Pillars, columns, tree stumps, platforms, staircases leading nowhere, and for every dozen there was one among them holding a prisoner. None of whom seemed capable of dying. Not entirely. Oh, their minds had died—most of them—long ago. Raving in tongues, murmuring senseless incantations, begging forgiveness, offering bargains, though not one had yet—within Kalam’s hearing—proclaimed its own innocence.
As if mercy could be an issue without it. He nudged his horse forward once more. This was not a realm to his liking. Not that he’d in truth had much choice in the matter. Bargaining with gods was—for the mortal involved—an exercise in self-delusion. Kalam would rather leave Quick Ben to play games with the rulers of this warren—the wizard had the advantage of enjoying the challenge—no, it was more than that. Quick Ben had left so many knives in so many backs—none of them fatal but none the less sure to sting when tugged, and it was that tugging the wizard loved so much.
The assassin wondered where his old friend was right now. There’d been trouble—nothing new there—and, since then, naught but silence. And then there was Fiddler. The fool had re-enlisted, for Hood’s sake! Well, at least they’re doing something. Not Kalam, oh no, not Kalam. Thirteen hundred children, resurrected on a whim. Shining eyes following his every move, mapping his every step, memorizing his every gesture—what could he teach them? The art of mayhem? As if children needed help in that.
A ridge lay ahead. He reached the base and brought his horse into a gentle canter up the slope.
Besides, Minala seemed to have it all under control. A natural born tyrant, she was, both in public and in private amidst the bedrolls in the half-ruined hovel they shared. And oddly enough, he’d found he was not averse to tyranny. In principle, that is. Things had a way of actually working when someone capable and implacable took charge. And he’d had enough experience taking orders to not chafe at her position of command. Between her and the aptorian demoness, a certain measure of control was being maintained, a host of life skills were being inculcated . . . stealth, tracking, the laying of ambushes, the setting of traps for game both two- and four-legged, riding, scaling walls, freezing in place, knife throwing and countless other weapon skills, the weapons themselves donated by the warren’s mad rulers—half of them cursed or haunted or fashioned for entirely unhuman hands. The children took to such training with frightening zeal, and the gleam of pride in Minala’s eyes left the assassin . . . chilled.
An army in the making for Shadowthrone. An alarming prospect, to say the least.
He reached the ridge. And suddenly reined in.
An enormous stone gate surmounted the hill opposite, twin pillars spanned by an arch. Within it, a swirling grey wall. On this side of the gate, the grassy summit flowed with countless, sourceless shadows, as if they were somehow tumbling out from the portal, only to swarm like lost wraiths around its threshold.
‘Careful,’ a voice murmured beside Kalam.
He turned to see a tall, hooded and cloaked figure standing a few paces away, flanked by two Hounds. Cotillion, and his favoured two, Rood and Blind. The beasts sat on their scarred haunches, lurid eyes—seeing and unseeing—on the portal.
‘Why should I be careful?’ the assassin asked.
‘Oh, the shadows at the gate. They’ve lost their masters . . . but anyone will do.’
‘So this gate is sealed?’
The hooded head slowly turned. ‘Dear Kalam, is this a flight from our realm? How . . . ignoble.’
‘I said nothing to suggest—’
‘Then why does your shadow stretch so yearningly forward?’
Kalam glanced down at it, then scowled. ‘How should I know? Perhaps it considers its chances better in yonder mob.’
‘Chances?’
‘For excitement.’
‘Ah. Chafing, are you? I would never have guessed.’
‘Liar,’ Kalam said. ‘Minala has banished me. But you already know that, which is why you’ve come to find me.’
‘I am the Patron of Assassins,’ Cotillion said. ‘I do not mediate marital disputes.’
‘Depends on how fierce they get, doesn’t it?’
‘Are you ready to kill each other, then?’
‘No. I was only making a point.’
‘Which was?’
‘What are you doing here, Cotillion?’
The god was silent for a long moment. ‘I have often wondered,’ he finally said, ‘why it is that you, an assassin, offer no obeisance to your patron.’
Kalam’s brows rose. ‘Since when have you expected it? Hood take us, Cotillion, if it was fanatical worshippers you hungered for, you should never have looked to assassins. By our very natures, we’re antithetical to the notion of subservience—as if you weren’t already aware of that.’ His voice trailed off, and he turned to study the shadow-wreathed figure standing beside him. ‘Mind you, you stood at Kellanved’s side, through to the end. Dancer, it seems, knew both loyalty and servitude . . .’
‘Servitude?’ There was a hint of a smile in the tone.
‘Mere expedience? That seems difficult to countenance, given all that the two of you went through. Out with it, Cotillion, what is it you’re asking?’
‘Was I asking something?’
‘You want me to . . . serve you, as would a minion his god. Some probably disreputable mission. You need me for something, only you’ve never learned how to ask.’
Rood slowly rose from his haunches, then stretched, long and languorous. The massive head then swung round, lambent eyes settling on Kalam.
‘The Hounds are troubled,’ Cotillion murmured. ‘I can tell,’ the assassin replied drily.
‘I have certain tasks before me,’ the god continued, ‘that will consume much of my time for the near future. Whilst at the same time, certain other . . . activities . . . must be undertaken. It is one thing to find a loyal subject, but another entirely to find one conveniently positioned, as it were, to be of practical use—’
Kalam barked a laugh. ‘You went fishing for faithful servants and found your subjects wanting.’
‘We could argue interpretation all day,’ Cotillion drawled.
There was a detectable irony in the god’s voice that pleased Kalam. In spite of his wariness, he admitted that he actually liked Cotillion. Uncle Cotillion, as the child Panek called him. Certainly, between the Patron of Assassins and Shadowthrone, only the former seemed to possess any shred of self-examination—and thus was actually capable of being humbled. Even if the likelihood was in truth remote. ‘Agreed,’ Kalam replied. ‘Very well, Minala has no interest in seeing my pretty face for a time. Leaving me free, more or less—’
‘And without a roof over your head.’
‘Without a roof over my head, aye. Fortunately it never seems to rain in your realm.’
‘Ah,’ Cotillion murmured, ‘my realm.’
Kalam studied Rood. The beast had not relinquished its steady stare. The assassin was growing nervous under that unwavering attention. ‘Is your claim—yours and Shadowthrone’s—being contested?’
‘Difficult to answer,’ Cotillion murmured. ‘There have been . . . trembles. Agitation . . .’
‘As you said, the Hounds are troubled.’
‘They are indeed.’
‘You wish to know more of your potential enemy.’
‘We would.’
Kalam studied the gate, the swirling shadows at its threshold. ‘Where would you have me begin?’
‘A confluence to your own desires, I suspect.’
The assassin glanced at the god, then slowly nodded.
In the half-light of dusk, the seas grew calm, gulls wheeling in from the shoals to settle on the beach. Cutter had built a fire from driftwood, more from the need to be doing something than seeking warmth, for the Kanese coast was subtropical, the breeze sighing down off the verge faint and sultry. The Daru had collected water from the spring near the trail head and was now brewing tea. Overhead, the first stars of night flickered into life.
&nbs
p; Apsalar’s question earlier that afternoon had gone unanswered. Cutter was not yet ready to return to Darujhistan, and he felt nothing of the calm he’d expected to follow the completion of their task. Rellock and Apsalar had, finally, returned to their home, only to find it a place haunted by death, a haunting that had slipped its fatal flavour into the old man’s soul, adding yet one more ghost to this forlorn strand. There was, now, nothing for them here.
Cutter’s own experience here in the Malazan Empire was, he well knew, twisted and incomplete. A single vicious night in Malaz City, followed by three tense days in Kan that closed with yet more assassinations. The empire was a foreign place, of course, and one could expect a certain degree of discord between it and what he was used to in Darujhistan, but if anything what he had seen of daily life in the cities suggested a stronger sense of lawfulness, of order and calm. Even so, it was the smaller details that jarred his sensibilities the most, that reinforced the fact that he was a stranger.
Feeling vulnerable was not a weakness he shared with Apsalar. She seemed possessed of absolute calm, an ease, no matter where she was—the confidence of the god who once possessed her had left something of a permanent imprint on her soul. Not just confidence. He thought once more of the night she had killed the man in Kan. Deadly skills, and the icy precision necessary when using them. And, he recalled with a shiver, many of the god’s own memories remained with her, reaching back to when the god had been a mortal man, had been Dancer. Among those, the night of the assassinations—when the woman who would become Empress had struck down the Emperor . . . and Dancer.
She had revealed that much, at least, a revelation devoid of feeling, of sentiment, delivered as casually as a comment about the weather. Memories of biting knives, of dust-covered blood rolling like pellets across a floor . . .
He removed the pot from the coals, threw a handful of herbs into the steaming water.
She had gone for a walk, westward along the white beach. Even as dusk settled, he had lost sight of her, and he had begun to wonder if she was ever coming back.
A log settled suddenly, flinging sparks. The sea had grown entirely dark, invisible; he could not even hear the lap of the waves beyond the crackling fire. A cooler breath rode the breeze.
Cutter slowly rose, then spun round to face inland as something moved in the gloom beyond the fire’s light. ‘Apsalar?’
There was no reply. A faint thumping underfoot, as if the sands trembled to the passage of something huge . . . huge and four-legged.
The Daru drew out his knives, stepping away from the flickering light.
Ten paces away, at a height to match his own, he saw two glowing eyes, set wide, gold and seemingly depthless. The head and the body beneath it were darker stains in the night, hinting at a mass that left Cutter cold.
‘Ah,’ a voice said from the shadows to his left, ‘the Daru lad. Blind has found you, good. Now, where is your companion?’
Cutter slowly sheathed his weapons. ‘That damned Hound gave me a start,’ he muttered. ‘And if it’s blind, why is it looking straight at me?’
‘Well, her name is something of a misnomer. She sees, but not as we see.’ A cloaked figure stepped into the firelight. ‘Do you know me?’
‘Cotillion,’ Cutter replied. ‘Shadowthrone is much shorter.’
‘Not that much, though perhaps in his affectations he exaggerates certain traits.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I would speak with Apsalar, of course. There is the smell of death here . . . recent, that is—’
‘Rellock. Her father. In his sleep.’
‘Unfortunate.’ The god’s hooded head turned, as if scanning the vicinity, then swung back to face Cutter. ‘Am I your patron now?’ he asked.
He wanted to answer no. He wanted to back away, to flee the question and all his answer would signify. He wanted to unleash vitriol at the suggestion. ‘I believe you might be at that, Cotillion.’
‘I am . . . pleased, Crokus.’
‘I am now named Cutter.’
‘Far less subtle, but apt enough, I suppose. Even so, there was the hint of deadly charm in your old Daru name. Are you sure you will not reconsider?’
Cutter shrugged, then said, ‘Crokus had no . . . patron god.’
‘Of course. And one day, a man will arrive in Darujhistan. With a Malazan name, and no-one will know him, except perhaps by reputation. And he will eventually hear tales of the young Crokus, a lad so instrumental in saving the city on the night of the Fête, all those years ago. Innocent, unsullied Crokus. So be it . . . Cutter. I see you have a boat.’
The change of subject startled him slightly, then he nodded. ‘We have.’
‘Sufficiently provisioned?’
‘More or less. Not for a long voyage, though.’
‘No, of course not. Why should it be? May I see your knives?’
Cutter unsheathed them and passed them across to the god, pommels forward.
‘Decent blades,’ Cotillion murmured. ‘Well balanced. Within them are the echoes of your skill, the taste of blood. Shall I bless them for you, Cutter?’
‘If the blessing is without magic,’ the Daru replied.
‘You desire no sorcerous investment?’
‘No.’
‘Ah. You would follow Rallick Nom’s path.’
Cutter’s eyes narrowed. Oh, yes, he would recall him. When he saw through Sorry’s eyes, at the Phoenix Inn, perhaps. Or maybe Rallick acknowledged his patron . . . though I find that difficult to believe. ‘I think I would have trouble following that path, Cotillion. Rallick’s abilities are . . . were—’
‘Formidable, yes. I do not think you need use the past tense when speaking of Rallick Nom, or Vorcan for that matter. No, I’ve no news . . . simply a suspicion.’ He handed the knives back. ‘You underestimate your own skills, Cutter, but perhaps that is for the best.’
‘I don’t know where Apsalar’s gone,’ Cutter said. ‘I don’t know if she’s coming back.’
‘As it has turned out, her presence has proved less vital than expected. I have a task for you, Cutter. Are you amenable to providing a service to your patron?’
‘Isn’t that expected?’
Cotillion was silent for a moment, then he laughed softly. ‘No, I shall not take advantage of your . . . inexperience, though I admit to some temptation. Shall we begin things on a proper footing? Reciprocity, Cutter. A relationship of mutual exchanges, yes?’
‘Would that you had offered the same to Apsalar.’ Then he clamped his jaw shut.
But Cotillion simply sighed. ‘Would that I had. Consider this new tact the consequence of difficult lessons.’
‘You said reciprocity. What will I receive in return for providing this service?’
‘Well, since you’ll not accept my blessing or any other investment, I admit to being at something of a loss. Any suggestions?’
‘I’d like some questions answered.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Yes. Such as, why did you and Shadowthrone scheme to destroy Laseen and the empire? Was it just a desire for revenge?’
The god seemed to flinch within his robes, and Cutter felt unseen eyes harden. ‘Oh my,’ Cotillion drawled, ‘you force me to reconsider my offer.’
‘I would know,’ the Daru pressed on, ‘so I can understand what you did . . . did to Apsalar.’
‘You demand that your patron god justify his actions?’
‘It wasn’t a demand. Just a question.’ Cotillion said nothing for a long moment.
The fire was slowly dying, embers pulsing with the breeze. Cutter sensed the presence of a second Hound somewhere in the darkness beyond, moving restlessly.
‘Necessities,’ the god said quietly. ‘Games are played, and what may appear precipitous might well be little more than a feint. Or perhaps it was the city itself, Darujhistan, that would serve our purposes better if it remained free, independent. There are layers of meaning behind every gesture, every gambit. I will not explain mysel
f any further than that, Cutter.’
‘Do—do you regret what you did?’
‘You are indeed fearless, aren’t you? Regret? Yes. Many, many regrets. One day, perhaps, you will see for yourself that regrets are as nothing. The value lies in how they are answered.’
Cutter slowly turned and stared out into the darkness of the sea. ‘I threw Oponn’s coin into the lake,’ he said.
‘And do you now regret the act?’
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t like their . . . attention.’
‘I am not surprised,’ Cotillion muttered.
‘I have one more request,’ Cutter said, facing the god again. ‘This task you shall set me on—if I am assailed during it, can I call upon Blind?’
‘The Hound?’ The astonishment was clear in Cotillion’s voice.
‘Aye,’ Cutter replied, his gaze now on the huge beast. ‘Her attention . . . comforts me.’
‘That makes you rarer than you could imagine, mortal. Very well. If the need is dire, call upon her and she will come.’
Cutter nodded. ‘Now, what would you have me do on your behalf?’
The sun had cleared the horizon when Apsalar returned. After a few hours’ sleep, Cutter had risen to bury Rellock above the tide line. He was checking the boat’s hull one last time when a shadow appeared alongside his own.
‘You had visitors,’ she said.
He squinted up at her, studied her dark, depthless eyes. ‘Aye.’
‘And do you now have an answer to my question?’
Cutter frowned, then he sighed and nodded. ‘I do. We’re to explore an island.’
‘An island? Is it far?’
‘Middling, but getting farther by the moment.’
‘Ah. Of course.’
Of course.
Overhead, gulls cried in the morning air on their way out to sea. Beyond the shoals, their white specks followed the wind, angling south-westward.
Cutter set his shoulder to the prow and pushed the craft back out onto the water. Then he clambered aboard. Apsalar joined him, making her way to the tiller.
What now? A god had given him his answer.
There had been no sunset in the realm the Tiste Edur called the Nascent for five months. The sky was grey, the light strangely hued and diffuse. There had been a flood, and then rains, and a world had been destroyed.