A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

was murdered by a troop of Red Blades from Ehrlitan. Or so the Deck whispered to him.'
    'I had no idea the Deck of Dragons could be so precise.'
    'As far as I know, it cannot.'
    They were sitting on stone benches within a burial chamber at least two levels below the Shadow priest's favoured haunts. The benches were attached alongside a rough-hewn wall that had once held painted tiles, and the indents in the limestone beneath them made it clear that the benches were actually pedestals, meant to hold the dead.
    Fiddler flexed his leg, reached down and kneaded his knuckles in the still-swollen flesh around the mended bone. Elixirs, unguents . . . forced healing still hurts. His emotions were dark – had been for days now as the High Priest of Shadow found one excuse after another for delaying their departure, the latest being the need for more supplies. In a strange way Iskaral Pust reminded the sapper of Quick Ben, the squad's mage. An endless succession of plans within plans. He imagined peeling through them one by one, right down to thumbprint schemes all awhirl in devious patterns. It's quite possible that his very existence is nothing more than a collection of if-this and then-that suppositions. Hood's Abyss, maybe that's all we all are!
    The High Priest made his head spin. As bad as Quick Ben and this Togg's thorn called Tremorlor. An Azath House, like the Deadhouse in Malaz City. But what are they, precisely? Does any-one know? Anyone at all? There were nothing but rumours, obscure warnings, and few of those at that. Most people did their best to ignore such Houses – the denizens of Malaz City seemed to nurture an almost deliberate ignorance. ']ust an abandoned house,' they say. 'Nothing special, except maybe a few spooks in the yard.' But there's a skittish look in the eyes of some of them.
    Tremorlor, a House of the Azath. Sane people don't go looking for places like that.
    'Something on your mind, soldier?' Mappo Runt quietly asked. 'I've been watching such a progression of expressions on your face as to fill a wall in Dessembrae's temple.'
    Dessembrae. The Cult of Dassem.
    'It appears I've just said something unwelcome to your ears,' Mappo continued.
    'Eventually a man reaches a point where every memory is unwelcome,' Fiddler said, gritting his teeth. 'I think I've reached that point, Trell. I'm feeling old, used up. Pust has something in mind – we're part of some colossal scheme that'll likely see us dead before too long. Used to be I'd get a sniff or two of stuff like that. Had a nose for trouble, you might say. But I can't work it out – not this time. He's baffled me, plain and simple.'
    'I think it's to do with Apsalar,' Mappo said after a time.
    'Aye. And that worries me. A lot. She don't deserve any more grief.'
    'Icarium pursues the question,' the Trell said, squinting down at the cracked, worn pavestones. The lantern's oil was getting low, deepening the chamber's gloom. 'I admit I have been wondering if the High Priest is intending to force Apsalar into a role she seems made for . ..'
    'A role? Like what?'
    'Sha'ik's prophecy speaks of a rebirth .. .'
    The sapper paled, then vehemently shook his head. 'No. She wouldn't do it. This land's not hers, the goddess of the Whirlwind means nothing to her. Pust can try and force it all he wants, the lass will turn her back – mark my words.' Suddenly restless, Fiddler stood up and began pacing. His foot-falls whispered with faint echoes in the chamber. 'If Sha'ik's dead, she's dead. Hood take any obscure prophecies! The Apocalypse will fizzle out, the Whirlwind sink back into the ground to sleep another thousand years or however long it is until the next Year of Dryjhna comes around ...'
    'Yet Pust seems to place much significance on this uprising,' Mappo said. 'It's far from over – or so he seems to believe.'
    'How many gods and Ascendants are playing in this game, Trell?' Fiddler paused, eyeing the ancient warrior. 'Does she physically resemble Sha'ik?'
    Mappo shrugged his massive shoulders. 'I saw the Whirlwind Seer but once, and that at a distance. Light-skinned for a Seven Cities native. Dark eyes, not especially tall or imposing. It's said the power is – was – within her eyes. Dark and cruel.' He shrugged a second time. 'Older than Apsalar. Perhaps twice her years. Same black hair, though. Details are irrelevant in matters of faith and attendant prophecies, Fiddler. Perhaps only the role need be reborn.'
    'The lass ain't interested in