‘What kind of demon is it?’ L’oric asked, staring down at the creature.
‘I have no idea,’ Osric replied. ‘Reach out to it. See if it is amenable.’
‘Assuming it has any mind at all,’ L’oric muttered, crouching down.
Can you hear me? Can you comprehend?
The four eyes blinked up at him. And it replied. ‘Sorcerer. Declaration. Recognition. We were told you’d come, but so soon? Rhetorical.’
I am not from this place, L’oric explained. You are dying, I think.
‘Is that what this is? Bemused.’
I would offer you an alternative. Have you a name?
‘A name? You require that. Observation. Of course. Comprehension. A partnership, a binding of spirits. Power from you, power from me. In exchange for my life. Uneven bargain. Position devoid of clout.’
No, I will save you none the less. We will return to my world . . . to a warmer place.
‘Warmth? Thinking. Ah, air that does not steal my strength. Considering. Save me, Sorcerer, and then we will talk more of this alliance.’
L’oric nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘It’s done?’ Osric asked.
His son straightened. ‘No, but it comes with us.’
‘Without the binding, you will have no control over the demon, L’oric. It could well turn on you as soon as you return to Raraku. Best we resume our search, find a creature more tractable.’
‘No. I will risk this one.’
Osric shrugged. ‘As you like, then. We must proceed now to the lake, where you first appeared.’
L’oric watched his father walk away, then halt and veer once more into his dragon form.
‘Eleint!’ the demon cried in the High Mage’s mind. ‘Wonder. You have an Eleint for a companion!’
My father.
‘Your father! Excited delight! Eager. I am named Greyfrog, born of Mirepool’s Clutch in the Twentieth Season of Darkness. Proudly. I have fathered thirty-one clutches of my own—’
And how, Greyfrog, did you come here?
‘Sudden moroseness. One hop too far.’
The dragon approached.
Greyfrog dragged itself onto the warm sand. L’oric turned about, but the gate was already closing. So, he had found his father, and the parting had been as blunt as the meeting. Not precisely indifference. More like . . . distraction. Osric’s interest was with Osric. His own pursuits.
Only now did a thousand more questions rise in L’oric’s thoughts, questions he should have asked.
‘Regret?’
L’oric glanced down at the demon. ‘Recovering, Greyfrog? I am named L’oric. Shall we now discuss our partnership?’
‘I smell raw meat. I am hungry. Eat. Then talk. Firm.’
‘As you wish. As for raw meat . . . I will find you something that is appropriate. There are rules, regarding what you can and cannot kill.’
‘Explain them to me. Cautious. Not wishing to offend. But hungry.’
‘I shall . . .’
Vengeance had been her lifeblood for so long, and now, within days, she would come face to face with her sister, to play out the game’s end run. A vicious game, but a game none the less. Sha’ik knew that virtually every conceivable advantage lay with her. Tavore’s legions were green, the territory was Sha’ik’s own, her Army of the Apocalypse were veterans of the rebellion and numerically superior. The Whirlwind Goddess drew power from an Elder Warren—she now realized—perhaps not pure but either immune or resistant to the effects of otataral. Tavore’s mages amounted to two Wickan warlocks both broken of spirit, whilst Sha’ik’s cadre included four High Mages and a score of shamans, witches and sorcerers, including Fayelle and Henaras. In all, defeat seemed impossible. And yet Sha’ik was terrified.
She sat alone in the central chamber of the vast, multi-roomed tent that was her palace. The braziers near the throne were slowly dimming, shadows encroaching on all sides. She wanted to run. The game was too hard, too fraught. Its final promise was cold—colder than she had ever imagined. Vengeance is a wasted emotion, yet I have let it consume me. I gave it like a gift to the goddess.
Fragments of clarity—they were diminishing, withering like flowers in winter—as the hold of the Whirlwind Goddess tightened on her soul. My sister traded me for the faith of the Empress, to convince Laseen of Tavore’s own loyalty. All to serve her ambition. And her reward was the position of Adjunct. Such are the facts, the cold truths. And I, in turn, have traded my freedom for the power of the Whirlwind Goddess, so that I can deliver just vengeance against my sister. Are we, then, so different?
Fragments of clarity, but they led nowhere. She could ask questions, yet seemed incapable of seeking answers. She could make statements, but they seemed strangely hollow, devoid of significance. She was being kept from thinking. Why?
Another question she knew she would not answer, would not, even, make an effort to answer. The goddess doesn’t want me to think. Well, at least that was a recognition of sorts.
She sensed the approach of someone, and issued a silent command to her guards—Mathok’s chosen warriors—to permit the visitor to pass within. The curtains covering the entrance to the chamber parted.
‘A late night for an ancient one such as you, Bidithal,’ Sha’ik said. ‘You should be resting, in preparation for the battle.’
‘There are many battles, Chosen One, and some have already begun.’ He leaned heavily on his staff, looking around with a slight smile on his wrinkled lips. ‘The coals are fading,’ he murmured.
‘I would have thought the growing shadows would please you.’
His smile tightened, then he shrugged. ‘They are not mine, Chosen One.’
‘Aren’t they?’
The smile grew more strained still. ‘I was never a priest of Meanas.’
‘No, here it was Rashan, ghost-child of Kurald Galain . . . yet the warren it claimed was, none the less, Shadow. We are both well aware that the distinctions diminish the closer one delves into the mysteries of the most ancient triumvirate. Shadow, after all, was born of the clash between Light and Dark. And Meanas is, in essence, drawn from the warrens of Thyrllan and Galain, Thyr and Rashan. It is, if you will, a hybrid discipline.’
‘Most sorcerous arts available to mortal humans are, Chosen One. I do not, I am afraid, comprehend the point you wish to make.’
She shrugged. ‘Only that you send your shadow servants here to spy on me, Bidithal. What is it you hope to witness? I am as you see me.’
He spread his hands, staff resting against one shoulder. ‘Perhaps not spies, then, but protectors.’
‘And I am in such dire need of protection, Bidithal? Are your fears . . . specific? Is this what you have come to tell me?’
‘I am close to discovering the precise nature of that threat, Chosen One. Soon, I will be able to deliver my revelations. My present concerns, however, are with High Mage L’oric and, perhaps, Ghost Hands.’
‘Surely you do not suspect either of them of being part of the conspiracy.’
‘No, but I am coming to believe that other forces are at play here. We are at the heart of a convergence, Chosen One, and not just between us and the Malazans.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Ghost Hands is not as he once was. He is a priest once more.’
Sha’ik’s brows lifted in frank disbelief. ‘Fener is gone, Bidithal—’
‘Not Fener. But consider this. The god of war has been dethroned. And another has risen in its place, as necessity demanded. The Tiger of Summer, who was once the First Hero, Treach. A Soletaken of the First Empire . . . now a god. His need will be great, Chosen One, for mortal champions and avatars, to aid him in establishing the role he would assume. A Mortal Sword, a Shield Anvil, a Destriant—all of the ancient titles . . . and the powers the god invests in them.’
‘Ghost Hands would never accept a god other than Fener,’ Sha’ik asserted. ‘Nor, I imagine, would a god be foolish enough to embrace him in turn. You know little of his past, Bidithal. He
is not a pious man. He has committed . . . crimes—’
‘None the less, Chosen One. The Tiger of Summer has made his choice.’
‘As what?’
Bidithal shrugged. ‘What else could he be but Destriant.’
‘What proof have you of this extraordinary transformation?’
‘He hides well . . . but not well enough, Chosen One.’
Sha’ik was silent for a long moment, then she replied with a shrug of her own. ‘Destriant to the new god of war. Why wouldn’t he be here? We are at war, after all. I will think of this . . . development, Bidithal. At the moment, however, I cannot—assuming it is true—see its relevance.’
‘Perhaps, Chosen One, the most significant relevance is also the simplest one: Ghost Hands is not the broken, useless man he once was. And, given his . . . ambivalence to our cause, he presents us with a potential threat—’
‘I think not,’ Sha’ik said. ‘But, as I said, I will give it some thought. Now, your vast web of suspicions has snared L’oric as well? Why?’
‘He has been more elusive of late than is usual, Chosen One. His efforts to disguise his comings and goings have become somewhat extreme.’
‘Perhaps he grows weary of your incessant spying, Bidithal.’
‘Perhaps, though I am certain he remains unaware that the one ever seeking to maintain an eye on his activities is indeed me. Febryl and the Napan have their own spies, after all. I am not alone in my interests. They fear L’oric, for he has rebuffed their every approach—’
‘It pleases me to hear that, Bidithal. Call off your shadows, regarding L’oric. And that is a command. You better serve the Whirlwind’s interests in concentrating on Febryl, Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe.’
He bowed slightly. ‘Very well, Chosen One.’
Sha’ik studied the old man. ‘Be careful, Bidithal.’
She saw him pale slightly, then he nodded. ‘I am ever that, Chosen One.’
A slight wave of her hand dismissed him.
Bidithal bowed once more, then, gripping his walking stick, he hobbled from the chamber. Out through the intervening chambers, past a dozen of Mathok’s silent desert warriors, then out, finally into the cool night air.
Call off my shadows, Chosen One? Command or no, I am not so foolish as to do that.
Shadows gathered around him as he strode down the narrow alleyways between tents and huts. Do you remember the dark?
Bidithal smiled to himself. Soon, this fragment of shattered warren would become a realm unto itself. And the Whirlwind Goddess would see the need for a priesthood, a structure of power in the mortal world. And in such an organization, there would be no place for Sha’ik, except perhaps a minor shrine honouring her memory.
For now, of course, the Malazan Empire must be dealt with, summarily, and for that Sha’ik, as a vessel of the Whirlwind’s power, would be needed. This particular path of shadows was narrow indeed. Bidithal suspected that Febryl’s alliance with the Napan and Kamist Reloe was but temporary. The mad old bastard had no love for Malazans. Probably, his plans held a hidden, final betrayal, one concluding in the mutual annihilation of every interest but his own.
And I cannot pierce to the truth of that, a failure on my part that forces my hand. I must be . . . pre-emptive. I must side with Sha’ik, for it will be her hand that crushes the conspirators.
A hiss of spectral voices and Bidithal halted, startled from his dark musings.
To find Febryl standing before him.
‘Was your audience with the Chosen One fruitful, Bidithal?’
‘As always, Febryl,’ Bidithal smiled, wondering at how the ancient High Mage managed to get so close before being detected by his secret guardians. ‘What do you wish of me? It’s late.’
‘The time has come,’ Febryl said in a low, rasping tone. ‘You must choose. Join us, or stand aside.’
Bidithal raised his brows. ‘Is there not a third option?’
‘If you mean you would fight us, the answer is, regrettably, no. I suggest, however, we withhold on that discussion for the moment. Instead, hear our reward for you—granted whether you join us or simply remove yourself from our path.’
‘Reward? I am listening, Febryl.’
‘She will be gone, as will the Malazan Empire. Seven Cities will be free as it once was. Yet the Whirlwind Warren will remain, returned to the Dryjhna—to the cult of the Apocalypse which is and always has been at the heart of the rebellion. Such a cult needs a master, a High Priest, ensconced in a vast, rich temple, duly honoured by all. How would you shape such a cult?’ Febryl smiled. ‘It seems you have already begun, Bidithal. Oh yes, we know all about your . . . special children. Imagine, then, all of Seven Cities at your disposal. All of Seven Cities, honoured to deliver to you their unwanted daughters.’
Bidithal licked his lips, eyes shifting away. ‘I must think on this—’
‘There’s no more time for that. Join us, or stand aside.’
‘When do you begin?’
‘Why, Bidithal, we already have. The Adjunct and her legions are but days away. We have already moved our agents, they are all in place, ready to complete their appointed tasks. The time for indecision is past. Decide. Now.’
‘Very well. Your path is clear, Febryl. I accept your offer. But my cult must remain my own, to shape as I choose. No interference—’
‘None. That is a promise—’
‘Whose?’
‘Mine.’
‘And what of Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe?’
Febryl’s smile broadened. ‘What worth their vows, Bidithal? The Empress had Korbolo Dom’s once. Sha’ik did as well . . .’
As she had yours, too, Febryl. ‘Then we—you and I—understand each other.’
‘We do indeed.’
Bidithal watched the High Mage stride away. He knew my shadow spirits surrounded me, yet was dismissive of them. There was no third option. Had I voiced defiance, I would now be dead. I know it. I can feel Hood’s cold breath, here in this alley. My powers are . . . compromised. How? He needed to discover the source of Febryl’s confidence. Before he could do anything, before he could make a single move. And which move will that be? Febryl’s offer . . . appeals.
Yet Febryl had promised no interference, even as he had revealed an arrogant indifference to the power Bidithal had already fashioned. An indifference that bespoke of intimate knowledge. You do not dismiss what you know nothing of, after all. Not at this stage.
Bidithal resumed his journey back to his temple. He felt . . . vulnerable. An unfamiliar sensation, and it brought a tremble to his limbs.
A faint stinging bite, then numbness spreading out from her lungs.
Scillara leaned her head back, reluctant to exhale, believing for the briefest of moments that her need for air had vanished. Then she exploded into coughing.
‘Be quiet,’ Korbolo Dom snarled, rolling a stoppered bottle across the blankets towards her. ‘Drink, woman. Then open those screens—I can barely see with all the water wrung from my eyes.’
She listened to his boots on the rushes, moving off into one of the back chambers. The coughing was past. Her chest felt full of thick, cloying liquid. Her head was swimming, and she struggled to recall what had happened a few moments earlier. Febryl had arrived. Excited, she believed. Something about her master, Bidithal. The culmination of a long-awaited triumph. They had both gone to the inner rooms.
There had been a time, once, she was fairly certain, when her thoughts had been clear—though, she suspected, most of them had been unpleasant ones. And so there was little reason to miss those days. Except for the clarity itself—its acuity that made recollection effortless.
She so wanted to serve her master, and serve him well. With distinction, sufficient to earn her new responsibilities, to assume new roles—ones that did not, perhaps, involve surrendering her body to men. One day, Bidithal would not be able to attend to all the new girls as he did now—there would be too many, even for him. She was certain she could manage t
he scarring, the cutting away of pleasure.
They would not appreciate the freeing, of course. Not at first. But she could help them in that. Kind words and plenty of durhang to blunt the physical pain . . . and the outrage.
Had she felt outrage? Where had that word come from, to arrive so sudden and unexpected in her thoughts?
She sat up, stumbled away from the cushions to the heavy screens blocking the outside night air. She was naked, but unmindful of the cold. A slight discomfort in the heaviness of her unbound breasts. She had twice been pregnant, but Bidithal had taken care of that, giving her bitter teas that broke the seed’s roots and flushed it from her body. There had been that same heaviness at those times, and she wondered if yet another of the Napan’s seeds had taken within her.
Scillara fumbled at the ties until one of the screens folded down, and she looked out onto the dark street.
The guards were both visible, near the entrance which was situated a few paces to her left. They glanced over, faces hidden by helms and the hoods of their telabas. And, it seemed, continued staring, though offering no greeting, no comment.
There was a strange dullness to the night air, as if the smoke filling the tent chamber had settled a permanent layer over her eyes, obscuring all that she looked at. She stood for a moment longer, weaving, then walked over to the entrance.
Febryl had left the flaps untied. She pushed them aside and stepped out between the two guards.
‘Had his fill of you this night, Scillara?’ one asked.
‘I want to walk. It’s hard to breathe. I think I’m drowning.’
‘Drowning in the desert, aye,’ the other grunted, then laughed.
She staggered past, choosing a direction at random.
Heavy. Filled up. Drowning in the desert.
‘Not this night, lass.’
She stumbled as she turned about, threw both arms out for balance, and squinted at the guard who had followed. ‘What?’
‘Febryl has wearied of your spying. He wants Bidithal blind and deaf in this camp. It grieves me, Scillara. It does. Truly.’ He took her by the arm, gauntleted fingers closing tight. ‘It’s a mercy, I think, and I will make it as painless as possible. For I liked you, once. Always smiling, you were, though of course that was mostly the durhang.’ He was leading her away as he spoke, down from the main avenue into the rubbish-cluttered aisles between tent-walls. ‘I’m tempted to take my pleasure of you first. Better a son of the desert than a bow-legged Napan for your last memory of love, yes?’