The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (102 page)

Felisin pushed his arm away. Slowly she opened her mouth, wincing at the pain and feeling the cool prick of reopened gashes. “Beneth,” she managed. Her chest hurt with every breath.

Heboric's eyes were hard. “What of him?”

“Tell him…from me…tell him I'm…sorry.”

The old man slowly leaned back.

“I want him…to take me back. Tell him. Please.”

Heboric rose. “Get some rest,” he said in a strangely flat voice as he moved out of her line of sight.

“Water.”

“Coming up, then you sleep.”

“Can't,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Can't sleep…without a pipe. Can't.”

She sensed him staring at her. “Your lungs are bruised. You've some cracked ribs. Will tea do? Durhang tea.”

“Make it strong.”

Hearing him fill a cup of water from the cask, she closed her eyes.

“Clever story, lass,” Heboric said. “A foundling. Lucky for you I'm quick. I'd say there's a good chance Beneth believes you now.”

“Why? Why do you tell me this?”

“To put you at ease. I guess what I mean is—” he approached with the cup of water between his forearms “—he just might take you back, lass.”

“Oh. I…I don't understand you, Heboric.”

He watched her raise the clay cup to her lips. “No,” he said, “you do not.”

 

Like an enormous wall, the sandstorm descended down the west slope of the Estara Hills and approached the coastal road with a deathly moan. While such inland storms were rare on the peninsula, Kalam had faced their wrath before. His first task was to leave the road. It ran too close to the sea cliff in places, and such cliffs were known to collapse.

The stallion complained as he angled him down the road's scree bank. For a thick-muscled, vicious beast, the horse was overfond of comforts. The sands were hot, the footing treacherous with hidden sinkholes. Ignoring the stallion's neck tugs and head-tossing, he drove him down and onto the basin, then kicked the animal into a canter.

A league and a half ahead was Ladro Landing, and beyond that, on the banks of a seasonal river, Ladro Keep. Kalam did not plan on staying there if he could help it. The Keep's commander was Malazan, and so too were his guards. If he could, the assassin would outrun the worst of the storm, hoping to regain the coastal road beyond the Keep, then continue on south to the village of Intesarm.

Keening, the ochre wall drew the horizon on Kalam's left ever closer. The hills had vanished. A turgid gloom curtained the sky. The flap and skitter of fleeing rhizan surrounded him. Hissing a curse, the assassin spurred the stallion into a gallop.

As much as he detested horses in principle, the animal was magnificent when in full stride, seeming to flow effortlessly over the ground with a rhythm forgiving of Kalam's modest skills. He would come no closer to admitting a growing affection toward the stallion.

As he rode, he glanced to see the edge of the storm less than a hundred paces away. There would be no outrunning it. A swirling breaker of whipped sand marked where the wind met the ground. Kalam saw fist-sized rocks in that rolling surf. The wall would crash over them within minutes. Its roar filled the air.

Slightly ahead and on a course that would intercept them, Kalam saw within the ochre cloud a gray stain. He threw himself back in the saddle, sawing the reins. The stallion shrilled, broken out of his rhythm, slewing with his hooves as he stumbled to a stop.

“You'd thank me if you had half a brain,” Kalam snarled. The gray stain was a swarm of chigger fleas. The voracious insects waited for storms like this one, then rode the winds in search of prey. The worst of it was, one could not see them straight on; only from the side were they visible.

As the swarm swept past ahead of them, the storm struck.

The stallion staggered when the wall rolled over them. The world vanished inside a shrieking, whirling ochre haze: Stones and gravel pelted them, drawing flinches from the stallion and grunts of pain from Kalam. The assassin ducked his hooded head and leaned into the wind. Through the slit in his telaba scarf, he squinted ahead, nudging his mount forward at a walk. He leaned down over the animal's neck, reached out one gloved hand and cupped it over the stallion's left eye to shield it from flying stones and grit. For being out here, the assassin owed him that much.

They continued on for another ten minutes, seeing nothing through the cloak of flying sand. Then the stallion snorted, rearing. Snapping and crunching sounds rose from beneath them. Kalam squinted down. Bones, on all sides. The storm had blown out a graveyard—a common enough occurrence. The assassin regained control of his mount, then tried to pierce the ochre gloom. Ladro Landing was nearby, but he could see nothing. He nudged the stallion forward, the animal stepping daintly around the skeletal clumps.

The coastal road appeared ahead, along with guardhouses flanking what had to be the bridge. The village must be on his right
—if the damned thing hasn't blown away
. Beyond the bridge, then, he would find Ladro Keep.

The single-person guardhouses both gaped empty, like sockets in a massive geometric skull.

 

His horse stabled, Kalam crossed the compound, leaning against the wind and wincing at the ache in his legs as he approached the keep's gatehouse entrance. Ducking within the alcove, he found himself beyond the storm's howl for the first time in hours. Drifts of fine sand filled the gatehouse's corners, but the dusty air was calm. No guardsman held the post: the lone stone bench was vacant.

Kalam raised the heavy iron ring on the wood door, slamming it down hard. He waited. Eventually he heard the bars being drawn on the other side. The door swung back with a grating sound. An old kitchen servant regarded him with his one good eye.

“Inside, then,” he grumbled. “Join the others.”

Kalam edged past the old man and found himself in a large common room. Faces had turned with his entrance. At the far end of the main table, which ran the length of the rectangular chamber, sat four of the keep's guardsmen, Malazans, looking foul-tempered. Three jugs squatted in puddles of wine on the tabletop. To one side, next along the table, was a wiry, sunken-eyed woman, her face painted in a style best left to young maidens. At her side was an Ehrlii merchant, probably the woman's husband.

Kalam bowed to the group, then approached the table. Another servant, this one younger than the doorman by only a few years, appeared with a fresh jug and a goblet, hesitating until the assassin settled on where he would sit—opposite the merchant couple. He set the goblet down and poured Kalam a half-measure, then backed away.

The merchant showed durhang-stained teeth in a welcoming smile. “Down from the north, then?”

The wine was some kind of herbal concoction, too sweet and cloying for the climate. Kalam set the goblet down, scowling. “No beer in this hold?”

The merchant's head bobbed. “Aye, and chilled at that. Alas, only the wine is free, courtesy of our host.”

“Not surprised it's free,” the assassin muttered. He gestured to the servant. “A tankard of beer, if you please.”

“Costs a sliver,” the servant said.

“Highway robbery, but my thirst is master.” He found a clipped Jakata and set it on the table.

“Has the village fallen into the sea, then?” the merchant asked. “On your way down from Ehrlitan, how stands the bridge?”

Kalam saw a small velvet bag on the tabletop in front of the merchant's wife. Glancing up, he met her pitted eyes. She gave him a ghastly wink.

“He'll not add to your gossip, Berkru darling. A stranger come in from the storm, is all you'll learn from this one.”

One of the guardsmen raised his head. “Got something to hide, have ya? Not guarding a caravan, just riding alone? Deserting the Ehrlitan Guard, or maybe spreading the word of Dryjhna, or both. Now here ya come, expecting the hospitality of the Master—Malazan born and bred.”

Kalam eyed the men. Four belligerent faces. Any denial of the sergeant's accusations would not be believed. The guards had decided he belonged in the dungeon for the night at least, something to break the boredom. Yet the assassin was not interested in shedding blood. He laid his hands flat on the table, slowly rose. “A word with you, Sergeant,” he said. “In private.”

The man's dark face turned ugly. “So you can slit my throat?”

“You believe me capable of that?” Kalam asked in surprise. “You wear chain, you've a sword at your belt. You've three companions who no doubt will stay close—if only to eavesdrop on the words we exchange between us.”

The sergeant rose. “I can handle you well enough on my own,” he growled. He strode to the back wall.

Kalam followed. He withdrew a small pendant from under his telaba and held it up. “Do you recognize this, Sergeant?” he asked softly.

Cautiously, the man leaned forward to study the symbol etched on the pendant's flat surface. Recognition paled his features as he involuntarily mouthed, “Clawmaster.”

“An end to your questions and accusations, Sergeant. Do not reveal what you know to your men—at least until after I am gone. Understood?”

The sergeant nodded. “Pardon, sir,” he whispered.

Kalam hooked a half-smile. “Your unease is earned. Hood's about to stride this land, and you and I both know it. You erred today, but do not relax your mistrust. Does the Keep Commander understand the situation beyond these walls?”

“Aye, he does.”

The assassin sighed. “Makes you and your squad among the lucky ones, Sergeant.”

“Aye.”

“Shall we return to the table now?”

The sergeant simply shook his head in answer to his squad's querying expressions.

As Kalam returned to his beer, the merchant's wife reached for the velvet bag. “The soldiers have each requested a reading of their futures,” she said, revealing a Deck of Dragons. She held the deck in both hands, her unblinking eyes on the assassin. “And you? Would you know of your future, stranger? Which gods smile upon you, which gods frown—”

“The gods have little time or inclination to spare us any note,” Kalam said with contempt. “Leave me out of your games, woman.”

“So you cow the sergeant,” she said, smiling, “and now seek to cow me. See the fear your words have wrought in me? I shake with terror.”

With a disgusted snort, Kalam slid his gaze away.

The common room boomed as the front door was assailed.

“More mysterious travelers!” the woman cackled.

Everyone watched as the doorman reappeared from a side chamber and shuffled toward the door. Whoever waited outside was impatient—thunder rang imperiously through the room even as the old man reached for the bar.

As soon as the bar cleared the latch, the door was pushed hard. The doorman stumbled back. Two armored figures appeared, the first one a woman. Metal rustled and boots thumped as she strode into the center of the chamber. Flat eyes surveyed the guards and the other guests, held briefly on each of them before continuing on. Kalam saw no special attention accorded him.

The woman had once held rank—perhaps she still did, although her accoutrements and colors announced no present status; nor was the man behind her wearing anything like a uniform.

Kalam saw weals on both their faces and smiled to himself. They'd run into chigger fleas, and neither looked too pleased about it. The man jerked suddenly as one bit him somewhere beneath his hauberk, cursing, he began loosening the armor's straps.

“No,” the woman snapped.

The man stopped.

She was Pardu, a southern plains tribe; her companion had the look of a northerner—possibly Ehrlii. His dusky skin was a shade paler than the woman's and bare of any tribal tattooing.

“Hood's breath!” the sergeant snarled at the woman. “Not another step closer! You're both crawling with chiggers. Take the far end of the table. One of the servants will prepare a cedar-chip bath—though that will cost you.”

For a moment the woman seemed ready to resist, but then she gestured to the unoccupied end of the table with one gloved hand and her companion responded by pulling two chairs back before seating himself stiffly in one of them. The Pardu took the other. “A flagon of beer,” she said.

“The Master charges for that,” Kalam said, giving her a wry smile.

“The Seven's fate! The cheap bastard—you, servant! Bring me a tankard and I'll judge if it's worth any coin. Quickly now!”

“The woman thinks this a tavern,” one of the guards said.

The sergeant spoke. “You're here by the grace of this Keep's commander. You'll pay for the beer, you'll pay for the bath, and you'll pay for sleeping on this floor.”

“And this is grace?”

The sergeant's expression darkened—he was Malazan, and he shared the room with a Clawmaster. “The four walls, the ceiling, the hearth and the use of the stables are free, woman. Yet you complain like a virgin princess—accept the hospitality or be gone.”

The woman's eyes narrowed, then she removed a handful of jakatas from a belt pouch and slammed them on the tabletop. “I gather,” she said smoothly, “that your gracious master charges even you for beer, Sergeant. So be it, I've no choice but to buy everyone here a tankard.”

“Generous,” the sergeant said with a stiff nod.

“The future shall now be prised loose,” the merchant's wife said, trimming the Deck.

Kalam saw the Pardu flinch upon seeing the cards.

“Spare us,” the assassin said. “There's nothing to be gained from seeing what's to come, assuming you've any talent at all, which I doubt. Save us all from the embarrassment of your performance.”

Ignoring him, the old woman angled herself to face the guardsmen. “All your fates rest upon…this!” She laid out the first card.

Kalam barked a laugh.