The girl's final words jarred the commander yet again. 'They are coming.' The T'lan Imass—Hood's breath, as if matters weren't complicated enough. Where do I place my faith in all this? Kallor—a cold, uncanny bastard himself—calls her an abomination—he would kill her if he could. That much is plain. I'll not abide harming a child… but is she a child?
Yet… Hood's breath! She's Tattersail reborn, a woman of courage and integrity. And Nightchill, a High Mage who served the Emperor. And, now, strangest, most alarming fact of all, she is the new ruler of the T'lan Imass…
Whiskeyjack blinked, the tent and its occupants coming into focus once again. Silence writhing with tumultuous thoughts. His gaze swung back to Silverfox—saw the paleness of her young, round face, noted with a pang of empathy the tremble in the child's hands—then away again. The Tiste Andü, Korlat, was watching him. Their eyes locked. Such extraordinary beauty… while Dujek is dog-face ugly, further proof I chose the wrong side all those years back. She's hardly interested in me that way, no, she's trying to say something else entirely… After a long moment, he nodded. Silverfox… she's still a child, aye. A clay tablet scarcely etched. Aye, Tiste Andü, I understand you.
Those who chose to stand close to Silverfox might well be able to influence what she was to become. Korlat sought a private conversation with him, and he'd just accepted the invitation. Whiskeyjack wished he had Quick Ben at his side right now—the Seven Cities mage was sharp when it came to situations like these. The commander already felt out of his depth. Paran, you poor bastard. What do I tell you? Should I arrange a meeting between you and Silverfox? Will I be able to prevent one once you're told? Is it even any of my business?
Crone's beak gaped, but not in soundless laughter this time. Instead, unfamiliar terror raced through her. T'lan Imass! And K'rul, the Elder God! Holders of the truth of the Great Ravens, a truth no-one else knows—except for Silverfox, by the Abyss… Silverfox, who looked upon my soul and read all within it.
Careless, careless child! Would you force us to defend ourselves from you? From those whom you claim to command? We Great Ravens have never fought our own wars—'would you see us unleashed by your unmindful revelations?
Should Rake learn… protestations of innocence will avail us naught. We were there at the Chaining, were we not? Yet… aye, we were there at Fall itself! The Great Ravens were born like maggots in the flesh of the Fallen One and that, oh, that will damn us! But wait! Have we not been honourable guardians of the Crippled God's magic? And were we not the ones who delivered to one and all the news of the Pannion Domin, the threat it represents?
A magic we can unleash, if forced to. Ah, child, you threaten so much with your careless words…
Her black, glittering eyes sought out and fixed on Caladan Brood. Whatever thoughts the warlord possessed remained hidden behind the flat, bestial mask that was his face.
Rein in your panic, old hag. Return to the concerns before us. Think!
The Malazan Empire had made use of the T'lan Imass in the Emperor's time. The conquest of Seven Cities had been the result. Then, with Kellanved's death, the alliance had dissolved, and so Genabackis was spared the devastating implacability of tens of thousands of undead warriors who could travel as dust in the wind. This alone had allowed Caladan Brood to meet the Malazan threat on an equal footing… ah, perhaps it only seemed that way. Has he ever truly unleashed the Tiste Andü? Has he ever let loose Anomander Rake? Has he ever shown his own true power? Brood's an ascendant—one forgets that, in careless times. His warren is Tennes—the power of the land itself, the earth that is home to the eternal sleeping goddess, Burn. Caladan Brood has the power—there in his arms and in that formidable hammer on his back—to shatter mountains. An exaggeration? A low flight over the broken peaks east of the Laederon Plateau is proof enough of his younger, more precipitous days… Grandmother Crone, you should know better! Power draws power. It has always been thus, and now have come the T'lan Imass, and once again the balance shifts.
My children spy upon the Pannion Domin—they can smell the power rising from those lands so thoroughly sanctified in blood, yet it remains faceless, as if hidden beneath layer after deceiving layer. What hides at the core of that empire of fanatics?
The horrific child knows—I'd swear on the god's bed of broken flesh to that, oh yes. And she will lead the T'lan Imass… to that very heart.
Do you grasp this, Caladan Brood? I think you do. And, even as that hoary old tyrant Kallor utters his warnings with a bloodless will… even as you are rocked by the imminent arrival of undead allies, so you are jolted even more by the fact that they will be needed. Against what have we proclaimed war? What will be left of us when we are done?
And, by the Abyss, what secret truth about Silverfox does Kallor possess?
Defying her own overwhelming self-disgust, the Mhybe forced brutal clarity into her thoughts, listening to all that Silverfox said, to each word, to what lay between each word. She hugged herself beneath the barrage of her daughter's pronouncements. The laying bare of secrets assailed her every instinct—such exposure was fraught with risks. Yet she finally understood something of the position in which Silverfox had found herself—the confessions were a call for help.
She needs allies. She knows I am not enough—spirits below, she has been shown that here. More, she knows that these two camps—enemies for so long—need to be bridged. Born in one, she reaches out to the other. All that was Tattersail and Nightchill cries out to old comrades. Will they answer?
She could discern nothing of Whiskeyjack's emotions. His thoughts might well be echoing Kallor's position. An abomination. She saw him meet Korlat's eyes and wondered at what passed between them.
Think! It is the nature of everyone here to treat every situation tactically, to push away personal feelings, to gauge, to weigh and balance. Silverfox has stepped to the fore; she has claimed a position of power to rival Brood, Anomander Rake and Kallor. Does Dujek Onearm now wonder with whom he should be dealing? Does he realize that we were all united because of him—that, for twelve years, the clans of Barghast and Rhivi, the disparate companies from a score or more cities, the Tiste Andü, the presence of Rake, Brood and Kallor, not to mention the Crimson Guard—all of us, we stood shoulder to shoulder because of the Malazan Empire? Because of the High Fist himself.
But we have a new enemy now, and much of its nature remains unknown, and it has engendered a kind of fragility among us—oh, what an understatement—that Dujek Onearm now sees.
Silverfox states that we shall have need of the T'lan Imass. Only the vicious old Emperor could have been comfortable with such creatures as allies—even Kallor recoils from what is being forced upon us. The fragile alliance now creaks and totters. Yow are too wise a man, High Fist, to not now possess grave doubts.
The one-armed old man was the first to speak after Silverfox's statement, and he addressed the child with slow, carefully measured words. 'The T'lan Imass with whom the Malazan Empire is familiar is the army commanded by Logros. By your words we must assume there are other armies, yet no knowledge of them has ever reached us. Why is that, child?'
'The last Gathering,' Silverfox replied, 'was hundreds of thousands of years ago, at which was invoked the Ritual of Tellann—the binding of the Tellann warren to each and every Imass. The ritual made them immortal, High Fist. The life force of an entire people was bound in the name of a holy war destined to last for millennia—'
'Against the Jaghut,' Kallor rasped. His narrow, withered face twisted into a sneer behind the already-drying blood. 'Apart from a handful of Tyrants, the Jaghut were pacifists. Their only crime was to exist—'
Silverfox rounded on the warrior. 'Do not hint at injustices, High King! I possess enough of Nightchill's memories to recall the Imperial Warren—the place you once ruled, Kallor, before the Malazans made claim to it. You laid waste an entire realm—you stripped the life from it, left nothing but ash and charred bones. An entire realm!'
The tall warrior's
blood-smeared grin was ghastly. 'Ah, you are there, aren't you. But hiding, I think, twisting the truth into false memories. Hiding, you pathetic, cursed woman!' His smile hardened. 'Then you should know not to test my temper, Bonecaster. Tattersail. Nightchill… dear child…'
The Mhybe saw her daughter pale. Between these two… the feel of a long enmity—why had I not seen that before? There are old memories here, a link between them. Between my daughter and Kallor—no, between Kallor and one of the souls within her…
After a moment, Silverfox returned her attention to Dujek. 'To answer you, Logros and the clans under his command were entrusted with the task of defending the First Throne. The other armies departed to hunt down the last Jaghut strongholds—the Jaghut had raised barriers of ice. Omtose Phellack is a warren of ice, High Fist, a place deathly cold and almost lifeless. Jaghut sorceries threatened the world… sea levels dropped, whole species died out—every mountain range was a barrier. Ice flowed in white rivers down from the slopes. Ice formed a league deep in places. As mortals, the Imass were scattered, their unity lost. They could not cross such barriers. There was starvation—'
'The war against the Jaghut had begun long before then,' Kallor snapped. 'They sought to defend themselves, and who would not?'
Silverfox simply shrugged. 'As Tellann undead, our armies could cross such barriers. The efforts at eradication proved… costly. You have heard no whispers of those armies because many have been decimated, whilst others perhaps continue the war in distant, inhospitable places.'
There was a pained expression on the High Fist's face. 'The Logros themselves left the empire and disappeared into the Jhag Odhan for a time, and when they returned they were much diminished.'
She nodded.
'Have the Logros answered your call?'
Frowning, the girl said, 'I cannot be certain of that—of any of them. They have heard. All will come if they are able, and I sense the nearness of one army—at least I think I do.'
There is so much you are not telling us, daughter. I can see it in your eyes. You fear your call for help will go unanswered if you reveal too much.
Dujek sighed and faced the warlord. 'Caladan Brood, shall we resume our discussion of strategy?'
The soldiers once again leaned over the map table, joined by a softly cackling Crone. After a moment, the Mhybe collected her daughter's hand and guided her towards the entrance. Korlat joined them as they made their way out. To the Mhybe's surprise, Whiskeyjack followed.
The cool afternoon breeze was welcome after the close confines of the command tent. Without a word, the small group walked a short distance to a clearing between the Tiste Andü and Barghast encampments. Once they halted, the commander fixed his grey eyes on Silverfox.
'I see much of Tattersail in you, lass—how much of her life, her memories, do you recall?'
'Faces,' she answered, with a tentative smile. 'And the feelings attached to them, Commander. You and I were allies for a time. We were, I think, friends…'
His nod was grave. 'Aye, we were. Do you remember Quick Ben? The rest of my squad? What of Hairlock? Tayschrenn? Do you recall Captain Paran?'
'Quick Ben,' she whispered uncertainly. 'A mage? Seven Cities… a man of secrets… yes,' she smiled again, 'Quick Ben. Hairlock—not a friend, a threat—he caused me pain.'
'He's dead, now.'
'I am relieved. Tayschrenn is a name I've heard recently—Laseen's favoured High Mage—we sparred, he and I, when I was Tattersail, and, indeed, when I was Nightchill. No sense of loyalty, no sense of trust—thoughts of him confuse me.'
'And the captain?'
Something in the commander's tone brought the Mhybe alert.
Silverfox glanced away from Whiskeyjack's eyes. 'I look forward to seeing him again.'
The commander cleared his throat. 'He's in Pale right now. While it's not my business, lass, you might want to consider the consequences of meeting him, of, uh, his finding out…' His words trailed away in evident discomfort.
Spirits below! This Captain Paran was Tattersail's lover—I should have anticipated something like this. The souls of two grown women… 'Silverfox—daughter—'
'We have met him, Mother,' she said. 'When driving the bhederin north—do you recall? The soldier who defied our lances? I knew then—I knew him, who he was.' She faced the commander again. 'Paran knows. Send him word that I am here. Please.'
'Very well, lass.' Whiskeyjack raised his head and studied the Barghast encampment. 'The Bridgeburners will be… visiting… in any case. The captain now commands them. I am sure that Quick Ben and Mallet will be pleased to make your reacquaintance—'
'You wish them to examine me, you mean,' Silverfox said, 'to help you decide whether I am worthy of your support. Fear not, Commander, the prospect does not concern me—in many ways I remain a mystery to myself, as well, and so I am curious as to what they will discover.'
Whiskeyjack smiled wryly. 'You've the sorceress's blunt honesty, lass—if not her occasional tact.'
Korlat spoke. 'Commander Whiskeyjack, I believe we have things to discuss, you and I.'
'Aye,' he said.
The Tiste Andü turned to the Mhybe and Silverfox. 'We shall take our leave of you two, now.'
'Of course,' the old woman replied, struggling to master her emotions. The soldier who defied our lances—oh yes, I recall, child. Old questions… finally answered… and a thousand more to plague this old woman… 'Come along, Silverfox, it's time to resume your schooling in the ways of the Rhivi.'
'Yes, Mother.'
Whiskeyjack watched the two Rhivi walk away. 'She revealed far too much,' he said after a moment. 'The parley was working, drawing the bindings closer… then the child spoke…'
'Yes,' Korlat murmured. 'She is in possession of secret knowledge—the knowledge of the T'lan Imass. Memories spanning millennia on this world. So much that those people witnessed… the Fall of the Crippled God, the arrival of the Tiste Andü, the last flight of the Dragons into Starvald Demelain…' She fell silent, a veil descending over her eyes.
Whiskeyjack studied her, then said, 'I've never seen a Great Raven become so obviously… flustered.'
Korlat smiled. 'Crone believes the secret of her kind's birth is not known to us. It is the shame of their origins, you see—or so they themselves view it. Rake is indifferent to its… moral context, as we all are.'
'What is so shameful?'
'The Great Ravens are unnatural creatures. The bringing down of the alien being who would come to be called the Crippled God was a… violent event. Parts of him were torn away, falling like balls of fire to shatter entire lands. Pieces of his flesh and bone lay rotting yet clinging to a kind of life in their massive craters. From that flesh the Great Ravens were born, carrying with them fragments of the Crippled God's power. You have seen Crone and her kin—they devour sorcery, it is their true sustenance. To attack a Great Raven with magic serves only to make the creature stronger, to bolster its immunity. Crone is the First Born. Rake believes the potential within her is… appalling, and so he keeps her and ilk close.'
She paused, then faced him. 'Commander Whiskeyjack, in Darujhistan, we clashed with a mage of yours…'
'Aye. Quick Ben. He'll be here shortly, and I will have his thoughts on all this.'
'The man you mentioned earlier to the child.' She nodded. 'I admit to a certain admiration for the wizard and so look forward to meeting him.' Their gazes locked. 'And I am pleased to have met you as well. Silverfox spoke true words when she said she trusted you. And I believe I do as well.'
He shifted uncomfortably. 'There has been scant contact between us that would earn such trust, Korlat. None the less, I will endeavour to earn it.'
'The child has Tattersail within her, a woman who knew you well. Though I never met the sorceress, I find that the woman she was—emerging further with each day in Silverfox—possessed admirable qualities.'
Whiskeyjack slowly nodded. 'She was… a friend.'
'How much do you know of
the events leading to this… rebirth?'
'Not enough, I am afraid,' he replied. 'We learned of Tattersail's death from Paran, who came upon her… remains. She died in the embrace of a Thelomen High Mage, Bellurdan, who had travelled out onto the plain with the corpse of his mate, Nightchill, presumably intending to bury the woman. Tattersail was already a fugitive, and it's likely Bellurdan was instructed to retrieve her. It is as Silverfox says, as far as I can tell.'
Korlat looked away and said nothing for a long time. When she finally did, her question, so simple and logical, left Whiskeyjack with a pounding heart: 'Commander, we sense Tattersail and Nightchill within the child—and she herself admits to these two—but now I wonder, where then is this Thelomen, Bellurdan?'
He could only draw a deep breath and shake his head. Gods, I don't know…
Chapter Four
Mark these three, they are all that give shape, all that lie beneath the surface of the world, these three, they are the bones of history.
Sister of Cold Nights! Betrayal greets your dawn!
You chose to trust the knife, even as it found your heart.
Draconus, Blood of Tiam! Darkness was made to embrace your soul, and these chains that now hold you, they are of your own fashioning.
K'rul, yours was the path the Sleeping Goddess chose, a thousand and more years ago, and she sleeps still, even as you awaken—the time has come, Ancient One, to once more walk among the mortals, and make of your grief, the sweetest gift.
Anomandaris
Fisher Kel Tath
COVERED FROM HEAD TO TOE IN MUD, HARLLO AND STONNY Menackis emerged from behind the carriage as it rocked its way up the slope. Grinning at the sight, Gruntle leaned against the buckboard.