The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (107 page)

Regaining his breath, the assassin sat up. “A sorcerous silence,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

The man who now held the Book of the Apocalypse heard the gruff whisper and snorted. “You fancy no mortal could get that close to you without your hearing him. You tell yourself it must have involved magic. You are wrong. My companion is Toblakai, an escaped slave from the Laederon Plateau of Genabackis. He's seen seventeen summers and has personally killed forty-one enemies. Those are their ears on his belt.” The man rose, offering Kalam his hand. “You are most welcome to Raraku, Deliverer. Our long vigil is ended.”

Grimacing, Kalam accepted the man's hand and felt himself pulled effortlessly to his feet. The assassin brushed the dust from his clothes. “You are not bandits, then.”

The stranger barked a laugh. “No, we are not. I am Leoman, Captain of Sha'ik's Bodyguard. My companion refuses his name to strangers, and we shall leave it at that. We are the two she chose.”

“I must deliver the Book into Sha'ik's hands,” Kalam said. “Not yours, Leoman.”

The squat warrior—by his color and clothing a child of this desert—held out the Book. “By all means.”

Cautiously, the assassin retrieved the heavy, battered tome.

A woman spoke behind him. “You may now give it to me, Deliverer.”

Kalam slowly closed his eyes, struggling to gather the frayed ends of his nerves. He turned.

There could be no doubting. The small, honey-skinned woman standing before him radiated power in waves, the smell of dust and sand whipped by winds, the taste of salt and blood. Her rather plain face was deeply lined, giving her an appearance of being around forty years old, though Kalam suspected she was younger—Raraku was a harsh home.

Involuntarily, Kalam dropped to one knee. He held out the Book. “I deliver unto you, Sha'ik, the Apocalypse.”
And with it, a sea of blood—how many innocent lives shattered, to bring Laseen down? Hood take me, what have I done?

The Book's weight left his hands as she accepted it. “It is damaged.”

The assassin looked up, slowly rose.

Sha'ik was frowning, one finger tracing a torn corner of the leather cover. “Well, one should not be surprised, given that it is a thousand years old. I thank you, Deliverer. Will you now join my band of soldiers? I sense great talents in you.”

Kalam bowed. “I cannot. My destiny lies elsewhere.”
Flee, Kalam, before you test the skills of these bodyguards. Flee, before uncertainty kills you
.

Her dark eyes narrowed on his searchingly, then widened. “I sense something of your desire, though you shield it well. Ride on, then, the way south is open to you. More, you shall have an escort—”

“I need no escort, Seer—”

“But you shall have one in any case.” She gestured and a bulky, ungainly shape appeared from the gloom.

“Holy One,” Leoman hissed warningly.

“You question me?” Sha'ik snapped.

“The Toblakai is as an army, nor are my skills lacking, Holy One, yet—”

“Since I was a child,” Sha'ik cut in, her voice brittle, “one vision has possessed me above all others. I have seen this moment, Leoman, a thousand times. At dawn I shall open the Book, and the Whirlwind shall rise, and I shall emerge from it…renewed. ‘Blades in hands and unhanded in wisdom,' such are the wind's words. Young, yet old. One life whole, another incomplete. I
have seen
, Leoman!” She paused, drew a breath. “I see no other future but this one. We are safe.” Sha'ik faced Kalam again. “I acquired a…a pet recently, which I now send with you, for I sense…possibilities in you, Deliverer.” She gestured again.

The huge, ungainly shape moved closer and Kalam took an involuntary step backward. His stallion voiced a soft squeal and stood trembling.

Leoman spoke. “An aptorian, Deliverer, from the realm of Shadow. Sent into Raraku by Shadowthrone…to spy. It belongs to Sha'ik now.”

The beast was a nightmare, close to nine feet tall, crouching on two thin hind limbs. A lone foreleg, long and multijointed, jutted down from its strangely bifurcated chest. From a hunched, angular shoulder blade, the demon's sinuous neck rose to a flat, elongated head. Needle fangs ridged its jawline, which was swept back and naturally grinning like a dolphin's. Head, neck and limbs were black, while its torso was a dun gray. A single, flat black eye regarded Kalam with appalling awareness.

The assassin saw barely healed scarring on the demon. “It's been in a fight?”

Sha'ik scowled. “A D'ivers. Desert wolves. She drove them off—”

“More like a tactical withdrawal,” Leoman added dryly. “The beast does not eat or drink, so far as we've seen. And though the Holy One believes otherwise, it appears to be entirely brainless—that look in its eye is likely a mask hiding very little.”

“Leoman plagues me with doubts,” Sha'ik said. “It is his chosen task and I grow increasingly weary of it.”

“Doubts are healthy,” Kalam said, then snapped his mouth shut.

The Holy One only smiled. “I sensed you two were alike. Leave us, then. The Seven Holies know, one Leoman is enough.”

With a final glance at the young Toblakai, the assassin vaulted back into the saddle, swung the stallion to the south trail and nudged him into a trot.

The aptorian evidently preferred some distance between them; it moved parallel to Kalam at over twenty paces away, a darker stain in the night, striding awkwardly yet silently on its three bony legs.

After ten minutes of riding at a fast trot, the assassin slowed the stallion to a walk. He had delivered the Book, personally seen to the rise of the Whirlwind. Answered his blood's call, no matter how stained the motivation.

The demands of his other life lay ahead. He would kill the Empress, to save the Empire. If he succeeded, Sha'ik's rebellion was doomed. Control would be restored.
And if I fail, they will bleed each other to exhaustion, Sha'ik and Laseen, two women of the same cloth—Hood, they even looked alike
. It was not a far reach, then, for Kalam to see in his shadow a hundred thousand deaths. And he wondered if, throughout Seven Cities, readers of the Deck of Dragons now held a newly awakened Herald of Death in their trembling hands.

Queen's blessing, it's done
.

 

Minutes before dawn, Sha'ik sat down cross-legged before the Book of the Apocalypse. Her two guards flanked her, each in the ruins of a watchtower. The Toblakai youth leaned on his two-handed ironwood sword. A battered bronze helmet missing a cheek-guard was on his head, his eyes hidden in the shadow of a slitted half-visor. His companion's arms were crossed. A crossbow leaned against one hide-wrapped leg. Two one-handed morning stars were thrust through his broad leather belt. He wore a colorless telaba scarf over a peaked iron helm. Below it, his smooth-shaven face showed, latticed by thirty years of sun and wind. His light-blue eyes were ever restless.

The dawn's rays swept over Sha'ik. The Holy One reached down and opened the Book.

The quarrel struck her forehead an inch above her left eye. The iron head shattered the bone, plunging inward a moment before the spring-driven barbs opened like a deadly flower inside her brain. The quarrel's head then struck the inside of the back of her skull, exiting explosively.

Sha'ik toppled.

Tene Baralta bellowed and watched with satisfaction as Aralt Arpat and Lostara Yil led the twelve Red Blades in a charge toward the two hapless bodyguards.

The desert warrior had dropped and rolled a moment after Sha'ik's death. The crossbow now in his hands bucked. Aralt Arpat's chest visibly caved inward as the quarrel drove through his breastbone. The tall sergeant was knocked backward, sprawling in the dust.

The commander bellowed in fury, drew his tulwars and joined the attack.

Lostara's squad threw lances in staggered succession when but fifteen paces from the Toblakai.

Tene Baralta's eyes widened in astonishment as not one of the six lances struck home. Impossibly lithe for one of such bulk, the Toblakai seemed to simply step through them, shifting weight and dipping a shoulder before springing to close, his archaic wooden sword sweeping across in a backswing that connected with the leading Red Blade's knees. The man went down in a cloud of dust, both legs shattered.

Then the Toblakai was in the squad's midst. As Tene Baralta sprinted to reach them, he saw Lostara Yil reel back, blood spraying from her head, her helmet spinning away to bounce across the potsherd gravel. A second soldier fell, his throat crushed by a thrust from the wooden sword.

Arpat's squad attacked the desert warrior. Chains snapped as the morning stars lashed out and struck with deadly accuracy. There was no more difficult a weapon to parry than a morning star—the chain wrapped over any block, sending the iron ball unimpeded to its target. The weapon's greatest drawback was that it was slow to recover, but in the instant that Tene Baralta glanced over to gauge the battle, he saw that the desert warrior fought equally well with either hand, and was staggering his attacks, resulting in a perpetual sequence of blows that none of the soldiers facing him could penetrate. A helmed head crumpled under the impact in the momentary span of the commander's glance.

In an instant Tene Baralta's tactics shifted. Sha'ik was dead. The mission was a success—there would be no Whirlwind. It was pointless throwing lives away against these two appalling executioners—who had, after all, failed in guarding Sha'ik's life and now sought naught but vengeance. He barked out the recall, and watched as his soldiers battled to extricate themselves from the two men. The effort proved costly, as three more fell before the remaining fighters cleared a space in which to turn and run.

Two of Lostara Yil's soldiers were loyal enough to drag the dazed captain with them in their retreat.

Bristling at the sight of the routed Red Blades, Tene Baralta swallowed down a stream of bitter curses. Tulwars held out, he shielded the soldiers' withdrawal, his nerves on fire at the thought of either bodyguard accepting the challenge.

But the two men did not pursue, resuming their positions at the watchtowers. The desert warrior crouched to reload his crossbow.

The sight of the weapon readied was the last Tene Baralta had of the two killers, as the commander then ducked out of sight and jogged with his soldiers back to the small canyon where the horses were tethered.

In the high-walled arroyo, the Red Blades stationed their lone surviving crossbowman on the south-facing crest, then paused to staunch wounds and regain their breaths. Behind them, their horses nickered at the smell of blood. A soldier splashed water on Lostara's red-smeared face. She blinked, awareness slowly returning to her eyes.

Tene Baralta scowled down at her. “Recover yourself, Captain,” he growled. “You are to regain Kalam's trail—at a safe distance.”

She nodded, reaching up to probe the gash on her forehead. “That sword was
wood
.”

“Yet as hard as steel, aye. Hood take the Toblakai—and the other one at that. We'll leave them be.”

A slightly wry expression coming to her face, Lostara Yil simply nodded again.

Tene reached down a gauntleted hand and pulled the sergeant to her feet. “A fine shot, Lostara Yil. You killed the god-cursed witch and all that went with her. The Empress shall be pleased. More than pleased.”

Weaving slightly, Lostara went to her horse, pulled herself into the saddle.

“We ride to Pan'potsun,” Tene Baralta told her. “To spread the word,” he added with a dark grin. “Do not lose Kalam, Captain.”

“I've yet to fail in that,” she said.

You know I'll count these losses as yours, don't you? Too clever, lass
.

He watched her ride away, then swung his glare on his remaining soldiers. “Cowards! Lucky for you that I guarded your retreat. Mount up.”

 

Leoman laid out the blanket on the flat ground between the two watchtower foundations, and rolled Sha'ik's linen-wrapped body onto it. He knelt beside it a moment, motionless, then wiped grimy sweat from his brow.

The Toblakai stood nearby. “She is dead.”

“I see that,” Leoman said dryly, reaching to collect the blood-spattered Book, which he slowly rewrapped in cloth.

“What do we do now?”

“She opened the Book. It was dawn.”

“Nothing happened, except a quarrel going through her head.”

“Damn you, I
know
!”

The Toblakai crossed his massive arms, fell silent.

“The prophecy was certain,” Leoman said after a few minutes. He rose, wincing at his battle-stiffened muscles.

“What do we do now?” the young giant asked again.

“She said she would be…renewed…” He sighed, the Book heavy in his hands. “We wait.”

The Toblakai raised his head, sniffed. “There's a storm coming.”

 

Beneth sat at his table in Bula's, cleaning his nails with a dagger. They were immaculate, making the habit an affectation. Felisin had grown familiar with his poses and what they betrayed of his moods. The man was in a rage, shot through with fear. Uncertainties now plagued his life; like bloodfly larvae they crawled beneath his skin, growing as they gnawed on his flesh.

His face, his forehead and his thick, scarred wrists all glistened with sweat. The pewter mug of chilled Saltoan wine sat untouched on the battered tabletop, a row of flies marching round and round the mug's rim.

Felisin stared at the tiny black insects, memories of horror returning to her. Hood's acolyte, who was not there. A man-shaped swarm of Death's sprites, the buzz of wings shaping words…

“There's light in your eyes again, lass,” Beneth said. “Tells me you're realizing what you've become. An ugly light.” He pushed a small leather pouch across the table until it sat directly before her. “Kill it.”

Her hand trembled as she reached for the bag, loosened the ties and removed a button of durhang.

He watched her crumbling the moist pollen into her pipe bowl.

Six days, and Baudin was still missing. Captain Sawark had called in Beneth more than once. Skullcup was very nearly dismantled during the search, patrols on Beetle Road up on the rim were doubled
—round and round—
and Sinker Lake was dredged. It was as if the man had simply vanished.

Beneth took it personally. His control of Skullcup was compromised. He'd called her back to his side, not out of compassion, but because he no longer trusted her. She knew something—something about Baudin—and worse, he knew she was more than she pretended to be.

Beneth and Sawark have spoken
, Heboric said the day she'd left—when his ministrations had done enough to allow her to fake a well-being sufficient to justify her leaving.
Be careful, lass. Beneth is taking you back, but only to personally oversee your destruction. What was haphazard before is now precise, deliberate. He's been given guidelines
.

How do you know any of this?

True, I'm just guessing. But Baudin's escape has given Beneth leverage over Sawark, and he's likely to have used it to get the inside story on you. Sawark's granted him more control—there won't be another Baudin—neither man can afford it. Sawark has no choice but to give Beneth more control…more knowledge…

The durhang tea had given her relief from the pain of her fractured ribs and her swollen jaw, but it had not been potent enough to dull her thoughts. Minute by minute, she'd felt her mind drag her ever closer to desperation. Leaving Heboric had been a flight, her journey back to Beneth a panicked necessity.

He smiled as she set flame to the durhang.

“Baudin wasn't just a dockside thug, was he?”

She frowned at him through a haze of smoke.

Beneth set the dagger down and gave it a spin. They both watched the blade's flashing turns. When it ceased, the point faced Beneth. He scowled, spun it a second time. As the point slowed to face him again he picked up the dagger and slid it back into the sheath at his belt, then reached for the pewter mug.

The flies scattered as he raised the mug to his lips.

“I don't know anything about Baudin,” Felisin said.

His deep-set eyes studied her for a long moment. “You haven't figured anything out about anything, have you? Which makes you either thick…or willfully ignorant.”

She said nothing. A numbness was spreading through her.

“Was it me, lass? Was it so much of a surrender becoming mine? I wanted you, Felisin. You were beautiful. Sharp—I could see that in your eyes. Am I to blame for you, now?”

He saw her glance down at the pouch on the table and offered up a wry smile. “Orders are orders. Besides, you could have said no.”

“At any time,” she said, looking away.

“Ah, not my fault, then.”

“No,” she replied, “the faults are all mine, Beneth.”

Abruptly he rose. “There's nothing pleasant in the air tonight. The She'gai's begun—the hot wind—all your suffering until now has just been a prelude, lass. Summer begins with the She'gai. But tonight…” He stared down at her but did not finish the sentence, simply taking her by the arm and pulling her upright. “Walk with me.”

Beneth had been granted the right to form a militia, consisting of his chosen slaves, each now armed with a clout. Throughout the night they patrolled the makeshift streets of Skullcup. The curfew's restriction would now be punctuated with beating followed by execution for anyone caught out in the open after nightfall. The guards would handle the execution—Beneth's militia took their pleasure in the beating.

Beneth and Felisin joined the patrol squad, half a dozen men she knew well, as Beneth had bought their loyalty with her body. “If it's a quiet night,” he promised them, “we'll take time for some relaxation come the dawn.” The men grinned at that.

They walked the littered aisles of sand, watchful but seeing no one else. Coming opposite a gambling establishment called Suruk's, they saw a crowd of Dosii guardsmen. The Dosii captain, Gunnip, was with them. Their night-hooded gazes followed the patrol as it continued on.

Beneth hesitated, as if of a mind to speak with Gunnip, then, with a loud sigh through his nostrils, resumed walking. One hand reached up to rest on the pommel of his knife.

Felisin became dully aware of something, as if the hot wind breathed a new menace into the night air. The chatter of the militiamen, she noted, had fallen away, and signs of nervousness were evident. She extracted another button of durhang and popped it into her mouth, where it rested cool and sweet between cheek and gum.

“Watching you do that,” Beneth muttered, “reminds me of Sawark.”

She blinked. “Sawark?”

“Aye. The worse things get, the more he shuts his eyes.”

Her words came out slurred. “And what things are getting worse?”

As if in answer, a shout followed by harsh laughter sounded behind them, coming from the front of Suruk's. Beneth halted his men with a gesture, then walked back to the crossroads they had just passed. From there he could see Suruk's—and Gunnip's soldiers.

Like a wraith rising up and stealing through Beneth, tension slowly filled the man's posture. As she watched, vague alarms rang in Felisin's skull. She hesitated, then turned to the militiamen. “Something's happened. Go to him.”

They were watching as well. One of them scowled, one hand sliding skittish along his belt to the clout. “He ain't gived us no orders,” he growled. The others nodded, fidgeting as they waited in the shadows.

“He's standing alone,” she said. “Out in the open. I think there's arrows trained on him—”

“Shut your face, girl,” the militiaman snapped. “We ain't going out there.”

Beneth almost backed up a step, then visibly steeled himself.

“They're coming for him,” Felisin hissed.

Gunnip and his Dosii soldiers wandered into view, closing a half-circle around Beneth. Cocked crossbows resting on forearms pointed toward him.

Felisin spun to the militiamen. “Back him up, damn you!”

“Hood take you!” one of the men spat back. The patrol was scattering, slipping back into the shadows and then into the dark alleyways beyond.

“You all alone back there, lass?” Captain Gunnip called out. His soldiers laughed. “Come join Beneth here. We're just telling him some things, that's all. No worry, lass.”

Beneth turned to speak to her. A Dosii guardsman stepped up and struck him across the face with a gauntleted hand. Beneth staggered, swearing as he brought his hands up to his shattered nose.

Felisin stumbled backward, then twisted and ran, even as crossbows thudded. Quarrels whipped past her on either side as she plunged into an alley mouth. Laughter echoed behind her.

She ran on, the alley paralleling Rust Ramp. A hundred paces ahead waited Darkhall and the barracks. She was out of breath when she stumbled into the open area surrounding the two Malazan buildings, her heart hammering in her chest as if she was fifty years old, not fifteen. Slowly, the shock of seeing Beneth struck down spread through her.

Voices shouted from behind the barracks. Horse hooves pounded. A score of slaves appeared, running toward where Felisin stood with a half-hundred mounted Dosii soldiers behind them. Lances took some men in the back, driving them down into the dust. Unarmed, the slaves tried to flee, but the Dosii had now completed the encirclement. Belatedly, Felisin realized that escape had been denied her as well.

I saw Beneth bleed
. From that thought followed another.
Now we die
.

The Dosii horses trampled men and women. Tulwars swung down. In hopeless silence, the slaves were dying. Two riders closed in on Felisin. She watched, wondering which of them would reach her first. One gripped a lance, angled down to take her in the chest. The other held his wide-bladed sword high, readied for a downward chop. In their faces she saw flushed joy and was surprised at the inhumanity of the expression.

When they were both but moments away, quarrels thudded into their chests. Reeling, both men toppled from the saddles. Felisin turned to see a troop of Malazan crossbowmen advancing in formation, the front line kneeling to reload while the second line slipped a few paces ahead, took aim, then as one loosed quarrels into the milling Dosii horsemen. Animals and men screamed in pain.

A third volley broke the Dosii, scattering them back into the darkness beyond the barracks.

A handful of slaves still lived. A sergeant barked an order and a dozen soldiers moved forward, checking the bodies littering the area, then pushing the survivors back toward the troop's position.

“Come with me,” a voice hissed beside Felisin.

She blinked, slow to recognize Pella's face. “What?”

“We're quartering the slaves at the stables—but not you.” He gently took her arm. “We're badly outnumbered. Defending slaves isn't a high priority, I'm afraid. Sawark wants this mutiny crushed. Tonight.”

She studied his face. “What are you saying?”

The sergeant had pulled his troop into a more defensible position at an alley mouth. The twelve detached soldiers were pushing the slaves down the side street that led to the stables. Pella guided Felisin in the same direction. Once out of sight of the sergeant, he addressed the other soldiers. “Three of you, with me.”

One replied, “Has Oponn stirred your brains, Pella? I don't feel safe as it is, and you want to split the squad?”

Another growled, “Let's just get rid of these damned slaves and get back, afore the sergeant marches to rejoin the captain.”

“This is Beneth's woman,” Pella said.

“I don't think Beneth is still alive,” Felisin said dully.

“He was not five minutes ago, lass,” Pella said, frowning. “Bloodied a bit, nothing more. He's rallying his militia right now.” He swung to the others. “We'll need Beneth, Reborid, never mind Sawark's bluster. Now, three of you—we're not going far.”

With a scowl, the one named Reborid gestured to two others.

 

A fire had been started in Skullcup's western arm—somewhere on Spit Row. Unchecked, it was spreading fast, throwing a lurid orange glow up against the underbellies of billowing smoke.

As Pella dragged Felisin along, Reborid talked unceasingly. “Where in Hood's name is the Be'thra Garrison? You think they can't see the flames? There were Malazan squads up patrolling Beetle Road—a rider would have been sent—the troop should be here by now, dammit.”

There were bodies in the streets, huddled, motionless shapes. The small party went around them without pause.

“Hood knows what Gunnip's thinking,” the soldier went on. “Sawark will see every damn Dosii within fifty leagues of here gutted and left out under the sun.”

“This is the place,” Pella said, tugging Felisin to a halt. “Defensive position,” he ordered the others. “I'll be but a moment.”

They were at Heboric's house. No light leaked from the shutters. The door was locked. Snorting with disgust, Pella kicked the flimsy barrier aside. His hand against her back, he pushed her into the darkness within, then followed.

“There's no one here,” Felisin said.

Pella did not reply, still pushing her along, until they reached the cloth divider behind which was the ex-priest's bedroom. “Pull it aside, Felisin.”

She did, stepping into the small room. Pella followed.

Heboric sat on his cot, staring up at them in silence.

“I wasn't sure,” Pella said in a low voice, “if you still wanted her along.”

The ex-priest grunted. “What of you, Pella? We might manage—”

“No. Take her instead. I've got to rejoin the captain—we'll crush this mutiny—but the timing's perfect for you…”

Heboric sighed. “Aye, that it is. Fener's grunt, Baudin, step out of them shadows. This lad's no risk to us.”

Pella started as a massive shape separated itself from behind the hanging. Baudin's narrow-set eyes glittered in the dimness. He said nothing.

Shaking himself, Pella stepped back to the entrance, gripping the grimy cloth with one hand. “Fener guard you, Heboric.”

“Thank you, lad. For everything.”

Pella gave a curt nod, then was gone.

Felisin frowned at Baudin. “You're wet.”

Heboric rose. “Is all ready?” he asked Baudin.

The big man nodded.

“Are we escaping?” Felisin asked.

“Aye.”

“How?”

Heboric scowled. “You'll see soon enough.”

Baudin picked up two large leather packs from behind him, and tossed one effortlessly to Heboric, who trapped it deftly between his arms. The sound the pack made when the ex-priest caught it made it obvious to Felisin that it was in fact a sealed bladder, filled with air. “We're going to swim Sinker Lake,” she said. “Why? There's nothing but a sheer cliff on the other side.”