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

by Steven Erikson

  Tiny flung himself onto the side of the carriage, hammering at the door. An instant later Flea and Midge joined him, clambering like wild apes. Where Mister Must had been there was now a demon, monstrous, locked in a deathgrip with Arpo Relent, as flames writhed like serpents around them both.

  The carriage heaved forward as the mules strained in their harnesses.

  Everyone scattered from its careening path.

  Tulgord Vise fought with his rearing charger, and the beast twisted, seeking to evade the mules, Arpo’s tethered horse and the crowded carriage, only to collide with Steck Marynd’s shaggy mare.

  The crossbow loosed, the quarrel burying itself in the rump of Tulgord’s mount. Squealing, the beast lunged, shot forward, colliding with Steck’s horse. That creature went down, rolling over Steck Marynd and loud was the snap of one of the woodsman’s legs. Tulgord had lost grip on his reins, and now tottered perilously as his horse charged up alongside the carriage.

  More flames ignited, bathing the front half of the rollicking, thundering conveyance.

  Tulgord’s mount veered suddenly, throwing the Mortal Sword from the saddle, and down he went, rolling once before the front left wheel ground over him in a frenzied crunching of enamelled armour, followed by the rear wheel, and then his weapon belt went taut in a snapping of leather, and off the man went, dragged in the carriage’s wake, and in spinning, curling clouds of smoke, the whole mess thundered ahead, straight for the edge of the Great Descent.

  Steck Marynd was screaming in agony as his horse staggered upright once more, and the beast set off in mindless pursuit of the carriage, Tulgord’s mount and Arpo’s falling in alongside it. Relish howled and ran after them, her hair flying out to surround her head in black fronds.

  Mute, we followed, stumbling, staggering.

  None could miss the moment when the mad mob plunged over the crest and vanished from sight. It is an instant of appalling clarity, seared into my memory. And we saw, too, when the horses did the same, and through drifting smoke and clouds of dust we were witness to Relish Chanter finally arriving, skidding to a halt, and her horrified cry was so curdling Nifty’s head went rolling across our paths as Sellup clapped greasy hands to her rotting earholes. Relish set off down the slope and we could see her no more.

  There are instances in life when no cogent thought is possible. When even words vanish and nothing rises to challenge a choke-tight throat, and each breath is a shocked torment, and all one’s limbs move of their own accord, loose as a drunkard’s, and a numbness spreads from a gaping mouth. And on all sides, the world is suddenly painfully sharp. Details cut and rend the eyes. The sheer brilliant stupidity of stones and dead grasses and clouds and twigs strewn like grey bones on the path – all this, then, strike the eye like mailed fists. Yes, there are instances in life when all this assails a person.

  It was there in the face of Apto Canavalian. And in Purse Snippet’s, and even in Brash Phluster’s (behind the manic joy of his impending salvation). Sardic Thew’s oily hands were up at his oily lips, his eyes glittering and he led us all in the rush to the trail’s edge.

  At last we arrived, and looked down.

  The carriage had not well survived the plunge, its smashed wreckage heaped in the midst of flames and smoke at the distant base, three hundred steep strides down the rocky, treacherous path. Bits of it were scattered about here and there, flames licking or smoke twirling. Astonishingly, the mules had somehow escaped their harnesses and were swimming out into the twisting streams of the vast river that stretched out from a cluster of shacks and a stone jetty at the ferry’s landing. Immediately behind them bobbed the heads of three horses.

  Of the demon and Arpo Relent, there was no sign, but we could see Flea’s body lying among boulders just this side of the muddy bank, and Midge’s bloody form was sprawled flat on its face two-thirds of the way down the track. Tiny, however, seemed to have vanished, perhaps inside the burning wreckage, and perhaps the same fate had taken Tulgord Vise, for he too was nowhere to be seen.

  Skidding and stumbling, Relish had almost reached Midge.

  And the ferry?

  Fifty or more reaches out on the river, a large, flat-decked thing, on which stood four horses, and a tall carriage, black and ornate as a funeral bier. Figures standing at the stern rail were visible.

  Sardic Thew, our most venerable host, was staring intently down at the burning carriage. He licked his lips. ‘Is she – is she?’

  ‘Dead?’ asked I. ‘Oh yes, indeed.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  I nodded.

  He wiped at his face, and then reached a trembling hand beneath his robes and withdrew a silk bag that jingled most fetchingly. He settled its substantial weight into my palm.

  I dipped my head in thanks, hid the fee beneath my cloak and then walked a half-dozen paces away to settle my gaze on that distant ferry.

  Behind me a conversation began.

  ‘Gods below!’ hissed Apto Canavalian. ‘The Dantoc – an old woman—’

  ‘A vicious beast, you mean,’ growled Sardic Thew. ‘Relations of mine got into financial trouble. Before I could assume the debts, that slavering bitch pounced. It was the daughter she wanted, you see. For her pleasure pits. Just a child! A sweet, innocent—’

  ‘Enough!’ I commanded, wheeling round. ‘Your reasons are your own, sir. You have said more than I need hear, do you understand?’ And then I softened my eyes and fixed them upon a pale, trembling Purse Snippet. ‘So few, Lady, dare believe in justice. Ask our host, if you must hear more of this sordid thing. For me, and understand this well, I am what I am, no more and no less. Do I sleep at night? Most serenely, Lady. Yes, I see what there is in your eyes when you look upon me. Does redemption await me? I think not, but who can truly say, till the moment of its arrival. If you seek some softness in your self-regard, find it by measure against the man who stands before you now. And should you still find nothing of worth within you, then you can indeed have my life.’

  After a time, she shook her head. That, and nothing more.

  Sellup arrived. ‘Anybody see Nifty’s head? I lost it. Anyone?’

  ‘Do you believe that art possesses relevance in the real world?’

  ‘Now, that is indeed a difficult question. After all, whose art?’

  To that I shrugged. ‘Pray, don’t ask me.’

  Knives, garrottes, poison, so very crass. Oh, in my long and storied career, I have made use of them all as befits my profession, but I tell you this. Nothing is sweeter than murder by word, and that sweetness, dear friends, remains as fresh today as it did all those many years ago, on that dusty ridge that marked the end of Cracked Pot Trail.

  Did I receive my reward from Purse Snippet? Why, on the night of the tumultuous party upon the awarding of the Century’s Greatest Artist to Brash Phluster (such a bright, rising star!), she did find me upon a private island amidst the swirl of smiling humanity, and we spoke then, at surprising length, and thereafter—

  Oh dear, modesty being what it is, I can take that no further.

  It was a considerable time afterwards (months, years?) that I happened to meet the grisly Nehemoth, quarry of ten thousand stone-eyed hunters, and over guarded cups of wine a few subjects were brushed, dusted off here and there in the gentle and, admittedly, cautious making of acquaintances. But even without that most intriguing night, it should by now be well understood that the true poet can never leave a tale’s threads woefully unknotted. Knotting the tale’s end is a necessity, to be sure, isn’t it? Or, rather if not entirely knotted, then at least seared, with fingertips set to wet mouth. To cut the sting.

  So, with dawn nudging the drowsing birds in this lush garden, the wives stirring from their nests and the moths dipping under leaf, permit me to wing us back to that time, and to one last tale, mercifully brief, I do assure you.

  Thus.

  ‘It is a true measure of civilization’s suicidal haste,’ said Bauchelain, ‘that even a paltry delay of, what? A day? Two
? Even that, Mister Reese, proves so unpalatable to its hapless slaves, that death itself is preferable.’ And he gestured with gloved hand towards all that the passing of the dust cloud now revealed upon that distant shore.

  Emancipor Reese puffed for a time on his pipe, and then he shook his head. ‘Couldn’t they see, Master? That is what I can’t get. Here we were, and it’s not like that old ferryman there was gonna turn us round, is it? They missed the ride and that’s that. It baffles me, sir, that it does.’

  Bauchelain stroked his beard. ‘And still you wonder at my haunting need to, shall we say, adjust the vicissitudes of civilization as befits its more reasonable members? Just so.’ He was quiet for a time until he cleared his throat and said, ‘Korbal Broach tells me that the city we shall see on the morn groans beneath the weight of an indifferent god, and I do admit we have given that some thought.’

  ‘Oh? Well, Master,’ said Emancipor, leaning on the rail, ‘better an indifferent one than the opposite, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I disagree. A god that chooses indifference in the face of its worshippers has, to my mind, Mister Reese, reneged on the most precious covenant of all. Accordingly, Korbal and I have concluded that its life is forfeit.’

  Emancipor coughed out a lungful of smoke.

  ‘Mister Reese?’

  ‘Sorry!’ gasped the manservant, ‘but I thought you just said you mean to kill a god!’

  ‘Indeed I did, Mister Reese. Heavens forbid, it’s not like there’s a shortage of the damned things, is there? Now then, best get you some rest. The city awaits our footfalls upon the coming dawn and not even an unmindful god can change that now.’

  And we can all forgive their not hearing the muttering that came from the ferryman’s dark hood as he hunched over the tiller, one hand fighting the currents, and the other beneath his breeches. ‘That’s what you think.’

  THE FIENDS OF NIGHTMARIA

  PART ONE

  One Night in Farrog

  BEETLE PRAATA’S HORSE collapsed under him just outside the embassy’s stables, making it easier to dismount. He stepped to one side to regard the fallen beast, and then gave one tentative kick to its lathered haunch, eliciting no response.

  Puny Sploor, the groundskeeper and stabler, edged into view from the sentry cubicle, holding one flickering candle, his rheumy eyes blinking.

  Beetle Praata gestured at the horse. ‘Brush this down and drag it close to some hay.’

  Puny rubbed at one skinny arm, as if the effort of holding up the candle had exhausted it. ‘It’s dead,’ he observed.

  Beetle frowned and then shrugged. ‘You never know.’

  Leaving the stabler and the horse in the small yard, the Imperial Courier of Nightmaria made his way into the embassy. Just outside the heavy bronze door he paused and squinted up into the night sky. The stars seemed to swim in a vast pool of black water, as if he had sunk to unimaginable depths, swallowed by a diluvian dream from which no awakening was possible. He drew a deep, cleansing breath, and then lifted the heavy iron ring, turned it until it clicked, pulled open the massive door, and strode inside.

  The air within was redolent, thick with the pungent reek of decay. Offering bowls of green, slimy copper occupied flanking niches at eye-level to either side of the formal entranceway, filled with moss from which parasitic flowers spilled down to snake across the narrow ledges. A thick, loose rug underfoot made wet sounds beneath his boots, and from it arose the cloying smell of rot.

  He unclipped his scaled leather highway cloak, shaking the dust from it before setting it on a hook. He plucked from his belt a pair of kid-skin gloves and methodically pulled them on, ensuring that each finger was snug. Satisfied, he continued on, exiting the entranceway to find himself in the vast audience chamber that had never known a foreign guest. The lush padding of the settees to either side of the Ambassador’s Chair were now lumpy, the filling spilled out from rotted holes here and there, and in places where small creatures nested the humps in the fabric moved up and down every now and then. Overhead, a chandelier of roseate crystal was mostly obscured beneath frayed braids of moss and lichens, its hundred candles long since eaten by mice and whatnot. From somewhere nearby, water trickled.

  Beetle Praata strode to one side and tugged on a ratty cord, somewhat gingerly lest it part, and upon hearing a distant chime, he nodded to himself and settled in to wait.

  Motion from beneath one of the settees drew his eye and he observed as a slow-worm, with a blunt maw big enough to swallow the head of a small dog, slithered into view. Lifting its sightless muzzle, it quested from one side to the next, and then set out sliding directly towards Beetle.

  From somewhere nearby, deeper into the sanctum, came a muted dragging sound, along with faint, meaty flops, and the hint of something scaly sliding across the damp tiles.

  Beetle crouched when the slow-worm finally reached him. He patted its blunt head, lightly enough to keep the stains to his gloves to a minimum. The slow-worm circled him, its knobby tail twitching. As the other sounds drew closer, he straightened and turned in time to see a hunched, uneven form creep into view from a narrow passageway hidden behind a mouldy curtain.

  Clad in green silks, Ambassador Ophal D’Neeth Flatroq seemed to hover a moment, and then began a rhythmic swaying, similar to a cobra with hood unfurled. The robe Ophal wore was high-cowled, framing a bald pate of glistening scales, strangely curled ears that ended at vague, possibly chewed points, eyes of murky green, pallid brows and cheeks the hue of a serpent’s belly, and a toothless mouth of thick, flabby lips. One hand held up an open oil lamp, flames flickering, revealing fingers without nails and heavy scales upon the back of the hand.

  A thin tongue slipped out and darted for a moment before retreating again.

  Beetle Praata bowed. ‘Ambassador.’

  ‘Hissip svlah, thlup?’

  ‘Alas, yes. As expected, I’m afraid.’ The Imperial Courier reached beneath his tunic and drew out a wooden tube, its ends sealed in wax, the seals bearing the stamp of the Royal Signet Ring.

  ‘Prrlll obbel lell,’ Ophal sighed, placing the oil lamp on a nearby ledge and then accepting the king’s command. Twisting one end of the tube broke a seal and the ambassador probed with a greenish finger until he was able to pull out the vellum. Unfurling it, Ophal peered close, eyes tracking the script. His tongue slithered out again, this time from one corner of his mouth, then retreated once more. ‘Ahh, prrlll. Flluth villl rrrh na.’

  Beetle’s brows lifted. ‘This very night? Very well. Shall I await the reply?’

  Ophal nodded, and then sighed again. ‘Mah yull thelff hathome.’

  The courier bowed a second time.

  The ambassador gestured down at the slow-worm, ‘Eemlee, prrlll come!’

  Ophal retreated from whence he came, the slow-worm slithering after him.

  Beetle walked over to one of the settees and carefully sat down, ensuring that he crushed nothing. It was going to be a long night. He watched a spider chase a mouse across the floor.

  ‘We do it tonight,’ said Plaintly Grasp, leaning over the ale-stained table, the one always reserved for her at the very back of Pink’s Tavern. She ran a finger through a pool of ale, making a stream to the table’s edge, and watched it drain.

  ‘Hey,’ growled Barunko, ‘something’s wet my crotch.’ He straightened slightly, glaring about.

  ‘You’re always saying that,’ observed Symondenalian Niksos – known to many as The Knife. He was playing with one of his daggers, the blade slipping back and forth and under and over his scarred, cut-up hand. The blade twisted and he winced, but continued his manipulations. ‘Tonight, is it? I’m ready. I’ve been ready for a week.’

  Scowling across at him, Plaintly said, ‘She was arrested only two nights ago, you idiot. And stop that, you’re dripping blood all over the table again.’ She looked to the others. In addition to Barunko – their muscle – and Symondenalian Niksos, who couldn’t recall seeing a back he didn’t want to stab, there was
Lurma Spilibus, who’d never met a lock she couldn’t pick or a purse she couldn’t snatch, her red tangle of curly hair piled high and wayward, her triangular face bulging at one cheek with a wad of pulped Prazzn, her eyes perpetually crossed as she squinted at the tankard cradled in her hands.

  Beside Lurma and huddled together, Mortari and Le Groutt, master burglars who’d yet to meet a wall they couldn’t scale. Mortari was the smaller of the two, with a pinched face and the manic eyes of a terrier needing to piss. He was panting slightly in the fug of the tavern. Leaning hard against his left shoulder was Le Groutt, swarthy and snaggle-toothed, showing his broad and possibly witless yellow grin, his head bobbing as he looked about, habitually assessing walls, railings, ledges and whatever else a man might climb.

  She studied them all, gauging, and then nodded. ‘So we’re back together,’ she said.

  Le Groutt showed her his smile. ‘The Famous Party of Five.’

  ‘Infamous,’ drawled Symon The Knife. He flinched and the knife clattered to the tabletop. Sucking at his thumb, he glowered at Plaintly but said nothing more.

  ‘The Royal Palace,’ mused Lurma. ‘That won’t be easy. Who knows what that insane necromancer’s let loose in the crypts.’ She snapped up her crazed squint, shifted the wad in her mouth until it bulged the other cheek, and then said, ‘Barunko, you up to this? Could be demons. Revenants. Giant snakes.’

  ‘Unsubstantiated,’ cut in Plaintly. ‘He’s a usurper. That and nothing more. And the new Grand Bishop is a drooling simpleton. All this talk of sorcery and necromancy is just propaganda, to keep away people like us.’

  ‘Did I pee on myself?’ Barunko asked.

  ‘He’s arrested the Head of the Thieves’ Guild,’ Plaintly went on. ‘Our Mistress. Now maybe it’s been a few years since we all worked together, but we ain’t lost a step, not one of us. There’s nobody better in Farrog, and now the usurper’s declared war on our guild. We’re getting her out and we’re doing it tonight. One more time, the finest adventuring band of thieves this world has ever seen. So,’ she leaned back baring her teeth. ‘Is everyone ready for this?’