The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (280 page)

The Rhivi woman sat above her now, steadily pulling the horn comb through the Mhybe’s hair, humming a child’s song. A woman the Mhybe remembered from her other life. Old, she had seemed back then, a hapless woman who had been kicked in the head by a bhederin and so lived in a simple world.

I’d thought it simple. But that was just one more illusion. No, she lives amidst unknowns, amidst things she cannot comprehend. It is a world of terror. She sings to fend off the fear born of her own ignorance. Given tasks to keep her busy.

Before I had come along for her, this woman had helped prepare corpses. After all, the spirits worked through such childlike adults. Through her, the spirits could come close to the fallen, and so comfort them and guide them into the world of the ancestors.

It could be nothing other than malice, the Mhybe concluded, to have set this woman upon her. Possibly, she was not even aware that the subject of her attentions was still alive. The woman met no-one’s eyes, ever. Recognition had fled with the kick of a bhederin’s hoof.

The comb dragged back and forth, back and forth. The humming continued its ceaseless round.

Spirits below, I would rather even your terror of the unknown. Rather that, than the knowledge of my daughter’s betrayal – the wolves she has set upon me, to pursue me in my dreams. The wolves, which are her hunger. The hunger, which has already devoured my youth and now seeks yet more. As if anything’s left. Am I to be naught but food for my daughter’s burgeoning life? A final meal, a mother reduced to nothing more than sustenance?

Ah, Silverfox, are you every daughter? Am I every mother? There have been no rituals severing our lives – we have forgotten the meaning behind the Rhivi ways, the true reasons for those rituals. I ever yield. And you suckle in ceaseless demand. And so we are trapped, pulled deeper and deeper, you and I.

To carry a child is to age in one’s bones. To weary one’s blood. To stretch skin and flesh. Birthing splits a woman in two, the division a thing of raw agony. Splitting young from old. And the child needs, and the mother gives.

I have never weaned you, Silverfox. Indeed, you have never left my womb. You, daughter, draw far more than just milk.

Spirits, please, grant me surcease. This cruel parody of motherhood is too much to bear. Sever me from my daughter. For her sake. My milk is become poison. I can feed naught but spite, for there is nothing else within me. And I remain a young woman in this aged body—

The comb caught on a snarl, tugging her head back. The Mhybe hissed in pain, shot a glare up at the woman above her. Her heart suddenly lurched.

Their gazes were locked.

The woman, who looked at no-one, was looking at her.

I, a young woman in an old woman’s body. She, a child in a woman’s body—

Two prisons, in perfect reflection.

Eyes locked.

*   *   *

‘Dear lass, you look weary. Settle here with magnanimous Kruppe and he will pour you some of this steaming herbal brew.’

‘I will, thank you.’

Kruppe smiled, watching Silverfox slowly lower herself onto the ground and lean back against the spare saddle, the small hearth between them. The well-rounded curves of the woman were visible through the worn deer-leather tunic. ‘So where are your friends?’ she asked.

‘Gambling. With the crew of the Trygalle Trade Guild. Kruppe, for some odd reason, has been barred from such games. An outrage.’ The Daru handed her a tin cup. ‘Mostly sage, alas. If you’ve a cough—’

‘I haven’t, but it’s welcome anyway.’

‘Kruppe, of course, never coughs.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Why, because he drinks sage tea.’

Her brown eyes slipped past his and settled on the wagon a dozen paces away. ‘How does she fare?’

Kruppe’s brows lifted. ‘You might ask her, lass.’

‘I can’t. I can be nothing other than an abomination for my mother – her stolen youth, in the flesh. She despises me, with good reason, especially now that Korlat’s told her about my T’lan Ay.’

‘Kruppe wonders, do you now doubt the journey undertaken?’

Silverfox shook her head, sipped at the tea. ‘It’s too late for that. The problem persists – as you well know. Besides, our journey is done. Only hers remains.’

‘You dissemble,’ Kruppe murmured. ‘Your journey is anything but done, Silverfox. But let us leave that subject for the moment, yes? Have you gleaned news of the dreadful battle?’

‘It’s over. The Pannion forces are no more. Barring a couple of hundred thousand poorly armed peasants. The White Faces have liberated Capustan – what’s left of it, that is. The Bridgeburners are already in the city. More pressing: Brood has called a council – you might be interested in attending that.’

‘Indeed, if only to bless the gathering with Kruppe’s awesome wisdom. What of you – are you not also attending?’

Silverfox smiled. ‘As you said earlier, Daru, my journey’s not quite over.’

‘Ah, yes. Kruppe wishes you well in that, lass. And dearly hopes he will see you again soon.’

The woman’s eyes glanced once more at the wagon. ‘You will, friend,’ she replied, then drained her tea and rose with a soft sigh.

Kruppe saw her hesitate. ‘Lass? Is something wrong?’

‘Uh, I’m not sure.’ Her expression was troubled. ‘A part of me desires to accompany you to that council. A sudden urge, in fact.’

The Daru’s small eyes narrowed. ‘A part of you, Silverfox?’

‘Aye, inviting the question:
which
part? Whose soul within me now twitches with suspicion? Who senses that sparks are about to fly in this alliance of ours? Gods, even worse, it’s as if I know precisely
why
 … but I don’t.’

‘Tattersail doesn’t, yes? Leaving Nightchill and Bellurdan as potential candidates possessing prescient knowledge fraught with dire motivation. Uh, perhaps that can be said a simpler way—’

‘Never mind, Kruppe.’

‘You are torn, Silverfox, to put it bluntly. Consider this: will a minor delay in seeking your destiny unduly affect its outcome? Can you, in other words, spare the time to come with me to the warlord’s command tent?’

She studied him. ‘You’ve a hunch as well, don’t you?’

‘If a rift is imminent, lass, then your personage could prove essential, for you are the bridge indeed between these formidable camps.’

‘I – I don’t trust Nightchill, Kruppe.’

‘Most mortals occasionally fail in trusting parts of themselves. Excepting Kruppe, of course, whose well-earned confidence is absolute. In any case, conflicting instincts are woven in our natures, excepting Kruppe, of—’

‘Yes, yes. All right. Let’s go.’

*   *   *

A slash of darkness opened in the canvas wall. The mild breath of Kurald Galain flowed into the command tent, dimming the lanterns. Anomander Rake strode through. The midnight rent closed silently behind him. The lanterns flared back into life.

Brood’s wide, flat face twisted. ‘You are late,’ he growled. ‘The Malazans are already on their way.’

Shrugging the black leather cape from his shoulders, the Lord of Moon’s Spawn said, ‘What of it? Or am I to adjudicate yet again?’

Her back to one side of the tent wall, Korlat cleared her throat. ‘There have been … revelations, Lord. The alliance itself is in question.’

A dry snort came from Kallor, the last person present. ‘In question? We’ve been lied to from the very start. A swift strike against Onearm’s Host – before it’s had a chance to recover from today’s battles – is imperative.’

Korlat watched her master study his allies in silence.

After a long moment, Rake smiled. ‘Dear Caladan, if by lying you are referring to the hidden hand of the Empress – the daggers poised behind the backs of Dujek Onearm and Whiskeyjack – well, it would seem that, should action be required – which I add I do not believe to be the case – our position should be one of intervention. On behalf of Dujek and Whiskeyjack, that is. Unless, of course’ – his eyes flattened on Brood – ‘you are no longer confident of their capabilities as commanders.’ He slowly withdrew his gauntlets. ‘Yet Crone’s report to me of today’s engagement was characterized by naught but grudging praise. The Malazans were professional, perfunctory and relentless. Precisely as we would have them.’

‘It’s not their fighting ability that is the problem,’ Kallor rasped. ‘This was to be a war of liberation—’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ Rake muttered. ‘Is there wine or ale? Who will join me in a drink?’

Brood grunted. ‘Aye, pour me one, Rake. But let it be known, whilst Kallor has uttered foolish statements in the past, he did not do so now. Liberation. The Pannion Domin—’

‘Is just another empire,’ the Lord of Moon’s Spawn drawled. ‘And as such, its power represents a threat. Which we are intending to obliterate. Liberation of the commonalty may well result, but it cannot be our goal. Free an adder and it will still bite you, given the chance.’

‘So we are to crush the Pannion Seer, only to have some High Fist of the Malazan Empire take his place?’

Rake handed the warlord a cup of wine. The Tiste Andii’s eyes were veiled, almost sleepy as he studied Brood. ‘The Domin is an empire that sows horror and oppression among its own people,’ Rake said. ‘None of us here would deny that. Thus, for ethical reasons alone, there was just cause for marching upon it.’

‘Which is what we’ve been saying all along—’

‘I heard you the first time, Kallor. Your penchant for repetition is wearisome. I have described but one … excuse. One
reason.
Yet it appears that you have all allowed that reason to overwhelm all others, whilst to my mind it is the
least
in importance.’ He sipped his wine, then continued. ‘However, let us stay with it for a moment. Horror and oppression, the face of the Pannion Domin. Consider, if you will, those cities and territories on Genabackis that are now under Malazan rule. Horror? No more so than mortals must daily face in their normal lives. Oppression? Every government requires laws, and from what I can tell Malazan laws are, if anything, among the least repressive of any empire I have known.

‘Now. The Seer is removed, a High Fist and Malazan-style governance replaces it. The result? Peace, reparation, law, order.’ He scanned the others, then slowly raised a single eyebrow. ‘Fifteen years ago, Genabaris was a fetid sore on the northwest coast, and Nathilog even worse. And now, under Malazan rule? Rivals to Darujhistan herself. If you truly wish the best for the common citizens of Pannion, why do you not
welcome
the Empress?

‘Instead, Dujek and Whiskeyjack are forced into an elaborate charade to win us as allies. They’re soldiers, in case you’ve forgotten. Soldiers are given orders. If they don’t like them, that’s just too bad. If it means a false proclamation of outlawry – without letting every private in the army in on the secret and thereby eliminating the chance of it ever
remaining
a secret – then a good soldier grits his teeth and gets on with it.

‘The truth is simple – to me at least. Brood, you and I, we have fought the Malazans as liberators in truth. Asking no coin, no land. Our motives aren’t even clear to us – imagine how they must seem to the Empress? Inexplicable. We appear to be bound to lofty ideals, to nearly outrageous notions of self-sacrifice. We are her enemy, and I don’t think
she even knows why.
’

‘Sing me the Abyss,’ Kallor sneered. ‘In her Empire there would be no place for us – not one of us.’

‘Does that surprise you?’ Rake asked. ‘We cannot be controlled. The truth laid bare is we fight for our own freedom. No borders for Moon’s Spawn. No world-spanning peace that would make warlords and generals and mercenary companies obsolete. We fight against the imposition of order and the mailed fist that must hide behind it, because we’re not the ones wielding that fist.’

‘Nor would I ever wish to,’ Brood growled.

‘Precisely. So why begrudge the Empress possessing the desire and its attendant responsibilities?’

Korlat stared at her Lord. Stunned once again, thrown off-balance yet one more time.
The Draconian blood within him. He does not think as we do. Is it that blood? Or something else?
She had no answer, no true understanding of the man she followed. A sudden welling of pride filled her.
He is the Son of Darkness. A master worth swearing fealty to – perhaps the only one. For me. For the Tiste Andii.

Caladan Brood let out a gusting sigh. ‘Pour me another, damn you.’

‘I shall set aside my disgust,’ Kallor said, rising from his chair in a rustle of chain armour, ‘and voice a subject only marginally related to what’s been said thus far. Capustan has been cleansed. Before us, the river. South of that, three cities to march on. To do so in succession as a single army will slow us considerably. Setta, in particular, is not on our path to Coral. So, the army must divide in two, meeting again south of Lest and Setta, perhaps at Maurik, before striking for Coral. Now, the question: along what lines do we divide?’

‘A reasonable subject,’ Rake murmured, ‘for discussion at this pending meeting.’

‘And none other, aye,’ Caladan Brood rumbled. ‘Won’t they be surprised?’

They will indeed.
Regret seeped through Korlat’s thoughts.
And more, I have done Whiskeyjack an injustice. I hope it is not too late to make reparations. It is not well for a Tiste Andii to judge in haste. My vision was clouded. Clouded? No, more like a storm. Of emotions, born of need and of love. Can you forgive me, Whiskeyjack?

The tent flap was drawn back and the two Malazan commanders entered, trailed by the standard-bearer, Artanthos. Dujek’s face was dark. ‘Sorry we were delayed,’ he growled. ‘I have just been informed that the Tenescowri are on the move. Straight for us.’

Korlat sought to meet Whiskeyjack’s eyes, but the man was studying the warlord as he added, ‘Expect another battle, at dawn. A messy one.’

‘Leave that to me,’ Anomander Rake drawled.

The voice pulled Whiskeyjack round in surprise. ‘Lord, forgive me. I didn’t see you. I’m afraid I was somewhat … preoccupied.’