The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

‘To do nothing would be seen as cowardice. Worse yet, I do not think I could face Hull’s killers without reaching for my sword.’

  ‘You may have to, Brys. Of course,’ Tehol added, ‘I am not so bound by such prohibitions.’

  Brys studied his brother for a long moment. ‘You would avenge Hull?’

  ‘Count on it.’

  Eventually, Brys smiled.

  Tehol glanced over and nodded. ‘That’s perfect, brother. When you come face to face with them, show that smile. It will put terror in their hearts.’

  Brys sighed and returned his gaze to the city. ‘Outwardly, we seem so different, the three of us.’

  ‘And so we are,’ Tehol replied. ‘It comes down to methods, and we each walk unique paths. At the same time, alas, we must all live with an identical legacy, a particularly unpleasant inheritance.’ He shrugged, then pulled up his sagging trousers. ‘Three stones in a stream. All subjected to the same rushing water, yet each shaped differently, depending upon its nature.’

  ‘And which of us is sandstone?’

  ‘Hull. He’s been worn down the most, brother, by far. You, you’re basalt.’

  ‘And you, Tehol?’

  ‘Maybe a mix of the two, yielding a sadly misshapen result. But I can live with it.’

  ‘Perhaps you can,’ Brys observed, ‘but what about the rest of us?’

  ‘There’s a matter on which you can help me, brother.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Presumably, there are recorders of obscure information in the palace. People who tally various events, trends and such.’

  ‘A veritable army of them, Tehol.’

  ‘Indeed. Now, might you make some discreet inquiries for me?’

  ‘Regarding what?’

  ‘People going missing in Letheras. Annual numbers, that sort of thing.’

  ‘If you like. Why?’

  ‘At the moment, I’m just curious.’

  ‘What are you up to, Tehol?’

  ‘This and that.’

  Brys grimaced. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I shall. Do you smell that? Bugg is brewing tea.’

  ‘That doesn’t smell like tea.’

  ‘Yes, he’s full of surprises. Let’s go down. I for one am very thirsty.’

  Shurq Elalle watched Ublala Pung close in on the pair of guards who had just come round the corner of the estate’s outer wall. They had time to look up in alarm before he threw his punch. Crunching into one jaw, then following through to crack against the other man’s temple. Both collapsed. Ublala paused, looking down on them, then headed off in search of more.

  Shurq stepped from the shadows and approached the wall. Wards had been etched into the ochre stone, but she knew they were linked to intrusions by someone living. The heat of a body, the moist breaths, the thump of a heart. Those relating to motion were far more expensive to maintain, and would be reserved for the main house.

  She reached the wall, paused to take a final look round, then quickly scaled it.

  The top was studded with shards of razor-sharp iron that cut deep into the reinforced padding on her gloves. As she drew herself up, the shards cut through the layers of leather and sank into her palms, improving her grip. She would get the lacerations sewn up later, to keep out lint and insects and other creatures that might seek to take up residence in the punctures.

  Her upper body perched above her arms, she studied the compound below. Seeing no-one, she lifted herself over, pivoting on her hands, then edged down onto the other side. She pried her left hand loose of the spikes and gripped the ledge with her fingers, then tugged her right hand loose as well. Freed of the shards, she quickly descended to crouch in the shadows beneath the wall.

  Dozens of guards somewhere ahead, between her and her goal. Men—but no, she couldn’t think about that, not right now. Later, with Ublala. Unfortunately, the mindless guest within her understood nothing of the value of anticipation. It knew hunger, and hunger must be appeased. The nature of things alive, she mused, as opposed to things dead. Urgency, dissatisfaction, the burden of appetites. She’d forgotten.

  Four guards standing at the estate entrance, one to either side of the double doors, the remaining two flanking the broad steps. They looked bored. There were windows on the main floor, but these were shuttered. Balconies on the next level—the small doors there would be warded. The uppermost floor consisted of three A-frame rooms facing front, their peaked roofs steep and tiled in slate. Inward of these projections, the estate roof was flat and low-walled, a veritable forest of potted plants and stunted trees. And hidden watchers.

  All in all, seemingly impregnable.

  Just the kind she liked.

  She set out towards the nearest outbuilding, a maintenance shed with a sloped roof that faced onto the compound. Careful, silent steps, then settling alongside the nearest wall of the shed. Where she waited.

  A loud thumping on the front gates.

  The four guards at the estate entrance straightened, exchanged glances. There were at least eight of their comrades patrolling the street and alley beyond the wall. It was too late for a guest, and besides, Master Gerun Eberict was not at home. Alternatively, perhaps he had sent a messenger. But then there would have been a signal from the patrol. No, she could see them conclude, this was unusual.

  The two guards at the base of the steps set off towards the gate, hands on the grips of their swords.

  The thumping stopped when the two men were halfway to the gate. They slowed, drawing weapons.

  Two steps from the gate.

  The twin massive portals exploded inward, taking both guards down beneath the battered wood and bronze. Ublala’s forward momentum carried him over the flattened doors and the men trapped beneath them.

  At the top of the stairs, shouts of alarm, and the last two guards were rushing towards the giant.

  ‘I never done nothing to any of you!’ Ublala bellowed, or at least that is what Shurq thought he said—the words were made indistinct by his bristling indignation as he charged the two guards.

  A brief moment of concern for Shurq, since her man was unarmed.

  Swords slashed out. Ublala seemed to slap at them along the flat, and one of the swords cartwheeled through the air. The other ploughed into the pavestones at the giant’s feet. A backhand slap spun the nearest man round and off his feet. The remaining guard was screaming, stumbling back. Ublala reached out, caught him by the right arm, and tugged him close.

  ‘I’m not meat I’m a new body!’

  Or ‘I’m not mean to nobody!’

  The guard was dragged off his feet and shaken about in a clatter of armour to accompany the incoherent assertion. The hapless man went limp, his limbs flailing about. Ublala dropped him and looked up.

  Guards were streaming towards him from either side of the estate.

  He grunted in alarm, turned about and ran back through the gaping gateway.

  Shurq glanced up at the roof. Four figures up there, looking down at the fleeing giant, two of them readying javelins.

  But he was already through the archway.

  Shurq slipped round the back of the shed and darted across the narrow gap to come alongside the estate wall. She padded towards the stairs, onto the platform and through the unwarded entrance. Outside, she heard someone shout orders for a rearguard to hold the compound, but clearly no-one had turned round to keep an eye on the front doors.

  Shurq found herself in a reception hall, the walls covered in frescos illustrating Gerun’s desperate defence of King Ezgara Diskanar. She paused, drew out a knife to scratch a moustache on Gerun’s manly, grimacing, triumphant face, then continued on through an archway leading to a large chamber modelled in the fashion of a throne room, although the throne—an ornate, high-backed monstrosity—was simply positioned at the head of a long table instead of surmounting a raised dais.

  Doors at every corner of the chamber, each one elaborately framed. A fifth one, narrow and inset at the back, probably with a servants’ passage bey
ond.

  No doubt the inhabitants were awake by now. Yet, being servants—Indebted one and all—they’d be hiding under their cots during this terrifying tumult.

  She set off towards that last door. The passageway beyond was narrow and poorly lit. Curtained cells lined it, the pathetic residences of the staff. No light showed from beneath any of the hangings, but Shurq caught the sound of scuffing from one room halfway down, and a stifled gasp from one closer, on her left.

  She closed her gloved hand on the grip of the fighting knife strapped beneath her left arm, and ran the back of the blade hard against the scabbard edge as she drew it forth. More gasps. A terrified squeal.

  Slow steps down the narrow passage, pausing every now and then, but never long enough to elicit a scream from anyone, until she came to a T-intersection. To the right the aisle opened out onto the kitchen. To the left, a staircase leading both up and to cellars below ground. Shurq swung round and faced the passageway she had just quitted. Pitching her voice low, she hissed, ‘Go to sleep. Was jus’ doin’ a circuit. No-one here, sweeties. Relax.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ a voice asked.

  ‘Who cares?’ another replied. ‘Like he said, Prist, go back t’sleep.’

  But Prist continued, ‘It’s jus’ that I don’ recognize ’im—’

  ‘Yeah,’ the other countered, ‘an’ you ain’t a gardener but a real live hero, right, Prist?’

  ‘All I’m sayin’ is—’

  Shurq walked back to halt in front of Prist’s curtain.

  She heard movement beyond, but the man was silent.

  She drew the dirty linen to one side and slipped into the cramped room. It stank of mud and manure. In the darkness she could just make out a large, crouching figure at the back wall, a blanket drawn up under its chin.

  ‘Ah, Prist,’ Shurq murmured in a voice little more than a whisper and taking another step closer, ‘are you any good at keeping quiet? I hope so, because I intend to spend some time with you. Don’t worry,’ she added as she unbuckled her belt, ‘it’ll be fun.’

  Two bells later, Shurq lifted her head from the gardener’s muscled arm, concentrating to listen beyond his loud snores. Poor bastard had been worn right out—she hoped Ublala could manage better—and all his subsequent whimpering and mewling was disgusting. As the bell’s low echoes faded, a solid silence replaced it.

  The guards had returned shortly after Shurq had slipped into Prist’s cubicle. Loud with speculation and bitter argument, indicating that Ublala had made good his escape, although a call for the services of the house healer suggested there’d been a clash or two. Since that time, things had settled down. There had been a cursory search of the estate, but not the servants’ quarters, suggesting that no suspicion of diversion and infiltration had occurred to the house guards. Careless. Indicative of a sad lack of imagination. All in all, as she had expected. An overbearing master had that effect. Initiative was dangerous, lest it clash with Gerun’s formidable ego.

  Shurq pulled herself loose from Prist’s exhausted, childlike embrace, and rose silently to don her clothes and gear. Gerun would have an office, adjoining his private rooms. Men like Gerun always had offices. It served their need for legitimacy.

  Its defences would be elaborate, the magic expensive and thorough. But not so complicated as to leave a Finadd confused. Accordingly, the mechanisms of deactivation would be straightforward. Another thing to consider, of course, was the fact that Gerun was absent. It was likely there were additional wards in place that could not be negated. She suspected they would be life-aspected, since other kinds could more easily be accidentally triggered.

  She quietly stepped back into the passageway. Sounds of sleep and naught else. Satisfied, Shurq returned to the T-intersection and turned left. Ascending the staircase, she was careful to place each foot along alternating edges where the joins reduced the likelihood of a telltale creak.

  Reaching the first landing, Shurq stepped close to the door, then paused. Motionless. A tripwire was set along the seam of the door, locked in place by the last servant to use the passage. Sometimes the simplest alarms succeeded where more elaborate ones failed, if only because the thief was over-anticipating the complication. She released the mechanism and turned the latch.

  Into another servants’ passage, running parallel to the formal hallway, assuming a typical layout for Gerun’s estate. She found the lone door where she expected, on the right at the far end. Another tripwire to release, then she stepped through. The hallway was unlit, which was clever. Three doors along the opposite wall, the rooms beyond showing no light.

  She was fairly certain she had found Gerun Eberict’s private quarters. Barely detectable in the gloom were a host of arcane sigils painted on the nearest door.

  Shurq edged closer to study those symbols.

  And froze as a dull voice spoke from down the corridor. ‘It was incompetence. Or so he says. And now I’m supposed to make it up to him.’

  She slowly turned. A seated figure, sprawled back with legs stretched out, head tilted to one side.

  ‘You’re dead,’ the man said.

  ‘Is that a promise or an observation?’

  ‘Just something we have in common,’ he answered. ‘That doesn’t happen to me much, any more.’

  ‘I know just how you feel. So, Gerun has you here guarding his rooms.’

  ‘It’s my penance.’

  ‘For incompetence.’

  ‘Yes. Gerun doesn’t fire people, you know. He kills them and then, depending on how angry he is, either buries them or keeps them on for a time. I suppose he’ll bury me eventually.’

  ‘Without releasing your soul?’

  ‘He often forgets about that part.’

  ‘I’m here to steal everything he has.’

  ‘If you were living I would of course kill you in some monstrous, terrifying way. I would get up from this chair, feet dragging, arms out with my hands clawing the air. I’d make bestial sounds and moans and hisses as if I was hungry to sink my teeth into your throat.’

  ‘That would certainly prove sufficient to deter a thief. A living one, that is.’

  ‘It would, and I’d probably enjoy it, too.’

  ‘But I’m not living, am I?’

  ‘No. But I have one question for you and it’s an important one.’

  ‘All right. Ask it.’

  ‘Why, since you’re dead, do you look so good? Who cut your hair? Why aren’t you rotting away like me? Are you stuffed with herbs or something? Are you wearing make-up? Why are the whites of your eyes so white? Your lips so glossy?’

  Shurq was silent a moment, then asked, ‘Is that your one question?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you like, I can introduce you to the people responsible for the new me. I am sure they can do the same for you.’

  ‘Really? Including a manicure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What about filing my teeth? You know, to make them sharp and scary.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how scary you will be with styled hair, make-up, perfect nails and glossy lips.’

  ‘But sharp teeth? Don’t you think the sharp teeth will terrify people?’

  ‘Why not just settle for those? Most people are frightened of rotting things, of things crawling with vermin and stinking like a freshly turned grave. Fangs and fingernails clipped into talons.’

  ‘I like it. I like how you think.’

  ‘My pleasure. Now, do I have to worry about these wards?’

  ‘No. In fact, I can show you where all the mechanisms are for the alarms.’

  ‘Won’t that give you away?’

  ‘Give me away? Why, I am coming with you, of course. Assuming you can get us both out of here.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m sure we’ll manage. What is your name, by the way?’

  ‘Harlest Eberict.’

  Shurq cocked her head, then said, ‘Oh. But you died ten years ago, according to your brother.’

  ‘Ten years? Is t
hat all?’

  ‘He said you fell down the stairs, I believe. Or something like that.’

  ‘Stairs. Or pitched off the balcony. Maybe both.’

  ‘And what did you do or fail to do that earned such punishment?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Only that I was incompetent.’

  ‘That was long before Gerun saved the king’s life. How could he have afforded the sorcery needed to bind your soul to your body?’

  ‘I believe he called in a favour.’

  Shurq swung back to the door. ‘Does this lead to his office?’

  ‘No, that one goes to his love-making room. You want the one over here.’

  ‘Any chance of anyone hearing us talking right now, Harlest?’

  ‘No, the walls are thick.’

  ‘One last thing,’ Shurq said, eyeing Harlest. ‘Why didn’t Gerun bind your loyalty with magic?’

  The pale, patchy face displayed surprise. ‘Well, we’re brothers!’

  Alarms negated, the two undead stood in Finadd Gerun Eberict’s office.

  ‘He doesn’t keep much actual coin here,’ Harlest said. ‘Mostly writs of holding. He spreads his wealth around to protect it.’

  ‘Very wise. Where is his seal?’

  ‘On the desk.’

  ‘Very unwise. Do me a favour and start collecting those writs.’ She walked over to the desk and gathered up the heavy, ornate seal and the thick sheets of wax piled beside it. ‘This wax is an exclusive colour?’

  ‘Oh yes. He paid plenty for that.’ Harlest had gone to a wall and was removing a large tapestry behind which was an inset cabinet. He disengaged a number of tripwires, then swung open the small door. Within were stacks of scrolls and a small jewelled box.

  ‘What’s in the box?’ Shurq asked.

  Harlest lifted it out and tossed it to Shurq. ‘His cash. Like I said, he never keeps much around.’

  She examined the clasp. Satisfied that it wasn’t boobytrapped, she slid it to one side and tipped back the lid. ‘Not much? Harlest, this is full of diamonds.’

  The man, his arms loaded with scrolls, walked over. ‘It is?’

  ‘He’s called in a few of his holdings, I think.’

  ‘He must have. I wonder why?’