The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (100 page)

“Right,” Crokus snapped, “and if Kalam doesn't make it? You'll go after Laseen yourself? A glorified ditch-digger, and long in the tooth at that. You hardly inspire confidence, Fiddler. We're still supposed to be taking Apsalar home.”

Fiddler's voice was cold. “Don't push me, lad. A few years pilfering purses on Darujhistan's streets don't qualify you to cast judgment on me.”

Branches thrashed in the tree opposite the two men, and Moby appeared, hanging one-armed, a rhizan struggling its jaws. The familiar's eyes glittered as bones crunched. Fiddler grunted. “Back in Quon Tali,” he said slowly, “we'll find more supporters than you might imagine. No one's indispensable, nor should anyone be dismissed as useless. Like it or not, lad, you've some growing up to do.”

“You think me stupid but you're wrong. You think I'm blind to the fact that you're thinking you've got
another
shaved knuckle in the hole and I don't mean Quick Ben. Kalam's an assassin who just might be good enough to get to Laseen. But if he doesn't, there's another one who just might still have in her the skills of a god—but not any old god, no, the
Patron
of Assassins, the one you call the Rope. So you keep prodding her—you're taking her home because she isn't what she once was, but the truth is, you
want the old one back
.”

Fiddler was silent for a long time, watching Moby eating the rhizan. When it finally swallowed down the last of the winged lizard, the sapper cleared his throat. “I don't think that deep,” he said. “I run on instinct.”

“Are you telling me that using Apsalar didn't occur to you?”

“Not to me, no…”

“But Kalam…”

Fiddler resisted, then shrugged. “If he didn't think of it, Quick Ben would have.”

Crokus's hiss was triumphant. “I knew it. I'm no fool—”

“Oh, Hood's breath, lad, that you're not.”

“I won't let it happen, Fiddler.”

“This bhok'aral of your uncle's,” the sapper said, nodding at Moby, “it's truly a familiar, a servant to a sorcerer? But if Mammot is dead, why is it still here? I'm no mage, but I thought such familiars were magically…fused to their masters.”

“I don't know,” Crokus admitted, his tone retaining an edge that told Fiddler the lad was entirely aware of the sapper's line of thinking. “Maybe he's just a pet. You'd better pray it's so. I said I wouldn't let you use Apsalar. If Moby's a true familiar, it won't just be me you'll have to get past.”

“I won't be trying anything, Crokus,” Fiddler said. “But I still say you've some growing up to do. Sooner or later it will occur to you that you can't speak for Apsalar. She'll do what she decides, like it or not. The possession may be over, but the god's skills remain in her bones.” He slowly turned and faced the boy. “What if she decides to put those skills to use?”

“She won't,” Crokus said, but the assurance was gone from his voice. He gestured and Moby flapped sloppily into his arms. “What did you call him—a bhoka…?”

“Bhok'aral. They're native to this land.”

“Oh.”

“Get some sleep, lad, we're leaving tomorrow.”

“So is Kalam.”

“Aye, but we won't be in each other's company. Parallel paths southward, at least to start with.”

He watched Crokus head back inside, Moby clinging to the lad like a child.
Hood's breath, I'm not looking forward to this journey
.

 

A hundred paces inside the Caravan Gate was a square in which the land traders assembled before leaving Ehrlitan. Most would strike south along the raised coastal road, following the line of the bay. Villages and outposts were numerous on this route, and the Malazan-built cobble road itself was well patrolled, or, rather, would have been had not the city's Fist recalled the garrisons.

As far as Fiddler could learn in speaking with various merchants and caravan guards, few bandits had yet to take advantage of the troop withdrawal, but from the swollen ranks among the mercenary guards accompanying each caravan, it was clear to the sapper that the merchants were taking no chances.

It would have been fruitless for the three Malazans to disguise themselves as merchants on their journey south; they had neither the coin nor the equipment to carry out such a masquerade. With travel between cities as risky as it now was, they had chosen to travel in the guise of pilgrims. To the most devout, the Path of the Seven—pilgrimage to each of the seven Holy Cities—was a respected display of faith. Pilgrimage was at the heart of this land's tradition, impervious to the threat of bandits, or war.

Fiddler retained his Gral disguise, playing the role of guardian and guide to Crokus and Apsalar—two young, newly married believers embarking on a journey that would bless their union under the Seven Heavens. Each would be mounted, Fiddler on a Gral-bred horse disdainful of the sapper's imposture and viciously tempered, Crokus and Apsalar on well-bred mounts purchased from one of the better stables outside Ehrlitan. Three spare horses and four mules completed the train.

Kalam had left with the dawn, offering Fiddler and the others only a terse farewell. The words that had been exchanged the night before sullied the moment of departure. The sapper understood Kalam's hunger to wound Laseen through the blood spilled by rebellion, but the potential damage to the Empire—and to whoever assumed the throne following Laseen's fall—was, to Fiddler's mind, too great a risk. They'd clashed hard, then, and Fiddler was left feeling nicked and blunted by the exchange.

There was pathos in that parting, Fiddler belatedly realized, for it seemed that the duty that once bound him and Kalam together, to a single cause which was as much friendship as anything else, had been sundered. And for the moment, at least, there was nothing to take its place within Fiddler. He was left feeling lost, more alone than he had been in years.

They would be among the last of the trains to leave through Caravan Gate. As Fiddler checked the girth straps on the mules one final time, the sound of galloping horses drew his attention.

A troop of six Red Blades had arrived, slowing their mounts as they entered the square. Fiddler glanced over to where Crokus and Apsalar stood beside their horses. Catching the lad's eye, he shook his head, resumed adjusting the mule's girth strap.

The soldiers were looking for someone. The troop split, a rider each heading for one of the remaining trains. Fiddler heard hoofs clumping on cobbles behind him, forced himself to remain calm.

“Gral!”

Pausing to spit as a tribesman would at the accosting of a Malazan lapdog, he slowly turned.

Beneath the helm's rim, the Red Blade's dark face had tightened in response to the gesture. “One day the Red Blades will cleanse the hills of Gral,” he promised, his smile revealing dull gray teeth.

Fiddler's only reply was a snort. “If you have something worthy of being said, Red Blade, speak. Our shadows are already too short for the leagues we travel this day.”

“A measure of your incompetence, Gral. I have but one question to ask. Answer truthfully, for I shall know if you lie. We would know if a man on a roan stallion rode out alone this morning, through Caravan Gate.”

“I saw no such man,” Fiddler replied, “but I now wish him well. May the Seven Spirits guard him for all his days.”

The Red Blade snarled. “I warn you, your blood is no armor against me, Gral. You were here with the dawn?”

Fiddler returned to the mules. “One question,” he grated. “You pay for more with coin, Red Blade.”

The soldier spat at Fiddler's feet, jerked his mount's head around and rode to rejoin the troop.

Beneath his desert veil, Fiddler allowed himself a thin smile. Crokus appeared beside him.

“What was that about?” he demanded in a hiss.

The sapper shrugged. “The Red Blades are hunting someone. Not anything to do with us. Get back to your horse, lad. We're leaving.”

“Kalam?”

His forearms resting on the mule's back, Fiddler hesitated, squinting against the glare bouncing from the bleached cobbles. “It may have reached them that the holy tome's no longer in Aren. And someone's delivering it to Sha'ik. No one knows Kalam is here.”

Crokus looked unconvinced. “He met someone last night, Fiddler.”

“An old contact who owes him.”

“Giving him reason to betray Kalam. No one likes being reminded of debts.”

Fiddler said nothing. After a moment he patted the mule's back, raising a faint puff of dust, then went to his horse. The Gral gelding showed its teeth as he reached for the reins. He gripped the bridle under the animal's chin. It tried tossing its head but he held firm, leaned close. “Show some manners, you ugly bastard, or you'll live to regret it.” Gathering the reins, he pulled himself up into the high-backed saddle.

Beyond Caravan Gate the coastal road stretched southward, level despite the gentle rise and fall of the sandstone cliffs that overlooked the bay on the west side. On their left and a league inland ran the Arifal Hills. The jagged serrations of Arifal would follow them all the way to the Eb River, thirty-six leagues to the south. Barely tamed tribes dwelt in those hills, pre-eminent among them the Gral. Fiddler's greatest worry was running into a real Gral tribesman. The chance of that was diminished somewhat given the season, for the Gral would be driving their goats deep into the range, where both shade and water could be found.

They nudged their mounts into a canter and rode past a merchant's train to avoid the trailing dust clouds, then Fiddler settled them back into a slow trot. The day's heat was already building. Their destination was a small village called Salik, a little over eight leagues distant, where they would stop to eat the midday meal and wait out the hottest hours before continuing on to the Trob River.

If all went well, they would reach G'danisban in a week's time. Fiddler expected Kalam to be two, maybe even three days ahead of them by then. Beyond G'danisban was the Pan'potsun Odhan, a sparsely populated wasteland of desiccated hills, the skeletal ruins of long-dead cities, poisonous snakes, biting flies and—he recalled the Spiritwalker Kimloc's words—the potential of something far deadlier. A
convergence. Togg's feet, I don't like that thought at all
. He thought about the conch shell in his leather pack. Carrying an item of power was never a wise thing.
Probably more trouble than it's worth. What if some Soletaken sniffs it out, decides it wants it for its collection?
He scowled.
A collection easily built on with one conch shell and three shiny skulls
.

The more he thought on it, the more uneasy he became.
Better to sell it to some merchant in G'danisban. The extra coin could prove useful
. The thought settled him. He would sell the conch, be rid of it. While no one would deny a Spiritwalker's power, it was likely dangerous to lean too heavily on it. The Tano priests gave up their lives in the name of peace.
Or worse. Kimloc surrendered his honor. Better to rely on the Moranth incendiaries in my pack than on any mysterious shell. A Flamer will burn a Soletaken as easily as anyone else
.

Crokus rode up alongside the sapper. “What are you thinking, Fiddler?”

“Nothing. Where's that bhok'aral of yours?”

The young man frowned. “I don't know. I guess he was just a pet after all. Went off last night and never came back.” He wiped the back of his hand across his face and Fiddler saw smeared tears on his cheeks. “I sort of felt Mammot was with me, with Moby.”

“Was your uncle a good man, before the Jaghut Tyrant took him?”

Crokus nodded.

Fiddler grunted. “Then he's with you still. Moby probably sniffed kin in the air. More than a few highborn keep bhok'arala as pets in the city. Just a pet after all.”

“I suppose you're right. For most of my life I thought of Mammot as just a scholar, an old man always scribbling on scrolls. My uncle. But then I found out he was a High Priest. Important, with powerful friends like Baruk. But before I could even come to terms with that, he was dead. Destroyed by your squad—”

“Hold on there, lad! What we killed wasn't your uncle. Not any more.”

“I know. In killing him you saved Darujhistan. I know, Fiddler…”

“It's done, Crokus. And you should realize, an uncle who took care of you and loved you is more important than his being a High Priest. And he would have told you the same, I imagine, if he'd had the chance.”

“But don't you see? He had
power
, Fiddler, but he didn't do a damn thing with it! Just hid in his tiny room in a crumbling tenement! He could have owned an estate, sat on the Council, made a difference…”

Fiddler wasn't ready to take on that argument. He'd never had any skill with counsel.
Got no advice worth giving anyway
. “Did she kick you up here for being so moody, lad?”

Crokus's face darkened, then he spurred forward, taking point position.

Sighing, Fiddler twisted in the saddle and eyed Apsalar, riding a few paces behind. “Lovers' spat, is it?”

She blinked owlishly.

Fiddler swung back, settling in the saddle. “Hood's balls,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Iskaral Pust poked the broom farther up the chimney and frantically scrubbed. Black clouds descended onto the hearthstone and settled on the High Priest's gray robes.

“You have wood?” Mappo asked from the raised stone platform he had been using as a bed and was now sitting on.

Iskaral paused. “Wood? Wood's better than a broom?”

“For a fire,” the Trell said. “To take out the chill of this chamber.”

“Wood! No, of course not. But dung, oh yes, plenty of dung. A fire! Excellent. Burn them into a crisp! Are Trell known for cunning? No recollection of that, none among the rare mention of Trell this, Trell that. Finding writings on an illiterate people very difficult. Hmm.”