The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (218 page)

‘And with that, all sorcery.’

The warlord nodded, then drew a deep breath and straightened. ‘Would that be so bad a thing, do you think?’

Rake snorted. ‘You assume the destruction would end with that. It seems that, no matter which of the two choices is made, the Crippled God wins.’

‘So it seems.’

‘Yet, having
made
your choice, you gift thís world, and everyone on it, with a few more generations of living—’

‘Living, and dying, waging wars and unleashing slaughter. Of dreams, hopes and tragic ends—’

‘Not a worthy track, these thoughts of yours, Caladan.’ Rake stepped closer. ‘You have done, you continue to do, all that could be asked of you. We were there to share your burden, back then, but it seems we are – each of us – ever drawn away, into our own interests … abandoning you…’

‘Leave this path, Anomander. It avails us nothing. There are more immediate concerns to occupy this rare opportunity to speak in private.’

Rake’s broad mouth found a thin smile. ‘True enough.’ He glanced over to the tent’s entrance. ‘Out there…’ He faced Brood again, ‘Given the infection of Tennes, was your challenge a bluff?’

The warlord bared his filed teeth. ‘Somewhat, but not entirely. The question is not my ability to unleash power, it is the nature of that power. Wrought through with poison, rife with chaos—’

‘Meaning it might well be wilder than your usual maelstrom? That is alarming indeed, Brood. Is Kallor aware of this?’

‘No.’

Rake grunted. ‘Best keep it that way.’

‘Aye,’ the warlord growled. ‘So practise some restraint of your own, next time, Rake.’

The Tiste Andii walked over to pour himself some wine. ‘Odd, I could have sworn I’d just done that.’

‘We must now speak of the Pannion Domin.’

‘A true mystery indeed, Caladan. Far more insidious than we had surmised. Layers of power, one hidden beneath another, then another. The Warren of Chaos lies at its heart, I suspect – and the Great Ravens concur.’

‘This strides too close a path to the Crippled God for it to be accidental, Rake. The Chained One’s poison is that of Chaos, after all.’

‘Aye,’ Rake smiled. ‘Curious, isn’t it? I think there can be no question of who is using whom—’

‘Maybe.’

‘Dealing with the Pannion Domin will present us with formidable challenges.’

Brood grimaced, ‘As the child insisted,
we will need help.
’

The Son of Darkness frowned. ‘Explain, please.’

‘The T’lan Imass, friend. The undead armies are coming.’

The Tiste Andii’s face darkened. ‘Is this Dujek Onearm’s contribution, then?’

‘No, the child. Silverfox. She is a flesh and blood Bonecaster, the first in a long, long time.’

‘Tell me of her.’

The warlord did, at length, and when he was done there was silence in the tent.

*   *   *

Studying Paran with hooded eyes, Whiskeyjack strode over. The young captain was trembling, as if gripped by fever, his face bone-white and slick with sweat. Quick Ben had somehow managed to lower the tabletop to the ground; sorcery still wreathed it with dancing lightning that seemed reluctant to fade. The wizard had crouched down beside it and Whiskeyjack recognized by his flat expression that the man was in a sorcerous trance. Questing, probing …

‘You are a fool.’

The commander turned at the rasping words. ‘None the less, Kallor.’

The tall, grey-haired man smiled coldly. ‘You will come to regret your vow to protect the child.’

Shrugging, Whiskeyjack turned to resume his walk.

‘I am not done with you!’ Kallor hissed.

‘But I am with you,’ the Malazan calmly replied, continuing on.

Paran was facing him now. The captain’s eyes were wide, uncomprehending. Behind him, the Tiste Andii had begun to drift away, spectral and seemingly indifferent now that their lord had retired within the command tent with Caladan Brood. Whiskeyjack looked for Korlat but didn’t see her; nor, he realized after a moment, was the Mhybe anywhere in sight. The child Silverfox stood a dozen paces from Paran, watching the captain with Tattersail’s eyes.

‘No questions,’ Paran growled as Whiskeyjack halted before him. ‘I have no answers for you – not for what’s happened here, not for what I’ve become. Perhaps it would be best if you placed someone else in command of the Bridgeburners—’

‘No reason for that,’ Whiskeyjack said. ‘Besides, I hate changing my mind on anything, Captain.’

Quick Ben joined them. He grinned. ‘That was close, wasn’t it?’

‘What is that thing?’ Whiskeyjack asked him, nodding towards the tabletop.

‘Just what it appears to be. A new Unaligned card in the Deck of Dragons. Well, it’s the Unaligned of all Unaligneds. The table holds the entire Deck, remember.’ The wizard glanced over at Paran. ‘The captain here’s on the threshold of ascendancy, as we suspected. And that means that what he does – or chooses not to do – could have profound effects. On all of us. The Deck of Dragons seems to have acquired a Master. Jen’isand Rul.’

Paran turned away, clearly not wanting to be part of this conversation.

Whiskeyjack frowned at the wizard. ‘Jen’isand Rul. I thought that was a name referring to his … escapades within a certain weapon.’

‘It is, but since that name is on the card it seems the two are linked … somehow. If the captain’s in the dark as much as the rest of us, then I’ll have to do some hard thinking on what that linkage signifies. Of course,’ he added, ‘the captain might well know enough to help me along in this, provided he’s willing.’

Paran opened his mouth for a reply but Whiskeyjack spoke first. ‘He’s got no answers for us … right now. I take it we’re carrying that ridiculous tabletop along with us on the march?’

Quick Ben slowly nodded. ‘It would be best, at least for a while, so I can study it some more. Still, I would advise we unload it before we cross into Pannion territory. The Trygalle Trade Guild can deliver it to the alchemist in Darujhistan for safekeeping.’

A new voice cut in, ‘The card does not leave us.’

The three men turned to find Silverfox standing close. Behind her, a dozen Rhivi warriors were lifting the tabletop.

Watching the dark-skinned, lithe men carrying the tabletop away, Quick Ben frowned. ‘Risky, taking an object of such power into battle, lass.’

‘We must accept that risk, Wizard.’

Whiskeyjack grunted. ‘Why?’

‘Because the card belongs to Paran, and he will have need of it.’

‘Can you explain that?’

‘We struggle against more than one enemy, as shall be seen.’

‘I don’t want that card,’ Paran snapped. ‘You’d better paint a new face on that thing. I have the blood of a Hound of Shadow within me. I am a liability—when will you all see that? Hood knows, I do!’

The rustle of armour alerted them to Kallor’s approach.

Whiskeyjack scowled. ‘You are not part of this conversation.’

Kallor smiled wryly. ‘Never part of, but often the subject of—’

‘Not this time.’

The High King’s flat, grey eyes fixed on Quick Ben. ‘You, wizard, are a hoarder of souls … I am a man who
releases
souls – shall I break the chains within you? An easy thing, to leave you helpless.’

‘Even easier,’ Quick Ben replied, ‘to make a hole in the ground.’

Kallor dropped from sight, the earth gone from beneath him. Armour clattered, followed by a bellow of rage.

Silverfox gasped, eyes widening on Quick Ben.

The wizard shrugged. ‘You’re right, I don’t care who, or what, Kallor is.’

Whiskeyjack stepped to the edge of the pit, glanced down. ‘He’s climbing out … not bad for an old man.’

‘But since I’m not stupid,’ Quick Ben said hastily, ‘I’ll take leave, now.’ The wizard gestured and seemed to blur a moment before vanishing altogether.

Turning his back on the grunting, cursing Kallor – whose gauntleted hands were now visible scrabbling at the crumbly edge of the pit – Whiskeyjack said to Paran, ‘Return to the Bridgeburners, Captain. If all goes well, we’ll meet again at Capustan.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somewhat unsteadily, Paran strode away.

‘I suggest,’ Silverfox said, eyes fixed on Kallor’s efforts to extricate himself, ‘we too should depart this particular place.’

‘Agreed, lass.’

*   *   *

Slumped in his saddle, Whiskeyjack watched the columns of Onearm’s Host marching out from the city of Pale. The day was hot, the hint of thunderstorms in the humid air. Quorl-mounted Black Moranth circled high above the two de-camped armies, fewer in number than was usual – their Achievant, Twist, had departed with Captain Paran and the Bridgeburners four days ago, and eight of the eleven Flights had left in the night just past, on their way to the Vision Mountains on the northwest border of the Domin.

The commander was exhausted. The ache in his leg was robbing him of sleep, and each day was filled with the demands of supply, details on the planned deployment on the march, and the ceaseless swarm of messengers delivering reports and orders then hurrying off with the same. He was restless to begin the journey across half a continent, if only to answer the thousand questions of what awaited them.

Quick Ben sat in silence beside Whiskeyjack, the mage’s horse shifting nervously beneath him.

‘Your mount’s picked up on your state of mind, Quick,’ the commander said.

‘Aye.’

‘You’re wondering when I’ll cut you loose so you can chase after and catch up with Paran and the Bridgeburners, and put some distance between you and Kallor. You’re also eager to get as far away from Silverfox as you can.’

Quick Ben started at this last observation, then he sighed. ‘Aye. I imagine I haven’t managed to hide my unease – at least not from you, it’s clear. The child’s grown five years or more since we arrived, Whiskeyjack – I looked in on the Mhybe this morning. Korlat’s doing what she can, as are the Rhivi shoulderwomen, but Silverfox has taken from that old woman almost her entire life-force – Hood knows what’s keeping her alive. The thought of converging T’lan Imass ain’t making me happy, either. And then there’s Anomander Rake – he wants to know all about me—’

‘Has he attempted any further probing?’

‘Not yet, but why tempt him?’

‘I need you for a while longer,’ Whiskeyjack said. ‘Ride with my entourage – we’ll keep our distance from the Son of Darkness, as best we can. Have those mercenaries in Capustan taken your bait yet?’

‘They’re playing with it.’

‘We’ll wait another week, then. If nothing, then off you go.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now,’ Whiskeyjack drawled, ‘why don’t you tell me what else you’ve got going, Quick Ben?’

The mage blinked innocently. ‘Sir?’

‘You’ve visited every temple and every seer in Pale, mage. You’ve spent a small fortune on readers of the Deck. Hood, I’ve had a report of you sacrificing a goat at dawn atop a barrow – what in the Abyss were you up to with that, Quick?’

‘All right,’ the man muttered, ‘the goat thing stinks of desperation. I admit it. I got carried away.’

‘And what did the lost spirits in the barrow tell you?’

‘Nothing. There, uh, there weren’t any.’

Whiskeyjack’s eyes narrowed. ‘There weren’t any? It was a Rhivi barrow, was it not?’

‘One of the few still remaining in the area, aye. It was, uh, cleaned out. Recently.’

‘
Cleaned out?
’

‘Someone or something gathered them up, sir. Never known
that
to happen before. It’s the strangest thing. Not a single soul remains within those barrows. I mean,
where are they?
’

‘You’re changing the subject, Quick Ben. Nice try.’

The mage scowled. ‘I’m doing some investigating. Nothing I can’t handle, and it won’t interfere with anything else. Besides, we’re now officially on the march, right? Not much I can do out in the middle of nowhere, is there? Besides, I
have
been sidetracked, sir. Those snatched spirits …
someone
took them, and it’s got me curious.’

‘When you figure it out you’ll let me know, right?’

‘Of course, sir.’

Whiskeyjack gritted his teeth and said no more.
I’ve known you too long, Quick Ben. You’ve stumbled onto something, and it’s got you scampering like a stoat with its tail between its legs.

Sacrificing a goat, for Hood’s sake!

On the road from Pale, Onearm’s Host – almost ten thousand veterans of the Genabackan Campaign – moved to join the ranks of Caladan Brood’s vast army. The march had begun, onward to war, against an enemy they had never seen and of whom they knew almost nothing.

Chapter Six

Where they tread, blood follows …

K
ULBURAT’S
V
ISION

H
ORAL
T
HUME
(
B.
1134)

Saltoan’s Sunset Gate was reached by a broad, arching causeway over the canal. Both the bridge and the canal itself were in serious need of repair, the mortar crumbling and webbed in wide, grass-tufted cracks where the foundations had settled. One of the Vision Plain’s oldest cities, Saltoan had once stood alongside the river Catlin, growing rich on the cross-continent trade, until the river changed its course in the span of a single, rain-drenched spring. Korselan’s Canal was built in an effort to re-establish the lucrative link with the river trade, as well as four deep lakes – two within the old river bed itself – for moorage and berths. The effort had seen only marginal success, and the four hundred years since that time had witnessed a slow, inexorable decline.

Gruntle’s scowl as he guided his horse onto the causeway deepened upon seeing Saltoan’s low, thick walls ahead. Brown stains ran in streaks down their sloped sides. The caravan captain could already smell the raw sewage. There were plenty of figures lining the battlements, but few if any of them were actual constabulary or soldiers. The city had sent its vaunted Horse Guard north to join Caladan Brood’s forces in the war against the Malazan Empire. What remained of its army wasn’t worth the polish on their boots.

He glanced back as his master’s carriage clattered onto the causeway. Sitting on the driver’s bench, Harllo waved. At his side, Stonny held the traces and Gruntle could see her lips moving to a stream of curses and complaints. Harllo’s wave wilted after a moment.