The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (929 page)

Be a plant, Gaz. Worry about nothing. Until the harvest.

The ox was too stupid to worry. If not for a lifetime of back-breaking labour and casual abuse, the beast would be content, existence a smooth cycle to match the ease of day into night and night into day and on and on for ever. Feed and cud aplenty, water to drink and salt to lick, a plague to eradicate the world's biting flies and ticks and fleas. If the ox could dream of paradise, it would be a simple dream and a simple paradise. To live simply was to evade the worries that came with complexity. This end was achieved at the expense, alas, of intelligence.

The drunks that staggered out of the taverns as the sun rose were in search of paradise and they had the sodden, besotted brains to prove it. Lying senseless in the durhang and d'bayang dens could be found others oozing down a similar path. The simplicity they would find was of course death, the threshold crossed almost without effort.

Unmindful (naturally) of any irony, the ox pulled a cart into an alley behind the dens where three emaciated servants brought out this night's crop of wasted corpses. The carter, standing with a switch to one side, spat out a mouthful of rustleaf juice and silently gestured to another body lying in the gutter behind a back door. In for a sliver, in for a council. Grumbling, the three servants went over to this corpse and reached for limbs to lift it from the cobblestones. One then gasped and recoiled, and a moment later so too did the others.

The ox was not flicked into motion for some time thereafter, as humans rushed about, as more arrived. It could smell the death, but it was used to that. There was much confusion, yet the yoked beast remained an island of calm, enjoying the shade of the alley.

The city guardsman with the morning ache in his chest brushed a hand along the ox's broad flank as he edged past. He crouched down to inspect the corpse.

Another one, this man beaten so badly he was barely recognizable as human. Not a single bone in his face was left unbroken. The eyes were pulped. Few teeth remained. The blows had continued, down to his crushed throat – which was the likely cause of death – and then his chest. Whatever weapon had been used left short, elongated patterns of mottled bruising. Just like all the others.

The guardsman rose and faced the three servants from the dens. ‘Was he a customer?'

Three blank faces regarded him, then one spoke, ‘How in Hood's name can we tell? His damned face is gone!'

‘Clothing? Weight, height, hair colour – anyone in there last—'

‘Sir,' cut in the man, ‘if he was a customer he was a new one – he's got meat on his bones, see? And his clothes was clean. Well, before he spilled hisself.'

The guardsman had made the same observations. ‘Might he have been, then? A new customer?'

‘Ain't been none in the last day or so. Some casuals, you know, the kind who can take it or leave it, but no, we don't think we seen this one, by his clothes and hair and such.'

‘So what was he doing in this alley?'

No one had an answer.

Did the guardsman have enough to requisition a necromancer?
Only if this man was well born. But the clothes aren't that high-priced. More like merchant class, or some mid-level official. If so, then what was he doing here in the dregs of Gadrobi District?
‘He's Daru,' he mused.

‘We get 'em,' said the loquacious servant, with a faint sneer. ‘We get Rhivi, we get Callowan, we get Barghast even.'

Yes, misery is egalitarian.
‘Into the cart, then, with the others.'

The servants set to work.

The guardsman watched. After a moment his gaze drifted to the carter. He studied the wizened face with its streaks of rustleaf juice running down the stubbled chin. ‘Got a loving woman back home?'

‘Eh?'

‘I imagine that ox is happy enough.'

‘Oh, aye, that it is, sir. All the flies, see, they prefer the big sacks.'

‘The what?'

The carter squinted at him, then stepped closer. ‘The bodies, sir. Big sacks, I call 'em. I done studies and lots of thinking, on important things. On life and stuff. What makes it work, what happens when it stops and all.'

‘Indeed. Well—'

‘Every body in existence, sir, is made up of the same stuff. So small you can't see except with a special lens but I made me one a those. Tiny, that stuff. I call 'em
bags
. And inside each bag there's a wallet, floating in the middle like. And I figure that in that wallet there's notes.'

‘I'm sorry, did you say notes?'

A quick nod, a pause to send out a stream of brown juice. ‘With all the details of that body written on 'em. Whether it's a dog or a cat or a green-banded nose-worm. Or a person. And things like hair colour and eye colour and other stuff – all written on those notes in that wallet in that bag. They're instructions, you see, telling the bag what kind of bag it's supposed to be. Some bags are liver bags, some are skin, some are brain, some are lungs. And it's the mother and the father that sew up them bags, when they make themselves a baby. They sew 'em up, you see, with half and half, an' that's why brats share looks from both ma and da. Now this 'ere ox, it's got bags too that look pretty much the same, so's I been thinking of sewing its half with a human half – wouldn't that be something?'

‘Something, good sir, likely to get you run out of the city – if you weren't stoned to death first.'

The carter scowled. ‘That's the probbem wi' the world then, ain't it? No sense of adventure!'

 

‘I have a very important meeting.'

Iskaral Pust, still wearing his most ingratiating smile, simply nodded.

Sordiko Qualm sighed. ‘It is official Temple business.'

He nodded again.

‘I do not desire an escort.'

‘You don't need one, High Priestess,' said Iskaral Pust. ‘You shall have me!' And then he tilted his head and licked his lips. ‘Won't she just! Hee hee! And she'll see that with me she'll have more than she ever believed possible! Why, I shall be a giant walking penis!'

‘You already are,' said Sordiko Qualm.

‘Are? Are what, dearest? We should get going, lest we be late!'

‘Iskaral Pust, I don't want you with me.'

‘You're just saying that, but your eyes tell me different.'

‘What's in my eyes,' she replied, ‘could see me dangling on High Gallows. Assuming, of course, the entire city does not launch into a spontaneous celebration upon hearing of your painful death, and set me upon a throne of solid gold in acclamation.'

‘What is she going on about? No one knows I'm even here! And why would I want a gold throne? Why would she, when she can have
me
?' He licked his lips again, and then revised his smile. ‘Lead on, my love. I promise to be most officious in this official meeting. After all, I am the Magus of the House of Shadow. Not a mere High Priest, but a Towering Priest! A Looming Priest! I shall venture no opinions of whatever, unless invited to, of course. No, I shall be stern and wise and leave all the jabbering to my sweet underling.' He ducked and added, ‘With whom I shall be underlinging very shortly!'

Her hands twitched oddly, most fetchingly, in fact, and then surrender cascaded in her lovely eyes, thus providing Iskaral Pust with the perfect image to resurrect late at night under his blankets with Mogora snoring through all the spider balls filled with eggs lodged up her nose.

‘You will indeed be silent, Iskaral Pust. The one with whom I must speak does not tolerate fools, and I will make no effort to intercede should you prove fatally obnoxious.' She paused and shook her head. ‘Then again, I cannot imagine you being anything but obnoxious. Perhaps I should retract my warning, in the hope that you will give such offence as to see you instantly obliterated. Whereupon I can then evict those foul bhokarala and your equally foul wife.' Sudden surprise. ‘Listen to me! Those thoughts were meant to be private! Yours is a most execrable influence, Iskaral Pust.'

‘Soon we shall be as peas in a pod! Those spiny, sharp pods that stick to everything, especially crotch hair if one is forced to wee in the bushes.' He reached out for her. ‘Hand in hand gliding down the streets!'

She seemed to recoil, but of course that was only his delicate and fragile self-esteem and its niggling worries, quickly buried beneath the plastering of yet another ingratiating smile on his face.

They escaped the temple through a little used side postern gate, slamming it shut just in time to avoid the squall of bhokarala excitedly pursuing them down the corridor.

Wretched sunshine in the streets, Sordiko Qualm seemingly indifferent to such atmospheric disregard – why, not a single cloud in sight! Worse than Seven Cities, with not a crevasse to be found anywhere.

Miserable crowds to thread through, a sea of ill-tempered faces snapping round at the gentle prod of his elbows and shoulders as he hurried to keep pace with the long-legged High Priestess. ‘Long legs, yes! Ooh. Ooh ooh ooh. Look at them scythe, see the waggle of those delicious—'

‘Quiet!' she hissed over a shapely shoulder.

‘Shadowthrone understood. Yes he did. He saw the necessity of our meeting, her and me. The consummation of Shadow's two most perfect mortals. The fated storybook love – the lovely innocent woman – but not too innocent, one hopes – and the stalwart man with his brave smile and warm thews. Er, brave thews and warm smile. Is “thews” even the right word? Muscled arms and such, anyway. Why, I am a mass of muscles, am I not? I can even make my ears flex, when the need presents itself – no point in showing off. She despises the strutting type, being delicate and all. And soon—'

‘Watch that damned elbow, runt!'

‘And soon the glory will be delivered unto us—'

‘—a damned apology!'

‘What?'

A hulking oaf of a man was forcing himself into Iskaral Pust's path, his big flat face looking like something one found at the bottom of a nightsoil bucket. ‘I said I expect a damned apology, y'damned toad-faced ferret!'

Iskaral Pust snorted. ‘Oh, look, a hulking oaf of a man with a big flat face looking like something one finds at the bottom of a nightsoil bucket wants
me
to apologize! And I will, good sir, as soon as you apologize for your oafishness and your bucket-face – in fact, apologize for existing!'

The enormous apish hand that reached for his throat was so apish that it barely possessed a thumb, or so Iskaral Pust would later report to his wide-eyed murmuring audience of bhokarala.

Naturally, he ignored that hand and did some reaching out of his own, straight into the oaf's crotch, where he squeezed and yanked back and forth and tugged and twisted, even as the brute folded up with a whimper and collapsed like a sack of melons on to the filthy cobbles, where he squirmed most pitifully.

Iskaral Pust stepped over him and hurried to catch up to Sordiko Qualm, who seemed to have increased her pace, her robes veritably flying out behind her.

‘The rudeness of some people!' Iskaral Pust gasped.

They arrived at the gates of a modest estate close to Hinter's Tower. The gates were locked and Sordiko Qualm tugged on a braided rope, triggering chiming from somewhere within.

They waited.

Chains rattled on the other side of the gates, and a moment later the solid doors creaked open, streams of rust drifting down from the hinges.

‘Not many visitors, I take it?'

‘From this moment on,' said Sordiko Qualm, ‘you will be silent, Iskaral Pust.'

‘I will?'

‘You will.'

Whoever had opened the gates seemed to be hiding behind one of them, and the High Priestess strode in without any further ceremony. Iskaral Pust rushed in behind her to avoid being locked out, as both gates immediately began closing. As soon as he was clear he turned to upbraid the rude servant. And saw, working a lever to one side, a Seguleh.

‘Thank you, Thurule,' said Sordiko. ‘Is the Lady in the garden?'

There was no reply.

The High Priestess nodded and walked on, along a winding path through an overgrown, weedy courtyard, its walls covered in wisteria in full bloom. Sordiko paused upon seeing a large snake coiled in the sun on the path, then edged carefully round it.

Iskaral crept after her, eyes on the nasty creature as it lifted its wedge-shaped head, tongue flicking out in curiosity or maybe hunger. He hissed at it as he passed and was pleased at its flinch.

The estate's main house was small, elegant in a vaguely feminine way. Arched pathways went round it on both sides, vine-webbed tunnels blissfully draped in shadows. The High Priestess chose one and continued on towards the back.

As they drew closer they heard the murmur of voices.

The centre of the back garden was marked by a flagstone clearing in which stood a dozen full-sized bronze statues in a circle facing inward. Each statue wept water from its oddly shielded face down into the ringed trough it stood in, where water flowed ankle deep. The statues, Iskaral Pust saw with faint alarm as they drew closer, were of Seguleh, and the water that fell down did so from beneath masks sheathed in moss and verdigris. In the middle of the circle was a thin-legged, quaint table of copper and two chairs. In the chair facing them sat a man with long grey hair. There was blood-spatter on his plain shirt. A woman was seated with her back to them. Long, lustrous black hair shimmered, contrasting perfectly with the white linen of her blouse.