‘I see a doorway beyond,’ she said.
He swung about, lifting the lantern. ‘All right, at least we’re not in a tomb, then. More like some kind of storage room.’
‘I smell dust . . . and sand.’
He slowly nodded, then scowled in sudden suspicion. ‘Let’s do some exploring,’ he grated as he began collecting his gear, including the bow. He froze at a chittering sound from the doorway, looked up to see a score of eyes, gleaming with the lantern’s reflected light. Close-set but framing the doorway on all sides, including the arch where, Cutter suspected, they were hanging upside down.
‘Bhok’arala,’ Apsalar said. ‘We’ve returned to Seven Cities.’
‘I know,’ the Daru replied, wanting to spit. ‘We spent most of last year trudging across that damned wasteland, and now we’re back where we started.’
‘So it would seem. So, Crokus, are you enjoying being the plaything of a god?’
He saw little value in replying to that question, and chose instead to clamber down to the puddled floor and approach the doorway.
The bhok’arala scampered with tiny shrieks, vanishing into the darkness of the hallway beyond. Cutter paused at the threshold and glanced back. ‘Coming?’
Apsalar shrugged in the gloom, then made her way forward.
The corridor ran straight and level for twenty paces, then twisted to the right, the floor forming an uneven, runnelled ramp that led upward to the next level. There were no side chambers or passages until they reached a circular room, where sealed doorways lining the circumference hinted at entrances to tombs. In one curved wall, between two such doorways, there was an alcove in which stairs were visible.
And crouched at the base of those stairs was a familiar figure, teeth gleaming in a wide smile.
‘Iskaral Pust!’
‘Missed me, didn’t you, lad?’ He edged forward like a crab, then cocked his head. ‘I should soothe him now—both of them, yes. Welcoming words, a wide embrace, old friends, yes, reunited in a great cause once more. Never mind the extremity of what will be demanded of us in the days and nights to come. As if I need help—Iskaral Pust requires the assistance of no-one. Oh, she might be useful, but she hardly looks inclined, does she? Miserable with knowledge, is my dear lass.’ He straightened, managing something between an upright stance and a crouch. His smile suddenly broadened. ‘Welcome! My friends!’
Cutter advanced on him. ‘I’ve no time for any of this, you damned weasel—’
‘No time? Of course you have, lad! There’s much to be done, and much time in which to do it! Doesn’t that make for a change? Rush about? Not us. No, we can dawdle. Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘What does Cotillion want of us?’ Cutter demanded, forcing his fists to unclench.
‘You are asking me what Cotillion wants of you? How should I know?’ He ducked down. ‘Does he believe me?’
‘No.’
‘No what? Have you lost your mind, lad? You won’t find it here! Although my wife might—she’s ever cleaning and clearing up—at least, I think she is. Though she refuses to touch the offerings—my little bhok’arala children leave them everywhere I go, of course. I’ve become used to the smell. Now, where was I? Oh yes, dearest Apsalar—should you and I flirt? Won’t that make the witch spit and hiss! Hee hee!’
‘I’d rather flirt with a bhok’aral,’ she replied.
‘That too—I’m not the jealous type, you’ll be relieved to hear, lass. Plenty of ’em about for you to choose from, in any case. Now, are you hungry? Thirsty? Hope you brought your own supplies. Just head on up these stairs, and when she asks, you haven’t seen me.’
Iskaral Pust stepped back and vanished.
Apsalar sighed. ‘Perhaps his . . . wife will prove a more reasonable host.’
Cutter glanced back at her. Somehow I doubt it.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘There is no death in light.’
Anarmann, High Priest of Osserc
‘MEZLA ONE AND ALL,’ FEBRYL MUTTERED AS HE HOBBLED along the worn, dusty path, his breath growing harsher. There was little in this world that much pleased him any more. Malazans. His failing body. The blind insanity of power so brutally evinced in the Whirlwind Goddess. In his mind, the world was plunging into chaos, and all that it had been—all that he had been—was trapped in the past.
But the past was not dead. It merely slept. The perfect, measured resurrection of old patterns could achieve a rebirth. Not a rebirth such as had taken Sha’ik—that had been nothing more than the discarding of one, badly worn vessel for a new one not nearly so battered. No, the rebirth Febryl imagined was far more profound.
He had once served the Holy Falah’d Enqura. The Holy City of Ugarat and its host of tributary cities had been in the midst of a renaissance. Eleven great schools of learning were thriving in Ugarat. Knowledge long lost was being rediscovered. The flower of a great civilization had turned to face the sun, had begun to open.
The Mezla and their implacable legions had destroyed . . . everything. Ugarat had fallen to Dassem Ultor. The schools were assailed by soldiers, only to discover, to their fury, that their many riches and texts had, along with philosophers and academics, vanished. Enqura had well understood the Mezla thirst for knowledge, the Emperor’s lust for foreign secrets, and the city’s Holy Protector would give them nothing. Instead, he had commanded Febryl, a week before the arrival of the Malazan armies, to shut down the schools, to confiscate the hundred thousand scrolls and bound volumes, the ancient relics of the First Empire, and the teachers and scholars themselves. By the Protector’s decree, Ugarat’s coliseum became the site of a vast conflagration, as everything was burned, destroyed. The scholars were crucified—those that did not fling themselves on the pyre in a fit of madness and grief—and their bodies dumped into the pits containing the smashed relics just outside the city wall.
Febryl had done as he had been commanded. His last gesture of loyalty, of pure, unsullied courage. The terrible act was necessary. Enqura’s denial was perhaps the greatest defiance in the entire war. One for which the Holy Protector paid with his life, when the horror that was said to have struck Dassem Ultor upon hearing of the deed transformed into rage.
Febryl’s loss of faith had come in the interval, and it had left him a broken man. In following Enqura’s commands, he had so outraged his mother and father—both learned nobles in their own right—that they had disowned him to his face. And Febryl had lost his mind that night, recovering his sanity with dawn staining the horizon, to find that he had murdered his parents. And their servants. That he had unleashed sorcery to flay the flesh from the guards. That such power had poured through him as to leave him old beyond his years, wrinkled and withered, his bones brittle and bent.
The old man hobbling out through the city gate that day was beneath notice. Enqura searched for him, but Febryl succeeded in evading the Holy Protector, in leaving the man to his fate.
Unforgivable.
A hard word, a truth harder than stone. But Febryl was never able to decide to which crime it applied. Three betrayals, or two? Was the destruction of all that knowledge—the slaying of all those scholars and teachers—was it, as the Mezla and other Falad’han later pronounced—the foulest deed of all? Fouler even than the T’lan Imass rising to slaughter the citizens of Aren? So much so that Enqura’s name has become a curse for Mezla and natives of Seven Cities alike? Three, not two?
And the bitch knew. She knew his every secret. It had not been enough to change his name; not enough that he had the appearance of an old man, when the High Mage Iltara, most trusted servant to Enqura, had been young, tall and lusted after by both men and women? No, she had obliterated, seemingly effortlessly, his every barricade, and plundered the pits of his soul.
Unforgivable.
No possessor of his secrets could be permitted to live. He refused to be so . . . vulnerable. To anyone. Even Sha’ik. Especially Sha’ik.
And so she must be removed. Even if it means dealing
with Mezla. He had no illusions about Korbolo Dom. The Napan’s ambitions—no matter what claims he made at present—went far beyond this rebellion. No, his ambitions were imperial. Somewhere to the south, Mallick Rel, the Jhistal priest of Elder Mael, was trekking towards Aren, there to surrender himself. He would, in turn, be brought before the Empress herself.
And then what? That snake of a priest would announce an extraordinary reversal of fortunes in Seven Cities. Korbolo Dom had been working in her interests all along. Or some such nonsense. Febryl was certain of his suspicions. Korbolo Dom wanted a triumphant return into the imperial fold. Probably the title of High Fist of Seven Cities as well. Mallick Rel would have twisted his part in the events at the Fall and immediately afterwards. The dead man, Pormqual, would be made the singular focus for the debacle of Coltaine’s death and the slaying of the High Fist’s army. The Jhistal would slip through, somehow, or, if all went awry, he would somehow manage to escape. Korbolo Dom, Febryl believed, had agents in the palace in Unta—what was being played out here in Raraku was but a tremble on a much vaster web.
But I shall defeat it in the end. Even if I must appear to acquiesce right now. He has accepted my conditions, after all—a lie, of course—and I in turn accept his—another lie, naturally.
He had walked through the outskirts of the city and now found himself in the wilder region of the oasis. The trail had the appearance of long disuse, covered in crackling, dried palm fronds and gourd husks, and Febryl knew his careless passage was destroying that illusion, but he was indifferent to that. Korbolo’s killers would repair the mess, after all. It fed their self-deceptions well enough.
He rounded a bend in the path and entered a clearing ringed in low stones. There had once been a well here, but the sands had long since filled it. Kamist Reloe stood near the centre, hooded and vulpine, with four of Korbolo’s assassins positioned in a half-circle behind him.
‘You’re late,’ Kamist Reloe hissed.
Febryl shrugged. ‘Do I look like a prancing foal? Now, have you begun the preparations?’
‘The knowledge here is yours, Febryl, not mine.’
Febryl hissed, then waved one claw-like hand. ‘No matter. There’s still time. Your words only remind me that I must suffer fools—’
‘You’re not alone in that,’ Kamist Reloe drawled.
Febryl hobbled forward. ‘The path your . . . servants would take is a long one. It has not been trod by mortals since the First Empire. It has likely grown treacherous—’
‘Enough warnings, Febryl,’ Kamist Reloe snapped, his fear showing through. ‘You need only open the path. That is all we ask of you—all we have ever asked.’
‘You need more than that, Kamist Reloe,’ Febryl said with a smile. ‘Would you have these fools stride in blind? The goddess was a spirit, once—’
‘That is no secret.’
‘Perhaps, but what kind of spirit? One that rides the desert winds, you might think. But you are wrong. A spirit of stone? Sand? No, none of these.’ He waved one hand. ‘Look about you. Raraku holds the bones of countless civilizations, leading back to the First Empire, the empire of Dessimbelackis. And still further—aye, the signs of that are mostly obliterated, yet some remain, if one has the eyes to see . . . and understand.’ He limped over to one of the low stones ringing the clearing, struggling to hide the wince of pain from his overworked bones. ‘Were you to dig down through this sand, Kamist Reloe, you would discover that these boulders are in fact menhirs, stones standing taller than any of us here. And their flanks are pitted and grooved in strange patterns . . .’
Kamist swung in a slow circle, studying the protruding rocks with narrowed eyes. ‘T’lan Imass?’
Febryl nodded. ‘The First Empire of Dessimbelackis, Kamist Reloe, was not the first. That belonged to the T’lan Imass. There was little, it is true, that you or I might recognize as being . . . imperial. No cities. No breaking of the ground to plant crops or irrigate. And its armies were undead. There was a throne, of course, upon which was meant to sit a mortal—the progeny race of the T’lan Imass. A human. Alas, humans viewed empire . . . differently. And their vision did not include T’lan Imass. Thus, betrayal. Then war. An unequal contest, but the T’lan Imass were reluctant to annihilate their mortal children. And so they left—’
‘Only to return with the shattering of the warren,’ Kamist Reloe muttered, nodding. ‘When the chaos erupted with the ritual of Soletaken and D’ivers.’ He faced Febryl once more. ‘The goddess spirit is . . . was . . . T’lan Imass?’
Febryl shrugged. ‘There were once texts—inscribed on fired clay—from a cult of the First Empire, copies of which survived until the fall of Ugarat. The few T’lan Imass the humans managed to destroy when they rebelled were each buried in sacred sites. Sites such as this one, Kamist Reloe.’
But the other mage shook his head. ‘She is a creature of rage. Such fury does not belong to T’lan Imass—’
‘Unless she had reason. Memories of a betrayal, perhaps, from her mortal life. A wound too deep to be eradicated by the Ritual of Tellann.’ Febryl shrugged. ‘It does not matter. The spirit is T’lan Imass.’
‘It is rather late in the day for you to be revealing this to us,’ Kamist Reloe growled, turning his head to spit. ‘Does the Ritual of Tellann still bind her?’
‘No. She broke those chains long ago and has reclaimed her soul—Raraku’s secret gifts are those of life and death, as primal as existence itself. It returned to her all that she had lost—perhaps even the rebirth of her rage. Raraku, Kamist Reloe, remains the deepest mystery of all, for it holds its own memories . . . of the sea, of life’s very own waters. And memories are power.’
Kamist Reloe drew his cloak tighter about his gaunt form. ‘Open the path.’
And when I have done this for you and your Mezla friends, High Mage, you will be indebted to me, and my desires. Seven Cities shall be liberated. The Malazan Empire will withdraw all interests, and our civilization shall flower once more . . .
He stepped to the centre of the ring of stones and raised his hands.
Something was coming. Bestial and wild with power. And with each passing moment, as it drew ever nearer, L’oric’s fear grew. Ancient wars . . . such is the feel of this, as of enmity reborn, a hatred that defies millennia. And though he sensed that no one mortal in the oasis city was the subject of that wrath, the truth remained that . . . we are all in the way.
He needed to learn more. But he was at a loss as to which path he should take. Seven Cities was a land groaning beneath unseen burdens. Its skin was thick with layers, weathered hard. Their secrets were not easily prised loose, especially in Raraku.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of his tent, head lowered, thoughts racing. The Whirlwind’s rage had never before been so fierce, leading him to suspect that the Malazan army was drawing close, that the final clash of wills was fast approaching. This was, in truth, a convergence, and the currents had trapped other powers, pulling them along with relentless force.
And behind it all, the whispers of a song . . .
He should flee this place. Take Felisin—and possibly Heboric as well—with him. And soon. Yet curiosity held him here, at least for the present. Those layers were splitting, and there would be truths revealed, and he would know them. I came to Raraku because I sensed my father’s presence . . . somewhere close. Perhaps here no longer, but he had been, not long ago. The chance of finding his trail . . .
The Queen of Dreams had said Osric was lost. What did that mean? How? Why? He hungered for answers to such questions.
Kurald Thyrllan had been born of violence, the shattering of Darkness. The Elder Warren had since branched off in many directions, reaching to within the grasp of mortal humans as Thyr. And, before that, in the guise of life-giving fire, Tellann.
Tellann was a powerful presence here in Seven Cities, obscure and buried deep perhaps, but pervasive none the less. Whereas Kurald Thyrllan had been twisted and left fraught by the shattering of its sist
er warren. There were no easy passages into Thyrllan, as he well knew.
Very well, then. I shall try Tellann.
He sighed, then slowly climbed to his feet. There were plenty of risks, of course. Collecting his bleached telaba in the crook of one arm, he moved to the chest beside his cot. He crouched, passing a hand over it to temporarily dispel its wards, then lifted back the lid.
Liosan armour, the white enamel gouged and scarred. A visored helm of the same material, the leather underlining webbed over eyes and cheeks by black iron mail. A light, narrow-bladed longsword, its point long and tapering, scabbarded in pale wood.
He drew the armour on, including the helm, then pulled his telaba over it, raising the hood as well. Leather gauntlets and sword and belt followed.
Then he paused.
He despised fighting. Unlike his Liosan kin, he was averse to harsh judgement, to the assertion of a brutally delineated world-view that permitted no ambiguity. He did not believe order could be shaped by a sword’s edge. Finality, yes, but finality stained with failure.
Necessity was a most bitter flavour, but he saw no choice and so would have to suffer the taste.
Once more he would have to venture forth, through the encampment, drawing ever so carefully on his powers to remain unseen by mortals yet beneath the notice of the goddess. The ferocity of her anger was his greatest ally, and he would have to trust in that. He set out.
The sun was a crimson glare behind the veil of suspended sand, still a bell from setting, when L’oric reached the Toblakai’s glade. He found Felisin sleeping beneath the shade they had rigged between three poles on the side opposite the carved trees, and decided he would leave her to her rest. Instead, sparing a single bemused glance at the two Teblor statues, he strode over to stand before the seven stone faces.
Their spirits were long gone, if they had ever been present. These mysterious T’lan Imass who were Toblakai’s gods. And the sanctification had been wrested from them, leaving this place sacred to something else. But a fissure remained, the trail, perhaps, from a brief visitation. Sufficient, he hoped, for him to breach a way into the Warren of Tellann.
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