The Bonehunters

  And with soldiers like these, we won an empire.

  ****

  The horses were past their prime, but they would have to do. A lone mule would carry the bulk of their supplies, including the wrapped corpse of Heboric Ghost Hands. The beasts stood waiting on the east end of the main street, tails flicking to fend off the flies, already enervated by the heat, although it was but mid-morning.

  Barathol Mekhar made one last adjustment to his weapons belt, bemused to find that he'd put on weight in his midriff, then he squinted over as Cutter and Scillara emerged from the inn and made their way towards the horses.

  The woman's conversation with the two Jessas had been an admirable display of brevity, devoid of advice and end­ing with a most perfunctory thanks. So, the baby was now the youngest resident of this forgotten hamlet. The girl would grow up playing with scorpions, rhizan and meer rats, her horizons seemingly limitless, the sun overhead the harsh, blinding and brutal face of a god. But all in all, she would be safe, and loved.

  The blacksmith noted a figure nearby, hovering in the shadow of a doorway. Ah, well, at least someone will miss us.

  Feeling oddly sad, Barathol made his way over to the others.

  'Your horse will collapse under you,' Cutter said. 'It's too old and you're too big, Barathol. That axe alone would stagger a mule.'

  'Who's that standing over there?' Scillara asked.

  'Chaur.' The blacksmith swung himself onto his horse, the beast side-stepping beneath him as he settled his weight in the saddle. 'Come to see us off, I expect. Mount up, you two.'

  'This is the hottest part of the day,' Cutter said. 'It seems we're always travelling through the worst this damned land can throw at us.'

  'We will reach a spring by dusk,' Barathol said, 'when we'll all need it most. We lie over there, until the following dusk, because the next leg of the journey will be a long one.'

  They set out on the road, that quickly became a track. A short while later, Scillara said, 'We have company, Barathol.'

  Glancing back, they saw Chaur, carrying a canvas bundle against his chest. There was a dogged expression on his sweaty face.

  Sighing, the blacksmith halted his horse.

  'Can you convince him to go home?' Scillara asked.

  'Not likely,' Barathol admitted. 'Simple and stubborn — that's a miserable combination.' He slipped down to the ground and walked back to the huge young man. 'Here, Chaur, let's tie your kit to the mule's pack.'

  Smiling, Chaur handed it over.

  'We have a long way to go, Chaur. And for the next few days at least, you will have to walk — do you understand? Now, let's see what you're wearing on your feet — Hood's breath—'

  'He's barefoot!' Cutter said, incredulous.

  'Chaur,' Barathol tried to explain, 'this track is nothing but sharp stones and hot sand.'

  'There's some thick bhederin hide in our kit,' Scillara said, lighting her pipe, 'somewhere. Tonight I can make him sandals. Unless you want us to stop right now.'

  The blacksmith unslung his axe, then crouched and began pulling at his boots. 'Since I'll be riding, he can wear these until then.'

  Cutter watched as Chaur struggled to pull on Barathol's boots. Most men, he knew, would have left Chaur to his fate. Just a child in a giant's body, after all, foolish and mostly useless, a burden. In fact, most men would have beaten the simpleton until he fled back to the hamlet — a beating for Chaur's own good, and in some ways very nearly justifiable. But this blacksmith... he hardly seemed the mass murderer he was purported to be. The betrayer of Aren, the man who assassinated a Fist. And now, their escort to the coast.

  Cutter found himself oddly comforted by that notion. Kalam's cousin... assassinations must run in the family. That huge double-bladed axe hardly seemed an assassin's weapon. He considered asking Barathol — getting from him his version of what had happened at Aren all those years ago — but the blacksmith was a reluctant conversationalist, and besides, if he had his secrets he was within his right to hold on to them. The way I hold on to mine.

  They set out again, Chaur trailing, stumbling every now and then as if unfamiliar with footwear of any kind. But he was smiling.

  'Damn these leaking tits,' Scillara said beside him.

  Cutter stared over at her, not knowing how he should reply to that particular complaint.

  'And I'm running out of rustleaf, too.'

  'I'm sorry,' he said.

  'What have you to be sorry about?'

  'Well, it took me so long to recover from my wounds.'

  'Cutter, you had your guts wrapped round your ankles — how do you feel, by the way?'

  'Uncomfortable, but I never was much of a rider. I grew up in a city, after all. Alleys, rooftops, taverns, estate balconies, that was my world before all this. Gods below, I do miss Darujhistan. You would love it, Scillara—'

  'You must be mad. I don't remember cities. It's all desert and dried-up hills for me. Tents and mud-brick hovels.'

  'There are caverns of gas beneath Darujhistan, and that gas is piped up to light the streets with this beautiful blue fire. It's the most magnificent city in the world, Scillara—

  'Then why did you ever leave it?'

  Cutter fell silent.

  'All right,' she said after a moment, 'how about this? We're taking Heboric's body... where, precisely?'

  'Otataral Island.'

  'It's a big island, Cutter. Any place in particular?'

  'Heboric spoke of the desert, four or five days north and west of Dosin Pali. He said there's a giant temple there, or at least the statue from one.'

  'So you were listening, after all.'

  'Sometimes he got lucid, yes. Something he called the Jade, a power both gift and curse... and he wanted to give it back. Somehow.'

  'Since he's now dead,' Scillara asked, 'how do you expect him to do anything like returning power to some statue? Cutter, how do we find a statue in the middle of a desert? You might want to consider that whatever Heboric wanted doesn't mean anything any more. The T'lan Imass killed him, and so Treach needs to find a new Destriant, and if Heboric had any other kind of power, it must have dissipated by now, or followed him through Hood's Gate — either way, there is nothing we can do about it.'

  'His hands are solid now, Scillara.'

  She started. 'What?'

  'Solid jade — not pure, filled with... imperfections. Flaws, particles buried deep inside. Like they were flecked with ash, or dirt.'

  'You examined his corpse?'

  Cutter nodded.

  'Why?'

  'Greyfrog came back to life...'

  'So you thought the old man might do the same.'

  'It was a possibility, but it doesn't look like it's going to happen. He's mummifying — and fast.'

  Barathol Mekhar spoke: 'His funeral shroud was soaked in salt water then packed in even more salt, Cutter. Keeps the maggots out. A fist-sized bundle of rags was pushed into the back of his throat, and a few other places besides. The old practice was to remove the intestines, but the locals have since grown lazier — there were arts involved. Skills, mostly forgotten. What's done is to dry out the corpse as quickly as possible.'

  Cutter glanced at Scillara, then shrugged. 'Heboric was chosen by a god.'

  'But he failed that god,' she replied.

  'They were T'lan Imass!'

  A flow of smoke accompanied Scillara's words as she said, 'Next time we get swarmed by flies, we'll know what's coming.' She met his eyes. 'Look, Cutter, there's just us, now. You and me, and until the coast, Barathol. If you want to drop Heboric's body off on the island, that's fine. If those jade hands are still alive, they can crawl back to their master on their own. We just bury the body above the tide-line and leave it at that.'

  'And then?'

  'Darujhistan. I think I want to see this magnificent city of yours. You said rooftops and alleys — what were you there? A thief? Must have been. Who else knows alleys and rooftops? So, you can teach me the ways of a thief, Cutter. I'
ll follow in your shadow. Hood knows, stealing what we can from this insane world makes as much sense as any­thing else.'

  Cutter looked away. 'It's not good,' he said, 'following anyone's shadow. There's better people there... for you to get along with. Murillio, maybe, or even Coll.'

  'Will I one day discover,' she asked, 'that you've just insulted me?'

  'No! Of course not. I like Murillio! And Coil's a Councilman. He owns an estate and everything.'

  Barathol said, 'Ever seen an animal led to slaughter, Cutter?'

  'What do you mean?'

  But the big man simply shook his head.

  ****

  After repacking her pipe, Scillara settled back in her saddle, a small measure of mercy silencing, for the moment at least, her baiting of Cutter. Mercy and, she admitted, Barathol's subtle warning to ease up on the young man.

  That old killer was a sharp one.

  It wasn't that she held anything against Cutter. The very opposite, in fact. That small glimmer of enthusiasm — when he spoke of Darujhistan — had surprised her. Cutter was reach­ing out to the comfort of old memories, suggesting to her that he was suffering from loneliness. That woman who left him. The one for whom he departed Darujhistan in the first place, I suspect. Loneliness, then, and a certain loss of purpose, now that Heboric was dead and Felisin Younger stolen away. Maybe there was some guilt thrown in — he'd failed in protecting Felisin, after all, failed in protecting Scillara too, for that matter — not that she was the kind to hold such a thing against him. They'd been T'lan Imass, for Hood's sake.

  But Cutter, being young and being a man, would see it differently. A multitude of swords that he would happily fall on, with a nudge from the wrong person. A person who mattered to him. Better to keep him away from such notions, and a little flirtation on her part, yielding charming confusion on his, should suffice.

  She hoped he would consider her advice on burying Heboric. She'd had enough of deserts. Thoughts of a city lit by blue fire, a place filled with people, none of whom expected anything of her, and the possibility of new friends — with Cutter at her side — were in truth rather enticing. A new adventure, and a civilized one at that. Exotic foods, plenty of rustleaf...

  She had wondered, briefly, if the absence of regret or sorrow within her at the surrendering of the child she had carried inside all those months was truly indicative of some essential lack of morality in her soul, some kind of flaw that would bring horror into the eyes of mothers, grandmothers and even little girls as they looked upon her. But such thoughts had not lasted long. The truth of the matter was, she didn't care what other people thought, and if most of them saw that as a threat to... whatever... to their view on how things should be... well, that was just too bad, wasn't it? As if her very existence could lure others into a life of acts without consequence.

  Now that's a laugh, isn't it? The most deadly seducers are the ones encouraging conformity. If you can only feel safe when everybody else feels, thinks and looks the same as you, then you're a Hood-damned coward... not to mention a vicious tyrant in the making.

  'So, Barathol Mekhar, what awaits you on the coast?'

  'Probably plague,' he said.

  'Oh now that's a pleasant thought. And if you survive that?'

  He shrugged. 'A ship, going somewhere else. I've never been to Genabackis. Nor Falar.'

  'If you go to Falar,' Scillara said, 'or empire-held Genabackis, your old crimes might catch up with you.'

  'They've caught up with me before.'

  'So, either you're indifferent to your own death, Barathol, or your confidence is supreme and unassailable. Which is it?'

  'Take your pick.'

  A sharp one. I won't get any rise from him, no point in try­ing. 'What do you think it will be like, crossing an ocean?'

  'Like a desert,' Cutter said, 'only wetter.'

  She probably should have glared at him for that, but she had to admit, it was a good answer. All right, so maybe they're both sharp, in their own ways. I think I'm going to enjoy this journey.

  They rode the track, the heat and sunlight burgeoning into a conflagration, and in their wake clumped Chaur, still smiling.

  ****

  The Jaghut Ganath stood looking into the.chasm. The sorcerous weaving she had set upon this... intrusion had shattered. She did not need to descend that vast fissure, nor enter the buried sky keep itself, to know the cause of that shattering. Draconean blood had been spilled, although that in itself was not enough. The chaos between the warrens had also been unleashed, and it had devoured Omtose Phellack as boiling water does ice.

  Yet her sense of the sequence of events necessary for such a thing to happen remained clouded, as if time itself had been twisted within that once-floating fortress. There was outrage locked in the very bedrock, and now, a most peculiar imposition of... order.

  She wished for companions here, at her side. Cynnigig, especially. And Phyrlis. As it was, in this place, alone as she was, she felt oddly vulnerable.

  Perhaps most of all, would that Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck, was with me. A surprisingly formidable human. A little too prone to take risks, however, and there was something here that invited a certain caution. She would need to heal this — there could be no doubt of that. Still...

  Ganath pulled her unhuman gaze from the dark fissure — in time to see, flowing across the flat rock to either side, and behind her, a swarm of shadows — and now figures, huge, reptilian, all closing in on where she stood.

  She cried out, her warren of Omtose Phellack rising within her, an instinctive response to panic, as the creatures closed.

  There was no escape — no time—

  Heavy mattocks slashed down, chopping through flesh, then bone. The blows drove her to the ground amidst gushes of her own blood. She saw before her the edge of the chasm, sought to reach out towards it. To drag herself over it, and fall — a better death—

  Massive clawed feet, scaled, wrapped in strips of thick hide, kicking up dust close to her face. Unable to move, feeling her life drain away, she watched as that dust settled in a dull patina over the pool of her blood, coating it like the thinnest skin. Too much dirt, the blood wouldn't like that, it would sicken with all that dirt.

  She needed to clean it. She needed to gather it up, some­how pour it back into her body, back in through these gaping wounds, and hope that her heart would burn clean every drop.

  But now even her heart was failing, and blood was sputtering, filled with froth, from her nose and mouth.

  She understood, suddenly, that strange sense of order. K'Chain Che'Malle, a recollection stirred to life once more, after all this time. They had returned, then. But not the truly chaotic ones. No, not the Long-Tails. These were the others, servants of machines, of order in all its bru­tality. Nah'Ruk.

  They had returned. Why?

  The pool of blood was sinking down into the white, chalky dust where furrows had been carved by talons, and into these furrows the rest of the blood drained in turgid rivulets. The inexorable laws of erosion, writ small, and yet... yes, I suppose, most poignant.

  She was cold, and that felt good. Comforting. She was, after all, a Jaghut.

  And now I leave.

  ****

  The woman stood facing landwards, strangely alert. Mappo Runt rubbed at his face, driven to exhaustion by Iskaral Pust's manic tirade at the crew of the broad-beamed caravel as they scurried about with what seemed a complete absence of reason: through the rigging, bounding wild over the deck and clinging — with frantic screams — to various precarious perches here and there. Yet somehow the small but seaworthy trader craft was full before the wind, cutting clean on a northeasterly course.

  A crew — an entire crew — of bhok'arala. It should have been impossible. It most certainly was absurd. Yet these creatures had been awaiting them in their no-doubt purloined craft, anchored offshore, when Mappo, Iskaral, his mule, and the woman named Spite pushed through the last of the brush and reached the broken rocks of the
coast.

  And not just some random collection of the ape-like, pointy-eared beasts, but — as Iskaral's shriek of fury announced — the High Priest's very own menagerie, the once-residents of his cliff-side fastness league upon league eastward, at the rim of the distant Raraku Sea. How they had come to be here, with this caravel, was a mystery, and one unlikely to be resolved any time soon.

  Heaps of fruit and shellfish had crowded the midship deck, fussed over like votive offerings when the three travellers drew the dinghy — rowed ashore to greet them by a half-dozen bhok'arala — alongside the ship and clambered aboard. To find — adding to Mappo's bemusement — that Iskaral Pust's black-eyed mule had somehow preceded them.

  Since then there had been chaos.

  If bhok'arala could possess faith in a god, then their god had just arrived, in the dubious personage of Iskaral Pust, and the endless mewling, chittering, dancing about the High Priest was clearly driving Pust mad. Or, madder than he already was.

  Spite had watched in amusement for a time, ignoring Mappo's questions — How did this come to be here? Where will they be taking us? Are we in truth still pursuing Icarium? No answers.

  And now, as the coastline crawled past, pitching and rolling on their right, the tall woman stood, her balance impressive, and stared with narrowed eyes to the south.

  'What is wrong?' Mappo asked, not expecting an answer.

  She surprised him. 'A murder. There are godless ones walking the sands of Seven Cities once again. I believe I understand the nature of this alliance. Complexities abound, of course, and you are but a Trell, a hut-dwelling herder.'

  'Who understands nothing of complexities, aye. Even so, explain. What alliance? Who are the godless ones?'

  'That hardly matters, and serves little by way of explan­ation. It falls to the nature of gods, Mappo Runt. And of faith.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'If one asserts a distinction between the gifts from a god and the mortal, mundane world in which exists the believer,' she said, 'then this is as an open door to true godlessness. To the religion of disbelief, if you will.' She glanced over, sauntered closer. 'Ah, already I see you frown­ing in confusion—'

  'I frown at the implications of such a distinction, Spite.'