A flash of fire. A solid, cracking sound. The three were thrown onto their backs. As a small cloud bloomed, there was shrieking.
Trantalo kicked his boots free of the stirrups, swung one leg over then dropped down into a crouch. His mouth was dry as tinder. His heart pounded so hard in his chest he felt half deafened by its drumbeat. Drawing his sword, he hurried over to his brother.
‘Estav?’
Sitting, legs out before him in the careless manner of a child, hands resting on the muddy ground. Something was jutting from his chest. A hand’s length of a shaft, thicker than a normal arrow, the fletching curved fins of leather. Blood had poured down from Estav’s mouth, covering his chin and soaking into the front of his woollen cloak. His staring eyes did not blink.
‘Estav? ‘
In the courtyard, the sharp clash of blades.
Disbelieving, Trantalo dragged his eyes from his brother’s corpse. Two Edur warriors were attempting a fighting withdrawal, backing towards the uneasy horses that still stood five or so paces in from the gate. The Edur who had been left with them was on his hands and knees, crawling for the opening. There was something jutting from the side of his head.
Difficult to make out who the attackers were in the darkness, but they were well armed and armoured, four in all, maintaining close contact with the last two Edur.
Smudged movement behind them – Trantalo leapt to his feet, about to cry out a warning, when sudden fire filled his throat. Gagging, he lurched away and felt something cold slide out from the side of his neck. Blood gushed down, inside and out. Coughing, drowning, he fell to one knee, almost within reach of his brother. Blindness closing in, he lunged towards Estav, arms outstretched.
Estav?
He never made it.
* * *
Managing a straight line, Hellian walked out from the stable. She was slightly shivering, now that the time of serious sweating had passed. Fighting always evened her out. She didn’t know why that was the case, but it was and all in all probably a good thing, too. ‘Someone light a damned lantern,’ she growled. ‘You, Maybe, put that sharper away – we got ‘em all.’ She let out a loud sigh. ‘The big nasty enemy.’
Drawing nearer the two Edur down in front of the keep, she waved her sword. ‘Tavos, check those two. It ain’t enough to stab ‘im then just stand there looking down. Might be one last bite in ‘im, you know.’
‘Both dead as my sex-life,’ Tavos Pond said. ‘Who sniped the first one, Sergeant? Damned fine shot.’
‘Lutes,’ she replied, now watching Urb lead the others on a walk-past of the Edur bodies in the courtyard. ‘Leaned the weapon on my back.’
‘Your back?’
‘I was throwing up, if it’s any of your business. Between heaves, he let go. Got him dead centre, didn’t he?’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
‘And you didn’t want t’bring the rum. Well, that’s why I’m in charge and you’re not. Where’s my corporal?’
‘Here.
‘Here.’
‘Gather up them horses – I don’t care what the Fist ordered, we’re going to ride.’
At that Urb glanced over, then approached. ‘Hellian—’
‘Don’t even try to sweet-talk me. I almost remember what you did.’ She drew out her flask and drank down a mouthful. ‘So be careful, Urb. Now, everybody who loosed quarrels go find them and that means all of them!’ She looked back down at the two dead Edur by the entrance.
‘Think we’re the first to draw blood?’ Tavos Pond asked, crouching to clean the blade of his sword on the cloak of the older Edur.
‘Big fat war, Tavos Pond. That’s what we got ourselves here.’
‘They weren’t so hard, Sergeant.’
‘Wasn’t expecting nothing either, were they? You think we can just ambush our way all the way to Letheras? Think again.’ She drank a couple more mouthfuls, then sighed and glowered over at Urb. ‘How soon before they’re the ones doing the ambushin’? That’s why I mean for us to ride – we’re gonna stay ahead of the bad news ‘s long as we can. That way we can be the bad news, right? The way it’s s’posed t’be.’
Corporal Reem walked up to Urb. ‘Sergeant, we got us twelve horses.’
‘So we get one each,’ Hellian said. ‘Perfect.’
‘By my count,’ said Reem with narrowed eyes, ‘someone’s going to have to ride double.’
‘If you say so. Now, let’s get these bodies dragged away – they got any coin? Anybody checked?’
‘Some,’ said Maybe. ‘But mostly just polished stones.’
‘Polished stones?’
‘First I thought slingstones, but none of them’s carrying slings. So, aye, Sergeant. Polished stones.’
Hellian turned away as the soldiers set off to dispose of the Edur corpses. Oponn’s pull, finding this keep, and finding nobody in it but one freshly dead Letherii in the hallway. Place had been cleaned out, although there’d been some foodstocks in the cold-rooms. Not a drop of wine or ale, the final proof, as far as she was concerned, that this foreign empire was a mess and useless besides and pretty much worth destroying down to its very last brick.
Too bad they weren’t going to get a chance to do so.
But then, it does a body good to misunderstand orders on occasion. So, let’s go hunting Edur heads. Hellian faced the courtyard again. Damn this darkness. Easy enough for the mages, maybe. And these grey-skins. ‘Urb,’ she said in a low voice.
He edged closer, warily. ‘Hellian?’
‘We need us to arrange our ambushes for dusk and dawn.’
‘Aye. You’re right. You know, I’m glad our squads were paired up.’
‘Of course you are. You unnerstand me, Urb. You’re the only one who does, you know.’ She wiped her nose with the back of one hand. ‘It’s a sad thing, Urb. A sad thing.’
‘What? Killing these Tiste Edur?’
She blinked at him. ‘No, you oaf. The fact that nobody else unnerstands me.’
‘Aye, Hellian. Tragic.’
‘That’s what Banaschar always said to me, no matter what I was talking about. He’d just look at me, like you did there, and say tragic. So what’s all that about?’ She shook the flask – still half full, but another mouthful means I’m running it down, so’s I’ll need to top it up. Gotta be measured about these things, in case something terrible happens and I can’t get a fast refill. ‘Come on, it’s time to ride.’
‘And if we run into a troop of Letherii?’
Hellian frowned. ‘Then we do as Keneb told us. We talk to ‘em.’
‘And if they don’t like what we say?’
‘Then we kill ‘em, of course.’
‘And we’re riding for Letheras?’
She smiled at Urb. Then tapped the side of her slightly numb head with one finger. ‘I memmored th’map – ized, memmized the map. There’s towns, Urb. An’ the closer we get t’Letheras, the more of them. Wha’s in towns, Urb? Taverns. Bars. So, we’re not takin’ a straight, pre-dic-table route.’
‘We’re invading Lether from tavern to tavern?’
‘Aye.’
‘Hellian, I hate to say this, but that’s kind of clever.’
‘Aye. And that way we can eat real cooked food, too. It’s the civilized way of conductin’ war. Hellian’s way.’
The bodies joined the lone Letherii in the latrine pit. Half naked, stripped of valuables, they were dumped down into the thick, turgid slop, which proved deeper than anyone had expected, as it swallowed up those corpses, leaving not a trace.
The Malazans threw the polished stones after them.
Then rode off down the dark road.
‘That has the look of a way station,’ the captain said under her breath.
Beak squinted, then said, ‘I smell horses, sir. That long building over there.’
‘Stables,’ Faradan Sort said, nodding. ‘Any Tiste Edur here?’
Beak shook his head. ‘Deepest blue of Rashan – that’s their candle, mostly. Not as deep as Kurald Galain. The
y call it Kurald Emurlahn, but these ones here, well, there’s skuzzy foam on that blue, like what sits on waves outside a harbour. That’s chaotic power. Sick power. Power like pain if pain was good, maybe even strong. I don’t know. I don’t like these Edur here.’
‘They’re here?’
‘No. I meant this continent, sir. There’s just Letherii in there. Four. In that small house beside the road.’
‘No magic?’
‘Just some charms.’
‘I want to steal four horses, Beak. Can you cast a glamour on those Letherii?’
‘The Grey Candle, yes. But they’ll find out after we’ve gone.’
‘True. Any suggestions?’
Beak was happy. He had never been so happy. This captain was asking him things. Asking for suggestions. Advice. And it wasn’t just for show neither. I’m in love with her. To her question he nodded, then tilted up his skullcap helm to scratch in his hair, and said, ‘Not the usual glamour, sir. Something lots more complicated. Finishing with the Orange Candle—’
‘Which is?’
‘Tellann.’
‘Is this going to be messy?’
‘Not if we take all the horses, Captain.’
He watched her studying him, wondered what she saw. She wasn’t much for expressions on that hard but beautiful face. Not even her eyes showed much. He loved her, true, but he was also a little frightened of Faradan Sort.
‘All right, Beak, where do you want me?’
‘In the stables with all the horses ready to leave, and maybe two saddled. Oh, and feed for us to take along.’
‘And I can do all that without an alarm’s being raised?’
‘They won’t hear a thing, sir. In fact, you could go up right now and knock on their door and they won’t hear it.’
Still she hesitated. ‘So I can just walk over to the stables, right out in the open, right now?’
Beak nodded with a broad smile.
‘Gods below,’ she muttered, ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this.’
‘Mockra has their minds, sir. They’ve got no defences. They’ve never been glamoured before, I don’t think.’
She set out in a half-crouch, moving quickly, although none of that was necessary, and moments later was inside the stables.
It would take some time, Beak knew, for her to do all that he’d asked – I just told a captain what to do! And she’s doing it! Does that mean she loves me right back? He shook himself. Not a good idea, letting his mind wander just now. He edged out from the cover of the trees lining this side of the stony road. Crouched to pick up a small rock, which he then spat on and set back down – to hold the Mockra in place – as he closed his eyes and sought out the White Candle.
Hood. Death, a cold, cold place. Even the air was dead. In his mind he looked in on that realm as if peering through a window, the wooden sill thick with melted candle wax, the white candle itself flickering to one side. Beyond, ash-heaped ground strewn with bones of all sorts. He reached through, closed a hand on the shaft of a heavy longbone, and drew it back. Working quickly, Beak pulled as many bones as would fit through the wandering window, always choosing big ones. He had no idea what the beasts had been to which all these bones belonged, but they would do.
When he was satisfied with the white, dusty pile heaped on the road, Beak closed the window and opened his eyes. Glancing across he saw the captain standing at the stables, gesturing at him.
Beak waved back, then turned and showed the bones the Purple Candle. They lifted from the road like feathers on an updraught, and as the mage hurried over to join Faradan Sort the bones followed in his wake, floating waist-high above the ground.
The captain disappeared back inside the stables before Beak arrived, then emerged, leading the horses, just as he padded up to the broad doors.
Grinning, Beak went into the stables, the bones tracking him. Once inside, smelling that wonderful musty smell of horses, leather, dung and piss-damp straw, he scattered the bones, a few into each stall, snuffing out the purple candle when he was done. He walked over to the mound of straw at one end, closed his eyes to awaken the Orange Candle, then spat into the straw.
Rejoining the captain outside he said to her, ‘We can go now.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes sir. We’ll be a thousand paces down the road before the Tellann lights up—’
‘Fire?’
‘Yes sir. A terrible fire – they won’t even be able to get close – and it’ll burn fast but go nowhere else and by the morning there’ll be nothing but ashes.’
‘And charred bones that might belong to horses.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘You’ve done well tonight, Beak,’ Faradan Sort said, swinging up onto one of the saddled horses.
Feeling impossibly light on his feet, Beak leapt onto the other one then looked back, with pride, at the remaining seven beasts. Decent animals, just badly treated. Which made it good that they were stealing them. Malazans knew how to care for their horses, after all.
Then he frowned and looked down at his stirrups.
The captain was doing the same, he saw a moment later, with her own. ‘What is this?’ she demanded in a hiss.
‘Broken?’ Beak wondered.
‘Not that I can see – and yours are identical to mine. What fool invented these?’
‘Captain,’ said Beak, ‘I don’t think we have to worry much about Letherii cavalry, do we?’
‘You’ve that right, Beak. Well, let’s ride. If we’re lucky, we won’t break our necks twenty paces up the road.’
The father of the man named Throatslitter used to tell stories of the Emperor’s conquest of Li Heng, long before Kellanved was emperor of anywhere. True, he’d usurped Mock on Malaz Island and had proclaimed himself the island’s ruler, but since when was Malaz Island anything but a squalid haven for pirates? Few on the mainland took much notice of such things. A new tyrannical criminal in place of the old tyrannical criminal.
The conquest of Li Heng changed all that. There’d been no fleet of ships crowding the river mouth to the south and east of the city; nothing, in fact, to announce the assault. Instead, on a fine spring morning no different from countless other such mornings, Throatslitter’s father, along with thousands of other doughty citizens, had, upon a casual glance towards the Inner Focus where stood the Palace of the Protectress, noted the sudden inexplicable presence of strange figures on the walls and battlements. Squat, wide, wearing furs and wielding misshapen swords and axes. Helmed in bone.
What had happened to the vaunted Guard? And why were tendrils of smoke rising from the barracks of the courtyard and parade ground? And was it – was it truly – the Protectress herself who had been seen plunging from the High Tower beside the City Temple at the heart of the cynosure?
Someone had cut off Li Heng’s head in the Palace. Undead warriors stood sentinel on the walls and, a short time later, emerged in their thousands from the Inner Focus Gate to occupy the city. Li Heng’s standing army – after a half-dozen suicidal skirmishes – capitulated that same day. Kellanved now ruled the city-state, and officers and nobles of the high court knelt in fealty, and the reverberations of this conquest rattled the windows of palaces across the entire mainland of Quon Tali.
‘This, son, was the awakening of the Logros T’lan Imass. The Emperor’s undead army. I was there, on the streets, and saw with my own eyes those terrible warriors with their pitted eyeholes, the stretched, torn skin, the wisps of hair bleached of all colour. They say, son, that the Logros were always there, below Reacher’s Falls. Maybe in the Crevasse, maybe not. Maybe just the very dust that blew in from the west every damned day and night – who can say? But he woke them, he commanded them, and I tell you after that day every ruler on Quon Tali saw a skull’s face in their silver mirror, aye.
‘The fleet of ships came later, under the command of three madmen – Crust, Urko and Nok – but first to step ashore was none other than Surly and you know who she’d become
, don’t you?’
Didn’t he just. Command of the T’lan Imass didn’t stop the knife in the back, did it? This detail was the defining revelation of Throatslitter’s life. Command thousands, tens of thousands. Command sorcerors and imperial fleets. Hold in your hand the lives of a million citizens. The real power was none of this. The real power was the knife in the hand, the hand at a fool’s back.
The egalitarian plunge. There, Father, you old crab, a word you’ve never heard among the fifty or so you knew about in your long, pointless life. Paint on pots, now there’s a useless skill, since pots never survive, and so all those lovely images end up in pieces, on the pebbled beaches, in the fill between walls, on the fields of the farmers. And it’s true enough, isn’t it, Father, that your private firing of ‘The Coming of the Logros’ proved about as popular as a whore’s dose of the face-eater?
Eldest son or not, mixing glazes and circling a kiln on firing day was not the future he dreamed about. But you can paint me, Father, and call it ‘The Coming of the Assassin’. My likeness to adorn funeral urns – those who fell to the knife, of course. Too bad you never understood the world well enough to honour me. My chosen profession. My war against inequity in this miserable, evil existence.
And striking my name from the family line, well now, really, that was uncalled for.
Fourteen years of age, Throatslitter found himself in the company of secretive old men and old women. The why and the how were without relevance, even back then. His future was set out before him, in measured strides, and not even the gods could drive him from this cold path.
He wondered about his old masters from time to time. All dead, of course. Surly had seen to that. Not that death meant failure. Her agents had failed in tracking down Throatslitter, after all, and he doubted he was the only one to evade the Claws. He also wondered if indeed he was still on the path – torn away, as he had been, from the Malazan Empire. But he was a patient man; one in his profession had to be, after all.
Still, the Adjunct has asked for loyalty. For service to an unknown cause. We are to be unwitnessed, she said. That suits me fine. It’s how assassins conduct their trade. So he would go along with her and this Oponn-pushed army of sorry fools. For now.