The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (607 page)

If these runts are the only ones here who survive, I will haunt them. Every one of them, for the rest of their days.
‘Look,' she snarled after an elbow in the nose, ‘just get your smelly slimy hide out of my face! Go on, you little ape!'

A voice from behind her: ‘Easy there. You was a child once, you know—'

‘You don't know nothing about me, so shut it!'

‘What, you was hatched? Hah! I believe it! Along with all the other snakes!'

‘Yeah, well, whoever you are, don't even think of climbing past me.'

‘And get that close? Not a chance.'

She grunted. ‘Glad we're understood, then.'

If there was no way through – they'd all lose their minds. No doubt of that at all. Well, at least she had a couple knives left – anybody fool enough to come for her and they'd pay.

 

The children were squirming through – even as Cuttle dug into the floor with the knife – and then huddling on the other side. Weeping, clinging to each other, and Bottle's heart cried out for them. They would have to find courage, but for the moment, there seemed to be no hope of that.

Cuttle's grunts and gasps, then his curse as he broke the knife's point – not very promising sounds. Ahead, the rat circled the edge of the pit, whiskers twitching at the flow of warm air coming from the shaft. She could climb round to the other side, and Bottle was willing the creature to do so – yet it seemed his control was weakening, for the rat was resisting, her head tilted over the edge of the pit, claws gripping the pocked side, the air flowing up over her…

Bottle frowned. From the shaft above, the air had been coming down. And from the pit, flowing
up
. Conjoining in the tunnel, then drifting towards the children.

But the rat…that air from below. Warm, not cool.
Warm, smelling of sunlight.

‘Cuttle!'

The sapper halted. ‘What?'

‘We've got to get past this! That pit – its edges, they've been cut. That shaft, Cuttle, it's been mined, cut through – someone's dug into the side of the tel – there's no other possibility!'

The children's cries had ceased with Bottle's words. He went on, ‘That explains this, don't you see? We ain't the first ones to use this tunnel – people have been mining the ruins, looking for loot—'

He could hear Cuttle moving about.

‘What are you doing?'

‘I'm gonna kick this block out of the way—'

‘No, wait! You said—'

‘I can't dig through the damned floor! I'm gonna kick this bastard outa the way!'

‘Cuttle, wait!'

A bellow, then a heavy thump, dust and gravel streaming from above. A second thump, then thunder shook the floor, and the ceiling was raining down. Screams of terror through the dust-clouds. Ducking, covering his head as stones and sherds descended on him, Bottle squeezed his eyes shut – the dust, so bright—

Bright.

But he couldn't breathe – he could barely move beneath the weight of rubble atop him.

Muted yells from behind, but the terrible hiss of rubble had ceased.

Bottle lifted his head, gasping, coughing.

To see a white shaft of sunlight, dust-filled, cutting its way down. Bathing Cuttle's splayed legs, the huge foundation stone between them. ‘Cuttle?'

A cough, then, ‘Gods below, that damned thing – it came down between my legs – just missed my…oh Hood take me, I feel sick—'

‘Never mind that! There's light, coming down.
Sunlight!
'

‘Call your rat back – I can't see…how far up. I think it narrows. Narrows bad, Bottle.'

The rat was clambering over the children, and he could feel its racing heart.

‘I see it – your rat—'

‘Take her in your hands, help her into the shaft over you. Yes, there's daylight – oh, it's too narrow – I might make it, or Smiles maybe, but most of the others…'

‘You just dig when you're up there, make it wider, Bottle. We're too close, now.'

‘Can the children get back here? Past the block?'

‘Uh, I think so. Tight, but yes.'

Bottle twisted round. ‘Roll call! And listen, we're almost there! Dig your way free! We're almost there!'

The rat climbed, closer and closer to that patch of daylight.

Bottle scrambled free of the gravel. ‘All right,' he gasped as he moved over Cuttle.

‘Watch where you step!' the sapper said. ‘My face is ugly enough without a damned heel print on it.'

Bottle pulled himself into the uneven shaft, then halted. ‘I got to pull stuff away, Cuttle. Move from directly below…'

‘Aye.'

Names were being called out…hard to tell how many…maybe most of them. Bottle could not afford to think about it now. He began tugging at outcrops, bricks and rocks, widening the shaft. ‘Stuff coming down!'

As each piece thumped down or bounced off the foundation stone, Cuttle collected it and passed it back.

‘Bottle!'

‘What?'

‘One of the urchins – she fell into the pit – she ain't making any sound – I think we lost her.'

Shit
. ‘Pass that rope ahead – can Smiles get over to them?'

‘I'm not sure. Keep going, soldier – we'll see what we can do down here.'

Bottle worked his way upward. A sudden widening, then narrowing once more – almost within reach of that tiny opening – too small, he realized, for even so much as his hand. He pulled a large chunk of stone from the wall, dragged himself as close as he could to the hole. On a slight ledge near his left shoulder crouched the rat. He wanted to kiss the damned thing.

But not yet. Things looked badly jammed up around that hole. Big stones. Panic whispered through him.

With the rock in his hand, Bottle struck at the stone. A spurt of blood from one fingertip, crushed by the impact – he barely felt it. Hammering, hammering away. Chips raining down every now and then. His arm tiring – he was running out of reserves, he didn't have the strength, the endurance for this. Yet he kept swinging.

Each impact weaker than the one before.

No, damn you! No!

He swung again.

Blood spattered his eyes.

 

Captain Faradan Sort reined in on the ridge, just north of the dead city. Normally, a city that had fallen to siege soon acquired its scavengers, old women and children scrambling about, picking through the ruins. But not here, not yet, anyway. Maybe not for a long time.

Like a cracked pot, the steep sides of Y'Ghatan's tel had bled out – melted lead, copper, silver and gold, veins and pools filled with accreted stone chips, dust and potsherds.

Offering an arm, Sort helped Sinn slip down from the saddle behind her – she'd been squirming, whimpering and clutching at her, growing more agitated the closer the day's end came, the light failing. The Fourteenth Army had left the night before. The captain and her charge had walked their lone horse round the tel, not once, but twice, since the sun's rise.

And the captain had begun to doubt her own reading of the child Sinn, her own sense that this half-mad, now seemingly mute creature had known something, sensed something – Sinn had tried and tried to get back into the ruins before her arrest. There had to be a reason for that.

Or, perhaps not. Perhaps nothing more than an insane grief – for her lost brother.

Scanning the rubble-strewn base below the tel's north wall one more time, she noted that one scavenger at least had arrived. A child, smeared in white dust, her hair a matted snarl, was wandering perhaps thirty paces from the rough wall.

Sinn saw her as well, then began picking her way down the slope, making strange mewling sounds.

The captain unstrapped her helm and lifted it clear to settle it on the saddle horn. She wiped grimy sweat from her brow. Desertion. Well, it wasn't the first time, now, was it? If not for Sinn's magic, the Wickans would have found them. And likely executed them. She'd take a few with her, of course, no matter what Sinn did. People learned that you had to pay to deal with her. Pay in every way. A lesson she never tired of teaching.

She watched as Sinn ran to the city's cliff-side, ignoring the scavenger, and began climbing it.

Now what?

Replacing the helm, the sodden leather inside-rim momentarily cool against her brow, the strap feeling stretched as she fixed the clasp beneath her jaw, Faradan Sort collected the reins and guided her horse into a slow descent down the scree.

The scavenger was crying, grubby hands pressed against her eyes. All that dust on her, the webs in her hair – this was the true face of war, the captain knew. That child's face would haunt her memories, joining the many other faces, for as long as she lived.

Sinn was clinging to the rough wall, perhaps two man-heights up, motionless.

Too much, Sort decided. The child was mad. She glanced again at the scavenger, who did not seem aware that they had arrived. Hands still pressed against eyes. Red scrapes through the dust, a trickle of blood down one shin. Had she fallen? From where?

The captain rode up to halt her horse beneath Sinn. ‘Come down now,' she said. ‘We need to make camp, Sinn. Come down, it's no use – the sun's almost gone. We can try again tomorrow.'

Sinn tightened her grip on the broken outcrops of stone and brick.

Grimacing, the captain side-stepped the mount closer to the wall, then reached up to pull Sinn from her perch.

Squealing, the girl lunged upward, one hand shooting into a hole—

 

His strength, his will, was gone. A short rest, then he could begin again. A short rest, the voices below drifting away, it didn't matter. Sleep, now, the dark, warm embrace – drawing him down, ever deeper, then a blush of sweet golden light, wind rippling yellow grasses—

—and he was free, all pain gone. This, he realized, was not sleep. It was death, the return to the most ancient memory buried in each human soul.
Grasslands, the sun and wind, the warmth and click of insects, dark herds in the distance, the lone trees with their vast canopies and the cool shade beneath, where lions dozed, tongues lolling, flies dancing round indifferent, languid eyes
…

Death, and this long buried seed.
We return. We return to the world
…

And
she
reached for him, then, her hand damp with sweat, small and soft, prying his fingers loose from the rock they gripped, blood sticking – she clutched at his hand, as if filled with fierce need, and he knew the child within her belly was calling out in its own silent language, its own needs, so demanding…

Nails dug into the cuts on his hand—

Bottle jolted awake, eyes blinking – daylight almost gone – and a small hand reaching through from outside, grasping and tugging at his own.

Help
. ‘Help – you, outside – help us—'

As she reached up yet further to tug the girl down, Sort saw Sinn's head snap around, saw something blazing in her eyes as she stared down at the captain.

‘What now—' And then there came a faint voice, seemingly from the very stones. Faradan Sort's eyes widened. ‘Sinn?'

The girl's hand, shoved into that crack – it was holding on to something.

Someone
.

‘Oh, gods below!'

 

Crunching sounds outside, boots digging into stone, then gloved fingers slipped round one edge beside the child's forearm, and Bottle heard: ‘You, inside – who? Can you hear me?'

A woman. Accented Ehrlii…familiar? ‘Fourteenth Army,' Bottle said. ‘Malazans.' The child's grip tightened.

‘Oponn's pull, soldier,' the woman said in Malazan. ‘Sinn, let go of him. I need room. Make the hole bigger. Let go of him – it's all right – you were right. We're going to get them out.'

Sinn?
The shouts from below were getting louder. Cuttle, calling up something about a way out. Bottle twisted to call back down. ‘Cuttle! We've been found! They're going to dig us out! Let everyone know!'

Sinn's hand released his, withdrew.

The woman spoke again. ‘Soldier, move away from the hole – I'm going to use my sword.'

‘Captain? Is that you?'

‘Aye. Now, move back and cover your eyes – what? Oh, where'd all those children come from? Is that one of Fiddler's squad with them? Get down there, Sinn. There's another way out. Help them.'

The sword-point dug into the concreted brick and stone. Chips danced down.

Cuttle was climbing up from below, grunting. ‘We gotta widen this some more, Bottle. That runt who dropped down the hole. We sent Smiles after her. A tunnel, angling back up – and out. A looter's tunnel. The children're all out—'

‘Good. Cuttle, it's the captain. The Adjunct, she must have waited for us – sent searchers out to find us.'

‘That makes no sense—'