The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (95 page)

“It's Kimloc's belief.”

“Kimloc!” Kalam cursed. “He's in the city?”

“So it's said.” Fiddler took another mouthful of wine. Telling the assassin of his adventures—and his meeting with the Spiritwalker—would send Kalam out through the door.
And Kimloc to Hood's Gates. Kimloc, his family, his guards. Everyone
. The man sitting across from him would take no chances.
Another gift to you, Kimloc…my silence
.

Footsteps sounded in the back hallway and a moment later Crokus appeared. “It's as dark as a cave in here,” he complained.

“Where's Apsalar?” Fiddler demanded.

“In the garden—where else?” the Daru thief snapped back.

The sapper subsided. Remnants of his old unease still clung to him.
When she was out of sight, trouble would come from it. When she was out of sight you watched your back
. It was still hard to accept that the girl was no longer what she'd been.
Besides, if the Patron of Assassins chose once more to possess her, the first warning we'd get would be a knife blade across the throat
. He kneaded the taut muscles of his neck, sighing.

Crokus dragged a chair to the table, dropped into it and reached for the wine. “We're tired of waiting,” he pronounced. “If we have to cross this damned land, then let's do it. There's a steaming pile of rubbish behind the garden wall, clogging up the sewage gutter. Crawling with rats. The air's hot and so thick with flies you can barely breathe. We'll catch a plague if we stay here much longer.”

“Let's hope it's the bluetongue, then,” Kalam said.

“What's that?”

“Your tongue swells up and turns blue,” Fiddler explained.

“What's so good about that?”

“You can't talk.”

 

The stars bristled overhead, the moon yet to rise as Kalam made his way toward Jen'rahb. The old ramps climbed to the hill's summit like a giant's stairs, gap-toothed where the chiseled blocks of stone had been removed for use in other parts of Ehrlitan. Tangled scrub filled the gaps, long, wiry roots anchored deep in the slope's fill.

The assassin scrambled lithely over the rubble, staying low so that he would make little outline against the sky, should anyone glance up from the streets below. The city was quiet, its silence unnatural. The few patrols of Malazan soldiery found themselves virtually alone, as if assigned to guard a necropolis, the haunt of ghosts and scant else. Their unease had made them loud as they walked the alleys and Kalam had been able to avoid them with little effort.

He reached the crest, slipping in between two large limestone blocks that had once formed part of the summit's outer wall. He paused, breathing deep the dusty night air, and looked down on the streets of Ehrlitan. The Fist's Keep, once the home of the city's Holy Falah'd, rose dark and misshapen above a well-lit compound, like a clenched hand rising from a bed of coals. Yet within that stone edifice the military governor of the Malazan Empire cowered, shutting his ears to the heated warnings of the Red Blades and whatever Malazan spies and sympathizers had not yet been driven out or murdered. The entire occupying regiment was holed up in the Keep's own barracks, having been called in from the outlying garrison forts strategically placed around Ehrlitan's circumference. The Keep could not accommodate such numbers—the well was already foul, and soldiers slept on the bailey's flagstones under the stars. In the harbor two ancient Falari triremes were moored off the Malazan mole and a lone undermanned company of marines held the Imperial Docks. The Malazans were under siege with not a hand yet raised against them.

Kalam found within himself conflicting loyalties. By birth he was among the occupied, but he had by choice fought under the standards of the Empire. He'd fought for Emperor Kellanved.
And Dassem Ultor, and Whiskeyjack, and Dujek Onearm. But not Laseen. Betrayal cut those bonds long ago
. The Emperor would have cut the heart out of this rebellion with its first beat. A short but unremitting bloodbath, followed by a long peace. But Laseen had left the old wounds to fester, and what was coming would silence Hood himself.

Kalam swung back from the hill's crest. The landscape before him was a tumbled maze of shattered limestone and bricks, sinkholes and knotted shrubs. Clouds of insects hovered over black pools. Bats and rhizan darted among them.

Near the center rose the first three levels of a tower, tilted with roots snaking down from a drought-twisted tree on its top. The maw of a doorway was visible at its base.

Kalam studied it for a time, then finally approached. He was ten paces from the opening when he saw a flicker of light within. The assassin withdrew a knife, tapped the pommel twice against a block, then crossed to the doorway. A voice from its darkness stopped him.

“No closer, Kalam Mekhar.”

Kalam spat loudly. “Mebra, you think I don't recognize your voice? Vile rhizan like you never wander far from their nest, which is what made you so easy to find, and following you here was even easier.”

“I have important business to attend to,” Mebra growled. “Why have you returned? What do you want of me? My debt was with the Bridgeburners, but they are no more.”

“Your debt was with me,” Kalam said.

“And when the next Malazan dog with the sigil of a burning bridge finds me, he can claim the debt as well? And the next, and the next after that? Oh no, Kal—”

The assassin was at the doorway before Mebra realized it, lunging into the darkness, a hand flashing out unerringly to grip the spy by the throat. The man squawked, dragged from his feet as Kalam lifted him and threw him against a wall. The assassin held him there, a knife point pricking the hollow above his breastbone. Something the spy had been clutching to his chest fell, slipping between them to thud heavily at their feet. Kalam did not spare it a glance; his eyes fixed on Mebra's own.

“The debt,” he said.

“Mebra is an honorable man,” the spy gasped. “Pays every debt! Pays yours!”

Kalam grinned. “The hand you've just closed on that dagger at your belt had best remain where it is, Mebra. I see all that you plan. There in your eyes. Now look into mine. What do you see?”

Mebra's breath quickened. Sweat trickled down his brow. “Mercy,” he said.

Kalam's brows rose. “A fatal misreading—”

“No, no! I ask for mercy, Kalam! In your eyes I see only death! Mebra's death! I shall repay the debt, my old friend. I know much, all that the Fist needs to know! I can deliver Ehrlitan into his hands—”

“No doubt,” Kalam said, releasing his grip on the man's throat and stepping back. Mebra slid down the wall into a feeble crouch. “But leave the Fist to his fate.”

The spy looked up, in his eyes a sudden cunning. “You are outlawed. With no wish to return to the Malazan fold. You are Seven Cities once again! Kalam, may the Seven bless you!”

“I need the signs, Mebra. Safe passage through the Odhan.”

“You know them—”

“The symbols have bred. I know the
old
ones, and those will get me killed by the first tribe that finds me.”

“Passage is yours with but one symbol, Kalam. Across the breadth of Seven Cities, I swear it.”

The assassin stepped back. “What is it?”

“You are Dryjhna's child, a soldier of the Apocalypse. Make the whirlwind gesture—do you recall it?”

Suspicious, Kalam slowly nodded. “Yet I have seen so many more, so many new symbols. What of them?”

“Amidst the cloud of locusts there is but one,” Mebra said. “How best to keep the Red Blades blind? Please, Kalam, you must go. I have repaid the debt…”

“If you have betrayed me, Adaephon Ben Delat shall know of it. Tell me, could you escape Quick Ben with his warrens unveiled?”

Mute, his face pale as the moonlight, Mebra shook his head.

“The whirlwind.”

“Yes, I swear by the Seven.”

“Do not move,” Kalam commanded. One hand on the long-knife at his belt, the assassin stepped forward, crouched and collected the object that Mebra had dropped earlier. He heard the spy's breath catch and smiled. “Perhaps I will take this with me, as guarantee.”

“Please, Kalam—”

“Silence.” The assassin found himself holding a muslin-wrapped book. He pulled the dirt-stained cloth away. “Hood's breath!” he whispered. “From the High Fist's vaults at Aren…into the hands of an Ehrlii spy.” He looked up and met Mebra's eyes. “Does Pormqual know of the theft of that which is to unleash the Apocalypse?”

The little man grinned, displaying a row of sharp silver-capped teeth. “The fool could have his silk pillow stolen from under him and would not know it. You see, Kalam, if you take this as guarantee, every warrior of the Apocalypse will be hunting you. The Holy Book of Dryjhna has been freed and must return to Raraku, where the Seeress—”

“Will raise the Whirlwind,” Kalam finished. The ancient tome felt heavy as a slab of granite in his hands. Its
bhederinhide
binding was stained and scarred, the lambskin pages within smelling of lanolin and bloodberry ink. And on those pages
…words of madness, and in the Holy Desert waits Sha'ik, the Seeress, the rebellion's promised leader…
“You shall tell me the final secret, Mebra, the one the carrier of this Book must know.”

The spy's eyes widened with alarm. “This cannot be your hostage, Kalam! Take me in its stead, I beg you!”

“I shall deliver it into the Holy Desert Raraku,” Kalam said. “Into Sha'ik's own hands, and this shall purchase my passage, Mebra. And should I detect any treachery, should I see any single soldier of the Apocalypse on my trail, the Book is destroyed. Do you understand me?”

Mebra blinked sweat from his eyes, then jerked a nod. “You must ride a stallion the color of sand, your blood blended. You must wear a telaba of red. Each night you must face your trail, on your knees, and unwrap the Book and call upon Dryjhna—that, and no more, not another word, for the Whirlwind goddess shall hear and obey—and all signs of your trail shall be obliterated. You must wait an hour in silence, then wrap the Book once again. It must never be exposed to sunlight, for the time of the Book's awakening belongs to Sha'ik. I shall now repeat those instructions—”

“No need,” Kalam growled.

“Are you truly an outlaw?”

“Is this not proof enough?”

“Deliver into Sha'ik's hands the Book of Dryjhna, and your name shall be sung to the heavens for all time, Kalam. Betray the cause, and your name shall ride spit into the dust.”

The assassin shrouded the Book once more in its muslin wrap, then tucked it into the folds of his tunic. “Our words are done.”

“Blessings of the Seven, Kalam Mekhar.”

With a grunt his only reply, Kalam moved to the doorway, pausing to scan outside. Seeing no one under the moonlight, he slipped through the opening.

Still crouched against the wall, Mebra watched the assassin leave. He strained to hear telltale sounds of Kalam crossing the rocks, bricks and rubble, but heard nothing. The spy wiped sweat from his brow, tilted his head back against the cool stone and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later he heard the rustle of armor at the tower's entrance. “You saw him?” Mebra asked, eyes still shut.

A low voice rumbled in reply. “Lostara follows him. He has the Book?”

Mebra's thin mouth widened in a smile. “Not the visitor I anticipated. Oh no, I could never have imagined such a fortuitous guest. That was Kalam Mekhar.”

“The Bridgeburner? Kiss of Hood, Mebra, had I known, we would have cut him down before he'd taken a step from this tower.”

“Had you tried,” Mebra said, “you and Aralt and Lostara would now be feeding your blood to Jen'rahb's thirsty roots.”

The large warrior barked a laugh, stepping inside. Behind him, as the spy had guessed, loomed Aralt Arpat, guarding the entrance, tall and wide enough to block most of the moonlight.

Tene Baralta rested his gauntleted hands on the sword pommels on either side of his hips. “What of the man you first approached?”

Mebra sighed. “As I told you, we would likely have needed a dozen nights such as this one. The man took fright and is probably halfway to G'danisban by now. He…reconsidered, as any reasonable man would.” The spy rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his telaba. “I cannot believe our luck, Baralta—”

Tene Baralta's mailed hands was a blur as it flashed out and struck Mebra, the spurred links raking deep gashes across the man's face. Blood spattered the wall. The spy reeled back, hands to his torn face.

“You are too familiar,” Baralta said calmly. “You have prepared Kalam, I take it? The proper…instructions?”

Mebra spat blood, then nodded. “You shall be able to trail him unerringly, Commander.”

“All the way to Sha'ik's camp?”

“Yes. But I beg you, be careful, sir. If Kalam senses you, he will destroy the Book. Stay a day behind him, even more.”

Tene Baralta removed a fragment of bhederin hide from a pouch at his belt. “The calf yearns for its mother,” he said.

“And seeks her without fail,” Mebra finished. “To kill Sha'ik, you shall need an army, Commander.”

The Red Blade smiled. “That is our concern, Mebra.”

Mebra drew a deep breath, hesitating, then said, “I ask only one thing, sir.”

“You ask?”

“I beg, Commander.”

“What is it?”

“Kalam lives.”

“Your wounds are uneven, Mebra. Allow me to caress the other side of your face.”

“Hear me out, Commander! The Bridgeburner has returned to Seven Cities. He claims himself a soldier of the Apocalypse. Yet is Kalam one to join Sha'ik's camp? Can a man born to lead content himself to follow?”

“What is your point.”