The Second Collected Tales of Bauchelain & Korbal Broach: Three Short Novels of the Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Kill him?’ Midge asked.

  ‘Kill him?’ Flea asked.

  ‘Wait! The tale, yes, the tale. Now, when we last saw them, the Fenn warrior was seated before the chief and a scant meal was being shared out. Gestures are ever delicate among such tribes. Language speaks without a single word spoken. In this song of nuance, it was understood by all the Imass that a terrible fate had befallen the warrior, that grief gripped the Fenn’s broad, wounded shoulders. He bled within and without. His troubled eyes found no other in their weary wandering over the wealth of the chief, the furs and beaded hides, the shell-strung belts and steatite pipes, the circle masks with the skins of beastly faces stretched over them – the brold bear, the ay wolf, the tusked seal. Of the meagre portions of rancid blubber, dried berries and steeped moss tea, he ate each morsel with solemn care and sipped the tea with tender pleasure, but all was tinged with something bitter, a flavour stained upon his tongue – one that haunted him.’

  We were gathered, squatting or seated in the shade of the carriage and the stolid mules. The wellspring’s basin trickled as it slowly refilled with water. Flies danced on the mud our passages had left behind. Steck Marynd had dismantled his crossbow and was cleaning each part with an oiled cloth. Midge had produced a brace of fighting knives and was making use of a large boulder bearing the grooves of past sharpening, the whisk-whisk-whisk sound a grating undercurrent grisly in its portent. The host, Sardic Thew, had built a small fire on which to brew tea. Brash Phluster sat leaning against one gouged carriage wheel, examining his fingernails. Purse Snippet had walked behind the carriage to prepare her small pewter cup a few moments earlier, and now sat on my left, whilst to my right was Apto Canavalian, surreptitiously sipping from a small flask every now and then. Flea and Relish had begun dozing, and Mister Must sat upon the driver’s seat of the carriage, drawing upon his pipe. Arpo Relent and Tulgord Vise sat opposite each other, askance their mutually resentful glances. Thus, we were assembled to hear Calap’s tale.

  ‘The maiden, kneeling to the Fenn’s right, could hear little more than the drum of her own heart. What flower this thing called love, to burst so sudden upon the colourless sward? Its seed is a ghost that even the wind carries unknowing. The blossom shouts to life, a blaze of impossible hue, and in its wild flush it summons the sun itself. So bright! So pure! She had never before known such sensations. They frightened her, stealing all control from her thoughts, from her very flesh. She felt swollen of spirit. She could feel the rough truth of his scarred arm against her own, though they did not touch. She felt herself swaying closer to him with every breath he drew into himself, only to sway back at his exhalation.

  ‘In all things of self, she was still a child, and her soft cheeks glowed as if lit with the fire of the hearth, as if all coverings but the sky could not contain her heat. Softly, unnoticed by any, she panted, every breath shallow and making her feel half-drunk. Her eyes were black pools, the sweat swam upon her palms, and in the folds between her legs a coal fanned hot and eager.

  ‘The flower is suffering’s gift, its only gift. Did her kin see it? Did its sweet scent fill the hut? Perhaps, but the winter’s cruel ways had stolen the warmth from their souls. They sat in misery, wilted with need, and as the Fenn ate all he was offered they saw the count of their days diminishing. Before their eyes, they witnessed his return to strength and hale vigour. When blood flows, the place it leaves becomes pale and weak, whilst the new home deepens rich with life. They could not shake the chill from their huddled forms, and outside the sun surrendered to the Blackhaired Witches of night, and the wind awoke with a howl than spun long and twisted into a moan. The hide walls rippled. Draughts stole inside and mocked the ashes that seek naught but contented sleep.’

  Calap Roud licked his lips and reached for a gourd of water. He sipped with great care, making certain he did not disturb the settled silts, and then set the bowl back down.

  The host poured tea into Snippet’s cup.

  ‘When spake the Fenn, his voice was the bundle of furs, soft and thick, tightly bound and barely whispering of life. His words were Imass, proof of his worldly ways despite his evident youth – although, of course, with the Fenn age is always difficult to determine.

  ‘“I am the last of my people,” said he. “Son of a great warrior cruelly betrayed, slain by those he thought his brothers. To such a crime, does the son not have but one answer? This, then, is my tale. The season was cursed. The horned beasts of the mountain passes were nowhere to be found. The Maned Sisters of the Iron Hair had taken them away—”’

  ‘The who?’ demanded Arpo Relent.

  ‘Thus the Fenn named the mountains of their home, good Knight.’

  ‘Why do people have to name everything?’ Arpo demanded. ‘What’s wrong with “the mountains”? The river? The valley?’

  ‘The Knight?’ retorted Tiny Chanter. ‘Aye, why not just “the idiot”?’

  ‘“The brainless ox,”’ suggested Midge.

  ‘“The Bung-Hole Licker,”’ suggested Flea.

  The three men snickered.

  ‘I never licked no—’

  ‘Hood’s breath, Relent,’ growled Tulgord Vise. ‘Details are abominations with you. Stopper your trap and let him get on with it. You, Calap. No game left in the mountains, right? Let’s get on with the tale. Betrayal. Vengeance, aye, that’s the making of a decent story.’

  ‘“My father,” said the Fenn, “was the Keeper of the Disc, the stone wheel upon which the tribe’s life was carved – its past, its present and its future. He was, therefore, a great and important man, the equivalent of chief among the Imass. He spoke with wisdom and truth. The Maned Sisters were angry with the Fenn, who had grown careless in their rituals of propitiation. A sacrifice was necessary, he explained. One life in exchange for the lives of all.”

  ‘“The night’s gathering then chose their sacrifice. My father’s second son, my own brother, five years my younger. The Clan wept, as did my father, as did I. But the Wheel was certain in its telling. In our distress –” and at that moment the Fenn warrior looked up and met the Imass Chief’s eyes – “in our distress, none took notice of my father’s brother, my own uncle, and the hard secret unveiled in his face.”

  ‘“There is blood and there is love. There are women who find themselves alone, and then not alone, and there is shame held within even as the belly swells. Truth revealed can rain blood. She held to herself the crime her husband’s brother had committed upon her. She held it for her love for he who was her husband.”

  ‘“But now, on this night, she felt cut in two by a ragged knife. One of her sons would die, and in her husband’s eyes she saw tears from a love fatally wounded. Too late she cast her regard upon her beloved’s brother, and saw only the mask of his indifference.”’

  ‘Wait, I don’t understand—’

  ‘Gods below!’ burst out Tiny Chanter. ‘The uncle raped the mother, you fool, and the boy chosen was the beget of that!’

  ‘The mother’s uncle raped the boy? But—’

  ‘Kill him?’ Midge asked.

  ‘Go on, Calap,’ Tiny commanded.

  ‘“In the deep of night, a knife was drawn. When a brother slays a brother, the gods are aghast. The Maned Sisters claw through their iron hair and the earth itself shakes and trembles. Wolves howl in shame for their brothers of the hunt. I awoke to hard slaughter. My mother, lest she speak. My father, too. And of my brother and uncle, why, both were gone from the camp.”’

  ‘Vengeance!’ bellowed Tiny Chanter. ‘No man needs a god when vengeance stands in its stead! He hunted them down didn’t he? Tell us!’

  Calap nodded. ‘And so the Fenn told the tale of the hunt, how he climbed mountain passes and survived the whelp of winter, how he lost the trail again and again, and how he wept when he came upon the cairn bearing the frozen carcass of his brother, half-devoured by his uncle – who had bargained with the darkest spirits of the shadows, all to purchase his own life. Until at last, upon a broad gla
cier’s canted sweep, he crossed blades with his uncle, and of that battle even a thousand words would be too few. Beneath the cold sun, almost blinded by the snow and ice, they fought as only giants could fight. The spirits themselves warred, as shadows locked with honoured light, until even the Maned Sisters fell to their knees, beseeching an end.’

  He paused again to sip water.

  ‘And it was light that decided the battle – the sun’s flash on the son’s blade, direct into the eyes of the uncle. A deft twist, a slash, and upon the crushed and broken ice and snow a crimson stream now poured, sweet as the spring’s thaw.

  ‘And so the son stood, the slayings avenged, but a bleakness was upon his soul. He was now alone in his family. He was, he knew, also the murderer of kin. And that night, as he lay sleeping, huddled in a rock shelter, the Maned Sisters visited upon him a dream. He saw himself, thin, weak, walking into the camp of his tribe. The season had broken, the terrible cold was gone from the air, and yet he saw no smoke, and no fires. He saw no one and as he drew closer he came upon bones, picked clean by foxes and here and there split open by the jaws of rock leopards, wolves and bears. And in the hut of his father he found the Wheel, split down the centre, destroyed forever more, and in his dream he knew that, in the moment his sword took the soul of his uncle, the Wheel had been sundered. Too many crimes in a single pool of blood – a curse had befallen the tribe. They had starved, they had torn one another apart in their madness. The warrior awoke, knowing he was now alone, his home was no more, and that there was a stain upon his soul that not even the gods could wash clean.

  ‘Down from the mountains he came, a vessel emptied of love. Thus he told his tale, and the Imass keened and rocked to share his grief. He would stay for a time, he said, but not overlong, knowing well the burden he presented. And that night—’

  ‘That will do,’ pronounced Tiny, grunting as he climbed to his feet. ‘Now we walk.’

  ‘It’s Flicker’s turn now, isn’t it?’ So demanded Brash Phluster.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But soon?’

  ‘Soon.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Then we vote.’

  Strips of charred meat were apportioned out, skins filled one last time, the mules and horses brought close to drink again, and then the trek resumed. Chewing with an array of curious and disparate expressions, we trudged along the worn trail.

  What fate had befallen this region? Why, nothing but the usual vagary. Droughts settled like a plague upon lands. Crops withered and blew away, people and beasts either died or moved on. But the track where walked pilgrims asserted something more permanent, immortal even, for belief is the blood’s unbroken thread. Generation upon generation, twisted and knotted, stretched and shredded, will and desire set the cobble stones upon this harrowed road, and each is polished by sweat and suffering, hope and cherished dreams. Does enlightenment appear only upon the shadeless travail, on a frame of soured muscles and aching bones? Is blessing born solely from ordeal and deprivation?

  The land trembles to the slightest footfall, the beetle and the bhederin, and in the charms of the wind one can hear countless cries for succour.

  Of course, with all the chewing and gnawing going on, not one of us could hear a damned thing.

  We are pilgrims of necessity, stumbling in the habits of privation.

  ‘The Dantoc must have known a mighty thirst.’ So said Apto Canavalian. ‘Two heavy skins, just for an old woman hiding in the cool gloom.’

  ‘Elderly as she is,’ replied Mister Must from atop the carriage, ‘the Dantoc Calmpositis holds to the teaching of Mendic Hellup, whose central tenet is that water is the secret of all life, and much physical suffering comes from a chronic undernourishment of water in our bodies.’ He chewed on his pipe stem for a moment, and then said, ‘Or something like that.’

  ‘You’re an odd one,’ Apto noted, squinting up at the driver. ‘Times you sound rolled up as a scholar, but others like a herder who sleeps under his cow.’

  ‘Disparate my learnings, sir.’

  Moments of malice come to us all. How to explain them? One might set hands upon breast and claim the righteous stance of self-preservation. Is this enough to cleanse the terrible bright splashes stinging the eye? Or what of simple instinctive retaliation from a kneeling position, bearing one’s own dark wounds of flesh and spirit? A life lived is a life of regrets, and who can stand at the close of one’s years and deny the twisted skeins skirled out in one’s wake?

  In this moment, as the burden of the tale was set upon me once more, could I have held up before my own visage a silvered mirror, would I recoil before a mien of vicious spite? Were all witness to something bestial, akin to a rock-ape’s mad gleam upon discovering a bloated tick dangling from an armpit? Did I snarl like a hyena in a laughing pit? A sex-sodden woman with penis and knife in hand, or breasts descending as weapons of suffocation upon a helpless, exhausted face? Wicked my regard?

  Or naught but a sleepy blink and the coolness of a trickling rill only moments from a poisonous chuckle? Pray, you decide.

  ‘The mortal brain,’ quoth I, ‘is an amorous quagmire. Man and woman both swim sordid currents in the gurgling caverns of unfettered desire. We spread the legs of unknown women at a glance, or take possession of the Gila Monster’s stubby tail in a single flutter of sultry lashes. Coy is our silent ravishing, abulge with mutual lust pungent as a drunkard’s breath. In the minds of each and every one of us, bodies writhe slick with oiled perfumes, scenes flash hot as fire, and the world beyond is stripped naked to our secret eyes. We rock and we pitch, we sink fast and grasp tight. Our mouths are teased open and tongues find bedmates. Aftermaths wash away and with them all consequence, leaving only the knowing meet of eyes or that shiver of nearness with unspoken truths sweet as a lick.’

  None interrupted, proof of the truth of my words, and each and all had slid into and far down the wet channel so warm, so perfect in base pleasure. Sweat beaded beneath napes, walks stiffened awkward. Do you deny? What man would not roger nine of ten women he might see in a single day? Ninety of a hundred? What woman does not imagine clutching a dozen crotches and by magic touch make hard what was soft, huge what was puny? Does she not, with a shudder, then dream the draining weakness of utter surrender? We are rutters of the mind and in the array of each and every pose can be found all the misery and joy of existence. History’s tumult is the travail of frustration and desire, murder the slaughter of rivals, slaying the coined purse of the spurned. Children die … to make room for more children! Pregnant women swing wild their trophies of conquest pitched so fierce upon their creaking hips. Young men lock horns in swagger and brainless gnashing of eyes. Old men drool over lost youth when all was possible and so little was grasped. Old women perch light as ragged songbirds on brawny young arms not even hinting of blemishes to come. But do not decry such truths! They are the glory of life itself! Make wild all celebration!

  Just be sure to invite me along.

  ‘Among the pilgrims,’ so I did resume after an appropriate duration to stir the stew, ‘maelstroms raged in silent touch of glance and hungers were awakened and the conviction of terrible starvation sizzled with certainty, and for all the threats spoken and unspoken, ah, love will find a way. Legs yearn to yawn, thighs quiver to clamp hard. Snakes strain to bludgeon into ruin all barriers to sentinel readiness.

  ‘There was a woman,’ and if possible, why, even the mules and horses trod more softly to challenge not my words, ‘a sister to three bold warriors, and desired by all other men in the company. Hard and certain the warnings issued by the brothers. War in answer to despoiling, a thousand legions upon the march, a siege of a hundred years and a hundred great heroes dead on the sand. The toppling of kings and wizards upon the rack. Heads on spikes and wives raped and children sold into slavery. The aghast regard of horrified gods. No less to any and all of these the stern threats from the brothers.

  ‘But who could deny her beauty? And who could ignore the hooked bait in the net she daily cast
so wide into her path and wake both?’

  Did I risk a glance at Relish Chanter? I did not. But let us imagine now her precious expression at this moment. Eyes wide in horror? Lips slack? A rising flush? Or, and with surety I would cast my coin here, an odd brightness to her gaze, the hint of a half-smile, a touch wilder and wider the sway of her petalled hips. Perhaps even a deflagrant toss of her head. No young woman, after all, can be chained to childhood and all its perverse innocence, no matter how many belligerent brothers she has in tow. The flush apple beckons every hand, and the fruit in turn yearns to be plucked.

  ‘Among the poets and bards,’ said I then, ‘there was a statesman of the tender arts, elder in his years, but creativity’s flower (still so lush in his mind) proclaimed with blind lie a vigour long past. And one night, after days of effort growing ever more desperate, ever more careless, did he finally catch the maiden’s eye. Whilst the brothers slept, heads anod and snores asnore, out they crept into the night—’

  ‘But I—’

  Poor Calap Roud, alas, got no further.

  With a roar, Tiny Chanter lunged upon the hapless old man. The fist that struck the poet was driven hard as a mace, crushing visage and sending shards of bone deep into Calap’s brain. In his collapse not a finger’s breadth of his body evinced the remotest sign of life.

  Oh dear.

  Do the gods stand in wait for each and every one of us? So many do believe. Someone has to pay for this mess. But who among us does not also believe that he or she would boldly meet such immortal regard? Did we not drag our sack of excuses all this way? Our riotous justifications? Even death itself could not defy this baggage train chained to our ankles and various other protuberances. Truly, can anyone here honestly assert they would do other than argue their case, all their cases, that mountain heap of cases that is the toll of a life furtively lived?

  ‘Yes, oh Great Ones, such was my laziness that I could not be bothered to dispose of my litter in the proper receptacles, and a thousand times I pissed against a wall behind my neighbour’s house, even as I coveted and eventually seduced his wife. And yes, I was in the habit of riding my horse through town and country too quickly, exercising arrogant disregard for courtesy and caution. I cut off other riders out of spite, I threatened to trample pedestrians at every turn! I always bought the biggest horse to better intimidate others and to offset my sexual incapacities! I bullied and lied and cheated and had good reasons every time. I long ago decided that I was the centre of all existence, emperor of emperors – all this to hide my venal, pathetic self. After all, we are stupider than we like to believe: why, this is the very meaning of sentience, and if you gods are not to blame for your own miserable creations, then who is?’