Deadhouse Gates

But maybe it wasn't that. Not that at all. Maybe it was what I lived through on the march to the galleys, maybe it was that sea of faces, the storm of hate and mindless fury, of the freedom and hunger to deliver pain writ so plain in all those so very normal faces. Maybe it was the people that sent me reeling.

She looked over at the severed heads. The eyes did not blink. They were drying, crackling like egg white splashed on hot cobblestones. Like mine. Too much has been seen. Far too much. If demons rose out of the waters around them right now she would feel no shock, only a wonder that they had taken so long to appear and could you be swift in ending it all, now? Please.

Like a long-limbed ape, Truth came scrambling down from the rigging, landing lightly on the deck and pausing close to her as he brushed dusty rope fibres from his clothes. He had a couple of years on her, yet looked much younger to her eyes. Unpocked, smooth skin. The wisps of beard, all too clear eyes. No gallons of wine, no clouds of durhang smoke, no weighty bodies taking turns to push inside, into a place that had started out vulnerable yet was soon walled off from anything real, anything that mattered. I only gave them the illusion of getting inside me, a dead' end pocket. Can you grasp what I'm talking about, Truth?

He noted her attention, gave her a shy smile. 'He's in the clouds,' he said, his voice hoarse with adolescence.

'Who is?'

'The sorcerer. Like an untethered kite, this way and that, trailing streamers of blood.'

'How poetic, Truth. Go back to being a marine.'

He reddened, turned away.

Baudin spoke behind her. 'The lad's too good for you and that's what makes you mean.'

'What would you know?' she sneered without turning.

'I can't scry you much, lass,' he admitted. 'But I can scry you some.'

'So you'd like to believe. Let me know when that hand starts rotting — I want to be there when it's cut off.'

The oars clacked in counterpoint to the thundering drum. The wind arrived like a gasping exhalation, and the sorcerer's storm was upon them.

Something ragged across his brow awoke Fiddler. He opened his eyes to a mass of bristle ends that suddenly lifted clear to reveal a wizened black face peering critically down. The face concluded its examination with an expression of distaste.

'Spiders in your beard … or worse. Can't see them, but I know they're there.'

The sapper drew a deep breath and winced at the throbbing protest from his broken ribs. 'Get away from me!' he growled. Stinging pain wrapped his thighs, reminders of the gouging claws that had raked them. His left ankle was heavily bandaged — the numbness from his foot was worrying.

'Can't,' the old man replied. 'No escape is possible. Bargains were sealed, arrangements made. The Deck speaks plain in this. A life given for a life taken, and more besides.'

'You're Dal Honese,' Fiddler said. 'Where am I?'

The face split into a wide grin. 'In Shadow. Hee hee.'

A new voice spoke from behind the strange old man. 'He wakens and you torment him, High Priest. Move aside, the soldier needs air, not airs.'

'It's a matter of justice,' the High Priest retorted, though he pulled back. 'Your tempered companion kneels before that altar, does he not? These details are vital to understanding.' He took another step back as the massive form of the other speaker moved into view.

'Ah,' Fiddler sighed. 'The Trell. Memory returns. And your companion … the Jhag?'

'He entertains your companions,' the Trell said. 'Feebly, I admit. For all his years, Icarium has never mastered the social grace necessary to put others at ease.'

'Icarium, the Jhag by that name. The maker of machines, the chaser of time-'

The Trell showed his canines in a wide, wry smile. 'Aye, lord of the sand grains — though that poetic allusion's lost on most and awkward besides.'

'Mappo.'

'Aye again. And your friends name you Fiddler, relieving you of the guise of a Gral horsewarrior.'

'Hardly matters that I awoke out of character, then,' Fiddler said.

'There's no punishment awaiting the lapse, soldier. Thirsty? Hungry?'

'Good, yes and yes. But first, where are we?'

'In a temple carved into a cliff. Out of the Whirlwind. Guests of a High Priest of Shadow — whom you've met. Iskaral Pust.'

'Pust?'

'Even so.'

The Dal Honese High Priest pushed into view again, scowling. 'You mock my name, soldier?'

'Not I, High Priest.'

The old man grunted, adjusted his grip on the broom, then scampered from the room.

Fiddler sat up gingerly, moving like an ancient. He was tempted to ask Mappo for an assessment of the damage, especially his ankle, but decided to hold off hearing the likely bad news a while longer. 'What's that man's story?'

'I doubt even he knows.'

'I awoke when he was sweeping my head.'

'Not surprising.'

There was an ease to the Trell's presence that relaxed Fiddler. Until he recalled the warrior's name. Mappo, a name ever chained to another's. And enough rumours to fill a tome. If any were true. . 'Icarium scared off the D'ivers.'

'His reputation carries weight.'

'Is it earned, Mappo?' Even as he asked, Fiddler knew he should have bitten back the question.

The Trell winced, withdrew slightly. 'I shall get you food and drink, then.'

Mappo left the small room, moving silently despite his considerable bulk, the combination raising an echo that brought Kalam to mind. Did you outrun the storm, old friend?

Iskaral Pust eased back into the chamber. 'Why are you here?' he whispered. 'Do you know why? You don't, but I'll tell you. You and no-one else.' He leaned close, plucking at his spiral wisps of hair with both hands. 'Tremorlor!'

Laughing at Fiddler's expression, he spun about in wild, capering steps before settling once more in front of the sapper, their faces inches apart. 'The rumour of a path, a way home. A small wriggling worm of a rumour, even less, a grub, smaller than a nail clipping, the compacted and knotted mess wrapped around something that might be a truth. Or not. Hee hee!'

Fiddler had had enough. Grimacing through the pain, he grabbed the man's collar and shook. Spittle struck his face, the High Priest's eyes rolled about like marbles in a cup.

'What, again?' Iskaral Pust managed to say.

Fiddler pushed him away.

The old man staggered, righted himself and made a show of reassembling his dignity. 'A concurrence of reactions. Too long out of social engagements and the like. Must examine my manners, and more, my personality.' He cocked his head. 'Honest. Forthright. Amusing. Gentle and impressive integrity. Well! Where's the problem, then? Soldiers are crude. Callow and thick. Distempered. Do you know the Chain of Dogs?'

Fiddler started, blinked as if shaken from a trance. 'What?'

'It's begun, though not yet known. Anabar Thy'lend. Chain of Dogs in the Malazan tongue. Soldiers have no imaginations, meaning they're capable of vast surprises. There are some things even the Whirlwind cannot sweep aside.'

Mappo Trell returned, bearing a tray. 'Harassing our guest again, Iskaral Pust?'

'Shadow-borne prophecies,' the High Priest muttered, eyeing Fiddler with cool appraisal. 'The gutter under the flood, raising ripples on the plunging surface. A river of blood, the flow of words from a hidden heart. All things sundered. Spiders in every crook and corner.' He whirled about, stamped out of the room.

Mappo stared after him.