted across at her, then scratched his stubbly jaw. ‘It's a problem.'

‘Serious?'

‘Serious.'

‘How serious?'

‘About as serious as it can get.'

‘Hmmm. No word from Selush?'

‘Not yet. And you're right, we'll have to wait for that.'

‘But our people are in the right place, yes? No trouble with all the riots and such?'

‘We're good on that count, Rucket. Hardly popular sites, are they?'

‘So has there been any change in the time of execution?'

Ormly shrugged. ‘We'll see come dawn, assuming any criers are still working. I sure hope not, Rucket. Even as it is, we may fail. You do know that, don't you?'

She sighed. ‘That would be tragic. No, heartbreaking.'

‘You actually love him?'

‘Oh, I don't know. Hard not to, really. I'd have competition, though.'

‘That scholar? Well, unless they're in the same cell, I don't think you need worry.'

‘Like I said, you're an idiot. Of course I'm worrying, but not about competition. I'm worried for him. I'm worried for her. I'm worried that all this will go wrong and Karos Invictad will have his triumph. We're running out of time.'

Ormly nodded.

‘So, do you have any good news?' she asked.

‘Not sure if it's good but it's interesting.'

‘What?'

‘Ublala Pung's gone insane.'

Rucket shook her head. ‘Not possible. He hasn't enough brains to go insane.'

‘Well, he beat up five scribers hiding out from the riots in the Tarthenal cemetery, and now he's crawling around on his hands and knees and pinching weeds.'

‘So what's all that about?'

‘No idea, Rucket.'

‘He's gone insane.'

‘Impossible.'

‘I know,' she replied.

They sat in silence for a time, then Rucket said, ‘Maybe I'll just keep the padding. That way I can have it without all the costs.'

‘Is it real padding?'

‘Illusions and some real stuff, kind of a patchwork thing.'

‘And you think he'll fall in love with you looking like that? I mean, compared to Janath who's probably getting skinnier by the moment which, as you know, some men like since it makes their women look like children or some other ghastly secret truth nobody ever admits out loud—'

‘He's not one of those.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘I am.'

‘Well, I suppose you would know.'

‘I would,' she replied. ‘Anyway, what you're talking about is making me feel kind of ill.'

‘Manly truths will do that,' Ormly said.

They sat. They waited.

 

Ursto Hoobutt and his wife and sometime lover Pinosel clambered onto the muddy bank. In Ursto's gnarled hands was a huge clay jug. They paused to study the frozen pond that had once been Settle Lake, the ice gleaming in the diffuse moonlight.

‘It's melting, Cherrytart,' he said.

‘Well you're just getting smarter day by day, dearie. We knowed it was melting. We knowed that a long time coming. We knowed it sober and we knowed it drunk.' She lifted her hamper. ‘Now, we looking at a late supper or are we looking at an early breakfast?'

‘Let's stretch it out and make it both.'

‘Can't make it both. One or the other and if we stretch it out it'll be neither so make up your mind.'

‘What's got you so touchy, love?'

‘It's melting, dammit, and that means ants at the picnic.'

‘We knew it was coming—'

‘So what? Ants is ants.'

They settled down onto the bank, waving at mosquitoes. Ursto unstoppered the jug as Pinosel unwrapped the hamper. He reached for a tidbit and she slapped his hand away. He offered her the jug and she scowled, then accepted it. With her hands full, he snatched the tidbit then leaned back, content as he popped the morsel into his mouth.

Then gagged. ‘Errant's ear, what is this?'

‘That was a clay ball, love. For the scribing. And now, we're going to have to dig us up some more. Or, you are, since it was you who ate the one we had.'

‘Well, it wasn't all bad, really. Here, give me that jug so's I can wash it down.'

A pleasant evening, Ursto reflected somewhat blearily, to just sit and watch a pond melt.

At least until the giant demon trapped in the ice broke loose. At that disquieting thought, he shot his wife and sometime lover a glance, remembering the day long ago when they'd been sitting here, all peaceful and the like, and she'd been on at him to get married and he'd said – oh well, he'd said it and now here they were and that might've been the Errant's nudge but he didn't think so.

No matter what the Errant thought.

‘I seen that nostalgic look in your eyes, hubby-bubby. What say we have a baby?'

Ursto choked a second time, but on nothing so prosaic as a ball of clay.

 

The central compound of the Patriotists, the Lether Empire's knotted core of fear and intimidation, was under siege. Periodically, mobs heaved against the walls, rocks and jugs of oil with burning rag wicks sailing over to crash down in the compound. Flames had taken the stables and four other outbuildings three nights past, and the terrible sound of screaming horses had filled the smoky air. It had been all the trapped Patriotists could do to keep the main block from catching fire.