The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (590 page)

It paid to know just how wide Hood's Gate was going to be come the assault.

And then something else was on its way.

Sudden sweat on Bottle's skin.

She appeared from the heat haze, moving like an animal – prey, not predator, in her every careful, watchful motion – fine-furred, deep brown, a face far more human than ape, filled with expression – or at least its potential, for the look she fixed upon him now was singular in its curiosity. As tall as Bottle, lean but heavy-breasted, belly distended. Skittish, she edged closer.

She is not real. A manifestation, a conjuration. A memory sprung from the dust of this land.

He watched her crouch to collect a handful of sand, then fling it at him, voicing a loud barking grunt. The sand fell short, a few pebbles bouncing off his boots.

Or maybe I am the conjured, not her. In her eyes the wonder of coming face to face with a god, or a demon
. He looked past her, and saw the vista of a savannah, thick with grasses, stands of trees and wildlife. Nothing like it should have been, only what it once was, long ago.
Oh, spirits, why won't you leave me alone?

She had been following. Following them all. The entire army. She could smell it, see the signs of its passing, maybe even hear the distant clack of metal and wooden wheels punching down the sides of stones in the road as they rocked along. Driven on by fear and fascination, she had followed, not understanding how the future could echo back to her world, her time. Not understanding? Well, he couldn't either.
As if all is present, as if every moment co-exists. And here we two are, face to face, both too ignorant to partition our faith, our way of seeing the world – and so we see them all, all at once, and if we're not careful it will drive us mad.

But there was no turning back. Simply because
back
did not exist.

He remained seated and she came closer, chattering now in some strange glottal tongue filled with clicks and stops. She gestured at her own belly, ran an index figure along it as if drawing a shape on the downy, paler pelt.

Bottle nodded.
Yes, you carry a child. I understand that much. Still, what is that to me?

She threw more sand at him, most of it striking below his chest. He waved at the cloud in front of his stinging eyes.

A lunge forward, surprisingly swift, and she gripped his wrist, drew his arm forward, settled his hand on her belly.

He met her eyes, and was shaken to his very core. This was no mindless creature.
Eres'al
. The yearning in those dark, stunningly beautiful eyes made him mentally reel.

‘All right,' he whispered, and slowly sent his senses questing, into that womb, into the spirit growing within it.

For every abomination, there must emerge its answer. Its enemy, its counterbalance. Here, within this Eres'al, is such an answer. To a distant abomination, the corruption of a once-innocent spirit. Innocence must be reborn. Yet…I can see so little…not human, not even of this world, barring what the Eres'al herself brought to the union. Thus, an intruder. From another realm, a realm bereft of innocence. To make them part of this world, one of their kind must be born…in this way. Their blood must be drawn into this world's flow of blood
.

But why an Eres'al?
Because…gods below…because she is the last innocent creature, the last innocent ancestor of our line. After her…the degradation of spirit begins. The shifting of perspective, the separation from all else, the carving of borders – in the ground, in the mind's way of seeing. After her, there's only…us.

The realization – the
recognition
– was devastating. Bottle pulled his hand away. But it was too late. He knew too many things, now. The father…Tiste Edur. The child to come…the only pure candidate for a new Throne of Shadow – a throne commanding a
healed
realm.

And it would have so many enemies.
So many
…

‘No,' he said to the creature, shaking his head. ‘You cannot pray to me. Must not. I'm not a god. I'm only a…'

Yet…to her I must seem just that. A vision. She is spirit-questing and she barely knows it. She's stumbling, as much as we all are, but within her there's a kind of…certainty. Hope. Gods…faith.

Humbled beyond words, filling with shame, Bottle pulled away, clawing up the slope of the mound, amidst the detritus of civilization, potsherds and fragments of mortar, rusted pieces of metal. No, he didn't want this. Could not encompass this…this need in her. He could not be her…
her faith
.

She drew yet closer, hands closing round his neck, and dragged him back. Teeth bared, she shook him.

Unable to breathe, Bottle flailed in her grip.

She threw him down, straddled him, released his neck and raised two fists as if to batter him.

‘You want me to be your god?' he gasped, ‘Fine, then! Have it your way!' He stared up at her eyes, at the fists lifted high, framed by bright, blinding sunlight.

So, is this how a god feels?

A flash of glare, as if a sword had been drawn, an eager hiss of iron filling his head. Something like a fierce challenge—

Blinking, he found himself staring up at the empty sky, lying on the rough scree. She was gone, but he could still feel the echo of her weight on his hips, and the appalling erection her position had triggered in him.

 

Fist Keneb walked into the Adjunct's tent. The map-table had been assembled and on it was an imperial map of Y'Ghatan that had been delivered a week earlier by a rider from Onearm's Host. It was a scholar's rendition drawn shortly after Dassem's fall. Standing at Tavore's side was Tene Baralta, busy scrawling all over the vellum with a charcoal stick, and the Red Blade was speaking.

‘…rebuilt here, and here, in the Malazan style of sunk columns and counter-sunk braces. The engineers found the ruins beneath the streets to be a maze of pockets, old rooms, half-buried streets, wells and inside-wall corridors. It should all have been flattened, but at least one age of construction was of a stature to rival what's possible these days. Obviously, that gave them problems, which is why they gave up on the fourth bastion.'

‘I understand,' the Adjunct said, ‘however, as I stated earlier, Fist Baralta, I am not interested in assailing the fourth bastion.'

Keneb could see the man's frustration, but he held his tongue, simply tossing down the charcoal stick and stepping away from the table.

Over in the corner sat Fist Blistig, legs sprawled out in a posture bordering on insubordination.

‘Fist Keneb,' Tavore said, eyes still on the map, ‘have you met with Temul and Warleader Gall?'

‘Temul reports the city has been evacuated – an exodus of citizens on the road to Lothal. Clearly, Leoman is planning for a long siege, and is not interested in feeding anyone but soldiers and support staff.'

‘He wants room to manoeuvre,' said Blistig from where he sat. ‘Panic in the streets won't do. We shouldn't read too much into it, Keneb.'

‘I suspect,' Tene Baralta said, ‘we're not reading
enough
into it. I am nervous, Adjunct. About this whole damned situation. Leoman didn't come here to defend the last rebel city. He didn't come to protect the last believers – by the Seven Holies, he has driven them from their very homes, from their very own city! No, his need for Y'Ghatan was tactical, and that's what worries me, because I can make no sense of it.'

The Adjunct spoke: ‘Did Temul have anything else to say, Keneb?'

‘He had thoughts of a night attack, with sappers, taking out a section of wall. Presumably, we would then follow through in strength, into that breach, thrusting deep into Y'Ghatan's heart. Cut through far enough and we can isolate Leoman in the Falah'd's palace…'

‘Too risky,' Tene Baralta said in a grumble. ‘Darkness won't cover those sappers from their mages. They'd get slaughtered—'

‘Risks cannot be avoided,' Tavore said.

Keneb's brows rose. ‘Temul said much the same, Adjunct, when the danger was discussed.'

‘Tene Baralta,' Tavore continued after a moment, ‘you and Blistig have been directed as to the disposition of your companies. Best you begin preparations. I have spoken directly with Captain Faradan Sort on what will be required of her and her squads. We shall not waste time on this. We move tonight. Fist Keneb, remain, please. The rest of you are dismissed.'

Keneb watched Blistig and Baralta leave, reading in an array of small signs – posture, the set of their shoulders and the stiffness of their gaits – the depth of their demoralization.

‘Command does not come from consensus,' the Adjunct said, her tone suddenly hard as she faced Keneb. ‘I deliver the orders, and my officers are to obey them. They should be relieved that is the case, for all responsibility lies with me and me alone. No-one else shall have to answer to the Empress.'

Keneb nodded, ‘As you say, Adjunct. However, your officers do feel responsible – for their soldiers—'

‘Many of whom will die, sooner or later, on some field of battle. Perhaps even here in Y'Ghatan. This is a siege, and sieges are messy. I do not have the luxury of starving them out. The longer Leoman resists, the greater the risk of flare-ups all over Seven Cities. High Fist Dujek and I are fully agreed on this.'

‘Then why, Adjunct, did we not accept his offer of more troops?'

She was silent for a half-dozen heartbeats, then, ‘I am aware of the sentiments among the squads of this army, none of whom, it seems, are aware of the true condition of Onearm's Host.'

‘The true condition?'

She stepped closer. ‘There's almost nothing left, Keneb. The core – the very heart – of Onearm's Host – it's
gone
.'

‘But – Adjunct, he has received replacements, has he not?'

‘What was lost cannot be replaced. Recruits: Genabarii, Nathii, half the Pale Garrison, oh, count the boots and they look to be intact, up to full complement, but Keneb, know this – Dujek is
broken
. And so is the Host.'

Shaken, Keneb turned away. He unstrapped his helm and drew the battered iron from his head, then ran a hand through his matted, sweaty hair. ‘Hood take us, the last great imperial army…'

‘Is now the Fourteenth, Fist.'

He stared at her.

She began pacing. ‘Of course Dujek offered, for he is, well, he is Dujek. Besides, the ranking High Fist could do no less. But he – they – have suffered enough. Their task now is to make the imperial presence felt – and we should all pray to our gods that they do not find their mettle tested, by anyone.'

‘That is why you are in such a hurry.'

‘Leoman must be taken down. Y'Ghatan must fall. Tonight.'

Keneb said nothing for a long moment, then he asked, ‘Why, Adjunct, are you telling me this?'

‘Because Gamet is dead.'

Gamet? Oh, I see.

‘And T'amber is not respected by any of you. Whereas,' she glanced at him, with an odd expression, ‘you are.'

‘You wish for me to inform the other Fists, Adjunct?'

‘Regarding Dujek? Decide that for yourself, but I advise you, Fist, to think very carefully before reaching that decision.'

‘But they should be told! At least then they will understand…'

‘Me? Understand me? Perhaps. But that is not the most important issue here.'

He did not comprehend. Not at once. Then, a growing realization. ‘Their faith, beyond you, beyond the Fourteenth, lies with Dujek Onearm. So long as they believe he is there, poised behind us and ready to march to our aid, they will do as you command. You do not want to take that away from them, yet by your silence you sacrifice yourself, you sacrifice the respect they would accord you—'

‘Assuming such respect would be granted, Fist, and of that I am not convinced.' She returned to the map-table. ‘The decision is yours, Fist.'

He watched her studying the map, then, concluding he had been dismissed, Keneb left the tent.

He felt sick inside. The Host – broken? Was that simply her assessment? Maybe Dujek was just tired…yet, who might know better? Quick Ben, but he wasn't here. Nor that assassin, Kalam Mekhar. Leaving…well, one man. He paused outside the tent, studied the sun's position. There might be time, before Sort spoke to them all, if he hurried.

Keneb set out towards the camps of the marines.

 

‘What do you want me to say, Fist?' The sergeant had laid out a half-dozen heavy quarrels. He had already tied sharpers to two of them and was working on a third.

Keneb stared at the clay-ball grenado in Strings's hands. ‘I don't know, but make it honest.'

Strings paused and looked over at his squad, eyes narrowing. ‘Adjunct's hoping for reinforcements if things go bad?' He was speaking in a low voice.

‘That's just it, Sergeant. She isn't.'

‘So, Fist,' Strings said, ‘she thinks Dujek's finished. And so's the Host. Is that what she thinks?'

‘Yes. You know Quick Ben, and the High Mage was there, after all. At Coral. He's not here for me to ask him, so I'm asking you. Is the Adjunct right?'

He resumed affixing the grenado to the quarrel head.

Keneb waited.

‘Seems,' the sergeant muttered, ‘I misjudged the Adjunct.'

‘In what way?'

‘She's better at reading signs than I thought.'

Hood's balls, I really did not want to hear that.