Here the water was so clear, so calm, it was as if they floated hundreds of feet above nothing. Ernen, who owned the boat, squinted at the surrounding rock walls. ‘Where’s their keep, their quarters?’ he asked of the three dock-front youths who’d agreed to accompany him. ‘See anything?’
‘No.’
It had been old Ernen’s idea. ‘Them Stormguard were gone, weren’t they?’ he’d argued. ‘Probably run to Korel. So they must’ve left gear behind, yes? All that silver inlay. All them fine swords and armour an’ such. A rich haul just waiting for the first one to dare …’
And so they snuck out at night, made their way across and entered. Now he waved them to one side, pointing into the gloom. The youths peered at one another, terrified in the dim glow of their covered lantern.
One fumbled at his oar then let out a horrific scream, flinching from the side and making everyone jump. ‘Riders!’
‘Quiet!’ Ernen ordered, sitting still, listening. They all sat motionless as well, straining to hear. But only the murmur of the waves returned, echoing and hollow. Ernen cuffed the lad. ‘Ain’t no Riders here!’
‘Something’s down there,’ the lad whispered, hoarse.
Huffing, Ernen extended his neck to peer over. He stared, squinting, then his eyes widened and he let go an oath, making a sign of blessing. The lads joined him.
Below, unknowably far down in the black depths of the Hole, a figure glimmered. The unnatural clarity of the water allowed extraordinary detail. An armoured giant of a fellow in a full helm and holding, point-downward on his breast, a great grey blade.
Ernen knew him to lie impossibly far below, but it was as if he could just reach down and touch him.
‘Who, what, is it?’ one of the lads breathed.
‘A guardian,’ another said. ‘Must be a guardian ready should the Lady return!’
‘It’s just a body …’ Ernen began, but the youths ignored him, all talking excitedly about what a great warrior he must be, and so the old man waved the subject off and grabbed the oars.
‘Where are you going?’ one asked.
‘For the cliff. They must have a dock somewheres …’
The lads were horrified. ‘You can’t do that! You’ll disturb him!’
Ernen stared. ‘What? Disturb who?’
‘The Guardian!’
‘It’s a body! Sunk to the bottom of the Hole!’
The lads yanked the oars from his hands. ‘We’re not disturbing him. No one should come here at all.’
Ernen looked to the night sky. ‘Oh, for the love of all the damned foreign gods …’
‘Don’t be disrespectful,’ one of them warned, rather sniffily.
Ernen muttered something and sat back against the pointed bow, crossed his arms. Damned pious idiots! A month ago they would’ve turned him in for cussing the Lady, now they’re all against her. He shook his head. Damned youth – so certain of everything. Walk everyone off a cliff, they would!
* * *
At his bench on the High Court of the Newly Sovereign Kingdom of Rool, High Assessor Bakune listened to the advocate for the defence detailing the intricacies of the twisted bloodline governing the competing family claims to the Earlship of Homdo Province. He blinked his eyes to force them open wider, set his chin in his hands. He glanced out of a window where spring’s thinning cloud cover allowed a glimpse of clear blue sky.
He sighed.
Roolian troops of the Baron, now General, Karien’el caught up with the ex-Lord Mayor of Banith near the frontier of Mare. Along the side of the east trader road they found his great carriage abandoned, empty. Not much further down the mud track, in a gloomy inn, they found the man himself, hunched by the fire, his fine fur cloak grimed and torn of its silver chains of office.
The sergeant of the detail dragged over a chair, reversed it, and joined the man at his table. The ex-Lord Mayor didn’t even glance up from studying the flames in the cobble and mortar hearth.
The sergeant cleared his throat. ‘So … where is it all?’
Rousing himself, the man rubbed the stubble on his drawn cheeks, blinked his bloodshot eyes, and lifted the tankard before him, only to frown and peer down into it. ‘Innkeeper!’ he called. ‘Another!’
The sergeant yanked the tankard from his hand and slammed it down on to the table. ‘Where is it?’
Ex-Lord Mayer Estiel Gorlings blinked at the sergeant. ‘Where’s what?’
‘The entire contents of the Banith treasury, y’damned traitor!’
The man’s lower lip began to tremble. Tears started from his eyes. He wiped his face with a fisted knot of cloth. ‘It’s gone,’ he wailed. ‘Gone!’
The sergeant made a face. ‘Pull yourself together, man. What d’you mean, gone? You can’t have spent it already – have you?’
‘No!’ Estiel leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘It was stolen. I was robbed!’
‘Robbed?’
‘Yes! He jumped out upon us in the forest—’
‘He? One man? You, with all your guards?’
‘Yes!’
The sergeant crossed his arms, eyed the man as if disappointed. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
The one-time Lord Mayor reached out a hand, beseeching. ‘Truly! He overcame the guards, picked up the chest and walked off into the woods …’ His voice dwindled away into an awed silence as if even now he could not believe what he had seen.
The sergeant snorted his scorn. ‘No one man could overcome all your guards then walk off into the wilds with one of those huge chests – they’re made of iron!’
‘I’m telling you he did!’ Furious, Estiel attempted to push himself up, only to slump back into the chair, on the verge of weeping. ‘The guards took what was left and deserted me – the ungrateful bastards! Now here I am. Stranded. Penniless.’
‘Stranded no longer.’ The sergeant waved his men forward. Two grasped the thick furred shoulders of the cloak and heaved the man up. ‘We’ll find out where you buried all that coin. Don’t fool yourself.’
As the man was dragged off he raged at the sergeant. ‘No! I’m telling you! He stole the chest. He’s the thief! Not me! And he was a giant of a fellow. A giant!’
* * *
In the midst of a grassed slope beneath the gleaming snow-topped Iceback range, Ivanr stopped walking. Idly rubbing his chest, he turned to the mule train of followers tagging along behind – the last clinging remnants he could not shake off. They attended the two wagons of their blessed martyrs: the Priestess and Black Queen. ‘Here,’ he told the girl close behind.
‘Here?’ she repeated, uncertain, peering around. ‘But there’s nothing here!’
‘We’ll raise a modest building … a monastery, I guess, is what it’ll have to be.’
‘You would live here, so far from the capital? Please return with us, Deliverer. You must rule.’
Ivanr growled something deep in his throat. Weren’t they through with this? ‘No. Everyone should know their limitations. I’m no ruler. I’m just … a gardener.’
‘We will build the mightiest monastery in the world! Eclipsing even Banith!’
Ivanr waved his hands. ‘No! No … just a small building. With a garden.’
‘And training grounds for weapon practice,’ and she raised the staff she still carried.
Ivanr felt his shoulders falling but he fought against it and smiled his encouragement. ‘Well, think of it more as a kind of meditation …’
* * *
Kiska awoke lying on a sand beach. She blinked, staring up at an empty night sky. Completely empty. Not overcast nor occluded by clouds, but clear and open yet pitch dark. A night sky utterly devoid of stars.
Strange. Was she in Kurald Galain, the Warren of Elder Night?
She sat up. Her staff lay nearby in the sand. And what strange sand … it too was black, yet as fine as any sand she’d felt. She stood. A surf broke gently against the charcoal shore. Kiska stared amazed: a sea of white light. Liquid brilliance shim
mering and lapping, no different from any other sea. It extended out to a strange horizon that seemed to go on to a dizzying extent.
I’ve gone insane.
To one side a headland of rock extended out into the sea of light. Thankfully, it held a green-grey hue in contrast to the stark black and white all around. A figure was approaching from that headland, arms out, smiling beneath his moustache: Leoman.
She set her hands on her hips. ‘Where in Hood’s Realm are we?’
He gave a maddeningly unconcerned shrug. ‘Not there, I assure you.’
‘Then where?’
He raised his arms, turning full circle. ‘Welcome to what I call… the Shores of Creation.’
Something told her that the man might be right. ‘And what are we going to do here? How do we get out?’
Leoman raised a finger. ‘Ah! I was going to ask a fellow … but I’m having a hard time getting his attention.’ He gestured up high into the sky.
Kiska stared, squinting. ‘Who?’ Then movement – something enormous ponderously shifting above. A giant. And not some Toblakai or Thelomen. A titanic being the size of a mountain straddling the shore. Kiska knew that if she were next to his foot she wouldn’t even be able to see over his toe. And he, or it, was doing something: moving or carrying a huge boulder the size of a fortress …
Kiska found herself sitting once more on the sands.
Leoman was sitting next to her. He nodded. ‘Yes. I did that too.’
She sank her head into her hands. Gods! She was lost! Utterly lost! Her quest to save Tayschrenn a failure! Hadn’t the Queen of Dreams foreseen this? Why did she send her? She was … gods … she was castaway!
To her horror she felt tears burning up within her eyes and she swiped at them, furious. Beside her Leoman sighed with pleasure and lay back. He folded his arms behind his head.
She glared at him, snapping, ‘What are you so pleased about?’
He took a deep calming breath. ‘Kiska, I’ve made a lot of enemies over the course of my life …’
‘I’m sure of that,’ she muttered.
‘… and I feared I’d never be free of them all. Yet,’ and he gestured around, ‘here I am! Finally able to sleep utterly at ease. Completely free of fear! What a blessing!’ And he closed his eyes.
Kiska stared, unbelieving. Now she knew it was worse. It wasn’t that she was castaway. It was that she wasn’t alone. She was with him. This useless, lazy, unmotivated lump.
She pushed herself up. ‘Well I’m not content to do nothing here. I’m going to find a way out.’
He made a noncommittal noise, his eyes closed.
Kiska stalked off. Useless shit! Why should she have to do all the work?
Behind her, lying on the sand, a smile crept up Leoman’s lips.
* * *
The Shadow priest, Warran, stood alone on a modest slope watching the Liosan army, battered but victorious, come staggering back to their camp. He saw their leader, the ferocious Tiste Liosan woman, another daughter of the Ascendant Osserc, come limping back, supporting her brother L’oric, his nose, mouth and shirt-front dark with blood.
There. Well. That’s one thing settled, at least!
He held his hand out and a short walking stick appeared. He leaned upon it. His expression was one of satisfied contemplation.
‘Aren’t you done here yet?’ someone asked next to him.
He looked to the empty sky, then glanced to one side. It was a slim man in a loose dark shirt and trousers, with a rope draped round his neck which he held in both hands. ‘It just so happens that yes, I am.’
‘Thank the Ancients – you’ve wasted enough attention here.’
‘The creeping loss of Emurlahn is not to be ignored.’ He raised a finger. ‘No one steals from me. Not even a fish.’
The other furrowed his thin brows, opened his mouth to make a comment, reconsidered. ‘Well, this was never a threat.’
‘You are too sure of yourself.’
‘My confidence has gotten us where we are.’
‘As has my wariness and paranoia!’
Each glared at the other until Warran’s slit gaze slid aside and he murmured, ‘At least I think so …’
The other began fading away. ‘We’re too busy for this …’
Warran let out a tired breath, began thinning into transparency as if wafting away into shreds of shadow. ‘But I was enjoying the unravelling of the Whorl, the desolate landscape, the useless flailing of the Liosan …’
In moments both were gone.
* * *
Kyle sat on piled cargo amidships of his contracted Katakan trader. The Isle of East Watch passed as a dark jagged hump to the south. The sun warmed him; a welcome relief from the months of bitter, unnaturally intense winter. Shading his gaze, he looked back to Kevil Horn, the southern tip of Fist.
If he ever returned it would be too soon. He was sick of all these lands and their useless, internecine warfare. Waste, that’s what it was … all a sad waste. He’d return home – if he could find it. He wasn’t exactly sure where it lay. East of Genabackis, he believed. It had been years now and what did he have to show for all his trouble? A weapon that brought him more attention that he wanted, new scars, and painful memories.
Maybe he’d look up his old friends from the Guard: Stalker and his cousins, Badlands and Coots. See what they were up to. Anything but remain here, in these lands.
They’d taken his friend. Sleep well, Greymane! You were right not to tell me, or to bring me along. I’d have stayed with you … but then, I can think of worse deaths than falling at the side of a friend. Something, it seems to me, these Korelri understand.
He reached to his neck to pull out a frayed leather strap and a small amber stone that he rubbed between thumb and forefinger. The words of that last Fistian priest returned to him: Who protects you? It is of the earth!
Could it be true? Another old fallen friend still with him? The amber stone had come from Ereko, a giant like these Toblakai and Tarthinoe – in fact he’d claimed to be of the race that was their ancestors. And he’d claimed the very earth as his mother. Perhaps he was with him in more than memory …
He released the stone to gently feel at his ravaged scalp. He had no way of knowing, but he would like to think so. In any case he was free of them all now: free of these Korelri, the Guard, and especially he was free of these damned Malazans. He’d go home where there were only the plains, the animals, and the hunt. It would be good to return to that honest, uncomplicated life.
He’d had a bellyful of war and death and great powers grinding people underfoot as they groped for advantage – it sickened him. He had nothing but contempt for it and he felt almost weightless now that he was out of their clutches.
Yes, he’d look up his friends, Stalker and his cousins. They’d come from the lands north of his birth plains. A land of mountains and forests. A land the elders of his clan named … Assail.
* * *
The crew of a fishing boat daring the rich waters south of Malaz Island was astonished when something heavy yanked on one man’s line. A crewman at the side swore he saw something bright flash beneath the boat, but when nothing more occurred they turned to the line. They were fearful, yet it was no longer the season of the Stormriders and so they warily pulled, to see a man’s body entwined in the gut. They heaved him into the boat and were even more astonished when he suddenly took a great shuddering breath and clutched at them.
‘Take me to Unta,’ he gasped.
Talia was sweeping the courtyard of the litter from the spring windstorms. Little Halgin pelted back and forth across the court defeating hordes with his stick sword under the careful eyes of their nanny. Talia was worried; they were expecting a number of foals and she wondered if they had room. And the harvest from last year – not what they’d hoped for. It would be a challenge to make do. She continued sweeping for a time, considering options: selling a few of the horses perhaps, though that was something she would never have imagined
less than a year ago.
There were a lot of things I wouldn’t have imagined less than a year ago.
Then the silence struck her. She looked up. Little Halgin was standing still, peering down the road where some old man was coming, limping carefully along with the help of a tall walking stick.
Inside, the twins started crying, screeching for their feed.
But she stared as well, watching. Something. There was something familiar in the shoulders, the head …
Halgin threw aside his stick to run up the road. Talia took one step to follow but stopped. Halgin was yelling something – a word she couldn’t hear for the roaring in her ears. Then the nanny was there holding her up and the twins were crying. Talia straightened, forced herself to steady her breathing. She urged the nanny inside to calm the twins.
Down the road the man had thrown aside his stick and Halgin had jumped up into his arms and he carried him now, walking more strongly. Talia almost tried to rearrange her hair but wiped instead at her face. Then he was there before her and she thought she would burst. Oh gods … my prayers. You answered my prayers!
‘Look, Mama,’ Halgin said, grinning happily.
She nodded seriously. ‘Yes, Halgin. I see.’ She cupped his face – so lined and thin! Gods, you have tormented him. His beard so much greyer! She clasped his hands in hers. ‘Rillish Jal Keth. You are home.’
‘Yes, Talia,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘I’m finally home.’
GLOSSARY
Adjunct: in the Malazan Imperial hierarchy, an officer selected to stand in for, and represent, any High Fist or sufficiently ranked commander
Agayla: a witch of Malaz Isle
Ascendant: a title ascribed to any sufficiently powerful individual. It can only be given, never claimed
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