The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire)

by Ian C. Esslemont

  They looked past her, nodding their greeting, and she turned to see the man himself flanked by Blues and a second figure, the scarecrow-tattered High Mage Cowl, wearing his usual mocking smile.

  Of course. Cowl.

  The one mage she’d forgotten. And why? Because she so very much wanted to forget the bastard. Ghelath edged his way forward through the gathered Avowed as they congratulated K’azz. ‘We can’t sail,’ he complained. ‘The moment we leave the bay we’ll wallow and capsize!’

  ‘Yes, Master Ghelath. Unship the oars. Make for the nearest Letherii vessel. It’s time to collect a down payment on my debt. Bars – organize a boarding party. Minimum bloodshed. Just throw them overboard.’

  Bars gave a savage grin and saluted. ‘’Bout goddamned time.’

  K’azz caught Shimmer’s eye. ‘Every chance, Shimmer,’ he said, as if by way of apology.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’m doing them a favour, actually,’ he added, and he motioned to the island. ‘You saw the palisade? The guards?’

  She frowned, puzzled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I could order their other ships sunk, yes? But I won’t. That would condemn them all to death. Seems the locals don’t want them here – and there’s no food or water on that narrow strand of shit.’

  He gave her a small smile then and turned away, heading for his cabin. Cowl remained behind and she caught his eye, beckoning him aside. When they had a modicum of privacy, she asked, her voice low, ‘How did you do it?’

  The man’s maddening, mocking grin deepened. ‘Do what?’

  She bit down on her irritation. ‘Sustain him.’

  The mage appeared to be enjoying the discussion so much he had to wrap his arms around himself. ‘I did no such thing, Shimmer.’

  ‘No?’ She did not bother to hide her confusion. ‘You didn’t? Then who…?’

  ‘No one did. That is, other than K’azz.’

  ‘K’azz? But he is no mage – is he?’

  ‘He is not.’

  ‘Then … how?’

  The man just smiled all the more. And he slowly turned away, grinning and chuckling. Shimmer wanted to strangle him. But that had been tried before. Cowl had had his throat cut and been strangled by Dancer himself. Yet he’d lived. Somehow he’d lived. Was that the secret these two shared? If so, she felt a new sensation stealing over her. She realized she no longer simply feared for her commander. She faced the closed cabin door. Now, she knew a strange new sensation: a feeling of rising dread of her commander.

  K’azz – what are you becoming?

  * * *

  Burl slept poorly after his confrontation with Gaff and the crew. Over the following nights he jerked awake at every slight creak of hull timber or tick of wood from the cabin panelling. Whellen still slept soundly, as if under some sort of spell. The crew worked quietly, subdued and watchful. It did not help that there was so little to do; the Strike hardly moved at all. Only the weakest of icy winds urged it on.

  As the days passed, Burl quit his cabin less and less. Why bother? There was nothing to see or do. And he did not like the way the crew watched him; as if these troubles were all his fault. He suspected that they were planning to throw not only Whellen overboard, but him as well for protecting the man. As the days passed, he became certain of it. He took to sitting facing the door to his cabin, sword across his lap. He even slept in the chair, jerking awake and snatching up the weapon whenever he nearly slid from his seat.

  Hunger finally drove him out. He gave the form of his still immobile First Mate one last glance, then eased open the door. Sword readied, he edged out on to the mid-deck. The soft diffused light of the day made him think it was late afternoon, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the ship’s bell.

  To his surprise and horror he discovered the deck empty of any crew. Not one soul was in sight. He drew breath to bellow his outrage but something choked his throat, some nameless dread and suspicion: if everyone was gone then couldn’t who or whatever did it – couldn’t it – still be about?

  He hunched into a fighting crouch, sword raised, and padded onward as quietly as he could. When he edged past the mainmast some instinct, or faint rustle, made him glance upwards and he thought he caught a glimpse of movement there at the lip of the crow’s nest high atop the mast. A pulled-away dark lump against the ice-blue sky that might have been the silhouette of a head.

  He tried one leaf of the cargo hold doors but found them secured somehow from within. Strange, that. He searched the bows and found that indeed the ship was empty of all crew. He came across no sign of violence or struggle; no blood, scattered gear, or damage. Everything was secured, tied down and squared away. It was as if the crew, after taking care to ready for ship’s inspection, then piled into launches and abandoned the vessel. But that was not quite so: the two small-boats remained in their moorings.

  Gaff’s description of the ghost ship returned to him then and he shivered as something clutched his throat, almost cutting off his breath. They’d found it looking clean and in order – simply empty of all souls. Gaff had even mentioned unfinished meals on the common table in the galley.

  As if everyone had merely walked away … or been taken.

  He shook his head to clear it of such fancies. This was no ghost ship. He and Whellen were here. He returned to the stern and the narrow companionway. Here he found the door to the stores closed and barred. He banged upon it.

  ‘Open up, damn you! This is Burl! The captain! I order you to open up!’

  He waited, but no one answered. He raised his fist once more but froze as he sensed someone there, listening, perhaps pressed up against their side of the door. ‘Who’s there?’ he murmured, lowering his voice. ‘Who is it? Gaff? Are you there?’

  Something shifted behind the door, cloth brushing against wood. ‘Gaff is gone,’ came a strangled whisper.

  ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  After a long silence he thought he heard a gasped, ‘Taken.’

  ‘Taken? By who, man? Who? Answer me!’ He waited, listening. Only his harsh breathing sounded in the companionway, that and the weak creaking of the timbers as the vessel coasted onward over the still waters. ‘Who?’

  A voice, speaking perhaps through choking misery, sobbed, ‘Maybe you!’ The sobbing climbed into abject weeping and someone slid down the boards of the door.

  Burl flinched away as if the man’s fit were somehow contagious.

  He climbed to the deck, perhaps hoping for open clean air, but he was not refreshed. The atmosphere was chill and dead. His breath plumed about him in a cloud. On a hunch, he started up the rigging for the crow’s nest. When he was halfway up the head reappeared above and a voice called, high and strangled: ‘I’ll jump! I swear! Come no closer!’

  Burl was angry at himself for not being able to identify the crewman, so choked with terror was the voice. Was it Juth? Or maybe Bolen? ‘That you, Bolen?’ he called.

  ‘Stop or I’ll jump!’ the voice shrieked.

  Burl halted. He raised a hand. ‘All right! I’m stopping. What is it? What’s stalking the crew?’

  The man was weeping. ‘I don’t know! Could be anyone!’ The head ducked from sight. ‘So keep away!’

  Burl cursed under his breath. Anyone? And why? What’s to gain? A lone person can’t possibly sail a damned ship. It didn’t make any sense.

  He started back down the rigging. On the deck, a suspicion took him and he ducked into the cabin. Whellen lay within. He went to the galley and collected a handful of dried biscuits then returned to the cabin, shut the door, adjusted the chair once more to face the entrance and sat, sword across his lap.

  He chewed on a biscuit and waited for whatever was stalking the crew to come for him.

  Some time later, he jerked awake at a noise – or at least he thought he heard a noise. He thought it sounded like a splash. He straightened on numb stiff legs and reached for the latch. Then he remembered something and stopped to look: Whellen still lay
beneath his blanket. Hoar frost gleamed on the coarse wool weave. Burl clenched and unclenched his hands to warm them, then pulled open the door. The iron latch was so cold it burned his fingers.

  Again he found the deck empty. The waters of the Sea of Dread remained calm – unnaturally so. Any body of water of its size ought to have considerable waves. The sky above was darkening into twilight. Stars shone through and Burl blinked and rubbed his eyes as he gazed at them: he recognized none of the constellations. Where was the Rudder? The Cart? The Great Cowl? It was as if he were staring up at another sky.

  He spun, raising his sword: for a moment he’d been certain someone was behind him. Indeed, he still had that prickling feeling that someone was watching him. Glancing about to be sure he was alone, he sheathed the sword, then started up the rigging. This time no one challenged him. He reached the crow’s nest and peeked within – empty. Perhaps what he’d heard had been a splash. He climbed back down.

  Everywhere he checked it was the same: doors that were formerly locked and barred now hung open. None showed any sign of having been hacked or forced. The stores and armoury were empty, as was the hold. As far as he could determine Whellen and he were now the only two souls on board the Strike.

  He returned to the mid-deck.

  This time he was not alone. Another stood at the side, facing away out over the limpid waves. A familiar blanket lay draped about his shoulders: Whellen.

  So. Now it was his turn. Someone had slain all the rest of the souls on board and now only the two of them were left alive. And Burl knew it wasn’t him. He raised his weapon and advanced upon the man. ‘You’ll not find me so terrified,’ he called.

  Whellen turned and Burl was surprised by his expression. He’d expected a snarl or gloating, but the man just looked sad and worn. He wasn’t even armed.

  ‘I’ve been dreaming,’ he said, and his gaze slid away to the sea.

  This drew Burl up short. The blade quivered as he shook. ‘Dreaming? Dreaming of what?’

  ‘Of dread.’

  Now he was certain the man was mad. He’d harboured an insane murderer. Against all the crew’s exhortations, he’d sheltered the man. What a fool he’d been. He probably deserved to die far more than they. He clenched the shortsword in both hands but still it shuddered. ‘Why?’ he managed, his throat almost choked off, so dry was it.

  ‘Why?’ Whellen echoed, thoughtful, his gaze still narrowed upon the iron-grey waters. Then that gaze shifted to Burl and in it he read only the grief that bowed the man’s shoulders. He appeared sorrowful beyond tears. ‘You think I did all this,’ he murmured, and gestured to indicate the ship.

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Not you then?’ he asked, and a sort of weak smile plucked at his lips, as if acknowledging a poor joke.

  Burl swallowed his terror and redoubled his sweaty grip upon the blade. ‘What kind of lunacy is that? Listen to yourself.’

  ‘I mean, are you certain the crew is gone? Perhaps it is just you who is gone.’

  ‘What?’ Burl didn’t want to listen to any of this craziness, but he could not bring himself to run the man through in cold blood. Perhaps it hadn’t been him after all. ‘What do you mean, man? Speak sense, damn you to the Enchantress! I mean it … or I’ll kill you!’

  ‘I mean that there have been no murders here. No one has killed anyone.’

  ‘Bullshit! What happened to everyone, then?’

  The first mate raised his open hands and examined them. ‘It’s this place, Burl. It’s where we are.’ He gestured to the waters, the sky. ‘We don’t belong here. It’s not for us. That’s what everyone’s been feeling. As if an enemy has been stalking every one of us. But that enemy is just our own fears.’

  Burl almost thrust his blade through him for concocting such a preposterous story, no doubt to squirm out of his guilt. Yet somehow he wasn’t entirely convinced that this man was the murderer. Hadn’t he lain ill or in a faint all this time? Or had he been duped somehow? Perhaps he had an accomplice … and Burl snatched a quick glance behind. Seeing nothing, he wet his lips and muttered a weak, ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Whellen nodded his understanding, or acceptance. ‘There is no way I can convince you, is there?’ he murmured softly, as if he were speaking to himself. He shrugged to drop the blanket from his shoulders. ‘Except perhaps this way.’

  ‘What?’ Burl answered. But the man wasn’t listening. He merely gave Burl one more nod, as if in farewell, and leaned backwards. Burl lunged, snatching at him. ‘No!’ But all he touched were the man’s sandals as he slipped over the side to fall to the water below.

  Burl leaned down, reaching, his hands empty.

  The Sea of Dread was a particularly clear sea, and Whellen remained visible for some time as he sank, staring upwards, his face a pale oval, in no way panicked or desperate, only so very sad. Or regretful. As if all this were nothing more than an unfortunate accident of fate. Burl watched until the man’s outline disappeared into the murk of the depths. Then he threw himself away from the side as if it burned to the touch. He snatched up the sword and continued backing away until he reached the door to his cabin, then he quickly jumped within and slammed the door.

  ‘Now we’ll know for certain,’ he whispered, fierce, as he readied the chair and sat once more, sword across his lap.

  ‘Now we’ll know!’ he shouted at the door and whatever things were gathering beyond. ‘If no one comes – we’ll know!’

  He wet his lips, clenched and unclenched his hot grip on the weapon. ‘Come on!’ he screamed at the door. ‘Come on!’

  He listened, but all he heard was his own hoarse breathing. He took one clumsy hacking swing at the door, croaked, ‘Come on!’ He listened again while he held his breath. Something was there. He was certain of it. Why wouldn’t it come? Why this agony of waiting? Won’t it just end it?

  After a time he could no longer hold his chest tight and his shoulders sank. His face was chilled by tears. ‘Come on,’ he moaned, utterly exhausted by the waiting.

  Gods, man – won’t you just end it?

  * * *

  They crossed the West Whitewater on the second day of climbing. It ran steep and swift out of the high valley. Orman’s breath caught as he stepped ever deeper into its icy course. He carefully picked his way between submerged boulders while the torrent surged as high as his waist. The charging water pulled at his legs and he relied upon Boarstooth to keep his footing.

  Ahead, Old Bear seemed to have merely leaned into the course and bulled his way across. His ragged bear cloak had danced and whipped atop the waves as the stream appeared to be attempting to yank it from him. He climbed the opposite bank, guffawing, slapping at his sodden leathers, and Orman could actually hear his great booming laughter over the roar of the mountain stream. The Reddin brothers followed, while Gerrun brought up the rear.

  They climbed steadily, half the time descending steep rocky ridges as the Old Bear’s path took them from one high valley to a higher, until it seemed to Orman as if the snow-draped slopes of the Salt range loomed directly over his head. Legendary birthplace of the Icebloods themselves. What the old legends named Joggenhome. They were now long past the point where the ghosts first came to him as a boy, and this time he saw them too: grey translucent figures in the distance, watching from among the trees and rocks. Many held spears, some shields. Some wore helmets and mail coats, others only leathers and ragged cloaks. He would have remarked upon them but for seeing the others ignore them – and so he chose to as well.

  On the third evening they ate a stew of rabbit and roots and berries that the Reddin brothers had collected. One of the brothers cooked it in a smallish iron pot over a fire, and they served it out in wooden bowls. Orman’s bowl warmed his hands in a very welcome manner. The other brother tossed over flatbreads, like cakes, that they’d baked overnight in the ashes of yesterday’s fire.

  Old Bear sat in the glow of the fire, hugging his spear. His ruddy lined face seemed to glow like heated met
al in the dancing light.

  From what Orman could remember of his father’s tales, they were currently in lands claimed by either the Sayer clan or the Bain clan. ‘Which Hold is this?’ he asked Old Bear.

  The man’s single dark eye shifted to him. He nodded at the appropriateness of the question. ‘We are in Sayer Hold.’ He gestured north-east with his crust of bread. ‘Next valley over lies within Bain Holdings. Further east climbs the Lost Hold, though I’ve never met a Lost. They say they’ve hired many mercenaries to fight for them these last years. Must have a lot of gold, those Losts…’ Orman knew most of this already from his father, but he was quiet, taking it all in once more from the mouth of Old Bear himself – a figure out of legend he’d never imagined he’d meet again.

  The old man shifted to point west. ‘The Heels. I have treated with the Heels and visited Heel Greathall. Beyond them lie the Myrni.’ He shook his hoary head. ‘Never met any of them.’

  ‘Will they challenge us?’ Orman couldn’t suppress a slight tremor of dread at the thought. He’d never been this high in the Holdings before. Retreat was no longer an option for any of them.

  Old Bear circled a crust of bread in his bowl, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. At last he opined, ‘I have lent my spear to the Sayers now and then. We should be allowed passage.’

  ‘And the stream. Is it the Upper Clearwater?’

  Old Bear’s gaze shifted to Gerrun across the fire, where the little man sat with his booted feet stretched out close to the embers. ‘It is. The seam is high in the headwaters. Gold lies strewn down the water’s course where it falls from rapid to rapid. Is this not so, Shortshanks?’

  The little man smiled thinly. ‘It is.’

  ‘Will we reach it soon?’

  ‘We are moving quickly. Another two days, I should think.’ The old man tilted his head to examine him with his one good eye. ‘You are keen to collect your gold, are you?’

  Orman looked to the fire. ‘I will need money to travel. I cannot stay in the north.’

  The old man nodded his assent. ‘That is true. You are now outlawed. Kinslayer. You have claimed Boarstooth. Your name will now be added to your father’s, and Jorgan Bain’s before him.’