A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Where was that chasm? Dal Hon? Or was it Li Heng? You were D'ivers jackals then, I seem to recall.'
    Ryllandaras spoke inside their minds, a voice cracking and halting with disuse. I am tempted to match wits with you, N'Trell, before killing you.
    'Might not be worth it,' Mappo replied easily. 'With the company I've been keeping, I'm as out of practice as you, Ryllandaras.'
    The lead wolf's bright blue eyes flicked to Icarium.
    'I have little wits to match,' the Jaghut half-blood said softly, his voice barely carrying. 'And I am losing patience.'
    Foolish. Charm is all that can save you. Tell me, bowman, do you surrender your life to your companion's wiles?
    Icarium shook his head. 'Of course not. I share his opinion of himself.'
    Ryllandaras seemed confused. A matter of expedience then, the two of you travelling together. Companions without trust, without confidence in each other. The stakes must be high.
    'I am getting bored, Mappo,' Icarium said.
    The six wolves stiffened as one, half flinching. Mappo Runt and Icarium. Ah, we see. Know that we've no quarrel with you.
    'Wits matched,' Mappo said, his grin broadening a moment before disappearing entirely. 'Hunt elsewhere, Ryllandaras, before Icarium does Treach a favour.' Before you unleash all that I am sworn to prevent. 'Am I understood?'
    Our trail . . . converges, the D'ivers said, upon the spoor of a demon of Shadow.
    'Not Shadow any longer,' Mappo replied. 'Sha'ik's. The Holy Desert no longer sleeps.'
    So it seems. Do you forbid us our hunt?
    Mappo glanced at Icarium, who lowered his bow and shrugged. 'If you wish to lock jaws with an aptorian, that is your choice. Our interest was only passing.'
    Then indeed shall our jaws close upon the throat of the demon.
    'You would make Sha'ik your enemy?' Mappo asked.
    The lead wolf cocked its head. The name means nothing to me.
    The two travellers watched as the wolves padded off, vanishing
    once again into a gloom of sorcery. Mappo showed his teeth, then sighed, and
    Icarium nodded, giving voice to their shared thought. 'It will, soon.'
     
    The Wickan horsesoldiers loosed fierce cries of exultation as they led their broad-backed horses down the transport's gangplanks. The scene at the quayside of Hissar's Imperial Harbour was chaotic, a mass of unruly tribesmen and women, the flash of iron-headed lances rippling over black braided hair and spiked skullcaps. From his position on the harbour-entrance tower parapet, Duiker looked down on the wild outland company with more than a little scepticism, and with growing trepidation.
    Beside the Imperial Historian stood the High Fist's representative, Mallick Rel, his fat, soft hands folded together and resting on his paunch, his skin the colour of oiled leather and smelling of Aren perfumes. Mallick Rel looked nothing like the chief adviser to the Seven Cities' commander of the Malazan armies. A Jhistal priest of the Elder god of the seas, Mael, his presence here to officially convey the High Fist's welcome to the new Fist of the 7th Army was precisely what it appeared to be: a calculated insult. Although, Duiker amended silently, the man at his side had, in a very short time, risen to a position of power among the Imperial players on this continent. A thousand rumours rode the tongues of the soldiers about the smooth, soft-spoken priest and whatever weapon he held over High Fist Pormqual – each and every rumour no louder than a whisper, for Mallick Rel's path to Pormqual's side was a tale of mysterious misfortune befalling everyone who stood in his way, and fatal misfortune at that.
    The political mire among the Malazan occupiers in Seven Cities was as obscure as it was potentially deadly. Duiker suspected that the new Fist would understand little of veiled gestures of contempt, lacking as he did the more civilized nuances of the Empire's tamed citizens. The question that remained for the historian, then, was how long Coltaine of the Crow Clan would survive his new appointment.
    Mallick Rel pursed his full lips and slowly exhaled. 'Historian,' he said softly, his Gedorian Falari accent faint in its sibilant roll. 'Pleased by your presence. Curious as well. Long from Aren court, now ...' He smiled, not showing his greendyed teeth. 'Caution bred of distant culling?'
    Words like the lap of waves, the god Mael's formless affectation and insidious patience. This, my fourth conversation with Rel. Oh, how I dislike this creature! Duiker cleared his throat. 'The Empress takes