A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Good.'
    'Aye. So long as they hold. Seems Urb's proposing to
carry Hellian down. On his back.'
    'Is the next one on their way?'
    'Aye. How do these lids come off?'
    'Turn them, widdershins. And keep turning them.'
    Bottle listened as the man worked on one of the lids.
'Can't be very old, this stuff, to still be fresh.'
    'There's glyphs on these lids, Cuttle. I can't see them, but
I can feel them. My grandmother, she had a ritual blade she
used in her witchery – the markings are the same, I think.
If I'm right, Cuttle, this iron work is Jaghut.'
    'What?'
    'But the urns are First Empire. Feel the sides. Smooth as
eggshell – if we had light I'd wager anything they're skyblue.
So, with a good enough seal ...'
    'I can still taste the flowers in this, Bottle.'
    'I know.'
    'You're talking thousands and thousands of years.'
    'Yes.'
    'Where's your favourite rat?'
    'Hunting us a way through. There's another chamber
opposite, but it's open, empty, I mean – we should move in
there to give the others room ...'
    'What's wrong?'
    Bottle shook his head. 'Nothing, just feeling a little ...
strange. Cut my back up some ... it's gone numb—'
    'Hood's breath, there was some kind of poppy in that
honey, wasn't there? I'm starting to feel ... gods below, my
head's swimming.'
    'Yeah, better warn the others.'
    Though he could see nothing, Bottle felt as if the world
around him was shuddering, spinning. His heart was
suddenly racing. Shit. He crawled towards the other archway.
Reached in, pulled himself forward, and was falling.
    The collision with the stone floor felt remote, yet he
sensed he'd plunged more than a man's height. He remembered
a sharp, cracking sound, realized it had been his
forehead, hitting the flagstones.
    Cuttle thumped down on top of him, rolled off with a
grunt.
    Bottle frowned, pulling himself along the floor. The rat –
where was she? Gone. I lost her. Oh no, I lost her.
    Moments later, he lost everything else as well.
     
    Corabb had dragged an unconscious Strings down the last
stretch of tunnel. They'd reached the ledge to find the rope
dangling from three sword scabbards wedged across the
shaft, and vague sounds of voices far below. Heat swirled
like serpents around him as he struggled to pull the
Malazan up closer to the ledge.
    Then he reached out and began drawing up the rope.
    The last third of the line consisted of knots and straps
and buckles – he checked each knot, tugged on each
strand, but none seemed on the verge of breaking. Corabb
bound the Malazan's arms, tight at the wrists; then the
man's ankles – one of them sheathed in blood, and, checking
for bandages, he discovered none remaining, just the
ragged holes left by the spear – and from the rope at the
ankles he made a centre knot between the sergeant's feet.
With the rope end looped in one hand, Corabb worked the
man's arms over his head, then down so that the bound
wrists were against his sternum. He then pushed his own
legs through, so that the Malazan's bound feet were against
his shins. Drawing up the centre-knotted rope he looped it
over his head and beneath one arm, then cinched it into a
tight knot.
    He worked his way into the shaft, leaning hard for the
briefest of moments on the wedged scabbards, then
succeeding in planting one foot against the opposite wall.
The distance was a little too great – he could manage only
the tips of his feet on each wall, and as the weight of Strings
on his back fully settled, the tendons in his ankles felt ready
to snap.
    Gasping, Corabb worked his way down. Two manheights,
taken in increasing speed, control slipping away
with every lurch downward, then he found a solid projection
on which he could rest his right foot, and the gap
had narrowed enough to let his left hand reach out and ease
the burden on that leg.
    Corabb rested.
    The pain of deep burns, the pounding of his heart. Some
time later, he resumed the descent. Easier now, the gap
closing, closing.
    Then he was at the bottom, and he heard something like
laughter from his left, low, which then trailed away.
    He searched out that side and found the archway,
through which he tossed the rope, hearing it strike a body
a little way below.
    Everyone's asleep. No wonder. I could do with that myself.
    He untied Strings, then clambered through, found his
feet balancing on tight-packed, clunking jars, the sounds of
snoring and breathing on all sides and a sweet, cloying
smell. He pulled Strings after him, eased the man down.
    Honey. Jars and jars