The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (179 page)

She hesitated, then spun her horse around. “You three!” she barked at the Wickan youths. “With me!”

He watched them drive their weary horses forward along one edge of the Way, sweeping past the stumbling, pitching refugees.

The train had stretched out, those fleeter of foot slipping ever farther ahead. The elderly surrounded the historian, each step a tortured struggle. Many simply stopped and sat down on the road to await the inevitable. Duiker screamed at them, threatened them, but it was no use. He saw a child, no more than eighteen months old, wandering lost, arms outstretched, dry-eyed and appallingly silent.

Duiker rode close, leaned over in his saddle and swept the child into one arm. Tiny hands gripped the torn fragments of his shirt.

A last row of mounds now separated him and the tail end of the train from the pursuing army.

The flight had not slowed and that was the only evidence the historian had that the gates had, at last, opened to receive the refugees.
Either that or they're spreading out in frantic, hopeless waves along the wall—but no, that would be a betrayal beyond sanity—

And now he could see, a thousand paces away: Aren. The north gates, flanked by solid towers, yawned for three-quarters of their height—the last, lowest quarter was a seething mass of figures, pushing, crowding, clambering over each other in their panic. But the tide's strength was too great, too inexorable to stopper that passageway. Like a giant maw, Aren was swallowing the refugees. The Wickans rode at either side, desperately trying to contain the human river, and Duiker could now see among them soldiers in the uniform of the Aren City Garrison joining in the effort.

And the army itself? The High Fist's army?

They stood on the walls. They watched. Row upon row of faces, figures jostling for a vantage point along the north wall's entire length. Resplendently dressed individuals occupied the platforms atop the towers flanking the gates, looking down at the starved, bedraggled, screaming mob that thronged the city entrance.

City Garrison Guards were suddenly among the last of those refugees still moving. On all sides around Duiker, he saw grimfaced soldiers pick people up and carry them at a half-jog toward the gates. Spotting one guardsman bearing the insignia of a captain, the historian rode up to him. “You! Take this child!”

The man reached up to close his hands around the silent, wide-eyed toddler. “Are you Duiker?” the captain asked.

“Aye.”

“You're to report to the High Fist immediately, sir—there, on the left-hand tower—”

“That bastard will have to wait,” Duiker growled. “I will see every damned refugee through first! Now run, Captain, but tell me your name, for there may well be a mother or father still alive for that child.”

“Keneb, sir, and I will take care of the lass until then, I swear it.” The man then hesitated, freed one hand and gripped Duiker's wrist. “Sir…”

“What?”

“I'm—I'm sorry, sir.”

“Your loyalty's to the city you've sworn to defend, Captain—”

“I know sir, but those soldiers on the walls, sir—well, they're as close as they're allowed to get, if you understand me. And they're not happy about it.”

“They're not alone in that. Now get going, Captain Keneb.”

 

Duiker was the last. When the gate finally emptied, not a single breathing refugee remained outside the walls, barring those he could see well down the road, still seated on the cobbles, unable to move, drawing their last breaths—too far away to retrieve, and it was clear that the Aren soldiers had been given strict orders about how far beyond the gate they were permitted.

Thirty paces from the gate and with the array of guards standing in the gap watching him, Duiker wheeled his horse around one final time. He stared northward, first to the dust cloud now ascending the last, largest barrow, then beyond it, to the glittering spear that was the Whirlwind. His mind's eye took him farther still, north and east, across rivers, across plains and steppes, to a city on a different coast. Yet the effort availed him little. Too much to comprehend, too swift, too immediate this end to that extraordinary, soul-scarring journey.

A chain of corpses, hundreds of leagues long. No, it is all beyond me, beyond, I now believe, any of us…

He swung his horse around, eyes fixing on that yawning gate and the guards gathered there. They parted to form a path. Duiker tapped his heels into the mare's flanks.

He ignored the soldiers on the wall, even when the triumphant cry burst from them like a beast unchained.

 

Shadows flowed in silent waves over the barren hills. Apt's glittering eye scanned the horizon for a moment longer, then the demon dipped her elongated head to look down on the boy crouched beside her forelimb.

He too was studying Shadow Realm's eerie landscape, his own single, multifaceted eye glistening beneath the jutting brow ridge.

After a long moment he lifted his head and met her gaze. “Mother,” he asked, “is this home?”

A voice spoke from a dozen paces away. “My colleague ever underestimates this realm's natural inhabitants. Ah, there is the child.”

The boy turned and watched the tall, black-clad man approach. “Aptorian,” the stranger continued, “your generous shaping of this lad—no matter how well-meant—will do naught but scar him within, in the years to come.”

Apt clicked and hissed a reply.

“Ah, but you have achieved the opposite, Lady,” the man said. “For he now belongs to neither.”

The demon spoke again.

The man cocked his head, regarded her for a long moment, then half-smiled. “Presumptuous of you.” His gaze fell to the boy. “Very well.” He crouched. “Hello.”

The boy returned the greeting shyly.

Casting a last irritated glance at Apt, the man offered the child his hand. “I'm…Uncle Cotillion—”

“You can't be,” the boy said.

“Oh, and why not?”

“Your eyes—they're different—so small, two fighting to see as one. I think they must be weak. When you approached, you walked through a stone wall and then the trees, rippling the ghost world as if ignorant of its right to dwell here.”

Cotillion's eyes widened. “Wall? Trees?” He glanced up at Apt. “Has his mind fled?”

The demon answered at length.

Cotillion paled. “Hood's breath!” he finally muttered, and when he turned back to the child it was with an expression of awe. “What is your name, lad?”

“Panek.”

“You possess one, then. Tell me, what else—apart from your name—do you recall of your…other world?”

“I remember being punished. I was told to stay close to Father—”

“And what did he look like?”

“I don't remember. I don't remember any of their faces. We were waiting to see what they'd do with us. But then we were led away—the children—away. Soldiers pushed my father, dragged him in the opposite direction. I was supposed to stay close, but I went with the children. They punished me—punished all of the children—for not doing what we were told.”

Cotillion's eyes narrowed. “I don't think your father had much choice, Panek.”

“But the enemy were fathers too, you see. And mothers and grandmothers—they were all so angry with us. They took our clothes. Our sandals. They took everything from us, they were so angry. Then they punished us.”

“And how did they do that?”

“They nailed us to crosses.”

Cotillion said nothing for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was strangely flat. “You remember that, then.”

“Yes. And I promise to do as I'm told. From now on. Whatever Mother says. I promise.”

“Panek. Listen carefully to your uncle. You weren't punished for not doing what you were told. Listen—this is hard, I know, but try to understand. They hurt you because they could, because there was no one there who was capable of stopping them. Your father would have tried—I'm sure he did. But, like you, he was helpless. We're here now, with you—your mother and Uncle Cotillion—we're here to make sure you'll never be helpless again. Do you understand?”

Panek looked up at his mother. She clicked softly.

“All right,” the boy said.

“We'll teach each other, lad.”

Panek frowned. “What can I teach you?”

Cotillion grimaced. “Teach me what you see…here, in this realm. Your ghost world, the Shadow Hold that was, the old places that remain—”

“What you walk through unseeing.”

“Aye. I've often wondered why the Hounds never run straight.”

“Hounds?”

“You'll meet them sooner or later, Panek. Cuddly mutts, one and all.”

Panek smiled, revealing sharp fangs. “I like dogs.”

With a slight flinch, Cotillion said, “I'm sure they'll like you in turn.” He straightened, faced Apt. “You're right, you can't do this alone. Let us think on it, Ammanas and I.” He faced the lad again. “Your mother has other tasks now. Debts to pay. Will you go with her or come with me?”

“Where do you go, Uncle?”

“The other children have been deposited nearby. Would you like to help me get them settled?”

Panek hesitated, then replied, “I would like to see them again, but not right away. I will go with Mother. The man who asked her to save us needs to be looked after—she explained that. I would like to meet him. Mother says he dreams of me, of when he first saw me.”

“I'm sure he does,” Cotillion muttered. “Like me, he is haunted by helplessness. Very well, until we meet again.” He shifted his attention one last time, stared long into Apt's eye. “When I Ascended, Lady, it was to escape the nightmares of feeling…” He grimaced. “Imagine my surprise that I now thank you for such chains.”

Panek broke in. “Uncle, do you have any children?”

He winced, looked away. “A daughter. Of sorts.” He sighed, then smiled wryly. “We had a falling-out, I'm afraid.”

“You must forgive her.”

“Damned upstart!”

“You said we must teach each other, Uncle.”

Cotillion's eyes widened on the lad, then he shook his head. “The forgiveness is the other way around, alas.”

“Then I must meet her.”

“Well, anything is possible—”

Apt spoke.

Cotillion scowled. “That, Lady, was uncalled for.” He turned away, wrapping his cloak about himself.

After half a dozen strides he paused, glancing back. “Give Kalam my regards.” A moment later shadows engulfed him.

Panek continued staring. “Does he imagine,” he asked his mother, “that he now walks unseen?”

 

The greased anchor chain rattled smoothly, slipping down into the black, oily water, and
Ragstopper
came to a rest in Malaz Harbor, a hundred yards from the docks. A scatter of dull yellow lights marked the lower quarter's front street, where ancient warehouses interspersed by ramshackle taverns, inns and tenement houses faced the piers. To the north was the ridge that was home to the city's merchants and nobles—the larger estates abutting the cliff wall and its switchback stairs that ascended to Mock's Hold. Few lights were visible in that old bastion, though Kalam could see a pennant flapping heavily in a high wind—too dark to make out its colors.

A shiver of presentiment ran through him at the sight of that pennant.
Someone's here…someone important
.

The crew were settling down behind him, grumbling about the late hour of arrival which would prevent them from immediately disembarking into the harbor streets. The Harbormaster would wait until the morrow before rowing out to inspect the craft and ensure that the sailors were hale—free of infections and the like.

The midnight bell had sounded its atonal note only minutes earlier.
Salk Elan judged rightly, damn him
.

It had never been part of the plan, this stop in Malaz City. Kalam had originally intended to await Fiddler in Unta, where they would finalize the details. Quick Ben had insisted that the sapper could come through via Deadhouse, though the mage was typically evasive about specifics. Kalam had begun to view the Deadhouse option as more of a potential escape route if things went wrong than anything else, and even then as a last recourse. He'd never liked the Azath, had no faith in anything that appeared so benign. Friendly traps were always far deadlier than openly belligerent ones.

There was silence behind him now, and the assassin briefly wondered at how swiftly sleep had come to the men sprawled on the main deck.
Ragstopper
was motionless, cordage and hull murmuring their usual natural noises. Kalam leaned on the forecastle rail, eyes on the city before him, on the dark bulks of ships resting in their berths. The Imperial Pier was off to his right, where the cliff face reached down to the sea. No craft was visible there.

He thought to glance back up at the pennant's dark wing above the Hold, but the effort seemed too much—too dark in any case—and his imagination was ever fueled by thinking the worse of all he could not know.

And now came sounds from farther out in the bay. Another ship, edging its way through the darkness, another late arrival.

The assassin glanced down at his hands where they rested on the rail. They felt like someone else's, that polished, dark-brown hue of his skin, the pale scars that crossed it here and there—not his own, but the victims of someone else's will.

He shook off the sensation.

The island city's smells drifted out to him. The usual stench of a harbor: sewage warring with rot, brackish water of the sea mixing with a pungent whiff from the sluggish river that emptied into the bay. His eyes focused again on the dark, snag-toothed grin of the harborfront buildings. A few streets in, he knew, occupying one squalid corner amidst tenement blocks and fish-stalls, stood the Deadhouse. Unmentioned and avoided by all denizens of the city, and to all outward appearances completely abandoned, its yard overgrown, its black, rough stones smothered in vines. No lights from the gaping windows in the twin towers.