Selecting one of the strings, Cutter straightened. He slipped one of the cord-bound ends into the notch at the bow’s base end, then anchored the weapon against the outside of his right foot and pushed down on the upper rib.
Harder than he’d expected. The bow shook as he struggled to slip the loop into the notch. Finally succeeding, Cutter lifted the bow for a more gauging regard, then drew it back. The breath hissed between his teeth as he sought to hold the weapon taut. This would, he realized as he finally relaxed the string, prove something of a challenge.
Sensing eyes on him, he turned.
Apsalar stood near the main mast. Flecks and globules of dried blood covered her forearms.
‘What have you been doing?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Looking around.’
Inside someone’s chest? ‘We should go.’
‘Have you decided where yet?’
‘I’m sure that will be answered soon enough,’ he said, bending down to collect the arrows and the belt holding the quiver and kit pouch.
‘The sorcery here is… strange.’
His head snapped up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I am not sure. My familiarity with warrens is somewhat vicarious.’
I know.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘if this is Kurald Emurlahn, then it is tainted in some way. Necromantically. Life and death magicks, carved directly into the wood of this ship. As if warlocks and shoulder-women had done the consecrating.’
Cutter frowned. ‘Consecrating. You make it sound as if this ship was a temple.’
‘It was. Is. The spilling of blood has done nothing to desecrate it, which is precisely my point. Perhaps even warrens can sink into barbarity.’
‘Meaning the wielders of a warren can affect its nature. My late uncle would have found the notion fascinating. Not desecration, then, but denigration.’
She slowly glanced around. ‘Rashan. Meanas. Thyr.’
He comprehended the thought. ‘You think all warrens accessible to humans are in fact denigrations of Elder Warrens.’
She raised her hands then. ‘Even blood decays.’
Cutter’s frown deepened. He was not sure what she meant by that, and found himself disinclined to ask. Easier, safer, to simply grunt and make his way to the gunnel. ‘We should make use of this breeze. Assuming you’re done here.’
In answer she walked to the ship’s side and clambered over the rail.
Cutter watched her climb down to the runner, taking her place at the tiller. He paused for a final look around. And stiffened.
On the distant strand of Drift Avalii, there stood a lone figure, leaning on a two-handed sword.
Traveller.
And Cutter now saw that there were others, squatting or seated around him. A half-dozen Malazan soldiers. In the trees behind them stood Tiste Andu, silver-haired and ghostly. The image seemed to burn in his mind, as of a touch so cold as to feel like fire. He shivered, pulling his gaze away with an effort, and quickly joined Apsalar in the runner, taking the mooring line with him.
He set the oars in their locks and pushed the craft away from the ship’s black hull.
‘I believe they intend to commandeer this Edur dromon,’ Apsalar said.
‘What about protecting the Throne?’
‘There are demons from Shadow on the island now. Your patron god has clearly decided to take a more active role in defending the secret.’
‘Your patron god.’ Thank you for that, Apsalar. And who was it who held your soul cupped in his two hands? A killer’s hands. ‘Why not just take it back to the Shadow Realm?’
‘No doubt if he could, he would,’ she replied. ‘But when Anomander Rake placed his kin here to guard it, he also wrought sorcery around the Throne. It will not be moved.’
Cutter shipped the oars and began preparing the sail. ‘Then Shadowthrone need only come here and plant his scrawny arse on it, right?’
He disliked her answering smile. ‘Thus ensuring that no-one else could claim its power, or the position of King of High House Shadow. Unless, of course, they killed Shadowthrone first. A god of courage and unassailable power might well plant his scrawny arse on that throne to end the argument once and for all. But Shadowthrone did just that, once before, as Emperor Kellanved.’
‘He did?’
‘He claimed the First Throne. The throne of the T’lan Imass.’
Oh.
‘Fortunately,’ Apsalar continued, ‘as Shadowthrone, he has shown little interest in making use of his role as Emperor of the T’lan Imass.’
‘Well, why bother? This way, he negates the chance of anyone else finding and taking that throne, while his avoidance of using it himself ensures that no-one takes notice he has it in the first place-gods, I’m starting to sound like Kruppe! In any case, that seems clever, not cowardly.’
She studied him for a long moment. ‘I had not thought of that. You are right, of course. Unveiling power invites convergence, after all. It seems Shadowthrone has absorbed well his early residence in the Deadhouse. More so, perhaps, than Cotillion has.’
‘Aye, it’s an Azath tactic, isn’t it? Negation serves to disarm. Given the chance, he’d probably plant himself in every throne in sight, then, with all the power accrued to him, he would do nothing with it. Nothing at all.’
Her eyes slowly widened.
He frowned at her expression. Then his heart started pounding hard. No. I was only kidding. That’s not just ambitious, it’s insane. He could never pull it off… but what if he did? ‘All the games of the gods…’
‘Would be seriously… curtailed. Crokus, have you stumbled onto the truth? Have you just articulated Shadowthrone’s vast scheme? His prodigious gambit to achieve absolute domination?’
‘Only if he is truly mad, Apsalar,’ the Daru replied, shaking his head. ‘It’s impossible. He would never succeed. He would not even get close.’
Apsalar settled back on the tiller as the sails filled and the runner leapt forward. ‘For two years,’ she said, ‘Dancer and the Emperor vanished. Left the empire for Surly to rule. My stolen memories are vague of that time, but I do know that both men were changed, irrevocably, by all that happened to them during those two years. Not just the play for the Shadow Realm, which no doubt was central to their desires. Other things occurred… truths revealed, mysteries uncovered. One thing I know for certain, Crokus, is that, for most of those two years, Dancer and Kellanved were not in this realm.’
‘Then where in Hood’s name were they?’
She shook her head. ‘I cannot answer that question. But I sense that they were following a trail, one that wound through all the warrens, and to realms where even the known warrens do not reach.’
‘What kind of trail? Whose?’
‘Suspicions… the trail had something to do with, well, with the Houses of the Azath.’
Mysteries uncovered indeed. The Azath-the deepest mystery of them all.
‘You should know, Crokus,’ Apsalar continued, ‘that they knew that Surly was waiting for them. They knew what she had planned. Yet they returned none the less.’
‘But that makes no sense.’
‘Unless she proceeded to do precisely what they wanted her to do. After all, we both know that the assassinations failed-failed in killing either of them. The question then becomes: what did that entire mess achieve?’
‘A rhetorical question?’
She cocked her head. ‘No.’ Surprised.
Cutter rubbed at the bristle on his jaw, then shrugged. ‘All right. It left Surly on the Malazan throne. Empress Laseen was born. It stripped from Kellanved his secular seat of power. Hmm. Let’s ask it another way. What if Kellanved and Dancer had returned and successfully reclaimed the imperial throne? But, at the same time, they had taken over the Shadow Realm. Thus, there would be an empire spanning two warrens, an empire of Shadow.’ He paused, then slowly nodded. ‘They wouldn’t have stood for that-the gods, that is. Ascendants of all kinds would have converged on the Malazan Empire. They would have pounded the empire and the two men ruling it into dust.’