The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (365 page)

The squad checked the fittings one more time, then marched away.

There was no shade, though buckets of well-water had been positioned at intervals down the line. Karsa remained standing for a time, then finally settled down to sit with his back against the wall, matching the position of most of the other prisoners. There was little in the way of conversation as the day slowly dragged on. Towards late afternoon shade finally reached them, though the relief was momentary, as biting flies soon descended.

As the sky darkened overhead, the blue-eyed native stirred, then said in a low voice, ‘Giant, I have a proposal for you.'

Karsa grunted. ‘What?'

‘It's said that the mining camps are corrupt, meaning one can carve out favours—make life easier. The kind of place where it pays to have someone guarding your back. I suggest a partnership.'

Karsa thought about it, then he nodded. ‘Agreed. But if you attempt to betray me, I will kill you.'

‘I could see no other answer to betrayal,' the man said.

‘I am done talking,' Karsa said.

‘Good, so am I.'

He thought to ask the man's name, but there would be time enough for that later. For now, he was content to stretch the silence, to give space for his thoughts. It seemed Urugal was willing him to these otataral mines after all. Karsa would have preferred a more direct—a simpler—journey, such as the one the Malazans had originally intended.
Too many blood-soaked digressions, Urugal. Enough.

Night arrived. A pair of soldiers appeared with lanterns and sauntered down the line of prisoners, checking the fetters one more time, before heading off to the barracks. From where he slumped, Karsa could see a handful of soldiers stationed at the gate, whilst at least one patrolled the walkway along each wall. Two more stood outside the steps of the headquarters.

The Teblor settled his head against the stone wall and closed his eyes.

Some time later he opened them again. He had slept. The sky was overcast, the compound a mottled pattern of light and darkness. Something had awoken him. He made to stand but a hand stayed him. He looked over to see the native huddled motionless beside him—head lowered as if still asleep. The hand on the Teblor's arm tightened a moment, then withdrew.

Frowning, Karsa settled back. And then he saw.

The guards at the gate were gone, as were those outside the headquarters. Along the wall walkways…no-one.

Then, alongside a nearby building—movement, a figure sliding through shadows in silence, followed by another, padding along with far less stealth, one gloved hand reaching up to steady itself every now and then.

The two were making directly for Karsa.

Swathed in black cloth, the lead figure halted a few paces from the wall. The other moved up alongside it, then edged past. Hands lifted, slipped back a black hood—

Torvald Nom.

Bloodstained bandages encircling his neck, the face above it deathly pale and gleaming with sweat, but the Daru was grinning.

He drew up to Karsa's side. ‘Time to go, friend,' he whispered, raising something that looked very much like a shackle key.

‘Who is with you?' Karsa whispered back.

‘Oh, a motley collection indeed. Gral tribesmen here doing the sneaky work, and agents from their main trading partner here in Ehrlitan…' His eyes glittered. ‘The House of Nom, no less. Oh, aye, the thread of blood between us is thin as a virgin's hair, but it is being honoured none the less. Indeed, with delighted vigour. Now, enough words—as you are wont to say—we don't want to wake anyone else—'

‘Too late,' murmured the man chained beside Karsa.

The Gral behind Torvald moved forward, but halted at a strange, elaborate series of gestures from the prisoner.

Torvald grunted. ‘That damned silent language.'

‘It is agreed,' the prisoner said. ‘I will be going with you.'

‘And if you wasn't, you'd be sounding the alarm.'

The man said nothing.

After a moment, Torvald shrugged. ‘So be it. All this talk and I'm surprised everyone else in this line isn't awake—'

‘They would be, only they're all dead.' The prisoner beside Karsa slowly straightened. ‘No-one likes criminals. Gral have a particular hatred for them, it seems.'

A second tribesman, who had been moving along the line, reached them. A large, curved knife was in one hand, slick with blood. More hand gestures, then the newcomer sheathed his weapon.

Muttering under his breath, Torvald crouched to unlock Karsa's shackles.

‘You are as hard to kill as a Teblor,' Karsa murmured.

‘Thank Hood that Arak was distracted at the time. Even so, if not for the Gral, I'd have bled to death.'

‘Why did they save you?'

‘The Gral like to ransom people. Of course, if they turn out worthless, they kill them. The trading partnership with the House of Nom took precedence over all that, of course.'

Torvald moved on to the other prisoner.

Karsa stood, rubbing his wrists. ‘What kind of trade?'

The Daru flashed a grin. ‘Brokering the ransoms.'

Moments later they were moving through the darkness towards the front gate, skirting the patches of light. Near the gatehouse a half-dozen bodies had been dragged up against the wall. The ground was soaked black with blood.

Three more Gral joined them. One by one, the group slipped through the gateway and into the street beyond. They crossed to an alley and made their way down to the far end, where they halted.

Torvald laid a hand on Karsa's arm. ‘Friend, where would you go now? My own return to Genabackis will be delayed awhile. My kin here have embraced me with open arms—a unique experience for me, and I plan on savouring it. Alas, the Gral won't take you—you're too recognizable.'

‘He will come with me,' the blue-eyed native said. ‘To a place of safety.'

Torvald looked up at Karsa, brows rising.

The Teblor shrugged. ‘It is clear that I cannot be hidden in this city; nor will I further endanger you or your kin, Torvald Nom. If this man proves unworthy I need only kill him.'

‘How long until the compound guards are changed?' the blue-eyed man asked.

‘A bell at least, so you will have plenty—'

Sudden alarms shattered the night, from the direction of the Malazan garrison.

The Gral seemed to vanish before Karsa's eyes, so quickly did they scatter. ‘Torvald Nom, for all you have done for me, I thank you—'

The Daru scurried over to a pile of rubbish in the alley. He swept it aside, then lifted into view Karsa's bloodsword. ‘Here, friend.' He tossed the sword into the Teblor's hands. ‘Come to Darujhistan in a few years' time.'

A final wave, then the Daru was gone.

The blue-eyed man—who had collected a sword from one of the dead guards—now gestured. ‘Stay close. There are ways out of Ehrlitan the Malazans know nothing of. Follow, and quietly.'

He set off. Karsa slipped into his wake.

Their route twisted through the lower city, down countless alleys, some so narrow that the Teblor was forced to sidle sideways along their crooked lengths. Karsa had thought that his guide would lead them towards the docks, or perhaps the outer walls facing onto the wasteland to the south. Instead, they climbed towards the single massive hill at Ehrlitan's heart, and before long were moving through the rubble of countless collapsed buildings.

They arrived at the battered base of a tower, the native not hesitating as he ducked in through the gaping, dark doorway. Following, Karsa found himself in a cramped chamber, its floor uneven with heaved flagstones. A second portal was barely visible opposite the entrance, and at its threshold the man paused.

‘Mebra!' he hissed.

There was movement, then: ‘Is it you? Dryjhna bless us, I had heard that you had been captured—ah, the alarms down below…well done—'

‘Enough of that. Do the provisions remain in the tunnels?'

‘Of course! Always. Including your own cache—'

‘Good, now move aside. I've someone with me.'

Beyond the portal was a rough series of stone steps, descending into even deeper darkness. Karsa sensed the man Mebra's presence as he edged past, heard his sharp intake of breath.

The blue-eyed man below the Teblor halted suddenly. ‘Oh, and Mebra, tell no-one you have seen us—not even your fellow servants to the cause. Understand?'

‘Of course.'

The two fugitives continued on, leaving Mebra behind. The stairs continued down, until Karsa had begun to think that they were approaching the bowels of the earth. When it finally levelled out, the air was heavy with damp, smelling of salt, and the stones underfoot were wet and streaked in slime. At the tunnel's mouth a number of niches had been carved into the limestone walls, each one holding leather packs and travel gear.

Karsa watched as his companion strode quickly to one niche in particular. After a moment's examination, he dropped the Malazan sword he had been carrying and drew forth a pair of objects that moved with the sound of rustling chain.

‘Take that food-pack,' the man instructed, nodding towards a nearby niche. ‘And you will find a telaba or two—clothes—and weapon-belts and harnesses—leave the lanterns, the tunnel ahead is long but has no branches.'

‘Where does it lead?'

‘Out,' the man replied.

Karsa fell silent. He disliked the extent to which his life was in this native's hands, but it seemed that, for the time being, there was nothing he could do about it. Seven Cities was a stranger place than even the Genabackan cities of Malyntaeas and Genabaris. The lowlanders filled this world like vermin—more tribes
than the Teblor had thought possible, and it was clear that none liked each other. While that was a sentiment Karsa well understood—for tribes should dislike each other—it was also obvious that, among the lowlanders, there was no sense of any other sort of loyalty. Karsa was Uryd, but he was also Teblor. The lowlanders seemed so obsessed with their differences that they had no comprehension of what unified them.

A flaw that could be exploited.

The pace set by Karsa's guide was fierce, and though most of the damage done to the Teblor was well along in healing, his reserves of strength and stamina were not what they had once been. After a time, the distance between the two began to lengthen, and eventually Karsa found himself travelling alone through the impenetrable darkness, one hand on the rough-hewn wall to his right, hearing only the sounds of his own passage. The air was no longer damp, and he could taste dust in his mouth.

The wall suddenly vanished under his hand. Karsa stumbled, drew to a halt.

‘You did well,' the native said from somewhere on the Teblor's left. ‘Running hunched over as you had to be…not an easy task. Look up.'

He did, and slowly straightened. There were stars overhead.

‘We're in a gully,' the man continued. ‘It will be dawn before we climb out of it. Then it's five, maybe six days across the Pan'potsun Odhan. The Malazans will be after us, of course, so we will have to be careful. Rest awhile. Drink some water—the sun is a demon and will steal your life if it can. Our route will take us from one place of water to the next, so we need not suffer.'

‘You know this land,' Karsa said. ‘I do not.' He raised his sword. ‘But know this, I will not be taken prisoner again.'

‘That's the spirit,' the lowlander replied.

‘That is not what I meant.'

The man laughed. ‘I know. If you so wish it, once we are clear of this gully you may go in any direction you like. What I have offered you is the best chance of surviving. There is more than recapture by the Malazans to worry about in this land. Travel with me, and you shall learn how to survive. But as I said, the choice is yours. Now, shall we proceed?'

 

Dawn arrived to the world above before the two fugitives reached the end of the gully. While they could see bright blue sky overhead, they continued walking through chill shadows. The means of exit was marked by a tumbled scree of boulders where a past flood had undercut one wall sufficiently to trigger a collapse.

Clambering up the slope, they emerged onto a heat-blasted land of weathered crags, sand-filled riverbeds, cacti and thorny bushes, the sun blindingly bright, making the air shimmer in all directions. There was no-one in sight, nor was there any sign that the area was inhabited by anything other than wild creatures.

The lowlander led Karsa southwestward, their route circuitous, making use of every form of cover available and avoiding ridges or hilltops that would set them
against the sky. Neither spoke, saving their breath in the enervating heat as the day stretched on.

Late in the afternoon, the lowlander halted suddenly and turned. He hissed a curse in his native language, then said, ‘Horsemen.'

Karsa swung round, but could see no-one in the desolate landscape behind them.

‘Feel them underfoot,' the man muttered. ‘So, Mebra has turned. Well, one day I will answer that betrayal.'

And now Karsa could sense, through the callused soles of his bared feet, the tremble of distant horse hoofs. ‘If you'd suspected this Mebra why did you not kill him?'

‘If I killed everyone I was suspicious about I'd have scant company. I needed proof, and now I have it.'

‘Unless he told someone else.'

‘Then he's either a traitor or stupid—both lead to the same fatal consequence. Come, we need to make this a challenge for the Malazans.'

They set off. The lowlander was unerring in choosing paths that left no footprints or other signs of passage. Despite this, the sound of the riders drew ever nearer. ‘There's a mage among them,' the lowlander muttered as they raced across yet another stretch of bedrock.

‘If we can avoid them until nightfall,' Karsa said, ‘then I shall become the hunter and they the hunted.'

‘There's at least twenty of them. We're better off using the darkness to stretch the distance between us. See those mountains to the southwest? That is our destination. If we can reach the hidden passes, we will be safe.'