A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

– or maybe the worst – in me.
    Something glittered in Whiskeyjack's eyes, and he nodded. 'So that's that,' he said gruffly. He leaned back. 'What's on your mind, Fiddler?' he asked the sapper, who was still pacing behind him.
    'Got a bad feeling,' the man muttered. 'Something's wrong. Not here, though, but close by. It's just—' He stopped, cocking his head, then he sighed, resuming his uneasy walk. 'Not sure, not sure.'
    Tattersail's eyes followed the wiry little man. A natural talent? Something working on pure instinct? Very rare. 'I think you should listen to him,' she said.
    Whiskeyjack gave her a pained look.
    Kalam grinned, a network of lines crinkling around his dark eyes. 'Fiddler saved our lives in the tunnel,' he explained. 'One of his bad feelings.'
    Tattersail leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She asked, 'So where is Sorry right now?'
    Fiddler whirled, his eyes widening on the sorceress. His mouth opened, then snapped shut again.
    The other three surged to their feet, chairs toppling backwards.
    'We've got to get going,' Fiddler grated. 'There's a knife out there, and it's got blood on it.'
    Whiskeyjack checked his longsword. 'Kalam, out front twenty paces.' He faced Tattersail as the assassin slipped out. 'We lost her a couple of hours ago. Happens a lot between missions.' His face looked drawn. 'There may be no connection with this bloodied knife.'
    A blossoming of power filled the room and Tattersail spun to face Quick Ben. The wizard had accessed his Warren. The sorcery bled a strange, swirling flavour that she could not recognize, and it frightened her with its intensity. She met the black man's shining eyes. 'I should know you,' she whispered. 'There's not enough true masters in this world for me to not know you. Who are you, Quick Ben?'
    Whiskeyjack interjected, 'Everyone ready?'
    The wizard's only answer to Tattersail was a shrug. To Whiskeyjack he said, 'Ready.'
    The sergeant strode to the door. 'Take care, Sorceress.'
    A moment later they were gone. Tattersail righted the chairs, then refilled her goblet with wine. High House Shadow, and a knife in the dark. A new game's begun, or the old one's just turned.
     
    Paran opened his eyes to bright, hot sunlight, but the sky above him was ... wrong. He saw no sun; the yellow glare was sharp yet sourceless. Heat gusted down on him with oppressive weight.
    A moaning sound filled the air, not wind because there was no wind. He tried to think, tried to recall his last memories, but the past was blank, torn away, and only fragments remained: a ship's cabin, the thunk of his dagger as he flung it again and again against a wooden post; a man with rings, hair of white, grinning sardonically.
    He rolled to one side, seeking the source of the moaning sound. A dozen paces away on the flat plain that was neither grass nor earth rose an arched gateway leading to—
    Nothing. I've seen such gates before. None so large, 1 think, as this one. None looking quite like this ... this thing. Twisted, upright yet from his position sideways, the gate was not, he realized, made of stone. Bodies, naked human figures. Carved likenesses? No ... oh, no. The figures moved, groaned, slowly writhed in place. Flesh blackened, as if stained with peat, eyes closed and mouths open with faint, endless moans.
    Paran climbed to his feet, staggered as a wave of dizziness ran through him, then fell once again to the ground.
    'Something like indecision,' a voice said coolly.
    Blinking, Paran rolled on to his back. Above him stood a young man and woman – twins. The man wore loose silk clothing, white and gold; his thin face was pale, expressionless. His twin was wrapped in a shimmering purple cape, her blonde hair casting reddish glints.
    It was the man who'd spoken. He smiled without humour down at Paran. 'We've long admired your ...' His eyes widened.
    'Sword,' the woman finished, a smirk in her tone.
    'Far more subtle than, say, a coin, don't you think?' The man's smile turned mocking. 'Most,' he said, swinging his head to study the ghastly edifice of the gate, 'don't pause here. It's said there was a cult, once, in the habit of drowning victims in bogs ... I imagine Hood finds them aesthetically pleasing.'
    'Hardly surprising,' the woman drawled, 'that Death has no taste.'
    Paran tried to sit up, but his limbs refused the command. He dropped his head back, feeling the strange loam yield to its weight. 'What has happened?' he rasped.
    'You were murdered,' the man said