A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

that foot off.'
    'I've some experience in healing,' Mappo said. 'This temple once specialized in such alchemies, and the nuns left much behind. And, oddly enough, Iskaral Pust seems to show some talent as well, though one has to keep an eye on him. His wits scatter sometimes and he confuses elixirs with poisons.'
    'He's an avatar of Shadowthrone,' the sapper said, eyes narrowing. 'Or the Rope, Cotillion, the Patron of Assassins – there's little difference between the two.'
    The Trell shrugged. 'The art of assassination requires a complementary knowledge of healing. Two sides to the same alchemical coin. In any case, he actually did surgery on your ankle – fear not, I observed. And, I admit, learned much. Essentially, the High Priest rebuilt your ankle. Using an unguent, he sealed the fragments – I've never before seen the like. Thus, you will heal, and quickly.'
    'A pair of hands devoted to Shadow poked around under my skin? Hood's breath!'
    'It was that or lose your foot. You had a punctured lung as well – beyond my skills, that, but the High Priest contrived to drain your lung of blood, then made you breathe a healing vapour. You owe Iskaral Pust your life.'
    'Precisely my point,' Fiddler muttered.
    There were voices outside, then Apsalar appeared in the doorway, Crokus behind her. The two days out of the desiccating storm had done much to revive both of them. They entered, Crokus rushing past to crouch beside Fiddler's bed.
    'We have to get out of here!' he hissed.
    The sapper glanced at Mappo, noted his wry smile as he slowly backed away. 'Calm down, lad. What is the problem?'
    'The High Priest – he's of the Shadow Cult, Fiddler. Don't you see – Apsalar ...'
    Something cold slithered along the sapper's bones. 'Oh, damn,' he whispered. 'I see your point.' He looked up as the young woman stepped to the foot of the bed, and spoke in a low tone. 'Your mind still your own, lass?'
    'The little man treats me well,' she said, shrugging.
    'Well?' Crokus spluttered. 'Like the prodigal returned, you mean! What's to stop Cotillion from possessing you all over again?'
    'You need only ask his servant,' a new voice said from the doorway. Icarium stood leaning, arms crossed, against the frame. His slitted grey eyes were fixed on the room's far corner.
    From the gloom of the shadows there a figure took shape. Iskaral Pust, seated on a strangely wrought chair, squirmed and flung a glare at the Jhag. 'I was to remain unseen, fool! What gift shadows when you so clearly divine what they hide? Pah! I am undone!'
    Icarium's thin lips quirked slightly. 'Why not give them answer, Iskaral Pust? Put them at ease.'
    'Put them at ease?' The High Priest seemed to find the words awkward. 'What value that? I must think. At ease. Relaxed. Unmindful of restraint. Careless. Yes, of course! Excellent idea.' He paused, swung his head to Fiddler.
    The sapper watched a smile slide aboard the wizened man's face, oiled and smooth and pathetically insincere.
    'Everything's fine, my friends,' he purred. 'Be calm. Cotillion is done with possessing the lass. The bane of Anomander Rake's threat remains. Who wants that crude conveyor of uncivilized mayhem crashing through the temple door? Not Shadowthrone. Not the Patron of Assassins. She is protected still. Besides which, Cotillion finds no further value in using her, and indeed the residue of his talents still within her gives cause for secret concern—' His face twisted on itself. 'No, better keep that thought unspoken!' He smiled again. 'Cultured conversation has been rediscovered and used with guile and grace. Look upon them, Iskaral Pust, they are won over one and all.'
    There was a long silence.
    Mappo cleared his throat. 'The High Priest rarely has company,' he said.
    Fiddler sighed, suddenly exhausted. He leaned back, closed his eyes. 'My horse? Did it live?'
    'Yes,' Crokus said. 'It's been taken care of, as have the others – those that Mappo had time to tend to, that is. And there's a servant here, somewhere. We haven't seen him, but he does good work.'
    Apsalar spoke. 'Fiddler, tell us about Tremorlor.'
    A new tension filled the air. The sapper sensed it even as sleep pulled at him, alluring with its promise of temporary escape. After a moment he pushed it away with another sigh and opened his eyes. 'Quick Ben's knowledge of the Holy Desert is, uh, vast. When we last rode the Holy Desert – as we rode out, in fact – he spoke of the Vanished Roads. Like the one we found, an ancient