Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9)

Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9) Page 116

‘Hah, I knew it! Don’t believe him, Bottle. He hasn’t any idea-any idea at all-about what’s in the works.’

You know, Quick Ben, oh… never mind. So, I’m on the grounds. Where to now?

‘Anybody see you?’

You didn’t tell me to do this sneakily!

‘Anybody in sight?’

Bottle looked round. Wings of the Old Palace were settled deep in mud, plaster cracking or simply gone, to reveal fissured, slumping brick walls. Snarls of grasses swallowed up old flagstone pathways. A plaza of some sort off to his left was now a shallow pond. The air was filled with spinning insects. No.

‘Good. Now, follow my instructions precisely, Bottle.’

You sure? I mean, I was planning on ignoring every third direction you gave me.

‘Fiddler needs to have a few words with you, soldier. About rules of conduct when it comes to High Mages.’

Look, Quick Ben, if you want me to find this Cedance, leave me to it. I have a nose for those kinds of things.

‘I knew it!’

You knew what? I’m just saying-

‘She’s been whispering in your ear-’

Gods below, Quick Ben! The noises she makes aren’t whispers. They’re not even words. I don’t-

‘She gives you visions, doesn’t she? Flashes of her own memories. Scenes.’

How do you know that?

‘Tell me some.’

Why do you think it’s any of your business?

‘Choose one, damn you.’

He slapped at a mosquito. Some would be easier than others, he knew. Easier because they were empty of meaning. Most memories were, he suspected. Frozen scenes. Jungle trails, the bark of four-legged monkeys from cliff-sides. Huddled warmth in the night as hunting beasts coughed in the darkness. But there was one that returned again and again, in innumerable variations.

The sudden blossoming of blue sky, an opening ahead, the smell of salt. Soft rush of gentle waves on white coral beach. Padding breathless on to the strand in a chorus of excited cries and chatter. Culmination of terrifying journeys overland where it seemed home would never again find them. And then, in sudden gift… Shorelines, Quick. Bright sun, hot sand underfoot. Coming home… even when the home has never been visited before. And, all at once, they gather to begin building boats.

‘Boats?’

Always boats. Islands. Places where the tawny hunters do not stalk the night. Places, where they can be… safe.

‘The Eres-’

Lived for the seas. The oceans. Coming from the great continents, they existed in a state of flight. Shorelines fed them. The vast emptiness beyond the reefs called to them.

‘Boats? What kind of boats?’

It varies-I don’t always travel with the same group. Dug-outs. Reed boats and bamboo rafts. Skins, baskets bridged by saplings-like nests in toppled trees. Quick Ben, the Eres’al-they were smart, smarter than you might think. They weren’t as different from us as they might seem. They conquered the entire world.

‘So what happened to them?’

Bottle shrugged. I don’t know. I think, maybe, we happened to them.

He had found a sundered doorway. Walking the length of dark, damp corridors and following the narrow staircases spiralling downward to landings ankle-deep in water. Sloshing this way and that, drawing unerringly closer to that pulsing residue of ancient power. Houses, Tiles, Holds, Wandering-that all sounds simple enough, doesn’t it, Quick Ben? Logical. But what about the roads of the sea? Where do they fit in? Or the siren calls of the wind? The point is, we see ourselves as the great trekkers, the bold travellers and explorers. But the Eres’al, High Mage, they did it first. There isn’t a place we step anywhere in this world that they haven’t stepped first. Humbling thought, isn’t it? He reached a narrow tunnel with an uneven floor that formed islands between pools. A massive portal with a leaning lintel stone beckoned. He stepped through and saw the causeway, and the broader platform at the end, where stood Quick Ben.

‘All right, I’m here, Quick Ben. With soaked feet.’

The vast chamber was bathed in golden light that rose like mist from the Tiles spreading out from the disc. Quick Ben, head tilted to one side, watched Bottle approach up the causeway, an odd look in his eyes.

‘What?’

He blinked, and then gestured. ‘Look around, Bottle. The Cedance is alive. ’

‘Signifying what?’

‘I was hoping you could tell me. The magic here should be waning. We’ve unleashed the warrens, after all. We’ve brought the Deck of Dragons. We’ve slammed the door on Chaos. It’s like bringing the wheel to a tribe that has only used sleds and travois-there’s been a revolution among this kingdom’s mages. Even the priests are finding everything upside down-it’d be nice to sneak a spy into the cult of the Errant. Anyway, this place should be dying, Bottle.’