The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1233 page)

He was studying her, head cocked. ‘Getting fat on us, Sergeant?'

She scowled. ‘Taken to wearing chain under everything.'

‘Even when you're asleep? And you say you ain't a Bridgeburner no more?'

‘What kind of dream is this?'

He sheathed his dagger. This time the click was sharp enough to make her flinch. ‘The important kind, Sergeant. Look at it this way. Hood's gone. Death's Gate was just…gaping. But someone sanctified us. We've seen more death than a sane person could stand. But we ain't sane, are we? We're soldiers. Veterans. We're past sane. We're in that other place, where all the insanity's been storming around us for so long it can't touch us no more either. Meaning we're outside both. What makes us perfect for Death's Gate? Simple, Picker. It don't matter what we look at, we don't blink.'

‘I can get out of the city,' she said. ‘But it won't be easy.'

He began cleaning his fingernails, the knife blade flashing dull in the misty gloom. ‘Glad to hear all that confidence has come roaring back. Thing is, we ain't in the mood to challenge what's going on here. Besides, we're kinda busy at the moment.'

‘So I'm on my own, is that it?'

‘Not quite. We arranged for a reliable…guide.' He rose. The dagger slammed back into its scabbard—

 

The sound startled her awake. Lying tangled in sweaty blankets, Blend snoring at her side. Something was at the door, trying to get in. Cursing under her breath, Picker collected up the sword propped beside the bed.

She saw the latch flick once – the same sound Bluepearl's dagger had been making.

Whoever was trying to open that door wasn't having much luck. ‘What a fine guide you sent there, Whiskeyjack. Can't even open a stupid door.'

‘Mmm?'

‘Go back to sleep, love.' She rose and walked to the door, turned the latch with her sword point and stepped back to let the door swing open.

A mangy cat sat in the corridor.

Mangy? ‘The ugly thing's dead. A Hood-damned undead cat – gods below.'

The creature had a collar made of thick hide or leather, twisted into a coil. A tarnished silver coin or medallion hung from it. Picker crouched, reached out and dragged the cat closer, frowning when it made no effort to walk, just sliding in its sitting position. ‘Gods, you stink.'

Rotted eye sockets offered her about as much expression as any living cat might manage. She bent closer, took hold of the medallion. Feeble scratching marred both sides, a name in archaic Gadrobi or Rhivi. She frowned at it. ‘Tufty?'

So Blend and Antsy weren't just making stuff up. They were telling the truth. They'd found that Jaghut a damned dead cat.

Then her eyes narrowed on the collar. Skin, mottled here and there by red-ochre tattoos. ‘Oh,' she muttered, ‘let me guess. T'lan Imass?'

From the room behind her, Blend called out. ‘Pick?'

‘It's fine,' Picker said, straightening. ‘Just the cat.'

‘Did you feed it? I didn't feed it – oh, gods, I can't remember when I last fed the cat!'

Picker walked into the room. Sure enough, Blend was still sleeping. Having one of
those
dreams. She went over and settled down on the mattress. Leaned closer and whispered. ‘It's true, Blend. You forgot. For months!'

The woman moaned, distress twisting her features, but her eyes remained shut.

‘You've made a real mess, Blend. That poor cat. I just found it, and Hood knows it ain't a pretty sight.'

‘You could've fed it, Picker – why didn't you feed it?'

Something sharp pricked under Picker's chin and she froze.

‘Better answer me,' Blend said in a casual tone. ‘You see, I loved that cat. Got it for my sixth birthday. It was my favourite cat.'

‘Bluepearl?' Picker called out. ‘Can you fix this, please? Bluepearl?'

No answer. Picker knew that if she tried to pull away, Blend's deadly instincts would answer with a fatal thrust – up through her brain. She thought furiously. ‘I was only joking, love. Tufty's fine.'

Blend's brow wrinkled. ‘Tufty? Who's Tufty?'

‘Uh, the cat I forgot to feed.'

The knife vanished beneath the blankets, and Blend rolled over. ‘You never was good with animals,' she mumbled, and then added, ‘Bet it hates you now. No more cuddles for you, Pick.' A moment later she was snoring.

Picker's sigh was ragged. Wiping sweat from her eyes, she glared across at the ugly thing in the doorway. ‘Lords above, I hope so.'

And then she discovered the silver torcs.

 

The waters calmed, as they were wont to do whenever he came up from below deck. Shurq Elalle watched the Jaghut approach. The rest of her crew – the few that still lived – sat or sprawled amidships tracking the tall, ghastly warrior with a fascination she almost envied. Here was the once-god of death and the exquisite irony of her meeting Hood was simply delicious. Back in Letheras, she'd have wagered her entire fortune that this was one encounter she would never have.

Instead, she was captaining Hood's Ship of the Dead, or whatever it was he called it. Vessel of Souls? Death Ship? Something ominous, anyway. Not that she had much to do by way of giving orders and the like. Whatever propelled the craft wasn't slave to winds, canvas and cordage. And not an oar in sight.

Suddenly, the seas had become uninteresting. As if all her skills – and possibly it was the same with her crew – all their skills had become irrelevant. And for all the ease and comfort that came with this kind of sailing, her sense was one of tragic loss. At this moment, her respect for the sea wavered, as if fatally weakened, and she wondered if, before long, there would come to humans a true conquest of the waves, spelling the end of humility.
And let's face it, humanity without humility is a dangerous force. Don't know why I'm thinking as if I'm seeing the future, but that's how it feels. Some future time when sorcery does too much, when it solves all our problems – only to invent new ones. If this is to be the real future, I don't want it.

‘There is a darkness upon your thoughts, Captain Elalle.'

She glanced over at him. Burnished tusks, mottled with unimaginable age. Worn, leathery skin stretched gaunt over sharp bones. Deepset eyes, haunted in shadow, the vertical pupils barely visible – but they'd not been there when he'd first appeared, so it seemed that life was returning to the Jaghut. ‘You can sense such things, Hood?'

‘You are the captain.'

‘I don't see the relevance of that – the title has lost all meaning.'

‘To the contrary,' Hood replied. ‘It is by the currents of your thoughts that we find our course.' He pointed ahead.

She squinted. A smudge building on the horizon. ‘I've conjured up a storm?'

‘Out of witless boredom I created ships like this one, and I set captains upon them, choosing those among the dead for whom death has become an obsession.'

‘I imagine you'd have plenty to choose from. How can the dead not obsess over their being dead?'

‘I am not responsible for small minds, Captain Elalle. Indeed, I always possessed a kind of admiration for those who refused their fate, who struggled to escape my dreadful realm.'

‘Enough to let them go?'

‘Go? I can tell you that all those who
have
escaped my realm now exist in misery. For their path ahead is no longer a mystery, and for them hope does not exist. They know that no paradise awaits them, and that no amount of diligent worship, sacrifice, or piety can change that.'

‘That is…awful.'

‘What it is, Captain, is inexcusable.'

She considered his words, and then considered them some more. ‘The gods take, but give nothing in return.'

‘Ah, see how the storm dissipates? Excellent, Captain…oh dear, it now returns, much more virulent than before. Captain, I would advise—'

‘Advise me nothing! Couldn't you have forced their hand? Done something?'

The strange, terrible eyes fixed on her. ‘But I have.'

‘Then…was it necessary for you to leave the realm of death? Is that why you're here? It must be. You have set something in motion.'

‘I have not acted alone, Captain.'

‘I would hear more, Hood. If there is a reason for all this, I – I need to know it.'

Hood said nothing for a time, studying the roiling clouds marring the way ahead. Then he spoke. ‘I so dislike moments of revelation, Captain. One is invited to infer all manner of deliberation leading us to this place, this time. When the truth of it is chance and mischance rule our every step.' He sighed. ‘Very well, I am not indifferent to your…needs. This possibility only gained life when two usurpers reawakened the remnants of Kurald Emurlahn – the Realm of Shadow – and then set out to travel the warrens, and indeed the Holds. Seeking knowledge. Seeking the truth of things. What they eventually discovered did not please them. And in the boldness of their…youth, they decided that something must be done.'

‘Two new gods,' Shurq Elalle murmured. ‘They came to you?'

‘Not at first. Instead, they sought out loyal allies among the mortals they had once commanded. Well, perhaps “mortals” is not quite accurate in some instances. No matter. Let us call it a wondrous conflagration of circumstance and character, a kind of audacity which made anything possible. Before long, they found the need to gather additional allies. Shall I list them for you?'

‘Why not?'

‘The Son of Darkness, who understood the true burden of a surrendered future, the fatality of empty faith. The Warlord of the Sleeping Goddess, who would defy the eternal patience of the earth itself, and Stonewielder, the One who stood facing Caladan Brood, ensuring the world's balance. These two are destined to walk disparate paths, but what they seek is much the same. The Queen of Dreams, whose pool had grown still as death itself. The Lord of Tragedy – and, well, a host of others, all drawn into the fold.'

‘Those you have named – are they gods?'

Hood shrugged. ‘Ascendants. The complexity of this beggars belief, to be honest. The sheer scale of contingencies… well, for all his peculiarities, let no one accuse Shadowthrone of failings in the matter of intelligence. The same can be said for Cotillion, for the patron of assassins well comprehended that just as certain individuals deserve a knife through the heart, so too do certain…ideas.'

‘Yet mortals are part of this plan, too.'

‘Indeed.'

‘The Adjunct Tavore Paran?'

Hood was silent for a moment. ‘This congress, Captain, is not above cruel use of mortals.'

‘That is…unfair.'

‘But consider what may be won here, Shurq Elalle.'

‘I have – I am, Hood. But…no.
That is unfair
.'

‘The storm, Captain—'

‘Why does that surprise you?' she retorted. ‘Try telling me something that doesn't break my heart, then. Try telling me something that doesn't make me furious – at your arrogance. Your contempt.'

‘We do not hold the Adjunct Tavore Paran in contempt.'

‘Really?' she asked, the word dripping with derision.

‘Captain, she takes our arrogance and humbles us.'

‘And what's her reward?' Shurq demanded.

Hood looked away, and then shook his head. ‘For her, there is none.'

‘Tell me,' Shurq said in a rasp, ‘tell me she did not agree to this.'

‘To that, Captain, I shall say nothing.' He stepped past her then and raised his hands. ‘We cannot survive the violence your thoughts have conjured, Captain. Thus, I have no recourse but to intervene. Fortunately,' he turned to eye her briefly, ‘Mael concurs.'

‘Push it away, then,' Shurq Elalle snapped. ‘But I will bring it back, I swear it. To so use an innocent woman…'

‘You begin to try me, Captain Elalle. If you intend to fight me for the rest of this voyage, I must find us another captain.'

‘Please do, Hood. I barely knew the Adjunct, but—'

He twisted round. ‘Indeed, you barely know her. I will tell you this, then. I looked out through her sister's eyes, through a helm's visor – in the moment that she died – and I stared up at my slayer, the Adjunct Tavore Paran. And the blood dripping from her sword was mine. You will speak to me of innocence? There is no such thing.'

Shurq Elalle stared at Hood. ‘So, in using her now…is this punishment?'

‘Consider it so, if it eases your conscience.'

‘She murdered her sister?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is it guilt that drives her now, Hood? Does she seek redemption?'

‘I imagine she does.'

‘Will she find it?'

Hood shrugged.

What is it you're not telling me? I can sense…something. The sister…a helm's visor.
‘Hood, that murder – was it an accident?'

The Jaghut did not reply.

Shurq stepped closer. ‘Does Tavore even know she killed her own sister?'

‘Irrelevant, Captain Elalle. It is the ignorant who yearn most for redemption.'

After a moment, she stepped back, went to the side rail, stared out over the rolling grey swells, what Skorgen called swollen waters. ‘If we had met in your realm, Hood,' she said, ‘I would not have refused my state. I would not have sought to escape. Instead, I would have tried to kill you.'

‘Many have, Captain.'