If not for a dumb beast's incomprehension at its own destruction beneath the loving hands of two heartbroken children.
The Imperial Warren's horizon was a grey shroud on all sides. Details were blurred behind the gauze of the still, thick air. No wind stirred, yet echoes of death and destruction remained, suspended as if trapped outside time itself.
Kalam settled back in his saddle, eyes on the scene before him.
Ashes and dust shrouded the tiled dome. It had collapsed in one place, revealing the raw edges of the bronze plates that covered it. A grey haze lay over the gaping hole. From the dome's curvature, it was clear that less than a third of it was above the surface.
The assassin dismounted. He paused to pluck at the cloth wrapped over his nose and mouth to loosen the caked grit, glanced back at the others, then approached the structure.
Somewhere beneath their feet stood a palace or a temple. Reaching the dome, the assassin leaned forward and brushed the ash from one of the bronze tiles. A deeply carved symbol revealed itself.
A breath of cold recognition swept through him. He had last seen that stylized crown on another continent, in an unexpected war against resistance that had been purchased by desperate enemies. Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake, and the Rhivi and the Crimson Guard. A gathering of disparate foes to challenge the Mahzan Empire's plans for conquest. The Free Cities of Genabackis were a squabbling, back-stabbing lot. Gold-hungry rulers and thieving factors squealed loudest at the threat to their freedom . . .
His mind over a thousand leagues away, Kalam lightly touched the engraved sigil. Blackdog . . . we were warring against mosquitoes and leeches, poisonous snakes and blood-sucking lizards. Supply lines cut, the Moranth putting back when we needed them the most . . . and this sigil I remember, there on a ragged standard, rising above a select company of Brood's forces.
What did that bastard call himself? The High King? Kallor . . . the High King without a kingdom. Thousands of years old, if legends speak true, perhaps tens of thousands. He claimed to have once commanded empires, each one making the Malazan Empire no larger than a province. He then claimed to have destroyed them by his own hand, destroyed them utterly. Kallor boasted he had made worlds lifeless ...
And this man now stands as Caladan Brood's second in command. And when I left, Dujek, the Bridgeburners and the reformed Fifth Army were about to seek an alliance with Brood.
Whiskeyjack . . . Quick Ben . . . keep your heads low, friends. There's a madman in your midst. . .
'If you're done daydreaming ...'
'The thing I hate most about this place,' Kalam said, 'is how the ground swallows footfalls.'
Minala's startling grey eyes were narrow above the scarf covering the lower half of her face as she studied the assassin. 'You look frightened.'
Kalam scowled, turning back to the others. He raised his voice. 'We're leaving this warren now.'
'What?' Minala scoffed. 'I see no gate!'
No, but it feels right. We've covered enough distance, and I've suddenly realized that the power of deliberation is not as much in the travelling as in the arriving. He closed his eyes, shutting Minala and everyone else out as he forced his mind into stillness. One final thought escaped: I hope I'm right.
A moment later a portal formed, making a tearing sound as it spread wider.
'You thick-headed bastard,' Minala snapped with sharp comprehension. 'A little discussion might have led us to this a little sooner – unless you were deliberately delaying our progress. Hood knows what you're about, Corporal.'
Interesting choice of words, woman. I imagine he does.
Kalam opened his eyes. The gate was an impenetrable black stain a dozen paces away. He grimaced. As simple as that. Kalam, you are a thick-headed bastard. Mind you, fear can focus even the most insipid of creatures.
'Follow closely,' the assassin said, loosening the long-knife in its sheath before striding towards the portal and plunging through.
His moccasins slid on sandy cobbles. It was night, stars bright overhead through the narrow slit between two high brick buildings. The alley wound on ahead in a tortuous path that Kalam knew well. There was no-one in sight.
The assassin moved to the wall on his left. Minala appeared, leading her own horse and Kalam's. She blinked, head turning. 'Kalam? Where—'
'Right here,' the assassin replied.
She started, then hissed in frustration. 'Three breaths in a city and you're already skulking.'
'Habit.'
'No doubt.' She led the horses farther on. A moment later Keneb and Selv appeared, followed by the two children.
