He spun the rings. Clack-clack . . . clack-clack . . .
Oh, I sense your power, O Black-Winged Lord. Holding me at bay. Tell me, what do you fear? Why force me into this interminable walk?
The Liosan of old had it right. Justice was unequivocal. Explanations revealed the cowardice at the core of every criminal, the whining expostulations, the series of masks each one tried on and discarded in desperate succession. The not-my-fault mask. The it-was-a-mistake mask. You-don’t-understand and see-me-so-helpless and have-pity-I’m-weak – he could see each expression, perfectly arranged round eyes equally perfect in their depthless pit of self-pity (come in there’s room for everyone). Mercy was a flaw, a sudden moment of doubt to undermine the vast, implacable structure that was true justice. The masks were meant to stir awake that doubt, the last chance of the guilty to squirm free of proper retribution.
Clip had no interest in pity. Acknowledged no flaws within his own sense of justice. The criminal depends upon the compassion of the righteous and would use that compassion to evade precisely everything that that criminal deserved. Why would any sane, righteous person fall into such a trap? It permitted criminals to thrive (since they played by different rules and would hold no pity or compassion for those who might wrong them). No, justice must be pure. Punishment left sacrosanct, immune to compromise.
He would make it so. For his modest army, for the much larger army to come. His people. The Tiste Andii of Black Coral. We shall rot no longer. No more dwindling fires, drifting ashes, lives wasted century on century – do you hear me, O Lord? I will take your people, and I will deliver justice.
Upon this world.
Upon every god and ascendant who ever wronged us, betrayed us, scorned us.
Watch them reel, faces bloodied, masks awry, the self-pity in their eyes dissolving – and in its place the horror of recognition. That there is no escape this time. That the end has arrived, for every damned one of them.
Yes, Clip had read his histories. He knew the Liosan, the Edur, he knew all the mistakes that had been made, the errors in judgement, the flaws of compassion. He knew, too, the true extent of the Black-Winged Lord’s betrayal.
Of Mother Dark, of all the Tiste Andii. Of those you left in the Andara. Of Nimander and his kin.
Your betrayal, Anomander Rake, of me.
The sun was going down. The rings clacked and clacked, and clacked. Below, the salt pan was cast in golden light, the hovels crouched on the near shoreline blessed picturesque by distance and lack of detail. Smoke from a cookfire now rose from their midst. Signs of life. Flames to beat back the coming darkness. But it would not last. It never lasted.
The High Priestess pushed the plate away. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Any more and I will burst.’ A first level acolyte ducked in to take the plate, scurrying off with such haste that she almost spilled the towering heap of cracked crayfish shells.
Leaning back, the High Priestess wiped the melted butter from her fingers. ‘It’s typical,’ she said to the half-dozen sisters seated at the table, ‘the nets drag up a sudden, unexpected bounty, and what do we do? Devour it entire.’
‘Kurald Galain continues to yield surprises,’ said the Third Sister, ‘why not expect more to come?’
‘Because, dearest, nothing lasts for ever. Surrounding Kharkanas, there once stood forests. Until we chopped them down.’
‘We were young—’
‘And that would be a worthy defence,’ the High Priestess cut in, ‘if we have not, here in our old age, just repeated the stupidity. Look at us. Come the morrow all our clothes will cease to fit. We will discover, to our horror, bulges where none existed before. We see pleasure as an excuse for all manner of excess, but it is a most undisciplined trait. Now, sermon ended. Someone pour the tea.’
More first level acolytes slithered in.
A rustling of small bells at the corridor door preceded the arrival of a temple guardian. The woman, clad in scale armour and ringed leather, marched up to halt beside the High Priestess. She lowered the grille face-piece on her helm and leaned close to whisper – lips unseen and so unreadable by any – a brief message.
The High Priestess nodded, and then gestured the guardian away. ‘Second and Third Sister, remain in your seats. You others, take your tea to the Unlit Garden. Sixth Sister, once there you can stop hiding that flask and top up everyone else, yes?’
Moments later, only three women remained in the chamber, as even the acolytes had been sent away.
The door opened again and the guardian reappeared, this time escorting an old woman, human, who tottered on two canes to support her massive weight. Sweat darkened the cloth of her loose clothing round her armpits and beneath her cleavage and on the bulging islands of her hips. Her expression was one of anxiety and discomfort.
Unbidden, Third Sister rose and pulled a bench away from one wall, positioning it in the woman’s path.
‘Please do sit,’ said the High Priestess, thinking, alas, of the two dozen blind crayfish she’d just eaten, each almost half the size of a lobster, served up drenched in melted butter. Pleasure until pain, and we then rail at our misfortune.
With muttered thanks, the woman lowered herself on to the bench. ‘Please to introduce myself,’ she said in a wheeze. ‘I am the Witch—’
‘I know,’ the High Priestess interrupted, ‘and that title will suffice here, as must my own. Yours has been a trying journey, and so I can only assume you come with word of a crisis.’
A quick nod. ‘The cult of the Redeemer, High Priestess, has become . . . corrupted.’
‘And what is the agency of that corruption?’
‘Well, but that is complicated, you see. There was a High Priestess – oh, she was a reluctant owner of that title, and all the duties that came with it. Yet none could deny her natural authority—’
‘“Natural authority”,’ said the High Priestess. ‘I like that phrase. Sorry, do go on.’
‘Outlaws have usurped the pilgrim camp. There is some concentrated form of the drink called kelyk – I do not know if you are familiar with it?’
‘We are, yes.’
Another quick nod. ‘Saemankelyk. The word comes from a dialect common south of God’s Walk Mountains. “Saeman” means “Dying God” and “kelyk” means—’ ‘Blood.’
A sigh. ‘Yes.’
Second Sister cleared her throat, and then said, ‘Surely you do not mean to suggest that the meaning is literal?’
The witch licked her lips – an instinctive gesture rather than anything ironic – and said, ‘I have applied some . . . arts, er, to examining this saemankelyk. There are unnatural properties, that much is certain. In any case, the outlaws have made addicts of the pilgrims. Including Salind, the Redeemer’s High Priestess.’
Third Sister spoke. ‘If this foul drink is in any way blessed, then one might well see its poisonous influence as a corruption of the Redeemer’s worshippers. If one kneels before saemankelyk . . . well, one cannot kneel before two masters, can one?’
Not without physically splitting in half, no. ‘Witch, what is it you wish of us?’
‘This corruption, High Priestess. It could . . . spread.’
Silence round the table.
It was clear now to the High Priestess that the witch had given this meeting considerable thought, until arriving at the one suggestion she considered most likely to trigger alarm. As if we Tiste Andii are but taller, black-skinned versions of humans. As if we could so easily be . . . stolen away.
Emboldened, the witch resumed. ‘High Priestess, Salind – she needs help. We need help. There was a warrior, one among you, but he has disappeared. Now that Seerdomin is dead, I sought to find him. Spinnock Durav.’
The High Priestess rose. ‘Come with me, Witch,’ she said. ‘Just you and me. Come, it’s not far.’
The old woman levered herself upright, confusion in her small eyes.
To a side passage, a narrow corridor of twenty paces, and then down a short flight of stairs,
the air still smelling of fresh-chiselled basalt, into a large but low-vaulted octagonal chamber devoid of any furniture, the floor of which was inlaid with onyx tesserae, irregular in shape and size. A journey of but a few moments for most people; yet for the witch it was an ordeal, striking the High Priestess with the poignancy of the old woman’s desperation – that she should so subject herself to such a struggle. The trek from her home through the city to the keep must have been an epic undertaking.
These thoughts battered at the High Priestess’s impatience, and so she weathered the delay saying nothing and without expression on her smooth, round face.
As soon as the witch tottered into the chamber, she gasped.
‘Yes, you are clearly an adept,’ observed the High Priestess. ‘There are nodes of power in this temple. Kurald Galain, the cleansing darkness.’ She could see that the witch was breathing hard and fast, and there was a look of wonder on that sweat-sheathed face. ‘Do not be alarmed at what you feel inside,’ she said. ‘By entering here, you have drawn Kurald Galain into your body, in your breaths, through the very pores of your skin. The sorcery is now within you.’
‘B-but . . . why? Why have you done this to me?’
‘I could sense the labouring of your heart, Witch. Your trek to my temple would have been your last—’
‘Oh, I knew that!’ snapped the witch.
The sudden irritation shocked the High Priestess for a moment. She reassessed this woman tottering before her. ‘I see. Then . . .’
‘Then yes, I prayed my sacrifice would be worth it. Salind is so precious – what has been done to her is despicable. Is . . . evil.’
‘Then you have not come in the name of the Redeemer, have you?’
‘No. I came for a friend.’
A friend. ‘Witch, Spinnock Durav is no longer in Black Coral. It grieves me to hear of Seerdomin’s death. And it grieves me more to learn of Salind’s fate. Tell me, what else are you feeling?’
The witch was hunched over, as if in visceral pain. ‘Fine,’ she hissed reluctantly. ‘I can see that there is no risk of the poison spreading. I never thought there was.’
‘I know that,’ said the High Priestess, her voice soft.
‘But I needed to bargain for your help.’
‘That is ever the assumption among you humans. Do you know, when the delegates from the Free Cities came to treat with us, when the Rhivi and the man who pretended to be Prince K’azz D’Avore of the Crimson Guard came to us – they all thought to bargain. To buy our swords, our power. To purchase our alliance. Lord Anomander Rake but lifted one hand – before any of them could even so much as say one beseeching word. And he said this: “We are the Tiste Andii. Do not seek to bargain with us. If you wish our help, you will ask for it. We will say yes or we will say no.
There will be no negotiations.”‘ The witch was staring across at her.
The High Priestess sighed. ‘It is not an easy thing for a proud man or woman, to simply ask.’
‘No,’ whispered the witch. ‘It’s not.’
Neither spoke then for a dozen heartbeats, and then the witch slowly straightened. ‘What have you done to me?’
‘I expect Kurald Galain has done its assessment. Your aches are gone, yes? Your breathing has eased. Various ailments will disappear in the next few days. You may find your appetite . . . diminished. Kurald Galain prefers forces in balance.’
The witch’s eyes were wide.
The High Priestess waited.
‘I did not ask for such things.’
‘No. But it did not please me to realize that your journey to my temple would prove fatal.’
‘Oh. Then, thank you.’
The High Priestess frowned. ‘Am I not yet understood?’
‘You are,’ replied the witch, with another flash of irritation, ‘but I have my own rules, and I will voice my gratitude, whether it pleases you or not.’
That statement earned a faint smile and the High Priestess dipped her head in acknowledgement.
‘Now, then,’ said the witch after yet another brief stretch of silence, ‘I ask that you help Salind.’
‘No.’
The witch’s face darkened.
‘You have come here,’ said the High Priestess, ‘because of a loss of your own faith. Yes, you would have the Temple act on behalf of Salind. It is our assessment that Salind does not yet need our help. Nor, indeed, does the Redeemer.’
‘Your . . . assessment?’
‘We are,’ said the High Priestess, ‘rather more aware of the situation than you might have believed. If we must act, then we will, if only to pre-empt Silanah – although, I admit, it is no easy thing attempting to measure out the increments of an Eleint’s forbearance. She could stir at any time, at which point it will be too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘Yes, for Salind, for the usurpers, for the pilgrim camp and all its inhabitants.’
‘High Priestess, who is Silanah? And what is an Eleint?’
‘Oh, I am sorry. That was careless of me. Silanah commands the spire of this keep – she is rather difficult to miss, even in the eternal gloom. On your return to your home, you need but turn and glance back, and up, of course, and you will see her.’ She paused, and then added, ‘Eleint means dragon.’
‘Oh.’
‘Come, let us return to the others. I am sure more tea has been brewed, and we can take some rest there.’
The witch seemed to have run out of commentary, and now followed meekly as the High Priestess strode from the chamber.
The return journey did not take nearly as long.
It should have come as no surprise to Samar Dev when Karsa Orlong rode back into the camp at dusk at the end of the third day since leaving them. Riding in, saying nothing, looking oddly thoughtful.
Unscathed. As if challenging the Hounds of Shadow was no greater risk than, say, herding sheep, or staring down a goat (which, of course, couldn’t be done – but such a detail would hardly stop the Toblakai, would it? And he’d win the wager, too). No, it was clear that the encounter had been a peaceful one – perhaps predicated on the Hounds’ fleeing at high speed, tails between their legs.
Slipping down from Havok’s back, Karsa walked over to where sat Samar Dev beside the dung fire. Traveller had moved off thirty or so paces, as it was his habit to attend to the arrival of dusk in relative solitude.
The Toblakai crouched down. ‘Where is the tea?’ he asked.
‘There isn’t any,’ she said. ‘We’ve run out.’
Karsa nodded towards Traveller. ‘This city he seeks. How far away?’
Samar Dev shrugged. ‘Maybe a week, since we’re going rather slowly.’
‘Yes. I was forced to backtrack to find you.’ He was silent for a moment, looking into the flames, and then he said, ‘He does not seem the reluctant type.’
‘No, you’re right. He doesn’t.’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Cook something.’
‘I will.’
She rubbed at her face, feeling the scrape of calluses from her hands, and then tugged at the knots in her hair. ‘Since meeting you,’ she said, ‘I have almost forgotten what it is to be clean – oh, Letheras was all right, but we were pretty much in a prison, so it doesn’t really count. No, with you it’s just empty wastelands, blood-soaked sands, the occasional scene of slaughter.’
‘You sought me out, witch,’ he reminded her.
‘I delivered your horse.’ She snorted. ‘Since you two are so clearly perfect for each other, it was a matter of righting the cosmic balance. I had no choice.’
‘You just want me,’ he said, ‘yet whenever we are together, you do nothing but second-guess everything. Surrender, woman, and you can stop arguing with yourself. It has been a long time since I spilled my seed into a woman, almost as long as since you last felt the heat of a man.’
She could have shot back, unleashed a flurry of verbal quarrels that would, inevitably, all bounce off his impervious barbarity. �
��You’d be gentle as a desert bear, of course. I’d probably never recover.’
‘There are sides of me, witch, that you have not seen, yet.’
She grunted.
‘You are ever suspicious of being surprised, aren’t you?’
A curious question. In fact, a damned tangle of a question. She didn’t like it. She didn’t want to go near it. ‘I was civilized, once. Content in a proper city, a city with an underground sewer system, with Malazan aqueducts and hot water from pipes. Hallways between enclosed gardens and the front windows to channel cool air through the house. Proper soap to keep clothes clean. Songbirds in cages. Chilled wine and candied pastries.’
‘The birds sing of imprisonment, Samar Dev. The soap is churned by indentured workers with bleached, blistered hands and hacking coughs. Outside your cool house with its pretty garden there are children left to wander in the streets. Lepers are dragged to the edge of the city and every step is cheered on by a hail of stones. People steal to eat and when they are caught their hands are cut off. Your city takes water from farms and plants wither and animals die.’
She glared across at him. ‘Nice way to turn the mood, Karsa Orlong.’
‘There was a mood?’
‘Too subtle, was it?’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Speak your desires plain.’
‘I was doing just that, you brainless bhederin. Just a little . . . comfort. That’s all. Even the illusion would have served.’
Traveller returned to the fire. ‘We are about to have a guest,’ he said.
Samar Dev rose and searched round, but darkness was fast swallowing the plain. She turned with a query on her lips, and saw that Karsa had straightened and was looking skyward, to the northeast. And there, in the deepening blue, a dragon was gliding towards them.
‘Worse than moths,’ Traveller muttered.
‘Are we about to be attacked?’
He glanced at her, and shrugged.
‘Shouldn’t we at least scatter or something?’
Neither warrior replied to that, and after a moment Samar Dev threw up her hands and sat down once more beside the fire. No, she would not panic. Not for these two abominations in her company, and not for a damned dragon, either. Fine, let it be a single pass rather than three – what was she, an ant? She picked up another piece of dung and tossed it into the fire. Moths? Ah, I see. We are a beacon, are we, a wilful abrogation of this wild, empty land. Whatever. Flap flap on over, beastie, just don’t expect scintillating discourse.
Toll the Hounds Page 79
