The Bonehunters

  Iskaral Pust ceased moving, then lifted his head. 'She's gone.'

  The wind that had been driving them steady and hard, ever on course, grew fitful.

  Mappo saw Spite making her way down the forecastle steps, looking weary and somewhat dismayed. 'Well?' Iskaral demanded.

  Spite's gaze dropped to regard the High Priest where he lay on the deck. 'She must leave us for a time. I sought to dissuade her, and, alas, I failed. This places us... at risk.'

  'From what?' Mappo asked.

  She glanced over at him. 'Why, the vagaries of the natural world, Trell. Which can, at times, prove alarming and most random.' Her attention returned to Iskaral Pust. 'High Priest, please, assert some control over your bhok'arala. They keep undoing knots that should remain fast, not to mention leaving those unsightly offerings to you everywhere underfoot.'

  'Assert some control?' Iskaral asked, sitting up with a bewildered look on his face. 'But they're crewing this ship!'

  'Don't be an idiot,' Spite said. 'This ship is being crewed by ghosts. Tiste Andii ghosts, specifically. True, it was amusing to think otherwise, but now your little small-brained worshippers are becoming troublesome.'

  'Troublesome? You have no idea, Spite! Hah!' He cocked his head. 'Yes, let her think on that for a while. That tiny frown wrinkling her brow is so endearing. More than that, admit it, it inspires lust — oh yes, I'm not as shrivelled up as they no doubt think and in so thinking perforce nearly convince me! Besides, she wants me. I can tell. After all, I had a wife, didn't I? Not like Mappo there, with his bestial no doubt burgeoning traits, no, he has no-one! Indeed, am I not experienced? Am I not capable of delicious, enticing subtlety? Am I not favoured by my idiotic, endlessly mis­calculating god?'

  Shaking her head, Spite walked past him, and halted before Mappo. 'Would that I could convince you, Trell, of the necessity for patience, and faith. We have stumbled upon a most extraordinary ally.'

  Allies. They ever fail you in the end. Motives clash, divisive violence follows, and friend betrays friend.

  'Will you devour your own soul, Mappo Runt?'

  'I do not understand you,' he said. 'Why do you involve yourself with my purpose, my quest?'

  'Because,' she said, 'I know where it shall lead.'

  'The future unfolds before you, does it?'

  'Never clearly, never completely. But I can well sense the convergence ahead — it shall be vast, Mappo, more terrible than this or any other realm has ever seen before. The Fall of the Crippled God, the Rage of Kallor, the Wounding at Morn, the Chainings — they all shall be dwarfed by what is coming. And you shall be there, for you are part of that convergence. As is Icarium. Just as I will come face to face with my evil sister at the very end, a meeting from which but one of us will walk away when all is done between us.'

  Mappo stared at her. 'Will I,' he whispered, 'will I stop him? In the end? Or, is he the end — of everything?'

  'I do not know. Perhaps the possibilities, Mappo Runt, depend entirely on how prepared you are at that moment, at your readiness, your faith, if you will.'

  He slowly sighed, closed his eyes, then nodded. 'I understand.'

  And, not seeing, he did not witness her flinch, and was himself unaware of the pathos filling the tone of that admission.

  When he looked upon her once more, he saw naught but a calm, patient expression. Cool, gauging. Mappo nodded. 'As you say. I shall... try.'

  'I would expect no less, Trell.'

  'Quiet!' Iskaral Pust hissed, still lying on the deck, but now on his belly. He was sniffing the air. 'Smell her? I do. I smell her! On this ship! That udder-knotted cow! Where is she!?'

  The mule brayed once more.

  ****

  Taralack Veed crouched before Icarium. The Jhag was paler than he had ever seen him before, the consequence of day after day in this hold, giving his skin a ghoulish green cast. The soft hiss of iron blade against whetstone was the only sound between them for a moment, then the Gral cleared his throat and said, 'A week away at the least — these Edur take their time. Like you, Icarium, they have already begun their preparations.'

  'Why do they force an enemy upon me, Taralack Veed?' The question was so lifeless that for a moment the Grail wondered if it had been rhetorical. He sighed, reaching up to ensure that his hair was as it should be — the winds upside were fierce — then said, 'My friend, they must be shown the extent of your... martial prowess. The enemy with which they have clashed — a number of times, apparently — has proved both resilient and ferocious. The Edur have lost warriors.'

  Icarium continued working the sword's single, notched edge. Then he paused, his eyes fixed on the weapon in his hands. 'I feel,' he said, 'I feel... they are making a mistake. This notion... of testing me — if what you have told me is true. Those tales of my anger... unleashed.' He shook his head. 'Who are those I will face, do you know?'

  Taralack Veed shrugged. 'No, I know very little — they do not trust me, and why should they? I am not an ally —indeed, we are not allies—'

  'And yet we shall soon fight for them. Do you not see the contradictions, Taralack Veed?'

  'There is no good side in the battle to come, my friend. They fight each other endlessly, for both sides lack the capacity, or the will, to do anything else. Both thirst for the blood of their enemies. You and I, we have seen all of this before, the manner in which two opposing forces — no matter how disparate their origins, no matter how righteously one begins the conflict — end up becoming virtually identical to each other. Brutality matches brutality, stupidity matches stupidity. You would have me ask the Tiste Edur? About their terrible, evil enemies? What is the point? This, my friend, is a matter of killing. That and nothing more, now. Do you see that?'

  'A matter of killing,' Icarium repeated, his words a whisper. After a moment, he resumed honing the edge of his sword.

  'And such a matter,' Taralack Veed said, 'belongs to you.'

  'To me.'

  'You must show them that. By ending the battle. Utterly.'

  'Ending it. All the killing. Ending it, for ever.'

  'Yes, my friend. It is your purpose.'

  'With my sword, I can deliver peace.'

  'Oh yes, Icarium, you can and you will.' Mappo Runt, you were a fool. How you might have made use of this Jhag. For the good of all. Icarium is the sword, after all. Forged to be used, as all weapons are.

  The weapon, then, that promises peace. Why, you foolish Trell, did you ever flee from this?

  ****

  North of the Olphara Peninsula, the winds freshened, fill­ing the sails, and the ships seemed to surge like migrating dhenrabi across the midnight blue of the seas. Despite her shallow draught, the Silanda struggled to keep pace with the dromons and enormous transports.

  Almost as bored as the other marines, Bottle walked up and down the deck, trying to ignore their bickering, trying to nail down this sense of unease growing within him. Something... in this wind... something...

  'Bone monger,' Smiles said, pointing her knife at Koryk. 'That's what you remind me of, with all those bones hang­ing from you. I remember one who used to come through the village — the village outside our estate, I mean. Collecting from kitchen middens. Grinding up all kinds and sticking them in flasks. With labels. Dog jaws for toothaches, horse hips for making babies, bird skulls for failing eyes—'

  'Penis bones for homely little girls,' Koryk cut in.

  In a blur, the knife in Smiles's hand reversed grip and she held the point between thumb and fingers.

  'Don't even think it,' Cuttle said in a growl.

  'Besides,' Tarr observed, 'Koryk ain't the only one wearing lots of bones — Hood's breath, Smiles, you're wearing your own—'

  'Tastefully,' she retorted, still holding the knife by its point. 'It's the excess that makes it crass.'

  'Latest court fashion in Unta, you mean?' Cuttle asked, one brow lifting.

  Tarr laughed. 'Subtle and understated, that modest tiny finger bone, dangling just so — th
e ladies swooned with envy.'

  In all of this, Bottle noted in passing, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas simply stared, from one soldier to the next as they bantered. On the man's face baffled incomprehension.

  From the cabin house, voices rising in argument. Again. Gesler, Balm, Stormy and Fiddler.

  One of Y'Ghatan's pups was listening, but Bottle paid little attention, since the clash was an old one, as both Stormy and Balm sought to convince Fiddler to play games with the Deck of Dragons. Besides, what was important was out here, a whisper in the air, in this steady, unceasing near-gale, a scent mostly obscured by the salty seaspray...

  Pausing at the port rail, Bottle looked out at that distant ridge of land to the south. Hazy, strangely blurred, it seemed to be visibly sweeping by, although at this distance such a perception should have been impossible. The wind itself was brown-tinged, as if it had skirled out from some desert.

  We have left Seven Cities. Thank the gods. He never wanted to set foot on that land again. Its sand was a gritty patina on his soul, fused by heat, storms, and uncounted people whose bodies had been incinerated — remnants of them were in him now, and would never be fully expunged from his flesh, his lungs. He could taste their death, hear the echo of their screams.

  Shortnose and Flashwit were wrestling over the deck, growling and biting like a pair of dogs. Some festering argu­ment — Bottle wondered what part of Shortnose would get bitten off this time — and there were shouts and curses as the two rolled into soldiers of Balm's squad who had been throwing bones, scattering the cast. Moments later fights were erupting everywhere.

  As Bottle turned, Mayfly had picked up Lobe and he saw the hapless soldier flung through the air — to crash up against the mound of severed heads.

  Screams, as the ghastly things rolled about, eyes blinking in the sudden light—

  And the fight was over, soldiers hurrying to return the trophies to their pile beneath the tarpaulin.

  Fiddler emerged from the cabin, looking harried. He paused, scanning the scene, then, shaking his head, he walked over to where Bottle leaned on the rail.

  'Corabb should've left me in the tunnel,' the sergeant said, scratching at his beard. 'At least then I'd get some peace.'

  'It's just Balm,' Bottle said, then snapped his mouth shut — but too late.

  'I knew it, you damned bastard. Fine, it stays between you and me, but in exchange want to hear your thoughts. What about Balm?'

  'He's Dal Honese.'

  'I know that, idiot.'

  'Well, his skin's crawling, is my guess.'

  'So's mine, Bottle.'

  Ah, that explains it, then. 'She's with us, now. Again, I mean.'

  'She?'

  'You know who.'

  'The one who plays with your—'

  'The one who also healed you, Sergeant.'

  'What's she got to do with Balm?'

  'I'm not sure. More like where his people live, I think.'

  'Why is she helping us?'

  'Is she, Sergeant?' Bottle turned to study Fiddler. 'Helping us, I mean. True, the last time... Quick Ben's illusion that chased off that enemy fleet. But so what? Now we've got this gale at our backs, and it's driving us west, fast, maybe faster than should be possible — look at that coast — our lead ships must be due south of Monkan by now. At this pace, we'll reach Sepik before night falls. We're being pushed, and that makes me very nervous — what's the damned hurry?'

  'Maybe just putting distance between us and those grey skinned barbarians.'

  'Tiste Edur. Hardly barbarians, Sergeant.'

  Fiddler grunted. 'I've clashed with the Tiste Andii and they used Elder magic — Kurald Galain — and it was nothing like what we saw a week ago.'

  'No, that wasn't warrens. It was Holds — older, raw, way too close to chaos.'

  'What it was,' Fiddler said, 'doesn't belong in war.'

  Bottle laughed. He could not help it. 'You mean, a little bit of wholesale slaughter is all right, Sergeant? Like what we do on the battlefield? Chasing down fleeing soldiers and caving their skulls in from behind, that's all right?'

  'Never said I was making sense, Bottle,' Fiddler retorted. 'It's just what my gut tells me. I've been in battles where sorcery was let loose — really let loose — and it was nothing like what those Edur were up to. They want to win wars without drawing a sword.'

  'And that makes a difference ?'

  'It makes victory unearned, is what it does.'

  'And does the Empress earn her victories, Sergeant?'

  'Careful, Bottle.'

  'Well,' he persisted, 'she's just sitting there on her throne, while we're out here—'

  'You think I fight for her, Bottle?'

  'Well—'

  'If that's what you think, you wasn't taught a damned thing at Y'Ghatan.' He turned and strode off.

  Bottle stared after him a moment, then returned his attention to the distant horizon. Fine, he's right. But still, what we're earning is her currency and that's that.

  ****

  'What in Hood's name are you doing down here?'

  'Hiding, what's it look like? That's always been your problem, Kal, your lack of subtlety. Sooner or later it's going to get you into trouble. Is it dark yet?'

  'No. Listen, what's with this damned gale up top? It's all wrong—'

  'You just noticed?'

  Kalam scowled in the gloom. Well, at least he'd found the wizard. The High Mage of the Fourteenth, hiding between crates and casks and bales. Oh, how bloody encouraging is that? 'The Adjunct wants to talk to you.'

  'Of course she does. I would too if I was her. But I'm not her, am I? No, she's a mystery — you notice how she almost never wears that sword? Now, I'll grant you, I'm glad, now that I've been chained to this damned army. Remember those sky keeps? We're in the midst of something, Kal. And the Adjunct knows more than she's letting on. A lot more. Somehow. The Empress has recalled us. Why? What now?'

  'You're babbling, Quick. It's embarrassing.'

  'You want babbling, try this. Has it not occurred to you that we lost this one?'

  'What?'

  'Dryjhna, the Apocalyptic, the whole prophecy — we didn't get it, we never did — and you and me, Kal, we should have, you know. The Uprising, what did it achieve? How about slaughter, anarchy, rotting corpses everywhere. And what arrived in the wake of that? Plague. The apocalypse, Kalam, wasn't the war, it was the plague. So maybe we won and maybe we lost. Both, do you see?'

  'Dryjhna never belonged to the Crippled God. Nor Poliel—'

  'Hardly matters. It's ended up serving them both, hasn't it?'

  'We can't fight all that, Quick,' Kalam said. 'We had a rebellion. We put it down. What these damned gods and goddesses are up to — it's not our fight. Not the empire's fight, and that includes Laseen. She's not going to see all this as some kind of failure. Tavore did what she had to do and now we're going back, and then we'll get sent elsewhere. That's the way it is.'

  'Tavore sent us into the Imperial Warren, Kal. Why?'

  The assassin shrugged. 'All right, like you said, she's a mystery.'

  Quick Ben moved further into the narrow space between cargo. 'Here, there's room.'

  After a moment, Kalam joined him. 'You got anything to eat? Drink?'

  'Naturally.'

  'Good.'

  ****

  As the lookouts cried out the sighting of Sepik, Apsalar made her way forward. The Adjunct, Nil, Keneb and Nether were already on the forecastle. The sun, low on the horizon to the west, lit the rising mass of land two pegs to starboard with a golden glow. Ahead, the lead ships of the fleet, two dromons, were drawing near.

  Reaching the rail, Apsalar found she could now make out the harbour city tucked in its halfmoon bay. No smoke rose from the tiers, and in the harbour itself, a mere hand­ful of ships rode at anchor; the nearest one had clearly lost its bow anchor — some snag had hung the trader craft up, heeling it to one side so that its starboard rail was very nearly under water.

  Kene
b was speaking, 'Sighting Sepik,' he said in a tone that suggested he was repeating himself, 'should have been four, maybe five days away.'

  Apsalar watched the two dromons work into the city's bay. One of them was Nok's own flagship.

  'Something is wrong,' Nether said.

  'Fist Keneb,' the Adjunct said quietly, 'stand down the marines.'

  'Adjunct?'

  'We shall be making no landfall—'

  At that moment, Apsalar saw the foremost dromon suddenly balk, as if it had inexplicably lost headway — and its crew raced like frenzied ants, sails buckling overhead. A moment later the same activity struck Nok's ship, and a signal flag began working its way upward.

  Beyond the two warcraft, the city of Sepik exploded into life.

  Gulls. Tens of thousands, rising from the streets, the buildings. In their midst, the black tatters of crows, island vultures, lifting like flakes of ash amidst the swirling smoke of the white gulls. Rising, billowing, casting a chaotic shadow over the city.

  Nether whispered, 'They're all dead.'

  'The Tiste Edur have visited,' Apsalar said.

  Tavore faced her. 'Is slaughter their answer to everything?'

  'They found their own kind, Adjunct, a remnant popu­lation. Subject, little more than slaves. They are not reluctant to unleash their fury, these Edur.'

  'How do you know this, Bridgeburner?'

  She eyed the woman. 'How did you know, Adjunct?'

  At that, Tavore turned away.

  Keneb stood looking at the two women, one to the other, then back again.

  Apsalar fixed her gaze back upon the harbour, the gulls settling again to their feast as the two lead dromons worked clear of the bay, sails filling once more. The ships in their immediate wake also began changing course.

  'We shall seek resupply with Nemil,' the Adjunct said. As she turned away, she paused. 'Apsalar, find Quick Ben. Use your skeletal servants if you must.'

  'The High Mage hides among the cargo below,' she replied.

  Tavore's brows lifted. 'Nothing sorcerous, then?'

  'No.'

  As the sound of the Adjunct's boots receded, Fist Keneb stepped closer to Apsalar. 'The Edur fleet — do you think it pursues us even now, Apsalar?'