The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (523 page)

‘Rats.'

‘Well done, Bugg. I knew I could count on you. Thus, we began with recognizing the need for a leader. Powerful, dynamic, charismatic, dangerous.'

‘A criminal mastermind with plenty of thugs to enforce his or her will.'

Tehol frowned. ‘Your choice of words disappoints me, Bugg.'

‘You?'

‘Me? Of course not. Well, not directly, that is. A truly successful leader is a reluctant leader. Not one whose every word is greeted with frenzied cheering either—after all, what happens to the mind of such a leader, after such scenes are repeated again and again? A growing certainty, a belief in one's own infallibility, and onward goes the march into disaster. No, Bugg, I won't have anyone kissing my feet—'

‘I'm relieved to hear that, master, since those feet have not known soap in a long, long time.'

‘The body eventually resumes its own natural cleansing mechanisms, Bugg.'

‘Like shedding?'

‘Exactly. In any case, I was speaking of leadership in a general sort of way—'

‘Who, master?'

‘Why, the Waiting Man, of course. Occasional priest, healer, consorter with demons…'

‘That's probably not such a good idea, master,' Bugg said, rubbing his bristled jaw. ‘I am rather…busy at the moment.'

‘A leader should be busy. Distracted. Preoccupied. Prepared to delegate.'

‘Master, I really don't think this is a good idea. Really.'

‘Perfectly reluctant, perfect! And look! You've been noticed! See those hopeful faces—'

‘That's hunger, master.'

‘For salvation! Word's gone out, you see. They're ready for you, Bugg. They've been waiting…'

‘This is very bad, master.'

‘Your expression is perfect, Bugg. Sickly and wan with dismay, deeply troubled and nervous, yes indeed. I couldn't have managed better myself.'

‘Master—'

‘Go out among your flock, Bugg. Tell them—they're leaving. Tomorrow night. All of them. A better place, a better life awaits them. Go on, Bugg.'

‘As long as no-one worships me,' the manservant replied. ‘I don't like being worshipped.'

‘Just stay fallible,' Tehol said.

Bugg cast him a strange look, then he walked into the shanty-town.

 

‘Thank you for coming, Brys.'

Kuru Qan was sitting in the thickly padded chair near the wall opposite the li
brary's entrance. Polished lenses and cloth in his hands, cleaning one lens then the other, then repeating the gesture, again and again. His eyes were fixed on nothing visible to Brys.

‘More news from Trate, Ceda?'

‘Something, yes, but we will discuss that later. In any case, we must consider the city lost.'

‘Occupied.'

‘Yes. Another battle is imminent, at High Fort.'

‘The queen and the prince have withdrawn their forces, then? I understood they were seeking the pass.'

‘Too late. The Edur had already made crossing.'

‘Will you contribute to the defence?' Brys asked, striding into the small room and settling down on the bench to the Ceda's left.

‘No.'

Surprised, Brys said nothing. He had been in the company of the king and Unnutal Hebaz for most of the evening, studying the detected movements of the enemy armies, immersed in the painful exercise of trying to predict the nature of his brother Hull's advice to the Edur emperor. Clearly, Hull had anticipated the pre-emptive attack on the villages. To Brys's mind, the rabid display of greed from the camps of the queen and the prince had tipped their hand. Janall, Quillas and their investors had already begun dividing up the potential spoils, which made clear their desire for a quick war, one that devastated the Tiste Edur, and that meant catching them unawares. Janall's march for the pass had indicated no change in her thinking. Yet now she had retreated.

The Tiste Edur had stolen the initiative. The appearance above High Fort, the surrender of Fent Reach and the fall of Trate indicated at least two enemy armies, as well as two fleets, all moving fast.

‘Ceda, have you learned anything more of the demon that entered Trate harbour?'

‘The danger is not singular, but plural,' Kuru Qan said. ‘I see before me the Cedance, and have learned, to my horror, that it is…incomplete.'

‘Incomplete? What do you mean?'

The Ceda continued cleaning the lenses in his hands. ‘I must needs conserve my power, until the appropriate time. The seas must be freed. It is as simple as that.'

Brys waited, then, when Kuru Qan said no more, he ventured, ‘Do you have a task for me, Ceda?'

‘I would counsel a withdrawal from High Fort, but the king would not agree to that, would he?'

Brys shook his head. ‘Your assessment is accurate. Even a disaster would be seen to have…benefits.'

‘The elimination of his wife and son, yes. A tragic state of affairs, wouldn't you say, my young friend? The heart of the Cedance, I have come to realize, can be found in a systemic denial. And from that heart, all else is derived. Our very way of life and of seeing the world. We send soldiers to their deaths and how do we see
those deaths? As glorious sacrifices. The enemy dead? As the victims of our honourable righteousness. Whilst in our cities, in the narrow, foul alleys, a life that ends is but tragic failure. What, then, is the denial whereof I speak?'

‘Death.'

Kuru Qan placed the lenses once more before his eyes and peered at Brys. ‘You see, then. I knew you would. Brys,
there is no Hold of Death
. Your task? Naught but keeping an old man company on this night.'

The King's Champion rubbed at his face. His eyes felt full of grit, and he was unaccountably chilled. He was, he realized, exhausted.

‘Our manic accumulation of wealth,' Kuru Qan went on. ‘Our headlong progress, as if motion was purpose and purpose inherently virtuous. Our lack of compassion, which we called being realistic. The extremity of our judgements, our self-righteousness—all a flight from death, Brys. All a vast denial smothered in semantics and euphemisms. Bravery and sacrifice, pathos and failure, as if life is a contest to be won or lost. As if death is the arbiter of meaning, the moment of final judgement, and above all else judgement is a thing to be delivered, not delivered unto.'

‘Would you rather we worship death, Ceda?'

‘Equally pointless. One needs no faith to die, one dies none the less. I spoke of systemic denial, and it is indeed and in every way systemic. The very fabric of our world, here in Lether and perhaps elsewhere, has been twisted round that…absence.
There should be
a Hold of Death, do you understand? Relevant? The only relevance. It must have existed, once. Perhaps even a god, some ghastly skeleton on a throne of bones, a spin and dance of cold-legged flies for a crown. Yet here we are, and we have given it no face, no shape, no position in our elaborate scheme of existence.'

‘Perhaps because it is the very opposite of existence—'

‘But it isn't, Brys, it isn't. Errant take us, death is all around us. We stride over it, we breathe it, we soak its essence into our lungs, our blood. We feed upon it daily. We thrive in the midst of decay and dissolution.'

Brys studied the Ceda. ‘It occurs to me,' he said slowly, ‘that life itself is a celebration of denial. The denial of which you speak, Kuru Qan. Our flight—well, to flee is to lift oneself clear of the bones, the ashes, the fallen away.'

‘Flee—to where?'

‘Granted. Nowhere but elsewhere. I wonder if what you've said is being manifested, in creatures such as Kettle and that thief, Shurq Elalle—'

The Ceda's head snapped up, eyes suddenly alert behind the thick lenses. ‘I'm sorry? What did you say?'

‘Well, I was speaking of those who are denied death in truth, Ceda. The child, Kettle—'

‘The guardian of the Azath? She is undead?'

‘Yes. I'm sure I mentioned—'

Kuru Qan was on his feet. ‘Are you certain of this? Brys Beddict, she is an undead?'

‘She is. But I don't understand—'

‘Stand up, Brys. We're going. Now.'

 

‘It's all the fallen people,' Kettle said. ‘They want answers. They won't go until they get answers.'

Shurq Elalle kicked away an insect that had crawled onto her boot. ‘Answers about what?'

‘Why they died.'

‘There are no answers,' Shurq replied. ‘It's what people do. Die. They die. They always die.'

‘We didn't.'

‘Yes we did.'

‘Well, we didn't go away.'

‘From the sound of it, Kettle, neither did they.'

‘That's true. I wonder why I didn't think of that.'

‘Because you were about ten years old when you died.'

‘Well, what do I do now?'

Shurq studied the overgrown, ground-heaved yard. ‘You gave me the idea, and that's why I am here. You said the dead were gathering. Gathering round this place, hovering just outside the walls. Can you talk to them?'

‘Why would I want to? They never say anything interesting.'

‘But you could if you had to.'

Kettle shrugged. ‘I guess.'

‘Good. Ask for volunteers.'

‘For what?'

‘I want them to come with me. On an outing. Tonight and again tomorrow night.'

‘Why would they want to, Mother?'

‘Tell them they will see more gold than they can imagine. They will learn secrets few in this kingdom possess. Tell them I am going to lead them on a tour of the Tolls Repository and the royal vaults. Tell them, the time's come to have fun. Terrifying the living.'

‘Why would ghosts want to scare the living?'

‘I know, it's a strange notion, but I predict they will discover they're very good at it. Further, I predict they will enjoy the endeavour.'

‘But, how will they do that? They're ghosts. The living can't even see them.'

Shurq Elalle swung about and stared out on the milling crowds. ‘Kettle, they look pretty solid to us, don't they?'

‘But we're dead—'

‘Then why couldn't we see them a week ago? They were just flits, on the edge of our vision back then, weren't they? If that, even. So what has changed? Where has their power come from? Why is it growing?'

‘I don't know.'

Shurq smiled. ‘I do.'

Kettle walked over to one of the low walls.

The thief watched her speaking to the ghosts.
I wonder if she realizes. I wonder if she knows she's more alive now than dead. I wonder if she knows she's coming back to life.

After a moment the child returned, pulling her fingers through her hair to loosen the snarls. ‘You are smart, Mother,' she said. ‘I'm glad you're my mother and that's why.'

‘I have some volunteers?'

‘They'll all go. They want to see the gold. They want to scare people.'

‘I need some who can read and some who can count.'

‘That's okay. So tell me, Mother, why are they growing more powerful? What's changed?'

Shurq looked back at the square, squalid tower of stone. ‘That, Kettle.'

‘The Azath?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh,' the child said. ‘I understand now. It died.'

‘Yes,' Shurq said, nodding. ‘It died.'

 

After Mother had left, thousands of ghosts following, Kettle walked to the tower's entrance. She studied the flagstones set before the door, then selected one and knelt before it. Her fingernails broke prying it loose, and she was surprised at the sting of pain and the welling of blood.

She had not told Shurq how hard it had been speaking to those ghosts. Their endless voices had been fading the last day or two, as if she was becoming deaf. Although other sounds—the wind, the dead leaves scurrying about, the crunch and munch of the insects in the yard, and the sounds of the city itself—all were as clear as ever. Something was happening to her. That beating vibration in her chest had quickened. Five, six eights a day, now. The places where her skin had broken long ago were closing up with new, pink skin, and earlier today she had been thirsty. It had taken some time to realize—to remember, perhaps—what thirst was, what it signified, but the stagnant water she had found at the base of one of the pits in the yard had tasted wonderful. So many things were changing, it seemed, confusing her.

She dragged the flagstone to one side, then sat beside it. She wiped the dust from its blank, polished surface. There were funny patterns in it. Shells, the imprint of plants—reeds with their onion-like root-balls—and the pebbled impressions of coral. Tiny bones. Someone had done a lot of carving to make such a pretty scene of dead things.

She looked down the path, through the gate and onto the street. Strange, to see it so empty now. But, she knew, it wouldn't be for long.

And so she waited.

The bleeding from her fingertips had stopped by the time she heard the footfalls approaching. She looked up, then smiled upon seeing Uncle Brys and the old
man with the glass eyes—the one she had never seen before yet knew anyway.

They saw her, and Brys strode through the gate, the old man following behind with nervous, tentative steps.

‘Hello, Uncle,' Kettle said.

‘Kettle. You are looking…better. I have brought a guest, Ceda Kuru Qan.'

‘Yes, the one who's always looking at me but not seeing me, but looking anyway.'

‘I wasn't aware of that,' the Ceda said.

‘Not like you're doing now,' Kettle said. ‘Not when you have those things in front of your eyes.'

‘You mean, when I look upon the Cedance? Is that when I see you without seeing you?'

She nodded.

‘The Hold of the Azath is gone, child, yet here you remain. You were its guardian when it was alive—when you were not. And now, you are its guardian still? When it is dead and you are not?'