A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Fiddler said.
    'There's no punishment awaiting the lapse, soldier. Thirsty? Hungry?'
    'Good, yes and yes. But first, where are we?'
    'In a temple carved into a cliff. Out of the Whirlwind. Guests of a High Priest of Shadow – whom you've met. Iskaral Pust.'
    'Pust?'
    'Even so.'
    The Dal Honese High Priest pushed into view again, scowling. 'You mock my name, soldier?'
    'Not I, High Priest.'
    The old man grunted, adjusted his grip on the broom, then scampered from the room.
    Fiddler sat up gingerly, moving like an ancient. He was tempted to ask Mappo for an assessment of the damage, especially his ankle, but decided to hold off hearing the likely bad news a while longer. 'What's that man's story?'
    'I doubt even he knows.'
    'I awoke when he was sweeping my head.'
    'Not surprising.'
    There was an ease to the Trell's presence that relaxed Fiddler. Until he recalled the warrior's name. Mappo, a name ever chained to another's. And enough rumours to fill a tome. If any were true . . . 'Icarium scared off the D'ivers.'
    'His reputation carries weight.'
    'Is it earned, Mappo?' Even as he asked, Fiddler knew he should have bitten back the question.
    The Trell winced, withdrew slightly. 'I shall get you food and drink, then.'
    Mappo left the small room, moving silently despite his considerable bulk, the combination raising an echo that brought Kalam to mind. Did you outrun the storm, old friend?
    Iskaral Pust eased back into the chamber. 'Why are you here?' he whispered. 'Do you know why? You don't, but I'll tell you. You and no-one else.' He leaned close, plucking at his spiral wisps of hair with both hands. 'Tremorlor!'
    Laughing at Fiddler's expression, he spun about in wild, capering steps before settling once more in front of the sapper, their faces inches apart. 'The rumour of a path, a way home. A small wriggling worm of a rumour, even less, a grub, smaller than a nail clipping, the compacted and knotted mess wrapped around something that might be a truth. Or not. Hee hee!'
    Fiddler had had enough. Grimacing through the pain, he grabbed the man's collar and shook. Spittle struck his face, the High Priest's eyes rolled about like marbles in a cup.
    'What, again?' Iskaral Pust managed to say.
    Fiddler pushed him away.
    The old man staggered, righted himself and made a show of reassembling his dignity. 'A concurrence of reactions. Too long out of social engagements and the like. Must examine my manners, and more, my personality.' He cocked his head. 'Honest. Forthright. Amusing. Gentle and impressive integrity. Well! Where's the problem, then? Soldiers are crude. Callow and thick. Distempered. Do you know the Chain of Dogs?'
    Fiddler started, blinked as if shaken from a trance. 'What?'
    'It's begun, though not yet known. Anabar Thy'lend. Chain of Dogs in the Malazan tongue. Soldiers have no imaginations, meaning they're capable of vast surprises. There are some things even the Whirlwind cannot sweep aside.'
    Mappo Trell returned, bearing a tray. 'Harassing our guest again, Iskaral Pust?'
    'Shadow-borne prophecies,' the High Priest muttered, eyeing Fiddler with cool appraisal. 'The gutter under the flood, raising ripples on the plunging surface. A river of blood, the flow of words from a hidden heart. All things sundered. Spiders in every crook and corner.' He whirled about, stamped out of the room.
    Mappo stared after him.
    'Pay him no heed, right?'
    The Trell swung around, his heavy brows lifting. 'Hood, no, pay that man every heed, Fiddler.'
    'I was afraid you'd say that. He mentioned Tremorlor. He knows.'
    'He knows what even your companions don't,' Mappo said, carrying the tray to the sapper. 'You seek the fabled Azath House, out in the desert. Somewhere.'
    Aye, and the gate Quick Ben swears it holds . . . 'And you?' Fiddler asked. 'What has brought you to Raraku?'
    'I follow Icarium,' the Trell replied. 'A search without end.'
    'And you've devoted your life to helping him in his search?'
    'No,' Mappo sighed, then whispered without meeting Fiddler's gaze, 'I seek to keep it endless. Here, break your fast. You've been unconscious for two days. Your friends are restless with questions, eager to speak with you.'
    'I suppose I've no choice – I'd better answer those questions.'
    'Aye, and once you've mended some, we can begin our journey ...' He smiled cautiously. 'To find Tremorlor.'
    Fiddler frowned. 'Mended, you said. My ankle was crushed – I can barely feel a thing beyond my knee. Seems likely you'll have to cut