The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (64 page)

“And you just wait for it to happen?” Baruk scowled. “That’s how cities are destroyed. That’s how thousands of people die. Does any of that matter to you, Anomander Rake? So long as you win in the end?”

A tight smile played on the Lord’s thin lips. “An accurate assessment, Baruk. In this case, however, Laseen wants Darujhistan intact. I mean to prevent that. But destroying the city to defy her would be too easy. I could have managed that weeks ago. No, I want Darujhistan to remain as it is. Yet out of Laseen’s reach. That, Alchemist, is victory.” His gray eyes were on Baruk. “I would not have sought an alliance with you otherwise.”

The alchemist frowned. “Unless you plan treachery.”

Rake was silent for a time, studying his hands clasped on his lap. “Baruk,” he said softly, “as any commander of long standing knows, treachery breeds its own. Once committed, whether against an enemy or an ally, it becomes a legitimate choice for everyone in your command, from the lowest private seeking promotion, to your personal aides, bodyguards, and officers. My people know of our alliance with you, Alchemist. If I were to betray it, I would not long remain the Lord of Moon’s Spawn. And rightly so.”

Baruk smiled. “And who could challenge your power, Rake?”

“Caladan Brood, for one,” Rake replied immediately. “And then there’s my four assassin mages. Even Silanah, the dweller within the Moon’s caverns,
might take it upon herself to exact judgment on me. I can think of others, Baruk, many others.”

“So fear holds you in check, Son of Darkness?”

Rake scowled. “That title is held by those fools who think me worthy of worship. I dislike it, Baruk, and would not hear it again from you. Does fear hold me in check? No. As powerful as fear is, it is no match for what compels me. Duty.” The Lord’s eyes had shifted into a dun tone as they remained fixed on his hands, which he now turned palms up. “You have a duty to your city, Baruk. It drives you, shapes you. I’m no stranger to such a thing. Within Moon’s Spawn are the last of the Tiste Andii on this world. We are dying, Alchemist. No cause seems great enough to return to my people the zest for life. I try, but inspiration has never been a great talent of mine. Even this Malazan Empire could not make us rise to defend ourselves—until we ran out of places to run to.

“We still die on this continent. Better that it be by the sword.” He let his hands slip from his lap. “Imagine your spirit dying while your body lives on. Not for ten years, not for fifty. But a body that lives on for fifteen, twenty thousand years.”

Rake rose swiftly. He looked down upon a silent Baruk, and smiled a smile that launched a dagger of pain into the alchemist’s heart. “Thus duty holds me, yet a duty that is in itself hollow. Is it enough to preserve the Tiste Andii? Simply preserve them? Do I raise Moon’s Spawn into the heavens, where we live on, beyond any risk, any threat? What, then, will I be preserving? A history, a particular point of view.” He shrugged. “The history is done, Baruk, and the Tiste Andii point of view is one of disinterest, stoicism, and quiet, empty despair. Are these gifts to the world worthy of preservation? I think not.”

Baruk had no immediate response. What Anomander Rake had described was almost beyond comprehension, yet its anguished cry reached through to the alchemist. “And yet,” he said, “here you are. Allied with the Empire’s victims. Do you stand alone in this, Anomander Rake? Do your people approve?”

“They care not,” Rake said. “They accept my commands. They follow me. They serve Caladan Brood when I ask them to. And they die in the mud and forests of a land that is not their own, in a war not their own, for a people who are terrified of them.”

Baruk sat forward. “Then why? Why do you do all this?”

A harsh laugh was Rake’s response. After a moment, however, his bitter amusement fell away and he said, “Is an honorable cause worth anything these days? Does it matter that we’ve borrowed it? We fight as well as any man. We die alongside them. Mercenaries of the spirit. And even that is a coin we scarcely value. Why? It doesn’t matter why. But we never betray our allies.

“I know you are worried that I did nothing to prevent the T’lan Imass from entering the barrow. I believe the Jaghut Tyrant will be freed, Baruk. But better now, with me here beside you, than at some other time when the Jaghut has no one capable of opposing him. We’ll take this legend and carve the life from it, Alchemist, and never again will the threat haunt you.”

Baruk stared at the Tiste Andii. “Are you that certain you’ll be able to destroy the Jaghut?”

“No. But when it is finished with us, it will have been much reduced. Then it falls to others—to your Cabal, in fact. There’s no certainty in this, Baruk. That seems a fact particularly galling to you humans. You’d better learn to accept it. We may well be able to destroy the Jaghut Tyrant, but even this will serve Laseen’s plans.”

The alchemist was bemused. “I don’t understand.”

Rake grinned. “When we are finished with it,
we
will have been much reduced. And then will come the powers of the Malazan Empire. So, you see, either way she wins. If anything has her worried, it’s your T’orrud Cabal, Baruk. Of your abilities she knows nothing. Which is why her agents seek this Vorcan. The Guild Master accepting the contract will solve the problem you represent.”

“Yet,” Baruk mused, “there are other factors involved.”

“Oponn,” Rake stated. “That is a danger to everyone involved. Do you think Oponn cares for a mortal city? For its people? It is the nexus of power that matters to Oponn, the whirlwind where games get nasty. Will immortal blood be spilled? That’s the question the gods are eager to have answered.”

Baruk stared down at his goblet of goat’s milk. “Well, at least we’ve avoided that so far.” He took a sip.

“Wrong,” Rake said. “Forcing Shadowthrone out of the game marked the first spilling of immortal blood.”

Baruk almost choked on the milk. He set down the goblet and stared up at the Tiste Andii. “Whose?”

“Two Hounds died by my sword. Knocked Shadowthrone somewhat off-balance, I believe.”

Baruk leaned back and closed his eyes. “Then the stakes have risen,” he said.

“As far as Moon’s Spawn, Alchemist.” Rake returned to his chair and sat, once again stretching his legs out to the fire’s warmth. “Now, what more can you tell me about this Jaghut Tyrant? I recall you said you wished to consult an authority.”

Baruk opened his eyes and tossed the flatbread into the fire. “There’s a problem there, Rake. I’m hoping you can help explain what’s happened. Please,” he said, rising, “follow me.”

Grunting, Rake climbed back to his feet. This night he’d not worn his sword. To Baruk the Lord’s broad back looked incomplete, but he was thankful for the weapon’s absence.

He led Rake from the room and down the central stairs to the lower chambers. The first of these subterranean rooms held a narrow cot, and on the cot lay an old man. Baruk indicated him. “As you see, he appears to be sleeping. He is named Mammot.”

Rake raised an eyebrow. “The historian?”

“Also a High Priest of D’rek.”

“That explains the cynicism in his writings,” Rake said, grinning. “The Worm of Autumn breeds an unhappy lot.”

Baruk was surprised that this Tiste Andii had read Mammot’s
Histories
but,
then, why not? A life spanning twenty thousand years necessitated hobbies, he supposed.

“So,” Rake said, striding to the bed, “this Mammot sleeps a deep sleep. What triggered it?” He crouched before the old man.

Baruk joined him. “That is the odd part. I admit to knowing little of earth magic. D’riss is a Warren I’ve never explored. I called on Mammot, as I indicated to you, and upon his arrival I asked him to tell me all he knew of the Jaghut Tyrant and the barrow. He promptly sat down and closed his eyes. They’ve yet to open, and he’s not uttered a single word since.”

Rake straightened. “He took your request seriously, I see.”

“What do you mean?”

“As you guessed, he opened his D’riss Warren. He sought to answer your question by rather, shall we say, direct means. And now something’s trapped him.”

“He traveled by Warren to the Jaghut Tyrant’s barrow? The old fool!”

“Into a concentration of Tellann sorcery, not to mention Jaghut Omtose Phellack. On top of all that, a woman with an Otataral sword.” Rake crossed his arms. “He’ll not come round until both the T’lan Imass and the Otataral have left the barrow. And even then, if he’s not quick, the awakening Jaghut might take him.”

A chill burgeoned in Baruk’s bones. “Take, as in possession?”

Rake nodded, his expression grim. “A High Priest, is he? The Jaghut would find him very useful. Not to mention the access Mammot provides to D’rek. Do you know, Baruk, if this Tyrant’s capable of enslaving a goddess?”

“I don’t know,” Baruk whispered, sweat trickling down his round face as he stared at Mammot’s recumbent form. “Dessembrae fend,” he added.

The old woman sitting on the tenement steps squinted at the late afternoon sky while she tamped dried Italbe leaves into her steatite pipe. On the wooden steps beside her was a small covered bronze brazier. Thin kindling sticks jutted from holes around the bowl. The old woman withdrew one and set it to her pipe, then tossed it into the street.

The man walking down the opposite side of the street caught the signal and ran a hand through his hair. Circle Breaker felt near to panic. This taking to the streets was far too risky. Turban Orr’s hunters were close to him—he could feel it with dread certainty. Sooner or later, the councilman would recall his many meetings beneath Despot’s Barbican, and the guard who’d been stationed there every time. This brazen showing of himself compromised everything.

He turned a corner, passing beyond the old woman’s sight, and continued for three blocks until he came opposite the Phoenix Inn. Two women lounged by the door, laughing at some joke between them.

Circle Breaker tucked his thumbs into his sword-belt and angled the scabbard out to the side. Its bronze-capped end scraped against the stone wall beside him. Then he withdrew his hands and continued on his way toward Lakefront.
Well
,
it’s done
. All that remained for him was one final contact, possibly redundant, but he would follow the Eel’s orders. Things were coming to a head. He did not expect to live much longer, but he’d do what he must until that time. What more could be asked of him?

At the entrance of the Phoenix Inn, Meese nudged Irilta. “That’s it,” she muttered. “You do the backup this time. Usual pattern.”

Irilta scowled, then nodded. “Head off, then.”

Meese descended the steps and turned up the street. She reversed the route taken by Circle Breaker until she reached the tenement. She saw the old woman still sitting there, lazily watching passersby. As Meese passed through her line of vision, the old woman removed the pipe from her mouth and tapped it against the heel of her shoe. Sparks rained onto the cobbles.

That was the signal. Meese came to the corner of the block, then turned right and entered the alley running the building’s length. A door opened for her a third of the way down and she strode into a dimly lit room with an open door beyond. Someone hid behind the first door but she did not acknowledge that someone’s presence. She passed through the second, inner door and found herself in a hallway. From there it was a quick jog up the stairs.

Apsalar—or Sorry, as she had been known before—hadn’t been much impressed by her first sight of Darujhistan. For some reason, despite her excitement and anticipation, it had all seemed too familiar.

Disappointed, Crokus had wasted no time in taking her to his uncle’s home once they’d stabled Coll’s horse. The journey to the city, and then through its crowded streets, had been, for Crokus, a continual storm of confusion. This woman seemed to have a knack for catching him off-guard, and all he desired now was to throw her into someone else’s lap and be done with it.

Yet, if that was truly the case, why did he feel so miserable about it?

Crokus left Mammot’s library and returned to the outer room. Moby chirped and stuck out its red tongue at him from Mammot’s desk. Ignoring the creature, Crokus stood before Apsalar, who’d seated herself in the better of the two chairs—his chair, of course. “I don’t understand. From the looks of it, he’s been gone for a couple of days at least.”

“So? Is that so unusual?” Apsalar asked casually.

“It is,” he grumbled. “Did you feed Moby as I asked?”

She nodded. “The grapes?”

“Yes.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Strange. Maybe Rallick knows something about it.”

“Who’s Rallick?”

“An assassin friend,” Crokus replied distractedly.

Apsalar shot to her feet, her eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” Crokus asked, stepping close. The girl looked positively terrified.
He glared around, half expecting to see some demon rise out of the floor or the cupboard, but the room was unchanged—a little messier than usual, though. Moby’s fault, he assumed.

“I’m not sure,” she said, relaxing with an effort. “It was as if I was about to remember something. But it never came.”

“Oh,” Crokus said. “Well, we could—”

A knock sounded on the door.

Crokus brightened, walking over to it. “Oh, he probably lost his keys or something,” he said.

“It was unlocked,” Apsalar pointed out.

Crokus opened the door. “Meese! What’re you—?”

“Quiet!” the big woman hissed, pushing past him and shutting the door. Her gaze fell on Apsalar and her eyes widened. Then she turned back to Crokus. “Good I found you, lad! You’ve seen no one since getting back?”

“Why, no. That’s just it—”

“A stabler,” Apsalar said, frowning up at Meese. “Have we met?”

“She’s lost her memory,” Crokus explained. “But, yes, we stabled Coll’s horse.”

“Why?” Meese demanded, then as Crokus was about to elaborate she went on, “Never mind. The stabler shouldn’t prove a problem. Well, we’re in luck!”

“Dammit, Meese,” Crokus said. “What’s going on?”

She met his eyes. “That D’Arle guard you killed the other night. The one in the garden. They’ve got your name and description, lad. Don’t ask me how. But the D’Arles are talking high gallows when you’re caught.”