The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (728 page)

‘What is that?'

‘The burial urn for Icarium, and his place in the cemetery where resides every challenger Rhulad has faced.'

‘Even that place will not survive,' Taralack Veed muttered.

 

The Gral, feeling sick to his stomach, walked over to Icarium. He did not want to think of the destruction to come. He had seen it once, after all.
Burn, even in your eternal sleep, you felt the stabbing wound that is Icarium – and none of these people here countenanced it, none was ready for the truth. Their hands are not in the earth, the touch is lost – yet look at them: they would call me the savage.

‘Icarium, my friend—'

‘Can you not feel it, Taralack Veed?' In his unhuman eyes, the gleam of anticipation. ‘This place…I have been here before – no, not this city. From the time before this city was born. I have stood on this ground—'

‘And it remembered,' growled Taralack Veed.

‘Yes, but not in the way you believe. There are truths here, waiting for me. Truths. I have never been as close to them as I am now. Now I understand why I did not refuse you.'

Refuse me? You considered such a thing? Was it truly so near the edge?
‘Your destiny will soon welcome you, Icarium, as I have said all along. You could no more refuse that than you could the Jaghut blood in your veins.'

A grimace. ‘Jaghut…yes, they have been here. In my wake. Perhaps, even, on my trail. Long ago, and now again—'

‘Again?'

‘Omtose Phellack – the heart of this city is ice, Taralack Veed. A most violent imposition.'

‘Are you certain? I do not understand—'

‘Nor I. Yet. But I shall. No secret shall survive my sojourn here. It will change.'

‘What will change?'

Icarium smiled, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, and did not reply.

‘You will face this Emperor then?'

‘So it is expected of me, Taralack Veed.' A bright glance. ‘How could I refuse them?'

Spirits below, my death draws close. It was what we wanted all along. So why do I now rail at it? Who has stolen my courage?

‘It is as if,' Icarium whispered, ‘my life awakens anew.'

 

The hand shot out in the gloom, snatching the rat from atop the wooden cage holding the forward pump. The scrawny creature had a moment to squeal in panic before its neck was snapped. There was a thud as the dead rat was flung to one side, where it slid down into the murky bilge water.

‘Oh, how I hate you when you lose patience,' Samar Dev said in a weary tone. ‘That's an invitation to disease, Karsa Orlong.'

‘Life is an invitation to disease,' the huge warrior rumbled from the shadows. After a moment, he added, ‘I'll feed it to the turtles.' Then he snorted. ‘Turtles big enough to drag down this damned ship. These Letherii live in a mad god's nightmare.'

‘More than you realize,' Samar Dev muttered. ‘Listen. Shouts from shore. We're finally drawing in.'

‘The rats are relieved.'

‘Don't you have something you need to do to get ready?'

‘Such as?'

‘I don't know. Knock a few more chips off your sword, or something. Get it sharp.'

‘The sword is unbreakable.'

‘What about that armour? Most of the shells are broken – it's not worthy of the name and won't stop a blade—'

‘No blade will reach it, witch. I shall face but one man, not twenty. And he is small – my people call you children. And that is all you truly are. Short-lived, stick-limbed, with faces I want to pinch. The Edur are little different, just stretched out a bit.'

‘Pinch? Would that be before or after decapitation?'

He grunted a laugh.

Samar Dev leaned back against the bale in which something hard and lumpy had been packed – despite the mild discomfort she was not inclined to explore any further. Both the Edur and the Letherii had peculiar ideas about what constituted booty. In this very hold there were amphorae containing spiced human blood and a dozen wax-clad corpses of Edur ‘refugees' from Sepik who had not survived the journey, stacked like bolts of cloth against a bloodstained conch-shell throne that had belonged to some remote island chieftain – whose pickled head probably resided in one of the jars Karsa Orlong leaned against. ‘At least we're soon to get off this damned ship. My skin has all dried up. Look at my hands – I've seen mummified ones looking better than these. All this damned salt – it clings like a second skin, and it's moulting—'

‘Spirits below, woman, you incite me to wring another rat's neck.'

‘So I am responsible for that last rat's death, am I? Needless to say, I take exception to that. Was your hand that reached out, Toblakai. Your hand that—'

‘And your mouth that never stops, making me need to kill something.'

‘I am not to blame for your violent impulses. Besides, I was just passing time in harmless conversation. We've not spoken in a while, you and I. I find I prefer Taxilian's company, and were he not sick with homesickness and even more miserable than you…'

‘Conversation. Is that what you call it? Then why are my ears numb?'

‘You know, I too am impatient. I've not cast a curse on anyone in a long time.'

‘Your squalling spirits do not frighten me,' Karsa Orlong replied. ‘And they have been squalling, ever since we made the river. A thousand voices clamouring in my skull – can you not silence them?'

Sighing, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. ‘Toblakai…you will have quite an audience when you clash swords with this Edur Emperor.'

‘What has that to do with your spirits, Samar Dev?'

‘Yes, that was too obscure, wasn't it? Then I shall be more precise. There are gods in this city we approach. Resident gods.'

‘Do they ever get a moment's rest?'

‘They don't live in temples. Nor any signs above the doors of their residences, Karsa Orlong. They are in the city, yet few know of it. Understand, the spirits shriek because they are not welcome, and, even more worrying, should any one of those gods seek to wrest them away from me, well, there is little I could do against them.'

‘Yet they are bound to me as well, aren't they?'

She clamped her mouth shut, squinted across at him in the gloom. The hull thumped as the ship edged up alongside the dock. She saw the glimmer of bared teeth, feral, and a chill rippled through her. ‘What do you know of that?' she asked.

‘It is my curse to gather souls,' he replied. ‘What are spirits, witch, if not simply powerful souls? They haunt me…I haunt them. The candles I lit, in that apothecary of yours – they were in the wax, weren't they?'

‘Released, then held close, yes. I gathered them…after I'd sent you away.'

‘Bound them into that knife at your belt,' Karsa said. ‘Tell me, do you sense the two Toblakai souls in my own weapon?'

‘Yes, no. That is, I sense them, but I dare not approach.'

‘Why?'

‘Karsa, they are too strong for me. They are like fire in the crystal of that flint, trapped by your will.'

‘Not trapped,' he replied. ‘They dwell within because they choose to, because the weapon honours them. They are my companions, Samar Dev.' The Toblakai rose suddenly, hunching beneath the ceiling. ‘Should a god be foolish enough to seek to steal our spirits, I will kill it.'

She regarded him from half-closed eyes. Declarative statements such as that one were not rare utterances from Karsa Orlong, and she had long since learned that they were not empty boasts, no matter how absurd the assertion might have sounded. ‘That would not be wise,' she said after a moment.

‘A god devoid of wisdom deserves what it gets.'

‘That's not what I meant.'

Karsa stooped momentarily to retrieve the dead rat, then he headed for the hatch.

She followed.

When she reached the main deck, the Toblakai was walking towards the captain. She watched as he placed the sodden rat in the Letherii's hands, then turned away, saying, ‘Get the hoists – I want my horse on deck and off this damned hulk.' Behind him, the captain stared down at the creature in his hands, then, with a snarl, he flung it over the rail.

Samar Dev contemplated a few quick words with the captain, to stave off the coming storm – a storm that Karsa had nonchalantly triggered innumerable times before on this voyage – then decided it was not worth the effort. It seemed that the captain concluded much the same, as a sailor hurried up with a bucket of seawater, into which the Letherii thrust his hands.

The main hatch to the cargo hold was being removed, while other hands set to assembling the winches.

Karsa strode to the gangway. He halted, then said in a loud voice, ‘This city reeks. When I am done with its Emperor, I may well burn it to the ground.'

The planks sagged and bounced as the Toblakai descended to the landing.

Samar Dev hurried after him.

One of two fully armoured guards had already begun addressing Karsa in contemptuous tones. ‘—to be unarmed whenever you are permitted to leave the compound, said permission to be granted only by the ranking officer of the Watch. Our immediate task is to escort you to your quarters, where the filth will be scrubbed from your body and hair—'

He got no further, as Karsa reached out, closed his hand on the guard's leather weapons harness, and with a single heave flung the Letherii into the air. Six or more paces to the left he sailed, colliding with three stevedores who had been watching the proceedings. All four went down.

Voicing an oath, the second guard tugged at his shortsword.

Karsa's punch rocked his head back and the man collapsed.

Hoarse shouts of alarm, more Letherii soldiers converging.

Samar Dev rushed forward. ‘Hood take you, Toblakai – do you intend to war with the whole empire?'

Glaring at the half-circle of guards closing round him, Karsa grunted then crossed his arms. ‘If you are to be my escort,' he said to them, ‘then be civil, or I will break you all into pieces.' Then he swung about, pushing past Samar. ‘Where is my horse?' he bellowed to the crew still on deck. ‘Where is Havok! I grow tired of waiting!'

Samar Dev considered returning to the ship, demanding that they sail out, back down the river, back into the Draconean Sea, then beyond. Leaving this unpredictable Toblakai to Letheras and all its hapless denizens.

Alas, even gods don't deserve that.

 

Bugg stood thirty paces from the grand entrance to the Hivanar Estate, one hand out as he leaned against a wall to steady himself. In some alley garden a short distance away, chickens screeched in wild clamour and flung themselves into the grille hatches in frenzied panic. Overhead, starlings still raced back and forth en masse.

He wiped beads of sweat from his brow, struggled to draw a deep breath.

A worthy reminder, he told himself. Everything was only a matter of time. What stretched would then contract. Events tumbled, forces closed to collision, and for all that, the measured pace seemed to remain unchanged, a current beneath all else. Yet, he knew, even that slowed, incrementally, from one age to the next.
Death is written in birth – the words of a great sage. What was her name? When did she live? Ah, so much has whispered away from my mind, these memories, like sand between the fingers. Yet she could see what most cannot – not even the gods. Death and birth. Even in opposition the two forces are bound, and to define one is to define the other.

And now
he
had come. With his first step, delivering the weight of history. This land's. His own. Two forces in opposition, yet inextricably bound.
Do you now feel as if you have come home, Icarium? I remember you, striding from the sea, a refugee from a realm you had laid to waste. Yet your father did not await you – he had gone, he had walked down the throat of an Azath. Icarium, he was Jaghut, and among the Jaghut no father reaches across to take his child's hand.

‘Are you sick, old man?'

Blinking, Bugg looked across to see a servant from one of the nearby estates, returning from market with a basket of foodstuffs balanced on his head.
Only with grief, dear mortal.
He shook his head.

‘It was the floods,' the servant went on. ‘Shifting the clay.'

‘Aye.'

‘Scale House fell down – did you hear? Right into the street. Good thing it was empty, hey? Though I heard there was a fatality – in the street.' The man suddenly grinned. ‘A cat!' Laughing, he resumed his journey.

Bugg stared after him; then, with a grunt, he set off for the gate.

He waited on the terrace, frowning down at the surprisingly deep trench the crew had managed to excavate into the bank, then outward, through the bedded silts of the river itself. The shoring was robust, and Bugg could see few leaks from between the sealed slats. Even so, two workers were on the pump, their bared backs slick with sweat.