The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (675 page)

 

‘They return,' Taralack Veed said, as the Tiste Edur reappeared at the entrance to the temple. ‘The warlock, he looks…aggrieved. What has happened?'

Icarium said nothing, but something glittered in his eyes.

‘Jhag,' snarled Sathbaro Rangar as he limped past, ‘gather yourself. A true battle awaits us.'

Confusion among the ranks of Edur, words exchanged, then an outcry, curses, bellows of fury. The anger spread out, a wildfire suddenly eager to devour all that would dare oppose it. Wheeling about, hastening towards the flickering gate.

They were not returning to the ships.

Taralack Veed had heard, from Twilight, that an Edur commander named Hanradi Khalag had been sending his warriors against another foe, through a gate – one that led, in a journey of days, to yet another private war. And it was these enemies who would now face the wrath of these Edur here.
And that of Icarium
.

So they shall see, after all. That is good.

At his side there came a sound from the Jhag that drew Taralack Veed around in surprise. Low laughter.

‘You are amused?' he asked Icarium in a hoarse whisper.

‘Of Shadow both,' the Jhag said enigmatically, ‘the weaver deceives the worshipper. But I will say nothing. I am, after all,
empty
.'

‘I do not understand.'

‘No matter, Taralack Veed. No matter.'

 

The throne room was abandoned once more, dust settling, shadows slinking back to their predictable haunts. And, from the shattered throne itself, there grew a faint shimmering, a blurring of edges, then a wavering that would have alarmed any who witnessed it – but of such sentient creatures there were none.

The broken, crushed fragments of wood melted away.

And once more there on the dais stood the Throne of Shadow. And stepping free of it, a shadowy form more solid than any other. Hunched, short, shrouded in folds of midnight gauze. From the indistinct smudge where a face belonged, only the eyes were visible, momentarily, a glinting flash.

The figure moved away from the throne, towards the doorway…silver and ebony cane tapping on the pavestones.

A short while later it reached the temple's entrance and looked out. There, at the gate, walked the last of them. A Gral, and the chilling, dread apparition that was Icarium.

A catch of breath from the huddling shadow beneath the arched frame, as the Jhag paused once to glance back.

And Shadowthrone caught, in Icarium's expression, something like a smile, then the faintest of nods, before the Jhag turned away.

The god cocked his head, listening to the party hurry back up the path.

A short time later and they were gone, back through their gate.

Meticulous illusion, crafted with genius, triggered by the arrival of strangers – of, indeed, any but Shadowthrone himself – triggered to transform into a shattered, powerless wreck. Meanas, bound with Mockra, flung across the span of the chamber, invisible strands webbing the formal entrance. Mockra, filaments of suggestion, invitation, the surrendering of natural scepticism, easing the way to witness the broken throne.

Lesser warrens, yet manipulated by a god's hands, and not any god's hands, either. No…
mine!

The Edur were gone.

‘Idiots.'

 

‘Three sorceror kings,' Destriant Run'Thurvian said, ‘rule Shal-Morzinn. They will contest our passage, Adjunct Tavore Paran, and this cannot be permitted.'

‘We would seek to negotiate,' the Adjunct said. ‘Indeed, to purchase supplies from them. Why would they oppose this?'

‘Because it pleases them to do so.'

‘And they are formidable?'

‘Formidable? It may well prove,' the Destriant said, ‘that even with the assistance of your sorcerors, including your High Mage here, we will suffer severe, perhaps devastating losses should we clash with them. Losses sufficient to drive us back, even to destroy us utterly.'

The Adjunct frowned across at Admiral Nok, then at Quick Ben.

The latter shrugged. ‘I don't even know who they are and I hate them already.'

Keneb grunted.
Some High Mage
.

‘What, Destriant Run'Thurvian, do you suggest?'

‘We have prepared for this, Adjunct, and with the assistance of your sorcerors, we believe we can succeed in our intention.'

‘A gate,' Quick Ben said.

‘Yes. The Realm of Fanderay and Togg possesses seas. Harsh, fierce seas, but navigable nonetheless. It would not be wise to extend our journey in that realm overlong – the risks are too vast – but I believe we can survive them long enough to, upon re-emerging, find ourselves off the Dal Honese Horn of Quon Tali.'

‘How long will that take?' Admiral Nok asked.

‘Days instead of months, sir,' the Destriant replied.

‘Risks, you said,' Keneb ventured. ‘What kind of risks?'

‘Natural forces, Fist. Storms, submerged ice; in that realm the sea levels have plunged, for ice grips many lands. It is a world caught in the midst of catastrophic changes. Even so, the season we shall enter is the least violent – in that, we are most fortunate.'

Quick Ben snorted. ‘Forgive me, Destriant, but I sense nothing fortuitous in all this. We have some savanna spirit driving us along with these winds, as if every moment gained is somehow crucial. A
savannah
spirit, for Hood's sake. And now, you've worked a ritual to fashion an enormous gate on the seas. That ritual must have been begun months ago—'

‘Two years, High Mage.'

‘Two years! You said you were waiting for us – you knew we were coming –
two years ago?
Just how many spirits and gods are pushing us around here?'

The Destriant said nothing, folding his hands together before him on the map-table.

‘Two years,' Quick Ben muttered.

‘From you, High Mage, we require raw power – taxing, yes, but not so arduous as to leave you damaged.'

‘Oh, that's nice.'

‘High Mage,' the Adjunct said, ‘you will make yourself available to the Grey Helms.'

He sighed, then nodded.

‘How soon, Destriant?' Admiral Nok asked. ‘And how shall we align the fleet?'

‘Three ships across at the most, two cables apart, no more – the span of a shortbow arrow's flight between each. I suggest you begin readying your fleet immediately, sir. The gate shall be opened at dawn tomorrow.'

Nok rose. ‘Then I must take my leave. Adjunct.'

Keneb studied Quick Ben on the other side of the table. The High Mage looked miserable.

 

Kalam waited until Quick Ben emerged onto the mid deck, then made his way over. ‘What's got you shaking in your boots?' he asked.

‘Never mind. If you're here to badger me about something – anything – I'm not in the mood.'

‘I just had a question,' the assassin said, ‘but I need to ask it in private.'

‘Our hole in the knuckle below.'

‘Good idea.'

A short time later they crouched once more in the narrow unlit aisle between crates and bales. ‘It's this,' Kalam said, dispensing with any small talk. ‘The Adjunct.'

‘What about her?'

‘I'm nervous.'

‘Oh, how sad for you. Take it from me, it beats being scared witless, Kalam.'

‘The Adjunct.'

‘What is that? A question?'

‘I need to know, Quick. Are you with her?'

‘With her? In what? In bed? No. T'amber would kill me. Now, maybe if she decided to join in it'd be a different matter—'

‘What in Hood's name are you going on about, Quick?'

‘Sorry. With her, you asked.' He paused, rubbed at his face. ‘Things are going to get ugly.'

‘I know that! That's why I'm asking, idiot!'

‘Calm down. No reason to panic—'

‘Isn't there?'

Quick Ben shifted from rubbing his face to scratching it, then he pulled his hands away and blinked tearily at the assassin. ‘Look what's happening to me, and it's all your damned fault—'

‘Mine?'

‘Well, it's somebody's, is what I'm saying. You're here so it might as well be you, Kal.'

‘Fine, have it that way. You haven't answered me yet.'

‘Are you?' the wizard countered.

‘With her? I don't know. That's the problem.'

‘Me neither. I don't know. She's a hard one to like, almost as hard to hate, since if you look back, there's nothing really to do either with, right?'

‘You're starting to not make sense, Quick.'

‘So what?'

‘So you don't know, and I don't know. I don't know about you,' Kalam said, ‘but I hate not knowing. I even hate you not knowing.'

‘That's because, back then, Laseen talked you onto her side. You went to kill her, remember? And she turned you round. But now you're here, with the Adjunct, and we're on our way back, to
her
. And you don't know if anything's changed, or if it's
all
changed. It was one thing standing with Whiskeyjack. Even Dujek. We knew them. But the Adjunct…well…things aren't so simple.'

‘Thank you, Quick, for reiterating everything I've just been telling you.'

‘My pleasure. Now, are we done here?'

‘Sorry, in need of changing your loincloth again, are you?'

‘You have no idea what we're about to do, Kal. What I suggest is, come tomorrow morning, you head back down here, close your eyes and wait. Wait, and wait. Don't move. Or try not to. You might get tossed round a bit, and maybe these bales will come down on you. In fact, you might end up getting crushed like a gnat, so better you stay up top. Eyes closed, though. Closed until I say otherwise.'

‘I don't believe you.'

The High Mage scowled. ‘All right. Maybe I was trying to scare you. It'll be rough, though. That much is true. And over on the
Silanda
, Fiddler will be heaving his guts out.'

Kalam, thinking on it, suddenly smiled. ‘That cheers me up.'

‘Me too.'

 

Like a tidal flow clashing at the mouth of a raging river, walls of water rose in white, churning explosions on all sides as the
Silanda
lunged, prow plunging, into the maelstrom of the massive gate. Beyond was a sky transformed, steel, silver and grey, the tumult of atmospheric convulsions seeming to tumble down, as if but moments from crushing the score of ships already through. The scale to Bottle's eyes was all wrong. Moments earlier their warship had been but a cable behind the
Froth Wolf
, and now the Adjunct's flagship was a third of a league distant, dwarfed by the looming clouds and heaving swells.

Huddled beside Bottle, hands gripping the rail, Fiddler spat out the last of his breakfast, too sick to curse, too miserable to even so much as look up—

Which was likely a good thing, Bottle decided, as he listened to other marines being sick all around him, and the shouts – close to panic – from the scrambling sailors on the transport wallowing in their wake.

Gesler began blasting on that damned whistle as the ship rose above a huge swell – and Bottle almost cried out to see the stern of the
Froth Wolf
rearing immediately in front of them. Twisting round, he looked back, to see the sorcerous gate far away, its raging mouth filled with ships – that worked clear, then plunged, suddenly close, behind the
Silanda
.

By the Abyss! We're damned near flying here!

He could see, to starboard, a mass of icebergs spilling out from the white-lined horizon – a wall of ice, he realized. Whilst to port rose a wind-battered coastline, thrashing deciduous trees – oak, arbutus – and here and there clumps of white pine, their tall trunks rocking back and forth with every savage gust. Between the fleet and that shore, there were seals, their heads dotting the waves, the rocky beaches crowded with the beasts.

‘Bottle,' Fiddler croaked, still not looking up, ‘tell me some good news.'

‘We're through the gate, Sergeant. It's rough, and it looks like we got a sea full of icebergs closing in to starboard – no, not that close yet, I think we'll outrun them. I'll wager the whole fleet's through now. Gods, those Perish catamarans look like they were made for this. Lucky bastards. Anyway, rumour is this won't be long, here in this realm – Sergeant?'

But the man was crawling away, heading for the hatch.

‘Sergeant?'

‘I said good news, Bottle. Like, we're all about to drop off the world's edge. Something like that.'

‘Oh. Well,' he called out as the man slithered across the deck, ‘there's seals!'

 

The night of the green storm far to the north, four Malazan dromons slid into the harbour of Malaz City, the flags upon their masts indicating that they were from the Jakatakan Fleet, whose task it was to patrol the seas from Malaz Island west, to the island of Geni and on to the Horn of the mainland. There had been clashes a few months past with some unknown fleet, but the invaders had been driven away, albeit at some cost. At full strength, the Jakatakan Fleet sailed twenty-seven dromons and sixteen resupply ships. It was rumoured that eleven dromons had been lost in the multiple skirmishes with the foreign barbarians, although Banaschar, upon hearing all this, suspected that the numbers were either an exaggeration or – in accordance with the policy of minimizing imperial losses – the opposite. The truth of the matter was, he didn't believe much of anything any more, no matter the source.

Coop's was crowded, with a lot of in and out as denizens repeatedly tramped outside to watch the northern night sky – where there was no night at all – then returned with still more expostulations, which in turn triggered yet another exodus. And so on.

Banaschar was indifferent to the rushing about – like dogs on the trail, darting from master to home and back again. Endless and brainless, really.