The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (209 page)

‘Everybody shut up,’ Spindle said, slowly raising his head, his narrow forehead wrinkled in a frown as he scanned the tabletop. ‘Corrupted. You may have something there, Picker.’ He sniffed the air as if seeking a scent, then crouched down. ‘Yeah. Give me a hand, someone, with these here cots.’

No-one moved.

‘Help him, Hedge,’ Picker ordered.

‘Help him crawl under the table? It’s too late to hide—’

‘That’s an order, soldier.’

Grumbling, the sapper lowered himself down. Together, the two men dragged the cots clear. Then Spindle edged beneath the table. A faint glow of sorcerous light slowly blossomed, then the mage hissed. ‘It’s the underside all right!’

‘Brilliant observation, Spindle. Bet there’s legs, too.’

‘No, you fool. There’s an image painted onto the underside … one big card, it looks like – only I don’t recognize it’

Scowling, Hedge joined the mage. ‘What are you talking about? We didn’t paint no image underneath – Hood’s mouldering moccasins, what is
that?
’

‘Red ochre, is my guess. Like something a Barghast would paint—’

‘Or a Rhivi,’ Hedge muttered. ‘Who’s that figure in the middle – the one with the dog-head on his chest?’

‘How should I know? Anyway, I’d say the whole thing is pretty fresh. Recent, I mean.’

‘Well, rub it off, dammit.’

Spindle crawled back out. ‘Not a chance – the thing’s webbed with wards, and a whole lot else besides.’ He straightened, met Picker’s eyes, then shrugged. ‘It’s a new card. Unaligned, without an aspect. I’d like to make a copy of it, Deck-sized, then try it out with a reading—’

‘Whatever,’ Picker said.

Hedge reappeared, suddenly energized. ‘Good idea, Spin – you could charge for the readings, too. If this new Unaligned plays true, then you could work out the new tensions, the new relationships, and once you know them—’

Spindle grinned. ‘We could run another game. Yeah—’

Detoran groaned. ‘I have lost all my money.’

‘We all have,’ Picker snapped, glaring at the two sappers.

‘It’ll work next time,’ Hedge said. ‘You’ll see.’

Spindle was nodding vigorously.

‘Sorry if we seem to lack enthusiasm,’ Blend drawled.

Picker swung to the Barghast. ‘Trotts, take a look at that drawing.’

The warrior sniffed, then sank down to his hands and knees. Grunting, he made his way under the table. ‘It’s gone dark,’ he said.

Hedge turned to Spindle. ‘Do that light trick again, you idiot.’

The mage sneered at the sapper, then gestured. The glow beneath the table returned.

Trotts was silent for a few moments, then he crawled back out and climbed upright.

‘Well?’ Picker asked.

The Barghast shook his head. ‘Rhivi.’

‘Rhivi don’t play with Decks,’ Spindle said.

Trotts bared his teeth. ‘Neither do Barghast.’

‘I need some wood,’ Spindle said, scratching the stubble lining his narrow jaw. ‘And a stylus,’ he went on, ignoring everyone else. ‘And paints, and a brush…’

They watched as he wandered out of the tent. Picker sighed, glared one last time at Hedge. ‘Hardly an auspicious entry into the Seventh Squad, sapper. Antsy’s heart damn near stopped when he lost his whole column. Your sergeant is probably gutting black-livered wood pigeons and whispering your name right now – who knows, your luck might change and a demon
won’t
hear him.’

Hedge scowled. ‘Ha ha.’

‘I don’t think she’s kidding,’ Detoran said.

‘Fine,’ Hedge snapped. ‘I got a cusser waiting for it, and damned if I won’t make sure I take you all with me.’

‘Team spirit,’ Trotts said, his smile broadening.

Picker grunted. ‘All right, soldiers, let’s get out of here.’

*   *   *

Paran and Silverfox stood apart from the others, watching the eastern sky grow light with streaks of copper and bronze. The last of the stars were withdrawing overhead, a cold, indifferent scatter surrendering to the warmth of a blue, cloudless day.

Through the awkwardness of the hours just past, stretching interminable as a succession of pain and discomfort in Paran’s mind, emotional exhaustion had arrived, and with it a febrile calm. He had fallen silent, fearful of shattering that inner peace, knowing it to be nothing but an illusion, a pensively drawn breath within a storm.

‘Tattersail must be drawn forth.’
He had indeed done that. The first meeting of their eyes had unlocked every shared memory, and that unlocking was an explosive curse for Paran.
A child. I face a child, and so recoil at the thought of intimacy – even if it had once been with a grown woman. The woman is no more. This is a child.
But there was yet more to the anguish that boiled within the man. Another presence, entwined like wires of black iron through all that was Tattersail. Nightchill, the sorceress, once lover to Bellurdan – where she had led, the Thelomen had followed. Anything but an equal relationship, and now, with Nightchill, had come a bitter, demanding presence.
Bitter, indeed. With Tayschrenn … with the Empress and the Malazan Empire and Hood knows what or who else. She knows she was betrayed at the Enfilade at Pale. Both her and, out there on the plain, Bellurdan. Her mate.

Silverfox spoke. ‘You need not fear the T’lan Imass.’

He blinked, shook himself. ‘So you have explained. Since you command them. We are all wondering, however, precisely what you plan with that undead army? What’s the significance of this Gathering?’

She sighed. ‘It is very simple, really. They gather for benediction. Mine.’

He faced her. ‘Why?’

‘I am a flesh and blood Bonecaster – the first such in hundreds of thousands of years.’ Then her face hardened. ‘But we shall need them first. In their fullest power. There are horrors awaiting us all … in the Pannion Domin.’

‘The others must know of this, this benediction – what it means, Silverfox – and more of the threat that awaits us in the Pannion Domin. Brood, Kallor—’

She shook her head. ‘My blessing is not their concern. Indeed, it is no-one’s concern but mine. And the T’lan Imass themselves. As for the Pannion … I myself must learn more before I dare speak. Paran, I have told you these things for what We were, and for what you – we – have become.’

And what have we become? No, not a question for now.
‘Jen’isand Rul.’

She frowned. ‘That is a side of you that I do not understand. But there is more, Paran.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘Tell me, what do you know of the Deck of Dragons?’

‘Almost nothing.’ But he smiled, for he heard Tattersail now, more clearly than at any other time since they’d first met.

Silverfox drew a deep breath, held it a moment, then slowly released it, her veiled eyes once again on the rising sun. ‘The Deck of Dragons. A kind of structure, imposed on power itself. Who created it? No-one knows. My belief – Tattersail’s belief – is that each card is a gate into a warren, and there were once many more cards than there are now. There may have been other Decks – there may well be other Decks…’

He studied her. ‘You have another suspicion, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I said no-one knows who created the Deck of Dragons. Yet there is another entity equally mysterious, also a kind of structure, focused upon power itself. Think of the terminology used with the Deck of Dragons. Houses … Houses of Dark, of Light, of Life and Death…’ She slowly faced him. ‘Think of the word “Finnest”. Its meaning, as the T’lan Imass know it, is “Hold of Ice”. Long ago, among the Elder races, a Hold was synonymous with a House in its meaning and common usage, and indeed, synonymous with Warren. Where resides a Jaghut’s wellspring of power? In a Finnest.’ She paused again, searching Paran’s eyes. ‘Tremorlor is Trellish for “House of Life”.’

Finnest … as in Finnest House, in Darujhistan … a House of the Azath.
‘I’ve never heard of Tremorlor.’

‘It is an Azath House in Seven Cities. In Malaz City in your own empire, there is the Deadhouse – the House of Death…’

‘You believe the Houses of the Azath and the Houses of the Deck are one and the same.’

‘Yes. Or linked, somehow. Think on it!’

Paran was doing just that. He had little knowledge of either, and could not think of any possible way in which he might be connected with them. His unease deepened, followed by a painful roil in his stomach. The captain scowled. He was too tired to think, yet think he must ‘It’s said that the old emperor, Kellanved, and Dancer found a way into Deadhouse…’

‘Kellanved and Dancer have since ascended and now hold the House of Shadow. Kellanved is Shadowthrone, and Dancer is Cotillion, the Rope, Patron of Assassins.’

The captain stared at her. ‘What?’

Silverfox grinned. ‘It’s obvious when you consider it, isn’t it? Who among the ascendants went after Laseen … with the aim of destroying her? Shadowthrone and Cotillion. Why would any ascendant care one way or another about a mortal woman? Unless they thirsted for vengeance.’

Paran’s mind raced back, to a road on the coast of Itko Kan, to a dreadful slaughter, wounds made by huge, bestial jaws –
Hounds. Hounds of Shadow – Shadowthrone’s pups
 … From that day, the captain had begun a new path. On the trail of the young woman Cotillion had possessed. From that day, his life had begun its fated unravelling. ‘Wait! Kellanved and Dancer went into
Deadhouse
– why didn’t they take that aspect – the aspect of the House of Death?’

‘I’ve thought about that myself, and have arrived at one possibility. The realm of Death was already occupied, Paran. The King of High House Death is Hood. I believe now that each Azath is home to every gate, a way into every warren. Gain entry to the House, and you may …
choose.
Kellanved and Dancer found an empty House, an empty throne, and upon taking their places as Shadow’s rulers, the House of Shadow appeared, and became part of the Deck of Dragons. Do you see?’

Paran slowly nodded, struggling to take it all in. Tremors of pain twisted his stomach – he pushed them away.
But what has this to do with me?

‘The House of Shadow was once a Hold,’ Silverfox went on. ‘You can tell – it doesn’t share the hierarchical structure of the other Houses. It is bestial, a wilder place, and apart from the Hounds it knew no ruler for a long, long time.’

‘What of the Deck’s Unaligned?’

She shrugged. ‘Failed aspects? The imposition of chance, of random forces? The Azath and the Deck are both impositions of order, but even order needs freedom, lest it solidify and become fragile.’

‘And where do you think I fit in? I’m nothing, Silverfox. A stumble-footed mortal.’
Gods, leave me out of all this – all that you seem to be leading up to. Please.

‘I have thought long and hard on this, Paran. Anomander Rake is Knight of the House of Dark,’ she said, ‘yet where is the House itself? Before all else there was Dark, the Mother who birthed all. So it must be an ancient place, a Hold, or perhaps something that came before Holds themselves. A focus for the gate into Kurald Galain … undiscovered, hidden, the First Wound, with a soul trapped in its maw, thus sealing it.’

‘A soul,’ Paran murmured, a chill clambering up his spine, ‘or a legion of souls…’

The breath hissed from Silverfox.

‘Before Houses there were Holds,’ Paran continued with remorseless logic. ‘Both fixed, both stationary. Settled. Before settlement … there was
wandering.
House from Hold, Hold from … a gate in motion, ceaseless motion…’ He squeezed shut his eyes. ‘A wagon, burdened beneath the countless souls sealing the gate into Dark…’
And I sent two Hounds through that wound, I saw the seal punctured … by the Abyss …

‘Paran, something has happened – to the Deck of Dragons. A new card has arrived. Unaligned, yet, I think, dominant. The Deck has never possessed a … master.’ She faced him. ‘I now believe it has one. You.’

His eyes snapped open; he stared at her in disbelief, then scorn. ‘Nonsense, Tatter—Silverfox. Not me. You are wrong. You must be—’

‘I am not. My hand was guided in fashioning the card that is you—’

‘What card?’

She did not answer, continued as if she had not heard him. ‘Was it the Azath that guided me? Or some other unknown force? I do not know.
Jen’isand Rul,
the Wanderer within the Sword.’ She met his eyes. ‘You are a new Unaligned, Ganoes Paran. Birthed by accident or by some purpose the need of which only the Azath know. You must find the answer for your own creation, you must find the purpose behind what you have become.’

His brows rose mockingly. ‘You set for me a quest? Really, Silverfox. Aimless, purposeless men do not undertake quests. That’s for wall-eyed heroes in epic poems. I don’t believe in goals – not any more. They’re naught but self-delusions. You set for me this task and you shall be gravely disappointed. As shall the Azath.’

‘An unseen war has begun, Paran. The warrens themselves are under assault – I can feel the pressure within the Deck of Dragons, though I have yet to rest a hand upon one. An army is being … assembled, perhaps, and you – a soldier – are part of that army.’

Oh yes, so speaks Tattersail.
‘I have enough wars to fight, Silverfox…’

Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. ‘Perhaps, Ganoes Paran, they are all one war.’

‘I’m no Dujek, or Brood – I can’t manage all these … campaigns. It’s – it’s tearing me apart.’

‘I know. You cannot hide your pain from me – I see it in your face, and it breaks my heart.’

He looked away. ‘I have dreams as well … a child within a wound. Screaming.’

‘Do you run from that child?’

‘Aye,’ he admitted shakily. ‘Those screams are … terrible.’

‘You must run towards the child, my love. Flight will close your heart.’

He turned to her.
‘My love’ – words to manipulate my heart?
‘Who is that child?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. A victim in the unseen war, perhaps.’ She attempted a smile. ‘Your courage has been tested before, Paran, and it did not fail.’

Grimacing, he muttered, ‘There’s always a first time.’

‘You are the Wanderer within the Sword. The card exists.’