Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The puncture wound in lorn's left shoulder was not deep. Without magical aid, however, the risk of infection was a cause for concern. She returned to the camp to find Tool still positioned where he had been since dawn.

Ignoring the Imass, the Adjunct found her collection of herbs in her saddle bag. She sat down and leaned back against the saddle, then set to treating the wound.

It had been a foolish, unnecessary attack. Too many things had happened recently, too many ideas, too much of the woman Lorn interfering with her functions and duties as Adjunct to the Empress. She was making mistakes that she would not have made a year ago.

Tool had given her more to think about than she could handle. The words the Imass had thrown at her feet, as if in afterthought, had reached into and grasped something deep within her and now would not let go. Emotions seeped into the Adjunct, clouding the world around her.

She'd abandoned sorrow long ago, along with regret. Compassion was anathema to the Adjunct. Yet now all these feelings swept through her in tides pulling her every which way. She found herself clinging to the title of Adjunct, and what it meant, as if it was a lifeline to sanity, to stability and control.

She completed cleaning the wound as best she could, then prepared a poultice. Control. The word rebounded in her thoughts, clipped, hard and sure. What was the heart of Empire, if not control? What shaped Empress Laseen's every act, her every thought? And what had been at the heart of the very first Empire-the great wars that shaped the T'lan Imass to this day?

She sighed and looked down at the dirt beneath her. But that was no more than we all sought, she told herself. From a young girl bringing twine home to her father, to the immortal power that had seized her for its own use. Through the gamut of life we struggled for control, for a means to fashion the world around us, an eternal, hopeless hunt for the privilege of being able to predict the shape of our lives.

The Imass, and his three-hundred-thousand-year-old words, had given to Lorn a sense of futility. And it worked on her, it threatened to overwhelm her.

She'd given the boy his life, surprising both him and herself. Lorn smiled ruefully. Prediction had become a privilege now lost to her. Never mind the outside world, she could not even guess her own actions, or the course of her thoughts.

Was this the true nature of emotion? she wondered. The great defier of logic, of control-the whims of being human. What lay ahead?

«Adjunct.»

Startled, Lorn looked up to see Tool standing over her. Frost covered the warrior, steaming in the heat.

«You have been wounded.»

«A skirmish,» she said gruffly, almost embarrassed. «It's over now.» She pressed the poultice against the wound then wrapped cloth around her shoulder. It was an awkward effort, since she could use only one hand.

Tool knelt beside her. «I will assist you, Adjunct.»

Surprised, Lorn studied the warrior's death's face. But his next words wiped out any thought of the Imass revealing compassion.

«We have little time, Adjunct. The opening awaits us.»

An expressionless mask settled over her face. She jerked a nod as Tool finished, his withered, shredded hands-the nails blunt, polished brown and curved-deftly tying a knot with the strips of cloth. «Help me to my feet,» she commanded.

The marker had been shattered, she saw, as the Imass guided her forward. Apart from this, however, all looked unchanged. «Where is this opening?» she asked.

Tool halted before the broken stones. «I will lead, Adjunct. Follow closely behind me. When we are within the tomb, unsheath your sword. The deadening effect will be minimal, yet it will slow the Jaghut's return to consciousness. Enough for us to complete our efforts.»

Lorn drew a deep breath. She shrugged off her doubts. There was no turning back now. Had there ever been such a chance? The question, she realized, was a moot one: the course had been chosen for her. «Very well,» she said. «Lead on, Tool.»

The Imass spread out his arms to the sides. The hillside before them blurred, as if a curtain of wind-blown sand rose before it. A churning wind roiled through this strange mist. Tool stepped forward.

Following, Lorn at first recoiled at the stench that wafted into her, a stench of air poisoned by centuries of pulsing sorcery, countless wards dispersed by Tool's Tellann powers. She pushed ahead, her eyes fixing on the Imass's broad, tattered back.

They entered the hillside. A rough corridor, leading into darkness, appeared before them. Frost limned the stacked boulders forming the walls and ceiling. As they went further, the air grew bitter cold, stripped of scents, and thick green and white ropes of ice tracked the walls. The floor, which had been frozen, packed earth, became slabs of stone, slick with ice.

Numbness seeped into Lorn's extremities and her face. She saw her breath curl in a white stream, drawn inward to the darkness beyond. The corridor narrowed and she saw strange symbols painted on and within the ice streaking the walls, dull red ochre in colour. These markings brushed something deep inside her-she almost recognized them, but as soon as she concentrated on doing so, the sensation of familiarity vanished.

Tool spoke. «My people have visited here before,» he said, pausing to look at the Adjunct over one shoulder. «They added their own wards to those of the Jaghut who imprisoned this Tyrant.»

Lorn was irritated. «What of it?»

The Imass stared at her in silence, then replied, dully, «Adjunct, I believe I know the name of this Jaghut Tyrant. I am now beset by doubts. It should not be freed. Yet, like you, I am compelled.»

Lorn's breath caught.

«Adjunct,» Tool continued, «I acknowledge the ambivalence you have been feeling. I share it. When this is done, I shall leave.»

She was confused. «Leave?»

Tool nodded. «Within this tomb, and with what we will do, my vows are ended. They will bind me no longer. Such is the residual power of this sleeping Jaghut. And for that, I am thankful.»

«Why are you telling me this?»

«Adjunct, you are welcome to accompany me.»

Lorn opened her mouth, but could think of no immediate reply so shut it again.

«I ask that you consider my offer, Adjunct. I shall journey in search of an answer, and I shall find it.»

Answer? To what? she wanted to ask. Yet something stopped her, a surge of fear that said to her: You don't want to know. Remain ignorant in this. «Let's get on with it,» she grated.

Tool resumed his march into the darkness.

After a minute Lorn asked, «How much time is this going to take?»

«Time?» There was amusement in his voice. «Within this barrow, Adjunct, time does not exist. The Jaghut who imprisoned their kin brought an age of ice to this land, the barrow's final seal. Adjunct, a halfleague of ice stands over this burial chamber-still. We have come to a time and place before the faltering of the Jaghut ice, before the coming of the great inland sea known to the Imass as Jhagra Til, before the passing of countless ages-»

«And when we return?» Lorn interrupted. «How much time will have passed?»

«I cannot say, Adjunct.» The Imass paused and turned back to her, his eye sockets glimmering with a sourceless light. «I have never done this before.»

Despite the hardened leather armour, the feel of a woman pressing against Crokus's back had brought to his face more sweat than the afternoon heat could account for. Yet it was a mix of feelings that had his heart thumping against his chest. On the one hand was the bald fact that here was a girl of nearly his age, and an attractive one at that, with surprisingly strong arms wrapped around his waist and her warm, moist breath on his neck. On the other hand, this woman had murdered a man and the only reason he could think of her arriving on the scene back there in the hills was that she'd been planning to kill him, too. So he found himself too tense to enjoy sharing the saddle with her.

They had said little to each other since leaving Coll. In another da), Crokus knew, Darujhistan's walls would come into view. He wondered if she'd remember it. And then a voice spoke in his head that soundel like Coll's: «Why don't you ask the girl, idiot?» Crokus scowled.

She spoke first. «Is Itko Kan far from here?»

He thought about laughing, but something-an instinct-stopped him. Tread softly, he told himself. «I've never heard of such a place,» he said. «It's in the Malazan Empire?»

«Yes. We aren't in the Empire?»

Crokus growled, «Not yet.» Then his shoulders slumped. «We're on a continent called Genabackis. The Malazans came from the seas both east and west. They now control all the Free Cities to the north, as well as the Nathilog Confederacy.»

«Oh,» the girl replied weakly. «You're at war with the Empire, then.»

«More or less, though you'd never know it as far as Darujhistan is concerned.»

«Is that the name of the town you live in?»

«Town? Darujhistan's a city. It's the biggest, richest city in all the land.»

There was awe and excitement in her reply. «A city. I've never been to a city. Your name is Crokus, isn't it?»

«How did you know that?»

«That's what your soldier friend called you.»

«Oh, of course.» Why did the fact that she'd known his name send his heart lurching?

«Aren't you going to ask me my name?» the woman asked quietly.

«You can remember it?»

«No,» she admitted. «That's strange, isn't it?»

He heard pathos in that reply, and something melted inside-making him even angrier. «Well, I can't very well help you in that, can 1?»

The woman seemed to withdraw behind him, and her arms loosened their grip. «No.»

Abruptly his anger fell away. Crokus was ready to scream at the chaos in his head. Instead he shifted in the saddle, forcing her to clutch him tightly. Ah, he smirked, that's better. Then his eyes widened. What am I saying?

«Crokus?»

«What?»

«Give me a Darujhistan name. Pick one. Pick your favourite.»

«Challice,» he responded immediately. «No, wait! You can't be Challice. I already know a Challice. You've got to be someone else.»

«Is she your girlfriend?»

«No!» he snapped. He pulled at the reins and they stopped. Crokus clawed at his hair, then threw a leg over and dropped to the ground. He pulled the reins over the horse's head. I want to walk,» he said.

«Yes,» she said. «I would like to, too.»

«Well, maybe I want to run!»

She stepped round to face him, her expression troubled. «Run? From me, Crokus?»

He saw things falling into ruins behind her eyes-what were those things? He felt a desperate need to know, but asking straight out was clearly impossible. Why it was impossible he couldn't say. It just was. He looked down at the ground and kicked at a rock. «No,» he mumbled. «I didn't mean that. Sorry.»

Her eyes widened. «That was my narne!» she gasped. «That was my name, Crokus-you just said my name!»

«What?» He frowned. «Sorry?»

«Yes!» She looked away. «Only, it wasn't always my name. I don't think. No. It wasn't the name my father gave me.»

«Can you remember that one?»

She shook her head and ran a hand through her long, dark hair.

Crokus started walking, and the girl fell into step beside him. The road wound down through the low hills. In an hour they'd reach the Catlin Bridge. The panic that had filled him was subsiding, perhaps having burned itself out. He felt relaxed, and that surprised him, since he couldn't recall the last time he'd felt relaxed in a female's company.

They walked in silence for a time. Ahead, the sun sank down in a golden blaze, shimmering along a blue and green line on the horizon beyond the hills. Crokus pointed to the glistening line. «That's Lake Azur. Darujhistan lies on its south shore.»

«Haven't you thought of a name for me yet?» the woman asked.

«The only name that comes to mind,» Crokus said sheepishly, «is my matron's.»

The girl glanced at him. «Your mother's?»

Crokus laughed. «No, not that kind of matron. I meant the Lady of Thieves, Apsalar. Only, it's not good to take that kind of name, since she's a goddess. What about Salar?»

Her nose wrinkled. «No, I like Apsalar. Make it Apsalar.»

«But I just said-»

«That's the name I want,» the girl insisted, her face darkening.

Uh-oh, Crokus thought. Better not press this one. «All right.» He sighed.

«So you're a thief.»

«What's wrong with that?»

Apsalar grinned. «Given my new name, nothing. Nothing at all. Crokus. When do we camp?»

He blanched. He hadn't thought about that. «Maybe we should just push on,» he said warily, not meeting her eyes.

«I'm tired. Why don't we camp at this Catlin Bridge?»

«Well, I've only got the one bedroll. You can have it. I'll stand watch,

«All night? What's there to watch out for?»

Crokus rounded on her. «Why all these questions?» he demanded hod, «It's dangerous out here! Didn't you see Coll's wound? And how do I know the garrison's still there?»

«What garrison?»

Crokus cursed himself. He averted his gaze. «The garrison on the other side of the bridge,» he said. «But it's a long bridge-»

«Oh, come on, Crokus!» Apsalar laughed and drove her elbow into his ribs. «We'll share the bedroll. I don't mind, so long as you keep your hands to yourself.»

Rubbing his ribs, Crokus could only stare at her.

Cursing, Kruppe glared over his shoulder at Murillio. «Damnation! Can't you urge that beast any faster?»

The mule was living up to its reputation, refusing anything but a plodding walk. Murillio grinned sheepishly. «What's the big hurry, Kruppe? The boy can take care of himself.»

«It was Master Baruk's explicit command that we guard him, and guard him we must!» Murillio's eyes narrowed. «So you keep saying,» he muttered. «Is this some favour on Mammot's behalf? Has the boy's uncle got all worried all of a sudden? Why's Baruk so interested in Crokus? You convey the alchemist's orders, Kruppe, but you don't explain them.»

Kruppe reined in his mount. «Oh, very well,» he said. «Mutiny in the ranks forces Kruppe's sly hand. Oponn has chosen Crokus, for whatever purposes the devious deity may devise. Baruk would have us keep an eye on the lad and, more, prevent any other powers from finding him.»

Murillio rubbed the bruise on his forehead and winced. «Damn you.» He sighed. «You should've explained all this from the start, Kruppe. Does Rallick know?»

«Of course not,» Kruppe replied tartly. «He's too busy, after all, unable to extricate himself from his various responsibilities. Hence,» Kruppe's expression turned crafty, «the assassin's absence on this journey. But why, pray tell, is Kruppe informing Murillio of such things? Clearly, Murillio knows more of Rallick's doings than poor, ignorant Kruppe.»

Murillio's look was blank. «What do you mean?»

Kruppe sniggered, then kicked his mule into motion once again.

Murillio followed.

«And as for our present mission,» Kruppe continued blithely, «what seems a vast failure, particularly on Coll's part, is in truth an astonishing success. Master Baruk must be made aware of the nefarious activities afoot in the Gadrobi Hills.»

«Success? What are you talking about?»

Kruppe waved a hand. «Dear man, though I was conscious but a moment during the fracas, clear it was that this woman warrior possessed an Otataral sword. Which means, as any child might guess, she's Malazan.»

Murillio hissed slowly between his teeth. «And we left Coll back there? Are you insane, Kruppe?»

«He'll mend enough to follow us shortly,» Kruppe said. «The need for haste overwhelms all other considerations.»

«Except cheap deals with a certain stabler,» Murillio growled. «So, there's some Malazan in the Gadrobi Hills. What's she up to? And don't try telling me you don't know. If you didn't suspect something we wouldn't be in such a hurry.»

«Suspicions, indeed.» Kruppe nodded, his shoulders hunching. «Recall Crokus uttering that perceptive comment as we left the crossroads? Hunting a rumour, or some such thing?»

«Wait a ininute.» Murillio groaned. «Not that barrow legend again? There's not a-»

Kruppe held up a finger and cut in smoothly, «What we believe is irrelevant, Murillio. The fact remains that the Malazans are seeking the truth of that rumour. And both Kruppe and Master Baruk suspect, being of equal intelligence, that they might well discover it. Hence this mission, my fluttery friend.» He waggled his brows. «Otataral in the hands of a swordmaster of the Empire. A T'lan Imass lurking in the vicinity-»

«What?» Murillio exploded, his eyes wide. He made to turn his mule around, but the beast complained and planted its hoofs. He struggled with it, cursing. «Coll's all cut up and he's got a Malazan killer out there and an Imass! You've lost your mind, Kruppe!»

«But, dear Murillio,» Kruppe crooned, «Kruppe would have thought you eager, nay, desperate to return to Darujhistan as quickly as possible!» That stopped the man. He rounded on Kruppe, face darkening. «Come on,» he gritted, «out with it, then.»

Kruppe's brows rose. «Out with what?»

«You've been hinting about something, poking me with it. So if you think you know something about whatever, let's hear it. Otherwise, we turn round right now and head back to Coll.» Seeing Kruppe's eyes dart, Murillio grinned. «Hah, you thought to distract me, didn't you? Well, it's not going to work.»

Kruppe raised his hands palm up. «No matter whose brain was responsible for your scheme to return Coll to his rightful title, Kruppe can do naught but eagerly applaud!»

Murillio's jaw dropped. How in Hood's name did Kruppe:?

The man continued, «But all that is inconsequential when faced with the fact of Crokus, and the grave danger he is presently in. More, if this young girl was indeed possessed, as Coll suspects, the risks are frightening to behold! Was she the only hunter for the lad's frail, unprotected life? What of the thousand gods and demons who would eagerly confound Oponn at the first opportunity? Thus, would Murillio, friend of long standing with Crokus, so callously abandon the child to the fates? Is Murillio a man to succumb to panic, to what-ifs, to a host of imagined nightmares slinking about within the shadows of his overwrought imagination-?»

«All right!» Murillio barked. «Now hold your tongue and let's ride.»

Kruppe gave a brusque nod at this wise remark.

An hour later, as dusk clambered up the hillsides and ever westward to the dying sun, Murillio started and threw Kruppe a furious glare that was lost in the gloom. «Damn him,» he whispered, «I said I wasn't about to let him distract me. So what's the first thing he does? Distract me.»

«Murillio murmurs something?» Kruppe asked.

Murillio massaged his forehead. «I'm having dizzy spells,» he said.

«Let's find a camp. Crokus and the girl won't make it to the city before tomorrow anyway. I doubt he's in any danger on the road, and we'll find him easily enough before tomorrow's sunset. They should be fine in the daytime-hell, they'll be with Mammot, right?»

«Kruppe admits to his own weariness. Indeed, a camp should be found, and Murillio can construct a small fire, perhaps, and so prepare dinner while Kruppe ponders vital thoughts and such.»

«Fine.» Murillio sighed. «Just fine.»

It came to Captain Paran a couple days after his encounter with the Tiste And? and the events within the lord's sword that Rake had not suspected him to be a Malazan soldier. Or he'd be dead. Oversights blessed him, it seemed. His assassin in Pale should have checked twice-and now the Son of Darkness, snatching him from the jaws of the Hounds, had in turn let him walk free. Was there a pattern to this? It had Oponn's flavour, yet Paran didn't doubt Rake's assertion.

Then did his luck indeed lie in his sword? And had these mercies of fortune marked pivotal moments-moments that would come back to haunt those who'd spared him? For his own well-being, he hoped not.

His was no longer the Empire's road. He'd walked that path of blood and treachery for too long. Never again. What lay before him, then, was the singular effort to save the lives of Whiskeyjack and the squad. If he managed that, he would not begrudge his own death as a consequence.

Some things went beyond a single man's life, and maybe justice existed outside the minds of humanity, beyond even the hungry eyes of gods and goddesses, a thing shining and pure and final. Some philosophers he'd read during his schooling in the Malazan capital, Unta, had asserted what seemed to him then an absurd position. Morality was not relative, they claimed, nor even existing solely in the realm of the human condition. No, they proclaimed morality as an imperative of all life, a natural law that was neither the brutal acts of beasts nor the lofty ambitions of humanity, but something other, something unassailable.

Just another hunt for certainty. Paran scowled and stiffened in his saddle, his eyes fixed on the trader track winding before him through low, rounded hills. He recalled discussing this with Adjunct Lorn, at a time when neither had been compelled by the outside world. Just another hunt for certainty, she'd said, in a voice brittle and cynical, putting an end to the discussion as clearly as if she'd driven a knife into the winestained table between them.

For such words to have come from a woman no older than him, Paran suspected then, as he did now, that her particular view had been no more than an easy, lazy mimicry of Empress Laseen's. But Laseen had a right to it and Lorn did not. At least, in Paran's mind. If anyone had a right to world-weary cynicism, it was the Empress of the Malazan Empire.

Truly had the Adjunct made herself Laseen's extension. But at what cost? He'd seen the young woman behind the mask just once-as they'd looked out over a road carpeted with dead soldiers then proceeded to pick their way through them. The pale, frightened girl that was Lorn had shown herself in a single frail moment. He couldn't remember what had triggered the return of the mask-likely it had been something he'd said, something he'd tossed off in his own guise as a hardened soldier.

Paran sighed deeply. Too many regrets. Lost chances-and with each one passing the less human we all became, and the deeper into the nightmare of power we all sank.

Was his life irretrievable? He wished he had an answer to that question.

Movement in the south caught his attention, and with it he became aware of a rumbling sound, rising up from the earth around him. He rose in the saddle. A wall of dust curled over the ridge of land directly ahead.

He swung his mount westward and nudged it into a trot. Moments later he reined in. The curtains of dust hung in that direction as well.

Cursing, he spurred to the crest of a nearby rise. Dust. Dust on all sides.

A storm? No, the thunder is too regular. He rode down to the plain below and reined in again, wondering what to do. The dust wall rose, cresting the hill he faced. The deep rumbling grew. Paran squinted into the dust. Dark, massive shapes moved there, spreading out to either side, sweeping down on his position. In moments he was surrounded.

Bhederin. He'd heard tales of the huge shaggy creatures, moving across the inner plains in herds half a million strong. On all sides, Paran could see nothing but the humped reddish-brown, dust-caked backs of the beasts. There was nowhere he could lead his horse, no place of safety within sight. Paran leaned back in his saddle and waited.

Something flashed to his left, tawny and low to the ground. The captain half turned, just as something heavy hammered him from the right and clung, dragging him from the saddle. Cursing, Paran thumped heavily in the dust, grappling with wiry limbs, ragged black hair. He drove his knee up, connecting with a solid stomach. His attacker rolled to one side, gasping. Paran scrambled to his feet, found himself facing a youth in tanned hides. The boy sprang to close with the captain once again.

Paran sidestepped and clouted the boy on the side of the head. His attacker sprawled unconscious.

Piercing cries were sounding on all sides. The Bhederin were parting, moving away. Figures emerged, closing on Paran's position. Rhivi. Sworn enemies to the Empire, allied in the north with Caladan Brood and the Crimson Guard.

Two warriors came to the unconscious boy's side; each took an arm and dragged him off.

The herd had come to a stop.

Another warrior approached, striding boldly up to Paran. His duststreaked face was stitched with dyed threads, black and red, from high on the cheeks down to the jawline then up and around the mouth. A Bhederin hide rode the broad line of his shoulders. Stopping less than an arm's length in front of Paran, the warrior reached out and closed his hand on the grip of Chance. Paran struck away the hand. The Rhivi smiled, stepped back and loosed a high-pitched, ululating cry.

Figures rose on the backs of the surrounding Bhederin, lances balanced in one hand as they crouched on the shaggy backs. The huge animals beneath the warriors ignored them as if they were but tick-birds.

The two Rhivi who had taken the boy away now returned, joining the stitch-faced warrior, who said something to the one on his left. This man moved forward. Before Paran could react, he surged into motion, throwing a leg behind the captain then driving his shoulder into Paran's chest.

The warrior fell on top of him. A knife blade slid against the line of Paran's jaw, sliced through the helmet strap. The iron skullcap was pulled away and fingers snagged a handful of his hair. Dragging the warrior with him, Paran pushed himself upright. He'd had enough.

Death was one thing, death without dignity quite another. As the Rhivi's hand twisted, pulling his head up, the captain reached between the warrior's legs and found his own handful. He yanked hard.

The warrior shrieked, releasing Paran's hair. A knife appeared again, flashing at the captain's face. He ducked to one side, his free hand snapping up to grasp the wrist, pushing away the knife. He squeezed once more with his other hand. The Rhivi shrieked again, then Paran let go, twisted round and drove his armoured elbow into the man's face.

Blood spattered like rain in the dust. The warrior reeled back, crumpled to the ground.

A lance haft hammered a glancing blow along Paran's temple. He spun round with the impact. A second lance struck him in the hip, hard as a kick from a horse, numbing his leg. Something pinned his left foot to the ground.

Paran unsheathed Chance. The weapon was almost knocked from his hand with a ringing, pealing sound. He swung it upward and it was struck again. Half blinded with pain, sweat and dust, Paran reared upright, shifting to a two-handed grip and drawing Chance down to a centre guard position. The sword's blade was struck a third time, but he retained his grip.

There was silence. Gasping, blinking, Paran raised his head, looked around.

Rhivi surrounded him, but none moved. Their dark eyes were wide.

Paran flicked his gaze to his weapon, glared back up and around at the warriors, then his eyes returned to Chance. And stayed there.

Three iron lanceheads sprouted from the blade like leaves, each point split and jammed, the hafts shattered and gone, leaving only white wood jutting out from the sockets.

He looked down at his pinned foot. A lance had struck, through his boot, but the wide blade of the head was turned, its flat side pressing against his foot. Splintered wood surrounded him. Paran glanced at his hip, saw no wound. A jagged tear marred the leather of Chance's scabbard.

The Rhivi warrior with the smashed face lay motionless a few feet from where Paran stood. The captain saw that his mount and the packhorses were untouched and had not moved. The other Rhivi had pulled back. The encirclement now divided as a small figure approached.

A girl, perhaps no more than five years old. The warriors moved aside from her as if in awe, or fear, possibly both. She wore antelope skins tied with cord at the waist, and nothing on her feet.

There was something familiar about her, a way of walking, her stance as she stopped before him-something in her heavy-lidded eyes-that made Paran frown uneasily.

The girl stopped to regard him, her small round face slowly coming to mirror Paran's own frown. She raised one hand, as if reaching for him, then dropped it. The captain found he could not pull away his eyes from her. Child, do I know you?

As the silence between them lengthened, an old woman came up up behind the girl, rested a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. Looking worn, almost exasperated, the old woman studied the captain. The girl beside her said something, the quick lilting language of the Rhivi, surprisingly low-pitched for one so young. The old woman crossed her arms. The girl spoke again, insistently.

The old woman addressed Paran in Daru, «Five lances claimed you as our enemy.» She paused. «Five lances were wrong.»

«You've plenty more,» Paran said.

«So we have, and the god favouring your sword has no followers here.»

«So finish it,» Paran growled. «I'm tired of the game.»

The girl spoke, a tone of command that rang like iron on stone.

The old woman turned in obvious surprise.

The girl continued, her words now evidently explanatory. The old woman listened, then swung her dark, glittering gaze back to the captain.

«You are Malazan, and Malazans have chosen to be the enemies of the Rhivi. Is this choice yours as well? And know this: I will recognize a lie when I hear it.»

«I am Malazan by birth,» Paran said. «I have no interest in calling the Rhivi my enemy. I would rather have no enemies at all.»

The old woman blinked. «She offers you words to ease your grief, soldier.»

«Meaning?»

«You are to live.»

Paran did not quite trust this turn of events. «What words has she for me? I've never seen her before.»

«Nor has she seen you before. Yet you know each other.»

«No, we don't.»

The old woman's eyes hardened. «Will you hear her words or not? She offers you a gift. Will you throw it back in her face?»

Profoundly uneasy, he said. «No, I suppose not.»

«The child says you need not grieve. The woman you know has not passed through the Arching Trees of Death. Her journey was beyond the lands you can see, beyond those of the spirit that all mortals sense. And now she has returned. You must be patient, soldier. You will meet again, so this child promises.»

«Which wornan?» Paran demanded, his heart pounding.

«The one you thought dead.»

He looked again at the girl. The familiarity returned like a blow to his chest. He staggered back a step. «Not possible,» he whispered.

The girl withdrew, dust swirling. She vanished.

«Wait!» Another cry sounded. The herd lurched into motion, closing in, obscuring the Rhivi. In moments all Paran could see were the backs of the giant beasts, shuffling past. He thought to push among them, but knew it would bring him only death.

«Wait!» the captain shouted again, but the sound of hundreds-thousands-of hoofs on the plain drowned his efforts.

Tattersail!

It was fully an hour before the Bhederin herd's tail end appeared. As the last of the beasts strolled past the captain, he looked around. The wind rolled the dust cloud eastward, over the sloping, humped hills.

Paran climbed into the saddle, swung his mount southward once again. The hills of Gadrobi rose before him. Tattersail, what did you do?

He recalled Toc noting the trail of small prints leading from the scorched pillar that had been all that was left of Bellurdan and Tattersail. Hood's Breath, did you plan such a thing? And why the Rhivi? Reborn, already a child of five, maybe six-are you even mortal any more, woman? Have you ascended? You've found yourself a people, a strange, primitive people-to what end? And when we next meet, how old will you appear to be then?

He thought again about the Rhivi. They'd been driving the herd north, a herd big enough to feed: an army on the march. Caladan Brood-he's on his way to Pale. That is something I don't think Dujek's prepared for. Old Onearm's in trouble.

He had another two hours of riding before sunset. Beyond the Gadrobi Hills was Lake Azur, and the city of Darujhistan. And within the city, Whiskeyjack and his squad. And in that squad, a young woman I've been preparing to meet for three years. The god possessing her-is he even my enemy any more?

The question arrived unbidden, turning his heart cold. Gods, what a journey this has been, and here I had thought to travel this plain unnoticed. A foolish thought. Scholars and mages write endlessly of fell convergences-it seems I am a walking convergence, a lodestone to draw Ascendants. To their peril, it seems. My sword Chance answered those five lances, despite my treatment of one of the Twins. How to explain that? The truth is, my cause has become my own. Not the Adjunct's, not the Empire's. I said I'd rather have no enemies at all-and the old woman saw those as true words. And so, it seems, they are.

Endless surprises, Ganoes Paran. Ride on, see what comes.

The track climbed a hillside and the captain spurred his horse up the slope. Reaching the summit, he yanked hard on the reins. The horse snorted indignantly and swung her head round, eyes rolling. But Paran's attention was elsewhere. He leaned back in the saddle and loosened sword.

A heavily armoured man struggled to his feet beside a small campfire.

Beyond him was a hobbled mule. The man tottered, his weight on one leg, and unsheathed a bastard sword, which he then leaned on as he regarded the captain.

Paran nudged his mount forward, scanning the immediate area. It seemed that the warrior was alone. He brought his horse to a halt with thirty feet between them.

The man spoke in Daru. «I'm in no shape for a fight, but if you want one it's yours.»

Once again Paran found himself thankful for the Adjunct's insistence that he be thoroughly schooled: his reply was as fluent as this native's.

«No. I've lost the taste for it.» He waited, leaning forward in the saddle, then grinned at the mule. «Is that beast a War Mule?»

The man barked a laugh. «I'm sure it thinks it is,» he said, relaxing.

«I've food to spare, traveller, if you're of a mind.»

The captain dismounted and approached. «My name's Paran,» he said.

He sat down by the fire.

The other followed suit, the fire between them. «Coll,» he grunted, stretching out a bandaged leg. «You down from the north?»

«Genabaris, initially. Spent some time in Pale, recently.»

Coll's brows rose at that. «You've the look of a mercenary,» he said, «though likely an officer. I heard it was pretty bad up there.»

«I arrived a little late,» Paran admitted. «Saw lots of rubble and lots of dead, so I'm inclined to believe the stories.» He hesitated, then said; «There was a rurnour in Pale that Moon's Spawn is now over Darujhistan.»

Coll grunted, tossing a handful of sticks on to the fire. «So it is,» he said. He gestured at a battered pot tucked against the coals. «That's stew, if you're hungry. Help yourself.»

Paran realized he was famished. He accepted Coll's offer gratefully. As he ate, using a wooden spoon the man loaned him, he thought to ask about that leg wound. But then he recalled his Claw training. When you play a soldier, you play it to the hilt. Nobody talks about what's obvious.

Something staring you in the eye, you look around it and grumble about the weather. Anything important will come out in its own time. Soldiers have nothing to look forward to, making patience an easy virtue, and sometimes it's not just a virtue, but a contest of indifference. So Paran emptied the pot, while Coll waited in casual silence, poking at the fire and adding the occasional stick from an enormous pile behind him-where the wood had come from was anybody's guess.

Finally, Paran wiped his mouth with his sleeve and scrubbed the spoon as clean as he could manage without water. He sat back then, and belched.

Coll spoke. «You heading into Darujhistan, then?»

«I am. And you?»

«Should be able to manage it in another day or so, though I can't say I'm looking forward to riding into the city on the back of a mule.»

Paran looked westward. «Well,» he said, squinting, «sun's about down. Mind if I share this camp for the night?»

«By all means.»

The captain rose and attended to his horses. He thought about delaying a day to let this man mend some more, then lending him a horse. If he rode into the city in the company of a local, there'd be advantages-someone to direct him, perhaps even give him a place to stay for a day or two. Not only that, but he might learn something in the meantime.

Would another day matter? Possibly, but it looked worth it. He hobbled the Wickan horses near the mule, then carried his saddle back to the fire.

«Been thinking about your problem,» Paran said, as he dropped the saddle and sat with his back against it. «I'll ride in with you. You can use my pack horse.»

Coll's eyes were alert. «A generous offer.»

Seeing the man's suspicion, Paran smiled. «The horses could use the extra day's rest, for one. Second, I've never before been to Darujhistan, so in exchange for my so-called generosity I'd like to plague you with endless questions in the next two days. After that, I get my horse back and you're on your way, and if anyone's come out ahead, it's me.»

«Better warn you now, Paran, I'm not much of a talker.»

«I'll take the risk.»

Coll considered for a time. «Hell,» he said, «I'd be mad not to accept, wouldn't I? You don't look the type to stick me in the back. I don't know your real story, Paran. If that's something you want to keep to yourself, that's your business. That won't stop me from asking questions, though. It's up to you whether you lie or not.»

«I think that goes both ways, doesn't it?» Paran responded. «Well, you want my story straight? Fine, here it is, Coll. I'm a deserter from the Malazan Army, ranked as captain. I also did a lot of work with the Claw, and looking back on it that's where the trouble started. Anyway, it's done.» Oh, yes, and one more thing. People who get close to me usually end up dead.»

Coll was silent, his eyes glittering in the firelight and fixed on the man opposite him. Then he puffed his cheeks and blew out a loud breath of air. «Truth as bald as that makes a challenge, don't it?» He stared into the fire, then leaned back on his elbows and lifted his face to the stars now appearing overhead. «I was once a noble in Darujhistan, the last son of a long-lined, powerful family. I was set for an arranged marriage but I fell in love with another woman-a hungry, ambitious woman, though I was blind to that.» He smiled wryly. «She was a whore, in fact, only where most whores I've met are pretty down-to-earth, she was as twisted a soul as you could imagine.»

He passed a hand across his eyes. «Anyway, I refuted my obligations and broke off the arranged marriage. It killed my father, I think, when I married Aystal-that was the whore's name, though she's changed it since.» He laughed harshly at the night sky. «Didn't take her long. I'm still not sure how she managed the details, how many men she took to bed to buy their influence, or how they did it. All I know is I woke up one day and found myself stripped of title, stripped even of my family name. The estate was hers, the money was hers, it was all hers, and her need for me had ended.»

The flames licked the dry wood between them. Paran said nothing. He sensed that more was to come from the man opposite him, and that Coll was struggling with it.

«But that wasn't the worst betrayal, Paran,» he said at length, meeting the captain's eyes. «Oh, no. That came when I walked away from it. I could've fought her. I might even have won.» His jaw tautened-the only hint of anguish that escaped his self-control-then he continued, in a flat, empty voice, «Acquaintances I'd known for decades looked right through me. To everyone I was dead. They chose not to hear me. They just walked past, or didn't even come to the gates of their estates when I called on them. I was dead, Paran, even the city's records claimed it. And so I agreed with them. I walked away. Disappeared. It's one thing to have your friends mourn your passing in your face. But it's another to betray your own life, Paran. But, as you said, it's done.»

The captain looked away, squinting into the darkness. What's this human urge, he wondered, that brings us to such devastation? «The games of the high born,» he said quietly, «span the world. I was born a noble, like you, Coll. But in Malaz we'd met our match in the old Emperor. He crushed us at every turn until we cowered like whipped dogs. Cowered for years. But it was only an issue of power, wasn't it?» he said, more to himself than to the man who shared the fire. «There are no lessons worthy enough for a noble to heed. I look back on my years within that twisted, hungry company-I look back on that life now, Coll, and I see it wasn't a life at all.» He was silent for a time, then a slow smile curved his mouth and his gaze swung to Coll. «Since I walked away from the Malazan Empire, and severed once and for all the dubious privileges of my noble blood, damn, I've never felt so alive. It was never a life before, only the palest shadow of what I've now found. Is that a truth most of us are too frightened to face?»

Coll grunted. «I'm not the sharpest man you'll meet, Paran, and your thoughts are running a touch too deep for me. But if I understand you right, you're sitting there looking at a chopped-up old fool of a man and you're telling him he's alive. Right now. As alive as can be. And whatever he betrayed back then, it wasn't life, was it?»

«You tell me, Coll.»

The man grimaced and ran a hand through his thinning hair. «The thing is, I want it back. I want it all back.»

Paran burst out laughing, and continued to laugh until sharp pains cramped his stomach.

Coll sat watching him, then a low, rumbling chuckle rose from his chest. He reached back, retrieved a handful of sticks and tossed them into the fire, one at a time. «Well, dammit, Paran,» he said, amused lines crinkling around his eyes, «you've come out of the blue like a god-sent bolt of lightning. And I appreciate it. I appreciate it more than you'll ever know.»

Paran wiped tears from his eyes. «Hood's Breath,» he said. «Just one War Mule talking to another, right?»

«I guess so, Paran. Now, if you'll look in that pack of mine, you'll find a jug of Worrytown wine. Its vintage is about a week.»

The captain rose. «Meaning?»

«Meaning it's running out of time.»

BOOK SIX THE CITY OF BLUE FIRE

Rumours like tattered flags wind-snapped and echoing in the streets below told the tale of the days upon us:

«Twas said an eel had slipped ashore or not one but a thousand under a jagged moon that might be dead, «twas whispered that a claw scraped slow on the city's cobbles, even as a dragon was seen sailing high silver and black in the nightsky.

«Twas heard, they say, a demon's death cry on the rooftops on a night of blood, even as the master's hundred hands lost a hundred daggers to the dark, and «twas rumoured then, a lady masked highborn had offered to unbidden guests a f?te to remember:

Rumour Born Fisher (b.?)