Toc gathered the reins. 'Not now,' he called out. 'Later.' He swung his horse round. 'All right, you wretched hag, let's see how you gallop, shall we?' He drove his heels into the beast's flanks.
His sister awaited him at the edge of the forest. 'You are done?' she asked him. 'I am.'
They continued on, under the trees. 'I have missed you, brother.'
'And I you.'
'You have no sword…'
'Indeed, I have not. Do you think I will need one?' She leaned close to him. 'Now more than before, I would think.'
'Perhaps you are right. We must needs find a quarry.'
'The Barghast Range. A flint the colour of blood—I will invest it, of course, to prevent its shattering.'
'As you did once before, sister.'
'Long ago.'
'Aye, so very long ago.'
Under the impassive gaze of the two brothers, Lady Envy relinquished the sorcery that kept Mok from returning to consciousness. She watched as the Third slowly regained awareness, the eyes within the mask dulled with pain. 'There, now,' she murmured. 'You have suffered of late, haven't you?'
Mok struggled to sit upright, his gaze hardening upon finding his brothers.
Lady Envy straightened and glanced over at Senu and Thurule with an appraising eye. After a moment, she sighed. 'Indeed, they are a sight. They suffered in your absence, Third. Then again,' she noted brightly, 'you've not fared much better! I must inform you, Mok, that your mask has cracked.'
The Seguleh reached up, probed tentatively, finding then following the hairline fissure running two-thirds of the length on the left side.
Lady Envy continued, 'In fact, I reluctantly admit, none of our facades has survived… unfractured. If you can imagine it, Anomander Rake—the Seventh—has unceremoniously banished us from the city.'
Mok climbed unsteadily to his feet, looked around.
'Yes,' Lady Envy said, 'we find ourselves in the very same forest we spent days trudging through. Your punitive exercise is concluded, perhaps satisfactorily, perhaps not. The Pannion Domin is no more, alas. Time's come, my three grim servants, to begin the journey home.'
Mok examined his weapons, then faced her. 'No. We shall demand an audience with the Seventh—'
'Oh, you foolish man! He'll not see you! Worse, you'll have to carve your way through a few hundred Tiste Andü to get to him—and no, they won't cross blades with you. They will simply annihilate you with sorcery. They're a perfunctory people, the Children of Mother Dark. Now, I have decided to escort the three of you home. Isn't that generous of me?'
Mok regarded her, the silence stretching.
Lady Envy offered him a sweet smile.
On their long journey north, the White Face Barghast broke up into clans, then family bands, ranging far and wide as was their wont. Hetan walked with Cafal, lagging behind their father and his closest followers and angling some distance eastward.
The sun was warm on their heads and shoulders, the air fresh with the gentle surf brushing the shore two hundred paces to their right.
It was midday when she and her brother spotted the two travellers ahead. Close kin, Hetan judged as they drew nearer. Neither one particularly tall, but robust, both black-haired, walking very slowly side by side closer to the coastline.
They looked to be Barghast, but of a tribe or clan unknown to either Hetan or Cafal. A short while later they came alongside the two strangers.
Hetan's eyes focused on the man, studied the extraordinary scars crisscrossing his flesh. 'We greet you, strangers!' she called out.
Both turned, clearly surprised that they had company.
Hetan now looked upon the man's face. That the woman beside him was his sister could be no more obvious.
Good. 'You!' she called to the man, 'what is your name?'
The man's smile made her heart catch. 'Onos Toolan.'
Hetan strode closer, offering a wink to the dark-haired woman, then settling her eyes once more on the man called Onos Toolan. 'I see more than you imagine,' she said in a low voice.
The young warrior cocked his head. 'You do?'
'Aye, and what I see tells me you've not bedded a woman in a long time.'
The man's eyes widened—oh, such lovely eyes, a lover's eyes—'Indeed,' he said, his smile broadening.
Oh yes, my lover's eyes…
Epilogue
PARAN SHOVED THE DOOR OPEN. SHOULDERING HIS HEAVY, GOLD-filled pack, he stepped into the antechamber beyond. 'Raest! Where are you?'
The armour-clad Jaghut emerged from somewhere to halt before Paran, said nothing.
'That's right,' Paran muttered, 'I've decided to take up residence here.'
Raest's voice was a cold rasp, 'You have.'
'Aye. Three weeks in that damned inn was enough, believe me. So, here I am, courage worked up, ready to settle into the dreaded, infamous Finnest House—and I see your skills as housekeeper leave much to be desired.'
'These two bodies on the threshold—what will you do with them?'
Paran shrugged. 'I haven't decided yet. Something, I suppose. But, for now, I want to drop this gold off—so I can sleep easy for a change. They're opening the place up tonight, you know…'
The giant warrior replied, 'No, Master of the Deck, I do not.'
'Never mind. I said I'd go. Hood knows, I doubt anybody else in this city will, except maybe Kruppe, Coll and Murillio.'
'Go where, Master of the Deck?'
'Ganoes, please. Or Paran. Where, you ask? Picker's new tavern, that's where.'
'I know nothing of—'
'I know you don't, that's why I'm telling—'
'—nor do I care, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck.'
'Well, your loss, Raest. As I was saying, Picker's new tavern. Her and her partner's, that is. They've spent half their pay on this insane project.'
'Insane?'
'Yes—you don't know the meaning of insane?'
'I know it all too well, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck.'
Paran was brought up short by that. He studied the helmed face, seeing only shadows behind the visor's slots. A faint shiver ran through the Malazan. 'Uh, yes. In any case, they purchased the K'rul Temple, belfry and all. Made it into a—'
'A tavern.'
'A temple everyone in the city calls haunted.'
'I imagine,' Raest said, turning away, 'it came cheap, all things considered…'
Paran stared after the armoured Jaghut. 'See you later,' he called.
Faintly came the reply, 'If you insist…'
Emerging from the battered gateway onto the street, Paran almost stumbled over a decrepit, hooded figure sitting awkwardly on the edge of the gutter. A grimy hand lifted from the rags towards the Malazan.
'Kind sir! A coin, please! A single coin!'
'Luckily for you, I can spare more than one, old man.' Paran reached for the leather purse tucked into his belt. He drew out a handful of silvers.
The beggar grunted, dragged himself closer, his legs trailing like dead weights. 'A man of wealth! Listen to me. I have need of a partner, generous sir! I have gold. Councils! Hidden in a cache on the slopes of the Tahlyn Hills! A fortune, sir! We must needs only mount an expedition—it's not far.'
Paran dropped the coins into the old man's hands. 'Buried treasure, friend? No doubt.'
'Sir, the sum is vast, and I would gladly part with half of it—the repayment to your investment will be ten times at the very least.'
'I've no need for more riches.' Paran smiled. He stepped away from the beggar, then paused and added, 'By the way, you probably shouldn't linger overlong at this particular gate. The House does not welcome strangers.'
The old man seemed to shrink in on himself. His head twisted to one side. 'No,' he muttered from beneath his ragged hood, 'not this House.' Then he softly cackled. 'But I know one that does…'
Shrugging at the beggar's obscure words, Paran turned once more and set off.
Behind him, the beggar broke into a wretched cough.
Picker could not pull her eyes from the man. He sat hunched over, on a chair that had yet to find a table, still clutching in his hands the small rag of tattered cloth on which something had been written. The alchemist had done all he could to return life to what had been a mostly destroyed, desiccated body, and Baruk's talents had been stretched to their limits—there was no doubt of that.
She knew of him, of course. They all did. They all knew, as well, where he had come from.
He spoke not a word. Had not since the resurrection. No physical flaw kept him from finding his voice, Baruk had insisted.
The Imperial Historian had fallen silent. No-one knew why.
She sighed.
The grand opening of K'rul's Bar was a disaster. Tables waited, empty, forlorn in the massive main chamber. Paran, Spindle, Blend, Antsy, Mallet and Bluepearl sat at the one nearest the blazing hearth, barely managing a word among them. Nearby was the only other occupied table, at which sat Kruppe, Murillio and Coll.
And that's it. Gods, we're finished. We should never have listened to Antsy…
The front door swung open.
Picker looked over hopefully. But it was only Baruk.
The High Alchemist paused within the antechamber, then slowly made his way forward to where the other Daru sat.
'Dearest friend of honourable Kruppe! Baruk, stalwart champion of Darujhistan, could you ask for better company this night? Here, yes, at this very table! Kruppe was astonishing his companions—and indeed, these grim-faced ex-soldiers next to us—with his extraordinary account of Kruppe and this tavern's namesake, conspiring to fashion a new world.'
'Is the tale done, then?' Baruk asked as he approached.
'Just, but Kruppe would be delighted to—'
'Excellent. I'll hear it some other time, I suppose.' The High Alchemist glanced over at Duiker, but the Imperial Historian had not so much as even looked up. Head still bowed, eyes fixed on the cloth in his hands. Baruk sighed. 'Picker, have you mulled wine?'
'Aye, sir,' she said. 'Behind you, beside the hearth.'
Antsy reached for the clay jug, rose to pour Baruk a cup.
'All right,' Picker said in a loud voice, walking over. 'So, this is it. Fine. The fire's warm enough, we've drunk enough, and I for one am ready for some stories to be told—no, not you, Kruppe. We've heard yours. Now, Baruk here, and Coll and Murillio for that matter, might be interested in the tale of the final taking of Coral.'
Coll slowly leaned forward. 'So, you'll finally talk, will you? It's about time, Picker.'
'Not me,' she replied. 'Not to start, anyway. Captain? Refill your cup, sir, and weave us a tale.'
The man grimaced, then shook his head. 'I'd like to, Picker.'
'Too close,' Spindle grumbled, nodding and turning away.
'Hood's breath, what a miserable bunch!'
'Sure,' Spindle snapped, 'a story to break our hearts all over again! What's the value in that?'
A rough, broken voice replied, 'There is value.'
Everyone fell silent, turned to Duiker.
The Imperial Historian had looked up, was studying them with dark eyes. 'Value. Yes. I think, much value. But not yours, soldiers. Not yet. Too soon for you. Too soon.'
'Perhaps,' Baruk murmured, 'perhaps you are right in that. We ask too much—'
'Of them. Yes.' The old man looked down once more at the cloth in his hands.
The silence stretched.
Duiker made no move.
Picker began to turn back to her companions—when the man began speaking. 'Very well, permit me, if you will, on this night. To break your hearts once more. This is the story of the Chain of Dogs. Of Coltaine of the Crow Clan, newly come Fist to the 7th Army…'
About The Author
STEVEN ERIKSON has worked for twenty years as an anthropologist and archaeologist. He is also a graduate of the Iowa Writer's Workshop.
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