The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (364 page)

Damisk held a knife. He quickly cut at the bindings holding Karsa to the travois. ‘No easy out for you,' he hissed. ‘We're leaving. By warren, and we're taking you with us. Silgar's decided to make you his plaything. A lifetime of torture—'

‘Enough babbling!' Silgar snapped. ‘They're almost all dead! Hurry!'

Damisk cut the last rope.

Karsa laughed, then managed to form words. ‘What would you have me do now? Run?'

Snarling, Silgar moved closer. There was a flare of blue light, then the three of them were plunging into fetid, warm water.

Unable to swim, the weight of his chains dragging him down, Karsa sank into the midnight depths. He felt a tug on his chains, then saw a second flash of lurid light.

His head, then his back, struck hard cobbles. Dazed, he rolled onto his side. Silgar and Damisk, both coughing, knelt nearby. They were on a street, flanked on one side by enormous warehouses, and on the other by stone jetties and moored ships. At the moment, there was no-one else in sight.

Silgar spat, then said, ‘Damisk, get those shackles off him—he bears no criminal brand, so the Malazans won't see him as a slave. I won't be arrested again—not after all this. The bastard is ours, but we've got to get him off the street. We've got to hide.'

Karsa watched Damisk crawl to his side, fumbling with keys. Watched as the Nathii unlocked the shackles on his wrists, then his ankles. A moment later, the pain struck as blood flowed back into near-dead flesh. The Teblor screamed.

Silgar unleashed magic once more, a wave that descended on the Teblor like a blanket—that he tore off with unthinking ease, his shrieks slicing into the night air, echoing back from nearby buildings, ringing out across the crowded harbour.

‘You there!' Malazan words, a bellow, then the swiftly approaching clash and clatter of armoured soldiers.

‘An escaped slave, sirs!' Silgar said hastily. ‘We have—as you can see—just recaptured him—'

‘Escaped slave? Let's see his brand—'

The last words Karsa registered, as the pain in his hands and feet sent him plummeting into oblivion.

 

He awoke to Malazan words being spoken directly above him. ‘…extraordinary. I've never seen natural healing such as this. His hands and feet—those shackles were on for some time, Sergeant. On a normal man I'd be cutting them off right now.'

Another voice spoke, ‘Are all Fenn such as this one?'

‘Not that I've ever heard. Assuming he's Fenn.'

‘Well, what else would he be? He's as tall as two Dal Honese put together.'

‘I wouldn't know, Sergeant. Before I was posted here, the only place I knew well was six twisting streets in Li Heng. Even the Fenn was just a name and some vague description about them being giants. Giants no-one's seen for decades at that. The point is, this slave was in bad shape when you first brought him in. Beaten pretty fierce, and someone punched him in the ribs hard enough to crack bones—wouldn't want to cross whoever that was. For all that, the swelling's already down on his face—despite what I've just done to it—and the bruises are damned near fading in front of our eyes.'

Continuing to feign unconsciousness, Karsa listened to the speaker stepping back, then the sergeant asking, ‘So the bastard's not in danger of dying, then.'

‘Not that I can see.'

‘Good enough, Healer. You can return to the barracks.'

‘Aye, sir.'

Various movement, boots on flagstones, the clang of an iron-barred door; then, as these echoes dwindled, the Teblor heard, closer by, the sound of breathing.

In the distance there was some shouting, faint and muted by intervening walls of stone, yet Karsa thought he recognized the voice as belonging to the slavemaster, Silgar. The Teblor opened his eyes. A low, smoke-stained ceiling—not high enough to permit him to stand upright. He was lying on a straw-littered, greasy floor. There was virtually no light, apart from a dim glow reaching in from the walkway beyond the barred door.

His face hurt, a strange stinging sensation prickling on his cheeks, forehead and along his jaw.

Karsa sat up.

There was someone else in the small, windowless cell, hunched in a dark corner. The figure grunted and said something in one of the languages of the Seven Cities.

A dull ache remained in Karsa's hands and feet. The inside of his mouth was dry and felt burnt, as if he'd just swallowed hot sand. He rubbed at his tingling face.

A moment later the man tried Malazan, ‘You'd likely understand me if you were Fenn.'

‘I understand you, but I am not one of these Fenn.'

‘I said it sounds like your master isn't enjoying his stay in the stocks.'

‘He has been arrested?'

‘Of course. The Malazans like arresting people. You'd no brand. At the time. Keeping you as a slave is therefore illegal under imperial law.'

‘Then they should release me.'

‘Little chance of that. Your master confessed that you were being sent to the otataral mines. You were on a ship out of Genabaris that you'd cursed, said curse then leading to the ship's destruction and the deaths of the crew and the marines. The local garrison is only half-convinced by that tale, but that's sufficient—you're on your way to the island. As am I.'

Karsa rose. The low ceiling forced him to stand hunched over. He made his way, hobbling, to the barred door.

‘Aye, you could probably batter it down,' the stranger said. ‘But then you'll be cut down before you manage three steps from this gaol. We're in the middle of the Malazan compound. Besides, we're about to be taken outside in any case, to join the prisoners' line chained to a wall. In the morning, they'll march us down to the imperial jetty and load us onto a transport.'

‘How long have I been unconscious?'

‘The night you were carried in, the day after, the next night. It's now midday.'

‘And the slavemaster has been in the stocks all this time?'

‘Most of it.'

‘Good,' Karsa growled. ‘What of his companion? The same?'

‘The same.'

‘And what crime have you committed?' Karsa asked.

‘I consort with dissidents. Of course,' he added, ‘I am innocent.'

‘Can you not prove that?'

‘Prove what?'

‘Your innocence.'

‘I could if I was.'

The Teblor glanced back at the figure crouched in the corner. ‘Are you, by any chance, from Darujhistan?'

‘Darujhistan? No, why do you ask?'

Karsa shrugged. He thought back to Torvald Nom's death. There was a coldness surrounding the memory, but he could sense all that it held at bay. The time for surrender, however, was not now.

The barred door was set in an iron frame, the frame fixed to the stone blocks with large iron bolts. The Teblor gave it a shake. Dust sifted out from around the bolts, pattered onto the floor.

‘I see you're a man who ignores advice,' the stranger observed.

‘These Malazans are careless.'

‘Overconfident, I'd suggest. Then again, perhaps not. They've had dealings with Fenn, with Trell, Barghast—a whole host of oversized barbarians. They're tough, and sharper than they let on. They put an otataral anklet on that slavemaster—no magic from him any more—'

Karsa turned. ‘What is this “otataral” everyone speaks of?'

‘A bane to magic.'

‘And it must be mined.'

‘Yes. It's usually a powder, found in layers, like sandstone. Resembles rust.'

‘We scrape a red powder from cliffsides to make our blood-oil,' the Teblor murmured.

‘What is blood-oil?'

‘We rub it into our swords, and into our armour. To bring on battle madness, we taste it.'

The stranger was silent for a moment, though Karsa could feel the man's eyes on him. ‘And how well does magic work against you?'

‘Those who attack me with sorcery usually reveal surprise on their faces…just before I kill them.'

‘Well now, that is interesting. It is believed that otataral is only found on the single large island east of here. The empire controls its production. Tightly. Their mages learned the hard way during the conquest, in the battles before the T'lan Imass got involved. If not for the T'lan Imass, the invasion would have failed. I have some more advice for you. Reveal nothing of this to the Malazans. If they discover there is another source of otataral, a source they do not control, well, they will send into your homeland—wherever that is—every regiment they possess. They will crush your people. Utterly.'

Karsa shrugged. ‘The Teblor have many enemies.'

The stranger slowly sat straighter. ‘Teblor? That is what you call yourselves?
Teblor?
' After a moment, he leaned back again, and softly laughed.

‘What do you find so amusing?'

An outer door clanged open, and Karsa stepped back from the barred door as a squad of soldiers appeared. The three at the front had unsheathed their swords, while the four behind them held large, cocked crossbows. One of the swordsmen
stepped up to the door. He paused upon seeing Karsa. ‘Careful,' he called to his companions, ‘the savage has awakened.' He studied the Teblor and said, ‘Do nothing stupid, Fenn. It matters nothing to us whether you live or die—the mines are crowded enough for them not to miss you. Understand me?'

Karsa bared his teeth, said nothing.

‘You there, in the corner, on your feet. It's time for some sunshine.'

The stranger slowly straightened. He was wearing little more than rags. Lean and dark-skinned, his eyes were a startling light blue. ‘I demand a proper trial, as is my right under imperial law.'

The guardsman laughed. ‘Give it up. You've been identified. We know precisely who you are. Aye, your secret organization is not as seamless as you might think. Betrayed by one of your own—how does that feel? Let's go, you come out first. Jibb, you and Gullstream keep your crossbows on that Fenn—I don't like his smile. Especially now,' he added.

‘Oh look,' another soldier said, ‘you've confused the poor ox. Bet he doesn't even know his entire face is one big tattoo. Scrawl did good work, though. Best I've seen in a long while.'

‘Right,' another drawled, ‘and how many escaped prisoner tattoos have you seen, Jibb?'

‘Just one, and it's a work of art.'

The source of the stinging sensation on Karsa's face was revealed now. He reached up, seeking to feel something of the pattern, and slowly began tracing lines of slightly raised, damp strips of raw skin. They were not contiguous. He could make no sense of what the tattoo portrayed.

‘Shattered,' the other prisoner said as he walked over to the door, which the first guard unlocked and swung open. ‘The brand makes your face look like it's been shattered.'

Two guards escorted the man outside, whilst the others, nervously eyeing Karsa, waited for their return. One of the crossbowmen, whose high forehead revealed white blotches—leading the Teblor to speculate that he was the one named Gullstream—leaned back against the opposite wall and said, ‘I don't know, I'm thinking Scrawl made it too big—he was ugly enough to start with, now he looks damned terrifying.'

‘So what?' another guard drawled. ‘There's plenty of hill-grubbing savages that carve up their own faces to frighten weak-kneed recruits like you, Gullstream. Barghast and Semk and Khundryl, but they all break against a Malazan legion just the same.'

‘Well, ain't none of them being routed these days, though, are they?'

‘That's only because the Fist's cowering in his keep and wants us all to put 'im to bed every night. Nobleborn officers—what do you expect?'

‘Might change when the reinforcements arrive,' Gullstream suggested. ‘The Ashok Regiment knows these parts—'

‘And that's the problem,' the other retorted. ‘If this rebellion actually happens this time, who's to say they won't turn renegade? We could get smilin' throats in
our own barracks. It's bad enough with the Red Blades stirrin' things up in the streets…'

The guards returned.

‘You, Fenn, now it's your turn. Make it easy for us and it'll be easy for you. Walk. Slow. Not too close. And trust me, the mines ain't so bad, considering the alternatives. All right, come forward now.'

Karsa saw no reason to give them trouble.

They emerged onto a sunlit compound. Thick, high walls surrounded the broad parade ground. A number of squat, solid-looking buildings projected out from three of the four walls; along the fourth wall there was a line of prisoners shackled to a heavy chain that ran its entire length, bolted to the foundation stones at regular intervals. Near the heavily fortified gate was a row of stocks, of which only two were occupied—Silgar and Damisk. On the slavemaster's right ankle there glinted a copper-coloured ring.

Neither man had lifted his head at Karsa's appearance, and the Teblor considered shouting to attract their attention; instead, he simply bared his teeth at seeing their plight. As the guards escorted him to the line of chained prisoners, Karsa turned to the one named Jibb and spoke in Malazan. ‘What will be the slavemaster's fate?'

The man's helmed head jerked up in surprise. Then he shrugged. ‘Ain't been decided yet. He claims to be rich back in Genabackis.'

Karsa sneered. ‘He can buy his way out from his crimes, then.'

‘Not under imperial law—if they're serious crimes, that is. Might be he'll just be fined. He may be a merchant who deals in flesh, but he's still a merchant. Always best to bleed 'em where it hurts most.'

‘Enough jawing, Jibb,' another guard growled.

They approached one end of the line, where oversized shackles had been attached. Once more, Karsa found himself in irons, though these were not tight enough to cause him pain. The Teblor noted that he was beside the blue-eyed native.