Yedan said nothing. The grilled visor thoroughly hid his features, although the black snarl of his beard was visible – it seemed he was slowly chewing something.
‘Watch,’ she resumed, ‘you called me “Queen” in front of your soldiers.’
‘They are Shake.’
‘I see. Then, you are here . . . at the shore—’
‘Because I am the Watch, yes.’
‘That title is without meaning,’ she said, rather more harshly than she had intended. ‘It’s an honorific, some old remnant—’
‘I believed the same,’ he cut in – like an older brother, damn him – ‘until three nights ago.’
‘Why are you here, then? Who are you looking for?’
‘I wish I could answer you better than I can. I am not sure why I am here, only that I am summoned.’
‘By whom?’
He seemed to chew some more, then he said, ‘By the shore.’
‘I see.’
‘As for who – or what – I am looking for, I cannot say at all. Strangers have arrived. We heard them this night, yet no matter where we rode, no matter how quickly we arrived, we found no-one. Nor any sign – no tracks, nothing. Yet . . . they are here.’
‘Perhaps ghosts then.’
‘Perhaps.’
Twilight slowly turned. ‘From the sea?’
‘Again, no tracks on the strand. Sister, since we have arrived, the air has not stirred. Not so much as a sigh. Day and night, the shore is still.’ He tilted his head upward. ‘Now, this rain – the first time.’
A murmur from the soldiers drew their attention. They were facing the ridge, six motionless spectres, metal and leather gleaming.
Beyond the ridge, the fitful rise and ebb of a glow.
‘This,’ Yedan said, and he set off.
Yan Tovis followed.
They scrambled through loose stones, stripped branches and naked roots, pulling themselves onto the rise. The six soldiers in their wake now on the slope, Yan Tovis moved to her half-brother’s side, pushing through the soft brush until they both emerged onto the shoreline.
Where they halted, staring out to sea.
Ships.
A row of ships, all well offshore. Reaching to the north, to the south.
All burning.
‘Errant’s blessing,’ Yan Tovis whispered.
Hundreds of ships. Burning.
Flames playing over still water, columns of smoke rising, lit from beneath like enormous ash-dusted coals in the bed of the black sky.
‘Those,’ Yedan said, ‘are not Letherii ships. Nor Edur.’
‘No,’ Twilight whispered, ‘they are not.’
Strangers have arrived.
‘What means this?’ There was raw fear in the question, and Yan Tovis turned to look at the soldier who had spoken. Faint on his features, the orange glow of the distant flames.
She looked back at the ships. ‘Dromons,’ she said. Her heart was pounding hard in her chest, a kind of febrile excitement – strangely dark with malice and . . . savage delight.
‘What name is that?’ Yedan asked.
‘I know them – those prows, the rigging. Our search – a distant continent. An empire. We killed hundreds – thousands – of its subjects. We clashed with its fleets.’ She was silent for a dozen breaths, then she turned to one of her soldiers. ‘Ride back to the Keep. Make sure the Dresh is dead. The company is to leave immediately – we will meet you north of Rennis on the coast road. Oh, and bring those damned witches with you.’
Yedan said, ‘What—’
She cut off her half-brother with cruel glee. ‘You are the Watch. Your Queen needs you.’ She glared at him. ‘You will ride with us, Yedan. With your troop.’
The bearded jaw bunched, then, ‘Where?’
‘The Isle.’
‘What of the Letherii and their masters? We should send warning.’
Eyes on the burning hulks in the sea, she almost snarled her reply. ‘We killed their subjects. And clearly they will not let that pass. Errant take the Letherii and the Edur.’ She spun round, making for her horse. The others scrambled after her. ‘Strangers, Yedan? Not to me. They followed us.’ She swung herself onto her horse and tugged it towards the north trail. ‘We left a debt in blood,’ she said, baring her teeth. ‘Malazan blood. And it seems they will not let that stand.’
They are here. On this shore.
The Malazans are on our shore.
BOOK THREE - KNUCKLES OF THE SOUL
We are eager
to impugn the beast crouched
in our souls
but this creature is pure
with shy eyes
and it watches our frantic crimes
cowering
in the cage of our cruelty
I will take
for myself and your fate
in these hands
the grace of animal to amend
broken dreams –
freedom unchained and unbound
long running –
the beast will kill when I murder
In absolution
a list of unremarked distinctions
availed these hands
freedom without excuse
see how clean
this blood compared to yours
the death grin
of your bestial snarl mars the scape
Of your face
this is what sets us apart
in our souls
my beast and I chained together
as we must
who leads and who is the led is
never quite asked
of the charmed and the innocent
Dog in an Alley
Confessions
Tibal Feredict
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Keel and half a hull remained of the wreck where us wreckers gathered, and the storm of the night past remained like spit in the air when we clambered down into that bent-rib bed.
I heard many a prayer muttered, hands flashing to ward this and that as befits each soul’s need, its conversation with fear begun in childhood no doubt and, could I recall mine, I too would have been of mind to mime flight from terror.
As it was I could only look down at that crabshell harvest of tiny skeletons, the tailed imps with the humanlike faces, their hawk talons and all sorts of strange embellishments to give perfect detail to the bright sunny nightmare.
No wonder is it I forswore the sea that day. Storm and broken ship had lifted a host most unholy and oh there were plenty more no doubt, ringing this damned island.
As it was, it was me who then spoke a most unsavoury tumble of words. ‘I guess not all imps can fly.’
For all that, it was hardly cause to gouge out my eyes now, was it?
Blind Tobor of the Reach
‘Now there, friends, is one beautiful woman.’
‘If that’s how you like them.’
‘Now why wouldn’t I, y’damned barrowdigger? Thing is, and it’s always the way isn’t it, look at that hopeless thug she’s with. I can’t figure things like that. She could have anyone in here. She could have me, even. But no, there she is, sittin’ aside that limpin’ one-armed, one-eared, one-eyed and no-nosed cattle-dog. I mean, talk about ugly.’
The third man, who had yet to speak, gave him a surreptitious, sidelong look, noting the birdnest hair, the jutting steering-oar ears, the bulging eyes, and the piebald patches that were the scars of fire on features that reminded him of a squashed gourd – sidelong and brief, that glance, and Throatslitter quickly looked away. The last thing he wanted to do was break into another one of his trilling, uncanny laughs that seemed to freeze everyone within earshot.
Never used to have a laugh sounding like that. Damn thing scares even me. Well, he’d taken a throatful of oily flames and it’d done bad things to his voice-reed. The damage only revealed itself when he laughed, and, he recalled, in the months following . . . all that stuff . . . there had been few reasons for mirth.
&nbs
p; ‘There goes that tavernkeeper,’ Deadsmell observed.
It was easy talking about anything and everything, since no-one here but them understood Malazan.
‘There’s another one all moon-eyed over her,’ Sergeant Balm said with a sneer. ‘But who does she sit with? Hood take me, it don’t make sense.’
Deadsmell slowly leaned forward on the table and carefully refilled his tankard. ‘It’s the delivery of that cask. Brullyg’s. Looks like the pretty one and the dead lass have volunteered.’
Balm’s bulging eyes bulged even more. ‘She ain’t dead! I’ll tell you what’s dead, Deadsmell, that puddle-drowned worm between your legs!’
Throatslitter eyed the corporal. ‘If that’s how you like them,’ he’d said. A half-strangled gulp escaped him, making both his companions flinch.
‘What in Hood’s name are you gonna laugh about?’ Balm demanded. ‘Just don’t, and that’s an order.’
Throatslitter bit down hard on his own tongue. Tears blurred his vision for a moment as pain shot round his skull like a pebble in a bucket. Mute, he shook his head. Laugh? Not me.
The sergeant was glaring at Deadsmell again. ‘Dead? She don’t look much dead to me.’
‘Trust me,’ the corporal replied after taking a deep draught. He belched. ‘Sure, she’s hiding it well, but that woman died some time ago.’
Balm was hunched over the table, scratching at the tangles of his hair. Flakes drifted down to land like specks of paint on the dark wood. ‘Gods below,’ he whispered. ‘Maybe somebody should . . . I don’t know . . . maybe . . . tell her?’
Deadsmell’s mostly hairless brows lifted. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, you have a complexion to die for and I guess that’s what you did.’
Another squawk from Throatslitter.
The corporal continued, ‘Is it true, ma’am, that perfect hair and expensive make-up can hide anything?’
A choked squeal from Throatslitter.
Heads turned.
Deadsmell drank down another mouthful, warming to the subject. ‘Funny, you don’t look dead.’
The high-pitched cackle erupted.
As it died, sudden silence in the main room of the tavern, barring that of a rolling tankard, which then plunged off a tabletop and bounced on the floor.
Balm glared at Deadsmell. ‘You done that. You just kept pushing and pushing. Another word from you, corporal, and you’ll be deader than she is.’
‘What’s that smell?’ Deadsmell asked. ‘Oh right. Essence of putrescence.’
Balm’s cheeks bulged, his face turning a strange purple shade. His yellowy eyes looked moments from leaping out on their stalks.
Throatslitter tried squeezing his own eyes shut, but the image of his sergeant’s face burst into his mind. He shrieked behind his hands. Looked round in helpless appeal.
All attention was fixed on them now, no-one speaking. Even the beautiful woman who’d shipped in with that maimed oaf and the oaf himself – whose one good eye glittered out from the folds of a severe frown – had paused, standing each to one side of the cask of ale the tavernkeeper had brought out. And the keeper himself, staring at Throatslitter with mouth hanging open.
‘Well,’ Deadsmell observed, ‘there goes our credit as bad boys. Throaty here’s making mating calls – hope there’s no turkeys on this island. And you, sergeant, your head looks ready to explode like a cusser.’
Balm hissed, ‘It was your fault, you bastard!’
‘Hardly. As you see, I am calm. Although somewhat embarrassed by my company, alas.’
‘Fine, we’re shifting you off. Hood knows, Gilani’s a damned sight prettier to look at—’
‘Yes, but she happens to be alive, sergeant. Not your type at all.’
‘I didn’t know!’
‘Now that is a most pathetic admission, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Hold on,’ Throatslitter finally interjected. ‘I couldn’t tell about her either, Deadsmell.’ He jabbed a finger at the corporal. ‘Further proof you’re a damned necromancer. No, forget that shocked look, we ain’t buying no more. You knew she was dead because you can smell ‘em, just like your name says you can. In fact, I’d wager that’s why Braven Tooth gave you that name – doesn’t miss a thing, ever, does he?’
The ambient noise was slowly resurrecting itself, accompanied by more than a few warding gestures, a couple of chairs scraping back through filth as patrons made furtive escapes out of the front door.
Deadsmell drank more ale. And said nothing.
The dead woman and her companion headed out, the latter limping as he struggled to balance the cask on one shoulder.
Balm grunted. ‘There they go. Typical, isn’t it? Just when we’re under strength, too.’
‘Nothing to worry about, sergeant,’ Deadsmell said. ‘It’s all in hand. Though if the keeper decides on following . . .’
Throatslitter grunted. ‘If he does, he’ll regret it.’ He rose then, adjusting the marine-issue rain cape. ‘Lucky you two, getting to sit here adding fat to your arses. It’s damned cold out there, you know.’
‘I’m making note of all this insubordination,’ Balm grumbled. Then tapped his head. ‘In here.’
‘Well that’s a relief,’ Throatslitter said. He left the tavern.
Shake Brullyg, tyrant of Second Maiden Fort, would-be King of the Isle, slouched in the old prison prefect’s high-backed chair and glared from under heavy brows at the two foreigners at the table beside the chamber’s door. They were playing another of their damned games. Knuckle bones, elongated wooden bowl and split crow-feathers.
‘Two bounces earns me a sweep,’ one of them said, although Brullyg was not quite sure of that – picking up a language on the sly was no easy thing, but he’d always been good with languages. Shake, Letherii, Tiste Edur, Fent, trader’s tongue and Meckros. And now, spatterings of this . . . this Malazan.
Timing. They’d taken it from him, as easily as they’d taken his knife, his war-axe. Foreigners easing into the harbour – not so many aboard as to cause much worry, or so it had seemed. Besides, there had been enough trouble to chew on right then. A sea filled with mountains of ice, bearing down on the Isle, more ominous than any fleet or army. They said they could take care of that – and he’d been a drowning man going down for the last time.
Would-be King of the Isle, crushed and smeared flat under insensate ice. Face to face with that kind of truth had been like dragon claws through his sail. After all he’d done . . .
Timing. He now wondered if these Malazans had brought the ice with them. Sent it spinning down on the season’s wild current, just so they could arrive one step ahead and offer to turn it away. He’d not even believed them, Brullyg recalled, but desperation had spoken with its very own voice. ‘Do that and you’ll be royal guests for as long as you like.’ They’d smiled at that offer.
I am a fool. And worse.
And now, two miserable squads ruled over him and every damned resident of this island, and there was not a thing he could do about it. Except keep the truth from everyone else. And that’s getting a whole lot harder with every day that passes.
‘Sweep’s in the trough, pluck a knuckle and that about does it,’ said the other soldier.
Possibly.
‘It skidded when you breathed – I saw it, you cheat!’
‘I ain’t breathed.’
‘Oh right, you’re a Hood-damned corpse, are you?’
‘No, I just ain’t breathed when you said I did. Look, it’s in the trough, you deny it?’
‘Here, let me take a closer look. Ha, no it isn’t!’
‘You just sighed and moved it, damn you!’
‘I didn’t sigh.’
‘Right, and you’re not losing neither, are ya?’
‘Just because I’m losing doesn’t mean I sighed right then.
And see, it’s not in the trough.’
‘Hold on while I breathe—’
‘Then I’ll sigh!’
‘Breathing is what winners do.
Sighing is what losers do. Therefore, I win.’
‘Sure, for you cheating is as natural as breathing, isn’t it?’
Brullyg slowly shifted his attention from the two at the door, regarded the last soldier in the chamber. By the coven she was a beauty. Such dark, magical skin, and those tilted eyes just glowed with sweet invitation – damn him, all the mysteries of the world were in those eyes. And that mouth! Those lips! If he could just get rid of the other two, and maybe steal away those wicked knives of hers, why then he’d discover those mysteries the way she wanted him to.
I’m King of the Isle. About to be. One more week, and if none of the dead Queen’s bitch daughters show up before then, it all falls to me. King of the Isle. Almost. Close enough to use the title, sure. And what woman wouldn’t set aside a miserable soldier’s life for the soft, warm bed of a king’s First Concubine? Sure, that is indeed a Letherii way, but as king I can make my own rules. And if the coven doesn’t like it, well, there’re the cliffs.
One of the Malazans at the table said, ‘Careful, Masan, he’s getting that look again.’
The woman named Masan Gilani straightened catlike in her chair, lifting her smooth, not-scrawny arms in an arching stretch that transformed her large breasts into round globes, tautening the worn fabric of her shirt. ‘‘S long as he keeps thinking with the wrong brain, Lobe, we’re good and easy.’ She then settled back, straightening her perfect legs.
‘We should bring him another whore,’ the one named Lobe said as he gathered the knuckle bones into a small leather bag.
‘No,’ Masan Gilani said. ‘Deadsmell barely revived the last one.’
But that’s not the real reason, is it? Brullyg smiled. No, you want me for yourself. Besides, I’m not usually like that. I was taking out some . . . frustrations. That’s all. His smile faded. They sure do use their hands a lot when talking. Gestures of all sorts. Strange people, these Malazans. He cleared his throat and spoke Letherii in the slow way they seemed to need. ‘I could do with another walk. My legs want exercise.’ A wink towards Masan Gilani, who responded with a knowing smile that lit him up low down, enough to make him shift in the chair. ‘My people need to see me, you understand? If they start getting suspicious – well, if anybody knows what a house arrest looks like, it is the citizens of Second Maiden Fort.’