A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

the marionette had been on someone's – something's – trail, which led down into the Warren of Shadow. Hairlock had reached the very gates of the Shadow Realm, and then he had gone beyond.
    For a time Quick Ben had lost contact with the puppet, and those long minutes of silence had left everyone's nerves in tatters. When Hairlock's presence returned to the wizard he no longer moved alone.
    'He's coming out,' Quick Ben announced. 'Shifting Warrens. With Oponn's luck he'll lose the Hounds.'
    Tattersail winced at the wizard's casual use of the Fool's name. With so many currents swirling so close beneath the surface it might well call unwelcome attention to them.
    Weariness hung heavy in the room like bitter incense, redolent with sweat and tension. After his last words Quick Ben had bowed his head. Tattersail knew his mind now travelled the Warrens, clinging to Hairlock's shoulder with an unbreakable grip.
    Kalam's pacing brought him before the sorceress. He stopped and faced her. 'What about Tayschrenn?' he asked gruffly, his hands twitching.
    'He knows something has happened. He's hunting, but the quarry eludes him.' She smiled up at the assassin. 'I feel him moving cautiously. Very cautiously. For all he knows, the quarry might be a rabbit, or a wolf.'
    Kalam's expression remained grim. 'Or a Hound,' he muttered, then resumed his pacing.
    Tattersail stared at him. Was this what Hairlock was doing? Drawing a Hound after him? Were they all leading Tayschrenn into a deadly ambush? 'I trust not,' she said, her eyes hardening on the assassin. 'That would be foolish.'
    Kalam ignored her, pointedly avoiding her gaze.
    Tattersail rose. 'Not foolish. Insane. Do you realize what could be unleashed here? Some believe the Hounds are more ancient than the Shadow Realm itself. But it's not just them – power draws power. If one Ascendant parts the fabric here and now, others will come, smelling blood. Come the dawn every mortal in this city could be dead.'
    'Easy, lady,' Kalam said. 'Nobody wants a Hound loosed in the city. I spoke from fear.' He still would not look at her.
    The assassin's admission startled Tattersail. It was shame that kept his eyes from her. Fear was an admission of weakness. 'For Hood's Sake,' she sighed, 'I've been sitting on a pillow for the past two hours.'
    That caught him. He stopped, faced her, then laughed.
    It was a deep, smooth laugh, and it pleased her immensely.
    The bedroom door opened and Mallet entered the room, his round face shiny and flushed. The healer glanced briefly at Quick Ben, then walked to Tattersail, where he crouched down in front of her. 'By all rights,' he said quietly, 'Captain Paran should be in an Officer's Hole with five feet of mud on his pretty face.' He nodded to Kalam, who had joined them. 'The first wound was fatal, up under his heart. A professional thrust,' he added, with a meaningful look at the assassin. 'The second would have done him more slowly, but no less certain.'
    Kalam grimaced. 'So he should be dead. He isn't. Which means?'
    'Intervention,' Tattersail answered, a queasy feeling settling in her stomach. Her heavy-lidded gaze fixed on Mallet. 'Your Denul skills proved sufficient?'
    The healer quirked a smile. 'It was easy. I had help.' He explained, 'The wounds were already closing, the damage already mended. I quickened it some, but that's all. There's been a deep trauma, both body and mind. By all rights it should be weeks before he recovers physically. And that alone could be a problem.'
    'What do you mean?' Tattersail asked.
    Kalam strode to the table, retrieved a jug of wine and three clay cups. He rejoined them and began pouring as Mallet said, 'Healing should never be separated between the flesh and the sense of the flesh. It's hard to explain. The Denul Warrens involve every aspect of healing, since damage, when it occurs, does so on all levels. Shock is the scar that bridges the gap between the body and the mind.'
    'All and well,' Kalam growled, handing the healer a cup. 'What about Paran?'
    Mallet took a long draught and wiped at his mouth. 'Whatever force interceded cared for nothing but healing the flesh. He may well be on his feet in a day or two, but the shock needs time to heal.'
    'You couldn't do it?' Tattersail asked.
    He shook his head. 'All such things are intertwined. Whatever interceded severed those connections. How many shocks, traumatic events, has Paran received in his lifetime? Which scar am I to trace? I may well do more damage in