#apsalar

Me: *remembers that no one would recognize me anywhere*

Me:

First published within Tor's online newsletter, this guide, written by Laura M. Hughes, outlines each of the major players within Erikson's world. While this guide is intended for the second book in the series, Deadhouse Gates, some of the characters from the first novel appear and made it into this guide. I am posting excerpts from Hughes' guide in order to help my readers who are interested in this series and because I appreciated Hughes' sarcastic and snarky method of describing the "major players" within this series.

Kalam:

Splitting off from his squad as well as his Bridgeburner BFF Quick Ben, former Claw Kalam Mekhar has one goal in mind: to assassinate the Empress. Well, I say “one goal”; he may or may not get distracted by a book at some point, but we’ve all been there…right, guys?

Fiddler:

Accompanying Kalam is fellow Bridgeburner Fiddler, who’s left his own BFF (Hedge) behind on Genabackis. Like Kalam, ol’ Fid’s big beardy face is set towards righting an old wrong. He’s not the only one.

Sorry/Apsalar:

Remember Sorry? The sweet lil’ fishergirl possessed by the Patron of Assassins, then slipped into the Bridgeburners as their creepy-arsed new recruit? If so, you’ll probably recall that she’s pretty pissed off with a lot of people right now. You’ll also remember that she changed her name to Apsalar, after her buddy Crokus Younghand’s patron goddess (though I suspect he would’ve ended up worshipping her even if she’d named herself Bollockface).

Crokus Younghand:

Ironically, Crokus soon decides to change his profession from thief to—you guessed it!—assassin. You know, just like Sorry, who’s now named Apsalar, a.k.a. the Goddess of Thieves. Come on, Crokus. Aren’t relationships complicated enough already?

Icarium:

Half human, half jaghut; with his greenish skin, protruding tusks and tall, muscled, Hulk-like physique, you’d likely shit yourself if you bumped into Icarium in a dark alley. As fantasy fiction is so fond of reminding us, however, appearances can be deceiving; if something glitters, it could be gold or it could just as easily be a turd rolled in glitter, and not all that is green is a Hulk. Yes, in spite of his fierce exterior, Icarium is polite, considerate, and well-educated, a gentle giant with a deep philosophical streak and an earnest desire to explore history’s layers during his never-ending quest to recover his own memories.

Just…don’t make him angry. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.

Mappo:

On a centuries-long mission to wrap Icarium in proverbial cotton wool (and—rather tragically—to keep him from recovering the memories he so desperately seeks) is his BFF Mappo. Theirs is a bromance to rival even Rake/Brood, and Mappo in particular is a real cutie. Sure, he’s a bit rough ‘round the edges physical—with his bristled back and his tusks and his overall solid MASSIVENESS, he’s not quite as pretty as his verdant mate Icarium. However, he is arguably even more tragic: caught up in a centuries-long internal conflict between friendship and duty, Mappo is the most philosophical, empathetic henchman you’ll ever meet.

Mappo and Icarium’s quest also sets them upon the Path of Hands, whereupon they (handily) cross paths with Crokus and Co. Less handy is the fact that hundreds of others are following the Path, too . . .

D’ivers:

Gardens of the Moon introduced us to the concept of the Soletaken when Anomander Rake veered into his draconian form. Surely nothing could be more terrifying than facing an opponent with the power to transform at will into something truly monstrous. Right?

Meet the D’ivers! If the name doesn’t immediately give it away, let me clue you in: you know how Voldemort turned his snake, Nagini, into a Horcrux (a living repository for a piece of his own soul)? Now imagine if he’d been able to a) split himself into multiple animagus forms, and b) use those forms as living Horcruxes.

He couldn’t, of course. But these guys can.

Gryllen / Messremb / Ryllandaras

Some bright spark has spread the word about Tremorlor. This same bright spark (or is it shifting shadow?) has also given out directions to the House, essentially sending an open invitation to any Soletaken and D’ivers who happen to be in the area. Of these, there are some—like Ryllandaras the man-jackal and Messremb the bear—whose veered forms are few, but incredibly strong. But as a D’ivers’ power grows, so too does its numbers. When veered into his D’ivers form, big bad Gryllen becomes hundreds of rats that cover the ground like a carpet, overwhelming his enemies by sheer force of numbers and devouring them in mere minutes. As you can imagine, the subsequent clashes on the Path of Hands between Soletaken and D’ivers (and our poor heroes caught in the middle!) are fraught and unpredictable. Who would win in a fight between three bears and five hundred bees? A hundred rats and a thousand ticks? Twelve dogs and a sea monster?

Which is more powerful: an old Shadow priest, or a million spiders?

Mogora:

One of our heroes’ more fortuitous encounters (or less fortuitous, depending on your perspective) sees Crokus and company taking a break from the punishing desert in a long-forgotten temple of Shadow. The temple—built into a cliff and inaccessible but for a rope lowered, Rapunzel-style, by its inhabitants—is home to an elderly couple. Mogora and Iskaral Pust show about as much affection for one another as Ian McKellan’s Freddie and Derek Jacobi’s Stuart in the sitcom Vicious, while their bizarre plots and ceaseless bickering are reminiscent of cartoon nemeses Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner, Dick Dastardly and that smug bastard pigeon, and—of course—Tom and Jerry. The scenes between Pust and Mogora lend the story an air of slapstick comedy which is, quite frankly, delightful – though our heroes don’t see it that way. Especially when they’re woken in the night by Iskaral Pust standing astride them, brandishing his ever-present sweeping brush in a quest to rid the monastery of its eight-legged denizens (a.k.a. his wife).

Iskaral Pust:

His wife might be a literal nest of spiders, but she’s certainly not the only one spinning webs. He’s no D’ivers, but High Priest of Shadow Iskaral Pust is much craftier than his ostensible role as comic relief leads us to believe. Much like Kruppe in Gardens of the Moon, Pust is all about misdirection, using his constant disingenuous monologues to maintain a façade of madness whilst subtly plucking at everyone’s threads in service to his master, Shadowthrone.

You’re probably thinking that this all sounds very impressive. In which case, the less said about the small, monkey-like bhoka’rala who worship and harangue Pust, the better.

Cotillion:

From webs to Ropes: for the Assassin of High House Shadow, Cotillion takes a surprisingly hands-on role in guiding his reluctant protégée, Apsalar, and her companions. Perhaps feeling slightly guilty about abducting her, then possessing her, then forcing her to commit brutal acts of murder in Gardens of the Moon, the Patron of Assassins now appears to have taken on the role of kindly uncle to the knife-artist formerly known as Sorry.

What a nice guy.

Sarcasm aside, Cotillion is a veritable saint compared to this next lot…

Sha’ik:

Possession—or more specifically, possession as a not-so-subtle metaphor for the way religious belief can override an individual’s own better judgement—is a prevalent theme in the first few books of The Malazan Book of the Fallen. We’ve just recalled how Cotillion possessed Apsalar back at the beginning of Book One; now, we have Sha’ik, the mortal incarnation of the Whirlwind goddess Dryjhna. Every time the old Sha’ik gets too, well, old, she’s replaced with a younger girl in an endless cycle of decay and rebirth.

Does the fact that Sha’ik is a willing vessel make her any less of a victim than Sorry? You’ll probably never get the chance to ask her, I’m afraid. She’s protected very fiercely indeed by her two loyal bodyguards: Leoman, and Toblakai.

Leoman of the Flails:

"Tell Cotillion, I have done as he asked."

Shadowthrone made a whispering sound, like sighing, and one almost formless hand emerged from the folds of his ghostly cloak, gripping the silver head of a cane, that tapped once on the cobbles. "I watched, my dear. Your Shadow Dance. From the foot of Rampart Way and onward, I was witness."

She said nothing.

Shadowthrone resumed. "Not even Cotillion. Not even Cotillion."

Still, Apsalar did not speak.

The god suddenly giggled. "Too many bad judgements, the poor woman. As we feared." A pause, then another giggle. "Tonight, the Clawmaster, and three hundred and seven Claws – all by your hands, dear lass. I still… disbelieve. No matter. She's on her own, now. Too bad for her." The barely substantial hooded head cocked slightly. "Ah. Yes, Apsalar. We keep our promises. You are free. Go."

She held out the two long-knives, handles first.

A bow, and the god accepted Kalam Mekhar's weapons.

Then Apsalar moved past Shadowthrone, and walked on.

Frowning, Bottle hesitated.

Fiddler hissed a curse. "Bottle."

"Well, I was assuming she knows, only has her reasons for not mentioning it, so I was thinking, it wouldn't be polite—"

"Soldier—"

"I mean, she was a squad-mate of yours, and—"

"A squad-mate who just happened to have been possessed herself, by the Rope, almost all the time that I knew her. So if she's not talking, it's no surprise. Tell me Bottle, what manner of flesh did those souls call home?"

"Are you saying you don't trust her?"

"I don't even trust you."

Frowning, Bottle looked away, watched Deadsmell working on Masan Gilani on the slope, sensed the whisper of Denul sorcery… and something like Hood's own breath. The bastard is a necromancer, damn him! "Bottle."

"Sergeant? Oh, sorry. I was just wondering."

"Wondering what?"

"Well, why Apsalar has two dragons in tow."

"They're not dragons. They're tiny lizards—"

"No, Sergeant, they're dragons."

Slowly, Fiddler's eyes widened.

Bottle'd known he wouldn't like it.

"Darujhistan," she murmured, looking away, the glass of wine forgotten in her hand. Whatever confidence she felt she had gained since her time there was crumbling away, assailed by a swarm of disconnected, chaotic memories. Blood, blood on her hands, again and again. "I still do not understand…"

"We are in a war," Paran said. "Oddly enough, there was something one of my sisters once said to me, when we were young, pitching toy armies against each other. To win a war you must come to know all the players. All of them. Living ones, who will face you across the field. Dead ones, whose legends are wielded like weapons, or held like eternally beating hearts. Hidden players, inanimate players – the land itself, or the sea, if you will. Forests, hills, mountains, rivers. Currents both seen and unseen – no, Tavore didn't say all that; she was far more succinct, but it's taken me a long time to fully understand. It's not 'know your enemy'. That's simplistic and facile. No, it's 'know your enemies'. There's a big difference, Apsalar, because one of your enemies could be the face in the silver mirror."

"Yet now you call them players, rather than enemies," she said. "Suggesting to me a certain shift in perspective – what comes, yes, of being the Master of the Deck of Dragons?"

"Huh, I hadn't thought about that. Players. Enemies. Is there a difference?"

"The former implies… manipulation."