The Malazan Empire Read online

  The south horizon was a jagged line of snow-capped mountains. The Tahlyn Mountains would remain on her right for some time, before the Rhivi Plain swept past them and became the Catlin Plain. Few farms broke the flatlands around her, and those that did crowded the city’s own lands. The Rhivi people were not tolerant of such encroachments, and since every trade route that led to and from Pale crossed their traditional territory, those of the city wisely refrained from angering the Rhivi.

  Ahead, as she walked her horses, the dawn showed its face with a streak of crimson. The rain had passed a few days back, and the sky overhead was silver-blue and clear, a few stars dwindling as light came to the world.

  The day promised to be hot. The Adjunct loosened the leather thongs between her breasts, revealing the fine mail hauberk beneath. By midday she would reach the first wellspring, where she would replenish her supply of water. She ran a hand across the surface of one of the bladders strapped to her saddle. It came away wet with condensation. She passed her hand across her lips.

  The voice that spoke beside her jolted her in the saddle and her mount snorted in fear and sidestepped.

  “I will walk with you,” Onos T’oolan said, “for a time.”

  Lorn glared at the T’lan Imass. “I would rather you announced your arrival,” she said tightly, “from a distance.”

  “As you wish.” Onos T’oolan sank into the ground like so much dust.

  The Adjunct cursed. Then she saw him waiting a hundred yards ahead of her, backlit by the rising sun. The crimson sky seemed to have cast a red flame about the warrior. The effect jangled her nerves, as if she looked upon a scene that touched her deepest, oldest memories—memories that went beyond her own life. The T’lan Imass stood unmoving until she reached him, then fell into step beside her.

  Lorn tightened her knees about the horse’s shoulders and closed the reins until the mare settled down. “Do you have to be so literal-minded, Tool?” she asked.

  The desiccated warrior seemed to consider, then nodded. “I accept that name. All of my history is dead. Existence begins anew, and with it shall be a new name. It is suitable.”

  “Why were you selected to accompany me?” the Adjunct asked.

  “In the lands west and north of Seven Cities, I alone among my clan survived the Twenty-eighth Jaghut War.”

  Lorn’s eyes widened. “I thought those wars numbered twenty-seven,” she said quietly. “When your legions left us after conquering Seven Cities, and you marched into the wastelands—”

  “Our Bonecasters sensed an enclave of surviving Jaghut,” Tool said. “Our commander Logros T’lan determined that we exterminate them. Thus we did.”

  “Which explains your decimated numbers upon returning,” Lorn said. “You could have explained your decision to the Empress. As it was, she was left without her most powerful army, and no knowledge of when it might return.”

  “Return was not guaranteed, Adjunct,” Tool said.

  Lorn stared at the tattered creature. “I see.”

  “The cessation of my clan’s chieftain, Kig Aven, was accompanied by all my kin. Thus alone, I am unbound to Logro. Kig Aven’s Bonecaster was Kilava Onass, who has been lost since long before the Emperor reawakened us.”

  Lorn’s mind raced. Among the Malazan Empire, the T’lan Imass were also known as the Silent Host. She’d never known an Imass as loquacious as this Tool. Perhaps it had something to do with this “unbounding.” Within the Imass, only Commander Logros ever spoke to humans on a regular basis. As for the Bonecasters—Imass shamans—they stayed out of sight. The only one that had ever appeared was one named Olar Ethil, who stood alongside the clan chieftain Eitholos Ilm during the battle of Kartool, which had seen an exchange of sorcery that made Moon’s Spawn look like a child’s cantrip.

  In any case, she’d already learned more of the Imass from this brief conversation with Tool than was present in the Empire Annals. The Emperor had known more, much more, but making records of such knowledge had never been his style. That he had reawakened the Imass had been a theory argued among scholars for years. And now she knew it to be true. How many other secrets would this T’lan Imass reveal in casual conversation?

  “Tool,” she said, “had you ever met the Emperor personally?”

  “I awakened before Galad Ketan and after Onak Shendok, and as with all the T’lan Imass, I knelt before the Emperor as he sat upon the First Throne.”

  “The Emperor was alone?” Lorn asked.

  “No. He was accompanied by the one named Dancer.”

  “Damn,” she hissed. Dancer had died beside the Emperor. “Where is this First Throne, Tool?”

  The warrior was silent for a time, then it said, “Upon the Emperor’s death the Logros T’lan Imass gathered minds—a rare thing that was last done before the Diaspora—and a binding resulted. Adjunct, the answer to your question is within this binding. I cannot satisfy you. This holds for all Logros T’lan Imass and for all Kron T’lan Imass.”

  “Who are the Kron?”

  “They are coming,” Tool replied.

  Sudden sweat sprang out on the Adjunct’s brow. Logros’s legions, when they first arrived on the scene, numbered around nineteen thousand. They were believed now to number fourteen thousand, and the majority of those losses had come beyond the Empire’s borders, in this last Jaghut War. Were another nineteen thousand Imass about to arrive? What had the Emperor unleashed?

  “Tool,” she asked slowly, almost regretting her need to persist in questioning him, “what is the significance of these Kron coming?”

  “The Year of the Three Hundredth Millennium approaches,” the warrior replied.

  “What happens then?”

  “Adjunct, the Diaspora ends.”

  The Great Raven called Crone rode the high winds above Rhivi Plain. The northern horizon was now a green-tinged curve, growing more substantial with every hour of flight. Weariness weighed down her wings, but the heaven’s breath was a strong one. And more, nothing could assail her certainty that changes were coming to this world, and she drew again and again upon her vast reserves of magical power.

  If ever there was a dire convergence of great forces, it was now, and in this place. The gods were descending to the mortal soil to do battle, shapings were being forged of flesh and bone, and the blood of sorcery now boiled with a madness born of inevitable momentum. Crone had never felt more alive.

  With these unveiling of powers, heads had turned. And to one Crone flew in answer to a summons she was powerless to ignore. Lord Anomander Rake was not her only master, and for her this only made things more interesting. As for her own ambitions, she would keep them to herself. For now, knowledge was her power.

  And if there was one secret more alluring than any other she might covet, it was the mystery surrounding the half-human warrior called Caladan Brood. Anticipation lifted Crone’s wings with renewed strength.

  Steadily, Blackdog Forest spread its verdant cloak over the north.

  Chapter Ten

  Kallor said: “I walked this land when the T’lan Imass were but children. I have commanded armies a hundred thousand strong. I have spread the fire of my wrath across entire continents, and sat alone upon tall thrones. Do you grasp the meaning of this?”

  “Yes,” said Caladan Brood, “you never learn.”

  CONVERSATIONS OF WAR

  (SECOND IN COMMAND

  KALLOR SPEAKING WITH

  WARLORD CALADAN BROOD),

  RECORDED BY OUTRIDER

  HURLOCHEL, 6TH ARMY

  Vimkaros Inn stood just beyond Eltrosan Square in the Opal Quarter of Pale. That much Toc knew from his wanderings through the city. But for the life of him he could not think of anyone staying there whom he knew. Yet the instructions for this mysterious meeting had been clear.

  He now approached the ostentatious structure warily. He saw nothing suspicious. The square was crowded with the usual gentry and merchant shops; of Malazan guards there were few. The culling of the nobility had done m
uch to cloak Pale’s atmosphere with a shocked stillness that hung about people like invisible yokes.

  The past few days Toc had kept much to himself, carousing with his fellow soldiers when the mood took him, though those times seemed rarer these days. With the Adjunct gone, and Tattersail reported missing, Dujek and Tayschrenn were involved in mutually exclusive responsibilities. The High Fist was busy restructuring Pale, and his newly formed 5th Army; while the High Mage sought Tattersail, evidently without much success.

  Toc suspected that the peace between the two men would not last. Since the dinner, he had stayed away from anything official, choosing to eat with his comrades rather than dine with the officers as was now his privilege as ranking Claw. The less noticed he made himself the better, as far as he was concerned.

  He entered Vimkaros Inn and paused. Before him was a roofless courtyard with paths winding among a rich garden. Clearly, the inn had survived the siege unscathed. A wide central path led directly to a broad counter behind which stood a corpulent old man eating grapes. A few guests walked the side paths, moving among the plants and conversing in low tones.

  The message had insisted he come dressed in local garb. Thus, Toc drew little attention as he strode to the counter.

  The old man paused in his snacking and bowed with his head. “At your service, sir,” he said, wiping his hands.

  “I believe a table has been reserved in my name,” Toc said. “I am Render Kan.”

  The old man studied a wax tablet before him, then looked up with a smile. “Of course. Follow me.”

  A minute later Toc sat at a table on a balcony overlooking the garden court. His only company was a decanter of chilled Saltoan wine, which arrived when he did, and he now sipped from a goblet, his lone eye surveying the people in the garden below.

  A servant arrived and bowed before him. “Kind sir,” the man said, “I am to deliver the following message. A gentleman will soon join you who has been out of his depth yet not aware of it. He is, now.”

  Toc frowned. “That’s the message?”

  “It is.”

  “His own words?”

  “And yours, sir.” The servant bowed again and departed.

  Toc’s frown deepened, then he sat forward, his every muscle tensing. He turned to the balcony’s entrance in time to see Captain Paran stride through. He was dressed in the manner of the local gentry, unarmed, and looking quite fit. Toc rose, grinning.

  “Not unduly shocked, I hope,” Paran said, as he arrived. They sat down and the captain poured himself some wine. “Did the message prepare you?”

  “Barely,” Toc replied. “I’m not sure how to receive you, Captain. Is this according to the Adjunct’s instructions?”

  “She believes me dead,” Paran said, his brow wrinkling. “And I was, for a time. Tell me, Toc the Younger, am I speaking to a Claw, or to a soldier of the Second?”

  Toc’s eye narrowed. “That’s a tough question.”

  “Is it?” Paran asked, his gaze intense and unwavering.

  Toc hesitated, then grinned again. “Hood’s Breath, no, it damn well isn’t! All right, Captain, welcome to the defunct Second, then.”

  Paran laughed, clearly relieved.

  “Now what’s all this about you being dead but not dead, Captain?”

  Paran’s humor vanished. He took a mouthful of wine and swallowed, looking away. “An attempted assassination,” he explained, grimacing. “I should have died, if not for Mallet and Tattersail.”

  “What? Whiskeyjack’s healer and the sorceress?”

  Paran nodded. “I’ve been recovering until recently in Tattersail’s quarters. Whiskeyjack’s instructions were to keep my existence secret for the time being. Toc,” he leaned forward, “what do you know of the Adjunct’s plans?”

  Toc examined the garden below. Tattersail had known—she’d managed to keep it from everyone at the dinner. Remarkable. “Now,” he said quietly, “you ask questions of a Claw.”

  “I do.”

  “Where’s Tattersail?” Toc swung his gaze to the captain and held the man’s eyes.

  The captain jerked his head. “Very well. She travels overland—to Darujhistan. She knows a T’lan Imass accompanies the Adjunct, and she believes Lorn’s plan includes killing Whiskeyjack and his squad. I do not agree. My role in the mission was to keep an eye on one member of the sergeant’s squad, and that person was to be the only one to die. She gave me the command after three years of service to her—it’s a reward, and I can’t believe she would take it from me. There, that is what I know. Can you help me, Toc?”

  “The Adjunct’s mission,” Toc said, after releasing a long breath, “as far as I’m aware of it, involves far more than just killing Sorry. The T’lan Imass is with her for something else. Captain,” Toc’s expression was grim, “the days of the Bridgeburners are numbered. Whiskeyjack’s name is damn near sacred among Dujek’s men. This is something of which I couldn’t convince the Adjunct—in fact she seems to think the opposite—but if the sergeant and the Bridgeburners are eliminated, this army won’t be pulled back in line, it will mutiny. And the Malazan Empire will be up against High Fist Dujek with not a single commander who can match him. The Genabackan Campaign will disintegrate, and civil war may well sweep into the heart of the Empire.”

  The blood had drained from Paran’s face. “I believe you,” he said. “Very well, you’ve taken my doubts and made of them convictions. And they leave me with but one choice.”

  “And that is?”

  Paran turned the empty goblet in his hands. “Darujhistan,” he said. “With luck I’ll catch Tattersail, and together we’ll attempt to contact Whiskeyjack before the Adjunct does.” He glanced at Toc. “Evidently the Adjunct can no longer sense my whereabouts. Tattersail forbade me to accompany her, arguing that Lorn would be able to detect me, but she also let slip that my ‘death’ had severed the bonds between me and the Adjunct. I should have made the connection sooner, but she . . . distracted me.”

  Into Toc’s mind returned the memory of how she’d looked that evening, and he nodded knowingly. “I’m sure she did.”

  Paran sighed. “Yes, well. In any case, I need at least three horses, and supplies. The Adjunct is proceeding on some kind of timetable. I know that much. So she’s not traveling with much haste. I should catch up with Tattersail in a day or two, then together we can drive hard to the edge of the Tahlyn Mountains, skirt them and slip past the Adjunct.”

  Toc had leaned back during Paran’s elaboration of his plan, a half-smile on his lips. “You’ll need Wickan horses, Captain, since what you’ve described requires mounts superior to those the Adjunct’s riding. Now, how do you plan to get past the city gates dressed as a local but leading Empire horses?”

  Paran blinked.

  Toc grinned. “I’ve got your answer, Captain.” He spread his hands. “I’ll go with you. Leave the horses and supplies to me, and I guarantee we’ll get out of the city unnoticed.”

  “But—”

  “Those are my conditions, Captain.”

  Paran coughed. “Very well. And now that I think on it, the company would be welcome.”

  “Good,” Toc grunted. He reached for the decanter. “Let’s drink on the damn thing, then.”

  The way was becoming more and more difficult, and Tattersail felt her first tremor of fear. She traveled a Warren of High Thyr and not even Tayschrenn possessed the ability to assail it, yet under attack it was. Not directly. The power that opposed her was pervasive, and it deadened her sorcery.

  The Warren had become narrow, choked with obstacles. At times it shuddered around her, the dark walls to either side writhing as if under tremendous pressure. And within the tunnel she struggled to shape, the air stank of something she had difficulty identifying. There was a tinge of sour brimstone and a mustiness that reminded her of unearthed tombs. It seemed to drain the power from her with every breath she took.

  She realized that she could not continue. She would have to enter the physical worl
d and find rest. Once again she cursed her own carelessness. She had forgotten her Deck of Dragons. With them she would have known what to expect. She entertained once again the suspicion that an outside force had acted upon her, severing her from the Deck. The first distraction had come from Captain Paran, and while it had been pleasant, she reminded herself that Paran belonged to Oponn. After that, she’d experienced an unaccountable urgency to be on her way, so much so that she’d left everything behind.

  Bereft of her Warren, she would find herself alone on the Rhivi Plain, without food, without even a bedroll. The mindless need for haste she’d experienced ran contrary to her every instinct. She was growing certain that it had been imposed upon her, that somehow she’d let her defenses down, left herself exposed to such manipulations. And that returned her thoughts to Captain Paran, to the servant of Oponn’s will.

  Finally, she could go no further. She began to withdraw her strained power, collapsing the Warren layer by layer about her. The ground beneath her boots became solid, cloaked in spar yellow grass, and the air around her shifted into the dull lavender of dusk. A wind brushed her face smelling of soil. The horizon steadied itself on all sides—far off to her right the sun still bathed the Talhyn Mountains, the peaks glittering like gold—and immediately ahead rose an enormous silhouetted figure, turning to face her and voicing a surprised grunt.

  Tattersail stepped back in alarm, and the voice that emerged from the figure pushed the air from her lungs in a whooshing breath of relief, then terror.

  “Tattersail,” Bellurdan said sadly, “Tayschrenn did not expect you’d manage to come this far. Thus, I was anticipating detecting you from a distance.” The Thelomen giant lifted his arms in an expansive, childlike shrug. At his feet was a familiar burlap sack, though the body within had shrunk since she’d last seen it.

  “How has the High Mage managed to deny my Warren?” she asked. On the heels of her terror had come weariness, almost resignation.