The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (733 page)

‘A victim of the Patriotists,' Bugg said, eyeing Ublala askance as he made his way over to the pot on the hearth. ‘Abyss below, Master, this barely passes as muddy water.'

‘Aye, alas, in dire need of your culinary magic. The Patriotists? You broke her out of prison?'

‘In a manner of speaking. I do not anticipate a city-wide manhunt, however. She was to have been one of the ones who simply vanished.'

Ublala Pung grunted a laugh. ‘They'd never find her if it was a manhunt.'

The other two men looked across at him.

The half-blood Tarthenal gestured at the obvious. ‘Look, she's got breasts and stuff.'

Bugg's tone was soft as he said to Tehol, ‘She needs gentle healing, Master. And peace.'

‘Well, no better refuge from the dreads of the world than Tehol Beddict's abode.'

‘A manhunt.' Ublala laughed again, then shook his head. ‘Them Patriotists are idiots.'

The Realm of Shadow was home to brutal places, yet not one could match the brutality of shadows upon the soul. Such thoughts haunted Cotillion these days. He stood on a rise, before him a gentle, elongated slope reaching down to a lake's placid waters. A makeshift camp was visible on a level terrace forty paces to his left, a single longhouse flanked by half-buried outbuildings, including stable and coop. The entire arrangement – fortunately unoccupied at the time, excepting a dozen hens and a rooster, one irritated rook with a gimp leg and two milk cows – had been stolen from another realm, captured by some vagary of happenstance, or, more likely, the consequence of the breaking of mysterious laws, as seemed to occur sporadically during Shadow Realm's endless migration.

However it had arrived, Shadowthrone learned of it in time to despatch a flurry of wraiths to lay claim to the buildings and livestock, saving them from predation by roving demons or, indeed, one of the Hounds.

Following the disaster at the First Throne, the score of survivors had been delivered to this place, to wander and wonder at the strange artifacts left by the previous inhabitants: the curved wooden prows surmounting the peaks of the longhouse with their intricate, serpentine carvings; the mysterious totemic jewellery, mostly of silver although amber seemed common as well; the bolts of cloth, wool both coarse and fine; wooden bowls and cups of hammered bronze. Wandering through it all, dazed, a blankness in their eyes…

Recovering.

As if such a thing is possible.

Off to his right, a lone cape-shrouded figure stood at the water's edge, motionless, seeming to stare out on the unmarred expanse of the lake. There was nothing normal to this lake, Cotillion knew, although the scene it presented from this section of the shore was deceptively serene. Barring the lack of birds. And the absence of molluscs, crustaceans or even insects.

Every scrap of food to feed the livestock – and the miserable rook – was brought in by the wraiths Shadowthrone had assigned to the task. For all of that, the rooster had died mere days after arriving.
Died from grief, I expect. Not a single dawn to crow awake
.

He could hear voices from somewhere just beyond the longhouse. Panek, Aystar and the other surviving children – well, hardly children any more. They'd seen battle, they'd seen their friends die, they knew the world – every world – was an unpleasant place where a human's life was not worth much. They knew, too, what it meant to be used.

Further down the beach, well past the lone hooded figure, walked Trull Sengar and the T'lan Imass, Onrack the Broken. Like an artist with his deathless muse, or perhaps at his shoulder a critic of ghastly mien. An odd friendship, that one. But then, T'lan Imass were full of surprises.

Sighing, Cotillion set off down the slope.

The hooded head half turned at his approach. A face the hue of burnished leather, eyes dark beneath the felted wool rim of the hood. ‘Have you come with the key, Cotillion?'

‘Quick Ben, it is good to see that you have recovered.'

‘More or less.'

‘What key?'

The flash of a humourless smile. ‘The one that sets me free.'

Cotillion stood beside the wizard and studied the murky expanse of water. ‘I would imagine that you could leave here at any time. You are a High Mage, with more than one warren at your disposal. Force a gate, then walk through it.'

‘Do you take me for a fool?' Quick Ben asked in a quiet voice. ‘This damned realm is wandering. There's no telling where I would come out, although if I guess correctly, I would be in for a long swim.'

‘Ah. Well, I'm afraid I pay little attention to such things these days. We are crossing an ocean, then?'

‘So I suspect.'

‘Then indeed, to journey anywhere you require our help.'

The wizard shot him a glance. ‘As I thought. You have created pathways, gates with fixed exits. How did you manage that, Cotillion?'

‘Oh, not our doing, I assure you. We simply stumbled onto them, in a manner of speaking.'

‘The Azath.'

‘Very good. You always were sharp, Ben Delat.'

A grunt. ‘I've not used that version of my name in a long time.'

‘Oh? When was the last time – do you recall?'

‘These Azath,' Quick Ben said, clearly ignoring the question. ‘The House of Shadow itself, here in this realm, correct? Somehow, it has usurped the gate, the original gate. Kurald Emurlahn. The House exists both as a cast shadow and as its true physical manifestation. No distinction can be made between the two. A nexus…but that is not unusual for Azath constructs, is it? What is, however, is that the gate to Kurald Emurlahn was vulnerable in the first place, to such a usurpation.'

‘Necessity, I expect,' said Cotillion, frowning at seeing a slow sweep of broad ripples approach the shore, their source somewhere further out.
Not at all what it seems
…

‘What do you mean?'

The god shrugged. ‘The realm was shattered. Dying.'

‘The Azath participated in healing the fragments? Intentional? By design, by intellect? Or in the manner that blood dries to create a scab? Is the Azath nothing more than some kind of natural immune system, such as our bodies unleash to fight illness?'

‘The breadth of your scholarly knowledge is impressive, Quick Ben.'

‘Never mind that. The warrens were K'rul's supreme sacrifice – his own flesh, his own blood. But not the
Elder
Warrens – or so we are to believe. Whose veins were opened to create those, Cotillion?'

‘I wish I knew. No, rather, I don't. I doubt it is relevant, in any case. Does the Azath simply respond to damage, or is there a guiding intelligence behind its actions? I cannot answer you. I doubt anyone can. Does it even matter?'

‘I don't know, to be honest. But not knowing makes me nervous.'

‘I have a key for you,' Cotillion said after a moment. Trull Sengar and Onrack were now walking towards them. ‘For the three of you, in fact. If you want it.'

‘There's a choice?'

‘Not for them,' Cotillion said, nodding in the direction of Trull and the T'lan Imass. ‘And they could use your help.'

‘The same was true of Kalam Mekhar,' Quick Ben said. ‘Not to mention Adjunct Tavore.'

‘They survived,' Cotillion replied.

‘You cannot be sure, though – not with Kalam. You can't be entirely sure, can you?'

‘He was alive when the Deadhouse took him.'

‘So Shadowthrone claims.'

‘He would not lie.'

The wizard barked a bitter laugh.

‘Kalam still lives, Quick Ben. The Deadhouse has him, beyond the reach of time itself. Yet he will heal. The poison will degrade, become inert. Shadowthrone saved the assassin's life—'

‘Why?'

‘Now that is a harder question to answer,' Cotillion admitted. ‘Perhaps simply to defy Laseen, and you should not be surprised if that is his only reason. Believe me, for Shadowthrone, it suffices.'
Be glad, Ben Adaephon Delat, that I do not tell you his real reason
.

Trull Sengar and Onrack drew close, then halted. The Tiste Edur's new stone-tipped spear was strapped to his back; he was wearing a long cape against the chill, the wool dyed deep burgundy – one of the more useful treasures found in the longhouse. It was held in place by an exquisite silver brooch depicting some sort of stylized hammer. At his side, Onrack the Broken's skeletal frame was so battered, dented and fractured it was a wonder that the warrior was still in one piece.

The T'lan Imass spoke. ‘This lake, god. The shore opposite…'

‘What of it?'

‘It does not exist.'

Cotillion nodded.

Trull Sengar asked, ‘How can that be? Onrack says it's not a gate, on the other side. It's not anything at all.'

Cotillion ran a hand through his hair, then scratched his chin – realizing he needed to shave – and squinted out on the water. ‘The other side is…unresolved.'

‘What does that mean?' Quick Ben demanded.

‘To fully understand, you will have to go there, wizard. The three of you – that is the path of your journey. And you must leave soon.'

‘Forgive us for being unimpressed,' the Tiste Edur said drily. ‘The last nightmare you sent us into has made us rather reluctant adventurers. We need a better reason, Cotillion.'

‘I imagine you do.'

‘We're waiting,' Quick Ben said, crossing his arms.

‘Alas, I cannot help you. Any explanation I attempt will affect your perception of what you will find, at your journey's end. And that must not be allowed to happen, because the manner in which you perceive will shape and indeed define the reality that awaits you.' He sighed again. ‘I know, that's not very helpful.'

‘Then summon Shadowthrone,' Trull Sengar said. ‘Maybe he can do better.'

Cotillion shrugged, then nodded.

A dozen heartbeats later a mostly formless shadow rose in their midst, from which emerged a knobby cane at the end of a skinny, gnarled arm. The god glanced about, then down, to find itself ankle-deep in water. Hissing, Shadowthrone picked up the tattered ends of his cloak then pranced onto dry land. ‘Oh, wasn't that amusing?' he sang. ‘Wretches, all of you. What do you want? I'm busy. Do you understand? Busy.'

Onrack pointed one skeletal arm out towards the lake. ‘Cotillion would send us across this water, on a mission he will not explain, to achieve goals he refuses to define, in a place he cannot describe. We therefore call upon you, formless one, to deliver what he will not.'

Shadowthrone giggled.

Cotillion glanced away, suspecting what was coming.

‘Delighted to, bony one. I respond in this manner. It is as Cotillion believes. The rooster died of grief.'

A curse from Quick Ben as Shadowthrone then swirled into nothingness.

Cotillion turned away. ‘Supplies await you outside the longhouse. When you return down here, a boat will have been readied. Make your goodbyes to Minala and the children as brief as possible. The way ahead is long and arduous, and we are running out of time.'

 

The
Undying Gratitude
heeled hard to starboard, the gale bitter with the cold reek of ice. Pulling and half climbing his way across the aft deck as the crew struggled against the sudden onslaught, First Mate Skorgen Kaban reached the pilot station where Shurq Elalle, held in place by a leather harness, stood with legs planted wide.

She seemed impervious to the plunging temperature, with not even a hint of colour slapped to her cheeks by the buffeting wind. An uncanny woman indeed. Uncanny, insatiable, unearthly, she was like a sea goddess of old, a glamoured succubus luring them all to their doom – but no, that was not a good thought, not now, not ever. Or at least for as long as he sailed with her.

‘Captain! It's going to be close – them mountains of ice are closin' on the cut, maybe faster than we are! Where in the Errant's name did they come from?'

‘We'll make it,' Shurq Elalle asserted. ‘Come round into the lee of the island – it's the northwest shore that's going to get hammered. I'd be amazed if the citadel's walls on that side survive what's coming. Look at the Reach, Pretty, it's nothing but fangs of ice – wherever all this has come from, it's devouring the entire coast.'

‘Damned cold, is what it is,' Skorgen said in a growl. ‘Maybe we should turn round, Captain. That fleet never came after us anyway – we could head for Lether Mouth—'

‘And starve before we're halfway there. No, Pretty, Second Maiden Fort's an independent state now, and I'm finding that rather appealing. Besides, I'm curious. Aren't you?'

‘Not enough to risk getting crushed by them white jaws, Captain.'

‘We'll make it.'

 

The foment that was the crest of the heaving bergs was the colour of old leather, shredded by the churning fragments of ice, tree roots, shattered trunks and huge broken rocks that seemed to defy the pull to the deep – at least for long enough to appear atop the water, like the leading edge of a slide, rolling on across the surface of the tumult before reluctantly vanishing into the depths.

Tumbling out from this surge like rotted curtains was fog, plucked and torn by the ferocious winds, and Shurq Elalle, facing astern, watched as the maelstrom heaved in their wake. It was gaining, but not fast enough; they were moments from rounding the isle's rocky headland, which looked to be formidable enough to shunt the ice aside, down its length.

At least, she hoped so. If not, then Second Maiden's harbour was doomed.
And so is my ship and crew.
As for herself, well, if she managed to avoid being crushed or frozen in place, she could probably work her way clear, maybe even clamber aboard for the long ride to the mainland's coast.

It won't come to that. Islands don't get pushed around. Buried, possibly, but then Fent Reach is where it's all piling up
– what's chasing us here is just an outer arm, and before long it'll be fighting the tide. Errant fend, imagine what happened to the Edur homeland – that entire coast must have been chewed to pieces – or swallowed up entire. So what broke up the dam, that's what I want to know.