Ian Esslemont - Night of Knives

The world of Malaz was born in 1982, and from that moment onward that world’s history slowly took shape. On summer archaeological digs and winters spent in Victoria, B.C., in the midst of degrees in Creative Writing, in Winnipeg and on Saltspring Island — wherever Ian (Cam) Esslemont and I crossed paths for any length of time. We were co-writers on a number of feature film scripts, and it was clear that our individual creativities were complementary, and during our breaks from writing we gamed in the world of Malaz.

When the notion of writing fiction set in that world was first approached, it seemed obvious that we would divvy up the vast history we had fashioned over the years. And so we did. Since the publication of Gardens of the Moon , I have heard from and read of fans wanting to know about the old empire, the empire of the Emperor, Kellanved, and his cohort, Dancer. And time and again I was asked: will you ever write of those early times in the empire’s history? Or, will you write about The Crimson Guard? And I have always been firm in my reply: no. The reason should now be obvious.

This is a huge imaginary world, too big for a single writer to manage in a lifetime. But two writers… that’s different. The dedication in Gardens of the Moon was to Ian C. Esslemont. Worlds to conquer, worlds to share. I do not think I could have made my desire, and intent, more clear. Granted, it has taken a while for this, Cam’s first work set in Malaz, to arrive. Our life journeys diverged for a time, and other demands occupied Cam — family, postgraduate studies and so on. But I always had faith, was always aware that a surprise and a treat were on their way, and this novel, Night of Knives , marks the first instalment of this, the shared world that we had both envisioned years ago.

Night of Knives is not fan fiction. We shaped the world of Malaz through dialogue; our gaming was novelistic and with themes that were, more often than not, brutally tragic. At other times there was comedy, usually of the droll variety. We duelled each other on understatement and absurdity, and we made it a point to confound the genre’s overused tropes. The spirit of that has infused every one of my novels set in the Malazan world. And it infuses Ian Esslemont’s writing in the same imaginary world. That being said, the novel in your hands possesses its own style, its own voice. The entire story takes place in the span of a single day and night, and it is exquisite. Readers of my own work will recognize the world, its atmosphere, its darkness; they will see the characters in Night of Knives as simply more players woven into the same tangled tapestry, they will see the story as one more bloodstained piece of imagined history. And there’s so much more to come.

To this day, we continue to work on the Malazan world’s history, poring over its details, confirming the sequence of events, discussing the themes, subtext, and ensuring the consistency of cross-over characters. We hammer away at the timeline and the fates of countless characters, many of whom no one else has met yet. And we discuss deviousness, and as the readers of the Malazan Book of the Fallen know, deviousness abounds.

From the beginning of the Malazan series, I was writing to an audience of one — Cam. And he has reciprocated. Thus, the dialogue continues; only now there are others, and they are listening in. Finally, to both sides of the conversation.

We hope it proves entertaining.

Steven Erikson

Winnipeg, Canada, 2004

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE MALAZANS

Emperor Kellanved, absent ruler of the Malazan Empire

Dancer, Master-Assassin and bodyguard to Kellanved

Surly, Mistress of the Imperial assassin corps, the Claw

Tayschrenn, Imperial High Mage

Temper, a Malazan soldier

Corinn, a mage, member of the Bridgeburner Brigade

Ash, an ex-officer of the Bridgeburner Brigade

Seal, a one-time Malazan army healer

Dassem Ultor, Champion and ’First Sword’ of the Empire

Chase, an officer of the garrison at Mock’s Hold

Hattar, bodyguard to Tayschrenn

Ferrule, member of Dassem’s bodyguard, the Sword

Possum, an imperial assassin, Claw

INHABITANTS OF MALAZ ISLE

Coop, proprietor of the Hanged Man Inn

Anji, servitor at the Hanged Man Inn

Kiska, a youth hoping to enter Imperial service

Lubben, gatekeeper at Mock’s Hold

Fisherman, a mage of Malaz Isle

Agayla, spice dealer and mage of Malaz Isle

Trenech, regular at the Hanged Man Inn

Faro Balkat, regular at the Hanged Man Inn

Obo, a mage of Malaz Isle

OTHERS

Edgewalker, elder inhabitant of the Shadow Realm

Jhedel, a prisoner of the Shadow Realm

Oleg Vikat, a scholar of the Warrens

Surgen Ress, last Holy City champion

Pralt, a leader of the shadow cult

Jhenna, Jaghut guardian of the Dead House

Sea of Storms south of Malaz Isle

Season of Osserc

1154th Year of Burn’s Sleep

96th Year of the Malazan Empire

Last Year of Emperor Kellanved’s Reign

The two-masted raider RHENl’S DREAM raced north-east under full straining sails. Captain Murl gripped the stern railing and watched the storm close upon his ship. Pushed to its limit, the hull groaned ominously while the ropes skirled high notes Murl had never heard.

The storm had swelled like a wall of night out of the south, a solid front of billowing black clouds over wind-lashed waves. But it was not the storm that worried Captain Murl, no matter how unnatural its rising; Rheni’s Dream had broached the highest seas known to Jakatan pilots, from the northern Sea of Kalt to the driving trade winds of the Reach south of Stratem. No, what sank fingers of dread into his heart were the azure flashes glinting like shards of ice amid the waves at the base of the churning cloud-front. No one told of seeing them this close. None who returned.

Riders, Murl and his fellow pilots called them. Sea-demons and Stormriders to others. Beings of sea and ice who claimed this narrow cut as their own and suffered no trespass. Only his Jakatan forbears knew the proper offerings to bribe the swiftest passage south of Malaz Isle. Why then did the Riders pursue? What could entice them this far north?

Murl turned his back to the punishing wind. His cousin, Lack-eye, fought to control the helm, his legs splayed, arms quivering at the tiller’s broad wheel. As the ship canted forward into a trough, Murl tightened his grip against the fall and booming impact. ‘Did we forget any of the offerings?’ he shouted over the roar of the wind.

Gaze fixed ahead to the bows, Lack-eye shook his head. ‘None,’ he called. ‘We’ve tried ‘em all.’ He glared over his shoulder with a pale blue eye. ‘All save the last.’

Murl flinched away. He drew himself amidships hand over hand along the guide ropes. Already the deck lay treacherous beneath a sheet of ice. Wind-driven rime as sharp as needles raised blood on his neck and hands. All save the last. But that rite he’d never enact. Why, in Chem’s cold embrace — every soul on the Rheni was blood-kin to him! Murl remembered the one time he’d witnessed that rite: the poor lad’s black-haired head bobbing atop the waves, pale arms clawing desperately at the water. He shuddered from the cold and something worse. No, that he could not bring himself to do.