The time had finally come for her to visit her … well … distant cousins. So far she’d avoided it, staying out of the city and keeping to the hillsides. Her needs were few: a small fire, a blanket against the chill. But she could delay no longer, even though the very idea of such a confrontation troubled her like few others. And so Nightchill steeled herself and walked down into the city of Malaz, heading for the waterfront.
She would have to be very careful; any escalation here could engulf the entire area in a conflagration of power that would scour the island down to the bare bones of its rock. Of course her … cousins had every reason to be suspicious of her approach. Over the ages they’d been attacked countless times by powers seeking the might, and the secrets, that they guarded.
Walking the empty rainy cobbled streets she reflected upon the many theories that had been suggested regarding their mysterious … withdrawal.
Some said they’d foreseen something; some event or arising so terrifying that they determined they needed to prepare for it. Others suggested mere greed: pig-headed hoarding of the most selfish kind. Of the true reason even she, one of their few remaining relations, had no idea.
They had withdrawn, turned within, and now none had any understanding of their motives or goals. For if the Azathani were regarded as strange and alien by the humans they now walked among, the Azath structures constituted an order far beyond even them.
She reached the marker in the physical world that denoted the edge of this one’s chosen influence – a mere low wall of piled fieldstones – and paused, readying herself for the test to come. A test and a trial. For though she might be considered one of the mighty today, who knew how many of her fellows constituted this structure? Two? Or perhaps as many as ten?
She knew that should she be taken she might never escape, even in all remaining time. But she also knew that they took only those whom they deemed potential threats, those who they judged sought to take something from them. Such was not her intention. She wished only to speak with them – should they so choose.
Steeling herself, she pushed open the small gate and entered the unkempt grounds. Far underground – or so it appeared in this physical reality – figures writhed, imprisoned. Many reached out to her, imploring, begging her aid, but she was under no illusion; they sought to take her and restore themselves with her essence.
She walked the clear path to the front entrance and stood upon the wide iron-grey landing of a single broad sheet of slate. Then, respecting the conceit the Azath employed, she knocked upon the door.
Silence. Beyond the sizzling ropes of energy that kept so many enchained within the grounds, and their cries and curses, there rose the beating of the nearby surf, the waves murmuring against the stony shores, and beyond that, eerily, far out to sea past the Straits, came the crackling and booming of mountains of ice.
She shook herself, unsettled by the vision – was this a message from her brethren? Or mere chance? What was she to make of it? She brushed a hand across the thick planks of the door and sensed the guardian just behind, waiting. A mighty one, tensed, eager almost, waiting for her to raise her aspect against the house.
But she declined. She withdrew her hand. Very well. Silent you have been over the ages, and silent you remain. Pursue your own ends and remain suspicious of others. It is earned. So many have sought to rip your secrets and your power from you. I will not.
She waited a moment longer but heard nothing; no one or thing called to her, and so she turned away. Her back prickled all the way back up the walk.
Two figures awaited her outside the gate as she approached. The foremost was a huge bull of a fellow standing with a long spear tall at his side. The second was a short wiry fellow with his gaze all scrunched up, squinting at her.
‘She is not taken,’ this one informed his giant companion, who grunted, crossing his arms.
She opened the gate and faced them, asking calmly, ‘You would dispute my passage?’
The squinting one gave her a hard look out of the side of one bloodshot eye, then started, surprised, and promptly fell to one knee. He pulled his companion down with him by tugging on the man’s trousers. ‘Forgive us, m’lady,’ he murmured.
‘There is nothing to forgive – you are fulfilling your duties. But I am no threat.’
‘As we see.’ He rose, bowing. ‘The House made no move against you…?’ he said, inviting an explanation.
‘I kept to the path and did not stray.’
‘Even so…’
She shrugged. ‘It acts for its own reasons, does it not?’
‘Indeed it does,’ the man agreed, bowing again. ‘Indeed it does.’
*
The two men – both known Malazan street toughs – sat propped up against one of the gigantic logs that supported the Twisted’s hull where it squatted on the shore. Cartheron passed a hand before their wild staring eyes and neither reacted. He looked at his brother.
‘What happened?’
Urko rubbed the bristles over his chin and cheeks and let out a long breath. ‘Don’t know. Choss found them this way. I think they tried to do some mischief to the ship last night. Maybe start a fire or something.’
Cartheron leaned down to one and asked loudly, ‘What happened?’
The wild rolling eyes lit for an instant upon his. The man mumbled, half-slurred, ‘The thing … the terrible thing…’
‘That’s all they say,’ Urko grunted, hand at his chin.
‘Hunh. Can they walk?’
‘Dunno.’ Urko grabbed one’s arm and pulled him upright. He stood, weaving only slightly.
‘It…’ the man whispered to Urko, the word fraught with some unknown meaning.
‘Right. The thing.’ He pulled the other upright.
Together the two now peered round, wringing their hands. Their gazes roved upwards and they started, staring. Both pointed up at the hull curving above and both screamed, utterly terrified, ‘The thing!’ And both bolted across the mud and scattered lumber of the strand, climbed the lip of a dilapidated boardwalk, and disappeared.
Cartheron looked at his brother then both examined the Twisted. Cartheron put his fist to his chin. ‘You don’t suppose that little bugger…’
Urko peered up as if searching the ship’s side for any sign of a certain hairy beast, then shook his head. ‘Naw. Couldn’t be.’
Both scratched their chins, then edged away from the rearing hull of the Twisted. Clearing his throat, Cartheron asked, ‘Do we have enough timber for planking?’
‘No.’
‘Enough rope?’
‘Gods, no.’
‘Do we at least have enough canvas?’
‘Course not.’
Cartheron glared at his brother. ‘Then what, pray tell, have we enough of – if anything?’
‘Asses,’ Urko supplied, taking a crisp bite of apple. ‘Got plenty of them. Up to our asses in asses.’