The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (109 page)

I will have to
.

Faint screams drifted across the lake. The burning town's last, pitiful cries. It had happened so swiftly, almost quietly—a single night to bring Skullcup to a bloody end. It didn't seem real.

She felt a tug on the rope.

“Your turn,” Heboric said. “Puncture the bladder, let it sink away from you, then follow the rope.”

She reversed her grip on the dagger and stabbed down. A gust of air whistled, the pack sagging. Like hands, the water pulled her down. She snatched a frantic breath before slipping under. In a moment the rope no longer led down, but up. She came up against the slick face of the cliff. The dagger fell away as she clutched the rope with both hands and pulled herself along.

The cave mouth was a deeper blackness, the water bitter cold. Already her lungs screamed for air. She felt herself blacking out, but savagely pushed the feeling away. A glimmer of reflected light showed ahead. Kicking out as her mouth filled with water, she clawed her way toward it.

Hands reached down to grip her tunic's hemmed collar and pulled her effortlessly up into air, into light. She lay on hard, cold stone, racked with coughs. An oil-wick lantern glowed beside her head. Beyond it, leaning against the wall, were two wood-framed travel packs and bladders swollen with water.

“You lost my damned knife, didn't you?”

“Hood take you, Baudin.”

He grunted his laugh, then focused his attention on reeling in the rope. Heboric's head broke the black surface moments later. Baudin pulled the ex-priest onto the rock shelf.

“Must be trouble up top,” the big man said. “Our supplies were brought down here.”

“So I see.” Heboric sat up, gasping as he recovered his breath.

“Best you two stay here while I scout,” Baudin said.

“Aye. Off with you, then.”

As Baudin disappeared up the reach. Felisin sat up. “What kind of trouble?”

Heboric shrugged.

“No,” she said. “You've suspicions.”

He grimaced. “Sawark said, ‘Look south.'”

“So?”

“So just that, lass. Let's wait for Baudin, shall we?”

“I'm cold.”

“We spared no room for extra clothing. Food and water, a few weapons, a fire kit. There's blankets but best keep them dry.”

“They'll dry out soon enough,” she snapped, crawling over to one of the packs.

Baudin returned a few minutes later and crouched down beside Heboric. Shivering under a blanket, Felisin watched the two men. “No, Baudin,” she said as he prepared to whisper something to the ex-priest, “loud enough for all of us.”

The big man glanced at Heboric, who shrugged.

“Dosin Pali is thirty leagues away,” Baudin said. “Yet you can see its glow.”

Heboric frowned. “Even a firestorm wouldn't be visible at such a distance, Baudin.”

“True enough, and it's no firestorm. It's sorcery, old man. A mage battle.”

“Hood's breath,” Heboric muttered. “Some battle!”

“It's come,” Baudin growled.

“What has?” Felisin asked.

“Seven Cities has risen, lass. Dryjhna. The Whirlwind's come.”

 

The hogg boat was all of thirteen feet in length. Duiker paused a long moment before clambering down into it. Six inches of water sloshed beneath the two flat boards that formed the craft's deck. Rags stoppered a score of minor leaks in the hull, with various degrees of efficacy. The smell of rotting fish was almost overwhelming.

Wrapped in his army-issue raincape, Kulp had not moved from where he stood on the dock. “And what,” he asked tonelessly, “did you pay for this…boat?”

The historian sighed, glancing up at the mage. “Can you not repair it? What was your warren again, Kulp?”

“Boat repair,” the man answered.

“Very well,” Duiker said, climbing back onto the dock. “I take your point. To cross the Strait you will need something more seaworthy than this. The man who sold me this craft seems to have exaggerated its qualities.”

“A haral's prerogative. Better had you hired a craft.”

Duiker grunted. “Who could I trust?”

“Now what?”

The historian shrugged. “Back to the inn. This requires a new plan.”

They made their way up the rickety dock and entered the dirt track that passed for the village's main thoroughfare. The fisher shacks on either side displayed a paucity of pride common to small communities in the shadow of a large city. Dusk had fallen, and apart from a pack of three scrawny dogs taking turns rolling on the carcass of a fish, there was no one about. Heavy curtains blotted out most of the light coming from the shacks. The air was hot, an inland wind holding at bay the sea breeze.

The village inn stood on stilts, a sprawling, single-story structure of bleached wood frame, burlap walls and thatched roof. Crabs scuttled in the sand beneath it. Opposite the inn was the stone blockhouse of a Malazan Coastal Guard detachment—four sailors from Cawn and two marines whose appearance betrayed nothing of their origins. For them, the old national allegiances no longer held any relevance.
The new Imperial breed
, Duiker mused as he and Kulp entered the inn and returned to the table they'd occupied earlier. The Malazan Guards were crowded around another, close to the back wall where the burlap had been pulled aside, revealing the tranquil scene of withered grasses, white sand and glittering sea. Duiker envied the soldiers the fresh air that no doubt drifted in to where they sat.

They'd yet to approach, but the historian knew it was only a matter of time. In this village travelers would be rare, and one wearing the field cape of a soldier even rarer. Thus far, however, translating curiosity into action had proved too great an effort.

Kulp gestured to the barman for a jug of ale, then leaned close to Duiker. “There's going to be questions. Soon. That's one problem. We don't have a boat. That's another. I'm a poor excuse for a sailor, that's a third—”

“All right, all right,” the historian hissed. “Hood's breath, let me think in peace!”

His expression sour, Kulp leaned back.

Moths danced clumsily between the sputtering lanterns in the room. There were no villagers present, and the lone barman's attention seemed close to obsessive on the Malazan soldiers, holding his thin, dark eyes on them even as he set down the ale jug in front of Kulp.

Watching the barman leave, the mage grunted. “This night's passing strange, Duiker.”

“Aye.”
Where is everyone?

The scrape of a chair drew their attention to the ranking Malazan, a corporal by the sigil on his surcoat, who'd risen and now approached. Beneath the dull tin sigil was a larger stain, where the surcoat's dye was unweathered—the man had once been a sergeant.

To match his frame, the corporal's face was flat and wide, evincing north Kanese blood somewhere in his ancestry. His head was shaved, showing razor scars, some still blotted with dried blood. His gaze was fixed on Kulp.

The mage spoke first. “Watch your tongue, lest you keep walking backward.”

The soldier blinked. “Backward?”

“Sergeant, then corporal—you bucking for private now? You've been warned.”

The man seemed unaffected. “I see no rank showing,” he growled.

“Only because you don't know what to look for. Go back to your table, Corporal, and leave our business to us.”

“You're Seventh Army.” He clearly had no intention of returning to his table. “A deserter.”

Kulp's wiry brows rose. “Corporal, you've just come face to face with the Seventh's entire Mage Cadre. Now back out of my face before I put gills and scales on yours.”

The corporal's eyes flicked to Duiker, then back to Kulp.

“Wrong,” the mage sighed. “
I'm
the entire cadre. This man's my guest.”

“Gills and scales, huh?” The corporal set his wide hands down on the tabletop and leaned close to Kulp. “I get even a sniff of you opening a warren, you'll find a knife in your throat. This is my guardpost, magicker, and any business you got here is
my
business. Now, start explaining yourselves, before I cut those big ears off your head and add 'em to my belt. Sir.”

Duiker cleared his throat. “Before this goes any further—”

“Shut your mouth!” the corporal snapped, still glaring at Kulp.

Distant shouting interrupted them. “Truth!” the corporal bellowed. “Go see what's happening outside.”

A young Cawn sailor leaped to his feet, checking a newly issued short sword scabbarded at his hip as he crossed to the door.

“We are here,” Duiker told the corporal, “to purchase a boat—”

A startled curse came from just outside, followed by a frantic scrabbling of boots on the rickety inn steps. The recruit named Truth tumbled back inside, his face white. An impressive stream of Cawn dockside curses issued from the youth's mouth, finishing with: “—got an armed mob outside, Corporal, and they ain't interested in talking. Saw them split, about ten heading to the
Ripath
.”

The other sailors were on their feet. One addressed the corporal. “They'll torch her, Gesler, then we'll be stuck on this stinking strip of beach—”

“Arms out and form up,” Gesler growled. He rose, turning to the other marine. “Front door, Stormy. Find out who's leading that group out there and stick a quarrel between his eyes.”

“We have to save the boat!” the sailors' spokesman said.

Gesler nodded. “That we will, Vered.”

The marine named Stormy took position at the door, his cocked assault crossbow appearing as if from nowhere. Outside, the shouting had grown louder, closer. The mob was working itself into the courage it needed to rush the inn. The boy Truth stood in the center of the room, the short sword twitching in his hand, his face red with rage.

“Calm yourself, lad,” Gesler said. His eyes fell to Kulp. “I'm less likely to cut off your ears if you open a warren now, Mage.”

Duiker asked, “You've made enemies in this village, Corporal?”

The man smiled. “This has been coming for some time.
Ripath
is fully provisioned. We can get you to Hissar…maybe…we got to get out of this first. Can you use a crossbow?”

The historian sighed, then nodded.

“Expect some arrows through the walls,” Stormy said from the doorway.

“Found their leader yet?”

“Aye, and he's keeping his distance.”

“We can't wait—to the back door, everyone!”

The barman, who'd been crouching behind the small counter on one side of the room, now stepped forward, hunched crablike in expectation of the first flight of arrows through the burlap wall. “The tab, Mezla—many weeks now. Seventy-two jakatas—”

“What's your life worth?” Gesler asked, gesturing for Truth to join the sailors as they slipped through the break in the rear wall.

The barman's eyes went wide, then he ducked his head. “Seventy-two jakatas, Mezla?”

“About right,” the corporal nodded.

Cool, damp air, smelling of moss and wet stone, filled the room. Duiker looked at Kulp, who mutely shook his head. The historian rose. “They've got a mage, Corporal—”

A roar rushed from the street outside and struck the front of the inn like a wave. The wooden frame bowed, the burlap walls bellying. Kulp loosed a warning shout, pitching from his chair and rolling across the floor. Wood split, cloth tore.

Stormy lunged away from the front, and all at once everyone left in the room was bolting for the rear exit. The floor lifted under them as the front stilts lost their footing, pitching everyone toward the back wall. Tables and chairs toppled, joining the headlong rush. Screaming, the barman vanished under a rack of wine jugs.

Tumbling through the rent, Duiker fell through the darkness to land on a heap of dried seaweed. Kulp landed on him, all knees and elbows, driving the breath from the historian's lungs.

The inn was still rising from the front as the sorcerous wave took hold of all it touched, and
pushed
.

“Do something, Kulp!” Duiker gasped.

In answer the mage pulled the historian upright, spun him around, then gave him a hard shove. “Run! That's what we're going to do!”

The sorcery ravaging the inn abruptly ceased. Still balanced on its rear stilts, the building pitched back down. Cross-beams snapped. The inn seemed to explode, the wood frame shattering. The ceiling collapsed straight down, hitting the floor in a cloud of sand and dust.

Stumbling beside Duiker as they hurried down to the beach, Stormy grunted, “Hood's just paid the barman's tab, eh?” The marine gestured with the crossbow he carried. “I'm here to take care of you. Corporal's gone ahead—we're looking at a scrap getting to
Ripath's
dock.”

“Where's Kulp?” Duiker demanded. It had all happened so fast, he was feeling overwhelmed with confusion. “He was here beside me—”

“Gone sniffing after that spell-caster is my guess. Who can figure mages, eh? Unless'n he's run away. Hood knows he ain't showed much so far, eh?”

They reached the strand. Thirty paces to their left Gesler and the sailors were closing in on a dozen locals who'd taken up positions in front of a narrow dock. A low, sleek patrol craft with a single mast was moored there. To the right the beach stretched in a gentle curve southward, to distant Hissar…a city in flames. Duiker staggered to a halt, staring at the ruddy sky above Hissar.

“Togg's teats!” Stormy hissed, following the historian's gaze. “Dryjhna's come. Guess we won't be taking you to the city after all, eh?”

“Wrong,” Duiker said. “I need to rejoin Coltaine. My horse is in the stables—never mind the damn boat.”

“They're pinching her flanks right now, I bet. Around here, people ride camels, eat horses. Forget it.” He reached out but the historian pulled away and began running up the strand, away from
Ripath
and the scrap that had now started there.