From above came sounds of Cuttle making his way down the makeshift rope, his breath harsh, strained. Bottle reached the rubble-filled base of the fissure. It was solidly plugged. Confused, he ran his hands along both walls. His rat? Ah, there – at the bottom of the sheer, vertical wall his left hand plunged into air that swept up and past. An archway. Gods, what kind of building was this? An archway, holding the weight of at least two – maybe three – storeys’ worth of stonework. And neither the wall nor the arch had buckled, after all this time. Maybe the legends are true. Maybe Y’Ghatan was once the first Holy City, the greatest city of all. And when it died, at the Great Slaughter, every building was left standing – not a stone taken. Standing, to be buried by the sands.
He lowered himself to twist feet-first through the archway, almost immediately contacting heaps of something – rubble? – nearly filling the chamber beyond. Rubble that tipped and tilted with clunking sounds, rocked by his kicking feet.
Ahead, his rat roused itself, startled by the loud sounds as Bottle slid into the chamber. Reaching out with his will, he grasped hold of the creature’s soul once more. ‘All right, little one. The work begins again…’ His voice trailed away.
He was lying on row upon row of urns, stacked so high they were an arm’s reach from the chamber’s ceiling. Groping with his hands, Bottle found that the tall urns were sealed, capped in iron, the edges and level tops of the metal intricately incised with swirling patterns. The ceramic beneath was smooth to the touch, finely glazed. Hearing Cuttle shouting that he’d reached the base behind him, he crawled in towards the centre of the room. The rat slipped through another archway opposite, and Bottle sensed it clambering down, alighting on a clear, level stone floor, then waddling ahead.
Grasping the rim of one urn’s iron cap, he strained to pull it loose. The seal was tight, his efforts eliciting nothing. He twisted the rim to the right – nothing – then the left. A grating sound. He twisted harder. The cap slid, pulled loose from its seal. Crumbled wax fell away. Bottle pulled upward on the lid. When that failed, he resumed twisting it to the left, and quickly realized that the lid was rising, incrementally, with every full turn. Probing fingers discovered a canted, spiralling groove on the rim of the urn, crusted with wax. Two more turns and the iron lid came away.
A pungent, cloying smell arose.
I know that smell…honey. These things are filled with honey. For how long had they sat here, stored away by people long since dust? He reached down, and almost immediately plunged his hand into the cool, thick contents. A balm against his burns, and now, an answer to the sudden hunger awakening within him.
‘Bottle?’
‘Through here. I’m in a large chamber under the straight wall. Cuttle, there’s urns here, hundreds of them. Filled with honey.’ He drew his hands free and licked his fingers. ‘Gods, it tastes fresh. When you get in here, salve your burns, Cuttle—’
‘Only if you promise we’re not going to crawl through an ant nest anywhere ahead.’
‘No ants down here. What’s the count?’
‘We got everybody.’
‘Strings?’
‘Still with us, though the heat’s working its way down.’
‘Enough rope and straps, then. Good.’
‘Aye. So long as they hold. Seems Urb’s proposing to carry Hellian down. On his back.’
‘Is the next one on their way?’
‘Aye. How do these lids come off?’
‘Turn them, widdershins. And keep turning them.’
Bottle listened as the man worked on one of the lids. ‘Can’t be very old, this stuff, to still be fresh.’
‘There’s glyphs on these lids, Cuttle. I can’t see them, but I can feel them. My grandmother, she had a ritual blade she used in her witchery – the markings are the same, I think. If I’m right, Cuttle, this iron work is Jaghut.’
‘What?’
‘But the urns are First Empire. Feel the sides. Smooth as eggshell – if we had light I’d wager anything they’re sky-blue. So, with a good enough seal…’
‘I can still taste the flowers in this, Bottle.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re talking thousands and thousands of years.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s your favourite rat?’
‘Hunting us a way through. There’s another chamber opposite, but it’s open, empty, I mean – we should move in there to give the others room…’
‘What’s wrong?’
Bottle shook his head. ‘Nothing, just feeling a little…strange. Cut my back up some…it’s gone numb—’
‘Hood’s breath, there was some kind of poppy in that honey, wasn’t there? I’m starting to feel…gods below, my head’s swimming.’
‘Yeah, better warn the others.’
Though he could see nothing, Bottle felt as if the world around him was shuddering, spinning. His heart was suddenly racing. Shit. He crawled towards the other archway. Reached in, pulled himself forward, and was falling.
The collision with the stone floor felt remote, yet he sensed he’d plunged more than a man’s height. He remembered a sharp, cracking sound, realized it had been his forehead, hitting the flagstones.
Cuttle thumped down on top of him, rolled off with a grunt.
Bottle frowned, pulling himself along the floor. The rat – where was she? Gone. I lost her. Oh no, I lost her.
Moments later, he lost everything else as well.
Corabb had dragged an unconscious Strings down the last stretch of tunnel. They’d reached the ledge to find the rope dangling from three sword scabbards wedged across the shaft, and vague sounds of voices far below. Heat swirled like serpents around him as he struggled to pull the Malazan up closer to the ledge.
Then he reached out and began drawing up the rope.
The last third of the line consisted of knots and straps and buckles – he checked each knot, tugged on each strand, but none seemed on the verge of breaking. Corabb bound the Malazan’s arms, tight at the wrists; then the man’s ankles – one of them sheathed in blood, and, checking for bandages, he discovered none remaining, just the ragged holes left by the spear – and from the rope at the ankles he made a centre knot between the sergeant’s feet. With the rope end looped in one hand, Corabb worked the man’s arms over his head, then down so that the bound wrists were against his sternum. He then pushed his own legs through, so that the Malazan’s bound feet were against his shins. Drawing up the centre-knotted rope he looped it over his head and beneath one arm, then cinched it into a tight knot.
He worked his way into the shaft, leaning hard for the briefest of moments on the wedged scabbards, then succeeding in planting one foot against the opposite wall. The distance was a little too great – he could manage only the tips of his feet on each wall, and as the weight of Strings on his back fully settled, the tendons in his ankles felt ready to snap.
Gasping, Corabb worked his way down. Two man-heights, taken in increasing speed, control slipping away with every lurch downward, then he found a solid projection on which he could rest his right foot, and the gap had narrowed enough to let his left hand reach out and ease the burden on that leg.
Corabb rested.
The pain of deep burns, the pounding of his heart. Some time later, he resumed the descent. Easier now, the gap closing, closing.
Then he was at the bottom, and he heard something like laughter from his left, low, which then trailed away.
He searched out that side and found the archway, through which he tossed the rope, hearing it strike a body a little way below.
Everyone’s asleep. No wonder. I could do with that myself.
He untied Strings, then clambered through, found his feet balancing on tight-packed, clunking jars, the sounds of snoring and breathing on all sides and a sweet, cloying smell. He pulled Strings after him, eased the man down.
Honey. Jars and jars of honey. Good for burns, I think. Good for wounds. Finding an opened jar, Corabb scooped out a hand
ful, crawled over to the sergeant and pushed the honey into the puncture wounds. Salved the burns, on Strings and on himself. Then he settled back. Numbing bliss stole through him.
Oh, this honey, it’s Carelbarra. The God Bringer. Oh…
Fist Keneb tottered into the morning light, stood, blinking, looking round at the chaotic array of tents, many of them scorched, and all the soldiers – stumbling, wandering or standing motionless, staring across the blasted landscape towards the city. Y’Ghatan, blurred by waves of rising heat, a misshapen mound melted down atop its ragged hill, fires still flickering here and there, pale orange tongues and, lower down, fierce deep red.
Ash filled the air, drifting down like snow.
It hurt to breathe. He was having trouble hearing – the roar of that firestorm still seemed to rage inside his head, as hungry as ever. How long had it been? A day? Two days? There had been healers. Witches with salves, practitioners of Denul from the army itself. A jumble of voices, chanting, whispers, some real, some imagined.
He thought of his wife. Selv was away from this accursed continent, safe in her family estate back on Quon Tali. And Kesen and Vaneb, his children. They’d survived, hadn’t they? He was certain they had. A memory of that, strong enough to convince him of its truth. That assassin, Kalam, he’d had something to do with that.
Selv. They had grown apart, in the two years before the rebellion, the two years – was it two? – that they had been in Seven Cities, in the garrison settlement. The uprising had forced them both to set aside all of that, for the children, for survival itself. He suspected she did not miss him; although his children might. He suspected she would have found someone else by now, a lover, and the last thing she would want was to see him again.
Well, there could be worse things in this life. He thought back on those soldiers he’d seen with the fiercest burns – gods how they had screamed their pain.
Keneb stared at the city. And hated it with all his soul.
The dog Bent arrived to lie down beside him. A moment later Grub appeared. ‘Father, do you know what will come of this? Do you?’
‘Come of what, Grub?’
The boy pointed at Y’Ghatan with one bare, soot-stained arm. ‘She wants us to leave. As soon as we can.’ He then pointed towards the morning sun. ‘It’s the plague, you see, in the east. So. We’re marching west. To find the ships. But I already know the answer. To find what’s inside us, you got to take everything else away, you see?’
‘No, Grub. I don’t see.’
The Hengese lapdog, Roach, scrambled into view, sniffing the ground. Then it began digging, as if in a frenzy. Dust engulfed it.
‘Something’s buried,’ Grub said, watching Roach.
‘I imagine there is.’
‘But she won’t see that.’ The boy looked up at Keneb. ‘Neither will you.’
Grub ran off, Bent loping at his side. The lapdog kept digging, making snuffling, snorting sounds.
Keneb frowned, trying to recall what Grub had said earlier – was it the night of the breach? Before the fated order went out? Had there been a warning hidden in the lad’s words? He couldn’t remember – the world before the fire seemed to have burned away to nothing in his mind. It had been a struggle to conjure up the names of his wife, his children, their faces. I don’t understand. What has happened to me?
In the command tent, the Adjunct stood facing Nil and Nether. Fist Blistig watched from near the back wall, so exhausted he could barely stand. Tavore had placed him in charge of the healing – setting up the hospitals, organizing the Denul healers, the witches and the warlocks. Two days and one or maybe one and a half nights – he was not sure he could count the short chaotic time before the sun rose on the night of the breach. Without his officers that first night, he would have been relieved of command before dawn. His soul had been drowning in the pit of the Abyss.
Blistig was not yet certain he had climbed back out.
Nil was speaking, his voice a monotone, dulled by too long in the sorcery he had grown to hate. ‘…nothing but death and heat. Those who made it out – their agony deafens me – they are driving the spirits insane. They flee, snapping their bindings. They curse us, for this vast wound upon the land, for the crimes we have committed—’
‘Not our crimes,’ the Adjunct cut in, turning away, her gaze finding Blistig. ‘How many did we lose today, Fist?’
‘Thirty-one, Adjunct, but the witches say that few will follow, now. The worst are dead, the rest will live.’
‘Begin preparations for the march – have we enough wagons?’
‘Provided soldiers pack their own food for a while,’ Blistig said. ‘Speaking of which, some stores were lost – we’ll end up chewing leather unless we can arrange a resupply.’
‘How long?’
‘A week, if we immediately begin rationing. Adjunct, where are we going?’
Her eyes grew veiled for a moment, then she looked away. ‘The plague is proving…virulent. It is the Mistress’s own, I gather, the kiss of the goddess herself. And there is a shortage of healers…’
‘Lothal?’
Nil shook his head. ‘The city has already been struck, Fist.’
‘Sotka,’ said the Adjunct. ‘Pearl has informed me that Admiral Nok’s fleet and the transports have been unable to dock in any city east of Ashok on the Maadil Peninsula, so he has been forced around it, and expects to reach Sotka in nine days, assuming he can draw in for water and food in Taxila or Rang.’
‘Nine days?’ asked Blistig. ‘If the plague’s in Lothal already…’
‘Our enemy now is time,’ the Adjunct said. ‘Fist, you have orders to break camp. Do it as quickly as possible. The Rebellion is over. Our task now is to survive.’ She studied Blistig for a moment. ‘I want us on the road tonight.’
‘Tonight? Aye, Adjunct. I had best be on my way, then.’ He saluted, then headed out. Outside, he halted, momentarily blinking, then, recalling his orders, he set off.
After Blistig’s footsteps had trailed away, the Adjunct turned to Nether. ‘The Mistress of Plague, Nether. Why now? Why here?’
The Wickan witch snorted. ‘You ask me to fathom the mind of a goddess, Adjunct? It is hopeless. She may have no reason. Plague is her aspect, after all. It is what she does.’ She shook her head, said nothing more.
‘Adjunct,’ Nil ventured, ‘you have your victory. The Empress will be satisfied – she has to be. We need to rest—’
‘Pearl informs me that Leoman of the Flails is not dead.’
Neither Wickan replied, and the Adjunct faced them once more. ‘You both knew that, didn’t you?’
‘He was taken…away,’ Nil said. ‘By a goddess.’
‘Which goddess? Poliel?’
‘No. The Queen of Dreams.’
‘The Goddess of Divination? What possible use could she have for Leoman of the Flails?’
Nil shrugged.
Outside the tent a rider reined in and a moment later Temul, dust-sheathed and dripping blood from three parallel slashes tracking the side of his face, strode in, dragging a dishevelled child with him. ‘Found her, Adjunct,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Trying to get back into the ruins. She has lost her mind.’
The Adjunct studied the child, Sinn, then said, ‘She had best find it again. I have need of High Mages. Sinn, look at me. Look at me.’
She gave no indication of even hearing Tavore, her head still hanging down, ropes of burnt hair hiding her face.
Sighing, the Adjunct said, ‘Take her and get her cleaned up. And keep her under guard at all times – we will try this again later.’
After they had left, Nil asked, ‘Adjunct, do you intend to pursue Leoman? How? There is no trail to follow – the Queen of Dreams could have spirited him to another continent by now.’
‘No, we shall not pursue, but understand this, Wickan, while he yet lives there will be no victory in the eyes of the Empress. Y’Ghatan will remain as it always has been, a curse upon the
empire.’
‘It will not rise again,’ Nil said.
Tavore studied him. ‘The young know nothing of history. I am going for a walk. Both of you, get some rest.’
She left.
Nil met his sister’s eyes, then smiled. ‘Young? How easily she forgets.’
‘They all forget, brother.’
‘Where do you think Leoman has gone?’
‘Where else? Into the Golden Age, Nil. The glory that was the Great Rebellion. He strides the mists of myth, now. They will say he breathed fire. They will say you could see the Apocalypse in his eyes. They will say he sailed from Y’Ghatan on a river of Malazan blood.’
‘The locals believe Coltaine ascended, Nether. The new Patron of Crows—’
‘Fools. Wickans do not ascend. We just…reiterate.’
Lieutenant Pores was awake, and he lifted his good hand to acknowledge his captain as Kindly halted at the foot of the camp cot.
‘They say your hand melted together, Lieutenant.’
‘Yes, sir. My left hand, as you see.’
‘They say they have done all they could, taken away the pain, and maybe one day they will manage to cut each finger free once again. Find a High Denul healer and make your hand look and work like new again.’
‘Yes, sir. And until then, since it’s my shield hand, I should be able to—’
‘Then why in Hood’s name are you taking up this cot, Lieutenant?’
‘Ah, well, I just need to find some clothes, then, sir, and I’ll be right with you.’
Kindly looked down the row of cots. ‘Half this hospital is filled with bleating lambs – you up to being a wolf, Lieutenant? We march tonight. There’s not enough wagons and, even more outrageous, not enough palanquins and no howdahs to speak of – what is this army coming to, I wonder?’
‘Shameful, sir. How does Fist Tene Baralta fare, sir?’
‘Lost that arm, but you don’t hear him whining and fussing and moaning.’
‘No?’
‘Of course not, he’s still unconscious. Get on your feet, soldier. Wear that blanket.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 496
