The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1217 page)

The warrior seemed to have aged a dozen years since she had last seen him, but it did nothing to cool her fury. And in his unwillingness to meet her eyes she saw only cowardice.

‘We go to our sons this night,' he said. ‘Tell her that. I do not mean to wound. Tonight, or the next. Soon.'

‘Soon,' said Jastara, her tone harsh. ‘And I will see my husband again. I will walk at his side—'

Shelemasa felt disgust twisting her face. ‘After sleeping with his father? Will you, Jastara? Is his spirit here? Does he see you? Does he know all that you have done? Yet you tell yourself you will be at his side again – you are mad!' A hand settled on her shoulder and she turned. ‘Hanavat – no—'

‘You are so quick to defend me, Shelemasa, and for that I am ever grateful. But I will speak to my husband.'

Jastara had backed away at Shelemasa's words, and a moment later she fled, pushing through the crowd that had gathered. A few of the older women spun to strike at her when she rushed past. A dozen youths gathered nearby laughed and one reached down for a stone—

‘Belay that, scout!'

At the bark, the girl froze.

Captain Fiddler was walking into the Khundryl camp, to collect his scouts. He glanced over at Gall, Hanavat and Shelemasa and for an instant it seemed he was simply going to continue on to his charges, but then he altered his path and approached.

‘No disrespect intended, Mother Hanavat, but we don't have time for all this shit. Your histories are just that – a heap of stories you keep dragging everywhere you go. Warleader Gall, all that doom you're bleating on about is a waste of breath. We're not blind. None of us. The only question you have to deal with now is how are you going to face that end? Like a warrior, or on your Hood-damned knees?' Then, ignoring the crowd, Fiddler made his way towards his troop. ‘We're on point this night, scouts. Take up those spears and let's get moving. The column's about to march.'

Shelemasa watched the Malazan lead the youths away.

From Hanavat, a low laugh, and then, ‘No disrespect, he said. And then he went and slapped us all down.'

‘Mother—'

‘No, he was right, Shelemasa. We stand here, naked but for our pride. Yet see how heavy it weighs. Well, this night, I think, I will try to step lighter – after all, what have I left to lose?'

Your child.

As if Hanavat had read her mind, she reached up and brushed Shelemasa's cheek. ‘I will die first,' she whispered, ‘and the one within me shall quickly follow. If this is how it must be, then I must accept it. As must we all.' She faced her husband then. ‘But not on our knees. We are Khundryl. We are the Burned Tears.'

Gall said, ‘If I had not led us down to Aren, our children would still be alive. I have killed our children, Hanavat. I – I need you to hate me.'

‘I know, husband.'

Shelemasa could see that beseeching need in Gall's reddened eyes, but his wife gave him nothing more.

He tried again. ‘Wife, the Burned Tears died at the Charge.'

Hanavat simply shook her head, then took Shelemasa's hand and led her into the camp. It was time to leave. They had to see to the horses. Shelemasa spared one glance back and saw Gall standing alone, hands covering his face.

‘In grief,' murmured Hanavat, ‘people will do anything to escape what cannot be escaped. Shelemasa, you must go to Jastara. You must take back your words.'

‘I will not.'

‘It is not for you to judge – yet how often is it that those in no position to judge are the first to do so, and with such fire and venom? Speak to her, Shelemasa. Help her find some peace.'

‘But how can I, when just to think of her fills me with disgust?'

‘I did not suggest it would be easy, daughter.'

‘I will give it some thought.'

‘Very well. Just don't wait too long.'

The army lifted into motion like a beast mired in mud, one last exhausted heave forward, weight dragging it down. The wagons lurched behind the teams of haulers as they strapped on their harnesses and took up the ropes. Scores of tents were left standing, along with a scattering of cookpots and soiled clothing lying like trampled flags.

Flies roiled in clouds to swarm the hunched-over, silent soldiers, and overhead the glow of the Jade Strangers was brighter than any moonlight, bright enough for Lostara Yil to see every detail on the painted shields of the regulars, which they now carried to keep the flies from their backs. The lurid green painted drawn, lined faces with a ghastly corpulent hue, and made unearthly the surrounding desert. Clouds of butterflies wheeled above like ever-building storms.

Lostara stood with Henar Vygulf at her side, watching the Adjunct draw on her cloak, watching her lifting the hood. She had taken to leading the vanguard herself, five or six paces ahead of everyone else, excepting Captain Fiddler's thirty or so Khundryl youths who ranged ahead a hundred paces, scouts with nothing to scout. Lostara's eyes stayed on the Adjunct.

‘In Bluerose,' said Henar, ‘there is a festival of the Black-Winged Lord once every ten years on winter's longest night. The High Priestess shrouds herself and leads a procession through the city.'

‘This Black-Winged Lord is your god?'

‘Unofficially, under the suspicious regard of the Letherii. Highly proscribed, in fact, but this procession was one of the few that they did not outlaw.'

‘You were celebrating the year's longest night?'

‘Not really. Not in the fashion that farmers might each winter, to celebrate the coming of the planting season – very few farms around Bluerose; we were mostly seafaring. Well, maritime, anyway. It was meant to summon our god, I suppose. I was not much for making sense of such things. And as I said, it was once every ten years.'

Lostara waited. Henar wasn't a talkative man
– thank Hood –
but when he spoke he always had something useful to say. Eventually.

‘Hooded, she'd walk silent streets, followed by thousands equally mute, down to the water's edge. She would stand just beyond the reach of the surf. An acolyte would come up to her carrying a lantern, which she would take in one hand. And at the moment of dawn's first awakening, she would fling that lantern into the water, quenching its light.'

Lostara grunted. ‘Curious ritual. Instead of the lantern, then, the sun. Sounds like you were worshipping the coming of day more than anything else.'

‘Then she would draw a ceremonial dagger and cut her own throat.'

Shaken, Lostara Yil faced him, but found she had nothing to say. No response seemed possible. Then a thought struck her. ‘And that was a festival the Letherii permitted?'

‘They would come down and watch, picnicking on the strand.' He shrugged. ‘For them it was one less irritating High Priestess, I suppose.'

Her gaze returned to the Adjunct. She had just set out. A shrouded figure, hidden from all behind her by that plain hood. The soldiers fell in after her and the only sound that came from them was the dull clatter of their armour, the thump of their boots. Lostara Yil shivered and leaned close to Henar.

‘The hood,' Henar muttered. ‘It reminded me, that's all.'

She nodded. But she dreaded the thought of that story coming back to haunt them.

 

‘I can't believe I died for this,' Hedge said, wanting to spit but there wasn't enough in his mouth to do it, and of course he'd have to be mad to waste the water. He turned and glared at the three oxen pulling Bavedict's carriage. ‘Got any more of that drink you gave 'em? They're looking damned hale, Alchemist – we could all do with a sip or three.'

‘Hardly, Commander,' Bavedict said, one hand on the hawser. ‘They've been dead for three days now.'

Hedge squinted at the nearest beast. ‘Well now, I'm impressed. I admit it. Impressed, and that can't be said often of old Hedge.'

‘In Letheras,' Bavedict said, ‘there are dozens of people wandering around who are in fact dead and have been for some time. Necromantic alchemy is one of the most advanced of the Uneasy Arts among the Letherii. In fact, of all the curse elixirs I sold, the one achieving everlasting undeath was probably the most popular – as much as anything costing a chestful of gold can be popular.'

‘Could you do this for a whole army?'

Bavedict blanched. ‘C-commander, such things are, er, prohibitively difficult to achieve. Preparing a single curse-vial, for example, involves months of back-breaking effort. Denatured ootooloo spawn – the primary ingredient – well, you'd be lucky to get three drops a night, and harvesting is terribly risky, not to mention exhausting, even for a man reputedly as skilled as myself.'

‘Ulatoo spawn, huh? Never heard of it. Never mind, then. It was just a notion. But, you got any more of that stuff?'

‘No sir. I judged as greatest the need of the Bridgeburners for the munitions in this carriage—'

‘Shh! Don't use that word, you fool!'

‘Sorry, sir. Perhaps, then, we should invent some other term – something innocuous, that we could use freely.'

Hedge rubbed at his whiskered jaw. ‘Good idea. How about…kittens?'

‘Kittens, sir? Why not? Now then, our carriage full of kittens is not something that can be abandoned, is it, sir? And I should tell you, the entire company of Bridgeburners has not the strength to haul it.'

‘Really? Well, er, just how many kittens you got stuffed in there?'

‘It's the raw ingredients, sir. Bottles and casks and vials and…er, tubing. Condensers, distillation apparatuses. Um, without two cats of opposite gender, sir, making kittens is not an easy venture.'

Hedge stared for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Oh, ah, of course, Alchemist. Just so.' He glanced to his right, where a squad of marines had just come up alongside them, but their attention was on the wagon loaded with food and water that they were guarding, or so Hedge assumed since they were resting hands on hilts and looking belligerent. ‘Well, keep at it then, Bavedict. Never can have too many kittens, can we?'

‘Precisely, sir.'

Six paces behind the two men, Rumjugs leaned close to Sweetlard. ‘I had me some kittens once, you know.'

Sweetlard shot her an unsurprised look. ‘Errant knows, you'll take coin from anybody, love.'

 

He had a swagger, I remember that much. And how I'd get sick, my stomach burning like I'd swallowed coals, every time he came into the house. Ma, she was a bird, really, the kind that flits about as if no branch gives comfort, no leaf makes perfect shade. And her eyes would leap to him and then away again. But in that one look she'd know if something bad was on the way.

If it was, she'd edge closer to me. The jay is in the tree, the chick is in danger. But there was nothing she could do. He weighed twice as much as she did. He once threw her through the shack's flimsy wall. That time was something of a mistake for old Da, since it took outside what went on inside, so people saw the truth of it all. My little family.

There must've been a neighbour, someone on the street, who'd seen and decided he didn't much like it. A day later Da was dragged back to the house beaten close to death, and there we were, Ma and her two boys – that was before my brother ran away – there we were, nursing him back.

How stupid was that? We should've finished what that right-thinking neighbour had started.

But we didn't.

That swagger, and Ma darting about.

I remember the last day of all that. I was seven, almost eight. Quiet Ginanse, who lived up the street and worked as a knife-sharpener, had been found strangled in the alley behind his shop. People were upset. Ginanse had been solid, an old veteran of the Falar Wars, and though he had a weakness for drink he wasn't a violent drunk. Not at all. Too much ale and he wanted to seduce every woman he saw. A sweet soul, then. That's what Ma used to say, hands fluttering like wings.

So people were upset. He'd been drunk the night before. In no shape to defend himself. The rope that had killed him was horsehair – I remember how people talked about that, as if it was important, though I didn't know why at the time. But they'd found horsehairs in Gin's neck.

The old women who shared a house on the corner, three of them, seemed to be looking at us again and again – we were outside, listening to everybody talking, all those emotions running high. Ma was white as plucked down. Da was on the bench beside the shack's door. He'd gotten a rash on his hands and was slowly melting a lump of lard between them. There'd been a strange look in his eye, but for once he wasn't offering any opinion on the matter.

Horsehair. A tradition among the outliers, the wood-cutting camps east of the city. ‘How adulterers are hung, aye?' And the old women nodded. ‘But old Ginanse, he ain't never—' ‘No, couldn't, y'see? Got burned down there – was on a ship that caught fire when they took Falar Harbour. He couldn't do nothing.'