The Bonehunters

  She could, of course, choose the overland route. South from Ehrlitan, to Pan'potsun, then skirting the new Raraku Sea westward. But she knew she was running out of time. Cotillion and Shadowthrone had wanted her to take care of a number of small players, scattered here and there inland, but something within her sensed a quickening of distant events, and with it the growing need — a desperate insistence — that she be there without delay. To cast her dagger, to affect, as best she could, a host of destinies.

  She assumed Cotillion would understand all of this. That he would trust her instincts, even if she was, ultimately, unable to explain them.

  She must... hurry.

  A moment's concentration. And the scene before her was transformed. The cliff now a slope, crowded with collapsed trees, firs, cedars, their roots torn loose from dark earth, the boles flattened as if the entire hillside had been struck by some unimaginable wind. Beneath a leaden sky, a vast forested valley clothed in mist stretched out across what had moments before been the waters of the strait.

  The two skeletons pattered up to crowd her feet, heads darting.

  'I told you there'd be a forest,' Telorast said.

  Apsalar gestured at the wreckage on the slope immedi­ately before them. 'What happened here?'

  'Sorcery,' Curdle said. 'Dragons.'

  'Not dragons.'

  'No, not dragons. Telorast is right. Not dragons.'

  'Demons.'

  'Yes, terrible demons whose very breath is a warren's gate, oh, don't jump down those throats!'

  'No breath, Curdle,' Telorast said. 'Just demons. Small ones. But lots of them. Pushing trees down, one by one, because they're mean and inclined to senseless acts of destruction.'

  'Like children.'

  'Right, as Curdle says, like children. Children demons. But strong. Very strong. Huge, muscled arms.'

  'So,' Apsalar said, 'dragons fought here.'

  'Yes,' Telorast said.

  'In the Shadow Realm.'

  'Yes.'

  'Presumably, the same dragons that are now imprisoned within the stone circle.'

  'Yes.'

  Apsalar nodded, then began making her way down. 'This will be hard going. I wonder if I will save much time traversing the forest.'

  'Tiste Edur forest,' Curdle said, scampering ahead. 'They like their forests.'

  'All those natural shadows,' Telorast added. 'Power in permanence. Blackwood, bloodwood, all sorts of terrible things. The Eres were right to fear.'

  In the distance a strange darkness was sliding across the treetops. Apsalar studied it. The carrack, casting an ethereal presence into this realm. She was seeing both worlds, a common enough occurrence. Yet, even so... someone is on that carrack. And that someone is important...

  ****

  T'rolbarahl, ancient creature of the First Empire of Dessimbelackis, Dejim Nebrahl crouched at the base of a dead tree, or, rather, flowed like a serpent round the bleached, exposed roots, seven-headed, seven-bodied and mottled with the colours of the ground, the wood and the rocks. Fresh blood, slowly losing its heat, filled the D'ivers' stomachs. There had been no shortage of victims, even in this wasteland. Herders, salt-miners, bandits, desert wolves, Dejim Nebrahl had fed continuously on this journey to the place of ambush.

  The tree, thick-boled, squat, with only a few twisted branches surviving the centuries since it had died, rose from a crack in the rock between a flat stretch that marked the trail and an upthrust tower of pitted, wind-worn stone. The trail twisted at this point, skirting the edge of a cliff, the drop below ten or more man-heights to boulders and jagged rubble.

  On the other side of the trail, more rocks rose, heaped, the stone cracked and shelved.

  The D'ivers would strike here, from both sides, lifting free of the shadows.

  Dejim Nebrahl was content. Patience easily purchased by fresh meat, the echoing screams of death, and now it need but await the coming of the victims, the ones the Nameless Ones had chosen.

  Soon, then.

  ****

  Plenty of room between the trees, a cathedral of shadows and heavy gloom, the flow of damp air like water against her face as Apsalar jogged onward, flanked by the darting forms of Telorast and Curdle. To her surprise, she was indeed making good time. The ground was surprisingly level and tree-falls seemed nonexistent, as if no tree in this expanse of forest ever died. She had seen no wildlife, had come upon no obvious game trail, yet there had been glades, circular sweeps of moss tightly ringed by evenly spaced cedars, or, if not cedar, then something much like it, the bark rough, shaggy, black as tar. The circles were too perfect to be natural, although no other evidence of intent or design was visible. In these places, the power of shadow was, as Telorast had said, fierce.

  Tiste Edur, Kurald Emurlahn, their presence lingered, but only in the same manner as memories clung to grave­yards, tombs and barrows. Old dreams snarled and fading in the grasses, in the twist of wood and the crystal latticework of stone. Lost whispers in the winds that ever wandered across such death-laden places. The Edur were gone, but their forest had not forgotten them.

  A darkness ahead, something reaching down from the canopy, straight and thin. A rope, as thick round as her wrist, and, resting on the needle-strewn humus of the floor, an anchor.

  Directly in her path. Ah, so even as I sensed a presence, so it in turn sensed me. This is, I think, an invitation.

  She approached the rope, grasped it in both hands, then began climbing.

  Telorast hissed below, 'What are you doing? No, dangerous intruder! Terrible, terrifying, horrible, cruel-faced stranger! Don't go up there! Oh, Curdle, look, she's going.'

  'She's not listening to us!'

  'We've been talking too much, that's the problem.'

  'You're right. We should say something important, so she starts listening to us again.'

  'Good thinking, Curdle. Think of something!'

  'I'm trying!'

  Their voices faded away as Apsalar continued climbing. Among thick-needled branches now, old cobwebs strung between them, small, glittering shapes scampering about. The leather of her gloves was hot against her palms and her calves were beginning to ache. She reached the first of a series of knots and, planting her feet on it, she paused to rest. Glancing down, she saw nothing but black boles vanishing into mist, like the legs of some giant beast. After a few moments, she resumed her climb. Knots, now, every ten or so arm-lengths. Someone was being considerate.

  The ebon hull of the carrack loomed above, crusted with barnacles, glistening. Reaching it, she planted her boots against the dark planks and climbed the last two man-heights to where the anchor line ran into a chute in the gunnel. Clambering over the side, she found herself near the three steps leading to the aft deck. Faint smudges of mist, slightly glowing, marked where mortals stood or sat: here and there, near rigging, at the side-mounted steering oar, one perched high among the shrouds. A far more sub­stantial, solid figure was standing before the mainmast.

  Familiar. Apsalar searched her memory, her mind rush­ing down one false trail after another. Familiar... yet not.

  With a faint smile on his clean-shaven, handsome face, he stepped forward and held up both hands. 'I'm not sure which name you go by now. You were little more than a child — was it only a few years ago? Hard to believe.'

  Her heart was thudding hard against her chest, and she wondered at the sensation within her. Fear? Yes, but more than that. Guilt. Shame. She cleared her throat. 'I have named myself Apsalar.'

  A quick nod. Recognition, then his expression slowly changed. 'You do not remember me, do you?'

  'Yes. No, I'm not sure. I should — I know that much.'

  'Difficult times, back then,' he said, lowering his hands, but slowly, as if unsure how he would be received as he said, 'Ganoes Paran.'

  She drew off her gloves, driven by the need to be doing something, and ran the back of her right hand across her brow, was shocked to see it come away wet, the sweat bead­ing, trickling, suddenly cold on her
skin. 'What are you doing here?'

  'I might ask you the same. I suggest we retire to my cabin. There is wine. Food.' He smiled again. 'In fact, I am sitting there right now.'

  Her eyes narrowed. 'It seems you have come into some power, Ganoes Paran.'

  'In a manner of speaking.'

  She followed him to the cabin. As he closed the door behind her, his form faded, and she heard movement from the other side of the map-table. Turning, she saw a far less substantial Ganoes Paran. He was pouring wine, and when he spoke the words seemed to come from a vast distance. 'You had best emerge from your warren now, Apsalar.'

  She did so, and for the first time felt the solid wood beneath her, the pitch and sway of a ship at sea.

  'Sit,' Paran said, gesturing. 'Drink. There's bread, cheese, salted fish.'

  'How did you sense my presence?' she asked, settling into the bolted-down chair nearest her. 'I was travelling through a forest—'

  'A Tiste Edur forest, yes. Apsalar, I don't know where to begin. There is a Master of the Deck of Dragons, and you are sharing a bottle of wine with him. Seven months ago I was living in Darujhistan, in the Finnest House, in fact, with two eternally sleeping house-guests and a Jaghut manservant... although he'd likely kill me if he heard that word ascribed to him. Raest is not the most pleasant company.'

  'Darujhistan,' she murmured, looking away, the glass of wine forgotten in her hand. Whatever confidence she felt she had gained since her time there was crumbling away, assailed by a swarm of disconnected, chaotic memories. Blood, blood on her hands, again and again. 'I still do not understand...'

  'We are in a war,' Paran said. 'Oddly enough, there was something one of my sisters once said to me, when we were young, pitching toy armies against each other. To win a war you must come to know all the players. All of them. Living ones, who will face you across the field. Dead ones, whose legends are wielded like weapons, or held like eternally beating hearts. Hidden players, inanimate players — the land itself, or the sea, if you will. Forests, hills, mountains, rivers. Currents both seen and unseen — no, Tavore didn't say all that; she was far more succinct, but it's taken me a long time to fully understand. It's not "know your enemy". That's simplistic and facile. No, it's "know your enemies". There's a big difference, Apsalar, because one of your enemies could be the face in the silver mirror.'

  'Yet now you call them players, rather than enemies,' she said. 'Suggesting to me a certain shift in perspective — what comes, yes, of being the Master of the Deck of Dragons?'

  'Huh, I hadn't thought about that. Players. Enemies. Is there a difference?'

  'The former implies... manipulation.'

  'And you would understand that well.'

  'Yes.'

  'Does Cotillion haunt you still?'

  'Yes, but not as... intimately.'

  'And now you are one of his chosen servants, an agent of Shadow. An assassin, just like the assassin you once were.'

  She levelled her gaze on him. 'What is your point?'

  'I'm not sure. I'm just trying to find my feet, regarding you, and whatever mission you are on right now.'

  'If you want details of that, best speak with Cotillion yourself.'

  'I am considering it.'

  'Is that why you have crossed an ocean, Ganoes Paran?'

  'No. As I said, we are at war. I was not idle in Darujhistan, or in the weeks before Coral. I was discover­ing the players... and among them, true enemies.'

  'Of you?'

  'Of peace.'

  'I trust you will kill them all.'

  He seemed to wince, looked down at the wine in his glass. 'For a short time, Apsalar, you were innocent. Naïve, even.'

  'Between the possession of a god and my awakening to certain memories.'

  'I was wondering, who created in you such cynicism?'

  'Cynicism? You speak of peace, yet twice you have told me we are at war. You have spent months learning the lie of the battle to come. But I suspect that even you do not comprehend the vastness of the coming conflict, the conflict we are in right now.'

  'You are right. Which is why I wanted to speak with you.'

  'It may be we are on different sides, Ganoes Paran.'

  'Maybe, but I don't think so.'

  She said nothing.

  Paran refilled their glasses. 'The pantheon is splitting asunder. The Crippled God is finding allies.'

  'Why?'

  'What? Well... I don't really know. Compassion?'

  'And is that something the Crippled God has earned?'

  'I don't know that, either.'

  'Months of study?' Her brows rose.

  He laughed, a response that greatly relieved her.

  'You are likely correct,' she said. 'We are not enemies.'

  'By "we" I take it you include Shadowthrone and Cotillion.'

  'As much as is possible, which isn't as much as I would like. None can fathom Shadowthrone's mind. Not even Cotillion, I suspect. Certainly not me. But he has shown... restraint.'

  'Yes, he has. Quite surprising, if you think about it.'

  'For Shadowthrone, the pondering of the field of battle has consumed years, maybe decades.'

  He grunted, a sour expression on his face. 'Good point.'

  'What role do you possess, Paran? What role are you seeking to play?'

  'I have sanctioned the Crippled God. A place in the Deck of Dragons. A House of Chains.'

  She considered for a time, then nodded. 'I can see the reason in that. All right, what has brought you to Seven Cities?'

  He stared at her, then shook his head. 'A decision I chewed on for what seemed forever, and you grasp my motives in an instant. Fine. I am here to counter an enemy. To remove a threat. Only, I am afraid I will not get there in time, in which case I will clean up the mess as best I can, before moving on—'

  'To Quon Tali.'

  'How — how did you know that?'

  She reached for the brick of cheese, produced a knife from her sleeve and sliced off a piece. 'Ganoes Paran, we are going to have a rather long conversation now. But first, where do you plan to make landfall?'

  'Kansu.'

  'Good, this will make my journey quicker. Two minuscule companions of mine are even now clambering onto the deck, having ascended via the trees. They will any moment begin hunting rats and other vermin, which should occupy them for some time. As for you and me, let us settle to this meal.'

  He slowly leaned back in his chair. 'We will reach port in two days. Something tells me those two days will fly past like a gull in a gale.'

  For me as well, Ganoes Paran.

  ****

  Ancient memories whispered through Dejim Nebrahl, old stone walls lit red with reflected fire, the cascade of smoke down streets filled with the dead and the dying, the luscious flow of blood in the gutters. Oh, there was a grandness to the First Empire, that first, rough flowering of humanity. The T'rolbarahl were, in Dejim's mind, the culmination of truly human traits, blended with the strength of beasts. Savagery, the inclination towards vicious cruelty, the cunning of a predator that draws no boundaries and would sooner destroy one of its own kind than another. Feeding the spirit on the torn flesh of children. That stunning exercise of intelligence that could justify any action, no matter how abhorrent.

  Mated with talons, dagger-long teeth and the D'ivers gift of becoming many from one... we should have survived, we should have ruled. We were born masters and all humanity were rightly our slaves. If only Dessimbelackis had not betrayed us. His own children.

  Well, even among T'rolbarahl, Dejim Nebrahl was supreme. A creation beyond even the First Emperor's most dread nightmare. Domination, subjugation, the rise of a new empire, this is what awaited Dejim, and oh how he would feed. Bloated, sated by human blood. He would make the new, fledgling gods kneel before him.

  Once his task was complete, the world awaited him. No matter its ignorance, its blind disregard. That would all change, so terribly change.

  Dejim's quarry neared, drawn ever so su
btly onto this deadly track. Not long now.

  ****

  The seashell vest glimmered white in the morning light. Karsa Orlong had drawn it from his pack to replace the shredded remnants of the padded leather he had worn earlier. He sat on his tall, lean horse, the blood-spattered, stitched white fur cloak sweeping down from his broad shoulders. Bare-headed, with a lone, thick braid hanging down the right side of his chest, the dark hair knotted with fetishes: finger bones, strips of gold-threaded silk, bestial canines. A row of withered human ears was sewn onto his belt. The huge flint sword was strapped diagonally across his back. Two bone-handled daggers, each as long and broad-bladed as a short sword, were sheathed in the high moccasins that reached to just below his knees.

  Samar Dev studied the Toblakai a moment longer, gaze lifting to fix on his tattooed face. The warrior was facing west, his expression unreadable. She turned back to check the tethers of the packhorses once more, then drew herself up and into the saddle. She settled the toes of her boots into the stirrups and gathered the reins. 'Contrivances,' she said, 'that require no food or water, that do not tire or grow lame, imagine the freedom of such a world as that would bring, Karsa Orlong.'

  The eyes he set upon her were those of a barbarian, revealing suspicion and a certain animal wariness. 'People would go everywhere. What freedom in a smaller world, witch?'

  Smaller? 'You do not understand—'

  'The sound of this city is an offence to peace,' Karsa Orlong said. 'We leave it, now.'

  She glanced back at the palace gate, closed with thirty soldiers guarding it. Hands restless near weapons. 'The Falah'd seems disinclined for a formal leavetaking. So be it.'

  The Toblakai in the lead, they met few obstacles passing through the city, reaching the west gate before the morn­ing's tenth bell. Initially discomforted by the attention they received from virtually every citizen, on the street and at windows of flanking buildings, Samar Dev had begun to see the allure of notoriety by the time they rode past the silent guards at the gate, enough to offer one of the soldiers a broad smile and a parting wave with one gloved hand.