Deadhouse Gates (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #2)

by Steven Erikson

Was that Hood himself? Had the Lord of Death come to walk among mortals? And why stand before a once-priest of Fener – what was the message behind the revelation?

‘After all, you called her a murderer, and then had the gall to say she bungled the job!’ ‘Found an illicit copy, did you?’

Baudin jutted his head forward and spat. ‘Red Swords, the bloodless bastards.’ The historian threw the man an amused glance. ‘Travelled well in your profession, Baudin? Seen the sea walls of Aren, have you?’

‘Long way from home, aren’t we. Your brother Treach had it in mind that he killed you. Where was that chasm? Dal Hon? Or was it Li Heng? You were D’ivers jackals then, I seem to recall.’ Ryllandaras spoke inside their minds, a voice cracking and halting with disuse. I am tempted to match wits with you, N’Trell, before killing you.

‘I am getting bored, Mappo,’ Icarium said. The six wolves stiffened as one, half flinching. Mappo Runt and Icarium. Ah, we see. Know that we’ve no quarrel with you.

True to the Emperor’s style, he acquired Coltaine’s loyalty—’ ‘How?’ Kulp barked. ‘No one knows.’ Duiker smiled. ‘The Emperor rarely explained his successes.

‘If you’re going to keep your head as leader of all the clans, you’d better be nastier than all the rest put together. Why’d you think the old Emperor liked him so much?’

Into a religious war. Don’t forget that, Fid. Religious wars are no fun. The faculty of reasoning that permitted surrender did not apply in such instances.

Just Kalam for old company, and he calls that land ahead home. And he smiles before he kills. And what’s he and Quick Ben got planned they ain’t told me about yet?

‘I remember,’ Apsalar said suddenly, her eyes narrowing on Kalam. Crokus turned to her. ‘Remember what?’ ‘Kalam. He was a Falah’dan’s Dagger, and the Claw gave him command of a Hand. Kalam’s a master assassin, Crokus. And Quick Ben—’

She raised her arms and something like iron flashed at her wrists and the dancers became three as she spun and writhed between the seers.

‘Two fountains of raging blood! Face to face. The blood is the same, the two are the same and salty waves shall wash the shores of Raraku. The Holy Desert remembers its past!’

Seven Cities was an ancient civilization, steeped in the power of antiquity, where Ascendants once walked on every trader track, every footpath, every lost road between forgotten places. It was said the sands hoarded power within their susurrating currents, that every stone had soaked up sorcery like blood, and that beneath every city lay the ruins of countless other cities, older cities, cities that went back to the First Empire itself.

Conquerors could overrun a city’s walls, could kill every living soul within it, fill every estate and every house and every store with its own people, yet rule nothing but the city’s thin surface, the skin of the present, and would one day be brought down by the spirits below, until they themselves were but one momentary layer among many. This is an enemy we can never defeat, Duiker believed. Yet history tells the stories of those who would challenge that enemy, again and again. Perhaps victory is not achieved by overcoming that enemy, but by joining it, becoming one with it. The Empress has sent a new Fist to batter down the restless centuries of this land. Had she abandoned Coltaine as I’d suggested to Mallick Rel? Or had she just held him back in readiness, like a weapon forged and honed for one specific

‘Bult was the young warrior whose lance ripped you open and for his effort a soldier named Dujek kissed Bult’s face with his sword.’ Coltaine

‘I remember an unarmed man. The lack of weapons in his hands turned my lance at the last moment. I remember Dujek’s sword that stole my beauty even as my horse bit his arm crushing bone. I remember that Dujek lost that arm to the surgeons, fouled as it was with my horse’s breath. Between us, I lost the exchange, for the loss of an arm did nothing to damage Dujek’s glorious career, while the loss of my beauty left me with but the one wife that I already had.’ ‘And

‘You assume they were murdered at Laseen’s command,’ Bult said, baring his jagged teeth. ‘But imagine a circumstance where the Empress’s most able commanders simply . . . disappeared. Leaving her isolated, desperate for able people. You forget, Historian, that before Laseen became Empress, she was close companions with Crust, Urko, Ameron, Dassem and the others. Imagine her now alone, still feeling the wounds of abandonment.’ ‘And

‘I am Malazan,’ he acknowledged. ‘But not a spy. I am disguised to avoid discovery . . . by Malazans.’ The old priest poured the wine and handed the sapper a goblet. ‘You are a soldier.’ ‘I am.’ ‘A deserter?’ Fiddler winced. ‘Not by choice. The Empress saw fit to outlaw my regiment.’ He sipped the flowery sweet wine. Captain Turqa hissed. ‘A Bridgeburner. A soldier of Onearm’s Host.’ ‘You are well informed, sir.’

‘What will draw them?’ ‘A gate. The Prophecy of the Path of Hands. Soletaken and D’ivers. A gate promising . . . something. They are drawn as moths to a flame.’ ‘Why would shapeshifters have any interest in a warren’s gate? They are hardly a brotherhood, nor are they users of sorcery, at least not in any sophisticated sense.’

‘The Bridgeburners are remembered here in Seven Cities. A name that is cursed, yet admired all the same. You were honourable soldiers fighting in a dishonourable war. It is said the regiment was honed in the heat and scorched rock of the Holy Desert Raraku, in pursuit of a Falah’d company of wizards. That is a story I would like to hear some time,

Fiddler’s eyes widened. A Spiritwalker’s sorcery was sung, no other rituals were required. Although devoted to peace, the power in a Tano song was said to be immense. The sapper wondered what such a creation would do to the Bridgeburners.

The Tano Spiritwalker seemed to understand the question, for he smiled. ‘Such a song has never before been attempted. There is in a Tano song the potential for Ascendancy, but can an entire reg...

He stepped close and laid a hand on Fiddler’s shoulder. ‘Kimloc Spiritwalker thanks you.’

‘Clearly,’ Fiddler said dryly, ‘he values his granddaughters. Eleven years, you say? Then his last guest would have been . . .’ ‘High Fist Dujek Onearm, of the Malazan Empire.’ ‘Negotiating the peaceful surrender of Karakarang, the Holy City of the Tano cult. Kimloc claimed he could destroy the Malazan armies. Utterly. Yet he capitulated and his name is now legendary for empty threats.’ Turqa snorted. ‘He opened the gates of his city because he values life above all things. He took the measure of your Empire and realized that the death of thousands meant nothing to it. Malaz would have what it desired, and what it desired was Karakarang.’

own. ‘Well?’ ‘A cusser in an eggshell,’ Fiddler said, drinking deep before continuing. ‘The walls are crowded with symbols. I’d guess no more than a week, then the streets run red.’

Telling the assassin of his adventures – and his meeting with the Spiritwalker – would send Kalam out through the door. And Kimloc to Hood’s Gates. Kimloc, his family, his guards. Everyone. The man sitting across from him would take no chances. Another gift to you, Kimloc . . . my silence.

But not Laseen. Betrayal cut those bonds long ago. The Emperor would have cut the heart out of this rebellion with its first beat. A short but unremitting bloodbath, followed by a long peace. But Laseen had left the old wounds to fester, and what was coming would silence Hood himself.

‘If you have betrayed me, Adaephon Ben Delat shall know of it. Tell me, could you escape Quick Ben with his warrens unveiled?’

him. He has the Book?’ Mebra’s thin mouth widened in a smile. ‘Not the visitor I anticipated. Oh no, I could never have imagined such a fortuitous guest. That was Kalam Mekhar.’ ‘The Bridgeburner? Kiss of Hood, Mebra, had I known, we would have cut him down before he’d taken a step from this tower.’ ‘Had you tried,’ Mebra said, ‘you and Aralt and Lostara would now be feeding your blood to Jen’rahb’s thirsty roots.’

against a boulder, shattering its skull. The other eleven had closed in on Icarium. Even as Mappo flung his attacker’s body aside and whirled, he saw four of the beasts lying motionless around the half-blood Jaghut. Fear gripped the Trell suddenly as his gaze fell on Icarium. How far? How far has the Jhag gone? Beru bless us, please.

They travelled at a dogtrot through the night. Neither was driven by fear of dying; for both of them, it was killing that brought a greater dread.

hour. A life given for a life taken, remember those words, remember them.

you. A caring man with salty hands, one wrinkled, one pink – do you grasp the significance of that? Not yet. Not yet. So few . . . guests. But I have been expecting you.’

undercooked pigs. Servant has prepared your chambers. And broths of healing herbs, roots, potions and elixirs. White Paralt, emulor, tralb—’ ‘Those are poisons,’ Mappo pointed out. ‘Are they? No wonder the pig died. It’s almost time, shall we prepare to ascend?’ ‘Lead the way,’ Icarium invited. ‘A life given for a life taken. Follow me. None can outwit Iskaral Pust.’

‘Ammanas’s gift, is Servant. A life given for a life taken. One hand old, one hand new. This is true remorse. You’ll see.’

take it.’ ‘Tesem,’ Icarium said, watching the priest vanish through the window. ‘A place of healing. Solitary reflection, repository of scrolls and tomes, and insatiable nuns . . .’ ‘Insatiable?’ The Jhag glanced at his friend, an eyebrow rising. ‘Indeed.’ ‘Oh, sad demise.’ ‘Very.’

‘You would tell me otherwise?’ There was a look of desperate pleading in the Jhag’s grey eyes. ‘Why would I not, Icarium?’

Those veins we dig, Heboric explained, they’re like a layer of once melted fat, a deep river of it sandwiched between layers of limestone. This whole island had to melt to make those veins. Whatever sorcery created Otataral proved beyond controlling. I would not want to be responsible for unleashing such an event all over again.

‘“History comforts the dull-witted,”’

find yourself face to face with your sister, and an ocean of blood pouring from Tavore’s veins won’t be enough, though all they hold will suffice. Stay alive, girl, that’s all you must do. Survive each hour, the next hour .

One day, face to face, sister.

If Fener has heard my prayers, Tavore’s fate will exceed her crimes.’

Clearly, they thought that she’d sell their trust as readily as she did her own body, but it wasn’t true. I swear it’s not true.

command me!’ The Wickans shouted

‘What do you conjure, dragons?’ ‘I wish. I create Malazan refugees, historian. By the hundred. A thousand weighted scarecrows for the soldiers to drag around aren’t sufficient for Coltaine, the ones he has me create flee the wrong way, or refuse to leave their homes, or drag furniture and other possessions. Coltaine’s orders – my refugees create chaos, and so far cost more lives than any other element in the exercises. I’m not a popular man, Duiker.’

Corporal

Kalam’s an assassin who just might be good enough to get to Laseen. But if he doesn’t, there’s another one who just might still have in her the skills of a god – but not any old god, no, the Patron of Assassins, the one you call the Rope. So you keep prodding her – you’re taking her home because she isn’t what she once was, but the truth is, you want the old one back.’

‘Turn right, proceed thirty-four paces, turn right again, twelve paces, then through door on the right, thirty-five paces, through archway on right another eleven paces, turn right one last time, fifteen paces, enter the door on the right.’ Mappo stared at Iskaral Pust. The High Priest shifted nervously. ‘Or,’ the Trell said, eyes narrowed, ‘turn left, nineteen paces.’

recognize, much less understand. He recalled when he’d last seen such a script, beneath a hide canopy on a hill that marked his tribe’s northernmost border. He’d been among a handful of guards escorting the tribe’s elders to what would prove a fateful summons.

The civilization that brought forth these works must have been appallingly rich. The language is clearly related to modern Seven Cities dialects, although in some ways more sophisticated. And see this symbol, here in the spine of each such tome? A twisted staff. I have seen that symbol before, friend. I am certain of it.’