A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Pearl. Now, it seems you were about to enter the Imperial Warren. I suggest we do so before continuing our conversation – before the portalway closes.'
    'Can you not keep it open, Pearl? After all, you were travelling it . . .'
    The man's exaggerated frown was mocking. 'Alas, this is a door where no door should be possible. Granted, north of here even the Imperial Warren is fraught with ... unwelcome intruders... but their means of entry is far more ... primitive, shall we say... in nature. So, since this portalway is clearly not of your making, I suggest we take immediate advantage of its presence.'
    'Not until I know who you are, Pearl. Rather, what you are.'
    'I am a Claw, of course. Who else is granted the privilege of travelling the Imperial Warren?'
    She nodded at the portalway. 'Someone's just granted that privilege to himself.'
    Pearl's eyes sparkled. 'And this is what you shall tell me about, Red Blade.'
    She sat in silence, thinking, then nodded. 'Yes. Ideal. I shall accompany you.'
    Pearl took a step backward and beckoned with one gloved hand.
    Lostara Yil tapped heels to her mount's flanks.
     
    Quick Ben's shaved knuckle in the hole was slower in closing than anyone had anticipated. Seven hours after the Red Blade and the Claw had vanished within the Imperial Warren, stars glittered in the moonless sky overhead, and still the portalway gaped, its red-lined edges fading to dull magenta.
    Sounds drifted into the glade, echoes of panic and alarm in Korbolo Dom's encampment. Parties of riders set out in all directions, bearing torches. Mages risked their warrens, seeking trails through the now perilous pathways of sorcery.
    Thirteen hundred Malazan children had vanished, the liberation unseen by the pickets or the mounted patrols. The X-shaped wooden crosses were bare, with only stains of blood, urine and excrement to show that living beings had once hung from them in agony.
    In the darkness the plain was strangely alive with shadows, flowing sourcelessly over the motionless grasses.
    Apt strode silently into the glade, her daggerlike fangs gleaming their natural grin. Sweat glistened on her black hide, the thick spiny bristles of her hair wet with dew. She stood erect, her single forelimb clutching the limp body of a young boy. Blood dripped from his hands and feet, and his face had been horribly chewed and pecked, leaving him eyeless and with a gaping red hole where his nose had been. Faint breaths from fevered, shallow lungs showed in misty plumes that drifted forlornly in the clearing.
    The demon squatted down on her haunches and waited.
    Shadows gathered, pouring like liquid between the trees to hover before the portalway.
    Apt cocked her head and spread wide her mouth in something like a canine yawn.
    A vague shape took form within the shadows. The glowing eyes of guardian Hounds appeared to flank the figure.
    'I thought I had lost you,' Shadowthrone whispered to the demon. 'Snared so long by Sha'ik and her doomed goddess. Yet this night you return, not alone – oh no, not alone, aptorian. You've grown ambitious since you were but a Demon Lord's concubine. Tell me, my dear, what am I to do with over a thousand dying mortals?'
    The Hounds were eyeing Apt as if the demon was a potential meal.
    'Am I a cutter? A healer?' Shadowthrone's voice was rising, octave by octave. 'Is Cotillion a kindly uncle? Are my Hounds farmyard skulkers and orphans' puppies?' The shadow that was the god flared wildly. 'Have you gone entirely insane?'
    Apt spoke in a rapid, rasping series of clicks and hisses.
    'Of course Kalam wanted to save them!' Shadowthrone shrieked. 'But he knew it was impossible! Only vengeance was possible! But now! Now I must exhaust my powers healing a thousand maimed children! And for what?'
    Apt spoke again.
    'Servants? And precisely how big do you think Shadow Keep is, you one-armed imbecile!'
    The demon said nothing, her slate-grey multifaceted eye glimmering in the starlight.
    Shadowthrone hunched suddenly, his gauzelike cloak wrapping close as he hugged himself. 'An army of servants,' he whispered. 'Servants. Abandoned by the Empire, left to their fates at the hand of Sha'ik's bloodlusted bandits. There will be ... ambivalence ... in their scarred, malleable souls ...' The god glanced up at the demon. 'I see long-term benefits in your precipitous act, demon. Lucky for you!'
    Apt hissed and clicked.
    'You wish to claim for your own the one in your clutches? And – if indeed you are to resume