Page 11 of The Bonehunters

  Yareth Ghanatan, the city stands still

  First and last and where the old causeway

  Curves in its half-circle there are towers

  Of sand seething with empires and

  Marching armies, broken wing banners

  And the dismembered lining the walkways

  Are soon the bones of the edifices, warriors

  And builders both, the city ever stands

  To house insect hordes, oh those towers

  Rear so proud, rising as dreams on the

  Heated breath of the sun, Yareth Ghanatan.

  The city is the empress, wife and lover,

  Crone and child of the First Empire,

  And I yet remain, with all my kin,

  The bones in the walls, the bones

  Beneath the floor, the bones that cast

  Down this gentle shade — first and last,

  I see what comes, all that has gone,

  And the clay of my flesh has felt your hands

  The old warmth of life, for the city,

  My city, it stands still, and it stands,

  Stands ever still.

  Bones in the Walls, (stela fragment circa First Empire), Author unknown

  'I can be this urn.'

  'You don't want to be that urn.'

  'It's got legs.'

  'Stubby ones, and I don't think they move. They're just for show. I remember things like that.'

  'But it's pretty.'

  'And she pees in it.'

  'Pees? Are you sure? Have you seen her pee in it?'

  'Take a look, Curdle. That's her pee in it. You don't want to be that urn. You want something alive. Really alive, with legs that work. Or wings…'

  They were still whispering when Apsalar removed the last bar in the window and set it down. She climbed onto the sill, twisting sideways to reach up to the nearest roof-post.

  'Where are you going?' Telorast demanded.

  'To the roof.'

  'Shall we join you?'

  'No.'

  Apsalar pulled herself upward and moments later was crouched on the sun-baked clay, the stars glistening over­head. Dawn was not far off, and the city below was silent and motionless like a thing dead in the night. Ehrlitan. The first city they had come to in this land, the city where this particular journey had begun, a group fated to break apart beneath a host of burdens. Kalam Mekhar, Fiddler, Crokus and herself. Oh, Crokus had been so angry to discover that their companions had come with hidden motives — not just escorting her home, not just righting an old wrong. He had been so naïve.

  She wondered how he was faring, thought to ask Cotillion the next time the god visited, then decided she would not do so. It would not do to let herself continue to care about him; even to think on him, achieving little more than loosing the flood-gates of yearning, desire and regret.

  Other, more immediate issues demanded her thought. Mebra. The old spy was dead, which was what Shadowthrone had wanted, although the why of it escaped Apsalar. Granted, Mebra had been working all sides, serving the Malazan Empire at one moment, Sha'ik's cause the next. And... someone else. That someone else's identity was important, and, she suspected, it was the true reason for Shadowthrone's decision.

  The Nameless Ones? Had the Semk assassin been sent to cover a trail? Possible, and it made sense. No witnesses, the man had said. To what? What service could Mebra have provided the Nameless Ones? Hold off pursuing an answer to that. Who else?

  Adherents to the old cult of Shadow in Seven Cities no doubt remained, survivors of the purges that had accom­panied the conquest. Another possible employer of Mebra's many skills, and more likely to have caught Shadowthrone's attention, as well as his ire.

  She had been told to kill Mebra. She had not been told why, nor had she been told to initiate any investigations on her own. Suggesting Shadowthrone felt he knew enough. The same for Cotillion. Or, conversely, they were both woefully ignorant, and Mebra had simply switched sides once too often.

  There were more targets on her list, a random collection of names, all of which could be found in Cotillion's memories. She was expected simply to proceed from one to the next, with the final target the most challenging of all... but that one was in all likelihood months away, and she would need to do some deft manoeuvring to get close enough to strike, a slow, careful stalking of a very danger­ous individual. For whom she felt no enmity.

  This is what an assassin does. And Cotillion's possession has made me an assassin. That and nothing else. I have killed and will continue to kill. I need think of nothing else. It is simple. It should be simple.

  And so she would make it so.

  Still, what made a god decide to kill some lowly mortal? The minor irritation of a stone in a moccasin. The slap of a branch on a wooded trail. Who thinks twice plucking that stone out and tossing it away? Or reaching out and snapping that branch? It seems I do, for I am that god's hand in this.

  Enough. No more of this weakness... this... un­certainty. Complete the tasks, then walk away. Vanish. Find a new life.

  Only... how does one do that?

  There was someone she could ask — he was not far off, she knew, having culled his identity from Cotillion's memories.

  She had moved to sit with her legs dangling on the roof's edge. Someone now sat at her side.

  'Well?' Cotillion asked.

  'A Semk assassin of the Nameless Ones completed my mission for me.'

  'This very night?'

  'I met him, but was unable to question him.'

  The god slowly nodded. 'The Nameless Ones again. This is unexpected. And unwelcome.'

  'So they were not the reason for killing Mebra.'

  'No. Some stirrings of the old cult. Mebra was position­ing himself to become a High Priest. The best candidate — we're not worried about the others.'

  'Cleaning house.'

  'Necessary, Apsalar. We're in for a scrap. A bad one.'

  'I see.'

  They were silent for a time, then Cotillion cleared his throat. 'I have not yet had time to check on him, but I know he is hale, although understandably dispirited.'

  'All right.'

  He must have sensed she wanted it left at that, for, after a pause, he then said, 'You freed two ghosts...'

  She shrugged.

  Sighing, Cotillion ran a hand through his dark hair. 'Do you know what they once were?'

  'Thieves, I think.'

  'Yes, that.'

  'Tiste Andii?'

  'No, but they lingered long over those two bodies and so... absorbed certain essences.'

  'Ah.'

  'They are now agents of Edgewalker. I am curious to see what they will do.'

  'For the moment they seem content to accompany me.'

  'Yes. I think Edgewalker's interests include you, Apsalar, because of our past... relationship.'

  'Through me, to you.'

  'I seem to warrant his curiosity.'

  'Edgewalker. That apparition seems a rather passive sort,' she observed.

  'We first met him,' Cotillion said slowly, 'the night we ascended. The night we made passage into the realm of Shadow. He made my spine crawl right then, and it's been crawling ever since.'

  She glanced over at him. 'You are so unsuited to be a god, Cotillion, did you know that?'

  'Thank you for the vote of confidence.'

  She reached up with one hand and brushed the line of his jaw, the gesture close to a caress. She caught the sudden intake of his breath, the slight widening of his eyes, but he would not look at her. Apsalar lowered her hand. 'I'm sorry. Another mistake. It's all I seem to make these days.'

  'It's all right,' he replied. 'I understand.'

  'You do? Oh, of course you do.'

  'Complete your mission, and all that is asked of you will end. You will face no more demands from me. Or Shadowthrone.'

  There was something in his tone that gave her a slight shiver. Something like... remorse. 'I see. That is good. I'm tired. Of who I am, Cotillion.'
>
  'I know.'

  'I was thinking of a detour. Before my next task.'

  'Oh?'

  'The coastal road, east. Just a few days by Shadow.'

  He looked across at her, and she saw his faint smile and was unaccountably pleased by it. 'Ah, Apsalar... that should be fun. Send him my greetings.'

  'Really?'

  'Absolutely. He needs a little shaking up.' He straight­ened. 'I must leave. It's almost dawn. Be careful, and do not trust those ghosts.'

  'They are bad liars.'

  'Well, I know a High Priest who employs a similar tactic to confound others.'

  Iskaral Fust. Now it was Apsalar who smiled, but she said nothing, for Cotillion was gone.

  The east horizon was in flames with the rising of the sun.

  ****

  'Where did the darkness go?' Curdle demanded.

  Apsalar stood near the bed, running through her assort­ment of concealed weapons. She would need to sleep soon — perhaps this afternoon — but first she would make use of the daylight. There was something important hidden within the killing of Mebra by the Semk. Cotillion had been shaken by that detail. Although he had not asked her to pursue it, she would nonetheless, for a day or two at least. 'The sun has risen, Curdle.'

  'The sun? By the Abyss, there's a sun in this world? Have they gone mad?'

  Apsalar glanced over at the cowering ghost. It was dis­solving in the grainy light. Huddled in a shadow nearby, Telorast looked on, mute with terror.

  'Has who gone mad?' Apsalar asked Curdle.

  'Well, them! The ones who created this place!'

  'We're fading!' Telorast hissed. 'What does it mean? Will we cease to exist?'

  'I don't know,' Apsalar replied. 'Probably you will lose some substance, assuming you have any, but it will be temporary. Best you two remain here, and be silent. I will be back before dusk.'

  'Dusk! Yes, excellent, we will wait here for dusk. Then night and all that darkness, and the shadows, and things to possess. Yes, fearful woman, we shall wait here.'

  She headed down, paid for another night, then emerged onto the dusty street. The market-bound citizens were already on the move, hawkers dragging burdened mules, carts crowded with caged songbirds or slabs of salted meat or casks of oil or honey. Old men laboured beneath bundles of firewood, baskets of clay. Down the centre of the street strode two Red Blades — feared sentinels of order and law once again now that the empire's presence had been emphatically reasserted. They were headed in the same direction as Apsalar — and indeed as most of the people — towards the vast sprawl of caravan camps beyond the city wall just south of the harbour.

  The Red Blades were provided a wide berth, and the swagger of their stride, their gauntleted hands resting on the grips of their sheathed but not peace-strapped tulwars, made of their arrogance a deliberate, provocative affront. Yet they passed unchallenged.

  Moments before she caught up with them, Apsalar swung left down a side passage. There was more than one route to the caravan camps.

  A merchant employing Pardu and Gral guards, and appearing to display unusual interest in the presence of a Shadow Dancer in the city, made him or herself in turn the subject of interest. It might simply be that the merchant was a buyer and seller of information, but even that could prove useful to Apsalar — not that she was prepared to pay for any information she gleaned. The tribal guards suggested extensive overland travel, between distant cities and the rarely frequented tracks linking them. That merchant would know things.

  And so, indeed, might those guards.

  She arrived at the outskirts of the first camp. If seen from the sky, the caravan city would look pockmarked, as merchants came and went in a steady stream of wagons, horse-warriors, herd dogs and camels. The outer edges were home to lesser merchants, their positions fixed according to some obscure hierarchy, whilst the high-status caravans occupied the centre.

  Entering the main thoroughfare from a side path between tents, Apsalar began the long search.

  At midday she found a tapu-hawker and sat at one of the small tables beneath an awning eating the skewered pieces of fruit and meat, the grease running hot tracks down her hands. She had noted a renewed energy among the merchant camps she had visited so far. Insurrection and strife were bad for business, obviously. The return of Malazan rule was a blessing on trade in all its normal avaricious glory, and she had seen the exultation on all sides. Coins were flowing in a thousand streams.

  Three figures caught her eye. Standing before the entrance to a large tent and arguing, it seemed, over a cage of puppies. The two Pardu women and one of the Gral tribesmen she had seen at the tavern. They were too pre­occupied to have spied her, she hoped. Wiping her hands on her thighs, Apsalar rose and walked, keeping to the shadier areas, out from under the awning and away from the guards and the merchant's tent.

  It was enough to have found them, for now. Before she would endeavour to interrogate the merchant, or the guards, another task awaited her.

  The long walk back to the inn was uneventful, and she climbed the stairs and made her way to her room. It was mid-afternoon, and her mind was filled with thoughts of sleep.

  'She's back!'

  The voice, Curdle's, came from under the wood-framed cot.

  'Is it her?' asked Telorast from the same place.

  'I recognize the moccasins, see the sewn-in ridges of iron? Not like the other one.'

  Apsalar paused her removing of her leather gloves. 'What other one?'

  'The one who was here earlier, a bell ago—'

  'A bell?' Telorast wondered. 'Oh, those bells, now I understand. They measure the passing of time. Yes, Not-Apsalar, a bell ago. We said nothing. We were silent. That one never knew we were here.'

  'The innkeeper?'

  'Boots, stirrup-worn and threaded with bronze scales, they went here and there — and crouched to look under here, but saw naught of us, of course, and naught of anything else, since you have no gear for him to rifle through—'

  'It was a man, then.'

  'Didn't we say earlier? Didn't we, Curdle?'

  'We must have. A man, with boots on, yes.'

  'How long did he stay?' Apsalar asked, looking around the room. There was nothing there for the thief to steal, assuming he had been a thief.

  'A hundred of his heartbeats.'

  'Hundred and six, Telorast.'

  'Hundred and six, yes.'

  'He came and went by the door?'

  'No, the window — you removed the bars, remember? Down from the roof, isn't that right, Telorast?'

  'Or up from the alley.'

  'Or maybe from one of the other rooms, thus from the side, right or left.'

  Apsalar frowned and crossed her arms. 'Did he come in by the window at all?'

  'No.'

  'By warren, then.'

  'Yes.'

  'And he wasn't a man,' Curdle added. 'He was a demon. Big, black, hairy, with fangs and claws.'

  'Wearing boots,' Telorast said.

  'Exactly. Boots.'

  Apsalar pulled off her gloves and slapped them down on the bed-stand. She sprawled on the cot. 'Wake me if he returns.'

  'Of course, Not-Apsalar. You can depend upon us.'

  ****

  When she awoke it was dark. Cursing, Apsalar rose from the cot. 'How late is it?'

  'She's awake!' The shade of Telorast hovered nearby, a smeared body-shape in the gloom, its eyes dully glowing.

  'Finally!' Curdle whispered from the window sill, where it crouched like a gargoyle, head twisted round to regard Apsalar still seated on the cot. 'It's two bells after the death of the sun! We want to explore!'

  'Fine,' she said, standing. 'Follow me, then.'

  'Where to?'

  'Back to the Jen'rahb.'

  'Oh, that miserable place.'

  'I won't be there long.'

  'Good.'

  She collected her gloves, checked her weapons once more — a score of aches from knife pommels and scabbards attested
that they remained strapped about her person — and headed for the window.

  'Shall we use the causeway?'

  Apsalar stopped, studied Curdle. 'What causeway?'

  The ghost moved to hug one edge of the window and pointed outward. 'That one.'

  A shadow manifestation, something like an aqueduct, stretched from the base of the window out over the alley and the building beyond, then curving — towards the heart of the Jen'rahb. It had the texture of stone, and she could see pebbles and pieces of crumbled mortar along the path. 'What is this?'

  'We don't know.'

  'It is from the Shadow Realm, isn't it? It has to be. Otherwise I would be unable to see it.'

  'Oh yes. We think. Don't we, Telorast?'

  'Absolutely. Or not.'

  'How long,' Apsalar asked, 'has it been here?'

  'Fifty-three of your heartbeats. You were stirring to wakefulness, right, Curdle? She was stirring.'

  'And moaning. Well, one moan. Soft. A half-moan.'

  'No,' Telorast said, 'that was me.'

  Apsalar clambered up onto the sill, then, still gripping the edges of the wall, she stepped out onto the causeway. Solid beneath her feet. 'All right,' she muttered, more than a little shaken as she released her hold on the building behind her. 'We might as well make use of it.'

  'We agree.'

  They set out, over the alley, the tenement, a street and then the rubble of the ruins. In the distance rose ghostly towers. A city of shadow, but this one thoroughly unlike the one of the night before. Vague structures lay over the wreckage below — canals, the glimmer of something like water. Lower bridges spanned these canals. A few thousand paces distant, to the southeast, rose a massive domed palace, and beyond it what might have been a lake, or a wide river. Ships plied those waters, square-sailed and sleek, the wood midnight black. She saw tall figures crossing a bridge fifty paces away.

  Telorast hissed. 'I recognize them!'

  Apsalar crouched low, suddenly feeling terribly vulnera­ble here on this high walkway.

  'Tiste Edur!'

  'Yes,' she half-breathed.

  'Oh, can they see us?'

  I don't know. At least none walked the causeway they were on... not yet. 'Come on, it's not far. I want us away from this place.'

  'Agreed, oh yes, agreed.'

  Curdle hesitated. 'Then again...'

  'No,' Apsalar said. 'Attempt nothing, ghost.'