Badan Gruk’s scan ended on the face of Corporal Pravalak Rim, and sure enough, he saw in that young man’s features something of what he himself felt. A damned miracle. Something that’d seemed impossible to ever have believed—they’d all seen—
A heavy door clunked from the direction of the gaol.
Everyone—Malazan and Letherii—now fixed gazes on the four figures slowly approaching. Skulldeath was half-carrying his charge, and the same was true of the Letherii guard, Spanserd. The prisoners they’d just helped from their cells were in bad shape.
‘Easy, Blank,’ muttered Reliko.
‘But that’s—they—but I know them two!’
‘Aye,’ the heavy infantryman sighed. ‘We all do, Vastly.’
Neither prisoner showed any signs of having been beaten or tortured. What left them on the edge of death was simple neglect. The most effective torture of all.
‘Preda,’ said Badan Gruk, in a low voice.
Norlo Trumb turned to face him. ‘What is it now?’
‘You don’t feed them?’
‘The condemned received reduced rations, I am afraid—’
‘How long?’
‘Well, as I said, Sergeant, we have been awaiting the officer of the Royal Advocate for some time. Months and—’
Two quarrels skimmed past the Preda’s head, one on either side, and both sliced the man’s ears. He shrieked in sudden shock and fell back, landing heavily on his behind.
Badan pointed at the now cowering garrison guards. ‘No move now.’ And then he twisted in his saddle to glare at Honey and Skim. In Malazan he said, ‘Don’t even think about reloading! Shit-brained sappers!’
‘Sorry,’ said Skim, ‘I guess we both just sort’ve … twitched.’ And she shrugged.
Honey handed her his crossbow and dropped down from his horse. ‘I’ll retrieve the quarrels—anybody see where they ended up?’
‘Bounced and skittered between them two buildings there,’ Reliko said, pointing with his chin.
The Preda’s shock had shifted into fury. Ears streaming blood, he now staggered to his feet. ‘Attempted murder! I will see those two arrested! You’ll swim the canal for this!’
‘No understand,’ said Badan Gruk. ‘Pravalak, bring up the spare horses. We should’ve brought Dreader. I don’t think they can even ride. Flank ’em close on the way back—we’ll take it slow.’
He studied the stumbling figures leaning on their escorts. Sergeant Sinter and her sister, Kisswhere. Looking like Hood’s own soiled loincloth. But alive. ‘Gods below,’ he whispered. They are alive.
‘Aaii! My leg’s fallen off!’
Banaschar sat motionless in the chair and watched the small skeletal lizard lying on its side and spinning now in circles on the floor, one leg kicking.
‘Telorast! Help me!’
The other reptile perched on the window sill and looked down, head tilting from one side to the other, as if seeking the perfect angle of regard. ‘It’s no use, Curdle,’ it finally replied. ‘You can’t get anywhere like that.’
‘I need to get away!’
‘From what?’
‘From the fact that my leg’s fallen off!’
Telorast scampered along the sill until it was as close as it could get to Banaschar. ‘Sodden priest of wine, hssst! Look over here—the window! It’s me, the clever one. Stupid one’s down on the floor there, see her? She needs your help. No, of course you can’t make her any less stupid—we’re not discussing that here. Rather, it’s one of her legs, yes? The gut binding or whatever has broken. She’s crippled, helpless, useless. She’s spinning in circles and that’s far too poignant for us. Do you understand? O Wormlet of the Worm Goddess, O scurrier of the worship-slayer eyeless bitch of the earth! Banaschar the Drunk, Banaschar the Wise, the Wisely Drunk. Please be so kind and nimble as to repair my companion, my dear sister, the stupid one.’
‘You might know the answer to this,’ said Banaschar. ‘Listen, if life is a joke, what kind of joke? The funny ha ha kind? Or the “I’m going to puke” kind? Is it a clever joke or a stupid one that’s repeated over and over again so that even if it was funny to begin with it’s not funny any more? Is it the kind of joke to make you laugh or make you cry? How many other ways can I ask this simple question?’
‘I’m confident you can think of a few hundred more, good sir. Defrocked, detached, essentially castrated priest. Now, see those strands there? Near the unhinged leg—oh, Curdle, will you stop that spinning?’
‘I used to laugh,’ said Banaschar. ‘A lot. Long before I decided on becoming a priest, of course. Nothing amusing in that decision, alas. Nor in the life that followed. Years and years of miserable study, rituals, ceremonies, the rigorous exercises of magery. And the Worm of Autumn, well, she did abide, did she not? Delivered our just reward—too bad I missed out on the fun.’
‘Pitiful wretch of pointless pedantry, would you be so kind—yes, reach out and down, out and down, a little further, ah! You have it! The twine! The leg! Curdle, listen—see—stop, right there, no, there, yes, see? Salvation is in hand!’
‘I can’t! Everything’s sideways! The world pitches into the Abyss!’
‘Never mind that—see? He’s got your leg. He’s eyeing the twine. His brain stirs!’
‘There used to be drains,’ said Banaschar, holding up the skeletal leg. ‘Under the altar. To collect the blood, you see, down into amphorae—we’d sell that, you know. Amazing the stuff people will pay for, isn’t it?’
‘What’s he doing with my leg?’
‘Nothing—so far,’ replied Telorast. ‘Looking, I think. And thinking. He lacks all cleverness, it’s true. Not-Apsalar Apsalar’s left earlobe possessed more cleverness than this pickled grub. But never mind that! Curdle, use your forelimbs, your arms, I mean, and crawl closer to him—stop kicking in circles! Stop it!’
‘I can’t!’ came the tiny shriek.
And round and round Curdle went.
‘Old blood out, shiny coins in. We’d laugh at that, but it wasn’t the happy kind of laugh. More like disbelief, and yes, more than a little cynicism regarding the inherent stupidity of people. Anyway, we ended up with chests and chests of riches—more than you could even imagine. Vaults filled to bursting. You could buy a lot of laughs with that, I’m sure. And the blood? Well, as any priest will tell you, blood is cheap.’
‘Please oh please, show the mercy your ex-goddess so despised. Spit in her face with a gesture of goodwill! You’ll be amply rewarded, yes, amply!’
‘Riches,’ Banaschar said. ‘Worthless.’
‘Different reward, we assure you. Substantial, meaningful, valuable, timely.’
He looked up from his study of the leg and eyed Telorast. ‘Like what?’
The reptile’s skeleton head bobbed. ‘Power, my friend. More power than you can imagine—’
‘I doubt that most sincerely.’
‘Power to do as you please, to whomever or whatever you please! Power gushing out, spilling down, bubbling up and leaving potent wet spots! Worthy reward, yes!’
‘And if I hold you to that?’
‘As surely as you hold that lovely leg, and the twine, as surely as that!’
‘The pact is sealed,’ said Banaschar.
‘Curdle! You hear that!’
‘I heard. Are you mad? We don’t share! We never share!’
‘Shhh! He’ll hear you!’
‘Sealed,’ repeated Banaschar, sitting up.
‘Ohhh,’ wailed Curdle, spinning faster and faster. ‘You’ve done it now! Telorast, you’ve done it now! Ohhh, look, I can’t get away!’
‘Empty promises, Curdle, I swear it!’
‘Sealed,’ said Banaschar again.
‘Aaii! Thrice sealed! We’re doomed!’
‘Relax, lizard,’ said Banaschar, leaning over and reaching down for the whirling creature, ‘soon you’ll dance again. And,’ he added as he snatched up Curdle, ‘so will I.’
Holding the bony reptile in one hand,
the leg in the other, Banaschar glanced over at his silent guest—who sat in shadows, lone eye glittering. ‘All right,’ said Banaschar, ‘I’ll listen to you now.’
‘I am pleased,’ murmured the Errant, ‘for we have very little time.’
Lostara Yil sat on the edge of her cot, a bowl filled with sand on her lap. She dipped her knife’s blade into the topped gourd to her right, to coat the iron in the pulp’s oil, and then slid the blade into the sand, and resumed scouring the iron.
She had been working on this one weapon for two bells now, and there had been other sessions before this one. More than she could count. Others swore that the dagger’s iron could not be cleaner, could not be more flawless, but she could still see the stains.
Her fingers were rubbed raw, red and cracked. The bones of her hands ached. They felt heavier these days, as if the sand had imparted something to her skin, flesh and bones, beginning the process of turning them to stone. There might come a time when she lost all feeling in them, and they would hang from her wrists like mauls. But not useless, no. With them she could well batter down the world—if that would do any good.
The pommel of a weapon thumped on her door and a moment later it was pushed open. Faradan Sort leaned in, eyes searching until she found Lostara Yil. ‘Adjunct wants you,’ she said tonelessly.
So, it was time. Lostara collected a cloth and wiped down the knife-blade. The captain stood in the doorway, watching without expression.
She rose, sheathed the weapon, and then collected her cloak. ‘Are you my escort?’ she asked as she approached the door.
‘We’ve had one run away already this night,’ Faradan replied, falling in step beside Lostara as they made their way up the corridor.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Not really, but I am to accompany you this evening.’
‘Why?’
Faradan Sort did not reply. They’d reached the pair of ornate, red-stained double doors that marked the end of the corridor, and the captain drew them open.
Lostara Yil strode into the chamber beyond. The ceiling of the Adjunct’s quarters—the command centre in addition to her residence—was a chaotic collection of corbels, vaults and curved beams. Consequently it was enwreathed in cobwebs from which shrivelled moths dangled down, mocking flight in the vague draughts. Beneath a central, oddly misshapen miniature dome stood a huge rectangular table with a dozen high-backed chairs. A series of high windows ran across the wall opposite the door, reached by a raised platform that was lined with a balustrade. In all, to Lostara’s eyes, one of the strangest rooms she had ever seen. The Letherii called it the Grand Lecture Medix, and it was the largest chamber in the college building that temporarily served as the officers’ quarters and HQ.
Adjunct Tavore stood on the raised walkway, intent on something beyond one of the thick-glassed windows.
‘You requested me, Adjunct.’
Tavore did not turn round as she said, ‘There is a tablet on the table, Captain. On it you will find the names of those who will attend the reading. As there may be some resistance from some of them, Captain Faradan Sort will accompany you to the barracks.’
‘Very well.’ Lostara walked over and collected the tablet, scanned the names scribed into the golden wax. Her brows rose. ‘Adjunct? This list—’
‘Refusals not permitted, Captain. Dismissed.’
Out in the corridor once again, the two women paused upon seeing a Letherii approaching. Plainly dressed, an unadorned long, thin-bladed sword scabbarded at his hip, Brys Beddict possessed no extraordinary physical qualities, and yet neither Lostara nor Faradan Sort could take their eyes off him. Even a casual glance would slide past only to draw inexorably back, captured by something ineffable but undeniable.
They parted to let him by.
He halted to deliver a deferential half-bow. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, addressing Lostara, ‘I would speak with the Adjunct, if that is possible.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, reaching to open one of the double doors. ‘Just step inside and announce yourself.’
‘Thank you.’ A brief smile, and then he entered the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Lostara sighed.
‘Yes,’ agreed Faradan Sort.
After a moment they set out once more.
As soon as the Adjunct turned to face him, Brys Beddict bowed, and then said, ‘Adjunct Tavore, greetings and salutations from the King.’
‘Be sure to return the sentiments, sir,’ she replied.
‘I shall. I have been instructed to deliver a caution, Adjunct, with respect to this session of divination you intend this night.’
‘What manner of caution, and from whom, if I may ask?’
‘There is an Elder God,’ said Brys. ‘One who traditionally chose to make the court of Letheras his temple, if you will, and did so for an unknown number of generations. He acted, more often than not, as consort to the Queen, and was known to most as Turudal Brizad. Generally, of course, his true identity was not known, but there can be no doubt that he is the Elder God known as the Errant, Master of the Tiles, which, as you know, is the Letherii corollary to your Deck of Dragons.’
‘Ah, I begin to comprehend.’
‘Indeed, Adjunct.’
‘The Errant would view the divination—and the Deck—as an imposition, a trespass.’
‘Adjunct, the response of an Elder God cannot be predicted, and this is especially true of the Errant, whose relationship with fate and chance is rather intense, as well as complicated.’
‘May I speak with this Turudal Brizad?’
‘The Elder God has not resumed that persona since before the Emperor’s reign; nor has he been seen in the palace. Yet I am assured that once more he has drawn close—probably stirred awake by your intentions.’
‘I am curious, who in the court of your king is capable of discerning such things?’
Brys shifted uneasily. ‘That would be Bugg, Adjunct.’
‘The Chancellor?’
‘If that is the capacity in which you know him, then yes, the Chancellor.’
Through all of this she had remained standing on the platform, but now she descended the four steps at one end and walked closer, colourless eyes searching Brys’s face. ‘Bugg. One of my High Mages finds him … how did he put it? Yes. “Adorable.” But then, Quick Ben is unusual and prone to peculiar, often sardonic assessments. Is the Chancellor a Ceda—if that is the proper term for High Mage?’
‘It would be best to view him as such, yes, Adjunct.’
She seemed to consider the matter for a time, and then she said, ‘While I am confident in the abilities of my mages to defend against most threats … that of an Elder God is likely well beyond their capacities. What of your Ceda?’
‘Bugg? Uh, no, I do not think he’s much frightened by the Errant. Alas, he intends to take refuge tonight should you proceed with the reading. As I stated earlier, I am here to give caution and convey King Tehol’s genuine concern for your safety.’
She seemed to find his words discomforting, for she turned away and walked slowly round to halt at one end of the rectangular table, whereupon she faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Brys Beddict,’ she said with stilted formality. ‘Unfortunately, I have delayed this reading too long as it is. Guidance is necessary and, indeed, pressing.’
He cocked his head. What were these Malazans up to? A question often voiced in the Royal Court, and no doubt everywhere else in the city, for that matter. ‘I understand, Adjunct. Is there any other way we can assist?’
She frowned. ‘I am not sure how, given your Ceda’s aversion to attending, even as a spectator.’
‘He does not wish his presence to deliver undue influence on the divination, I suspect.’
The Adjunct opened her mouth to say something, stopped, closed it again. And it was possible her eyes widened a fraction before she looked away. ‘What other form of assistance is possible, then?’
‘I am prepared to volunteer myself, as t
he King’s Sword.’
She shot him a glance, clearly startled. ‘The Errant would hesitate in crossing you, sir?’
He shrugged. ‘At the very least, Adjunct, I can negotiate with him from a position of some knowledge—with respect to his history among my people, and so on.’
‘And you would risk this for us?’
Brys hesitated, never adept at lying. ‘It is no risk, Adjunct,’ he managed.
And saw his abysmal failure in her narrowed gaze. ‘Courtesy and decency demand that I reject your generous offer. However,’ she added, ‘I must descend to rudeness and say to you that your presence would be most appreciated.’
He bowed again.
‘If you need to report back to your king,’ said the Adjunct, ‘there is still time—not much time, but sufficient for a brief account, I should think.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Brys.
‘Then please, help yourself to some wine.’
He grimaced. ‘Thank you, but I have given up wine, Adjunct.’
‘There is a jug of ale, there, under that side table. Falari, I believe—a decent brew, I’m told.’
He smiled and saw her start, and wondered, although not for long, as women often reacted that way when he smiled. ‘Yes, I would like to give that a try, thank you.’
______
‘What I can’t tolerate,’ he said, ‘is the very fact of your existence.’
The man sitting opposite him looked up. ‘So it’s mutual.’
The tavern was crowded, the clientele decidedly upscale, smug with privilege. Coins in heaps, dusty bottles and glittering glass goblets, and an eye-dazzling array of ostentatious attire—most of which suggested some version of the Royal Blanket, although this generally involved only a narrow wrap swathing the hips and groin. Here and there, some overscented young man also wore woollen pants with one trouser leg ending halfway down.
In a cage near the table where the two Malazans sat, two strange birds exchanged guttural comments every now and then, in tones singularly unimpressed. Short-beaked, yellow-plumed and grey-hooded, they were the size of starlings.
Dust of Dreams Page 6
