one side, Fist Keneb shivered beneath his heavy cloak, despite the peculiar, dry sultriness of the steady wind. He could not comprehend what had happened beyond that eastern horizon, not before, not now. The descent of green- flamed suns, the raging maelstrom. And, for a time there, a pervasive malaise enshrouding everyone – from what was coming, it had seemed, there would be no reprieve, no escape, no hope of survival.
Such a notion had, oddly enough, calmed Keneb. When struggle was meaningless, all pressure simply drained away. It struck him, now, that there was something to be said for holding on to such sentiments.
After all, death was itself inevitable, wasn't it? Inescapable – what point scratching and clawing in a doomed effort to evade it?
The comfort of that was momentary, alas. Death took care of itself – it was in life, in living, that things mattered. Acts, desires, motives, fears, the gifts of joy and the bitter taste of failure – a feast we must all attend.
At least until we leave.
Stars wavered overhead, streaks of cloud clung to the north, the kind that made Keneb think of snow. And yet here I stand sweating, the sweat cooling, this chill fashioned not by night or the wind, but by exhaustion. Nether had said something about this wind, its urgency, the will behind it. Thus, not natural. A god, then, manipulating us yet again.
The fleets of Nemil patrolled a vast stretch of this coast. Their war biremes were primitive, awkward-looking, never straying far from the rocky shoreline. That shoreline traditionally belonged to the Trell, but there had been wars, generations of wars, and now Nemil settlements dotted the bays and inlets, and the Trell, who had never been seafarers, had been driven far inland, into the hills, a dwindling enclave surrounded by settlers. Keneb had seen mixed-bloods among the Nemil crews in the trader ships that sailed out with supplies.
Belligerent as the Nemil were towards the Trell, they were not similarly inclined when facing a huge Malazan fleet entering their territorial waters. Sages among them had foretold this arrival, and the lure of profit had triggered a flotilla of merchant craft setting forth from the harbours, accompanied by a disorganized collection of escorts, some private, others royal. The resupply had resembled a feeding frenzy for a time there, until, that is, the eastern sky suddenly burst into savage light.
Not a single Nemil ship remained now, and that coastline had been left behind, as the second bell after midnight tolled dully at the sandwatcher's hand – the sound taken up by nearby ships, rippling outward through the imperial fleet.
From a Nemil captain, earlier in the day, had come interesting news, and it was that information that, despite the lateness, the Adjunct continued to discuss with her two Wickan companions.
'Are there any details from Malazan sources,' Nether was asking Tavore, 'of the peoples beyond the Catal Sea?'
'No more than a name,' the Adjunct replied, then said to Keneb, 'Fist, do you recall it?'
'Perish.'
'Yes.'
'And nothing more is known of them?' Nether asked.
There was no answer forthcoming from the others. And it seemed that the Wickans then waited.
'An interesting suggestion,' the Adjunct said after a moment. 'And, given this near-gale, we shall discover for ourselves soon enough what manner of people are these Perish.'
The Nemil captain had reported – second-hand – that another Edur fleet had been sighted the day before. Well to the north, less than a score of ships, struggling eastward in the face of this unceasing wind.
Those ships were in a bad way, the captain had said. Damaged, limping.
Struck by a storm, perhaps, or they had seen battle. Whatever the cause, they were not eager to challenge the Nemil ships, which in itself was sufficient matter for comment – apparently, the roving Edur ships had been preying on Nemil traders for nearly two years, and on those instances when Nemil escorts were close enough to engage, the results had been disastrous for the antiquated biremes.
Curious news. The Adjunct had pressed the Nemil captain on information regarding the Perish, the inhabitants of the vast, mountain-girdled peninsula on the western side of the Catal Sea, which was itself a substantial, southward-jutting inlet, at the very bottom of which was the heart of the Nemil Kingdom. But the man had simply shaken his head, suddenly mute.
Nether had, moments earlier, suggested that perhaps the Edur fleet had clashed with these Perish. And suffered in consequence.
The Malazan fleet was cutting across the mouth of the Catal Inlet now – as it was called on the Malazan maps – a distance the captain had claimed was a journey of four days' sailing under ideal conditions.
The lead ships were already a fourth of the way across.
There was more than wind, magic or otherwise – the way the horizons looked blurry, especially headlands…
'The Nemil,' Nil said, 'were not reluctant to speak of the Edur.'
'Yet they would say nothing at all of the Perish,' Nether added.
'History between them,' Keneb suggested.
The others turned to him.
Keneb shrugged. 'Just a thought. The Nemil are clearly expansionist, and that entails a certain… arrogance. They devoured the Trell peoples, providing a reassuring symbol of Nemil prowess and righteousness. It may be that the Perish delivered an opposing symbol, something that both shocked and humbled the Nemil – neither sentiment quite fitting with their own notions of grandiosity. And so they will not speak of it.'
'Your theory makes sense,' the Adjunct said. 'Thank you, Fist.' She turned and studied the riotous eastern sky. 'Humbled, yes,' she said in a low voice. 'In the writings of Duiker, he speaks of the manifold scales to be found in war, from the soldier facing another soldier, to the very gods themselves locked in mortal combat. At first glance, it seems an outrage to consider that such extremes can coexist, yet Duiker then claims that the potential for cause and effect can proceed in both directions.'
'It would be comforting to think so,' Keneb said. 'I can think of a few gods that I'd love to trip up right now.'
'It may be,' the Adjunct said, 'that someone has preceded you.'
Keneb frowned. 'Do you know who, Adjunct?'
She glanced at him, said nothing.
Thus ends her momentary loquaciousness. Well. And what did it tell me?
She's well read, but I already knew that. Anything else?
No.
Kalam pushed his way forward, slumped once more at Quick Ben's side. '
It's official,' he said in the gloom of the musty hold.
'What is?'
'We're still alive.'
'Oh, that's good, Kal. I was sitting on coals down here waiting for that news.'
'I prefer that image to the reality, Quick.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, the idea that you were hiding, your loincloth suddenly baggy and a puddle spreading beneath you.'
'You don't know anything. I do. I know more than I'd ever want to-'
'Impossible. You drink in secrets like Hellian does rum. The more you know the drunker and more obnoxious you get.'
'Oh yeah? Well, I know things you'd want to know, and I was going to tell you, but now I think I'll change my mind-'
'Out with it, wizard, before I go back up and tell the Adjunct where she can find you.'
'You can't do that. I need time to think, damn you.'
'So talk. You can think while you're doing that, since with you the two activities are clearly distinct and mostly unrelated.'
