Rallick had been filled suddenly with near-euphoria. He knew with unaccountable certainty, that what grew here was right, and just.
It was new, young. Even now, as he continued watching it, he saw trembles of shaping ripple beneath its angular, geometric surfaces. What had been no more than a tree stump less than an hour ago was now a house. A massive door lay half buried in shadows beneath an arching branch. Vines barred shuttered windows. A balcony hung above and to the left of the door, festooned with leaves and creepers. It led into a kind of tower, turreted above the second story and shingled to a gnarled peak. Another tower marked the house’s front right flank, this one stockier and windowless, its roof flat with jagged merlons lining the edge. He suspected that this roof was a platform, with access through a trapdoor of some kind.
The glade around the structure had changed, too, becoming mounded here and there as if the house’s yard was a burial ground. Young, scraggly trees ringed each oblong mound, each growing as if an invisible wind twisted them away from the humped, grassy earth. The roots had dragged the apparition into one such mound.
It felt right, and just. These two words echoed in the assassin’s head, with an appeal that wrapped calm around his heart. He almost imagined he felt an affinity with this child-house—as if it knew of him and accepted him.
He knew the house to be empty. Another sourceless certainty.
Rallick continued watching, as the lines of the house grew firm, sharply defined. A musty smell pervaded the area, as of freshly turned earth. The assassin felt at peace.
A moment later he heard thrashing behind him, and whirled to see Vorcan stagger through the undergrowth. Her face was covered in blood from a gash to her brow, and she nearly collapsed into Rallick’s arms.
“Tiste Andii,” she gasped. “After me. Hunting. They seek to avenge a murder!”
Rallick looked past her, and his eyes, long accustomed to the surrounding darkness, detected silent movement among the trees, closing in. He hesitated, gripping the now unconscious woman in his arms. Then he bent down, threw Vorcan over one shoulder, turned, and ran toward the house.
He knew that the door would open for him, and it did. Beyond was a dark antechamber and an archway leading into a hallway running from side to side. A gust of warm, sweet air flowed over Rallick, and he entered without pause.
Korlat, blood-kin to Serrat, slowed as she approached the strange house. The door had closed behind their quarry. She came to the edge of the clearing, then squatted on her haunches. Her fellow hunters gathered slowly around her.
Horult hissed angrily, then said, “Have you summoned our lord, Korlat?”
The woman shook her head. “I know of such creations from old,” she said. “The Deadhouse of Malaz City, the Odhanhouse of Seven Cities . . . Azath edieimarn, Pillars of Innocence—this door will not open to us.”
“Yet it opened to them,” Horult said.
“There is precedence. The Azath choose their own. It was so with the Deadhouse. Two men were chosen: one who would be Emperor, the other who would accompany him. Kellanved and Dancer.”
“I sense its power,” Orfantal whispered. “Our lord could destroy it, now, while it’s still young.”
“Yes,” agreed Korlat. “He could.” She was silent a moment, then she rose. “I am blood-kin to the fallen,” she said.
“You are blood-kin,” the others intoned.
“The quest for vengeance is ended,” Korlat said, the lines around her almond-shaped eyes tightening. “Our lord will not be summoned. Leave him to his recovery. The Azath will not be touched, for it is new, a child.” Her eyes, soft brown, slowly regarded those of her companions. “The Queen of Darkness spoke thus of Light when it was first born: ‘It is new, and what is new is innocent, and what is innocent is precious. Observe this child of wonder, and know respect.’ ”
Orfantal scowled. “Thus did Light survive, and so was Darkness destroyed, the purity vanquished—and now you would have us flawed as our Queen was flawed. Light became corrupted and destroyed our world, Korlat, or have you forgotten?”
Korlat’s smile was a sad one. “Cherish such flaws, dear brother, for our Queen’s was hope, and so is mine. Now we must leave.”
Kruppe’s expression was benign as he watched Crokus approach, clearly exhausted by this night of endless running. He nudged Murillio and fluttered his fingers in the young thief’s direction. “The lad returns with undue haste, yet I fear such sad tidings as Kruppe must bring.”
“He’s had a rough night all around,” Murillio commented. He leaned against the gate’s support wall outside the Simtal Estate. The streets remained empty, the citizens shocked numb with the night’s horrors.
Kruppe gestured at Moon’s Spawn, now a league to the west, well beyond the city’s walls. “A remarkable contraption, that. However, Kruppe is pleased that it has chosen to depart. Imagine, even the stars blotted out, leaving naught but dread in this world.”
“I need a drink,” Murillio muttered.
“Excellent idea,” Kruppe said. “Shall we await the lad, however?”
The wait was not long. Crokus recognized them and slowed his frantic run. “Apsalar’s been kidnaped by the Empire!” he shouted. “I need help!” He wobbled to a halt before Murillio. “And Rallick’s still in the garden—”
“Tut, tut,” Kruppe said. “Easy, lad. Apsalar’s location is known to Kruppe. As for Rallick, well . . .” He faced the street and waved his arms expansively. “Breathe the night air, Crokus! A new year has begun! Come, let us walk, the three of us, masters of Darujhistan!” He linked arms with his comrades and pulled them forward.
Murillio sighed. “Rallick’s missing,” he explained. “There’s some kind of extraordinary house in Coll’s garden now.”
“Ah, so much unveiled in that single statement!” Kruppe leaned against Crokus. “While, no doubt, the lad’s secret, overriding concern at the moment regards the fate of a fair young maiden, whose life was saved at the last moment by a noble son named Gorlas, of all things. Saved, Kruppe says, from a ton of masonry shrugged off a wall. ’Twas heroic, indeed. The lass near-swooned with satisfaction.”
“What are you talking about?” Crokus demanded. “Who was saved?”
Murillio snorted. “I think, dear Kruppe, Master of Darujhistan, you’ve got the wrong fair maiden in mind.”
“She’s not fair, anyway,” Crokus asserted.
Kruppe’s chest swelled slightly. “You need but ask the gods, lad, and they’ll tell that life itself isn’t fair. Now, are you interested in how Lady Simtal’s estate has just this night become Coll’s estate? Or is your mind so thoroughly enamoured of this new love of yours that even the fates of your dearest friends—Kruppe included—yield such lack of interest?”
Crokus bridled. “Of course I’m interested!”
“Then the story begins, as always, with Kruppe . . .”
Murillio groaned. “Thus spake the Eel.”
Epilogue
I have seen a rumor born
swathed in snug mystery
left lying under the sun
in the hills of the Gadrobi
where the sheep have scattered
on wolf-laden winds
and the shepherds have fled
a whispering of sands
and it blinked in the glare
a heart hardened into stone
while the shadow of the Gates of Nowhere
crept ’cross the drifting dust of home
I have seen this rumor born
a hundred thousand hunters of the heart
in a city bathed in blue light . . .
RUMOR BORN (I. I-IV)
FISHER (B.?)
The sun lit the morning mists into a shield of white over the lake. Down on the beach a fisher-boat rocked in the freshening waves. Unmoored, it was moments before pulling free of the pebbles.
Mallet helped Whiskeyjack to a dome of rock above the beach, where they sat. The healer’s gaze hesitated on the figure of Quick
Ben, standing with shoulders hunched and staring across the lake. He followed the wizard’s gaze. Moon’s Spawn hung low on the horizon, a gold cast to its ravaged basalt. Mallet grunted. “It’s heading south. I wonder what that means?”
Whiskeyjack squinted against the glare. He began to massage his temples.
“More headaches?” Mallet asked.
“Not so bad, lately,” the grizzled man said.
“It’s the leg that worries me,” the healer muttered. “I need to work on it some more, and you need to stay off it awhile.”
Whiskeyjack grinned. “As soon as there’s time,” he said.
Mallet sighed. “We’ll work on it then.”
From the forested slope behind them Hedge called, “They’re coming in!”
The healer helped Whiskeyjack stand. “Hood knows,” he whispered. “It could’ve been a lot worse, right, Sergeant?”
Whiskeyjack glared across the lake. “Three lost ain’t that bad, considering.”
A pained expression crossed Mallet’s face. He said nothing.
“Let’s move,” Whiskeyjack growled. “Captain Paran hates tardiness. And maybe the Moranth have good news. Be a change, wouldn’t it?”
From the beach, Quick Ben watched Mallet supporting his sergeant up the slope. Was it time? he wondered. To stay alive in this business, no one could afford to let up. The best plans work inside other plans, and when it’s right to feint, feint big. Keeping the other hand hidden is the hard part.
The wizard felt a stab of regret. No, it wasn’t time. Give the old man a chance to rest. He forced himself into motion. He wouldn’t let himself look back—never a good idea. The scheme was hatched.
“Whiskeyjack’s going to howl when he hears this one,” he whispered to himself.
Captain Paran listened to the others on the beach below, but made no move to join them. Not yet. His brush with Ascendants seemed to have left him with a new sensitivity—or perhaps it was the Otataral sword scabbarded at his side. But he could sense her, now, already in her adolescence, plump as he knew she’d be, smiling with her heavy-lidded eyes deceptively sleepy as she studied the morning sky.
I will come to you, he promised her. When this Pannion Seer and his cursed holy war is crushed, I will come to you then, Tattersail.
“I know.”
He stiffened. That voice in his head had not been his own. Or had it? He waited, waited for more. Tattersail? Only silence answered him. Ah, my imagination, nothing more. To think you would call up enough of your old life, to find the feelings you once held for me, find them and feel them once again. I am a fool.
He rose from his crouch at Lorn’s graveside—a mound of rocks—and brushed twigs and orange pine needles from his clothing. Look at me now. Agent for the Adjunct once, now a soldier. Finally, a soldier. Smiling, he made his way down to his squad.
“Then I shall await the coming of a soldier.”
Paran stopped in his tracks, then, smiling, continued on. “Now that,” he whispered, “was not my imagination.”
The tradecraft hugged the southern shore, making for Dhavran and the river mouth. Kalam leaned on the gunwale, his gaze sweeping the north horizon’s ragged, snow-capped mountains. Near him stood another passenger, hardly memorable and disinclined to talk.
The only voices reaching the assassin came from Apsalar and Crokus. They sounded excited, each revolving around the other in a subtle dance that was yet to find its accompanying words. A slow, half smile quirked Kalam’s mouth. It’d been a long time since he’d heard such innocence.
A moment later, Crokus appeared beside him, his uncle’s demon familiar clutching his shoulder. “Coll says that the Empire’s capital, Unta, is as big as Darujhistan. Is it?”
Kalam shrugged. “Maybe. A lot uglier. I don’t expect we’ll have a chance to visit it, though. Itko Kan lies on the south coast, while Unta is on Kartool Bay, the northeast coast. Miss Darujhistan already?”
An expression of regret came over Crokus’s face. He stared down into the waves. “Just some people there,” he said.
The assassin grunted. “Know how you feel, Crokus. Hood’s Breath, look at Fiddler back there, mooning away as if somebody had cut off one of his arms and one of his legs.”
“Apsalar still can’t believe you’d go to all this trouble for her. She doesn’t remember being much liked in your squad.”
“Wasn’t her, though, was it? This woman here is a fishergirl from some two-copper village. And she’s a long way from home.”
“She’s more than that,” Crokus muttered. He had a coin in his hand and was playing with it absently.
Kalam threw the boy a sharp look. “Really,” he said, deadpan.
Crokus nodded affably. He held up the coin and examined the face on it. “Do you believe in luck, Kalam?”
“No,” the assassin growled.
Crokus grinned happily. “Me neither.” He flipped the coin into the air.
They watched it plummet into the sea, flash once, then vanish beneath the waves.
From near the bow, Circle Breaker slowly nodded to himself. The Eel would be delighted with the news, not to mention greatly relieved. Then he returned his attention to the west, and wondered what it would be like, no longer anonymous to the world.
This ends the first Tale
of the
Malazan
Book of the Fallen
Glossary
Titles and Groups
First Sword of Empire: Malazan and T’lan Imass, a title denoting an Imperial champion
Fist: a military governor in the Malazan Empire
High Fist: a commander of armies in a Malazan Campaign
Kron T’lan Imass: the name of the clans under the command of Kron
Logros T’lan Imass: the name of the clans under the command of Logros
The Bridgeburners: a legendary élite division in the Malaz 2nd Army
The Crimson Guard: a famous mercenary company commanded by a deposed prince
The Pannion Seer: a mysterious prophet ruling the lands south of Darujhistan
The Warlord: the name for Caladan Brood
The Claw: the covert organization of the Malazan Empire
Peoples (human and non-human)
Barghast (non-human): pastoral nomadic warrior society
Daru: cultural group sharing citizenry in cities in northern Genabackis
Gadrobi: indigenous cultural group in central Genabackis
Genabarii: cultural group (and language) in northwest Genabackis
Forkrul Assail (non-human): extinct mythical people (one of the Four Founding Races)
Jaghut (non-human): extinct mythical people (one of the Four Founding Races)
K’chain Che’Malle (non-human): extinct mythical people (one of the Four Founding Races)
Moranth (non-human): highly regimented civilization centered in Cloud Forest
Rhivi: pastoral nomadic society in central plains of Genabackis
T’lan Imass: one of the Four Founding Races, now immortal
Tiste Andii (non-human): an Elder Race
Trell (non-human): pastoral nomadic warrior society in transition to sedentarianism
Ascendants
Apsalar, Lady of Thieves
Beru, Lord of Storms
Burn, Lady of the Earth, the Sleeping Goddess
Caladan Brood, the Warlord
Cotillion/The Rope (the Assassin of High House Shadow)
Dessembrae, Lord of Tragedy
D’rek, the Worm of Autumn (sometimes the Queen of Disease, see Poliel)
Fanderay, She-Wolf of Winter
Fener, the Boar (see also Tennerock)
Gedderone, Lady of Spring and Rebirth
Great Ravens, ravens sustained by magic
Hood (King of High House Death)
Jhess, Queen of Weaving
Kallor, the High King
K’rul, Elder God
Mowri, Lady of Beggars, Slaves, and Serfs
Nerruse, Lady of Calm Seas and
Fair Wind
Oponn, Twin Jesters of Chance
Osserc, Lord of the Sky
Poliel, Mistress of Pestilence
Queen of Dreams (Queen of High House Life)
Shadowthrone/Ammanas (King of High House Shadow)
Shedenul/Soliel, Lady of Health
Soliel, Mistress of Healing
Tennerock/Fener, the Boar of Five Tusks
The Crippled God, King of Chains
The Hounds (of High House Shadow)
Togg (see Fanderay), the Wolf of Winter
Trake/Treach, the Tiger of Summer and Battle
Son of Darkness/Moon’s Lord/Anomander Rake (Knight of High House Dark)
Treach, First Hero
The World of Sorcery
THE WARRENS (THE PATHS—THOSE WARRENS ACCESSIBLE TO HUMANS)
Denul: the Path of Healing
D’riss: the Path of Stone
Hood’s Path: the Path of Death
Meanas: the Path of Shadow and Illusion
Ruse: the Path of the Sea
Rashan: the Path of Darkness
Serc: the Path of the Sky
Tennes: the Path of the Land
Thyr: the Path of Light
THE ELDER WARRENS
Kurald Galain: the Tiste Andii Warren of Darkness
Tellann: the T’lan Imass Warren
Omtose Phellack: the Jaghut Warren
Starvald Demelain: the Tiam Warren, the First Warren
THE DECK OF DRAGONS—THE FATID (AND ASSOCIATED ASCENDANTS)
High House Life
King
Queen (Queen of Dreams)
Champion
Priest
Herald
Soldier
Weaver
Mason
Virgin
High House Death
King (Hood)
Queen
Knight (once Dassem Ultor)
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 67
