Steven Erikson - Dust of Dreams

‘I’m thinking,’ said Quick Ben, ‘of asking the Adjunct to elevate you to High Mage.’

‘Don’t do that,’ snapped Bottle. ‘Give me a reason not to. And not one of those pathetic ones about comradeship and how you’re so needed in Fid’s squad.’

‘All right. See what you think of this one, then. Keep me where I am… as your shaved knuckle in the hole.’

The High Mage’s glittering eyes narrowed, and then he smiled. ‘I may not like you much, Bottle, but sometimes… I like what you say.’

‘Lucky you. Now, can we get out of this place?’

‘I think it is time,’ she said, ‘for us to leave.’

Withal squinted at her, and then rubbed at the bristle on his chin. ‘You want better accommodation, love?’

‘No, you idiot. I mean leave. The Bonehunters, this city, all of it. You did what you had to do. I did what I had to do-my miserable family of Rake’s runts are gone, now. Nothing holds us here any more. Besides,’ she added, ‘I don’t like where things are going.’

‘That reading-’

‘Meaningless.’ She fixed a level gaze on him. ‘Do I look like the Queen of High House Dark?’

Withal hesitated.

‘Do you value your life, husband?’

‘If you want us to leave, why, I don’t expect anyone will try to stop us. We can book passage… somewhere.’ And then he frowned. ‘Hold on, Sand. Where will we go?’

Scowling, she rose and began pacing round their small, sparsely furnished room. ‘Remember the Shake? On that prison island?’

‘Aye. The ones that used old Andii words for some things.’

‘Who worship the shore, yes.’

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Who also seemed to think that the shore was dying.’

‘Maybe the one they knew-I mean, there’s always some kind of shore.’

‘Rising sea levels.’

‘Aye.’

‘Those sea levels,’ she continued, now facing the window and looking out over the city, ‘have been kept unnaturally low… for a long time.’

‘They have?’

‘Omtose Phellack. The rituals of ice. The Jaghut and their war with the T’lan Imass. The vast ice fields are melting, Withal.’ She faced him. ‘You’re Meckros-you’ve seen for yourself the storms-we saw it again at Fent Reach-the oceans are in chaos. Seasons are awry. Floods, droughts, infestations. And where does the Adjunct want to take her army? East. To Kolanse. But it’s a common opinion here in Lether that Kolanse is suffering a terrible drought.’ Her dark eyes hardened. ‘Have you ever seen an entire people starving, dying of thirst?’

‘No. Have you?’

‘I am old , husband. I remember the Saelen Gara, an offshoot Andii people in my home world. They lived in the forests. Until the forests died. We begged them, then, to come to Kharkanas. To the cities of the realm. They refused. Their hearts were broken, they said. Their world had died, and so they elected to die with it. Andarist begged…’ Her gaze clouded then and she turned away, back to the window. ‘Yes, Withal, to answer you. Yes, I have. And I will not see it again.’

‘Very well. Where to, then?’

‘We will begin,’ she said, ‘with a visit to the Shake.’

‘What have they to tell you, Sand? Garbled memories. Ignorant superstitions.’

‘Withal. I fell in battle. We warred with the K’Chain Che’Malle. Until the Tiste Edur betrayed us, slaughtered us. Clearly, they were not as thorough as they perhaps should have been. Some Andii survived. And it seems that there were more than just K’Chain Che’Malle dwelling in that region. There were humans.’

‘The Shake.’

‘People who would become the Shake, once they took in the surviving Andii. Once the myths and legends of both groups knitted together and became indistinguishable.’ She paused, and then said, ‘But even then, there must have been a schism of some sort. Unless, of course, the Tiste Andii of Bluerose were an earlier population, a migration distinct from our own. But my thinking is this: some of the Shake, with Tiste Andii among them, split away, travelled inland. They were the ones who created Bluerose, a theocracy centred on the worship of the Black-Winged Lord. On Anomander Rake, Son of Darkness.’

‘Is it not equally possible,’ ventured Withal, ‘that all the Tiste Andii left? Leaving just the Shake, weakly blood-mixed here and there, perhaps, but otherwise just human, yet now possessing that knitted skein of myths and such?’

She glanced at him, frowned. ‘That’s a thought, husband. The Tiste Andii survivors used the humans, to begin with, to regain their strength-to stay alive on this unknown world-even to hide them from Edur hunting parties. And then, when at last they judged they were ready, and it was safe, they all left.’

‘But wouldn’t the Shake have then rejected them? Their stories? Their words? After all, they certainly didn’t worship the Tiste Andii, did they? They worshipped the shore-and you have to admit, that’s one strange religion they have. Praying to a strip of beach and whatnot.’

‘And that is what interests me more than those surviving Tiste Andii. And that is why I wish to speak with their elders, their witches and warlocks.’

‘Deadsmell described the horrid skeletons his squad and Sinn found on the north end of the island. Half reptilian, half human. Misbegotten-’

‘That were quickly killed, disposed of. The taint, Withal, of K’Chain Che’Malle. And so, before we Tiste even arrived, they lived in the shadow of the Che’Malle. And it was not in isolation. No, there was some form of contact, some kind of relationship. There must have been.’

He thought about that, still uncertain as to where her thoughts were taking her. Why it had become so important that she uncover the secrets of the Shake. ‘Sandalath, why did you Tiste war against the K’Chain Che’Malle?’

She looked startled. ‘Why? Because they were different.’

‘I see. And they fought against you in turn. Because you were different, or because you were invading their world?’

She reached up and closed the shutters, blocking out the cityscape and sky beyond. The sudden gloom was like a shroud on their conversation. ‘I’m going out now,’ she said. ‘Start packing.’

With delicate precision, Telorast nipped at the eyelid, clasping it and lifting it away from the eye. Curdle leaned in for a closer look, then pulled back, hind claws scrabbling to maintain their grip on the front of Banaschar’s tunic.

‘He’s piss drunk, all right. Snuffed candle. Doused fire, gutted lamp, the reeking dead.’

Telorast released the lid, watched it sink back down. Banaschar sighed wetly, groaned and shifted in the chair, head lolling.

The two skeletal creatures scrambled down and rendezvoused on the window sill on the other side of the small room. They tilted their heads closer together.

‘What now?’ Curdle whispered.

‘What kind of question is that? What now? What now? Have you lost your mind?’

‘Well, what now, Telorast?’

‘How should I know! But listen, we need to do something! That Errant-he’s… he’s-well, I hate him, is what! And worse, he’s using Banaschar, our very own ex-priest.’

‘Our pet.’

‘That’s right. Our pet-not his!’

‘We should kill him.’

‘Who? Banaschar or the Errant?’

‘If we kill Banaschar, then nobody has a pet. If we kill the Errant, then we can keep Banaschar all to ourselves.’

‘Right, Curdle,’ Telorast said, nodding, ‘but which one would make the Errant angrier?’

‘Good question. We need something to make him go mad, completely mad-that’s the best revenge for stealing our pet.’

‘And then we kill him.’

‘Who?’