The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (162 page)

“How could I otherwise? You interrupted me—”

“A lie! But no, I must stuff my outrage into a bag, a bag such as the curious sack the Trell carries—such a curious sack, that! Is there another fragment trapped within it? The possibility is…possible. A likely likelihood, indeed, a certain certainty! I need but turn this ingenuous smile on the Jhag to show my benign patience at his foul insult, for I am a bigger man than he, oh yes. All his airs, his posturing, his poorly disguised asides—hark!” Iskaral Pust spun around, squinted into the forest beyond the boulder.

“Do you hear something, High Priest?” Icarium asked calmly.

“Hear, here?” Pust scowled. “Why ask me that?”

Mappo asked Apsalar, “How far into this wood have you gone?”

She shook her head.
Not far
.

“I'll take point,” Fiddler said. “Straight ahead, I take it, past this rock?”

There were no alternative suggestions.

They set off, Fiddler ranging ahead, crossbow readied at hip-level, a Moranth quarrel set in the groove. Icarium followed, his bow still strapped on his back, sword sheathed. Pust, Apsalar and her father were next, with Crokus a few paces ahead of Mappo, who was the column's rearguard.

Mappo could not be sure of matching the Jhag's speed in responding to a threat, so he removed the bone mace from his sack.
Do I in truth carry a fragment of this warren within this tattered ruck? How fare my hapless victims, then? Perhaps I have sent them to paradise—a thought to ease my conscience…

The Trell had traveled old forests before and this one was little different. The sounds of birds were few and far between, and apart from insects and the trees and plants themselves, there was no other indication of life. It would be easy enough to lose grip on imagination's reins in such a place, if one were so inclined, to fashion a brooding presence from the primeval atmosphere.
A place to ravel dark legends, to make us no more than children shivering to fraught tales…bah, what nonsense! The only brooding thing here is me
.

The roots were thick underfoot, a latticework revealing itself here and there through the humus, spreading out to bridge the gap between every tree. The air grew cooler as they journeyed on, abandoning its rich smells, and it eventually became apparent that the trees were thinning out, the spaces between them stretching from a few paces to half a dozen, then a dozen. Yet still the knotted roots remained thickly woven on the ground—too many to be explained by the forest itself. The sight of them triggered hints of a vaguely disturbing memory in Mappo, yet he could not track it down.

They could now see five hundred paces ahead, a vista of sentinel boles and damp air tinted blue under the strange sun's spectral light. Nothing moved. No one spoke, and the only sound was their breathing, the rustle of clothing and armor, and the tread of their feet on the endless mat of entwined tree roots.

An hour later they reached the outer edge of the forest. Beyond it lay a dark, rolling plain.

Fiddler drew the company to a halt. “Any thoughts on this?” he asked, staring out over the bare, undulating landscape that lay ahead.

The ground before them was a solid weave, a riotous twisting of serpentine roots that stretched off into the distance.

Icarium crouched and laid a hand on one thick, coiled span of wood. He closed his eyes, then nodded. The Jhag straightened. “The Azath,” he said.

“Tremorlor,” Fiddler muttered.

“I have never seen an Azath manifest itself in this way,” Mappo said.
No, not an Azath, but I have seen staves of wood…

“I have,” Crokus said. “In Darujhistan. The Azath House there grew from the ground, like the stump of a tree. I saw it with my own eyes. It rose to contain a Jaghut's Finnest.”

Mappo studied the youth for a long moment, then he turned to the Jhag. “What else did you sense, Icarium?”

“Resistance. Pain. The Azath is under siege. This fragmented warren seeks to pull free of the House's grip. And now, an added threat…”

“The Soletaken and D'ivers.”

“Tremorlor is…aware…of those who seek it.”

Iskaral Pust cackled, then ducked at a glare from Crokus.

“Including us, I take it,” Fiddler said.

Icarium nodded. “Aye.”

“And it means to defend itself,” the Trell said.

“If it can.”

Mappo scratched his jaw.
The responses of a living entity
.

“We should stop here,” Fiddler said. “Get some sleep—”

“Oh no, you mustn't!” Iskaral Pust said. “Urgency!”

“Whatever lies ahead,” the sapper growled, “can wait. If we're not rested—”

“I agree with Fiddler,” Icarium said. “A few hours…”

 

The camp was haphazard, bedrolls set out in silence, a scant meal shared. Mappo watched the others settling down until only he and Rellock remained awake. The Trell joined the old man as he prepared his own bedding.

Mappo spoke in a low voice, “Why did you obey Iskaral's commands, Rellock? To draw your daughter to this place…into these circumstances…”

The fisherman grimaced, visibly struggling toward a reply. “I was gifted, sir, with this here arm. Our lives were spared—”

“As you said before, and you were delivered to Iskaral. To a fortress in a desert. Where you were made to draw your only child into danger…I am sorry if I offend, Rellock. I seek only to understand.”

“She ain't what she was. Not my little girl. No.” He hesitated, hands twitching where they rested on the bedroll. “No,” he repeated, “what's done is done, and there's no going back.” He looked up. “Got to make the best of how things are. My girl knows things…” He glanced away, eyes narrowing as he stared at something only he could see. “Terrible things. But, well, there's a child still there—I can see it. All that she knows…Well—” he fixed Mappo with a glare—“knowing ain't enough. It ain't enough.” He scowled, then shook his head and looked away. “I can't explain—”

“I am following you so far.”

With a sigh, Rellock resumed, “She needs reasons. Reasons for everything. It's my feeling, anyway. I'm her father, and I say she's got more learning to do. It's no different from being out on the water—you learn no place safe. Not real learning. No place safe, Trell.” Shaking himself, he rose. “Now you gone and made my head ache.”

“Forgive me,” Mappo said.

“If I'm lucky, she might do that for me one day.”

The Trell watched him finish laying out the bedroll. Mappo rose and headed to where he'd left his sack.
“We learn no place safe.” Whatever sea god looks down on you, old man, must surely fix an eye on his lost child now
.

 

Muffled in his bedrolls, unable to sleep, Mappo heard movement behind him, then Icarium's low voice.

“Best get back to sleep, lass.”

The Trell heard wry amusement in her reply. “We're much alike, you and I.”

“How so?” Icarium asked.

She sighed. “We each have our protectors—neither of whom is capable of protecting us. Especially not from ourselves. So they're dragged along, helpless, ever watchful, but so very helpless.”

Icarium's reply was measured and toneless. “Mappo is a companion to me, a friend. Rellock is your father. I understand his notion of protection—what else is a father to do? But it is a different thing, Mappo and me.”

“Is it now?”

Mappo held his breath, ready to rise, to close this conversation now—

Apsalar continued after a moment. “Perhaps you are right, Icarium. We are less alike than it first seemed. Tell me, what will you do with your memories once you find them?”

The Trell's silent relief was but momentary. Yet now he did not struggle with an urge to intervene; rather, he held himself very still, waiting to hear the reply to a question he had never dared ask Icarium.

“Your question…startles me, Apsalar. What do you do with yours?”

“They are not mine—most of them, anyway. I have a handful of images from my life as a fishergirl. Bargaining in a market for twine. Holding my father's hand over a cairn where cut flowers lay scattered on the weathered stones, a feel of lichen where once I touched skin. Loss, bewilderment—I must have been very young.

“Other memories belong to a wax witch, an old woman who sought to protect me during Cotillion's possession. She'd lost a husband, children, all sacrificed to Imperial glory. You'd think, wouldn't you, that bitterness would overwhelm all else within such a woman? But not so. Helpless to protect her loved ones, her instincts—so long bottled up—embraced me instead. And do so to this day, Icarium…”

“An extraordinary gift, lass…”

“Indeed. Finally, my last set of borrowed memories—the most confusing of all. An assassin's. Once mortal, then Ascendant. Assassins bow to the altar of efficiency, Icarium, and efficiency is brutal. It sacrifices mortal lives without a second thought, all for whatever is perceived as the greater need. At least it was so in the case of Dancer, who did not kill for coin, but for a cause that was less self-aggrandizing than you might think. In his mind, he was a man who fixed things. He viewed himself as honorable. A man of integrity, was Dancer. But efficiency is a cold-blooded master. And there's a final irony. A part of him, in defiance of his need to seek vengeance upon Laseen, actually…sympathizes. After all, she bowed to what she perceived as a greater need—one of Empire—and chose to sacrifice two men she called friends to answer that need.”

“Within you, then, is chaos.”

“Aye, Icarium. Such are memories in full flood. We are not simple creatures. You dream that with memories will come knowledge, and from knowledge, understanding. But for every answer you find, a thousand new questions arise. All that we were has led us to where we are, but tells us little of where we're going. Memories are a weight you can never shrug off.”

A stubborn tone was evident as Icarium muttered, “A burden I would accept nonetheless.”

“Let me offer some advice. Do not say that to Mappo, unless you wish to further break his heart.”

The Trell's blood was a thunder coursing through him, his chest aching with a breath held overlong.

“I do not understand,” Icarium said quietly after a time, “but I would never do that, lass.”

Mappo let the air loose, slowly, struggling to control himself. He felt tears run crooked tracks from the corners of his eyes.

“I do not understand.” This time, the words were a whisper.

“Yet you wish to.”

There was no reply to that. A minute passed, then there came to Mappo sounds of movement. “Here, Icarium,” Apsalar said, “dry those eyes. Jhag never weep.”

 

Sleep eluded Mappo and, he suspected, there were others among the group for whom rest offered no surcease from tortured thoughts. Only Iskaral Pust seemed at ease, if his groaning snores were any indication.

Before long, Mappo heard the sounds of movement once again, and Icarium spoke in a calm, measured voice. “It is time.”

They broke camp swiftly. Mappo was still drawing the ties of his sack when Fiddler set out, a soldier approaching a battlefield, cautious yet determined. The High Priest of Shadow bounded after him. As Icarium prepared to follow, Mappo reached out and gripped the Jhag's arm.

“My friend, Azath Houses seek to imprison all who posses power—do you fathom what you risk?”

Icarium smiled. “Not just me, Mappo. You ever underestimate yourself, what you have become after all these centuries. We must trust in the Azath understanding that we mean no harm, if we intend to continue onward.”

The others had all set out—Apsalar sparing one searching glance their way—leaving the two alone.

“How can we trust in something we cannot understand?” the Trell demanded. “You said ‘aware.' How? Precisely
what
is aware?”

“I have no idea. I sense a presence, that is all. And if I can sense it, then it in turn can sense me. Tremorlor suffers, Mappo. It fights alone, and its cause is just. I mean to help the Azath, and so to Tremorlor lies the choice—to accept my help or not.”

The Trell struggled to disguise his distress.
Oh, my friend, you offer help without realizing how quickly that blade can turn. In your ignorance you are so pure, so noble. If Tremorlor knows you better than you know yourself, will it dare accept your offer?

“What is wrong, friend?”

Bleak suspicion showed in the Jhag's eyes, and Mappo was forced to look away.
What is wrong? I would speak to warn you, my friend. Should Tremorlor take you, the world is freed of a vast threat, but I lose a friend. No, I betray you to eternal imprisonment. The Elders and the Nameless Ones who set upon me this task would command me with certainty. They would care nothing of love. Nor would the young Trell warrior who so freely made his vow hesitate—for he did not know the man he was to follow. Nor did he possess doubts. Not then, so long ago
. “I beg you, Icarium, let us turn back now. The risk is too great, my friend.” He felt his eyes water as he stared out across the plain.
My friend. At last, dear Elders, I am revealed to you. You chose wrongly. I am a coward
.

“I wish,” Icarium said slowly, haltingly, “I wish I could understand. The war I see within you breaks my heart, Mappo. You must realize by now…”

“Realize what?” the Trell croaked, still unable to meet the Jhag's eyes.

“That I would give my life for you, my only friend, my brother.”

Mappo wrapped his arms about himself. “No,” he whispered. “Do not say that.”

“Help me end your war. Please.”

The Trell drew a deep, ragged breath. “The city of the First Empire, the one upon the old island…”

Icarium waited.

“Destroyed…by your hand, Icarium. Yours is a blind rage…a rage unequaled. It burns fierce, so fierce all your memory of what you do is obliterated. I watch you—I have watched you stirring those cold ashes, ever seeking to discover who you are, yet there I stand, at your side, bound by a vow to prevent you ever committing such an act again. You have destroyed cities, entire peoples. Once you begin killing, you cannot stop, until all before you is…lifeless.”