A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

of Gadrobi rose before him. Tattersail, what did you do? He recalled Toc noting the trail of small prints leading from the scorched pillar that had been all that was left of Bellurdan and Tattersail. Hood's Breath, did you plan such a thing? And why the Rhivi? Reborn, already a child of five, maybe six – are you even mortal any more, woman? Have you ascended? You've found yourself a people, a strange, primitive people – to what end? And when we next meet, how old will you appear to be then?
    He thought again about the Rhivi. They'd been driving the herd north, a herd big enough to feed ... an army on the march. Caladan Brood –he's on his way to Pale. That is something I don't think Dujek's prepared for. Old Onearm's in trouble.
    He had another two hours of riding before sunset. Beyond the Gadrobi Hills was Lake Azur, and the city of Darujhistan. And within the city, Whiskeyjack and his squad. And in that squad, a young woman I've been preparing to meet for three years. The god possessing her –is he even my enemy any more?
    The question arrived unbidden, turning his heart cold. Gods,
    what a journey this has been, and here I had thought to travel this plain
    unnoticed. A foolish thought. Scholars and mages write endlessly of fell convergences
    – it seems I am a walking convergence, a lodestone to draw Ascendants.
    To their peril, it seems. My sword Chance answered those five lances,
    despite my treatment of one of the Twins. How to explain that? The
    truth is, my cause has become my own. Not the Adjunct's, not the Empire's.
    I said I'd rather have no enemies at all – and the old woman saw those
    as true words. And so, it seems, they are.
    Endless surprises, Ganoes Paran. Ride on, see what comes.
     
    The track climbed a hillside and the captain spurred his horse up the slope. Reaching the summit, he yanked hard on the reins. The horse snorted indignantly and swung her head round, eyes rolling. But Paran's attention was elsewhere. He leaned back in the saddle and loosened his sword.
    A heavily armoured man struggled to his feet beside a small campfire. Beyond him was a hobbled mule. The man tottered, his weight on one leg, and unsheathed a bastard sword, which he then leaned on as he regarded the captain.
    Paran nudged his mount forward, scanning the immediate area. It seemed that the warrior was alone. He brought his horse to a halt with thirty feet between them.
    The man spoke in Daru. 'I'm in no shape for a fight, but if you want one it's yours.'
    Once again Paran found himself thankful for the Adjunct's insistence that he be thoroughly schooled: his reply was as fluent as this native's. 'No. I've lost the taste for it.' He waited, leaning forward in the saddle, then grinned at the mule. 'Is that beast a War Mule?'
    The man barked a laugh. 'I'm sure it thinks it is,' he said, relaxing. 'I've food to spare, traveller, if you're of a mind.'
    The captain dismounted and approached. 'My name's Paran,' he said. He sat down by the fire.
    The other followed suit, the fire between them. 'Coll,' he grunted, stretching out a bandaged leg. 'You down from the north?'
    'Genabaris, initially. Spent some time in Pale, recently.'
    Coil's brows rose at that. 'You've the look of a mercenary,' he said, 'though likely an officer. I heard it was pretty bad up there.'
    'I arrived a little late,' Paran admitted. 'Saw lots of rubble and lots of dead, so I'm inclined to believe the stories.' He hesitated, then said, 'There was a rumour in Pale that Moon's Spawn is now over Darujhistan.'
    Coll grunted, tossing a handful of sticks on to the fire. 'So it is,' he said. He gestured at a battered pot tucked against the coals. 'That's stew, if you're hungry. Help yourself.'
    Paran realized he was famished. He accepted Coil's offer gratefully. As he ate, using a wooden spoon the man loaned him, he thought to ask about that leg wound. But then he recalled his Claw training. When you play a soldier, you play it to the hilt. Nobody talks about what's obvious. Something staring you in the eye, you look around it and grumble about the weather. Anything important will come out in its own time. Soldiers have nothing to look forward to, making patience an easy virtue, and sometimes it's not just a virtue, but a contest of indifference. So Paran emptied the pot, while Coll waited in casual silence, poking at the fire and adding the occasional stick from an enormous pile behind him – where the wood had come from was anybody's