The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (243 page)

They left the compound. Grunde was still feeling the effects of the last few days, but with a belly full of food instead of wine and ale and the momentary but efficacious attention of the Grey Sword priest, Karnadas, he found his walk steadier and the pain behind his eyes had faded to a dull ache. He had to lengthen his stride to keep up with Stonny’s habitual march. Even as her beauty attracted attention, her relentless pace and dark glare ensured a clear path through any crowd, and Capustan’s few, cowed citizens scurried quicker than most to get out of her way.

They skirted the cemetery, the upright clay coffin-boles passing on their left. Another necropolis lay just ahead, evincing the Daru style of crypts and urns that Gruntle knew well from Darujhistan, and Stonny angled their route slightly to its left, taking the narrow, uneven passageway between the necropolis’s low-walled grounds and the outer edge of the Tura’l Concourse. Twenty paces ahead was a smaller square, which they traversed before reaching the eastern edge of the Temple District.

Gruntle had had enough of stumbling in Stonny’s wake like a dog in tow. ‘Listen,’ he growled, ‘I just came from this quarter. If Keruli’s camped nearby why didn’t you just come to get me and save me the walk?’

‘I did come to get you, but you stank like a pauper-tavern’s piss pit. Is that how you wanted to show yourself to Master Keruli? You needed cleaning up, and food, and I wasn’t going to baby you through all that.’

Gruntle subsided, muttering under his breath.
Gods, I wish the world was full of passive, mewling women.
He thought about that a moment longer, then scowled.
On second thought, what a nightmare that’d be. It’s the job of a man to fan the spark into flames, not quench it …

‘Get that dreamy look off your face,’ Stonny snapped. ‘We’re here.’

Blinking, Gruntle sighed, then stared at the small, dilapidated building before them – plain, pitted stone blocks, covered here and there by old plaster; a flat, beamed roof, the ancient wood sagging; and a doorway that he and Stonny would have to crouch to pass through. ‘This is it? Hood’s breath, this is pathetic.’

‘He’s a modest man,’ Stonny drawled, hands on hips. ‘His Elder God’s not one for pomp and ceremony. Anyway, with its recent history, it went cheap.’

‘History?’

Stonny frowned. ‘Takes spilled blood to sanctify the Elder God’s holy ground. A whole family committed suicide in this house, less than a week past. Keruli was…’

‘Delighted?’

‘Tempered delight. He grieved for the untimely deaths, of course—’

‘Of course.’

‘Then he put in a bid’

‘Naturally.’

‘Anyway, it’s now a temple—’

Gruntle swung to her. ‘Hold on, now. I’m not buying into any faith when I enter, am I?’

She smirked. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘I mean, I’m not. Understand me? And Keruli had better understand, too. And his hoary old god! Not a single genuflection, not even a nod to the altar, and if that’s not acceptable then I’m staying out here.’

‘Relax, no-one’s expecting anything of you, Gruntle. Why would they?’

He ignored the mocking challenge in her eyes. ‘Fine, so lead the way, woman.’

‘I always do.’ She strode to the door and pulled it open. ‘Local security measures – you can’t kick these doors in, they all open outward, and they’re built bigger than the inside frame. Smart, eh? The Grey Swords are expecting a house by house scrap once the walls fall – those Pannions are going to find the going messy.’

‘The defence of Capustan assumes the loss of the walls? Hardly optimistic. We’re all in a death trap, and Keruli’s dream-escape trick won’t help us much when the Tenescowri are roasting our bodies for the main course, will it?’

‘You’re a miserable ox, aren’t you?’

‘The price for being clear-eyed, Stonny.’

She ducked as she entered the building, waving for Gruntle to follow. He hesitated, then, still scowling, stepped through.

A small reception chamber greeted them, bare-walled, clay-tiled, with a few lantern niches set in the walls and a row of iron pegs unadorned by clothing. Another doorway was opposite, a long leather apron providing the barrier. The air smelled of lye soap, with a faint undercurrent of bile.

Stonny unclasped her cloak and hung it on a hook. ‘The wife crawled out of the main room to die here,’ she said. ‘Dragging her entrails the whole way. Raised the suspicion that her suicide wasn’t voluntary. Either that or she changed her mind.’

‘Maybe a goat’s milk hawker knocked on the door,’ Gruntle suggested, ‘and she was trying to cancel her order.’

Stonny studied him for a moment, as if considering, then she shrugged. ‘Seems a bit elaborate, as an explanation, but who knows? Could be.’ She swung about and entered the inner doorway in a swish of leather.

Sighing, Gruntle followed.

The main chamber ran the full width of the house; a series of alcoves – storage rooms and cell-like bedrooms – divided up the back wall, a central arched walkway bisecting it to lead into the courtyard garden beyond. Benches and trunks crowded one corner of the chamber. A central firepit and humped clay bread-oven was directly before them, radiating heat. The air was rich with the smell of baking bread.

Master Keruli sat cross-legged on the tiled floor to the left of the firepit, head bowed, his pate glistening with beads of sweat.

Stonny edged forward and dropped to one knee. ‘Master?’

The priest looked up, his round face creasing in a smile. ‘I have wiped clean their slates,’ he said. ‘They now dwell at peace. Their souls have fashioned a worthy dream-world. I can hear the children laughing.’

‘Your god is merciful,’ Stonny murmured.

Rolling his eyes, Gruntle strode over to the trunks. ‘Thanks for saving my life, Keruli,’ he growled. ‘Sorry I was so miserable about it. Looks like your supplies survived, that’s good. Well, I’ll be on my way now—’

‘A moment please, Captain.’

Gruntle turned.

‘I have something,’ the priest said, ‘for your friend, Buke. An … aid … for his endeavours.’

‘Oh?’ Gruntle avoided Stonny’s searching stare.

‘There, in that second trunk, yes, the small, iron one. Yes, open it. Do you see? Upon the dark grey bolt of felt.’

‘The little clay bird?’

‘Yes. Please instruct him to crush it into powder, then mix with cooled water that has been boiled for at least a hundred heartbeats. Once mixed, Buke must drink it – all of it.’

‘You want him to drink muddy water?’

‘The clay will ease the pains in his stomach, and there are other benefits as well, which he will discover in due time.’

Gruntle hesitated. ‘Buke isn’t a trusting man, Keruli.’

‘Tell him that his quarry will elude him otherwise. With ease. Tell him, also, that to achieve what he desires, he must accept allies. You both must. I share your concerns on this matter. Additional allies will find him, in time.’

‘Very well,’ Gruntle said, shrugging. He collected the small clay object and dropped it into his belt-pouch.

‘What are you two talking about?’ Stonny asked quietly.

Gruntle tensed at that gentle tone, as it usually preceded an explosion of temper, but Keruli simply broadened his smile. ‘A private matter, dear Stonny. Now, I have instructions for you – please be patient. Captain Gruntle, there are no debts between us now. Go in peace.’

‘Right. Thanks,’ he added gruffly. ‘I’ll make my own way out then.’

‘We’ll talk later, Grande,’ Stonny said. ‘Won’t we?’

You’ll have to find me first.
‘Of course, lass.’

A few moments later he stood outside, feeling strangely weighed down, by nothing less than an old man’s kind, forgiving nature. He stood for a while, unmoving, watching the locals hurrying past.
Like ants in a kicked nest. And the next kick is going to be a killer
 …

Stonny watched Gruntle leave, then turned to Keruli. ‘You said you had instructions for me?’

‘Our friend the captain has a difficult path ahead.’

Stonny scowled. ‘Gruntle doesn’t walk difficult paths. First sniff of trouble and he’s off the opposite way.’

‘Sometimes there is no choice.’

‘And what am I supposed to do about it?’

‘His time is coming. Soon. I ask only that you stay close to him.’

Her scowl deepened. ‘That depends on him. He has a talent for not being found.’

Keruli turned back to tend the oven. ‘I’d rather think,’ he murmured, ‘that his talent is about to fail him.’

*   *   *

Torchlight and diffuse sunlight bathed the array of dugout canoes and their wrapped corpses. The entire pit had been exposed, gutting most of the Thrall’s floor – the granite pillar with its millstone cap standing alone in the very centre – to reveal the crafts, crushed and cluttered like the harvest of an ancient hurricane.

Hetan knelt, head bowed, before the first dugout. She had not moved in some time.

Itkovian had descended to conduct his own close examination of the remains, and now moved with careful steps among the wreckage, Cafal following in silence. The Shield Anvil’s attention was drawn to the carving on the prows; while no two sets were identical, there was a continuity in the themes depicted – scenes of battle at sea, the Barghast clearly recognizable in their long, low dugouts, struggling with a singular enemy, a tall, lithe species with angular faces and large, almond-shaped eyes, in high-walled ships.

As he crouched to study one such panel, Cafal murmured behind him, ‘T’isten’ur.’

Itkovian glanced back. ‘Sir?’

‘The enemies of our Founding Spirits. T’isten’ur, the Grey-Skinned. Demons in the oldest tales who collected heads, yet kept the victims living … heads that remained watchful, bodies that worked ceaselessly. T’isten’ur: demons who dwelt in shadows. The Founding Spirits fought them on the Blue Wastes…’ He fell silent, brow knitting, then continued, ‘The Blue Wastes. We had no understanding of such a place. The shouldermen believed it was our Birth Realm. But now … it was the sea, the oceans.’

‘The Barghast Birth Realm in truth, then.’

‘Aye. The Founding Spirits drove the T’isten’ur from the Blue Wastes, drove the demons back into their underworld, the Forest of Shadows – a realm said to lie far to the southeast…’

‘Another continent, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You are discovering the truth behind your oldest legends, Cafal. In my home of Elingarth, far to the south of here, there are stories of a distant continent in the direction you have indicated. A land, sir, of giant firs and redwoods and spruce – a forest unbroken, its feet hidden in shadows and peopled with deadly wraiths.

‘As Shield Anvil,’ Itkovian resumed after a moment, returning his attention once more to the carvings, ‘I am as much a scholar as a warrior. T’isten’ur – a name with curious echoes. Tiste Andii, the Dwellers in Darkness. And, more rarely mentioned, and then in naught but fearful whispers, their shadow-kin, the Tiste Edur. Grey-skinned, believed extinct – and thankfully so, for it is a name sheathed in dread. T’isten’ur, the first glottal stop implies past tense, yes? T’lan, now T’lan – your language is kin to that of the Imass. Close kin. Tell me, do you understand Moranth?’

Cafal grunted. ‘The Moranth speak the language of the Barghast shouldermen – the holy tongue – the language that rose from the pit of darkness from whence all thought and all words first came. The Moranth claim kinship with the Barghast – they call us their Fallen Kin. But it is they who have fallen, not us. They who have found a shadowed forest in which to live. They who have embraced the alchemies of the T’isten’ur. They who made peace with the demons long ago, exchanging secrets, before retreating into their mountain fastnesses and hiding for ever behind their insect masks. Ask no more of the Moranth, wolf. They are fallen and unrepentant. No more.’

‘Very well, Cafal.’ Itkovian slowly straightened. ‘But the past refuses to remain buried – as you see here. The past hides restless truths, too, unpleasant truths as well as joyous ones. Once the effort of unveiling has begun … Sir, there is no going back.’

‘I have reached that understanding,’ the Barghast warrior growled. ‘As my father warned us – in success, we shall find seeds of despair.’

‘I should like to meet Humbrall Taur someday,’ Itkovian murmured.

‘My father can crush a man’s chest in his embrace. He can wield hook-swords in both hands and slay ten warriors in a span of heartbeats. Yet what the clans fear most in their warleader is his intelligence. Of his ten children, Hetan is most like him in that wit.’

‘She affects a blunt forthrightness.’

Cafal grunted. ‘As does our father. I warn you now, Shield Anvil, she has lowered her lance in your direction and sighted along its length. You shall not escape. She will bed you despite all your vows, and then you shall belong to her.’

‘You are mistaken, Cafal.’

The Barghast bared his filed teeth, said nothing.

You too have your father’s wit, Cafal, as you deftly turn me away from the ancient secrets of the Barghast with yet another bold assault on my honour.

A dozen paces behind them, Hetan rose and faced the ring of priests and priestesses lining the edge of the floor. ‘You may return the slabs of stone. The removal of the Founding Spirits’ remains must wait—’

Rath’Shadowthrone snorted. ‘Until when? Until the Pannions have completed razing the city? Why not call upon your father and have him bring down the clans of the Barghast? Have him break the siege, and then you and your kin can cart away these bones in peace and with our blessing!’

‘No. Fight your own war.’

‘The Pannions shall devour you once we’re gone!’ Rath’Shadowthrone shrieked. ‘You are fools! You, your father! Your clans! All fools!’

Hetan grinned. ‘Is it panic I see on your god’s face?’

The priest hunched suddenly, rasped, ‘Shadowthrone never panics.’

‘Then it must be the mortal man behind the façade,’ Hetan concluded with a triumphant sneer.

Hissing, Rath’Shadowthrone wheeled and pushed through his comrades, his sandals flapping as he hurried from the chamber.

Hetan clambered up from the pit. ‘I am done here. Cafal! We return to the barracks!’