The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (737 page)

You mean, as you have done?

‘I will try to talk him out of it,' she said. ‘It's not safe—'

‘Indeed it isn't. Precisely my point.' After a moment, Letur Anict leaned back. ‘You will, alas, not win your argument. The Overseer will march with you, accepting the risks.'

The risks, yes. Imagining they come from the Awl.

‘I will do all I can to preserve his life,' Bivatt said.

A spread of hands. ‘Of course. That is your duty, and we both know how treacherous the Awl can be, especially as they are now commanded by none other than Redmask. Who can say what dread ambushes he has contrived to spring upon you, with the principal aim of murdering commanders and other important personages. Indeed, Atri-Preda, you have your duty and I would expect no less from you. But I do remind you, Brohl Handar is engaged in treason.'

‘Then have Orbyn Truthfinder arrest him.'
If he dares, for that will bring it all out into the open, and you're not ready for that.

‘We will,' the Factor then said, ‘be prepared for his return.'

So soon?
‘Has the Emperor been informed of these developments, sir?'

‘He has. The Patriotists would not be engaged in this hunt were it not so – I am sure you understand that, Atri-Preda.'

She believed she did. Even Karos Invictad would not proceed without some sort of sanction. ‘Is that all, sir?'

‘It is. Errant smile on your hunt, Atri-Preda.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

And now, everything had proceeded to match the Factor's predictions. Brohl Handar would accompany the expedition, refuting her every argument against the idea. Reading his expression, she saw a renewed confidence and will – the Overseer felt as if he had found, at last, firm footing. No error in his recognition of his true enemy. The unmitigated disaster lay in the Edur's belief that he had made the first move.

She said now to the Overseer, ‘Sir, if you will excuse me. I must have words with my officers.'

‘Of course,' Brohl Handar replied. ‘When do you anticipate contacting the enemy?'

Oh, you fool, you already have.
‘That depends, sir, on whether they're fleeing, or coming straight for us.'

The Overseer's brows lifted. ‘Do you fear this Redmask?'

‘Fear that yields respect is not a bad thing, sir. In that fashion, yes, I fear Redmask. As he will me, before too long.'

She rode away then, down to her troops, seeking out, not an officer, but one man in particular, a horseman among the Bluerose, taller and duskier than most.

After a time she found him, gestured him to ride out to her side, and they walked their horses along one edge of the road. She spoke of two things, one loud enough to be heard by others and concerning the health of the mounts and other such mundane details; the other in much quieter tones, which no-one but the man could hear.

 

‘What can you see of the horizon's bruised smear, that cannot be blotted out by a raised hand?'

Redmask glanced over at the foreigner.

Anaster Toc smiled. ‘Lying in a ditch amidst the wastes of humanity is something I would recommend to any nascent poet. The rhythms of ebb and flow, the legacy of what we discard. Wealth like liquid gold.'

Not entirely sane any more, Redmask judged, unsurprised. Skin and bones, scabbed and stained with fiery, peeling rashes. At least he could now stand without the aid of a stick, and his appetite had returned. Before long, Redmask believed, the foreigner would recover, at least physically. The poor man's mind was another matter.

‘Your people,' Anaster Toc continued after a moment, ‘do not believe in poetry, in the power of simple words. Oh, you sing with the coming of dawn and the fleeing sun. You sing to storm clouds and wolf tracks and shed antlers you find in the grass. You sing to decide the order of beads on a thread. But no words to any of them. Just tonal variations, as senseless as birdsong—'

‘Birds sing,' cut in Natarkas who stood on the foreigner's other side, squinting westward to the dying sun, ‘to tell others they exist. They sing to warn of hunters. They sing to woo mates. They sing in the days before they die.'

‘Very well, the wrong example. You sing like whales—'

‘Like what?' asked Natarkas and two other copper-faces behind them.

‘Oh, never mind, then. My point was, you sing without words—'

‘Music is its own language.'

‘Natarkas,' said Anaster Toc, ‘answer me this, if you will. The song the children use when they slip beads onto a thread, what does it mean?'

‘There is more than one, depending on the pattern desired. The song sets the order of the type of bead, and its colour.'

‘Why do such things have to be set?'

‘Because the beads tell a story.'

‘What story?'

‘Different stories, depending on the pattern, which is assured by the song. The story is not lost, not corrupted, because the song never changes.'

‘For Hood's sake,' the foreigner muttered. ‘What's wrong with words?'

‘With words,' said Redmask, turning away, ‘meanings change.'

‘Well,' Anaster Toc said, following as Redmask made his way back to his army's camp, ‘that is precisely the point. That's their value – their ability to adapt—'

‘Grow corrupt, you mean. The Letherii are masters at corrupting words, their meanings. They call war peace, they call tyranny liberty. On which side of the shadow you stand decides a word's meaning. Words are the weapons used by those who see others with contempt. A contempt which only deepens when they see how those others are deceived and made into fools because they chose to believe. Because in their naivety they thought the meaning of a word was fixed, immune to abuse.'

‘Togg's teats, Redmask, that's a long speech coming from you.'

‘I hold words in contempt, Anaster Toc. What do you mean when you say “Togg's teats”?'

‘Togg's a god.'

‘Not a goddess?'

‘No.'

‘Then its teats are—'

‘Useless. Precisely.'

‘What of the others? “Hood's Breath”?'

‘Hood is the Lord of Death.'

‘Thus…no breath.'

‘Correct.'

‘Beru's mercy?'

‘She has no mercy.'

‘Mowri fend?'

‘The Lady of the Poor fends off nothing.'

Redmask regarded the foreigner. ‘Your people have a strange relationship with your gods.'

‘I suppose we do. Some decry it as cynical and they may have a point. It's all to do with power, Redmask, and what it does to those who possess it. Gods not excepted.'

‘If they are so unhelpful, why do you worship them?'

‘Imagine how much more unhelpful they'd be if we didn't.' At whatever Anaster Toc saw in Redmask's eyes, he then laughed.

Annoyed, Redmask said, ‘You fought as an army devoted to the Lord and Lady of the Wolves.'

‘And see where it got us.'

‘The reason your force was slaughtered is because my people betrayed you. Such betrayal did not come from your wolf gods.'

‘True, I suppose. We accepted the contract. We assumed we shared the meaning of the words we had exchanged with our employers—' At that he offered Redmask a wry smile. ‘We marched to war believing in honour. So. Togg and Fanderay are not responsible – especially for the stupidity of their followers.'

‘Are you now godless, Anaster Toc?'

‘Oh, I heard their sorrowful howls every now and then, or at least I imagined I did.'

‘Wolves came to the place of slaughter and took the hearts of the fallen.'

‘What? What do you mean?'

‘They broke open the chests of your comrades and ate their hearts, leaving everything else.'

‘Well, I didn't know that.'

‘Why did you not die with them?' Redmask asked. ‘Did you flee?'

‘I was the best rider among the Grey Swords. Accordingly, I was acting to maintain contact between our forces. I was, unfortunately, with the Awl when the decision was made to flee. They dragged me down from my horse and beat me senseless. I don't know why they didn't kill me there and then. Or just leave me for the Letherii.'

‘There are levels to betrayal, Anaster Toc; limits to what even the Awl can stomach. They could run from the battle, but they could not draw a blade across your throat.'

‘Well, that's a comforting relief. Apologies. I have always been prone to facetious commentary. I suppose I should be thankful, but I'm not.'

‘Of course you're not,' Redmask said. They were approaching the broad hide awning protecting the rodara-skin maps the war leader had drawn – mostly from what he could recall of Letherii military maps he had seen. These new maps had been stretched out on the ground, pegged down, arrayed like pieces of a puzzle to create a single rendition of a vast area – one that included the south border kingdoms. ‘But you are a soldier, Anaster Toc, and I have need of soldiers.'

‘So, you seek an agreement between us.'

‘I do.'

‘A binding of words.'

‘Yes.'

‘And what if I choose to leave? To walk away?'

‘You will be permitted and given a horse and supplies. You may ride east or southeast or indeed north, although there is nothing to be found to the north. But not west, not southwest.'

‘Not to the Lether Empire, in other words.'

‘Correct. I do not know what vengeance you hold close to your wounded soul. I do not know if you would betray the Awl – to answer their betrayal of you. For which I would not blame you in the least. I have no desire to have to kill you and this is why I forbid you to ride to Lether.'

‘I see.'

Redmask studied the map in the crepuscular light. The black lines seemed to be fading into oblivion before him. ‘It is my thought, however, to appeal to your desire for vengeance against the Letherii.'

‘Rather than the Awl.'

‘Yes.'

‘You believe you can defeat them.'

‘I shall, Anaster Toc.'

‘By preparing fields of battle well in advance. Well, as a tactic I would not gainsay it. Assuming the Letherii are foolish enough to position themselves precisely where you want them.'

‘They are arrogant,' Redmask said. ‘Besides, they have no choice. They wish to avenge the slaughter of settlements and the theft of herds they call their property – even though they stole them from us. They wish to punish us, and so will be eager to cross blades.'

‘Using cavalry, infantry, archers and mages.'

‘Yes.'

‘How do you intend to negate those mages, Redmask?'

‘I will not tell you, yet.'

‘In case I leave, circle round and somehow elude you and your hunters.'

‘The chance of that is remote.'

At the foreigner's smile, Redmask continued, ‘I understand you are a skilled rider, but I would not send Awl after you. I would send my K'Chain Che'Malle.'

Anaster Toc had turned and he seemed to be studying the encampment, the rows upon rows of tents, the wreathed dung smoke of the fires. ‘You have fielded what, ten, twelve thousand warriors?'

‘Closer to fifteen.'

‘Yet you have broken up the clans.'

‘I have.'

‘In the manner needed to field something resembling a professional army. You must shift their loyalty from the old blood-ties. I've seen you badgering your troop commanders, ensuring that they will follow your commands in battle. I've seen them in turn badgering their squad leaders, and the squad leaders their squads.'

‘You are a soldier, Anaster Toc.'

‘And I hated every moment of it, Redmask.'

‘That matters not. Tell me of your Grey Swords, the tactics they employed.'

‘That won't be much help. I could, however, tell you of the army I originally belonged to, before the Grey Swords.' He glanced over with his one glittering eye, and Redmask saw amusement there, a kind of mad hilarity that left him uneasy. ‘I could tell you of the Malazans.'

‘I have not heard of that tribe.'

Anaster Toc laughed again. ‘Not a tribe. An empire. An empire three, four times the size of Lether.'

‘You will stay, then?'

Anaster Toc shrugged. ‘For now.'

There was nothing simple to this man, Redmask realized. Mad indeed, but it could prove a useful madness. ‘Then how,' he asked, ‘do the Malazans win their wars?'

The foreigner's twisted smile gleamed in the dusk, like the flash of a knife. ‘This could take a while, Redmask.'

‘I will send for food.'

‘And oil lamps – I can't make out a damned thing on your map.'

‘Do you approve of my intent, Anaster Toc?'

‘To create a professional army? Yes, it's essential, but it will change everything. Your people, your culture, everything.' He paused, then added in a dry, mocking tone, ‘You'll need a new song.'

‘Then you must create it,' Redmask replied. ‘Choose one from among the Malazans. Something appropriate.'

‘Aye,' the man muttered, ‘a dirge.'

The white knife flashed again, and Redmask would rather it had remained sheathed.

The ruins of a low wall encircled the glade, the battered rough-cut basalt dividing swaths of green grasses. Just beyond rose a thin copse of young birch and aspen, spring leaves bright and fluttering. Behind this stand the forest thickened, darkened, grey-skinned boles of pine crowding out all else. Whatever the wall had enclosed had vanished beneath the soft loam of the glade, although depressions were visible here and there to mark out cellar pits and the like.

The sunlit air seemed to spin and swirl, so thick were the clouds of flying insects, and there was a taint of something in the warm, sultry air that left Sukul Ankhadu with a vague sense of unease, as if ghosts watched from the black knots on the trees surrounding them. She had quested outward more than once, finding nothing but minute life-sparks – the natural denizens of any forest – and the low murmurings of earth spirits, too weak to do much more than stir restlessly in their eternal, dying sleep. Nothing to concern them, then, which was well.

Standing close to one of the shin-high walls, she glanced back at the makeshift shelter, repressing yet another surge of irritation and impatience.

Freeing her sister should have yielded nothing but gratitude from the bitch. Sheltatha Lore had not exactly fared well in that barrow – beaten senseless by Silchas Ruin and a damned Locqui Wyval, left near-drowned in a bottomless bog in some memory pocket realm of the Azath, where every moment stretched like centuries – so much so that Sheltatha had emerged indelibly stained by those dark waters, her hair a burnt red, her skin the hue of a betel nut, as waxy and seamed as that of a T'lan Imass. Wounds gaped bloodless. Taloned fingernails gleamed like elongated beetle carapaces – Sukul had found her eyes drawn to them again and again, as if waiting for them to split, revealing wings of exfoliated skin as they dragged the fingers loose to whirl skyward.

And her sister was fevered. Day after day, raving with madness. Dialogue – negotiation – had been hopeless thus far. It had been all Sukul had managed, just getting her from that infernal city out here to a place of relative quietude.

She now eyed the lean-to which, from this angle, hid the recumbent form of Sheltatha Lore, grimly amused by the sight. Hardly palatial, as far as residences were concerned, and especially given their royal blood – if the fiery draconean torrent in their veins could justify the appellation, and why wouldn't it? Worthy ascendants were few and far between in this realm, after all. Barring a handful of dour Elder Gods – and these nameless spirits of stone and tree, spring and stream.
No doubt Menandore has fashioned for herself a more stately abode – ripe for appropriation. Some mountain fastness, spired and impregnable, so high as to be for ever wreathed in clouds. I want to walk those airy halls and call them my own. Our own. Unless I have no choice but to lock Sheltatha in some crypt, where she can rave and shriek disturbing no-one
—

‘I should tear your throat out.'

The croak, coming from beneath the boughed shelter, triggered a sigh from Sukul. She approached until she came round to the front and could look within. Her sister had sat up, although her head was bowed, that long, crimson hair obscuring her face. Her long nails at the end of her dangling hands glistened as if leaking oil. ‘Your fever has broken – that is well.'

Sheltatha Lore did not look up. ‘Is it? I called for you – when Ruin was clawing loose – when he turned upon me – that self-serving, heartless bastard! Turned on me!
I called on you!
'

‘I heard, sister. Alas, too far away to do much about it – that fight of yours. But I came at last, didn't I? Came, and freed you.'

Silence for a long moment; then, her voice dark and brutal, ‘Where is she, then?'

‘Menandore?'

‘It was her, wasn't it?' Lore looked up suddenly, revealing amber eyes, the whites stained like rust. A ghastly gaze, yet wide and searching. ‘Striking me from behind – I suspected nothing – I thought you were there, I thought – you
were
there, weren't you!'

‘As much a victim as you, Sheltatha. Menandore had prepared long for that betrayal, a score of rituals – to drive you down, to leave me helpless to intervene.'

‘She struck first, you mean.' The statement was a half-snarl. ‘Were we not planning the same, Sukul?'

‘That detail is without much relevance now, isn't it?'

‘And yet, dear sister, she didn't bury
you,
did she?'

‘Not through any prowess on my part. Nor did I bargain for my freedom. No, it seemed Menandore was not interested in destroying me.' Sukul could feel her own sneer of hatred twisting her features. ‘She never thought I was worth much. Sukul Ankhadu, Dapple,
the Fickle.
Well, she is about to learn otherwise, isn't she?'

‘We must find an Azath,' Sheltatha Lore said, baring brown teeth. ‘She must be made to suffer what I suffered.'

‘I agree, sister. Alas, there are no surviving Azath in this place – on this continent, I mean. Sheltatha Lore – will you trust me? I have something in mind – a means of trapping Menandore, of exacting our long-awaited revenge. Will you join me? As true allies – together, there are none here powerful enough to stop us—'

‘You fool, there is Silchas Ruin.'

‘I have an answer for him as well, sister. But I need your help. We must work together, and in so doing we will achieve the demise of both Menandore and Silchas Ruin. Do you trust me?'

Sheltatha Lore's laugh was harsh. ‘Cast that word away, sister. It is meaningless. I demand vengeance. You have something to prove – to us all. Very well, we shall work together, and see what comes of it. Tell me your grand plan, then. Tell me how we shall crush Silchas Ruin who is without equal in this realm—'

‘You must conquer your fear of him,' Sukul said, glancing away, studying the glade, noting how the shafts of sunlight had lengthened, and the ruined wall surrounding them now hunched like crumbling darkness. ‘He is not indomitable. Scabandari proved that well enough—'

‘Are you truly so stupid as to believe that?' Sheltatha demanded, clambering free of the lean-to, straightening like some anthropomorphic tree. Her skin gleamed, polished and the colour of stained wood. ‘I shared the bastard's barrow for a thousand eternities. I tasted his dreams, I sipped at the stream of his secretmost thoughts – he grew careless…'

Sukul scowled at her kin. ‘What are you saying?'

The terrible eyes fixed mockingly on her. ‘He stood on the field of battle. He stood, his back to Scabandari – whom he called Bloodeye and was that not hint enough? Stood, I tell you, and but waited for the knives.'

‘I do not believe you – that must be a lie, it must be!'

‘Why? Wounded, weaponless. Sensing the fast approach of this realm's powers – powers that would not hesitate in destroying him and Bloodeye both. Destroying in the absolute sense – Silchas was in no condition to defend against them. Nor, he well knew, was Scabandari, for all that idiot's pompous preening over the countless dead. So, join in Scabandari's fate, or…
escape
?'

‘Millennia within a barrow of an Azath – you call that an escape, Sheltatha?'

‘More than any of us – more even than Anomandaris,' she said, her eyes suddenly veiled, ‘Silchas Ruin thinks…
draconean
. As cold, as calculating, as
timeless
. Abyss below, Sukul Ankhadu, you have no idea…' A shudder took Sheltatha then and she turned away. ‘Be sure of your schemes, sister,' she added in a guttural tone, ‘and, no matter how sure you make yourself, leave us a means of escape. For when we fail.'

Another faint groan, from the earth spirits on all sides, and Sukul Ankhadu shivered, assailed by uncertainty – and fear. ‘You must tell me more of him,' she said. ‘All you learned—'

‘Oh, I shall. Freedom has left you…arrogant, sister. We must strip that from you, we must free your gaze of that veil of confidence. And refashion your plans accordingly.' A long pause, then Sheltatha Lore faced Sukul once again, an odd glint in her eyes. ‘Tell me, did you choose in deliberation?'

‘What?'

A gesture. ‘This place…for my recovery.'

Sukul shrugged. ‘Shunned by the local people. Private – I thought—'

‘Shunned, aye. With reason.'

‘And that would be?'

Sheltatha studied her for a long moment, then she simply turned away. ‘Matters not. I am ready to leave here now.'

As am I, I think.
‘Agreed. North—'

Another sharp glance, then a nod.

Oh, I see your contempt, sister. I know you felt as Menandore did – I know you think little of me. And you thought I would step forward once she struck? Why? I spoke of trust, yes, but you did not understand. I do indeed trust you, Sheltatha. I trust you to lust for vengeance. And that is all I need. For ten thousand lifetimes of slight and disregard…it will be all I need.

 

His tattooed arms bared in the humid heat, Taxilian walked to the low table where sat Samar Dev, ignoring the curious regard from other patrons in the courtyard restaurant. Without a word he sat, reached for the jug of watered, chilled wine and poured himself a goblet, then leaned closer. ‘By the Seven Holies, witch, this damned city is a wonder – and a nightmare.'

Samar Dev shrugged. ‘The word is out – a score of champions now await the Emperor's pleasure. You are bound to attract attention.'

He shook his head. ‘You misunderstand. I was once an architect, yes? It is one thing' – he waved carelessly – ‘to stand agape at the extraordinary causeways and spans, the bridges and that dubious conceit that is the Eternal Domicile – even the canals with their locks, inflows and outflows, the aqueduct courses and the huge blockhouses with their massive pumps and the like.' He paused for another mouthful of wine. ‘No, I speak of something else entirely. Did you know, an ancient temple of sorts collapsed the day we arrived – a temple devoted, it seems, to
rats
—'

‘Rats?'

‘Rats, not that I could glean any hint of a cult centred on such foul creatures.'

‘Karsa would find the notion amusing,' Samar Dev said with a half-smile, ‘and acquire in such cultists yet another enemy, given his predilection for wringing the necks of rodents—'

Taxilian said in a low voice, ‘Not just rodents, I gather…'

‘Alas, but on that matter I would allow the Toblakai some steerage room – he warned them that no-one was to touch his sword. A dozen or more times, in fact. That guard should have known better.'

‘Dear witch,' Taxilian sighed, ‘you've been careless or, worse, lazy. It's to do with the Emperor, you see. The weapon destined to cross blades with Rhulad's own. The touch signifies a blessing – did you not know? The loyal citizens of this empire
want
the champions to succeed. They want their damned tyrant obliterated. They pray for it; they dream of it—'

‘All right,' Samar Dev hissed, ‘keep your voice down!'

Taxilian spread his hands, then he grimaced. ‘Yes, of course. After all, every shadow hides a Patriotist—'

‘Careful of whom you mock. That's a capricious, bloodthirsty bunch, Taxilian, and you being a foreigner only adds to your vulnerability.'

‘You need to eavesdrop on more conversations, witch. The Emperor is unkillable. Karsa Orlong will join all the others in that cemetery of urns. Do not expect otherwise. And when that happens, why, all his…hangers-on, his companions – all who came with him will suffer the same fate. Such is the decree. Why would the Patriotists bother with us, given our inevitable demise?' He drained the last wine from his goblet, then refilled it. ‘In any case, you distracted me. I was speaking of that collapsed temple, and what I saw of its underpinnings – the very proof for my growing suspicions.'

‘I didn't know we're destined for execution. Well, that changes things – although I am not sure how.' She fell silent; then, considering Taxilian's other words, she said, ‘Go on.'

Taxilian slowly leaned back, cradling the goblet in his hands. ‘Consider Ehrlitan, a city built on the bones of countless others. In that, little different from the majority of settlements across all Seven Cities. But this Letheras, it is nothing like that, Samar Dev. No. Here, the older city never collapsed, never disintegrated into rubble. It still stands, following street patterns not quite obscured. Here and there, the ancient buildings remain, like crooked teeth. I have never seen the like, witch – it seems no regard whatsoever was accorded those old streets. At least two canals cut right through them – you can see the bulge of stonework on the canal walls, like the sawed ends of long-bones.'