The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (81 page)

“You were the one,” Paran said, as numbness spread through him, “the one who possessed the girl—”

The man faced the captain. “Yes, I am Cotillion. Shadowthrone regrets leaving you outside Hood’s Gates—at the cost of two Hounds. Do you realize that those precious creatures had lived for thousands of years? Do you realize that no man—mortal or Ascendant—has ever before killed a Hound?”

Did I save their souls? Wouldn’t telling that story matter? No, too much like begging
. Paran glanced at Rood.
Kinship?
“What do you want from me?” he asked Cotillion. “My death? Leave me here, then, it’s almost done.”

“You should have left us to our work, Captain, since you now hate the Empress so.”

“What you did to the girl—”

“What I did was merciful. I used her, yes, but she knew it not. Can the same be said for you? Tell me, is knowing you’re being used better than not knowing?”

Paran said nothing.

“I can release to the girl all those memories, if you like. The memories of what I did, what she did, when I possessed her . . .”

“No.”

Cotillion nodded.

Paran could feel the pain returning and it surprised him. He’d lost so much blood that he’d expected to be fading from consciousness by now. Instead, the pain was back, incessant, throbbing amid unbearable itching. He coughed. “Now what?”

“Now?” Cotillion seemed surprised. “Now I start again.”

“Another girl like her?”

“No, the plan was flawed.”

“You stole her life!”

Cotillion’s dark eyes hardened. “Now she has it back. I see you still carry Chance, so the same cannot be said for you.”

Paran turned his head, found the weapon an arm’s length away. “When my luck turns,” he muttered.
And turn it did
. He found he could move his left arm, and the pain in his chest seemed less insistent than it had.

Cotillion laughed dryly at Paran’s words. “It will be too late then, Captain. You gamble that the Lady continues to look kindly on you. You’ve surrendered whatever wisdom you may have once possessed. Such is the power of the Twins.”

“I am healing,” Paran said.

“So you are. As I said, Rood was premature.”

The captain slowly, cautiously, sat up. His chain armor was in shreds, but beneath he could see the red flame of newly healed flesh. “I—I don’t understand you, Cotillion, or Shadowthrone.”

“You are not alone in that. Now, as to Chance . . .”

Paran looked down at the weapon. “It’s yours, if you want it.”

“Ah.” Cotillion smiled, stepping over to pick it up. “I’d suspected a change of heart, Captain. The world is so complex, isn’t it? Tell me, do you pity the ones who used you?”

Paran closed his eyes. A terrible burden seemed to drain from him. He recalled the Finnest’s grip on his soul. He glanced up at the Hound. In Rood’s eyes he saw something almost . . . soft. “No.”

“Wisdom returns quickly,” Cotillion said, “once the bond is severed. I will return you now, Captain, with this one last warning: try not to be noticed. And when next you see a Hound, run.”

The air swirled into darkness around Paran. He blinked, saw the trees of the estate garden rising before him.
I wonder, will I run from it . . . or with it?

“Captain?” It was Mallet’s voice. “Where in Hood’s Name are you?”

Paran sat up. “Not in Hood’s Name, Mallet. I’m here, in the shadows.”

The healer scrambled to his side. “We’ve got trouble everywhere. You look—”

“Deal with it,” the captain barked, climbing to his feet.

Mallet stared at Paran. “Hood’s Breath, you look chewed to pieces . . . sir.”

“I’m going after Lorn. If we all live through this we will meet at the Phoenix Inn. Understood?”

Mallet blinked. “Yes, sir.”

Paran turned to leave.

“Captain?”

“What?”

“Don’t treat her kindly, sir.”

Paran moved off.

The images remained with Crokus, brutally sharp. They returned again and again even as he tried to move away from them, his thoughts driven by panic and desperation.

Uncle Mammot was dead. In the youth’s head a distant, steady voice told him that the man who had borne Mammot’s face was not the man he’d known all his life, and that what had been . . . claimed by the roots was something else, something horrific. The voice repeated this, and he heard its clear statement rising and falling beneath the storm of what he had seen with his own eyes: the images that would not leave him.

The central chamber of Lady Simtal’s estate was abandoned, the fête’s trappings scattered about on the floor amid puddles and smears of blood. The dead and those whom Mammot had hurt had been carried away by the guards; the servants had all fled.

Crokus raced across the room to the open front doors. Beyond, torchlight cast a hissing blue glow down onto the walkway’s paved stones and the gates, which had been left ajar. The thief leaped down the steps and hurried for the gate. He slowed as he approached it, for something was wrong in the street.

Like Simtal’s main floor, the street was empty, littered with pennants, banners, and fetishes. Eddies of dry wind whipped tatters of cloth and reed paper about in dancing circles. The air felt heavy and close.

Crokus emerged onto the street. In either direction, as far as he could see, not a single reveler was visible, and a thick silence hung over all. The wind curled round him, first from one direction, then from another, as if seeking escape. A charnel smell filled the air.

Mammot’s death returned to him. He felt utterly alone, yet Rallick’s words urged him on. Days ago, the assassin had closed angry hands on the thief’s shirt, pulling him close—and he’d called Crokus a drinker of the city’s blood. He wanted to refute that, especially now. Darujhistan mattered. It was his home, and it mattered.

He turned in the direction of Baruk’s estate. At least, with the streets empty, this wouldn’t take long. He began to run.

The gusting wind beat against him, whipping his hair into his face. Darkness hung low above the street’s gas lamps. Crokus skidded to a halt on a corner. He’d heard something. Cocking his head, he held his breath and listened. There, again. Birds—hundreds of them from the sound, murmuring, talking, clucking. And amid the charnel smell he now detected the reek of birds’ nests. Crokus frowned, thinking. Then he looked directly overhead.

A shout broke from his lips and he ducked instinctively. Above him, blotting out the night sky’s stars, was a ceiling of jagged black stone, hanging so low as to seem inches from the highest buildings. He stared up at it, then pulled away his
gaze as a wave of dizziness spun through him. The ceiling was revolving slowly. In its pocks, shelves, and crags he’d seen the restless motion of nesting ravens, oily blots against the grainy background.

Moon’s Spawn had arrived, to clear the streets, to silence the festival of rebirth. What could it mean? Crokus didn’t know, but Baruk would. Of course.

The thief resumed his run, his moccasins a whisper on the cobbles.

Kruppe took an expansive breath, his eyes bright as he surveyed the hastily abandoned leavings in the kitchen. “Always the way of things.” He sighed, patting his stomach. “Ever and anon, Kruppe’s dreams come true. Granted, the pattern still finds shape, but Kruppe senses that all is well with the world, symbolized by the vision of bounty now arrayed before his renewed appetites. Rigors of the flesh demand replenishment, after all.”

He drew another satisfied breath of the steamy air. “We must needs await, at the end, the spin of a coin. In the meantime, of course, wondrous food beckons.”

In an alley facing the gates of Lady Simtal’s estate, Adjunct Lorn had watched the Coin Bearer appear, and a slow, satisfied smile spread over her lips. Finding the boy had been one thing, but she’d had no desire to enter the garden where she’d buried the Finnest.

Minutes earlier she’d sensed the death of the Jaghut Tyrant. Had the Lord of Moon’s Spawn been drawn into the battle? She hoped so. It had been her hope that the Jaghut would reach the city, perhaps even retrieve the Finnest, thus challenging the Son of Darkness as an equal. In retrospect, however, she realized that the Lord would never have permitted that.

Which meant that Whiskeyjack still lived. Well, there’d be another time for that, once the city was in the hands of the Empress and Tayschrenn. Perhaps then they’d find no need to disguise their efforts: they could make the arrest a public spectacle. With this coup even Dujek could not challenge them.

She’d watched the Coin Bearer race down the street, seeming not even to have noticed Moon’s Spawn hanging so close overhead. A moment later, she followed. With the Coin in her hands, the Empress would bring Oponn to its knees.

Like a drowning voice, deep within her mind, came a question heavy with dismay and despair: What of your doubts? What of the woman who’d once challenged Tayschrenn, in Pale? Has so much changed? Has so much been destroyed?

The Adjunct shook her head, dispelling the plaintive cries. She was the arm of the Empress. The woman called Lorn was dead, had been dead for years, and would remain forever dead. And now the Adjunct moved through these hollow shadows, in a city cowering in fear. The Adjunct was a weapon. Its edge could bite deep, or it could snap, break. She might once have called the latter “death.” Now, it was no more than the misfortune of war, a flaw in the weapon’s design.

She paused and hid against a wall as the Coin Bearer stopped on a corner and
realized for the first time what hovered above him. She considered attacking now, while he was so confused, possibly terrified. But then he continued on.

The Adjunct crouched down. Time for Tayschrenn’s gambit. Hopefully the Jaghut Tyrant had managed to inflict damage upon the Moon’s lord. She removed a small flask from her shirt and held the patinated glass up to the shine of gaslight. The contents swirled like trapped smoke as she gave it a shake.

She rose and threw it across the street. The flask struck a stone wall and shattered. Glowing red smoke curled upward, slowly taking shape.

The Adjunct spoke: “You know your task, Lord of the Galayn. Succeed, and freedom will be yours.”

She unsheathed her sword and closed her eyes briefly, locating the Coin Bearer in her mind. He was fast, but she was faster. The Adjunct smiled again. Now, the Coin would be hers.

When she moved, it was as a blur, quicker than any eye could follow, even that of a Galayn lord loose on the material plane.

In his study, Baruk cradled his head in his hands. Mammot’s death had come like a knife to his own heart, and he still felt its stabbing pain. He was alone in the chamber, having dismissed Roald earlier.

Rake had suspected. He’d refused to speak of it, considering it too sensitive a matter. The alchemist had wearily to admit that the Tiste Andii had been correct. Would he even have believed Rake? Undoubtedly, the power possessing Mammot had shielded itself, defying detection. Rake had anticipated Baruk’s anger at such a suggestion, and had, wisely and with compassion, chosen to say nothing.

And now Mammot was dead, even as was the Jaghut Tyrant. Had it been Rake who had killed his old friend? If so, he hadn’t used his sword, yet another mercy granted both Mammot and Baruk—the alchemist had sensed, if anything, a kind of relief in Mammot’s death cry.

A soft cough at the door alerted him. Baruk rose swiftly and turned. His brows rose. “Witch Derudan!”

Her face was pale, her smile wan. “I thought of you, upon Mammot’s end. I am here, so. Alas,” she said, as she strode to a chair by the fireplace and set her water-pipe down on the floor beside it, “my servant has taken the rest of the evening off.” She removed the ash-cup and tapped its contents into the unlit hearth. “Such mundane exertions,” she said, sighing.

At first, Baruk resented her intrusion. He preferred to mourn alone. But as he watched her, the supple grace of her movements, his thoughts changed. Her Warren was Tennes, ancient and bound to the cycles of seasons; and among the handful of deities she could call upon was Tennerock, the Boar of Five Tusks. Derudan’s greatest power—the one she shared, in any case—was the Tusk named Love. He chastised himself. Slow had the realization come that she was bringing him a gift.

Derudan replaced the ash-cup and packed it with leaves. She closed a hand
around it, and the contents glowed with sudden heat. A moment later the witch sat heavily in the chair. She drew deeply on the mouthpiece.

Baruk strode to the other chair. “Rake believes it isn’t yet over,” he said, sitting.

She nodded. “I was witness to Mammot’s end, yes? He was opposed by myself . . . and a most remarkable wizard. The flesh that was Mammot was destroyed by a Moranth incendiary. The Jaghut spirit survived but was taken . . . by an Azath.” Her heavy-lidded eyes appraised him.

“Azath? Here, in Darujhistan?”

“Indeed, such mysterious conjurings, known for their hunger for mages, will impose upon our efforts . . . a certain caution, yes?”

“Where has it arisen?”

“In the garden of Simtal’s estate. Did I not also mention a Moranth incendiary? Lady Simtal’s Fête had some unusual guests, yes?”

“Malazans?”

“Twice my life saved—the wizard of whom I spoke, who commands within him seven Warrens—”

“Seven?”
Baruk said, flinching. “Hood’s Breath, is that even possible?”

“If they mean ill, it shall fall to the Son of Darkness to meet the challenge.”

Both stiffened as power surged into life somewhere nearby. The alchemist was on his feet, fists clenched. “A demon is unleashed,” he hissed.

“I feel it as well,” Derudan said, her face white. “Of great power.”

“A Demon Lord.” Baruk nodded. “
This
is what Rake awaited.”

Derudan’s eyes widened and she pulled on her mouthpiece before asking, “Is he capable of defeating such a creature? Son of Darkness he is, but feel this creature’s power, yes?”

“I don’t know,” Baruk said quietly. “If not, then the city is doomed.”

At that point there came another blow, followed by another. The witch and the alchemist stared at each other in recognition. Two of their Cabal had just died violent deaths.