The Bonehunters

  'What in Hood's name are you going on about, Quick?'

  'Sorry. With her, you asked.' He paused, rubbed at his face. 'Things are going to get ugly.'

  'I know that! That's why I'm asking, idiot!'

  'Calm down. No reason to panic—'

  'Isn't there?'

  Quick Ben shifted from rubbing his face to scratching it, then he pulled his hands away and blinked tearily at the assassin. 'Look what's happening to me, and it's all your damned fault—'

  'Mine?'

  'Well, it's somebody's, is what I'm saying. You're here so it might as well be you, Kal.'

  'Fine, have it that way. You haven't answered me yet.'

  'Are you?' the wizard countered.

  'With her? I don't know. That's the problem.'

  'Me neither. I don't know. She's a hard one to like, almost as hard to hate, since if you look back, there's nothing really to do either with, right?'

  'You're starting to not make sense, Quick.'

  'So what?'

  'So you don't know, and I don't know. I don't know about you,' Kalam said, 'but I hate not knowing. I even hate you not knowing.'

  'That's because, back then, Laseen talked you onto her side. You went to kill her, remember? And she turned you round. But now you're here, with the Adjunct, and we're on our way back, to her. And you don't know if anything's changed, or if it's all changed. It was one thing standing with Whiskeyjack. Even Dujek. We knew them. But the Adjunct... well... things aren't so simple.'

  'Thank you, Quick, for reiterating everything I've just been telling you.'

  'My pleasure. Now, are we done here?'

  'Sorry, in need of changing your loincloth again, are you?'

  'You have no idea what we're about to do, Kal. What I suggest is, come tomorrow morning, you head back down here, close your eyes and wait. Wait, and wait. Don't move. Or try not to. You might get tossed round a bit, and maybe these bales will come down on you. In fact, you might end up getting crushed like a gnat, so better you stay up top. Eyes closed, though. Closed until I say otherwise.'

  'I don't believe you.'

  The High Mage scowled. 'All right. Maybe I was trying to scare you. It'll be rough, though. That much is true. And over on the Silanda, Fiddler will be heaving his guts out.'

  Kalam, thinking on it, suddenly smiled. 'That cheers me up.'

  'Me too.'

  ****

  Like a tidal flow clashing at the mouth of a raging river, walls of water rose in white, churning explosions on all sides as the Silanda lunged, prow plunging, into the maelstrom of the massive gate. Beyond was a sky trans­formed, steel, silver and grey, the tumult of atmospheric convulsions seeming to tumble down, as if but moments from crushing the score of ships already through. The scale to Bottle's eyes was all wrong. Moments earlier their warship had been but a cable behind the Froth Wolf, and now the Adjunct's flagship was a third of a league distant, dwarfed by the looming clouds and heaving swells.

  Huddled beside Bottle, hands gripping the rail, Fiddler spat out the last of his breakfast, too sick to curse, too miserable to even so much as look up—

  Which was likely a good thing, Bottle decided, as he listened to other marines being sick all around him, and the shouts — close to panic — from the scrambling sailors on the transport wallowing in their wake.

  Gesler began blasting on that damned whistle as the ship rose above a huge swell — and Bottle almost cried out to see the stern of the Froth Wolf rearing immediately in front of them. Twisting round, he looked back, to see the sorcerous gate far away, its raging mouth filled with ships — that worked clear, then plunged, suddenly close, behind the Silanda.

  By the Abyss! We're damned near flying here!

  He could see, to starboard, a mass of icebergs spilling out from the white-lined horizon — a wall of ice, he realized. Whilst to port rose a wind-battered coastline, thrashing deciduous trees — oak, arbutus — and here and there clumps of white pine, their tall trunks rocking back and forth with every savage gust. Between the fleet and that shore, there were seals, their heads dotting the waves, the rocky beaches crowded with the beasts.

  'Bottle,' Fiddler croaked, still not looking up, 'tell me some good news.'

  'We're through the gate, Sergeant. It's rough, and it looks like we got a sea full of icebergs closing in to starboard — no, not that close yet, I think we'll outrun them. I'll wager the whole fleet's through now. Gods, those Perish catamarans look like they were made for this. Lucky bastards. Anyway, rumour is this won't be long, here in this realm — Sergeant?'

  But the man was crawling away, heading for the hatch.

  'Sergeant?'

  'I said good news, Bottle. Like, we're all about to drop off the world's edge. Something like that.'

  'Oh. Well,' he called out as the man slithered across the deck, 'there's seals!'

  ****

  The night of the green storm far to the north, four Malazan dromons slid into the harbour of Malaz City, the flags upon their masts indicating that they were from the Jakatakan Fleet, whose task it was to patrol the seas from Malaz Island west, to the island of Geni and on to the Horn of the main-land. There had been clashes a few months past with some unknown fleet, but the invaders had been driven away, albeit at some cost. At full strength, the Jakatakan Fleet sailed twenty-seven dromons and sixteen resupply ships. It was rumoured that eleven dromons had been lost in the multiple skirmishes with the foreign barbarians, although Banaschar, upon hearing all this, suspected that the numbers were either an exaggeration or — in accordance with the policy of minimizing imperial losses — the opposite. The truth of the matter was, he didn't believe much of anything any more, no matter the source.

  Coop's was crowded, with a lot of in and out as denizens repeatedly tramped outside to watch the northern night sky — where there was no night at all — then returned with still more expostulations, which in turn triggered yet another exodus. And so on.

  Banaschar was indifferent to the rushing about — like dogs on the trail, darting from master to home and back again. Endless and brainless, really.

  Whatever was going on up there was well beyond the horizon. Although, given that, Banaschar reluctantly con­cluded, it was big.

  But far away, so far away he quickly lost interest, at least after the first pitcher of ale had been drained. In any case, the four dromons that had just arrived had delivered a score of castaways. Found on a remote reef island southwest of the Horn (and what, Banaschar wondered briefly, were the dromons doing out there?), they had been picked up, brought to Malaz Island with four ships that had been losing a battle with shipping water, and this very night the castaways had disembarked into the glorious city of Malaz.

  Now finding castaways was not entirely uncommon, but what made these ones interesting was that only two of them were Malazans. As for the others... Banaschar lifted his head from his cup, frowned across at his now regular drinking partner, Master Sergeant Braven Tooth, then over at the newcomers huddled round the long table at the back. The ex-priest wasn't alone in casting glances in that direction, but the castaways clearly weren't interested in conversation with anyone but themselves — and there didn! t seem to be much of that, either, Banaschar noted.

  The two Malazans were both drunk, the quiet kind, the miserable kind. The others were not drinking much — seven in all to share a single carafe of wine.

  Damned unnatural, as far as Banaschar was concerned.

  But that in itself was hardly surprising, was it? Those seven were Tiste Andii.

  'I know one of those two, you know,' Braven Tooth said.

  'What?'

  'Them Malazans. They saw me. Earlier, when they came in. One of them went white. That's how I could tell.'

  Banaschar grunted. 'Most veterans who come in here do that the first time they see you, Braven Tooth. Some of them do that every time. How's that feel, b'the way? Striking terror in everyone you ever trained?'

  'Feels good. Besides, it's not everyone I trained
. Jus' most, of 'em. I'm used to it.'

  'Why don't you drag them two over here, then? Get their story — what in Hood's name are they doing with damned Tiste Andii, anyway? Of course, with the feel in the air out­side, there's a good chance those fools won't last the night. Wickans, Seven Cities, Korelri, Tiste Andii — foreigners one and all. And the mob's got its nose up and hackles rising. This city is about to explode.'

  'Ain't never seen this afore,' Braven Tooth muttered. 'This... hate. The old empire was never like that. Damn, it was the bloody opposite. Look around, Banaschar, if y'can focus past that drink in your hand, and you'll see it. Fear, paranoia, closed minds and bared teeth. You voice a complaint out loud these days and you'll end up cut to pieces in some alley. Was never like this afore, Banaschar. Never.'

  'Drag one over.'

  'I heard the story already.'

  'Really? Wasn't you sitting here wi'me all night tonight?'

  'No, I was over there for most of a bell — you never noticed —I don't even think you looked up. You're a big sea sponge, Banaschar, and the more you pour in the thirstier you get.'

  'I'm being followed.'

  'So you keep saying.'

  'They're going to kill me.'

  'Why? They can just sit back and wait for you to kill yourself.'

  'They're impatient.'

  'So I ask again, Banaschar, why?'

  'They don't want me to reach through to him. To Tayschrenn, you see. It's all about Tayschrenn, locked up there in Mock's Hold. They brought the bricks, but he's mixed the mortar. I got to talk to him, and they won't let me. They'll kill me if I even try.' He waved wildly towards the door. 'I head out, right now, and start walking to the Stairs, and I'm dead.'

  'That damned secret of yours, that's what's going to kill you, Banaschar. It's what's killing you right now.'

  'She's cursed me.'

  'Who has?'

  'D'rek, of course. The Worm in my gut, in my brain, the worm that's eating me from the inside out. So what was the story?'

  Braven Tooth scratched the bristling hair beneath his throat, then leaned back. 'Marine recruit Mudslinger. Forget the name he started with, Mudslinger is the one I gave 'im. It fits, 'course. They always fit. He was a tough one, though, a survivor, and tonight's proof of that. The other one's named Gentur. Kanese, I think — not one of mine. Anyway, they was shipwrecked after a battle with the grey-skinned barbarians. Ended up on Drift Avalii, where things got real messy. Seems those barbarians, they was looking for Drift Avalii all along. Well, there were Tiste Andii living on it, and before anyone could spit there was a huge fight between them and the barbarians. An ugly one. Before long Mudslinger and the others with 'im were fighting alongside those Tiste Andii, along with someone named Traveller. The short of it is, Traveller told them all to leave, said he'd take on the barbarians by 'imself and anybody else around was jus' in the way. So they did. Leave, I mean. Only t'get hit by a damned storm, and what was left of 'em fetched up on an atoll, where they spent months drinking coconut milk and eating clams.' Braven Tooth reached for his tankard. 'And that's Mudslinger's story, when he was sober, which he's not any more. The one named Traveller, he's the one that interests me... some­thing familiar about him, the way 'Slinger d'scribes 'im, the way he fought — killing everything fast, wi'out breaking a sweat. Too bad he didn't come wi' these ones.'

  Banaschar stared at the huge man opposite him. What was he talking about? Whatever it was, it went on, and on, and on. Travelling fast? Slingers and fights with barbarians. The man was drunk. Drunk and incomprehensible. 'So, what was Mud's story again?'

  'I just told you.'

  'And what about those Tiste Andii, Braven Tooth? They're going to get killed—'

  'No they ain't. See the tallest one there, with the long white hair. His name is Nimander Golit. And that pretty woman beside him, that's Phaed, his first daughter. All seven of 'em are cousins, sisters, brothers, but it's Nimander who leads, since he's the oldest. Nimander says he is the first son of the Son.'

  The what?'

  'The Son of Darkness, Banaschar. Know who that is?' That's Anomander Rake. Look at 'em, they're all Rake's brood — grandchildren mostly, except for Nimander, who's father to a lot of 'em, but not all. Now, maybe someone's got a hate on for foreigners — you really think that someone would be stupid enough to go after the whelps of Anomander Rake?'

  Banaschar turned slightly, stared over at the figures. He slowly blinked, then shook his head. 'Not unless they're suicidal.'

  'Right, and that's something you'd know all about, ain't it?'

  'So, if Anomander Rake is Nimander's father, who was the mother?'

  'Ah, you're not completely blind, then. You can see, can't you? Different mothers, for some of 'em. And one of those mothers wasn't no Tiste Andii, was she? Look at Phaed—'

  'I can only see the back of her head.'

  'Whatever. I looked at her, and I asked her that very same question you just asked me.'

  'What?'

  ' "Who was your mother?"'

  'Mine?'

  'And she smiled — and I nearly died, Banaschar, and I mean it. Nearly died. Bursting blood vessels in my brain, toppling over nearly died. Anyway, she told me, and it wasn't no Tiste Andii kind of name, and from the looks of her I'd say the other half was human, but then again, can you really tell with these things? Not really.'

  'No, really, what was the name?'

  'Lady Envy, who used to know Anomander Rake himself, and got her revenge taking his son as a lover. Messy, eh? But if she was anything like that Phaed there, with that smile, well, envy's the only word — for every other woman in the world. Gods below... hey, Banaschar, what's wrong? You suddenly look real sick. The ale's not that bad, not like what we had last night, anyway. Look, if you're thinking of fillin' a plate on the tabletop, there ain't no plate, right? And the boards are warped, and that means it'll sluice onto my legs, and that'll get me very annoyed — for Hood's sake, man, draw a damned breath!'

  ****

  Leaning on the scarred, stained bartop fifteen paces away, the man Banaschar called Foreigner nursed a flagon of Malaz Dark, a brew for which he had acquired a taste, despite the expense. He heard the ex-priest and the Master Sergeant arguing back and forth at a table behind him, something they had been doing a lot of lately. On other nights, Foreigner reflected, he would have joined them, leaning back to enjoy what would be an entertaining — if occasionally sad — performance.

  But not tonight.

  Not with them, sitting back there.

  He needed to think, now, and think hard. He needed to come to a decision, and he sensed, with a tremor of fear, that upon that decision rode his destiny.

  'Coop, another Dark here, will you?'

  ****

  The carrack Drowned Rat looked eager to pull away from the stone pier south of the rivermouth as the tide tugged fitfully on its way out. Scrubbed hull, fresh paint, and a bizarre lateen rig and centre-stern steering oar had garnered the curious attention of more than a few sailors and fisher folk who'd wandered past in the last few days. Irritating enough, the captain mused, but Oponn was still smiling nice twin smiles, and before long they'd be on their way, finally. Out of this damned city and the sooner the better.

  First Mate Palet was lying curled up on the mid deck, still nursing the bruises and knocks he'd taken from a drunken mob the night before. The captain's lizard gaze settled on him for a moment, before moving on. They were docked, trussed up neat, and Vole was perched in his oversized crow's nest — the man was mad as a squirrel with a broken tail — and everything seemed about right, so right, in fact, that the captain's nerves were a taut, tangled mess.

  It wasn't just the fever of malice afflicting damned near everyone — with all those acid rumours of betrayal and murder in Seven Cities, and now the unofficial pogrom unleashed against the Wickans — there was, in addition, all that other stuff.

  Scratching at the stubble on his scalp, Cartheron Crust turned and fixed narrow eyes on Mo
ck's Hold. Mostly dark, of course. Faint glow from the gatehouse top of the Stairs —that would be Lubben, the old hunchback keeper, probably passed out by now as was his wont whenever the Hold had uninvited guests. Of course, all guests were uninvited, and even though a new Fist had arrived a month ago, that man Aragan had been posted here before and so he knew the way things worked best — and that was lying as low as you could, not once lifting your head above the parapet. Who knows? Aragan's probably sharing that bottle with Lubben.

  Uninvited guests... like High Mage Tayschrenn. Long ago, now, Crust had found himself in that snake's company all too often, and he'd struggled hard not to do something somebody'd probably regret. Not me, though. The Emperor, maybe. Tayschrenn himself, definitely, but not me. He would dream of a moment alone, just the two of them. A moment, that was all he'd need. Both hands on that scrawny neck, squeeze and twist. Done. Simple. Problem solved.

  What problem? That's what Kellanved would have asked, in his usual apoplectic way. And Crust had an answer wait­ing. No idea, Emperor, but I'm sure there was one, maybe two, maybe plenty. A good enough reply, he figured, although Kellanved might not have agreed. Dancer would've, though. Hah.

  'Four dromons!' Vole called down suddenly.

  Crust stared up at the idiot. 'We're in the harbour! What did you expect? That's it, Vole, no more sending your meals up there — haul your carcass down here!'

  'Cutting in from the north, Captain. 'Top the masts... something glinting silver...'

  Crust's scowl deepened. It was damned dark out there. But Vole was never wrong. Silver... that's not good. No, that's plain awful. He strode over to Palet and nudged the man. 'Get up. Send what's left of the crew back to those warehouses — I don't care who's guarding them, bribe the bastards. I want us low in the water and scuttling outa here like a three-legged crab.'

  The man looked up at him with owlish eyes. 'Captain?'

  'Did they knock all sense from your brain, Palet? Trouble's coming.'

  Sitting up, the First Mate looked round. 'Guards?'

  'No, a whole lot troubler.'

  'Like what?'

  'Like the Empress, you fool.'