The Bonehunters Page 12

  'Oh all right. It's just that there's a body in the canal below.'

  Damn this. She edged to the low wall and looked down. 'That's not Tiste Edur.'

  'No,' Curdle confirmed. 'It most certainly isn't, Not Apsalar. It is like you, yes, like you. Only more bloated, not long dead — we want it—'

  'Don't expect help if trying for it attracts attention.'

  'Oh, she has a point, Curdle. Come on, she's moving away from us! Wait! Don't leave us here!'

  Reaching a steep staircase, Apsalar quickly descended. As soon as she stepped onto the pale dusty ground, the ghostly city vanished. In her wake the two shades appeared, sinking towards her.

  'A most dreadful place,' Telorast said.

  'But there was a throne,' Curdle cried. 'I sensed it! A most delicious throne!'

  Telorast snorted. 'Delicious? You have lost your mind. Naught but pain. Suffering. Affliction—'

  'Quiet,' Apsalar commanded. 'You will tell me more about this throne you two sensed, but later. Guard this entrance.'

  'We can do that. We're very skilled guards. Someone died down there, yes? Can we have the body?'

  'No. Stay here.' Apsalar entered the half-buried temple.

  The chamber within was not as she had left it. The Semk's corpse was gone. Mebra's body had been stripped of its clothing, the clothing itself cut apart. What little furnishings occupied the room had been methodically dis­mantled. Cursing under her breath, Apsalar walked to the doorway leading to the inner chamber — the curtain that had covered it had been torn away. In the small room beyond — Mebra's living quarters — the searcher or searchers had been equally thorough. Indifferent to the absence of light, she scanned the detritus. Someone had been looking for something, or deliberately obscuring a trail.

  She thought about the Semk assassin's appearance last night. She had assumed he'd somehow seen her sprint across the rubble and so was compelled to return. But now she won­dered. Perhaps he'd been sent back, his task only half-completed. In either case, he had not been working alone that night. She had been careless, thinking otherwise.

  From the outer chamber came a wavering whisper, 'Where are you?'

  Apsalar stepped back through the doorway. 'What are you doing here, Curdle? I told you to—'

  'Two people are coming. Women, like you. Like us, too. I forgot. Yes, we're all women here—'

  'Find a shadow and hide,' Apsalar cut in. 'Same for Telorast.'

  'You don't want us to kill them?'

  'Can you?'

  'No.'

  'Hide yourselves.'

  'A good thing we decided to guard the door, isn't it?'

  Ignoring the ghost, Apsalar positioned herself beside the outer entrance. She drew her knives, set her back against the sloping stone, and waited.

  She heard their quick steps, the scuffing as they halted just outside, their breathing. Then the first one stepped through, in her hands a shuttered lantern. She strode in further as she flipped back one of the hinged shutters, sending a shaft of light against the far wall. Behind her entered the second woman, a scimitar unsheathed and held out.

  The Pardu caravan guards.

  Apsalar stepped close and drove the point of one dagger into the woman's elbow joint on the sword-arm, then swung the other weapon, pommel-forward, into the woman's temple.

  She dropped, as did her weapon.

  The other spun round.

  A high swinging kick caught her above the jaw. She reeled, lantern flying to crack against the wall.

  Sheathing her knives, Apsalar closed in on the stunned guard. A punch to the solar plexus doubled her over. The guard dropped to her knees, then fell onto one side, curling up around the pain.

  'This is convenient,' Apsalar said, 'since I was intending to question you anyway.'

  She walked back to the first woman and checked on her condition. Unconscious, and likely would remain so for some time. Even so, she kicked the scimitar into a corner, then stripped her of the knives she found hidden under her arms. Walking back to the other Pardu, she looked down on the groaning, motionless woman for a moment, then crouched and dragged her to her feet.

  She grasped the woman's right arm, the one she used to hold a weapon, and, with a sharp twist, dislocated it at the elbow.

  The woman cried out.

  Apsalar closed a hand on her throat and slammed her against the wall, the head cracking hard. Vomit spilled onto the assassin's glove and wrist. She held the Pardu there. 'Now you will answer my questions.'

  'Please!'

  'No pleading. Pleading only makes me cruel. Answer me to my satisfaction and I might let you and your friend live. Do you understand?'

  The Pardu nodded, her face smeared with blood and an elongated bump swelling below her right eye where the iron-embedded moccasin had struck.

  Sensing the arrival of the two ghosts, Apsalar glanced over her shoulder. They were hovering over the body of the other Pardu.

  'One of us might take her,' Telorast whispered.

  'Easy,' agreed Curdle. 'Her mind is addled.'

  'Absent.'

  'Lost in the Abyss.'

  Apsalar hesitated, then said, 'Go ahead.'

  'Me!' hissed Curdle.

  'No, me!' snarled Telorast.

  'Me!'

  'I got to her first!'

  'You did not!'

  'I choose,' said Apsalar. 'Acceptable?'

  'Yes.'

  'Oh yes, you choose, dearest Mistress—'

  'You're grovelling again!'

  'Am not!'

  'Curdle,' Apsalar said. 'Possess her.'

  'I knew you'd pick her!'

  'Patience, Telorast. This night's not yet done.'

  The Pardu woman before her was blinking, a wild look in her eyes. 'Who are you talking to? What language is that? Who's out there — I can't see—'

  'Your lantern's out. Never mind. Tell me about your master.'

  'Gods below, it hurts—'

  Apsalar reached down and twisted the dislocated arm again.

  The woman shrieked, then sagged, unconscious.

  Apsalar let her slide down the wall until the woman was roughly in a sitting position. Then she drew out a flask and splashed water into the Pardu's face.

  The eyes opened, comprehension returned, and with it, terror.

  'I don't want to hear about what hurts,' Apsalar said. 'I want to hear about the merchant. Your employer. Now, shall we try again?'

  The other Pardu was sitting up near the entrance, making grunting noises, then coughing, until she spat out bloody phlegm. 'Ah!' Curdle cried. 'Better! Oh, everything aches, oh, the arm!'

  'Be quiet,' Apsalar commanded, then fixed her attention once more on the woman in front of her. 'I am not a patient person.'

  'Trygalle Trade Guild,' the woman said in a gasp.

  Apsalar slowly leaned back on her haunches. A most unexpected answer. 'Curdle, get out of that body.'

  'What?'

  'Now.'

  'Just as well, she was all broken. Ah, free of pain again! This is better — I was a fool!'

  Telorast's laughter was a rasp. 'And you still are, Curdle. I could have told you, you know. She wasn't right for you.'

  'No more talking,' Apsalar said. She needed to think on this. The Trygalle Trade Guild's centre of operations was Darujhistan. It had been a long time since they'd visited the fragment of the Shadow Realm with munitions for Fiddler, assuming it was the same caravan — and she sus­pected it was. As purveyors of items and information, it now seemed obvious that more than one mission had brought them to Seven Cities. On the other hand, perhaps they were doing little more than recovering here in the city — given their harrowing routes through the warrens — and the merchant-mage had instructed his guards to deliver any and all unusual information. Even so, she needed to be certain. 'The Trygalle merchant — what brought him or her here to Ehrlitan?'

  The swelling was closing the Pardu's right eye. 'Him.'

  'His name?'

  'Karpolan Demesan
d.'

  At that, Apsalar allowed herself a faint nod.

  'We, uh, we were making a delivery — us guards, we're shareholders—'

  'I know how the Trygalle Trade Guild works. A delivery, you said.'

  'Yes, to Coltaine. During the Chain of Dogs.'

  'That was some time ago.'

  'Yes. I'm sorry, the pain, it hurts to talk.'

  'It'll hurt more if you don't.'

  The Pardu grimaced, and it was a moment before Apsalar realized it had been a smile. 'I do not doubt you, Shadow Dancer. Yes, there was more. Altar stones.'

  'What?'

  'Cut stones, to line a holy pool...'

  'Here in Ehrlitan?'

  The woman shook her head, winced, then said, 'No. Y'Ghatan.'

  'Are you on your way there, or returning?'

  'Returning. Outward journeys are through warrens. We're... uh... resting.'

  'So Karpolan Demesand's interest in a Shadow Dancer is just passing.'

  'He likes to know... everything. Information buys us advantages. No-one likes rearguard on the Ride.'

  'The Ride.'

  'Through the warrens. It's... hairy.'

  I imagine it would be. 'Tell your master,' Apsalar said, 'that this Shadow Dancer does not appreciate the attention.'

  The Pardu nodded.

  Apsalar straightened. 'I am done with you.'

  The woman flinched back, up against the wall, her left forearm rising to cover her face.

  The assassin looked down on the guard, wondering what had set her off.

  'We understand that language now,' Telorast said. 'She thinks you are going to kill her, and you are, aren't you?'

  'No. That should be obvious, if she's to deliver a message to her master.'

  'She's not thinking straight,' Curdle said. 'Besides, what better way to deliver your message than with two corpses?'

  Apsalar sighed, said to the Pardu, 'What brought you to this place? To Mebra's?'

  Muffled from behind the forearm, the woman replied, 'Purchasing information... but he's dead.'

  'What information?'

  'Any. All. Comings and goings. Whatever he was selling. But you've killed Mebra—'

  'No, I did not. By way of peace between me and your master, I will tell you this. An assassin of the Nameless Ones murdered Mebra. There was no torture involved. A simple assassination. The Nameless Ones weren't looking for information.'

  The Pardu's lone visible eye, now above the guarding wrist, was fixed on her. 'The Nameless Ones? Seven Holies protect us!'

  'Now,' Apsalar said, drawing her knife, 'I need some time.' With that she struck the woman with the pommel of her knife, hard against the temple, and watched the Pardu's eye roll up, the body slump over.

  'Will she live?' Telorast demanded, slinking closer.

  'Leave her alone.'

  'She may wake up not remembering anything you told her.'

  'It doesn't matter,' Apsalar replied, sheathing her knife. 'Her master will glean all he needs to know anyway.'

  'A sorceror. Ah, they travel the warrens, they said. Risky. This Karpolan Demesand must be a formidable wielder of magic — you have made a dangerous enemy.'

  'I doubt he will pursue this, Telorast. I let his share­holders live, and I have provided him with information.'

  'And what of the tablets?' Curdle asked.

  Apsalar turned. 'What tablets?'

  'The ones hidden under the floor.'

  'Show me.'

  The shade drifted towards Mebra's naked corpse. 'Under him. A secret cache, beneath this pavestone. Hard clay, endless lists, they probably mean nothing.'

  Apsalar rolled the body over. The stone was easily pried loose, and she wondered at the carelessness of the searchers. Then again, perhaps Mebra had had some control over where he would die. He had been lying directly over it. A rough pit had been excavated, and it was crowded with clay tablets. In one corner sat a damp burlap sack filled with soft clay, and a half-dozen bone scribers bound in twine.

  She rose and retrieved the lantern. When it had struck the wall, the shutter had closed — the flame within remained. She pulled the top ring to draw up the hinged shutters part-way. Returning to the secret cache, she collected the topmost dozen tablets then sat cross-legged beside the pit within the small circle of light, and began reading.

  Attending the Grand Meeting of the Cult of Rashan was Bridthok of G'danisban, Septhune Anabhin of Omari, Sradal Purthu of Y'Ghatan, and Torahaval Delat of Karashimesh. Fools and charlatans one and all, although it must be said, Sradal is a dangerous fool. Torahaval is a bitch, with nothing of the humour of her cousin, nor his deadliness. She plays at this and nothing more, but she will make a fine head-piece, a High Priestess with seductive charms and so the acolytes shall flock. Of Septhune and Bridthok, the latter is my nearest rival, leaning heavily on his bloodline to that madman Bidithal, but I know well his weaknesses now and soon he shall be eliminated from the final vote by misfortune. Septhune is a follower and no more need be said of him.

  Two of these cultists numbered among Apsalar's targets for assassination. She memorized the other names, in case the opportunity arose.

  The second, third and fourth tablets contained lists of contacts made in the past week, with notes and obser­vations that made it plain that Mebra had been busy weaving his usual web of extortion among a host of dim-witted victims. Merchants, soldiers, amorous wives, thieves and thugs.

  The fifth tablet proved interesting.

  Sribin, my most trusted agent, has confirmed it. The outlawed Gral, Taralack Veed, was in Ehrlitan one month past. Truly a man to be feared, the most secret dagger of the Nameless Ones. This only reinforces my suspicion that they have done something, an unleashing of some ancient, terrible demon. Even as the Khundryl wanderer said, and so it was no lie, that harrowing tale of the barrow and the fleeing dragon. A hunt has begun. Yet, who is the prey? And what role has Taralack Veed in all this? Oh, the name alone, scribed here in damp clay, fills my bones with ice. Dessimbelackis curse the Nameless Ones. They never play fair.

  'How much longer are you going to do that?' Curdle demanded beside her.

  Ignoring the shade, Apsalar continued working her way through the tablets, now seeking the name of Taralack Veed. The ghosts wandered about, sniffing every now and then at the two unconscious Pardu, slipping outside occasionally then returning, muttering in some unknown language.

  There were thirty-three tablets in the pit, and as she removed the last one, she noted something odd about the pit's base. She brought the lantern closer. Shattered pieces of dried clay. Fragments of writing in Mebra's hand. 'He destroys them,' she said under her breath. 'Periodically.' She studied the last tablet in her hand. It was dustier by far than all the others, the script more faded by wear. 'But he saved this one.' Another list. Only, in this one she recog­nized names. Apsalar began reading aloud: 'Duiker has finally freed Heboric Light Touch. Plan ruined by the rebellion, and Heboric lost. Coltaine marches with his refugees, yet there are vipers among the Malazans. Kalam Mehkar sent to Sha'ik, the Red Blades following. Kalam will deliver the Book into Sha'ik's hands. The Red Blades will kill the bitch. I am well pleased.' The next few lines had been carved into the clay after it had hardened, the script looking ragged and hurried. 'Heboric is with Sha'ik. Known now as Ghost Hands, and in those hands is the power to destroy us all. This entire world. And none can stop him.'

  Written in terror and panic. Yet... Apsalar glanced over at the other tablets. Something must have happened to have eased his mind. Was Heboric now dead? She did not know. Had someone else stumbled on the man's trail, someone aware of the threat? And how in Hood's name had Heboric — a minor historian of Unta — ended up in Sha'ik's company?

  Clearly the Red Blades had failed in their assassination attempt. After all, the Adjunct Tavore had killed the woman, hadn't she? In front of ten thousand witnesses.

  'This woman is waking up.'

  She looked over at Telorast. The shade was hovering over t
he Pardu guard lying near the entrance. 'All right,' Apsalar said, pushing the heap of tablets back into the pit and replacing the stone. 'We're leaving.'

  'Finally! It's almost light outside!'

  'No causeway?'

  'Nothing but ruin, Not-Apsalar. Oh, this place looks too much like home.'

  Curdle hissed. 'Quiet, Telorast, you idiot! We don't talk about that, remember?'

  'Sorry.'

  'When we reach my room,' Apsalar said, 'I want you two to tell me about that throne.'

  'She remembered.'

  'I don't,' Curdle said.

  'Me neither,' Telorast said. 'Throne? What throne?'

  Apsalar studied the two ghosts, the faintly luminous eyes peering up at her. 'Oh, never mind.'

  ****

  The Falah'd was a head shorter than Samar Dev — and she was of barely average height — and he likely weighed less than would one of her legs cut clean away at the hip. An unpleasant image, she allowed, but one frighteningly close to reality. A fierce infection had set in the broken bones and it had taken four witches to draw the malign presence out. That had been the night before and she still felt weak and light-headed, and standing here in this blistering sun wasn't helping.

  However short and slight the Falah'd was, he worked hard at presenting a noble, imposing figure, perched there atop his long-legged white mare. Alas, the beast was trembling beneath him, flinching every time Karsa Orlong's Jhag stallion tossed its head and rolled its eyes menacingly in the mare's direction. The Falah'd gripped the saddle horn with both hands, his thin dark lips pinched and a certain timidity in his eyes. His ornate, jewel-studded telaba was dishevelled, and the round, silken and padded hat on his head was askew as he looked on the one known to all as Toblakai, once-champion of Sha'ik. Who, standing beside his horse, was still able, had he so chosen, to look down on the ruler of Ugarat.

  Fifty palace guards accompanied the Falah'd, none of them — nor their mounts — at ease.

  Toblakai was studying the massive edifice known as Moraval Keep. An entire flat-topped mesa had been carved hollow, the rock walls shaped into imposing fortifications. A deep, steep-walled moat surrounded the keep. Moranth munitions or sorcery had destroyed the stone bridge spanning it, and the doors beyond, battered and scorched, were of solid iron. A few scattered windows were visible, high up and unadorned, each sealed by iron doors barbed with angled arrow-slits.