The complete malazan boo.., p.79
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 79
The mage rubbed his face. “Best hope the Hissari believe otherwise.”
“Come,” Duiker said, “let us take wine—I know a place in Imperial Square, and on the way you can tell me how the Seventh has warmed to their new Fist.”
Kulp barked a laugh as they began walking. “Respect maybe, but no warmth. He’s completely changed the drills. We’ve done one battlefield formation since he arrived, and that was the day he took command.”
Duiker frowned. “I’d heard that he was working the soldiers to exhaustion, that he didn’t even need to enforce the curfew since everyone was so eager for sleep and the barracks were silent as tombs by the eighth bell. If not practicing wheels and turtles and shield-walls, then what?”
“The ruined monastery on the hill south of the city—you know the one? Just foundations left except for the central temple, but the chest-high walls cover the entire hilltop like a small city. The sappers have built them up, roofed some of them over. It was a maze of alleys and cul-de-sacs to begin with, but Coltaine had the sappers turn it into a nightmare. I’d wager there’s soldiers still wandering around lost in there. The Wickan has us there every afternoon, mock battles, street control, assaulting buildings, break-out tactics, retrieving wounded. Coltaine’s warriors act the part of rioting mobs and looters, and I tell you, historian, they were born to it.” He paused for breath. “Every day…we bake under the sun on that bone-bleached hill, broken down to squad level, each squad assigned impossible objectives.” He grimaced. “Under this new Fist, each soldier of the Seventh has died a dozen times or more in mock battle. Corporal List has been killed in every exercise so far, the poor boy’s Hood-addled, and through it all those Wickan savages hoot and howl.”
Duiker said nothing as they continued on their way to Imperial Square. When they entered the Malazan Quarter, the historian finally spoke. “Something of a rivalry, then, between the Seventh and the Wickan Regiment.”
“Oh, aye, that tactic’s obvious enough, but it’s going too far, I think. We’ll see in a few days’ time, when we start getting Wickan Lancer support. There’ll be double-crossing, mark my words.”
They strode into the square. “And you?” Duiker asked. “What task has Coltaine given the Seventh’s last cadre mage?”
“Folly. I conjure illusions all day until my skull’s ready to burst.”
“Illusions? In the mock battles?”
“Aye, and it’s what makes the objectives so impossible. Believe me, there’s been more than one curse thrown my way, Duiker. More than one.”
“What do you conjure, dragons?”
“I wish. I create Malazan refugees, historian. By the hundred. A thousand weighted scarecrows for the soldiers to drag around aren’t sufficient for Coltaine, the ones he has me create flee the wrong way, or refuse to leave their homes, or drag furniture and other possessions. Coltaine’s orders—my refugees create chaos, and so far cost more lives than any other element in the exercises. I’m not a popular man, Duiker.”
“What of Sormo E’nath?” the historian asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
“The warlock? Nowhere to be seen.”
Duiker nodded to himself. He’d already guessed Kulp’s answer to that question. You’re busy reading the stones in the sand, Sormo. Aren’t you? While Coltaine hammers the Seventh into shape as guardians to Malazan refugees. “Mage,” he said.
“Aye?”
“Dying a dozen times in mock battle is nothing. When it’s for real you die but once. Push the Seventh, Kulp. Any way you can. Show Coltaine what the Seventh’s capable of—talk it over with the squad leaders. Tonight. Come tomorrow, win your objectives, and I’ll talk to Coltaine about a day of rest. Show him, and he’ll give it.”
“What makes you so certain?”
Because time’s running out and he needs you. He needs you sharp. “Win your objectives. Leave the Fist to me.”
“Very well, I’ll see what I can do.”
Corporal List died within the first few minutes of the mock engagement. Bult, commanding a howling mob of Wickans rampaging down the ruin’s main avenue, had personally clouted the hapless Malazan on the side of his head, hard enough to leave the boy sprawled unconscious in the dust. The veteran warrior had then thrown List over one shoulder and carried him from the battle.
Grinning, Bult jogged up the dusty track to the rise from which the new Fist and a few of his officers observed the engagement, and dropped the corporal into the dust at Coltaine’s feet. Duiker sighed.
Coltaine glanced around. “Healer! Attend the boy!”
One of the Seventh’s cutters appeared, crouching at the corporal’s side.
Coltaine’s slitted eyes found Duiker. “I see no change in this day’s proceedings, Historian.”
“It is early yet, Fist.”
The Wickan grunted, returning his attention to the dust-filled ruins. Soldiers were emerging from the chaos, fighters from the Seventh and Wickans, staggering with minor wounds and broken limbs.
Readying his cudgel, Bult scowled. “You spoke too soon, Coltaine,” he said. “This one’s different.”
There were, Duiker saw, more Wickans among the victims than soldiers of the Seventh, and the ratio was widening with every passing moment. Somewhere in the chaotic clouds of dust, the tide had turned.
Coltaine called for his horse. He swung himself into the saddle and shot Bult a glare. “Stay here, Uncle. Where are my Lancers?” He waited impatiently as forty horsemen rode onto the rise. Their lances were blunted with bundled strips of leather. For all that, Duiker knew, anything more than a glancing blow from them was likely to break bones.
Coltaine led them at a canter toward the ruins.
Bult spat dust. “It’s about time,” he said.
“What is?” Duiker asked.
“The Seventh’s finally earned Lancer support. It’s been a week overdue, Historian. Coltaine had expected a toughening, but all we got was a wilting. Who’s given them new spines, then? You? Careful or Coltaine’ll make you a captain.”
“As much as I’d like to take credit,” Duiker said, “this is the work of Kulp and the squad sergeants.”
“Kulp’s making things easier, then? No wonder they’ve turned the battle.”
The historian shook his head. “Kulp follows Coltaine’s orders, Bult. If you’re looking for a reason to explain your Wickans’ defeat, you’ll have to look elsewhere. You might start with the Seventh showing their true mettle.”
“Perhaps I shall,” the veteran mused, a glint in his small dark eyes.
“The Fist called you Uncle.”
“Aye.”
“Well? Are you?”
“Am I what?”
Duiker gave up. He was coming to understand the Wickan sense of humor. No doubt there would be another half a dozen or so brisk exchanges before Bult finally relented with an answer. I could play it through. Or I could let the bastard wait…wait forever, in fact.
From the dust clouds a score of refugees appeared, wavering strangely as they walked, each of them burdened with impossible possessions—massive dressers, chests, larder-packed cupboards, candlesticks and antique armor. Flanking the move in a protective cordon were soldiers of the Seventh, laughing and shouting and beating swords on shields as they made good their withdrawal.
Bult barked a laugh. “My compliments to Kulp when you see him, Historian.”
“The Seventh’s earned a day of rest,” Duiker said.
The Wickan raised his hairless brows. “For one victory?”
“They need to savor it, Commander. Besides, the healers will be busy enough mending bones—you don’t want them with exhausted warrens at the wrong time.”
“And the wrong time is soon, is it?”
“I am sure,” Duiker said slowly, “Sormo E’nath would agreed with me.”
Bult spat again. “My nephew approaches.”
Coltaine and his Lancers had appeared, providing cover for the soldiers, many of whom dragged or carried the scarecrow refugees. The sheer numbers made it clear that victory for the Seventh had been absolute.
“Is that a smile on Coltaine’s face?” Duiker asked. “Just for a moment, I thought I saw…”
“Mistaken, no doubt,” Bult growled, but Duiker was coming to know these Wickans, and he detected a hint of humor in the veteran’s voice. After a moment Bult continued, “Take word to the Seventh, Historian. They’ve earned their day.”
Fiddler sat in darkness. The overgrown garden had closed in around the well and its crescent-shaped stone bench. Above the sapper only a small patch of starlit sky was visible. There was no moon. After a moment he cocked his head. “You move quietly, lad, I’ll give you that.”
Crokus hesitated behind Fiddler, then joined him on the bench. “Guess you never expected him to pull rank on you like that,” the young man said.
“Is that what it was?”
“That’s what it seemed like.”
Fiddler made no reply. The occasional rhizan flitted through the clearing in pursuit of the capemoths hovering above the well-mouth. The cool night air was rank with rotting refuse from beyond the back wall.
“She’s upset,” Crokus said.
The sapper shook his head. Upset. “It was an argument, we weren’t torturing prisoners.”
“Apsalar doesn’t remember any of that.”
“I do, lad, and those are hard memories to shake.”
“She’s just a fishergirl.”
“Most of the time,” Fiddler said. “But sometimes…” He shook his head.
Crokus sighed, then changed the subject. “So it wasn’t part of the plan, then, Kalam going off on his own?”
“Old blood calls, lad. Kalam’s Seven Cities born and raised. Besides, he wants to meet this Sha’ik, this desert witch, the Hand of Dryjhna.”
“Now you’re taking his side,” Crokus said in quiet exasperation. “A tenth of a bell ago you nearly accused him of being a traitor…”
Fiddler grimaced. “Confusing times for us all. We’ve been outlawed by Laseen, but does that make us any less soldiers of the Empire? Malaz isn’t the Empress and the Empress isn’t Malaz—”
“A moot distinction, I’d say.”
The sapper glanced over. “Would you now? Ask the girl, maybe she’ll explain it.”
“But you’re expecting the rebellion. In fact, you’re counting on it—”
“Don’t mean we have to be the ones who trigger the Whirlwind, though, does it? Kalam wants to be at the heart of things. It’s always been his way. This time, the chance literally fell into his lap. The Book of Dryjhna holds the heart of the Whirlwind Goddess—to begin the Apocalypse it needs to be opened, by the Seeress and no one else. Kalam knows it might well be suicidal, but he’ll deliver that Hood-cursed book into Sha’ik’s hands, and so add another crack in Laseen’s crumbling control. Give him credit for insisting on keeping the rest of us out of it.”
“There you go again, defending him. The plan was to assassinate Laseen, not get caught up in this uprising. It still doesn’t make any sense coming to this continent—”
Fiddler straightened, eyes on the stars glittering overhead. Desert stars, sharp diamonds that ever seemed eager to draw blood. “There’s more than one road to Unta, lad. We’re here to find one that’s probably never been used before and may not even work, but we’ll look for it anyway, with Kalam or without him. Hood knows, it might be Kalam’s taking the wiser path, overland, down to Aren, by mundane ship back to Quon Tali. Maybe dividing our paths will prove the wisest decision of all, increasing our chances that one of us at least will make it through.”
“Right,” Crokus snapped, “and if Kalam doesn’t make it? You’ll go after Laseen yourself? A glorified ditch-digger, and long in the tooth at that. You hardly inspire confidence, Fiddler. We’re still supposed to be taking Apsalar home.”
Fiddler’s voice was cold. “Don’t push me, lad. A few years pilfering purses on Darujhistan’s streets don’t qualify you to cast judgment on me.”
Branches thrashed in the tree opposite the two men, and Moby appeared, hanging one-armed, a rhizan struggling its jaws. The familiar’s eyes glittered as bones crunched. Fiddler grunted. “Back in Quon Tali,” he said slowly, “we’ll find more supporters than you might imagine. No one’s indispensable, nor should anyone be dismissed as useless. Like it or not, lad, you’ve some growing up to do.”
“You think me stupid but you’re wrong. You think I’m blind to the fact that you’re thinking you’ve got another shaved knuckle in the hole and I don’t mean Quick Ben. Kalam’s an assassin who just might be good enough to get to Laseen. But if he doesn’t, there’s another one who just might still have in her the skills of a god—but not any old god, no, the Patron of Assassins, the one you call the Rope. So you keep prodding her—you’re taking her home because she isn’t what she once was, but the truth is, you want the old one back.”
Fiddler was silent for a long time, watching Moby eating the rhizan. When it finally swallowed down the last of the winged lizard, the sapper cleared his throat. “I don’t think that deep,” he said. “I run on instinct.”
“Are you telling me that using Apsalar didn’t occur to you?”
“Not to me, no…”
“But Kalam…”
Fiddler resisted, then shrugged. “If he didn’t think of it, Quick Ben would have.”
Crokus’s hiss was triumphant. “I knew it. I’m no fool—”
“Oh, Hood’s breath, lad, that you’re not.”
“I won’t let it happen, Fiddler.”
“This bhok’aral of your uncle’s,” the sapper said, nodding at Moby, “it’s truly a familiar, a servant to a sorcerer? But if Mammot is dead, why is it still here? I’m no mage, but I thought such familiars were magically…fused to their masters.”
“I don’t know,” Crokus admitted, his tone retaining an edge that told Fiddler the lad was entirely aware of the sapper’s line of thinking. “Maybe he’s just a pet. You’d better pray it’s so. I said I wouldn’t let you use Apsalar. If Moby’s a true familiar, it won’t just be me you’ll have to get past.”
“I won’t be trying anything, Crokus,” Fiddler said. “But I still say you’ve some growing up to do. Sooner or later it will occur to you that you can’t speak for Apsalar. She’ll do what she decides, like it or not. The possession may be over, but the god’s skills remain in her bones.” He slowly turned and faced the boy. “What if she decides to put those skills to use?”
“She won’t,” Crokus said, but the assurance was gone from his voice. He gestured and Moby flapped sloppily into his arms. “What did you call him—a bhoka…?”
“Bhok’aral. They’re native to this land.”
“Oh.”
“Get some sleep, lad, we’re leaving tomorrow.”
“So is Kalam.”
“Aye, but we won’t be in each other’s company. Parallel paths southward, at least to start with.”
He watched Crokus head back inside, Moby clinging to the lad like a child. Hood’s breath, I’m not looking forward to this journey.
A hundred paces inside the Caravan Gate was a square in which the land traders assembled before leaving Ehrlitan. Most would strike south along the raised coastal road, following the line of the bay. Villages and outposts were numerous on this route, and the Malazan-built cobble road itself was well patrolled, or, rather, would have been had not the city’s Fist recalled the garrisons.
As far as Fiddler could learn in speaking with various merchants and caravan guards, few bandits had yet to take advantage of the troop withdrawal, but from the swollen ranks among the mercenary guards accompanying each caravan, it was clear to the sapper that the merchants were taking no chances.
It would have been fruitless for the three Malazans to disguise themselves as merchants on their journey south; they had neither the coin nor the equipment to carry out such a masquerade. With travel between cities as risky as it now was, they had chosen to travel in the guise of pilgrims. To the most devout, the Path of the Seven—pilgrimage to each of the seven Holy Cities—was a respected display of faith. Pilgrimage was at the heart of this land’s tradition, impervious to the threat of bandits, or war.
Fiddler retained his Gral disguise, playing the role of guardian and guide to Crokus and Apsalar—two young, newly married believers embarking on a journey that would bless their union under the Seven Heavens. Each would be mounted, Fiddler on a Gral-bred horse disdainful of the sapper’s imposture and viciously tempered, Crokus and Apsalar on well-bred mounts purchased from one of the better stables outside Ehrlitan. Three spare horses and four mules completed the train.
Kalam had left with the dawn, offering Fiddler and the others only a terse farewell. The words that had been exchanged the night before sullied the moment of departure. The sapper understood Kalam’s hunger to wound Laseen through the blood spilled by rebellion, but the potential damage to the Empire—and to whoever assumed the throne following Laseen’s fall—was, to Fiddler’s mind, too great a risk. They’d clashed hard, then, and Fiddler was left feeling nicked and blunted by the exchange.
There was pathos in that parting, Fiddler belatedly realized, for it seemed that the duty that once bound him and Kalam together, to a single cause which was as much friendship as anything else, had been sundered. And for the moment, at least, there was nothing to take its place within Fiddler. He was left feeling lost, more alone than he had been in years.
They would be among the last of the trains to leave through Caravan Gate. As Fiddler checked the girth straps on the mules one final time, the sound of galloping horses drew his attention.
A troop of six Red Blades had arrived, slowing their mounts as they entered the square. Fiddler glanced over to where Crokus and Apsalar stood beside their horses. Catching the lad’s eye, he shook his head, resumed adjusting the mule’s girth strap.
The soldiers were looking for someone. The troop split, a rider each heading for one of the remaining trains. Fiddler heard hoofs clumping on cobbles behind him, forced himself to remain calm.
