The malazan empire, p.55
The Malazan Empire, page 55
“Well,” she sighed, as she urged her horse up a hillside, “dying’s never in anybody’s plans.”
Tool’s estimation gave her two days at the most. Then the Jaghut would be fully awake, and free of the barrow. The Finnest would have to be securely in place long before then. She looked forward to her meeting with Sorry, and instinctively brushed a hand against her sword’s pommel. To kill a servant of Shadow, perhaps the Rope himself. The Empress’s pleasure at that would be immense.
She realized that the doubts that had plagued her, borne on those dark wings of knowledge, now lay quiescent. An effect of her time in the barrow? More likely this acorn in her pocket. Or perhaps she’d moved unconsciously beyond them. When the time for action comes, all doubts must be discarded. An old Claw tenet. She knew herself well, and she knew how to control all that was within her. Years of training, discipline, loyalty, and duty. The virtues of a soldier.
She was ready for the mission, and with this realization the weight on her shoulders vanished. She urged her mount into a gallop.
Crokus craned his head and squinted into the darkness above. “Right to the top,” he said. “We can see the whole city from there.”
Apsalar eyed the stairs dubiously. “It’s awfully dark,” she said. “Are you sure this tower is abandoned? I mean, my father told me stories about ghosts, undead monsters, and they always lived in ruined places.” She looked around with wide eyes. “Places just like this one.”
Crokus groaned. “The god K’rul’s been dead for thousands of years,” he said. “Besides, no one ever comes here, so what would all those monsters do with all that spare time? What would they eat? Tell me that! Stupid stories.” He walked to the foot of the spiral staircase. “Come on, the view’s worth it.”
She watched Crokus climb upward and hurried to follow before he disappeared from sight. What at first seemed to be impenetrable darkness slowly faded to gray, and Apsalar was surprised to find herself able to discern even the minutest details. The first things she noticed were the soot-stained paintings on the wall to their left. Each stone panel was as wide as a single step, rising half a dozen feet in a jagged procession that mimicked the stairs. “Crokus,” she whispered, “there’s a story painted on this wall.”
Crokus snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t even see your hand in front of your face in here.”
I can’t?
He continued, “Wait till you get up top. Those clouds we saw should have cleared the moon by now.”
“There’s something wet on these steps,” Apsalar said.
“Run off from up top,” he explained, exasperated.
“No, it isn’t,” she insisted. “It’s thick, and sticky.”
Crokus stopped above her. “Look, will you be quiet for a minute? We’re almost there.”
They emerged onto a platform bathed in the moon’s silver glow. Near one of the low walls Crokus saw a heap of cloth. “What’s that?” he wondered. “Looks like somebody’s been camping up here.”
Apsalar stifled a gasp. “That’s a dead man!”
“What?” Crokus hissed. “Not another one!” He rushed to the huddled figure and crouched beside it. “Blessed Mowri, somebody’s stabbed him in the head.”
“There’s a crossbow over here.”
He grunted. “An assassin. I saw one just like this killed here last week. There’s an assassin war going on. Just like I told Kruppe and Murillio.”
“Look at the moon,” Apsalar breathed, from the far side of the platform.
Crokus shivered. She was still a cold one, at times. “Which one?” he asked, rising.
“The shining one, of course.”
Feeling contrary, Crokus studied Moon’s Spawn instead. A faint reddish glow suffused it—something he’d not seen before. A worm of fear squirmed in his stomach. Then his eyes widened. Five massive winged shapes seemed to sweep down the Moon’s face, angling northeast. He blinked, and they were gone.
“Do you see its oceans?” Apsalar asked.
“What?” He turned.
“Its oceans. Grallin’s Sea. That’s the big one. The Lord of the Deep Waters living there is named Grallin. He tends vast, beautiful underwater gardens. Grallin will come down to us, one day, to our world. And he’ll gather his chosen and take them to his world. And we’ll live in those gardens, warmed by the deep fires, and our children will swim like dolphins, and we’ll be happy since there won’t be anymore wars, and no empires, and no swords and shields. Oh, Crokus, it’ll be wonderful, won’t it?”
Her profile was in silhouette. He stared at her. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Why not?” And then that question repeated itself in his head for an entirely different reason. Why not?
Book Seven
The Fête
The Flaying of Fander, She-Wolf of Winter, marks
the Dawn of Gedderone. The priestesses race down
the streets, strips of wolf-fur streaming from their
hands. Banners are unfurled. The noises and smells
of the market rise into the morning air. Masks are
donned, the citizens discard the year’s worries and
dance across the day into night.
The Lady of Spring is born anew.
It is as if the gods themselves pause their breath . . .
FACES OF DARUJHISTAN
MASKRAL JEMRE (B. 1101)
Chapter Twenty
It is said that the matron’s
blood like ice brought forth into this
world a birthing of dragons
and this flowing river of fate
brought light into dark and dark into light,
unveiling at last in cold, cold eyes
the children of chaos . . .
T’MATHA’S CHILDREN
HEBORIC
Murillio wondered again at Rallick’s healed wound. He’d already concluded that whatever magic-deadening powder of Baruk’s the assassin had used had been responsible for the healing. Nevertheless, much blood had been lost, and Rallick would need time to recover—time they didn’t have. Was the assassin capable of killing Orr now?
In answer to his own question, Murillio laid a hand on the rapier at his side. He strode down the empty street, cleaving the low-lying mists that swirled like incandescent cloaks in the gaslight. Dawn was still two hours away. As was the Daru custom, the new year’s celebrations would begin with sunrise, lasting through the day and well into the night.
He walked through a silent city, as if he were the last of the living yet to flee the past year’s turmoil, and now shared the world with ghosts tolled among the year’s dead. The Five Tusks had slipped behind in the ancient cycle, and taking its place was the Year of the Moon’s Tears. Murillio mused on such obscure, arcane titles. A massive stone disc in Majesty Hall marked the Cycle of the Age, naming each year in accordance with its mysterious moving mechanisms.
As a child, he’d thought the wheel magical in how it spun slowly as the year rolled by, coming into the new year aligned precisely with the dawn whether there was cloud in the sky or not. Mammot had since explained to him that the wheel was in fact a machine. It had been a gift to Darujhistan over a thousand years ago, by a man named Icarium. It was Mammot’s belief that Icarium had Jaghut blood. By all accounts he’d ridden a Jaghut horse, and a Trell strode at his side—clear evidence, Mammot asserted, to add to the wonder of the wheel itself, for the Jaghut were known to have been skilled at such creations.
Murillio wondered at the significance of the names each year bore. The close association of the Five Tusks with Moon’s Tears held prophecy, according to the Seers. The Boar Tennerock’s tusks were named Hate, Love, Laughter, War, and Tears. Which Tusk would prove dominant in the year? The new year’s name provided the answer. Murillio shrugged. He viewed such astrology with a skeptical eye. How could a man of a thousand years ago—Jaghut or otherwise—have predicted such things?
Still, he admitted to more than a few qualms. The arrival of Moon’s Spawn threw the new year’s title into a different light, and he knew that the local scholars—particularly those who moved in the noble circles—had become an agitated and short-tempered lot. Quite unlike their usual patronizing selves.
Murillio turned a corner on his approach to the Phoenix Inn, and collided with a short, fat man in a red coat. Both grunted, and three large boxes that the man had been carrying fell between them, spilling out their contents.
“Aye, why, Murillio! Such fortune as Kruppe is known for! Thus does your search end, here in this dank, dark street where even the rats shun the shadow. What? Is something the matter, friend Murillio?”
He stared down at the objects on the cobbles at his feet. Slowly, Murillio asked, “What are these for, Kruppe?”
Kruppe stepped forward and frowned down at the three expertly carved masks. “Gifts, friend Murillio, of course. For you and Rallick Nom. After all,” he looked up with a beatific smile, “the Lady Simtal’s Fête demands the finest in workmanship, the subtlest of design perfectly mated with ironic intent. Don’t you think Kruppe’s taste is sufficiently expensive? Do you fear embarrassment?”
“You’ll not distract me this time,” Murillio growled. “First of all, there are three masks here, not two.”
“Indeed!” Kruppe replied, bending down to pick one up. He brushed spatters of mud from the painted face. “This is Kruppe’s own. Well chosen, Kruppe pronounces with certain aplomb.”
Murillio’s eyes hardened. “You’re not coming, Kruppe.”
“Well, of course Kruppe will attend! Do you think Lady Simtal would ever show herself if her longtime acquaintance, Kruppe the First, was not in attendance? Why, she’d wither with shame!”
“Dammit, you’ve never even met Simtal!”
“Not relevant to Kruppe’s argument, friend Murillio. Kruppe has been acquainted with Simtal’s existence for many years. Such association is made better, nay, pristine, for the fact that she has not met Kruppe, nor Kruppe her. And, in final argument designed to end all discussion, here,” he pulled from his sleeve a parchment scroll tied in blue silk ribbon, “Kruppe’s invitation, signed by the Lady herself.”
Murillio made a grab for it but Kruppe replaced it deftly in his sleeve.
“Rallick will kill you,” Murillio said levelly.
“Nonsense.” Kruppe placed the mask over his face. “How will the lad ever recognize Kruppe?”
Murillio studied the man’s round body, the faded red waistcoat, gathered cuffs, and the short oily curls atop his head. “Never mind.” He sighed.
“Excellent,” Kruppe said. “Now, please accept these two masks, gifts from your friend Kruppe. A trip is saved, and Baruk need not wait any longer for a secret message that must not be mentioned.” He replaced his mask in its box, then spun round to study the eastern skyline. “Off to yon alchemist’s abode, then. Good evening, friend—”
“Wait a minute,” Murillio said, grasping Kruppe’s arm and turning him round. “Have you seen Coll?”
“Why, of course. The man sleeps a deep, recovering sleep from his ordeals.’Twas healed magically, Sulty said. By some stranger, yet. Coll himself was brought in by yet a second stranger, who found a third stranger, who in turn brought a fifth stranger in the company of the stranger who healed Coll. And so it goes, friend Murillio. Strange doings, indeed. Now, Kruppe must be off. Goodbye, friend—”
“Not yet,” Murillio snarled. He glanced around. The street was still empty. He leaned close. “I’ve worked some things out, Kruppe. Circle Breaker contacting me put everything into order in my mind. I know who you are.”
“Aaai!” Kruppe cried, withdrawing. “I’ll not deny it, then! It’s true, Murillio, Kruppe is Lady Simtal connivingly disguised.”
“Not this time! No distractions. You’re the Eel, Kruppe. All this blubbering, sweaty meek-mouse stuff is just an act, isn’t it? You’ve got half this city in your pocket, Eel.”
Eyes wide, Kruppe snatched the handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow. He wrung sweat from it, droplets spattering on the cobbles, then a veritable torrent splashed onto the stones.
Murillio barked a laugh. “No more magical cantrips, Kruppe. I’ve known you a long time, remember? I’ve seen you cast spells. You’ve got everybody fooled, but not me. I’m not telling, though. You don’t have to worry about that.” He smiled. “Then again, if you don’t come out with it here and now, I might get annoyed.”
Sighing, Kruppe returned the handkerchief to his sleeve. “Annoyance is uncalled for,” he said, waving a hand and fluttering his fingers.
Murillio blinked, suddenly dizzy. He rubbed his forehead and frowned. What had they just been talking about? It couldn’t have been important. “Thanks for the masks, friend. They’ll come in handy, I’m sure.” His frown deepened. What a confusing thing to say! He wasn’t even angry that Kruppe had figured things out; nor that the fat little man would attend the Fête. How odd! “Good that Coll’s all right, isn’t it? Well,” he mumbled, “I’d better head back to check on Rallick.”
Smiling, Kruppe nodded. “Until the Fête, then, fare you well, Murillio, Kruppe’s finest and dearest friend.”
“Good night,” Murillio replied, turning to retrace his steps. He lacked sleep. All these late nights were taking their toll. That was the problem. “Of course,” he muttered, then began to walk.
His features darkening, Baruk studied the Tiste Andii lounging in the chair across from him. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea, Rake.”
The Lord raised an eyebrow. “As I understand such things, the event includes the wearing of disguises,” he said, with a slight smile. “Do you fear I lack taste?”
“I’ve no doubt your attire will be suitable,” Baruk snapped. “Particularly if you choose the costume of a Tiste Andii warlord. It’s the Council that worries me. They’re not all fools.”
“I would be surprised if they were,” Rake said. “Indeed, I would have you point out the cunning ones. I don’t imagine you will refute my suspicion that there are those within the Council seeking to pave the way for the Empress—for a price, of course. Power comes to mind. Nobles delving in merchant trades no doubt drool at the prospect of Empire trade. Am I far off the mark, Baruk?”
“No,” the alchemist admitted sourly. “But we have that under control.”
“Ah, yes,” Rake said. “This brings to mind my other reason for wishing to attend this Lady Simtal’s Fête. As you said, the city’s power will be there. I assume this includes such mages as are in your T’orrud Cabal?”
“Some will attend,” Baruk conceded. “But I must tell you, Anomander Rake, your debacle with the Assassins’ Guild has made a good number of them rue our alliance. They’ll not appreciate your presence in the least.”
Rake’s smile returned. “To the extent that they will reveal their community to cunning Council members? I think not.” He rose in a fluid motion. “No, I would like to attend this Fête. My own people hold little to such social affairs. There are times when I grow weary of their dour preoccupations.”
Baruk’s gaze focused on the Tiste Andii. “You suspect a convergence, don’t you? A fell gathering of powers, like iron filings to a lodestone.”
“With so much power gathered in one place,” Rake admitted, “it’s likely. I’d rather be on hand in such circumstances.” His eyes held Baruk’s, their color flowing from dun green to amber. “Also, if this event is as publicly known as you suggest, then the Empire’s agents within the city will know of it. Should they wish to cut out Darujhistan’s heart, they’ll have no better opportunity.”
Baruk barely repressed a shiver. “Extra guards have been hired, of course. If an Empire Claw should strike, they will find their hands full with the T’orrud mages besides.” He thought for a time, then nodded wearily. “Very well, Rake. Simtal will accept you as my guest. You will wear an effective disguise?”
“Naturally.”
Baruk climbed to his feet and strode to the window. Beyond the sky had begun to pale. “And so it begins,” he whispered.
Rake joined him. “What begins?”
“The new year,” the alchemist replied. “Past is the Five Tusks. The dawn you see marks the birth of the Year of the Moon’s Tears.”
Lord Anomander Rake stiffened.
Baruk noticed. “Indeed. An unusual coincidence, though I would put little weight upon it. The titles were devised over a millennium ago, by a visitor to these lands.”
When Rake spoke his voice was a ravaged whisper. “Icarium’s gifts. I recognize the style. Five Tusks, Moon’s Tears—the Wheel is his, correct?”
Eyes wide, Baruk hissed his surprise between his teeth. A dozen questions struggled to be uttered first, but the Lord continued. “In the future, I’d suggest you heed Icarium’s gifts—all of them. A thousand years is not so long a time, Alchemist. Not so long a time. Icarium last visited me eight hundred years ago, in the company of the Trell Mappo, and Osric—or Osserc, as the local worshipers call him.” Rake smiled bitterly. “Osric and I argued, as I recall, and it was all Brood could do to keep us apart. It was an old argument . . .” His almond eyes shaded into gray. He fell silent, lost in memories.
There came a knock at the door and both turned to see Roald enter and bow.
“Master Baruk, Mammot has awakened and appears refreshed. More, your agent Kruppe has delivered a verbal message. He extends his regret that he cannot deliver it to you in person. Do you wish to receive it now?”
“Yes,” Baruk said.
Roald bowed again. “The Eel will contact you the eve of this day. At Lady Simtal’s Fête. The Eel further finds the prospect of shared information and cooperation intriguing. That is all.”
Baruk brightened. “Excellent.”
“Shall I bring Mammot to you, Master?”
“If he’s able.”
“He is. A moment, then.” Roald left.
The alchemist smiled. “As I said,” he laughed, “everyone will be there, and in this case, everyone is an appropriate term.” His smile broadened at Rake’s blank look. “The Eel, Lord. Darujhistan’s master-spy, a figure without a face.”
