He lowered his head. ‘So ends my honour song of Coots of the Lost clan.’
After a long silence, Jethiss motioned down the rocky slope. ‘Look there.’
Fisher turned. A figure had emerged from the treeline. Staggering, falling, it made its agonizing way up the rocks, mostly on all fours, crawling over the stones, pulling itself up.
It was Badlands. His leathers were torn. His limbs bled from countless cuts. His face was a glistening mask of mud and blood and tears. He crawled on, weeping, sobbing, right past Fisher’s and Jethiss’s boots till he came upon one of Coots’ moccasined feet and this he grasped as if drowning. He pressed his face to it and gave a heartbreaking moan that drove Fisher to look away. This was not for him to see; this was the private grieving of family.
He touched Jethiss’s arm and together they walked off down the gently falling rock slope. The afternoon light gathered its amber colour. The shadows of the trees lengthened. Fisher turned to Jethiss. ‘You broke those Wickan knives …’ Jethiss nodded. Fisher eyed him speculatively. ‘Mane of Chaos — does this name mean anything to you?’
The Andii tilted his head, considering. He shook it. ‘No. Should it?’
‘It is another name for Anomander Rake. Is that name familiar?’
The man turned his face to regard him directly. There was a wariness in his dark eyes now. ‘There’s something …’ The eyes became alarmed. ‘Are you saying … that I might be …’
Fisher shook his head. ‘I don’t know. His hair was white, though. But …’ He took a heavy breath as if steeling himself. ‘They say he gave himself to Mother Dark, to elemental night. And if he did … is it not possible that perhaps it, or she, gave him back …’
‘Yet he had white hair.’
‘True. A mark of the Eleint, the ancient songs say. The chaotic touch of T’iam. Those Elder songs also say that Mother Dark never accepted the gift of Chaos. She would not take it in, and so he would return without it …’
Jethiss lowered his gaze. ‘I cannot say. I do remember something …’ He shook his head.
‘Yes? What?’
‘Something about a gate. I remember a gate. An opening on to … something. And battle and pain. Then suffocating as if drowning. And last of all, I remember something about a sword …’ He shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right. I should not pry.’ Fisher set his hands to his thighs. ‘Should we see?’
Jethiss nodded. They walked up the rock slope. Badlands stood now, facing his brother, his hands clasped before him. They came and stood just behind. ‘I’m sorry,’ Fisher said.
Badlands turned to them, but he kept his gaze downcast and for that Fisher was grateful, for he didn’t think he could bear what might lie in the man’s gaze. His face still glistened with tears, though the blood of countless gouges and scratches had dried and cracked. He moved to step past them, as if to descend the slope. Alarmed, Fisher asked: ‘Where are you going?’
Still refusing to raise his eyes, he croaked, ‘To kill them all.’
‘No you’re not.’
Badlands halted. ‘Don’t stand in my way, Fish.’
‘I am only reminding you of your duty.’
‘Oh? An’ what is that?’
‘Your duty to your family. Stalker needs you now. Your other sisters and brothers and cousins will need you even more.’
Badlands barked a harsh laugh, startling Fisher. He raised his gaze, and though Fisher had readied himself, the fires of desolation burning there made him flinch.
Jethiss had stepped aside as if to make room. Now he slowly moved to Badlands’ rear.
‘You don’t know nothing,’ Badlands growled and Fisher heard the abandonment of utter feyness in the words.
‘What do I not know?’
‘Outta my way, Fish.’
‘Go to your family, Badlands.’
‘Don’t make me-’
Jethiss grasped the man round the middle and lifted him from the ground. Fisher lunged in and snatched a knife from Badlands’ belt, reversed it and smacked it across the man’s temple. Badlands fell limp in Jethiss’s arms. The Andii gently lowered him to the ground.
Fisher stood hands on hips, staring down at the big fellow. Of course, if the brother had truly wanted to be rid of them he could have easily won through. He could have drawn upon them. Neither of them was armed, after all. He sighed and looked to Jethiss. ‘My turn.’
* * *
The north coast of the Sea of Gold was a graveyard of broken ships. Some lay half sunk just offshore, a mere few leagues beyond the mouth of the channel up from the Dread Sea, their crews only able to coax a last few chains of distance out of their tortured vessels. Others lay on their sides on the mud flats between ice floes. Stranded crews and passengers waved and called to them amid great piles of cargo.
At the Dawn’s side, Jute heard some astounding offers shouted in accents out of Quon Tali, Malyntaeas, Falar, and even Seven Cities. Half the cargo in return for transport, one fellow bellowed. A tempting offer; but the large armed crew of hireswords surrounding the heaped crates put Jute off.
Buen suggested, ‘Perhaps we should pick ’em up. Easy money.’
Jute shook his head. ‘They’d swamp us. Probably try to take the Dawn.’
The first mate sighed wistfully. ‘Too bad. All that cargo brought all this way just to rot. Might be kegs of wine from Darujhistan out there …’
‘Drop it.’
Buen pushed himself away from the side. ‘Thought we came to make some money,’ he grumbled as he went. Jute ignored the muttering. Always griping; it was the man’s way. He walked back to the stern and Ieleen next to Lurjen at the tiller. He studied the vessels following: the Malazan Ragstopper had swung in behind, the Resolute next, while the Supplicant followed far offshore. Seemed Lady Orosenn wished to keep some distance between herself and everyone else.
‘What do you see?’ Ieleen asked.
Jute scanned the shore once again. He saw … futility. And greed. ‘Blind stupid avarice,’ he said.
‘We’re here.’
He snorted. True enough. And what had they brought in their hold to the largest gold strike in living memory? Food. Not weapons or timber or tools or cloth. Food. Flour and molasses, crates of dried fruit, stoneware jugs of cheap spirits. Goods for sale. And once the hold was empty, why, what to fill it with but sacks of gold, of course!
Jute shook his head at the stunning naiveté of it. It had all seemed so easy back in Falar.
Now … well, now he believed they would be lucky just to get out of this alive.
The coast passed in a series of flats and lingering sheets of ice. They passed vessels drawn up on the shore and raised on crude log dry docks, while crews worked alongside sawing logs into planks and burned fires to reduce resin to recaulk seams.
Then the stranded vessels and would-be fortune-hunters thinned. Those ships that couldn’t limp along any further had all pulled in or sunk by this point. Those that could continue did so, leaving their fellows behind. The old unspoken law of reaching out to take what one could and damning the rest to Hood’s cold embrace.
The raw ugly ruthlessness of it sickened Jute. What a waste! What a stupid urge to enslave one’s fortune to — the empty promise of unguarded riches to be picked up by anyone. Where was the merit in any such gathered power or riches? Merely because you were first to snatch it up? Could not the second person there simply kill you and take it for himself?
Best not to invest in such easily transferable value, Jute determined. His gaze fell to the blind face of his love and he rested a hand upon hers.
‘I feel your eyes on me,’ she murmured. ‘What’s on your mind, luv?’
‘I just realized that I’ve risked everything to reach a destination I don’t even want to be at.’