Deadhouse Gates

  The guard was young, resting his vambraced forearms on the cross blades of his pike.

  Beneth grunted. 'Where's your mate, Pella?'

  'The Dosü pig wandered off, Beneth. Maybe you can tune Sawark's ear—Hood knows he's not hearing us. The Dosü regulars have lost all discipline. They ignore the duty rosters, spend all their time tossing coins at Bula's. There's seventy-five of us and over two hundred of them, Beneth, and all this talk of rebellion… explain it to Sawark—'

  'You don't know your history,' Beneth said. 'The Dosü have been on their knees for three hundred years. They don't know any other way to live. First it was mainlanders, then Falari colonists, now you Malazans. Calm yourself, boy, before you lose face.'

  '"History comforts the dull-witted,"' the young Malazan said.

  Beneth barked a laugh as he reached the gate. 'And whose words are those, Pella? Not yours.'

  The guard's brows rose, then he shrugged. 'I forget you're Korelri sometimes, Beneth. Those words? Emperor Kellanved.' Pella's gaze slid to Felisin with a hint of sharpness. 'Duiker's Imperial Campaigns, Volume One, You're Malazan, Felisin, do you recall what comes next?'

  She shook her head, bemused by the young man's veiled intensity. I've learned to read faces—Beneth senses nothing. 'I'm not that familiar with Duiker's works, Pella.'

  'Worth learning,' the guard said with a smile.

  Sensing Beneth's growing impatience at the gate, Felisin stepped past Pella. 'I doubt there's a single scroll in Skullcup,' she said.

  'Maybe you'll find someone's memory worth dragging a net through, eh?'

  Felisin glanced back with a frown.

  'The boy flirting with you?' Beneth asked from the ramp. 'Be gentle, girl.'

  'I'll think on that,' Felisin told Pella in a low voice before resuming her walk through the Twistings Gate. Joining Beneth on the raised road, she smiled up at him. 'I don't like nervous types.'

  He laughed. 'That puts me at ease.'

  Blessed Queen of Dreams, make that true.

  Rubble-filled pits lined the raised road until it joined the other two roads at the Three Fates crossing, a broad fork that was flanked by two squat Dosü guardhouses. North of Twistings Road, and on their right as they approached the forks, was Deep Mine Road; to the south and on their left ran Shaft Road, leading to a worked-out mine where the dead were disposed of each dusk.

  The body wagon was nowhere to be seen, meaning it had been held up on its route through the pit town, with more than the usual number of bodies being brought out and tossed onto its bed.

  They crossed the fork and continued on to Work Road. Past the north Dosü guardhouse was Sinker Lake, a deep pool of turquoise-coloured water stretching all the way to the north pit wall. It was said the water was cursed and to dive into it was to disappear. Some believed a demon lived in its depths. Heboric asserted that the lack of buoyancy was a quality of the lime-saturated water itself. In any case, few slaves were foolish enough to try an escape in that direction, for the pit wall was as sheer on the north side as it was on the others, forever weeping water over a skin of deposits that glimmered like wet, polished bone.

  Heboric had asked Felisin to keep an eye on Sinker Lake's water level in any case, now that the dry season had come, and as they walked Work Road, she studied the far side as best she could in the dim light. A line of crust was visible a hand's span above the surface. The news would please him, though she had no idea why. The notion of escape was absurd. Beyond the pit was lifeless desert and withered rock, with no drinkable water in any direction for days. Those slaves who somehow made it up to the pit edge, and then eluded the patrols on Beetle Road, the track that surrounded the pit, had left their bones in the desert's red sands. Few got that far, and the spikes named Salvation Row on the sheer wall of the Tower at Rust Ramp displayed their failure for all to see. Not a week went past without a new victim appearing on the Tower wall. Most died before the first day was through, but some lingered longer.

  Work Road ran its worn cobbles past Bula's Inn on the right and the row of brothels on the left before opening out into Rathole Round. In the round's centre rose Sawark's Keep, a hexagonal tower of cut limestone three storeys high. Only Beneth among all the slaves had ever been inside.

  Twelve thousand slaves lived in Skullcup, the vast mining pit thirty leagues north of the island's lone city on the south coast, Dosin Pali. In addition to them and the three hundred guards there were locals: prostitutes for the brothels, serving staff for Bula's Inn and the gambling halls, a caste of servants who had bound their lives and the lives of their families to the Malazan soldiery, hawkers for the struggling market that filled Rathole Round on Rest Day, and a scattering of the banished, the destitute and the lost who'd chosen a pit town over the rotting alleyways of Dosin Pali.

  'The stew will be cold,' Beneth muttered as they approached Bula's Inn.

  Felisin wiped sweat from her brow. 'That will be a relief.'

  'You're not yet used to the heat. In a month or two you'll feel the chill of night just like everyone else.'

  'These early hours still hold the day's memory. I feel the cold of midnight and the hours beyond, Beneth.'

  'Move in with me, girl. I'll keep you warm enough.'

  He was already on the edge of one of his sudden dark moods. She said nothing, hoping he would let it go for the moment.

  'Be careful of what you refuse,' Beneth rumbled.

  'Bula would take me to her bed,' she said. 'You could watch, perhaps join in. She'd be sure to warm the bowls for us. Even second helpings.'

  'She's old enough to be your mother,' Beneth growled.

  Andyou my father. But she heard his breathing change. 'She's round and soft and warm, Beneth. Think on that.'

  She knew he would, and the subject of moving in with him would drift away. For this night, at least. Heboric's wrong. There's no point in thinking about tomorrow. Just the next hour, each. hour. Stay alive, Felisin, and live well if you can. One day you'll find yourself face to face with your sister, and an ocean of blood pouring from Tavore's veins won't be enough, though all they hold will suffice. Stay alive, girl, that's all you must do. Survive each hour, the next hour…

  She slipped her hand into Beneth's as they reached the inn's door, and felt in it the sweat born of the visions she had given him.

  One day, face to face, sister.

  Heboric was still awake, bundled in blankets and crouched beside the hearthfire. He glanced up as Felisin climbed into the room and locked the floor hatch. She collected a sheepskin wrap from a chest and pulled it around her shoulders.

  'Would you have me believe you've come to enjoy the life you've chosen, girl? Nights like these and I wonder.'

  'I thought you'd be tired of judgements by now, Heboric,' Felisin said as she collected a wineskin from a peg and picked through a pile of gourd shells seeking a clean one. 'I take it Baudin's not back yet. Seems even the minor chore of cleaning our cups is beyond him.' She found one that would pass without too close an inspection and squeezed wine into it.

  'That will dry you out,' Heboric observed. 'Not your first of the night either, I'd wager.'

  'Don't father me, old man.'

  The tattooed man sighed. 'Hood take your sister anyway,' he muttered. 'She wasn't satisfied with seeing you dead. She'd rather turn her fourteen-year-old sister into a whore. If Fener has heard my prayers, Tavore's fate will exceed her crimes.'

  Felisin drained half the cup, her eyes veiled as she studied Heboric. 'I entered my sixteenth year last month,' she said.

  His eyes looked suddenly very old as he met her gaze for a moment before returning his attention to the hearth.

  Felisin refilled the cup, then joined Heboric at the square, raised fireplace. The burning dung in the groundstone basin was almost smokeless. The pedestal the basin sat on was glazed and filled with water. Kept hot by the fire, the water was used for washing and bathing, while the pedestal radiated enough heat to keep the night's chill from the single room. Fragments
of Dosü spun rug and reed mats cushioned the floorboards. The entire dwelling was raised on stilts five feet above the sands.

  Sitting down on a low wooden stool, Felisin pushed her chilled feet close to the pedestal. 'I saw you at the carts today,' she said, her words slightly slurred. 'Gunnip walked beside you with a switch.'

  Heboric grunted. 'That amused them all day, Gunnip telling his guards he was swatting flies.'

  'Did he break skin?'

  'Aye, but Fener's tracks heal me well, you know that.'

  'The wounds, yes, but not the pain—I can see, Heboric.'

  His glance was wry. 'Surprised you can see anything, lass. Is that durhang I smell, too? Careful with that, the smoke will pull you into a deeper and darker shaft than Deep Mine could ever reach.'

  Felisin held out a pebble-sized black button. 'I deal with my pain, you deal with yours.'

  He shook his head. 'I appreciate the offer, but not this time. You hold there in your hand a month's pay for a Dosü guard. I'd advise you to use it in trade."

  She shrugged, returning the durhang to the pouch at her belt. 'I've nothing I need that Beneth won't give me already. All I need do is ask.'

  'And you imagine he gives it to you freely.'

  She drank. 'As good as. You're being moved, Heboric. To Deepsoil. Starting tomorrow. No more Gunnip and his switch.'

  He closed his eyes. 'Why does thanking you leave such a bitter taste in my mouth?'

  'My wine-soaked brain whispers hypocrisy.'

  She watched the colour leave his face. Oh, Felisin, too much durhang, too much wine! Do I only do good for Heboric to give me salt for his wounds? I've no wish to be so cruel. She withdrew from beneath her tunic the food she had saved for him, leaned forward and placed the small wrapped bundle in his lap. 'Sinker Lake has dropped another hand's width.'

  He said nothing, eyes on the stumps at the ends of his wrists.

  Felisin frowned. There was something else she wanted to tell him, but her memory failed her. She finished the wine and straightened, running both hands back through her hair. Her scalp felt numb. She paused, seeing Heboric surreptitiously glance at her breasts, round and full under the stretched tunic. She held the pose a moment longer than was necessary, then slowly lowered her arms. 'Bula has fantasies of you,' she said slowly. 'It's the… possibilities… that intrigue her. It would do you some good, Heboric.'

  He spun away off the stool, the untouched food bundle falling to the floor. 'Hood's breath, girl!'

  She laughed, watching him sweep aside the hanging that separated his cot from the rest of the room, then clumsily yank it back behind him. After a moment her laughter fell away, and she listened to the old man climb onto his cot. I'd hoped to make you smile, Heboric, she wanted to explain. And I didn't want my laughter to sound so… hard. I'm not what you think I am.

  Am I?

  She retrieved the wrapped food and placed it on the shelf above the basin.

  An hour later, with Felisin lying awake on her cot and Heboric on his, Baudin returned. He stoked up the hearth, moving about quietly. Not drunk. She wondered where he'd been. She wondered where he went every night. It would not be worth asking him. Baudin had few words for anyone, and even fewer for her.

  After a moment she was forced to reconsider, as she heard the man flick a finger against Heboric's divider. He responded promptly with low words she could not make out, and Baudin whispered something back. The conversation continued a minute longer, then Baudin softly grunted his laugh-grunt and moved off to his own bed.

  The two were planning something, but it was not this that shook her. It was that she was being excluded. A flash of anger followed this realization. I've kept them alive! I've made their lives easier—since the transport ship! Bula's right, every man's a bastard, good enough only to be used. Very well, see for yourselves what Skullcup is for everyone else, I'm done with favours. I'll see you back on the carts, old man, I swear it. She found herself fighting tears, and knew she would do nothing of the sort. She needed Beneth, that was true enough, and she'd pay to keep him. But she needed Heboric and Baudin as well, and a part of her clung to them as a child to parents, denying the hardness that everywhere else filled her world. To lose that—to lose them—would be to lose… everything.

  Clearly, they thought that she'd sell their trust as readily as she did her own body, but it wasn't true. I swear it's not true.

  Felisin stared up into the darkness, tears streaming from her eyes. I'm alone. There's just Beneth now. Beneth and his wine and his durhang and his body. She still ached between her legs from when Beneth had finally joined her and Bula on the innkeeper's huge bed.

  It was, she told herself, simply a matter of will to turn pain into pleasure.

  Survive each hour.

  The quayside market had begun drawing the morning crowds, reinforcing the illusion that this day was no different from any other. Chilled with a fear that even the rising sun could not master, Duiker sat cross-legged on the sea wall, his gaze travelling out over the bay into Sahul Sea, willing the return of Admiral Nok and the fleet.

  But those were orders even Coltaine could not countermand. The Wickan had no authority over the Malazan warships, and Pormqual's recall had seen the Sahul Fleet depart Hissar's harbour this very morning for the month-long journey to Aren.

  For all the pretence of normality, the departure had not gone unnoticed by Hissar's citizens, and the morning market was increasingly shrill with laughter and excited voices. The oppressed had won their first victory, and all that would distinguish it from those to follow was its bloodlessness. Or so ran the sentiment.

  The only consolation Duiker could consider was that the Jhistal High Priest Mallick Rel had departed with the fleet. It was not a difficult thing, however, to imagine the report the man would prepare for Pormqual.

  A Malazan sail in the strait caught his eye, a small transport coming in from the northeast. Dosin Pali on the island, perhaps, or from farther up the coast. It would be an unscheduled arrival, making Duiker curious.

  He felt a presence at his side and glanced over to see Kulp clambering up onto the wide, low wall, dangling his legs down to the cloudy water ten paces below. 'It's done,' he said, as if the admission amounted to a confession of foul murder. 'Word has been sent in. Assuming your friend is still alive, he'll receive his instructions.'

  'Thank you, Kulp.'

  The mage shifted uneasily. He rubbed at his face, squinting at the transport ship as it entered the harbour. A patrol dory approached the craft as the crew struck the lone sail. Two men in glinting armour stood on deck, watching as the dory came alongside.

  One of the armoured men leaned over the gunwale and addressed the harbour official. A moment later the dory's oarsmen were swinging the craft around with obvious haste.

  Duiker grunted. 'Did you see that?'

  'Aye,' Kulp growled.

  The transport glided towards the Imperial Pier, pushed along by a low bank of oars that had appeared close to the hull's waterline. A moment later the pier-side oars withdrew back into the ship. Dockmen scrambled to receive the cast lines. A broad gangplank was being readied and horses were now visible on the deck.

  'Red Blades,' Duiker said as more armoured men appeared on the transport, standing alongside their mounts.

  'From Dosin Pali,' Kulp said. 'I recognize the first two: Baria Setral and his brother Mesker. They have another brother, Orto. He commands the Aren Company.'

  'The Red Blades,' the historian mused. 'They've no illusions about the state of affairs. Word's come they are attempting to assert control in other cities, and here we are to witness a doubling of their presence in Hissar.'

  'I wonder if Coltaine knows.'

  A new tension filled the market; heads had turned and eyes now observed as Baria and Mesker led their troops onto the pier. The Red Blades were equipped and presented for war. They bristled with weapons, with full chain leggings and the slitted visors on their helms lowered. Bows were strung, arrows loosened in thei
r quivers. The horse-blades were unsheathed and jutting from their mounts' forelegs.

  Kulp spat nervously. 'Don't like the look of this,' he muttered.

  'It looks as if—'

  'They intend to attack the market,' Kulp said. 'This isn't just for show, Duiker. Fener's hoof!'

  The historian glanced at Kulp, his mouth dry. 'You've opened your warren.'

  Not replying, the mage slid off the sea wall, eyes on the Red Blades who were now mounted and lining up at pier's end, facing five hundred citizens who had fallen silent and were now backing away, filling the aisles between the carts and awnings. The contraction of the crowd would trigger panic, which was precisely what the Red Blades intended.

  Lances dangling from loops of rawhide around their wrists, the Red Blades nocked arrows, the horses quivering under them but otherwise motionless.

  The crowd seemed to shiver in places, as if the ground was shifting beneath it. Duiker saw figures moving, not away, but towards the facing line.

  Kulp took half a dozen steps towards the Red Blades.

  The figures pushed through the last of the crowd, pulling away their telaba cloaks and hoods, revealing leather armour with stitched black iron scales. Long-knives flashed in gloved hands. Dark eyes in tanned, tattooed Wickan faces held cold and firm on Baria and Mesker Setral and their warriors.

  Ten Wickans now faced the forty-odd Red Blades, the crowd behind them as silent and as motionless as statues.

  'Stand aside!' Baria bellowed, his face dark with fury. 'Or die!'

  The Wickans laughed with fearless derision.

  Pushing himself forward, Duiker followed Kulp as the mage strode hurriedly towards the Red Blades.

  Mesker snapped out a curse upon seeing Kulp approach. His brother glanced over, scowling.

  'Don't be a fool, Baria!' the mage hissed.

  The commander's eyes narrowed. 'Fling magic at me and I'll cut you down,' he said.

  Now at closer range, Duiker saw the Otataral links interwoven in Baria's chain armour.

  'We shall cut this handful of barbarians down,' Mesker growled, 'then properly announce our arrival in Hissar… with the blood of traitors.'