The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Apologies with caveats are worthless, you know,’ Spite said, rising. ‘Is it dusk yet? Can’t you all crawl off to your bunks for a time? Or wander the hold or something? For all that rude Cutter frets over things he cannot control, I myself sense the presence of…personages, residing in Darujhistan, of a nature to alarm even me. Accordingly, I must think for a time…preferably alone.’

  Scillara rose. ‘Let’s go, Cutter,’ she said, taking his arm.

  Trailed by Chaur, Barathol followed the Trell warrior down into the hold. There were no berths aboard large enough to accommodate Mappo, so he had fashioned an abode of sorts amidst bales of supplies. Barathol saw that the Trell had already packed his kit, hammock, armour and weapons all stuffed into a lone sack knotted at the mouth by a rawhide cord, and now he sat on a crate, glancing up to regard the blacksmith.

  ‘You wish to speak of something, Barathol?’

  ‘Spite tells me that the Trell were driven from this continent long ago.’

  ‘My people have been assailed for thousands of years.’ He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Perhaps we are so ugly to others that our very existence is unacceptable.’

  ‘You have a long journey ahead,’ Barathol said. ‘My thought is—’

  But Mappo raised a hand. ‘No, my friend. I must do this alone.’

  ‘To cross an entire continent, in the face of hostility – possibly on all sides – Mappo, someone must guard your back.’

  The Trell’s dark, deep-set eyes studied him for a half-dozen heartbeats. ‘Barathol Mekhar, we have come to know each other well on this journey. I could not imagine anyone better to guard my back than you.’ He shook his head. ‘I do not intend to cross the continent. There are…other paths. Perhaps indeed more perilous, but I assure you I am not easy to kill. The failure was mine and to make it right, well, the responsibility is mine and mine alone. I will not – I cannot – accept that others risk their lives on my behalf. Not you, friend. Not blessed Chaur. Please, leave me to this.’

  Barathol sighed. ‘You force upon me an even more terrible choice, then.’

  ‘Oh?’

  A wry grin. ‘Aye. What to do with my life.’

  Mappo grunted a laugh. ‘I would not call that terrible, at least from my own point of view.’

  ‘I understand what it is to be driven,’ Barathol said. ‘I think that is all that I understand. Back in Seven Cities, well, I’d almost convinced myself that what I’d found was all I needed, but I was lying to myself. Some people, I now believe, cannot just…retire. It feels too much like surrender.’

  ‘You were a blacksmith—’

  ‘By default. I was a soldier, Mappo. A Red Blade.’

  ‘Even so, to work iron is a worthy profession. Perhaps you were a soldier, once, but to set down your weapons and find another profession is not surrender. Yet if it feels so to you, well, this city is no doubt crowded with estates, many of which would welcome a guard of your experience. And there will be merchants, operating caravans. Indeed, the city must have its own garrison – no warrior ever fears unemployment, for their skills are ever in demand.’

  ‘A sad admission, Mappo.’

  The Trell shrugged again. ‘I would think, now, Barathol, that if anyone needs his back guarded, it is Cutter.’

  Barathol sighed in frustration. ‘He says little of what he plans to do. In any case, this is his city. He will find those who know enough to protect him. Besides, I must admit, having seen Cutter practise with those knives of his, well, perhaps it is Darujhistan that must fear his return.’

  ‘He is too precipitous.’

  ‘I trust Scillara to rein him in.’

  ‘Barathol, let us now make our farewells. I intend to depart soon.’

  ‘And had I not followed you down here?’

  ‘I do poorly saying goodbye.’ His gaze shied away.

  ‘Then I will convey such to the others, on your behalf. Cutter will be…upset. For he has known you the longest among us all.’

  ‘I know, and I am sorry – in so many ways I am a coward.’

  But Barathol well understood. This was not cowardice. It was some sort of shame, twisted past any possible reason, any conceivable justification. The loss of Icarium was a wound so raw, so irreconcilable, that its spreading stain swept all from its path. Friends, loyalties, lives and histories. And Mappo could not fight against that onrushing tide and the fate he sought at its very end. There would be grief at that conclusion, Barathol suspected, of incalculable measure.

  If Icarium Lifestealer was not yet unleashed, he would be soon. Mappo would be too late to prevent that. It was difficult, then, to leave the Trell to all that awaited him, to simply turn away, yet what else could he do, when Mappo’s own desires were so clear? ‘I will leave you to your…paths, then, Mappo. And I wish you the best: a peaceful journey, its satisfactory conclusion.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend. I hope you will find Darujhistan a worthy home.’ He rose to clasp the blacksmith’s hand, then moved past to embrace Chaur, who laughed in delight and tried to begin a dance with the Trell. Grimacing, Mappo stepped back. ‘Goodbye, Chaur. Take care of Barathol here.’

  When Chaur finally understood that he would not see Mappo again, there would be tears. There was a simple beauty to such open, child-like responses. Perhaps, Barathol considered, Chaur alone walked the truest path in life.

  Settling a hand on Chaur’s muscled shoulder, he smiled at Mappo. ‘He is a gift I do not deserve.’

  The Trell nodded. ‘A gift this world does not deserve. Now, I would be alone, in these final moments.’

  Barathol bowed, then guided Chaur back to the ladder leading up to the hatch.

  Iskaral Pust clambered on to his bunk, the middle of three stacked against the curving hull. He scraped his head against the underside of the top one and cursed under his breath, then cursed some more as he had to fish out a handful of disgusting offerings left beneath his pillow by the bhokarala. Rotting fish-heads, clumps of scaly faeces, baubles stolen from Spite and a cracked kaolin pipe filched from Scillara. Flung off, they clumped and clattered on the two-plank-wide walkway at the very hoofs of his mule, which had taken to standing beside his berth at random intervals – each one proving succinctly inconvenient, as befitted a thoroughly brainless but quaintly loyal animal.

  From the bunk above came a rattling snort. ‘The hatch is too small, you know,’ said Mogora. ‘You make it too obvious, husband.’

  ‘Maybe obvious is my middle name, did you think that? No, of course not. She never thinks at all. She has ten thousand eyes and not one of them can see past her nose-hairs. Listen well, woman. Everyone knows mules are superior to horses in every way. Including the navigation of hatches. Why, my blessed servant here prefers using outhouses over just plopping any which where along the roadside. She possesses decorum, which can hardly be said for you now, can it?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be picking your nose or something? Your worshippers are praying for a sign, you know.’

  ‘At least I have worshippers. You just scare ’em. You scare everybody.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘Of course not. Gods below, she terrifies me! Better not let her know, though. That would be bad. I need to do something soon. Twist off her legs, maybe! Yes, that would do it. Leave her lying on her back scratching at the air and making pathetic mewling sounds. Oh, the imagination is a wonderful thing, is it not?’

  ‘When it’s all you have.’

  ‘When what’s all I have? What idiocy are you blabbering about now? That was uncanny. Almost as if she can read my mind. Good thing she can’t, though.’

  ‘Hold on,’ hissed Mogora. ‘That mule was male! I’d swear it!’

  ‘Checking him out, were you?’

  ‘One more step on that track, husband, and I will kill you with my own hands.’

  ‘Hee hee. What a terrible, disgusting mind you have, wife.’

  ‘No, you won’t distract me this time. Your mule has just changed sex and knowing you I might
be looking at a rival, but you know what? She can have you. With my blessing she can, oh yes!’

  ‘Popularity is a curse,’ Iskaral said, stretching out with his hands behind his head and staring up at the taut ropes of the mattress above him. ‘Not that she’d know anything about that. I’d better visit the local temple, assert my tyrannical dominance over all the local acolytes and fakir priests and priestesses. Priestesses! Might be a pretty one or two. As High Priest, I could have my pick as is my right. Make offerings in the shadow between her legs, yes—’

  ‘I’d know, Iskaral Pust,’ Mogora snapped, moving about on the bed above. ‘I’d just know, and then I’d take my knife, one night when you’re sleeping, and I’d snick snick and you’d be singing like a child and squatting t’piss and what woman or mule would want you then?’

  ‘Get out of my head, woman!’

  ‘It’s not hard to know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘That’s what you think! She’s getting more dangerous, we need a divorce. But isn’t it why most mates break up? When the woman gets too dangerous? Must be. I’m sure of it. Well, I’d be free then, wouldn’t I? Free!’

  The mule brayed.

  Mogora laughed so hard she wet herself, if the rank dribbles from above were any indication.

  Scillara and Cutter had taken the berths closest to the stern in an effort to achieve some sort of privacy, and had rigged a section of spare canvas across the walkway. Despite this, Mogora’s half-mad laughter reached through, triggering yet another scowl from Cutter.

  ‘If those two just realized how perfect they are for each other, we’d finally get some peace.’

  Scillara smiled. ‘I’m sure they do. Most marriages involve mutual thoughts of murder on occasion.’

  He glanced over at her. ‘You’ve some strange ideas, Scillara. About all sorts of things.’

  ‘I was wondering, when you head out tonight, will you want my company? Or would you rather go on your own?’

  He could not hold her gaze and made a show of stretching his back before reclining on his bunk. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You’ll like the Phoenix Inn. Meese, Irilta, Murillio, Coll and Kruppe. Well, maybe not Kruppe, who rubs some people the wrong way, but he’s harmless enough…I suppose.’ He rummaged in the pouch at his belt for a moment, then drew out a single coin. A Blue Moranth silver sceptre, which he began deftly working through his fingers. ‘Won’t they be surprised to see me.’

  She managed a smile. ‘Cutter’s belated return.’

  ‘Well, “Cutter” isn’t the name they know me by. I was Crokus Younghand back then.’

  ‘And where is he now? This Crokus Younghand.’

  He spent a moment squinting at the coin before replying, ‘Dead. Long dead.’

  ‘And what will your friends make of that?’

  He sat up, suddenly restless and still unwilling to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t know. They won’t be happy.’

  ‘I think I will leave you to it, Cutter,’ Scillara said. ‘I’ll join Barathol and Chaur wandering the night markets and such – there’s a fête going on, yes? That sounds inviting. As for my meeting your friends, best it wait a day or two.’

  He glanced at her. ‘Are you sure? You don’t—’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she cut in. ‘You need this night to yourself. You’ll have enough questions to answer without my presence confusing things even more.’

  ‘All right,’ and despite his efforts his relief was palpable. ‘But come tomorrow – everyone knows where the Phoenix is, so all you need do is ask.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, rising from where she sat on the edge of her own berth. ‘I’d best hunt Barathol down, so he doesn’t leave without me.’

  ‘Must be nearing dusk.’

  ‘So it is, Cutter. Lady’s pull on you this night.’

  ‘Thanks.’ But it was a distracted response.

  As she made her way forward, forced to shove the damned mule to one side, Scillara told herself that the hurt she was feeling was unwarranted. He’d found comfort in her arms, because there was no one else. No love was involved. Not once mentioned, not even whispered nor murmured in the thick, sleepy moments after lovemaking. Little more than mutual satisfaction, comfort and convenience. And now, well, that time had passed. Reunion with friends beckoned Cutter – that old world in which he had known his place. Difficult enough that he might no longer fit – explaining the overweight, pipe-sucking ex-whore at his side would only embarrass him.

  He had changed her, she realized, pausing just inside the hatch. As if she’d absorbed some essence of his uncertainty, his lack of confidence. She no longer felt her usual brazen, bridling self. No longer ready with a sneer, no longer armoured against the vagaries of this damned world. Here, a dozen strides from the largest city she had ever seen, was neither the time nor the place for such weakness.

  Well, Barathol’s solid presence could answer her need. For a time, anyway.

  Emerging on to the main deck, she found herself in the midst of a growing storm. The bhokarala crowded the dockside rail and scampered back and forth along its length, while at the other end of the gangplank stood an agent of the harbour master along with a half-dozen city guards even now drawing their batons, readying to assault the ship.

  Barathol and Chaur had just climbed up from the hold and the blacksmith began pushing his way through the screeching, spitting apes.

  She well understood his desire to prevent an escalation of the situation. Spite was not the most evenly tempered woman Scillara had known. An argument gone awry could well result in an enraged dragon’s devastating the quayside and half the city beyond. All for a misunderstanding on moorage fees.

  So much for a quiet arrival.

  Scillara hurried forward, kicking aside bhokarala and pulling loose her coin-pouch.

  A blow to the side of his head and he rolled, suddenly awake, both knives coming into his hands and blades scraping across the gritty flagstoned floor beneath him. His shoulder struck a wall and he blinked in the gloom.

  A tall figure stood over him, black leather and banded iron in tatters, the dull gleam of snapped ribs showing through torn, green skin. A face in shadows, pitted eye-sockets, a broad slash of mouth hinting at up-thrust tusks.

  Rallick Nom studied the apparition, the knives feeling useless in his gloved hands. The side of his head still rang. His gaze dropped to the stiffened leather toes of the demon’s half-rotted moccasins. ‘You kicked me.’

  ‘Yes,’ came the rasping reply.

  ‘Why?’

  The demon hesitated, then said, ‘It seemed the thing to do.’

  They were in a narrow corridor. A solid door of black wood and bronze fittings was to Rallick’s left. To his right, just beyond the demon, there was a T-intersection and double doors facing on to the conjunction. The light cast by the lantern the creature held in one withered, long-fingered hand seemed both pale and cold, throwing diffused, indifferent shadows against the stone walls. Overhead, the ceiling was roughly arched, the stones thinner and smaller towards the peak, seemingly fitted without mortar. The air smelled of dust and decay, lifeless and dry.

  ‘It seems…I remember nothing,’ Rallick said.

  ‘In time.’

  Every joint was stiff; even sitting up with his back against the wall left Rallick’s muscles trembling. His head ached with more than just the echoes of that damned kick. ‘I’m thirsty – if you’re not going to beat me to death, demon, then find me something to drink.’

  ‘I am not a demon.’

  ‘Such things are never easy to tell,’ Rallick replied in a growl.

  ‘I am Jaghut. Raest, once a tyrant, now a prisoner. “He who rises shall fall. He who falls shall be forgotten.” So said Gothos, although, alas, it seems we must all wait for ever before his name fades into oblivion.’

  Some strength was returning to his limbs. ‘I recall something…a night of blood, the Gedderone Fête. Malazans in the city…’

  ‘Portentous events as bereft of meanin
g now as they were then. You have slept, assassin, for some time. Even the poison on your weapons has lost all potency. Although the otataral within your veins courses unabated by time – few would have done as you did, which is, I suppose, just as well.’

  Rallick sheathed his knives and slowly pushed himself upright. The scene spun sickeningly and he closed his eyes until the vertigo passed.

  Raest continued, ‘I wander in this house…rarely. Perhaps some time had passed before I realized that she was missing.’

  Rallick squinted at the tall, hunched Jaghut. ‘She? Who?’

  ‘A demon in truth. Vorcan is her name now, I believe. You lay beside her, immune to the passage of time. But now she has awakened. She has, indeed, escaped. One might consider this…perturbing. If one cared, that is.’

  Vorcan, Mistress of the Assassins’ Guild, yes, now he remembered. She was wounded, dying, and he struggled to carry her, not knowing why, not knowing what he sought. To the house, the house that had grown from the very earth. The house the Malazans called an Azath. Born of the tyrant’s Finnest – Rallick frowned at Raest. ‘The house,’ he said, ‘it is your prison, too.’

  A desiccated shrug that made bones squeak. ‘The stresses of owning property.’

  ‘So you have been here since then. Alone, not even wandering about. With two near-corpses cluttering your hallway. How long, Raest?’

  ‘I am not the one to ask. Does the sun lift into the sky outside then collapse once more? Do bells sound to proclaim a control where none truly exists? Do mortal fools still measure the increments leading to their deaths, wagering pleasures against costs, persisting in the delusion that deeds have value, that the world and all the gods sit in judgement over every decision made or not made? Do—’

  ‘Enough,’ interrupted Rallick, straightening with only one hand against the wall. ‘I asked “how long?” not “why?” or “what point?” If you don’t know the answer just say so.’

  ‘I don’t know the answer. But I should correct one of your assumptions. I did not dwell in here alone, although I do so now, excepting you, of course, but your company I do not expect to last. That legion of headlong fools you call your people no doubt pine for your return. Blood awaits your daggers, your pouch thirsts for the coins that will fill it with every life you steal. And so on.’