A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Salk Elan grinned as Kalam entered the cramped room. 'We were just talking about you, partner,' Elan said. 'Knowing how set you get in your mind, and wondering how you'd take the news ...'
    'All right, I'll bite. What news?'
    'This storm – we're being blown off course. A long way.'
    'Meaning?'
    'Seems we'll be making for a different port once it's spent.'
    'Not Unta.'
    'Oh, eventually, of course.'
    The assassin's gaze fell to the captain. He looked unhappy, but resigned. Kalam conjured a map of Quon Tali in his mind, studied it a moment, then sighed. 'Malaz City. The island.'
    'Never seen that legendary cesspool before,' Elan said. 'I can't wait. I trust you'll be generous enough to show me all the sights, friend.'
    Kalam stared at the man, then smiled. 'Count on it, Salk Elan.'
     
    They had paused for a rest, almost inured to the curdling cries and screams
    rising from other paths of the maze. Mappo lowered Icarium to the ground and
    knelt beside his unconscious friend. Tremorlor's desire for the Jhag was palpable.
    The Trell closed his eyes. The Nameless Ones have guided us here, delivering
    Icarium to the Azath as they would a goat to a hill god. Yet it is not their
    hands that will be bloodied by the deed. I am the one who will be stained
    by this.
    He struggled to conjure the image of the destroyed town – his birthplace – but it was now haunted by shadows. Doubt had replaced conviction. He no longer believed his own memories. Foolish! Icarium has taken countless lives. Whatever the truth behind my town's death . . .
    His hands clenched.
    My tribe – the shoulder-women – would not betray me. What weight can be placed on Icarium's dreams? The Jhag remembers nothing. Nothing real. His equanimity softens truth, blurs the edges . . . smears every colour, until the memory is daubed anew. Thus. It is lcarium's kindness that has snared me . . .
    Mappo's fists ached. He looked down at his companion, studied the expression of peaceful repose on the Jhag's blood-smeared face.
    Tremorlor shall not have you. I am not to be so used. If the Nameless Ones would deliver you, then they shall have to come for you themselves, and through me first.
    He looked up, glared into the heart of the maze. Tremorlor. Reach for him with your roots, and they shall feel the rage of a Trell warrior, his battle dream unleashed, ancient spirits riding his flesh in a dance of murder. This I promise, and so you are warned.
    'It's said,' Fiddler murmured beside him, 'that the Azath have taken gods.'
    Mappo fixed the soldier with hooded eyes.
    Fiddler squinted as he studied the riotous walls on all sides. 'What Elder gods – their names forgotten for millennia – are caged here? When did they last see light? When were they last able to move their limbs? Can you imagine an eternity thus endured?' He shifted the weight of the crossbow in his hands. 'If Tremorlor dies. .. imagine the madness unleashed upon the world.'
    The Trell was silent for a moment, then he whispered, 'What are these darts that you fling at me?'
    Fiddler's brows rose. 'Darts? None intended. This place sits on me like a cloak of vipers, that is all.'
    'Tremorlor has no hunger for you, soldier.'
    Fiddler's grin was crooked. 'Sometimes it pays being a nobody.'
    'Now you mock in truth.'
    The sapper's grin fell away. 'Widen your senses, Trell. Tremorlor's is not the only hunger here. Every prisoner in these walls of wood feels our passage. They might well flinch from you and Icarium, but no such fear constrains their regard for the rest of us.'
    Mappo looked away. 'Forgive me. I've spared little thought for anyone else, as you have noted. Still, do not think I would hesitate in defending you if the need arose. I am not one to diminish the honour that is your companionship.'
    Fiddler gave a sharp nod, straightened. 'A soldier's pragmatism. I had to know one way or the other.'
    'I understand.'
    'Sorry if I offended you.'
    'Naught but a knife-tip's prod – you've stirred me to wakefulness.'
    Iskaral Pust, squatting a few paces away, sputtered. 'Muddy the puddle, oh yes! Yank his loyalties this way and that – excellent! Witness the strategy of silence – while the intended victims unravel each other in pointless, divisive discourse. Oh yes, I have learned much from Tremorlor, and so assume a like strategy. Silence, a faint mocking smile suggesting I know more than I do, an air of mystery, yes, and fell knowledge. None could guess my confusion, my host of deluded