'I think it's to do with Apsalar,' Mappo said after a time.
'Aye. And that worries me. A lot. She don't deserve any more grief.'
'Icarium pursues the question,' the Trell said, squinting down at the cracked, worn pavestones. The lantern's oil was getting low, deepening the chamber's gloom. 'I admit I have been wondering if the High Priest is intending to force Apsalar into a role she seems made for…'
'A role? Like what?'
'Sha'ik's prophecy speaks of a rebirth…'
The sapper paled, then vehemently shook his head. 'No. She wouldn't do it. This land's not hers, the goddess of the Whirlwind means nothing to her. Pust can try and force it all he wants, the lass will turn her back—mark my words.' Suddenly restless, Fiddler stood up and began pacing. His footfalls whispered with faint echoes in the chamber. 'If Sha'ik's dead, she's dead. Hood take any obscure prophecies! The Apocalypse will fizzle out, the Whirlwind sink back into the ground to sleep another thousand years or however long it is until the next Year of Dryjhna comes around…'
'Yet Pust seems to place much significance on this uprising,' Mappo said. 'It's far from over—or so he seems to believe.'
'How many gods and Ascendants are playing in this game, Trell?' Fiddler paused, eyeing the ancient warrior. 'Does she physically resemble Sha'ik?'
Mappo shrugged his massive shoulders. 'I saw the Whirlwind Seer but once, and that at a distance. Light-skinned for a Seven Cities native. Dark eyes, not especially tall or imposing. It's said the power is—was—within her eyes. Dark and cruel.' He shrugged a second time. 'Older than Apsalar. Perhaps twice her years. Same black hair, though. Details are irrelevant in matters of faith and attendant prophecies, Fiddler. Perhaps only the role need be reborn.'
'The lass ain't interested in vengeance against the Malazan Empire,' the sapper growled, resuming his pacing.
'And what of the shadowy god who once possessed her?'
'Gone,' he snapped. 'Nothing but memories and blissfully few of those.'
'Yet daily she discovers more. True?'
Fiddler said nothing. If Crokus had been present, the walls would have been resounding with his anger—the lad had a fierce temper when it came to Apsalar. Crokus was young, not by nature cruel, but the sapper felt certain that the lad would kill Iskaral Pust without hesitation at the mere possibility of the High Priest seeking to use Apsalar. And trying to kill Pust would probably prove suicidal. Bearding a priest in his den was never a wise move.
The lass was finding her memories, it was true. And they weren't shocking her as much as Fiddler would have expected—or hoped. Another disturbing sign. Although he told Mappo that Apsalar would refuse such a role, the sapper had to admit—to himself at least—that he couldn't be so certain.
With memories came the remembrance of power. And let's face it, there are few—in this world or any other—who'd turn their back on the promise of power. Iskaral Pust would know that, and that knowledge would shape any offer he made. Take on this role, lass, and you can topple an empire…
'Of course,' Mappo said, leaning back against the wall and sighing, 'we may be on entirely the wrong…' He slowly sat forward again, brows knitting. '… trail.'
Fiddler's eyes narrowed on the Trell. 'What do you mean?'
'The Path of Hands. The convergence of Soletaken and D'ivers—Pust is involved.'
'Explain.'
Mappo pointed a blunt finger at the paving stones beneath them. 'At the lowest levels of this temple there lies a chamber. Its floor—flagstones—displays a series of carvings. Inscribing something like a Deck of Dragons. Neither Icarium nor I have seen anything like it before. If it is indeed a Deck, it's an Elder version. Not Houses, but Holds, the forces more elemental, more raw and primitive.'
'How does that relate to shapeshifting?'
'You can view the past as something like a mouldy old book. The closer you get to the beginning, the more fragmented are the pages. They veritably fall apart in your hands, and you're left with but a handful of words—most of them in a language you can't even understand.' Mappo closed his eyes for a long moment, then he looked up and said, 'Somewhere among those scattered words is recounted the creation of shapeshifters—the forces that are Soletaken and D'ivers are that old, Fiddler. They were old even in Elder times. No one species can claim propriety, and that includes the four Founding Races: Jaghut, Forkrul Assail, Imass and K'Chain Che'Malle.
'No shapeshifter can abide another—under normal circumstances, that is. There are exceptions but I need not go into them here. Yet, within them all, there is a hunger as deep in the bone as the bestial fever itself. The lure to dominance. To command all other shapeshifters, to fashion an army of such creatures—all slaved to your desire. From an army, an Empire. An Empire of ferocity unlike anything that has been seen before—'
Fiddler grunted. 'Are you implying that an Empire born of Soletaken and D'ivers would be inherently worse—more evil—than any other? I'm surprised, Trell. Nastiness grows like a cancer in any and every organization—human or otherwise, as you well know. And nastiness gets nastier. Whatever evil you let ride becomes commonplace, eventually. Problem is, it's easier to get used to it than carve it out.'
Mappo's answering smile was broken-hearted. 'Well said, Fiddler. When I said ferocity I meant a miasma of chaos. But I will grant you that terror thrives equally well in order.' He rolled his shoulders a third time, sat straighter to work out kinks in his back. 'The shapeshifters are gathering to the promise of a gate through which they can attain such Ascendancy. To become a god of the Soletaken and D'ivers—each shapeshifter seeks nothing less, and will abide no obstacle. Fiddler, we think the gate lies below, and we think that Iskaral Pust will do all he can to prevent the shapeshifters from finding it—even to painting false trails in the desert, to mimic the trail of handprints that all lead to the place of the gate.'
'And Pust has a role in mind for you and Icarium?'
'Likely,' Mappo conceded. His face was suddenly ashen. 'I believe he knows about us—about Icarium, that is. He knows …"
Knows what? Fiddler was tempted to ask, though he realized that the Trell would not willingly explain. The name Icarium was known—not widely, but known nonetheless. A Jaghut-blood wanderer around whom swirled, like the blackest wake, rumours of devastation, appalling murders, genocide. The sapper mentally shook his head. The Icarium he was coming to know made those rumours seem ludicrous. The Jhag was generous, compassionate. If horrors still trailed in his wake they must be ancient—youth was the time of excess, after all. This Icarium was too wise, too scarred, to tumble into power's river of blood. What did Pust hope would be unleashed by these two?
'Perhaps,' Fiddler said, 'you and Icarium are Pust's last line of defence. Should the Path converge here.' Aye, preventing the shapeshifters from reaching the gate's a good thing, but the effort may prove fatal … or, it seems, something worse.
'Possibly,' Mappo admitted glumly.
'Well, you could leave.'
The Trell looked up, smiled wryly. 'Icarium has his own quest, I'm afraid. Thus, we shall remain.'
Fiddler's eyes narrowed. 'You two would seek to prevent the gate from being used, wouldn't you? That's what Iskaral Pust knows, that's what he relies upon, isn't it? He's used your sense of duty and honour against you.'
'A powerful ploy. And given its efficacy, he might well use it again—with the three of you.'
Fiddler scowled. 'He'd be hard-pressed to find me that loyal about anything. While being a soldier relies on such things as duty and honour, it's also something that beats Hood out of both of them. As for Crokus, his loyalty is to Apsalar. And as for her…" He fell silent.
'Aye.' Mappo reached out and settled a hand on the sapper's shoulder. 'And so I can see the cause of your distress, Fiddler. And empathize.'
'You say you'll escort us to Tremorlor.'
'We shall. The journey will be fraught. Icarium has decided to guide you.'
'Then it truly exists.'
'I
certainly hope so.'
'I think it's time we rejoined the others.'
'And recount for them our thoughts?'
'Hood's breath, no!'
The Trell nodded, pushing himself to his feet.
Fiddler hissed.
'What is it?' Mappo asked.
'The lantern's out. Has been for some time. We're in the dark, Trell.'
The temple was oppressive to Fiddler's mind. The squat, cyclopean walls leaned and sagged in the lower levels, as if buckling under the weight of the stone overhead. Dust sifted like water from the ceiling joins in places, leaving pyramids on the paving stones. He limped in Mappo's wake as they made their way to the spiral stairs that would take them back up to the others.
Half a dozen bhok'arala shadowed them on the way, each gripping leafy branches that they used to sweep and swat the stones as they scampered along. The sapper would have been more amused if the creatures had not achieved such perfection in their mimicry of Iskaral Pust and his obsession with spiders—right down to the fierce concentration on their round, wrinkled black faces.
Mappo had explained that the creatures worshipped the High Priest. Not like a dog its master, but like acolytes their god. Offerings, obscure symbols and fitful icons crowded their awkward rituals. Many of those rituals seemed to involve bodily wastes. When you can't produce holy books, produce what you can, I suppose. The creatures drove Iskaral Pust to distraction. He cursed them, and had taken to carrying rocks in a sack. He flung the missiles at the bhok'arala at every opportunity.
The winged creatures gathered those god-sent objects and clearly revered them—the High Priest had found the sack carefully refilled when he awoke this morning. Pust had flown into a spitting rage at the discovery.
Mappo nearly stumbled over a cache of torches on the way. Darkness was anathema to shadows. Pust wanted to encourage an escort of his god's minions. They lit one each, sardonically aware of their ulterior value. While Mappo could see well enough without their aid, Fiddler had been left groping, one hand clutching the Trell's chest harness.
They reached the staircase and paused. The bhok'arala held back a dozen paces down the aisle, twittering among themselves in some obscure but vehement argument.
'Icarium has passed this way recently,' Mappo said.
'Does sorcery heighten your sensitivity?' Fiddler asked.
'Not precisely. More like centuries of companionship—'
'That which links you to him, you mean.'
The Trell grunted. 'Not one chain but a thousand, soldier.'
'Is your friendship such a burden, then?'
'Some burdens are willingly embraced.'
Fiddler was silent for a few breaths. 'It's said Icarium is obsessed with time, true?'
'Aye.'
'He builds bizarre constructs to measure it, places those constructs in locations all over the world.'
'His temporal maps, yes.'
'He feels he is nearing his goal, doesn't he? He's about to find his answer—the one you would do anything to prevent. Is that your vow, Mappo? To keep the Jhag ignorant?'
'Ignorant of the past, yes. His past.'
'That notion frightens me, Mappo. Without history there's no growth—'
'Aye.'
The sapper fell silent again. He'd run out of things he dared to say. There's such pain in this giant warrior. Such sadness. Has Icarium never wondered? Never questioned this centuries-long partnership? And what is friendship to the Jhag? Without memory it's an illusion, an agreement taken on faith and faith alone. How on earth is Icarium's generosity born from that?
They resumed their journey, climbing the saddle-backed stone steps. After a short pause, punctuated by what Fiddler was convinced was heated whispering, the bhok'arala fell silent and slipped into their wake once again.
Emerging onto the main level, Mappo and Fiddler were accosted with the harsh echo of a shouting voice, bouncing down the hallway from the altar chamber. The sapper grimaced. 'That would be Crokus.'
'Not in prayer, I take it.'
They found the young Daru thief at the extreme edge of his patience. He held Iskaral Pust by the front of his robe, pushed up against the wall behind the dusty altarstone. Fust's feet dangled ten inches above the flagstones, kicking feebly. Off to one side stood Apsalar, arms crossed, watching the scene without expression.
Fiddler stepped forward and laid a hand on the lad's shoulder. 'You're choking the life out of him, Crokus—
'Precisely what he deserves, Fiddler!'
'I won't argue that, but in case you haven't noticed, there's shadows gathering.'
'He's right,' Apsalar said. 'Like I said before, Crokus. You're moments from Hood's Gates yourself.'
The Daru hesitated; then, with a snarl, he flung Pust away. The High Priest skidded along the wall, gasping, then straightened and began adjusting his robe. He spoke in a rasp. 'Precipitous youth! I am reminded of my own melodramatic gestures when I but toddled about in Aunt Tulla's yard. Bullying the chickens when they objected to the straw hats I had spent hours weaving. Incapable of appreciating the intricate plaits I devised. I was deeply offended.' He cocked his head, grinned up at Crokus. 'She'll look good in my new and improved straw hat—'
Fiddler intercepted Crokus's lunge and grappled with the lad. With Mappo's help he pulled him back as the High Priest scampered away, giggling.
The giggle broke into a fit of coughing that had Pust staggering about as if suddenly blinded. One groping hand found a wall, which he sagged against like a drunkard. The cough ended with a last hack, then he wiped his eyes and looked up.
Crokus growled, 'He wants Apsalar to—'
'We know,' Fiddler said. 'We worked that much out, lad. The point is, it's up to her, isn't it?'
Mappo glanced at him in surprise. The sapper shrugged. Late in this wisdom, but I got there eventually.
'I have been used by an Ascendant once,' Apsalar said. 'I'll not willingly be used again.'
'You are not to be used,' Iskaral Pust hissed, beginning a strange dance, 'you lead! You command! You impose your will! Dictate terms! Free to express every tantrum, enforce every whim, act like a spoiled child and be worshipped for it!' He ducked down suddenly, paused, then said in a whisper, 'Such lures as to entice! Self-examination is dispensed with at the beck and at the call of privileges unfettered! She wavers, she leans—see it in her eyes!'
'I do not,' Apsalar said coolly.
'She does! Such percipience in the lass as to sense my every thought—as if she could hear them aloud! The Rope's shadow remains within her, a linkage not to be denied! Gods, I am brilliant!'
With a disgusted snort Apsalar strode from the chamber.
Iskaral Pust scurried after her.
Fiddler held back the Daru's attempt to pursue. 'She can handle him, Crokus,' the sapper said. 'That should be plain—even to you.'
'There are more mysteries here than you imagine,' Mappo said, frowning after the High Priest.
They heard voices in the hall, then Icarium appeared at the entrance, wearing his deer-hide cloak with the dust of the desert on his dusky green skin. He saw the question in Mappo's eyes and shrugged. 'He's left the temple—I trailed him as far as the storm's edge.'
Fiddler asked, 'Who are you talking about?'
'Servant,' Mappo answered, his frown deepening. He glanced at Crokus. 'We think he's Apsalar's father.'
The lad's eyes widened. 'Is he one-armed?'
'No,' Icarium replied. 'Iskaral Fust's servant is a fisherman, however. Indeed, his barque can be found in a lower chamber of this temple. He speaks Malazan—'
'Her father lost an arm at the siege of Li Heng,' Crokus said, shaking his head. 'He was among the rebels who held the walls, and had his arm burned off when the Imperial Army retook the city.'
'When a god intervenes…' Mappo said, then shrugged. 'One of his arms looks… young… younger than the other, Crokus. Servant was sent into hiding when we brought you back here. Pust was hiding him from you. Why?'
&nb
sp; Icarium spoke. 'Was it not Shadowthrone who arranged the possession? When Cotillion took her, Shadowthrone may well have taken him. There is little point in trying to guess at motivations—the Lord of the Shadow Realm is notoriously obscure. Nonetheless, I see a certain logic in the possibility.'
Crokus had gone pale. His gaze snapped to the vacant entranceway. 'Leverage,' he whispered.
Fiddler instantly grasped the Daru's meaning. He turned to Icarium. 'You said Servant's trail led into the Whirlwind storm. Is there a particular place where Sha'ik is expected to be reborn?'
'The High Priest says her body has not been moved from where it fell at the hands of the Red Blades.'
'Within the storm?'
The Jhag nodded.
'He's telling her right now,' Crokus growled, his hands balling into fists, the knuckles whitening. '"Be reborn, and you shall be reunited with your father."'
'"A life given for a life taken,"' Mappo muttered. The Trell eyed the sapper. 'Are you mended well enough for a pursuit?'
Fiddler nodded. 'I can ride, walk… or crawl if it comes to that.'
'I shall prepare for our departure, then.'
In the small storage room where the gear and travel packs had been assembled, Mappo crouched down over his own sack. He rummaged amidst the bedrolls and canvas tent until his hands found the hard, hide-wrapped object he sought. The Trell pulled it forth and slipped the waxed elk hide away, revealing a solid long-bone half again the length of his forearm. The shaft was golden in lustre, polished by age. Leather cord was wrapped around the grip, enough for two hands. The distal end was ringed in similarly polished spike-shaped teeth—each the size of his thumb—set in an iron collar.
A hint of sage reached Mappo's nostrils. The sorcery within the weapon was still potent. The efforts of seven Trell witches was not a thing to fade with time. The long-bone had been found in a mountain stream. The mineral-rich water had made it hard as iron, and just as heavy. Other parts of the strange, unknown beast's skeleton had been recovered as well, though those had remained with the Clan as revered objects, each invested with power.