Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 13

Over the course of their march southward through the farms and grasslands of Itko Kan, Dassem and Shear sparred as often as her duties allowed. Apart from these practice sessions the journey was uneventful for Dassem; he cared for Nara, fed their horses, and kept watch at the rear of the caravan.

So regular became their evening bouts that when they returned to camp late at night Dassem began to notice some smirks and knowing looks directed their way from the guards. If such assumptions regarding them troubled Shear, she gave no hint.

Over the weeks he found he was coming to regard her as an extraordinary training partner. So skilled, in fact, that he now understood he’d become lax this last year in Heng; that he’d lost his fine edge in that city, lacking as he did any true competition.

Yet even while he warmed to her as an exceptionally skilled master of the sword, she seemed to grow ever more distant, formal, and withdrawn. It puzzled him at first, but then he decided that such behaviour must be due to the fact their time together would be soon coming to an end.

This evening, as they walked to an isolated spot for their sword practice, Shear was even more quiet and curt. He was not altogether surprised – in three days the caravan would reach Fedal, its destination in the southern confederacy of Itko Kan, and from there he planned to head onward to Horan on the coast to hire transport out to the isle of Malaz. It was probable that neither of them would ever find another training partner of such skill – at least not for some time – and he, too, regretted their parting for this very reason.

They came to the broad gravel shore of a creek low in its course. The pale water-worn stones shone silver in the moonlight and the creek chuckled and hissed just loudly enough to smother the incessant drone of the night insects. Bats flickered overhead targeting that chorus.

Shear faced him, her wooden bokken still pushed through her wide sash. Her painted mask was a dark oval against her face and her long black hair blew about unbound. She seemed to be regarding him with particular intensity this eve.

‘This will be our last bout,’ she announced.

‘I am not leaving quite yet,’ he answered. ‘There still may be time.’

She shook her head. ‘No. No more practice. We now recognize each other as plausible rivals. I am satisfied of this, as are you. Therefore, we must settle the matter.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that among my people, the Seguleh, hierarchy is everything. All know their place.’ She motioned to indicate the two of them. ‘We must now establish rank between us.’

He shook his head. ‘Such things do not concern me.’

She slid one foot forward, her eyes within the mask narrowing. ‘You must take this seriously.’

He peered round at the darkness as if helpless. ‘Shear, I … very well.’ He opened his arms. ‘You win. I concede.’

She drew in a swift blur that cut the air. ‘I warn you – I shall force you to defend yourself! Do not dare to dismiss me. Fight with all you have. Or I shall not relent.’

He still had not drawn his bokken. ‘Shear, please … this is not necessary.’

‘It is necessary to me,’ she answered, and charged.

She came with bokken raised high, her sandalled feet shushing the gravel, and still he made no move. The wooden blade swept down in a savage stroke aimed at his neck only to clack against his blade at the very last instant.

He slid backwards, blade held readied; he was certain that cut would have broken his neck had he not caught it. ‘Shear … please.’

She came on again, unhesitating, holding nothing back in her speed and power. Her assault drove him to yield ground, which he did, circling. Her skill astonished him; so far in his young career he’d faced no better – other than his teacher, of course. She’d obviously trained under the very best, and faced the strongest of opponents.

Yet after all these weeks of studying her technique – which was as close to flawless as he’d seen – it seemed to him that it possessed one weakness: a certain blindness to variety. Clearly she was extraordinarily well taught, yet that teaching had been limited within a single school of thought.

Whereas his training had involved exposure to countless.

And so he decided to defend for a time, letting her expend her first reserves. Though he did not fool himself into thinking she would weaken; her endurance was as formidable as her skill.

So they circled, feet shuffling among the gravel, swords clacking and grating. An onlooker could not have separated the intricacy of entwined feint, counter-feint, attack and riposte.

No prior true crossing of swords had ever lasted so long for Dassem. As veterans will say, most duels last only for one or two passes; superiority – or luck – usually reveals itself quickly.

She and he, however, had had time to become acquainted with one another’s style and potential. This ruled out one of the main reasons behind the speed of most encounters: ignorance of the true ability of one’s opponent. Their rigorous training also ruled out more commonplace explanations – overconfidence, impetuousness, and plain simple panic.

As Shear continued to push him it became clear that he would have to end this convincingly; no false yielding would satisfy her. So he gave veiled retreat while quickly changing angles before turning to the attack. Now she gave ground before him.

In mid-advance he suddenly switched to a new style that he had not yet used with her, a more raw brawling technique of the southern confederacy, and surprised her for an instant. This fraction of a second of advantage was all it bought him, yet it was enough to brush his blade across her forearm. She pulled back, disengaging, and stood openly breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling. She raised her bokken to her mask, acknowledging the touch, then sheathed it savagely through her sash. Both knew that in a bout as even as theirs such a wound – though certainly not fatal – would tip the scales in Dassem’s favour. The match was over.

He sheathed his own bokken. ‘An excellent fight,’ he began, but Shear simply turned and walked away into the moonlight. Frowning, he hurried after her. ‘Please do not be upset. One of us had to win, the other not. You knew this.’

He was surprised to see her wiping at her face beneath her mask. ‘You do not understand.’

‘Will you not explain?’

She grasped her sash tightly. ‘Among my people,’ she began, clearing her throat, ‘I held a certain rank among the most skilled. Now I must abandon that rank.’

‘Because you lost to an outsider?’

‘Because I lost.’

‘Ah.’ He walked silently with her for a time. The night wind was chill and he enjoyed the sensation as it crossed his sweaty face and cooled his sweat-soaked shirt. ‘Do not be hard upon yourself. You should not take this defeat as meaning anything.’

‘Oh? And why is that?’

‘Because I am not like any other.’

Her lips quirked in amusement and she spared him one quick glance. ‘Forgive me, but that sounds vain.’

‘It is true. It was not a fair fight.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because I am already dead.’

She halted amid the tall grass and, surprised, he halted as well. She studied him closely, then shook her head. ‘Now you sound deluded, or insane.’

‘No, it is true.’ He invited her onward. ‘Walk with me and I will tell you a story I have never told anyone else.’

Still she did not move. ‘And what is this tale?’

‘The story of my youth.’

She set a palm to the pommel of her bokken and peered round at the empty shadowed rustling grasslands; it was not yet midnight. Grinding out a breath, she walked on. ‘If you must.’

He caught up, tucked his hands into his sash.

‘I was born on the Dal Hon savanna. I never knew my father. Our village bordered a hilly region of dry caves, sinkholes and gorges. Here we children often went to play our games of brigands, raiders, and champions. And it was here that my journey began.

‘One eve we played too long among the dusty gorges and ravines. Dusk came quickly, as it does in equatorial regions. Perceiving our negligence, and our danger, we ran for the village. I was among the youngest of the band, and the last straggler. That was when we heard the hunting growl of a leopard closer than we’d ever heard it before.

‘We all screamed and ran in a blind panic, of course. We all knew the danger. These predators patrolled the boundaries of our village nightly, and we all knew someone – a cousin, or a neighbour’s daughter – who had been taken over the years.’

Shear had her bokken out and was swishing it through the tall grass. ‘Do not tell me you were eaten by a leopard.’

‘No. Something even stranger. In the darkness and panic I fell into one of the many sinkholes and caves that pocketed the hills. Down I tumbled and struck my head.’ He looked to the starred night sky, frowned in recollection. ‘I arose – dazed from the blow to my head – and groped through the tunnels and caverns in a fog. How long I wandered I know not. All I know is that eventually I collapsed, perhaps from pain, or exhaustion, or even starvation.’

He glanced to Shear, awaiting another glib comment, but she was silent, evidently content to listen for the moment. He continued, ‘I awoke to the light of a small fire, and I was not alone. Someone sat across the fire. At the time I thought him just a skinny old man, but later I realized that he was in fact a dried and desiccated corpse – perhaps the remains of another victim of the sinkholes. He told me that if I wished to escape the caves and return to my family I had to defeat him, and he tossed an old rusted hook-blade to me.’

‘What did you do?’ Shear asked, wonder now colouring her voice.

Dassem laughed. ‘First I ran! I searched every foot of the caverns for escape. But there was none. The only way out was through him. And so I picked up the old blade and had at him.’

‘And what happened?’ Shear breathed.

He shrugged. ‘He beat me down, of course. And when I straightened once more he corrected my grip. The next time he showed me a stance.’ He let out a shaky breath then, as if reliving the terror of those lightless days. ‘And so it went. On and on. Eventually I would become sleepy and lie down. When I awoke a small meal would be ready by the fire – a seared lizard or snake, a handful of old stale rice. And then we would fight again.

‘As the days passed, I came to realize that I would never defeat this creature, whatever it was. So I threw down the blade. I told it I would not cooperate; that it had to let me pass.’

‘And what happened?’ Shear asked for a second time.

He shrugged again. ‘It struck me down. When I awoke, I repeated my demand. And it struck me down once more. This kept on for some time, until, eventually, for some unknown reason, it relented and allowed me to pass.’

‘I see,’ Shear said quietly. ‘So that is why you are different? Not like other swordmasters?’

They had stopped walking, as the camp was near. Its torches and lamps shone among the wagons and tents like a constellation brought to earth.

‘That was only the beginning,’ Dassem answered, and he let out a long steadying breath as if preparing himself for the memory to come. ‘I returned to my village. It was dark outside beyond the caves, early evening. I ran straight to my family hut. There, as usual, was my mother preparing the evening meal at the stone hearth. I moved into the light at the open doorway and greeted her, my arms open.’

He paused, turning half away, and breathed harshly. ‘My mother looked up. Her eyes widened in amazement. And then she screamed in complete horror. “Begone, ghost!” she howled at me. “Revenant! Fiend!” Nothing I said made any difference. She even threw stones at me. Then neighbours gathered and they too threw garbage and rocks. They drove me off from the village, calling me a ghost returned to torment them.’

He broke off, his voice choking, and he gripped the worn wood of the bokken, clenching his fingers until the knuckles whitened. Shear remained silent, watching, her eyes hidden behind her painted mask. After a time, he cleared his throat and continued, ‘I learned afterwards that four months had passed. It had been assumed that the leopard had claimed me. There had even been a funeral. I have stood upon my own grave.’

He studied Shear, his lips quirking drolly. ‘So you see. I am dead after all. There you are.’ He sighed then, lifting his shoulders. ‘Having nowhere else to go I returned to the caves and there found the ancient waiting for me at his small fire in the dark. I picked up the blade and returned to attempting to defeat him.’

‘And what happened?’ Shear asked for the third time, almost inaudibly.

He nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself. ‘I defeated him. It took twelve years. Twelve years of constant training and duelling under his tutelage. I did not remain hidden in the caverns all that time, of course … I went out for food and to seek company. But all had been warned against the ghost – the living man claimed by death – and so I was driven from every village. Eventually, I would reluctantly return to my harsh tutelage, and in the end I pushed him back and beat him down – or he deemed me skilled enough and allowed me to do so. In any case, of course, it was Hood himself possessing that body. And when I emerged once more into the sunlight I was his trained sword. The Mortal Sword of Hood. And so I have been – or was. But no longer.’

Shear was hugging herself, eyeing him in wonder, though it was difficult to see past her mask. ‘That is not something one can just put down, I think, like an old coat, or a worn blade.’

He shrugged again. ‘We shall see. In any case, I no longer answer to him.’

‘Perhaps you do, though. Perhaps you cannot help but follow his path, as it is now part of you.’

He sighed, looking away to the distant fires of the camp. ‘Yes. It may be that our choices are determined and limited by our character and learned preferences, that is true. However, it is still reassuring to hold on to the conceit of freedom, is it not?’

Shear smiled beneath her mask and reached out gently with one hand to caress his cheek; her hand was cold and hard against his face, but welcome. ‘So, it is true,’ she said, ‘you are not like any other.’

Then she took his hand and led him aside to a meadow amid a copse of woods, and there she unbuckled her belt and let it fall into the tall grass, and he did as well. Tentatively, then, he reached up to her mask but gently she lowered his hand, saying, ‘No. I have chosen to do it.’

So she lifted it from her face and stared up at him, bared perhaps for the first time with another. Her eyes were dark in the night and held his. He lowered his mouth to hers.

* * *

Tattersail pushed aside the open door to the main keep of the Hold and surveyed the damage. Her boots crunched on the litter of broken glass and pots. Mock entered behind her, his hands clasped behind his back, one dark brow arched in silent commentary.

A long table had been overturned. Kegs had been broached and left on their sides. Spilt wine stained the flags. Chairs lay every which way, and the stink of old meat and stale beer assailed her. Servants busy cleaning halted in their work and bowed, then returned to their duties.

Stooping, she picked up the broken stem of a slim wineglass. They’d even broken her finest crystal. ‘Who was it?’ she asked.

Mock gave an unconcerned wave then tried to pour a glass from a decanter but found it empty. ‘The guards say it was Geffen come to try to take the Hold.’

‘Send a crew to arrest him and confiscate all he has as payment.’

‘Not necessary,’ Mock answered, setting down the glass. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Who did it?’

Mock swept his arms wide. ‘Does it matter? I hear his lieutenant murdered him and decamped.’ He stroked his chin. ‘A wise woman, that.’

A guard wearing the gaudy purple colours of Mock’s house guards – what Mock liked to call his ‘Palace Guards’ – approached and bowed. Tattersail didn’t recognize the fellow. ‘Hold secure, admiral.’

Mock acknowledged this then tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘And where is Commander Durall?’

‘Halfway to the Wickan Plains by now, I should think.’

Mock nodded. ‘And you are…?’

‘Egil, sir.’

‘Drew the short straw, did you?’

The man just shrugged in his leather hauberk. ‘Next in command.’

‘Perhaps I should have you thrown into a cell below, Egil.’

The guard’s thin lips quirked up in a sort of sardonic comment. ‘You’re rather understaffed for that.’

Mock nodded sourly, his own expression mirroring the man’s. ‘Painfully true … commander.’ And he dismissed him.

After Egil left – kicking through the wreckage as he went – Tattersail whispered, ‘I don’t trust that man.’

‘I trust no one,’ Mock answered, adding hastily, ‘excepting you, of course.’

‘So what do we do?’

He was systematically checking every keg and carafe for leavings. ‘We wait, love. We wait and see.’

‘See what?’

‘Whether the captains agree on challenging me after this. My bet is that they won’t.’

Tattersail crossed her arms tightly over her chest. Good. That’s one thing we don’t need right now. Across the hall, one surviving hanging caught her eye – Agayla’s dark foreboding tapestry – and she winced. Stupid vandals! Of all the things to leave undamaged … then she shrugged. Perhaps some aura of that formidable woman imbued it. She knew she certainly didn’t want to touch it. ‘So they still agree you should be admiral.’

A burst of laughter answered her and she turned. Mock was shaking his head, a jug in his hand. ‘You are so very charming, my dear.’ He filled a glass from the jug, took an experimental sip, made a sour face, and continued drinking regardless. ‘They all think they can do a better job than I … they just can’t agree who should! And they all know I have one thing they do not.’

‘Which is?’

The heels of his tall boots crackled over the litter as he approached, and he brushed the back of a hand across her cheek. ‘You, my dear. They all saw who broke the Napan lines and who allowed them to escape – you, my dear.’

He opened his arms wide, jug in one hand, glass in the other, winking. ‘I will check upstairs, love. I just pray no one vomited there.’

Watching him go, Tattersail shook her head. Such a rogue!

Footsteps at the entrance brought her round. A woman was standing in the threshold, peering about the reception hall. Tattersail had never seen her before, and from her plain homespun shirt and trousers and dirty bare feet, she thought her a servitor come to ask for work in the kitchens. She drew breath to shoo her out of the keep but in that instant she felt the woman’s full presence, and the weight and power of her aura nearly thrust her back. Ye gods! Who is this?

Tattersail’s hands jerked to raise her Warren as the woman came forward, kicking unconcerned through broken glass. One hand instead went to her throat and clutched there, as her breath would not come. ‘Who are you?’ she managed shakily.

The woman was short, like her, but willow thin. Her features were odd – perhaps of a people unknown to Tattersail: the face long and the eyes large. The mouth lipless.

‘Call me Nightchill,’ she answered.

‘What do you want?’

‘You.’

Tattersail clutched even tighter at her neck. She gasped, ‘Why?’

‘To meet you. I sensed your performance. It was impressive.’

The terrifying power of this woman’s aura – the most potent she had ever sensed, far greater than the glimpses she had had of Agayla’s – made Tattersail want to faint, but she dragged her hand from her throat and nodded, acknowledging the compliment, whispering, ‘Well … thank you.’

‘And to tell you that you are wasted here.’

Now Tattersail frowned. ‘Did Agayla send you?’

An entirely humourless smile drew up one edge of the woman’s slash of a mouth. ‘No. Agayla did not send me. I am here to do you this one favour, and to warn you. There are powers circling this island that you are not ready for, child. They will annihilate you. Leave while you can.’

Now Tattersail found her teeth clenching and her legs steadying. This again! ‘I can take care of myself and I’ll leave when I damn well choose!’

The woman shrugged, untroubled. ‘Very well. It is your choice. Do not say I did not warn you, however.’ And she tipped her head in farewell and walked away.

Tattersail’s gaze went to the midnight hanging once more and narrowed there. Damn her meddling! Then her brows clenched and she stared anew. Was that ugly portrait of the Hold even darker with swirling shadows now?

* * *

Nedurian stood at Malaz’s harbour wharf and watched the beaten and bedraggled fleet of freebooters and would-be raiders come straggling in. Mock’s Insufferable had been among the first, looking damaged from the engagement, but still seaworthy. The Intolerant and the Intemperate were missing, apparently casualties of the engagement. So too were so many of the freebooter fleet. More were limping in even as he watched, but it appeared as if fully half the assembled flotilla had failed to escape the ambush.

King Tarel had struck his piratical rivals a severe blow. It was the talk of the waterfront, of course; the Napan betrayal. And thinking of his employers, Nedurian was worried. The townsfolk might want blood.

He pushed away from the wooden crates he was leaning against and headed to the row of waterfont dives that included the Hanged Man, and Smiley’s.

He found the Napan crew closing up shop even though it was the evening, the best time for their trade. A small two-wheeled cart stood at the door. In it lay the body of Amiss, wrapped in canvas sail cloth and sewn tight.

‘Come with us,’ Surly said, sounding tired. Tocaras helped her up on to the cart, where she sat cradling her side with one arm. Urko took up the two poles of the cart and started pulling, and the rest of the Napans followed along.

It was to be a burial, obviously, and Nedurian didn’t know whether to be honoured or resentful at being included; honoured, as the only non-Napan present, resentful because perhaps he wasn’t trusted enough to be left behind.

Urko led them south to the very tip of the waterfront, where fishers pulled their tiny dories and dugouts from the surf. Coins changed hands with one such fellow and Urko gently carried the wrapped body to a dory and laid it within.

Surly waved Nedurian to join them. He sat at the bow, wrapped in a blanket against the unusual chill of the night. A lantern next to him lit the waves and the five Napans: Surly, Shrift and Tocaras at the canvas-wrapped body, Urko and Grinner at the oars.

Once they were far out beyond the harbour, Surly and lean Tocaras lifted the body to the gunwale. Surly said a few words in benediction, or farewell, and together they let slip the corpse into the dark water and watched it sink from sight.

After a long silence, empty but for the slap of the waves and the far-off crash of the surf into the cliffs north of the city, Urko and Shrift began to power the small dory back to the glow of the distant lanterns of Malaz harbour. Nedurian addressed Tocaras. ‘So, a burial at sea…’

The tall, pole-slim fellow nodded sombrely. ‘Yes. Always a sea burial for us Napans. It’s a tradition.’ And he added, more softly, ‘But not for me.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘May I ask why not?’

Looking out across the dark waters, the fellow grimaced as if in distaste. ‘I hate it. The sea. It’s taken too many from me.’

Nedurian thought of so many of his old friends, gone now, and he nodded. ‘I can understand that.’

No more was said until they returned to Smiley’s. Nedurian, Surly and Urko took up posts to keep watch. The mage sat at one of the narrow windows, an eye on the gleaming cobbles of the nighttime street. Urko sat at the door, while Surly busied herself at the bar. A large fire cast an uneven amber glow over the common room.

Nedurian sipped his watered wine. He glanced about the quiet room, asked, ‘What about your local hires? Where are they?’

‘They’ll drag their sorry arses back once they’ve run out of coin,’ Surly said from behind the scarred wooden counter.

‘And what about you lot?’ he asked Urko, who sat on a tall stool with his hands and chin resting atop a short hardwood staff before him. His coarse features drew down in a scowl.

‘What about us?’

‘Why are you still here? Why not leave? You heard how King Tarel betrayed the fleet. Mock might order you arrested.’

Urko snorted his derision. ‘He can try.’

‘What I mean is, wouldn’t it be safer to head to the mainland, hire out as crew?’

The giant fellow’s gaze slid to Surly, his wide knotted hands clenched on the staff. ‘Can’t. We’re—’

‘That’s enough,’ Surly cut in. Her eyes were on Nedurian now, suspicious. ‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’

He raised his hands open in surrender. ‘You’re right. Never mind. None of my business. But I’ll let you know … I really don’t care if you’re wanted on the mainland.’

Urko just eyed Surly, saying nothing.

‘We’ll leave,’ Surly added, meditatively cleaning glasses, ‘when the Twisted returns.’

‘It’s overdue,’ Nedurian said, then wished he hadn’t.

Now Urko lowered his gaze, frowning even more deeply, his hands clenching as he thumped the staff to the hardwood floor.

* * *

Three nights later, Jull Solman, a fisherman out of Malaz City, sat in the dugout that his father had sat in all his life, and set his lines. His lantern wobbled and glowed in the night from its stand at the pointed bow.

Satisfied with his lines, he crouched and waited for the lantern to do its work of drawing the curious fish from the dark depths below. During these quiet moments he would think, and he reflected now that all his life he’d resented that he was still nothing more than a fisher like his father before him … while others, friends and cousins, had joined the raiders and become crew on Malazan freebooters.

That is, until this latest disastrous raid, what with near half the crews failing to return. Only now was he beginning to see the wisdom in his father’s words, and his demands that he follow in his footsteps and remain a fisher.

Perhaps he hadn’t been such a bitter, mean, stubborn, worthless old fool after all.

As to his father’s other claims and wild talk … well, some things were just too foolish to believe. That these raiders and pirates were just recent arrivals to the island and that its true occupants were the fisher folk themselves? Jull could only shake his head. What of it if it were true?

And that the island’s true guardian and protector was a common fisher just like them? He reached out and jiggled one of the lines. Nothing more than wishful thinking. Ridiculous old local legends and stories.

That hook, as the saying goes, was just too big to swallow.

It was then in his musings that he glimpsed a strange glow approaching from the south. Squinting, he sat up and stared, studying the eerie phenomenon. A patch of nightglow as can sometimes gyre atop the waves? A gathering of the bright deep-water fish? Or – and here the hair upon his neck stirred and prickled – the daemon Stormriders come to claim his spirit?

The glow thickened into a patch of mist and fog that closed upon him, and now, amid this freezing witch-gust of air, there emerged the tall prow of a vessel. Jull gaped up as it passed: a caravel, great tendrils and scarves of mist boiling from its hull; its sails hanging in torn ribbons; great sheaths of ice crackling and calving from its sides as it came. And there, in spidery silver upon its black hull as it loomed past, he read, emblazoned, the name Twisted.

Jull fell back into his dugout as it rocked gently from the ghostly passage. By the gods! The cursed witch-vessel itself. Everyone said it had sunk! Yet here it was, spat up from the very floor of the Abyss. Returned from the sunken paths of Ruse. Cursed from who knew what fiendish rendezvous? Perhaps a pact with the Riders themselves …

He shivered anew in the unearthly wind blowing off the daemon-vessel as he yanked up his lines. This tale would win him an entire night of free drinks at the Hanged Man. What a dreadful portent! The Twisted returned from its presumed end … he shook his head as he readied the oars. Escaped the ambush after all … well, who would even dare attack it anyway?

Dreadful times were coming with the return of such a harbinger, for sure.