Deadhouse Gates

The Path

Trout Sen'al' Bhok'arala

Seagulls wheeled above them, the first they'd seen in a long while. The horizon ahead, on their course bearing of south by southeast, revealed an uneven smudge that grew steadily even as the day prepared for its swift demise.

Not a single cloud marred the sky and the wind was brisk and steady.

Salk Elan joined Kalam on the forecastle. Both of them were wrapped in cloaks against the rhythmic spray kicked up by Ragstopper's headlong plunge into the troughs. To the sailors manning stations on the main deck and aft, the sight of them standing there at the bow like a pair of Great Ravens was black-wrought with omens.

Oblivious to all this, Kalam's gaze held on the island that awaited them.

'By midnight,' Salk Elan said with a loud sigh. 'Ancient birthplace of the Malazan Empire-'

The assassin snorted. 'Ancient? How old do you think the Empire is? Hood's breath!'

'All right, too romantic by far. I was but seeking a mood-'

'Why?' Kalam barked.

Elan shrugged. 'No particular reason, except perhaps this brooding atmosphere of anticipation, nay, impatience, even.'

'What's to brood about?'

'You tell me, friend.'

Kalam grimaced, said nothing.

'Malaz City,' Elan resumed. 'What should I expect?'

'Imagine a pigsty by the sea and that'll do. A rotten, festering bug-ridden swamp-'

'All right, all right! Sorry I asked!'

'The captain?'

'No change, alas.'

Why am I not surprised? Sorcery — gods, how I hate sorcery!

Salk Elan rested long-fingered hands on the rail, revealing once again his love of green-hued gems set in gaudy rings. 'A fast ship could take us across to Unta in a day and a half…'

'And how would you know that?'

'I asked a sailor, Kalam, how else? That salt-crusted friend of yours pretending to be in charge, what's his name again?'

'I don't recall asking.'

'It's a true, admirable talent, that.'

'What is?'

'Your ability to crush your own curiosity, Kalam. Highly practical in some ways, dreadfully risky in others. You're a hard man to know, harder even to predict-'

'That's right, Elan.'

'Yet you like me.'

'I do?'

'Aye, you do. And I'm glad, because it's important to me-'

'Go find a sailor if you're that way, Elan.'

The other man smiled. 'That is not what I meant, but of course you're well aware of that, you just can't help flinging darts. What I'm saying is, I enjoy being liked by someone I admire-'

Kalam spun around. 'What do you find so admirable, Salk Elan? In all your vague suppositions, have you discovered a belief that I'm susceptible to flattery? Why are you eager for a partnership?'

'Killing the Empress won't be easy,' the man replied. 'But just imagine succeeding! Achieving what all thought to be impossible! Oh yes, I want to be part of that, Kalam Mekhar! Right there alongside you, driving blades into the heart of the most powerful Empire in the world!'

'You've lost your mind,' Kalam said in a quiet voice, barely audible above the seas. 'Kill the Empress? Am I to join you in this madness? Not a chance, Salk Elan.'

'Spare me the dissembling,' he sneered.

'What sorcery holds this ship?'

Salk Elan's eyes widened involuntarily. Then he shook his head. 'Beyond my abilities, Kalam, and Hood knows I've tried. I've searched every inch of Pormqual's loot, and nothing.'

'The ship herself?'

'Not that I could determine. Look, Kalam, we're being tracked by someone in a warren — that's my guess. Someone who wants to make certain of that cargo. A theory only, but it's all I've got. Thus, friend, all my secrets unveiled.'

Kalam was silent a long moment, then he shook himself. 'I have contacts in Malaz City — an unexpected converging well ahead of schedule, but there it is.'

'Contacts, excellent — we'll need them. Where?'

'There's a black heart in Malaz City, the blackest. The one thing every denizen avoids mention of, wilfully ignores — and there, if all goes well, we will await our allies.'

'Let me guess: the infamous tavern called Smiley's, once owned by the man who would one day become an Emperor — the sailors tell me the food is quite awful.'

Kalam stared at the man in wonder. Hood alone knows, either breathtakingly sardonic or … or what, by the Abyss? 'No, a place called the Deadhouse. And not inside it, but at the gates, though by all means, Salk Elan, feel free to explore its yard.'

The man leaned both arms on the rail, squinting out at the dull lights of Malaz City. 'Assuming a long wait for your friends, perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall at that.'

It was unlikely he noticed Kalam's feral grin.

Iskaral Pust gripped the latch with both hands, his feet planted against the door, and, gibbering his terror, pulled frantically — to no avail. With a growl, Mappo stepped over Icarium where he lay at the foot of Tremorlor's entrance, and prised the High Priest from the unyielding barrier.

Fiddler heard the Trell straining at the latch, but the sapper's attention was fixed on the swarm of bloodflies. Tremorlor was resisting them, but the advance was inexorable. Blind stood at his side, head lifted, hackles raised. The four other Hounds had reappeared on the trail and were charging towards the yard's vine-wreathed gate. The shadow cast down by the D'ivers swept over them like black water.

'It either opens at the touch,' Apsalar said in a startlingly calm voice, 'or it does not open at all. Stand back, Mappo, let us all try.'

'Icarium stirs!' Crokus cried out.

'It's the threat,' the Trell answered. 'Gods below, not here, not now!'

'No better time!' Iskaral Pust shrieked.

Apsalar spoke again. 'Crokus, you're the last to try but Fiddler. Come here, quickly.'

The silence that followed told Fiddler all he needed to know. He risked a glance back to where Mappo crouched over Icarium. 'Awaken him,' he said, 'or all is lost.'

The Trell lifted his face and the sapper saw the anguished indecision writ there. 'This close to Tremorlor — the risk, Fiddler-'

'What-'

But he got no further.

As if speared by lightning, the Jhag's body jolted, a high-pitched keening rising from him. The sound buffeted the others and sent them tumbling. Fresh blood streaming from the wound on his head and his eyes struggling to open, Icarium surged to his feet. The ancient single-edged long sword slipped free, the blade a strange, shivering blur.

The Hounds and the D'ivers swarm reached the yard simultaneously. The grounds and ragged trees erupted, chaotic webs of root and branch twisting skyward like black sails, billowing, spreading wide. Other roots snapped out for the Hounds — the beasts screamed. Blind was gone from Fiddler's side, down among her kin.

At that moment, in the midst of all he saw, Fiddler grinned inwardly. Not just Shadowthrone for treachery — how could an Azath resist the Hounds of Shadow?

A hand gripped his shoulder.

'The latch!' Apsalar hissed. 'Try the door, Fid!'

The D'ivers struck Tremorlor's last, desperate defence. Wood exploded.

The sapper was pushed against the door by a pair of hands on his back, catching a momentary glimpse of Mappo, his arms wrapped around a still mostly unaware Icarium, holding the Jhag back even as that keening sound rose and with it an overwhelming, inexorable power burgeoned. The pressure slapped Fiddler against the door's sweaty, dark wood and held him there in effortless contempt, whispering its promise of annihilation. He struggled to work his arm towards the latch, straining every muscle to that single task.

Hounds howled from the farthest reaches of the yard, a triumphant, outraged sound that rose towards fear as Icarium's own rage swallowed all else. Fiddler felt the wood tremble, felt that tremble spread through the House.