The malazan empire, p.309
The Malazan Empire, page 309
‘The Silanda travelled warrens between the place where it was found by Gesler, and where it reappeared in this realm. From what I can gather, that journey crossed the mainland, from the north Otataral Sea down to Aren Bay. If Felisin, Heboric and Baudin jumped off, they might well have reappeared on land somewhere on that route.’
‘To find themselves in the midst of the rebellion.’
‘Given what seems to have led up to it, they might well have considered that a far less horrendous option.’
‘Until some band of raiders stumbled onto them.’
Captain Keneb’s 9th Company was called to muster in three successive assemblies on the parade ground. There had been no advance warning, simply the arrival of an officer commanding the soldiers to proceed at double-time.
Squads 1, 2 and 3 went first. These were heavy infantry, thirty soldiers in all, loaded down in scale armour and chain vambraces and gauntlets, kite shields, weighted longswords, stabbing spears strapped to their backs, visored and cheek-guarded helms with lobster tails, dirks and pig-stickers at their belts.
The marines were next. Ranal’s 4th, 5th and 6th squads. Following them were the bulk of the company’s troops, medium infantry, the 7th to the 24th squads. Only slightly less armoured than the heavy infantry, there was, among them, the addition of soldiers skilled in the use of the short bow, the longbow, and the spear. Each company was intended to work as a discrete unit, self-reliant and mutually supportive.
As he stood in front of his squad, Strings studied the 9th. Their first assembly as a separate force. They awaited the Adjunct’s arrival in mostly precise ranks, saying little, not one out of uniform or weaponless.
Dusk was fast approaching, the air growing mercifully cool.
Lieutenant Ranal had been walking the length of the three squads of marines for some time, back and forth, his steps slow, a sheen of sweat on his smooth-shaven cheeks. When he finally halted, it was directly before Strings.
‘All right, Sergeant,’ he hissed. ‘It’s your idea, isn’t it?’
‘Sir?’
‘Those damned finger bones! They showed up in your squad first—as if I wouldn’t have noticed that. And now I’ve heard from the captain that it’s spreading through every legion. Graves are being robbed all over the city! And I’ll tell you this—’ He stepped very close and continued in a rough whisper. ‘If the Adjunct asks who is responsible for this last spit in her face over what happened yesterday, I won’t hesitate in directing her to you.’
‘Spit in her face? Lieutenant, you are a raging idiot. Now, a clump of officers have just appeared at the main gate. I suggest you take your place, sir.’
Face dark with fury, Ranal wheeled and took position before the three squads.
The Adjunct led the way, her entourage trailing.
Captain Keneb awaited her. Strings remembered the man from the first, disastrous mustering. A Malazan. The word was out that he had been garrisoned inland, had seen his share of fighting when their company had been overrun. Then the flight southward, back to Aren. There was enough in that to lead Strings to wonder if the man hadn’t taken the coward’s route. Rather than dying with his soldiers, he’d been first in the rout. That’s how many officers outlived their squads, after all. Officers weren’t worth much, as far as the sergeant was concerned.
The Adjunct was speaking with the man now, then the captain stepped back and saluted, inviting Tavore to approach the troops. But instead she drew a step closer to the man, reached out and touched something looped about Keneb’s neck.
Strings’s eyes widened slightly. That’s a damned finger bone.
More words between the man and the woman, then the Adjunct nodded and proceeded towards the squads.
Alone, her steps slow, her face expressionless.
Strings saw the flicker of recognition as she scanned the squads. Himself, then Cuttle. After a long moment, during which she entirely ignored the ramrod-straight Lieutenant Ranal, she finally turned to the man. ‘Lieutenant.’
‘Adjunct.’
‘There seems to be a proliferation of non-standard accoutrements on your soldiers. More so here than among any of the other companies I have reviewed.’
‘Yes, Adjunct. Against my orders, and I know the man responsible—’
‘No doubt,’ she replied. ‘But I am not interested in that. I would suggest, however, that some uniformity be established for those…trinkets. Perhaps from the hip belt, opposite the scabbard. Furthermore, there have been complaints from Aren’s citizenry. At the very least, the looted pits and tombs should be returned to their original state…as much as that is possible, of course.’
Ranal’s confusion was obvious. ‘Of course, Adjunct.’
‘And you might note, as well,’ the Adjunct added drily, ‘that you are alone in wearing a…non-standard uniform of the Fourteenth Army, at this time. I suggest you correct that as soon as possible, Lieutenant. Now, you may dismiss your squads. And on your way out, convey my instruction to Captain Keneb that he can proceed with moving the company’s medium infantry to the fore.’
‘Y-yes, Adjunct. At once.’ He saluted.
Strings watched her walk back to her entourage. Oh, well done, lass.
Gamet’s chest was filled with aching as he studied the Adjunct striding back to where he and the others waited. A fiercely welling emotion. Whoever had come up with the idea deserved…well, a damned kiss, as Cuttle would have said. They’ve turned the omen. Turned it!
And he saw the rekindled fire in Tavore’s eyes as she reached them. ‘Fist Gamet.’
‘Adjunct?’
‘The Fourteenth Army requires a standard.’
‘Aye, it does indeed.’
‘We might take our inspiration from the soldiers themselves.’
‘We might well do that, Adjunct.’
‘You will see to it? In time for our departure tomorrow?’
‘I will.’
From the gate a messenger arrived on horseback. He had been riding hard, and drew up sharply upon seeing the Adjunct.
Gamet watched the man dismount and approach. Gods, not bad news…not now…
‘Report,’ the Adjunct demanded.
‘Three ships, Adjunct,’ the messenger gasped. ‘Just limped into harbour.’
‘Go on.’
‘Volunteers! Warriors! Horses and wardogs! It’s chaos at the docks!’
‘How many?’ Gamet demanded.
‘Three hundred, Fist.’
‘Where in Hood’s name are they from?’
The messenger’s gaze snapped away from them—over to where Nil and Nether stood. ‘Wickans.’ He met Tavore’s gaze once more. ‘Adjunct! Clan of the Crow. The Crow! Coltaine’s own!’
Chapter Nine
At night ghosts come
In rivers of grief,
To claw away the sand
Beneath a man’s feet
G’DANII SAYING
The twin long-knives were slung in a faded leather harness stitched in swirling Pardu patterns. They hung from a nail on one of the shop’s corner posts, beneath an elaborate Kherahn shaman’s feather headdress. The long table fronting the canopied stall was crowded with ornate obsidian objects looted from some tomb, each one newly blessed in the name of gods, spirits or demons. On the left side, behind the table and flanking the toothless proprietor who sat cross-legged on a high stool, was a tall screened cabinet.
The burly, dark-skinned customer stood examining the obsidian weapons for some time before a slight flip of his right hand signalled an interest to the hawker.
‘The breath of demons!’ the old man squealed, jabbing a gnarled finger at various stone blades in confusing succession. ‘And these, kissed by Mael—see how the waters have smoothed them? I have more—’
‘What lies in the cabinet?’ the customer rumbled.
‘Ah, you’ve a sharp eye! Are you a Reader, perchance? Could you smell the chaos, then? Decks, my wise friend! Decks! And oh, haven’t they awakened! Yes, all anew. All is in flux—’
‘The Deck of Dragons is always in flux—’
‘Ah, but a new House! Oh, I see your surprise at that, friend! A new House. Vast power, ’tis said. Tremors to the very roots of the world!’
The man facing him scowled. ‘Another new House, is it? Some local impostor cult, no doubt—’
But the old man was shaking his head, eyes darting past his lone customer, suspiciously scanning the market crowd—paltry as it was. He then leaned forward. ‘I do not deal in those, friend. Oh, I am as loyal to Dryjhna as the next, make no claims otherwise! But the Deck permits no bias, does it? Oh no, balanced wise eyes and mind is necessary. Indeed. Now, why does the new House ring with truth? Let me tell you, friend. First, a new Unaligned card, a card denoting that a Master now commands the Deck. An arbiter, yes? And then, spreading out like a runaway stubble fire, the new House. Sanctioned? Undecided. But not rejected out of hand, oh no, not rejected. And the Readers—the patterns! The House will be sanctioned—not one Reader doubts that!’
‘And what is the name of this House?’ the customer asked. ‘What throne? Who claims to rule it?’
‘The House of Chains, my friend. To your other questions, there is naught but confusion in answer. Ascendants vie. But I will tell you this: the Throne where the King shall sit—the Throne, my friend, is cracked.’
‘You are saying this House belongs to the Chained One?’
‘Aye. The Crippled God.’
‘The others must be assailing it fiercely,’ the man murmured, his expression thoughtful.
‘You would think, but not so. Indeed, it is they who are assailed! Do you wish to see the new cards?’
‘I may return later and do that very thing,’ the man replied. ‘But first, let me see those poor knives on that post.’
‘Poor knives! Aaii! Not poor, oh no!’ The old man spun on his seat, reached up and collected the brace of weapons. He grinned, blue-veined tongue darting between red gums. ‘Last owned by a Pardu ghost-slayer!’ He drew one of the knives from its sheath. The blade was blackened, inlaid with a silver serpent pattern down its length.
‘That is not Pardu,’ the customer growled.
‘Owned, I said. You’ve a sharp eye indeed. They are Wickan. Booty from the Chain of Dogs.’
‘Let me see the other one.’
The old man unsheathed the second blade.
Kalam Mekhar’s eyes involuntarily widened. Quickly regaining his composure, he glanced up at the proprietor—but the man had seen and was nodding.
‘Aye, friend. Aye…’
The entire blade, also black, was feather-patterned, the inlay an amber-tinged silver—that amber taint…alloyed with otataral. Crow clan. But not a lowly warrior’s weapon. No, this one belonged to someone important.
The old man resheathed the Crow knife, tapped the other one with a finger. ‘Invested, this one. How to challenge the otataral? Simple. Elder magic.’
‘Elder. Wickan sorcery is not Elder—’
‘Oh, but this now-dead Wickan warrior had a friend. See, here, take the knife in your hand. Squint at this mark, there, at the base—see, the serpent’s tail coils around it—’
The long-knife was startlingly heavy in Kalam’s hand. The finger ridges in the grip were overlarge, but the Wickan had compensated for this with thicker leather straps. The stamp impressed into the metal in the centre of the looped tail was intricate, almost beyond belief, given the size of the hand that must have inscribed it. Fenn. Thelomen Toblakai. The Wickan had a friend indeed. And worse, I know that mark. I know precisely who invested this weapon. Gods below, what strange cycles am I striding into here?
There was no point in bartering. Too much had been revealed. ‘Name your price,’ Kalam sighed.
The old man’s grin broadened. ‘As you can imagine, a cherished set—my most valuable prize.’
‘At least until the dead Crow warrior’s son comes to collect it—though I doubt he will be interested in paying you in gold. I will inherit that vengeful hunter, so rein in your greed and name the price.’
‘Twelve hundred.’
The assassin set a small pouch on the table and watched the proprietor loosen the strings and peer inside.
‘There is a darkness to these diamonds,’ the old man said after a moment.
‘It is that shadow that makes them so valuable and you know it.’
‘Aye, I do indeed. Half of what is within will suffice.’
‘An honest hawker.’
‘A rarity, yes. These days, loyalty pays.’
Kalam watched the old man count out the diamonds. ‘The loss of imperial trade has been painful, it seems.’
‘Very. But the situation here in G’danisban is doubly so, friend.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Why, everyone is at B’ridys, of course. The siege.’
‘B’ridys? The old mountain fortress? Who is holed up there?’
‘Malazans. They retreated from their strongholds in Ehrlitan, here and Pan’potsun—were chased all the way into the hills. Oh, nothing so grand as the Chain of Dogs, but a few hundred made it.’
‘And they’re still holding out?’
‘Aye. B’ridys is like that, alas. Still, not much longer, I wager. Now, I am done, friend. Hide that pouch well, and may the gods ever walk in your shadow.’
Kalam struggled to keep the grin from his face as he collected the weapons. ‘And with you, sir.’ And so they will, friend. Far closer than you might want.
He walked a short distance down the market street, then paused to adjust the clasps of the weapon harness. The previous owner had not Kalam’s bulk. Then again, few did. When he was done he slipped into the harness, then drew his telaba’s overcloak around once more. The heavier weapon jutted from under his left arm.
The assassin continued on through G’danisban’s mostly empty streets. Two long-knives, both Wickan. The same owner? Unknown. They were complementary in one sense, true, yet the difference in weight would challenge anyone who sought to fight using both at the same time.
In a Fenn’s hand, the heavier weapon would be little more than a dirk. The design was clearly Wickan, meaning the investment had been a favour, or in payment. Can I think of a Wickan who might have earned that? Well, Coltaine—but he carried a single long-knife, unpatterned. Now, if only I knew more about that damned Thelomen Toblakai…
Of course, the High Mage named Bellurdan Skullcrusher was dead.
Cycles indeed. And now this House of Chains. The damned Crippled God—
You damned fool, Cotillion. You were there at the last Chaining, weren’t you? You should have stuck a knife in the bastard right there and then.
Now, I wonder, was Bellurdan there as well?
Oh, damn, I forgot to ask what happened to that Pardu ghost-slayer…
The road that wound southwest out of G’danisban had been worn down to the underlying cobbles. Clearly, the siege had gone on so long that the small city that fed it was growing gaunt. The besieged were probably faring worse. B’ridys had been carved into a cliffside, a long-standing tradition in the odhans surrounding the Holy Desert. There was no formal, constructed approach—not even steps, nor handholds, cut into the stone—and the tunnels behind the fortifications reached deep. Within those tunnels, springs supplied water. Kalam had only seen B’ridys from the outside, long abandoned by its original inhabitants, suggesting that the springs had dried up. And while such strongholds contained vast storage chambers, there was little chance that the Malazans who’d fled to it had found those chambers supplied.
The poor bastards were probably starving.
Kalam walked the road in the gathering dusk. He saw no-one else on the track, and suspected that the supply trains would not set out from G’danisban until the fall of night, to spare their draught animals the heat. Already, the road had begun its climb, twisting onto the sides of the hills.
The assassin had left his horse with Cotillion in the Shadow Realm. For the tasks ahead, stealth, not speed, would prove his greatest challenge. Besides, Raraku was hard on horses. Most of the outlying sources of water would have been long since fouled, in anticipation of the Adjunct’s army. He knew of a few secret ones, however, which would of necessity have been kept untainted.
This land, Kalam realized, was in itself a land under siege—and the enemy had yet to arrive. Sha’ik had drawn the Whirlwind close, a tactic that suggested to the assassin a certain element of fear. Unless, of course, Sha’ik was deliberately playing against expectations. Perhaps she simply sought to draw Tavore into a trap, into Raraku, where her power was strongest, where her forces knew the land whilst the enemy did not.
But there’s at least one man in Tavore’s army who knows Raraku. And he’d damn well better speak up when the time comes.
Night had arrived, stars glittering overhead. Kalam pressed on. Burdened beneath a pack heavy with food and waterskins, he continued to sweat as the air chilled. Reaching the summit of yet another hill, he discerned the glow of the besiegers’ camp beneath the ragged horizon’s silhouette. From the cliffside itself there was no light at all.
He continued on.
It was midmorning before he arrived at the camp. Tents, wagons, stone-ringed firepits, arrayed haphazardly in a rough semicircle before the rearing cliff-face with its smoke-blackened fortress. Heaps of rubbish surrounded the area, latrine pits overflowing and reeking in the heat. As he made his way down the track, Kalam studied the situation. He judged that there were about five hundred besiegers, many of them—given their uniforms—originally part of Malazan garrisons, but of local blood. There had been no assault in some time. Makeshift wooden towers waited off to one side.
He had been spotted, but no challenge was raised, nor was much interest accorded him as he reached the camp’s edge. Just another fighter come to kill Malazans. Carrying his own food, ensuring he would not burden anyone else, and therefore welcome.
As the hawker in G’danisban had suggested, the patience of the attackers had ended. Preparations were under way for a final push. Probably not this day, but the next. The scaffolds had been left untended for too long—ropes had dried out, wood had split. Work crews had begun the repairs, but without haste, moving slowly in the enervating heat. There was an air of dissolution to the camp that even anticipation could not hide.
‘To find themselves in the midst of the rebellion.’
‘Given what seems to have led up to it, they might well have considered that a far less horrendous option.’
‘Until some band of raiders stumbled onto them.’
Captain Keneb’s 9th Company was called to muster in three successive assemblies on the parade ground. There had been no advance warning, simply the arrival of an officer commanding the soldiers to proceed at double-time.
Squads 1, 2 and 3 went first. These were heavy infantry, thirty soldiers in all, loaded down in scale armour and chain vambraces and gauntlets, kite shields, weighted longswords, stabbing spears strapped to their backs, visored and cheek-guarded helms with lobster tails, dirks and pig-stickers at their belts.
The marines were next. Ranal’s 4th, 5th and 6th squads. Following them were the bulk of the company’s troops, medium infantry, the 7th to the 24th squads. Only slightly less armoured than the heavy infantry, there was, among them, the addition of soldiers skilled in the use of the short bow, the longbow, and the spear. Each company was intended to work as a discrete unit, self-reliant and mutually supportive.
As he stood in front of his squad, Strings studied the 9th. Their first assembly as a separate force. They awaited the Adjunct’s arrival in mostly precise ranks, saying little, not one out of uniform or weaponless.
Dusk was fast approaching, the air growing mercifully cool.
Lieutenant Ranal had been walking the length of the three squads of marines for some time, back and forth, his steps slow, a sheen of sweat on his smooth-shaven cheeks. When he finally halted, it was directly before Strings.
‘All right, Sergeant,’ he hissed. ‘It’s your idea, isn’t it?’
‘Sir?’
‘Those damned finger bones! They showed up in your squad first—as if I wouldn’t have noticed that. And now I’ve heard from the captain that it’s spreading through every legion. Graves are being robbed all over the city! And I’ll tell you this—’ He stepped very close and continued in a rough whisper. ‘If the Adjunct asks who is responsible for this last spit in her face over what happened yesterday, I won’t hesitate in directing her to you.’
‘Spit in her face? Lieutenant, you are a raging idiot. Now, a clump of officers have just appeared at the main gate. I suggest you take your place, sir.’
Face dark with fury, Ranal wheeled and took position before the three squads.
The Adjunct led the way, her entourage trailing.
Captain Keneb awaited her. Strings remembered the man from the first, disastrous mustering. A Malazan. The word was out that he had been garrisoned inland, had seen his share of fighting when their company had been overrun. Then the flight southward, back to Aren. There was enough in that to lead Strings to wonder if the man hadn’t taken the coward’s route. Rather than dying with his soldiers, he’d been first in the rout. That’s how many officers outlived their squads, after all. Officers weren’t worth much, as far as the sergeant was concerned.
The Adjunct was speaking with the man now, then the captain stepped back and saluted, inviting Tavore to approach the troops. But instead she drew a step closer to the man, reached out and touched something looped about Keneb’s neck.
Strings’s eyes widened slightly. That’s a damned finger bone.
More words between the man and the woman, then the Adjunct nodded and proceeded towards the squads.
Alone, her steps slow, her face expressionless.
Strings saw the flicker of recognition as she scanned the squads. Himself, then Cuttle. After a long moment, during which she entirely ignored the ramrod-straight Lieutenant Ranal, she finally turned to the man. ‘Lieutenant.’
‘Adjunct.’
‘There seems to be a proliferation of non-standard accoutrements on your soldiers. More so here than among any of the other companies I have reviewed.’
‘Yes, Adjunct. Against my orders, and I know the man responsible—’
‘No doubt,’ she replied. ‘But I am not interested in that. I would suggest, however, that some uniformity be established for those…trinkets. Perhaps from the hip belt, opposite the scabbard. Furthermore, there have been complaints from Aren’s citizenry. At the very least, the looted pits and tombs should be returned to their original state…as much as that is possible, of course.’
Ranal’s confusion was obvious. ‘Of course, Adjunct.’
‘And you might note, as well,’ the Adjunct added drily, ‘that you are alone in wearing a…non-standard uniform of the Fourteenth Army, at this time. I suggest you correct that as soon as possible, Lieutenant. Now, you may dismiss your squads. And on your way out, convey my instruction to Captain Keneb that he can proceed with moving the company’s medium infantry to the fore.’
‘Y-yes, Adjunct. At once.’ He saluted.
Strings watched her walk back to her entourage. Oh, well done, lass.
Gamet’s chest was filled with aching as he studied the Adjunct striding back to where he and the others waited. A fiercely welling emotion. Whoever had come up with the idea deserved…well, a damned kiss, as Cuttle would have said. They’ve turned the omen. Turned it!
And he saw the rekindled fire in Tavore’s eyes as she reached them. ‘Fist Gamet.’
‘Adjunct?’
‘The Fourteenth Army requires a standard.’
‘Aye, it does indeed.’
‘We might take our inspiration from the soldiers themselves.’
‘We might well do that, Adjunct.’
‘You will see to it? In time for our departure tomorrow?’
‘I will.’
From the gate a messenger arrived on horseback. He had been riding hard, and drew up sharply upon seeing the Adjunct.
Gamet watched the man dismount and approach. Gods, not bad news…not now…
‘Report,’ the Adjunct demanded.
‘Three ships, Adjunct,’ the messenger gasped. ‘Just limped into harbour.’
‘Go on.’
‘Volunteers! Warriors! Horses and wardogs! It’s chaos at the docks!’
‘How many?’ Gamet demanded.
‘Three hundred, Fist.’
‘Where in Hood’s name are they from?’
The messenger’s gaze snapped away from them—over to where Nil and Nether stood. ‘Wickans.’ He met Tavore’s gaze once more. ‘Adjunct! Clan of the Crow. The Crow! Coltaine’s own!’
Chapter Nine
At night ghosts come
In rivers of grief,
To claw away the sand
Beneath a man’s feet
G’DANII SAYING
The twin long-knives were slung in a faded leather harness stitched in swirling Pardu patterns. They hung from a nail on one of the shop’s corner posts, beneath an elaborate Kherahn shaman’s feather headdress. The long table fronting the canopied stall was crowded with ornate obsidian objects looted from some tomb, each one newly blessed in the name of gods, spirits or demons. On the left side, behind the table and flanking the toothless proprietor who sat cross-legged on a high stool, was a tall screened cabinet.
The burly, dark-skinned customer stood examining the obsidian weapons for some time before a slight flip of his right hand signalled an interest to the hawker.
‘The breath of demons!’ the old man squealed, jabbing a gnarled finger at various stone blades in confusing succession. ‘And these, kissed by Mael—see how the waters have smoothed them? I have more—’
‘What lies in the cabinet?’ the customer rumbled.
‘Ah, you’ve a sharp eye! Are you a Reader, perchance? Could you smell the chaos, then? Decks, my wise friend! Decks! And oh, haven’t they awakened! Yes, all anew. All is in flux—’
‘The Deck of Dragons is always in flux—’
‘Ah, but a new House! Oh, I see your surprise at that, friend! A new House. Vast power, ’tis said. Tremors to the very roots of the world!’
The man facing him scowled. ‘Another new House, is it? Some local impostor cult, no doubt—’
But the old man was shaking his head, eyes darting past his lone customer, suspiciously scanning the market crowd—paltry as it was. He then leaned forward. ‘I do not deal in those, friend. Oh, I am as loyal to Dryjhna as the next, make no claims otherwise! But the Deck permits no bias, does it? Oh no, balanced wise eyes and mind is necessary. Indeed. Now, why does the new House ring with truth? Let me tell you, friend. First, a new Unaligned card, a card denoting that a Master now commands the Deck. An arbiter, yes? And then, spreading out like a runaway stubble fire, the new House. Sanctioned? Undecided. But not rejected out of hand, oh no, not rejected. And the Readers—the patterns! The House will be sanctioned—not one Reader doubts that!’
‘And what is the name of this House?’ the customer asked. ‘What throne? Who claims to rule it?’
‘The House of Chains, my friend. To your other questions, there is naught but confusion in answer. Ascendants vie. But I will tell you this: the Throne where the King shall sit—the Throne, my friend, is cracked.’
‘You are saying this House belongs to the Chained One?’
‘Aye. The Crippled God.’
‘The others must be assailing it fiercely,’ the man murmured, his expression thoughtful.
‘You would think, but not so. Indeed, it is they who are assailed! Do you wish to see the new cards?’
‘I may return later and do that very thing,’ the man replied. ‘But first, let me see those poor knives on that post.’
‘Poor knives! Aaii! Not poor, oh no!’ The old man spun on his seat, reached up and collected the brace of weapons. He grinned, blue-veined tongue darting between red gums. ‘Last owned by a Pardu ghost-slayer!’ He drew one of the knives from its sheath. The blade was blackened, inlaid with a silver serpent pattern down its length.
‘That is not Pardu,’ the customer growled.
‘Owned, I said. You’ve a sharp eye indeed. They are Wickan. Booty from the Chain of Dogs.’
‘Let me see the other one.’
The old man unsheathed the second blade.
Kalam Mekhar’s eyes involuntarily widened. Quickly regaining his composure, he glanced up at the proprietor—but the man had seen and was nodding.
‘Aye, friend. Aye…’
The entire blade, also black, was feather-patterned, the inlay an amber-tinged silver—that amber taint…alloyed with otataral. Crow clan. But not a lowly warrior’s weapon. No, this one belonged to someone important.
The old man resheathed the Crow knife, tapped the other one with a finger. ‘Invested, this one. How to challenge the otataral? Simple. Elder magic.’
‘Elder. Wickan sorcery is not Elder—’
‘Oh, but this now-dead Wickan warrior had a friend. See, here, take the knife in your hand. Squint at this mark, there, at the base—see, the serpent’s tail coils around it—’
The long-knife was startlingly heavy in Kalam’s hand. The finger ridges in the grip were overlarge, but the Wickan had compensated for this with thicker leather straps. The stamp impressed into the metal in the centre of the looped tail was intricate, almost beyond belief, given the size of the hand that must have inscribed it. Fenn. Thelomen Toblakai. The Wickan had a friend indeed. And worse, I know that mark. I know precisely who invested this weapon. Gods below, what strange cycles am I striding into here?
There was no point in bartering. Too much had been revealed. ‘Name your price,’ Kalam sighed.
The old man’s grin broadened. ‘As you can imagine, a cherished set—my most valuable prize.’
‘At least until the dead Crow warrior’s son comes to collect it—though I doubt he will be interested in paying you in gold. I will inherit that vengeful hunter, so rein in your greed and name the price.’
‘Twelve hundred.’
The assassin set a small pouch on the table and watched the proprietor loosen the strings and peer inside.
‘There is a darkness to these diamonds,’ the old man said after a moment.
‘It is that shadow that makes them so valuable and you know it.’
‘Aye, I do indeed. Half of what is within will suffice.’
‘An honest hawker.’
‘A rarity, yes. These days, loyalty pays.’
Kalam watched the old man count out the diamonds. ‘The loss of imperial trade has been painful, it seems.’
‘Very. But the situation here in G’danisban is doubly so, friend.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Why, everyone is at B’ridys, of course. The siege.’
‘B’ridys? The old mountain fortress? Who is holed up there?’
‘Malazans. They retreated from their strongholds in Ehrlitan, here and Pan’potsun—were chased all the way into the hills. Oh, nothing so grand as the Chain of Dogs, but a few hundred made it.’
‘And they’re still holding out?’
‘Aye. B’ridys is like that, alas. Still, not much longer, I wager. Now, I am done, friend. Hide that pouch well, and may the gods ever walk in your shadow.’
Kalam struggled to keep the grin from his face as he collected the weapons. ‘And with you, sir.’ And so they will, friend. Far closer than you might want.
He walked a short distance down the market street, then paused to adjust the clasps of the weapon harness. The previous owner had not Kalam’s bulk. Then again, few did. When he was done he slipped into the harness, then drew his telaba’s overcloak around once more. The heavier weapon jutted from under his left arm.
The assassin continued on through G’danisban’s mostly empty streets. Two long-knives, both Wickan. The same owner? Unknown. They were complementary in one sense, true, yet the difference in weight would challenge anyone who sought to fight using both at the same time.
In a Fenn’s hand, the heavier weapon would be little more than a dirk. The design was clearly Wickan, meaning the investment had been a favour, or in payment. Can I think of a Wickan who might have earned that? Well, Coltaine—but he carried a single long-knife, unpatterned. Now, if only I knew more about that damned Thelomen Toblakai…
Of course, the High Mage named Bellurdan Skullcrusher was dead.
Cycles indeed. And now this House of Chains. The damned Crippled God—
You damned fool, Cotillion. You were there at the last Chaining, weren’t you? You should have stuck a knife in the bastard right there and then.
Now, I wonder, was Bellurdan there as well?
Oh, damn, I forgot to ask what happened to that Pardu ghost-slayer…
The road that wound southwest out of G’danisban had been worn down to the underlying cobbles. Clearly, the siege had gone on so long that the small city that fed it was growing gaunt. The besieged were probably faring worse. B’ridys had been carved into a cliffside, a long-standing tradition in the odhans surrounding the Holy Desert. There was no formal, constructed approach—not even steps, nor handholds, cut into the stone—and the tunnels behind the fortifications reached deep. Within those tunnels, springs supplied water. Kalam had only seen B’ridys from the outside, long abandoned by its original inhabitants, suggesting that the springs had dried up. And while such strongholds contained vast storage chambers, there was little chance that the Malazans who’d fled to it had found those chambers supplied.
The poor bastards were probably starving.
Kalam walked the road in the gathering dusk. He saw no-one else on the track, and suspected that the supply trains would not set out from G’danisban until the fall of night, to spare their draught animals the heat. Already, the road had begun its climb, twisting onto the sides of the hills.
The assassin had left his horse with Cotillion in the Shadow Realm. For the tasks ahead, stealth, not speed, would prove his greatest challenge. Besides, Raraku was hard on horses. Most of the outlying sources of water would have been long since fouled, in anticipation of the Adjunct’s army. He knew of a few secret ones, however, which would of necessity have been kept untainted.
This land, Kalam realized, was in itself a land under siege—and the enemy had yet to arrive. Sha’ik had drawn the Whirlwind close, a tactic that suggested to the assassin a certain element of fear. Unless, of course, Sha’ik was deliberately playing against expectations. Perhaps she simply sought to draw Tavore into a trap, into Raraku, where her power was strongest, where her forces knew the land whilst the enemy did not.
But there’s at least one man in Tavore’s army who knows Raraku. And he’d damn well better speak up when the time comes.
Night had arrived, stars glittering overhead. Kalam pressed on. Burdened beneath a pack heavy with food and waterskins, he continued to sweat as the air chilled. Reaching the summit of yet another hill, he discerned the glow of the besiegers’ camp beneath the ragged horizon’s silhouette. From the cliffside itself there was no light at all.
He continued on.
It was midmorning before he arrived at the camp. Tents, wagons, stone-ringed firepits, arrayed haphazardly in a rough semicircle before the rearing cliff-face with its smoke-blackened fortress. Heaps of rubbish surrounded the area, latrine pits overflowing and reeking in the heat. As he made his way down the track, Kalam studied the situation. He judged that there were about five hundred besiegers, many of them—given their uniforms—originally part of Malazan garrisons, but of local blood. There had been no assault in some time. Makeshift wooden towers waited off to one side.
He had been spotted, but no challenge was raised, nor was much interest accorded him as he reached the camp’s edge. Just another fighter come to kill Malazans. Carrying his own food, ensuring he would not burden anyone else, and therefore welcome.
As the hawker in G’danisban had suggested, the patience of the attackers had ended. Preparations were under way for a final push. Probably not this day, but the next. The scaffolds had been left untended for too long—ropes had dried out, wood had split. Work crews had begun the repairs, but without haste, moving slowly in the enervating heat. There was an air of dissolution to the camp that even anticipation could not hide.
