A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Honese oaf – conniving, untrustworthy, shifty—'
    'Those are all words for the same thing!'
    'And I've plenty more!'
    'Let's hear them, then.'
    They began down the trail, Mogora resuming her litany. 'Lying, deceitful, thieving, shifty—'
    'You said that one already!'
    'So what? Shifty, slimy, slippery ...'
     
    The enormous undead dragon rose silently from its perch on the mesa's summit, wings spreading to glow with the sun's light, even as the membrane dimmed the colour that reached through. Black, flat eyes glanced down at the two figures scrambling towards the cliff face.
    The attention was momentary. Then an ancient warren opened before the soaring creature, swallowed it whole, then vanished.
     
    Iskaral Pust and Mogora stared at the spot in the sky for a moment longer. A half-grin twitched on the High Priest's features. 'Ah, you weren't fooled, were you? You came here to guard the true gate. Ever mindful of your duties, you T'lan Imass. You Bonecasters with your secrets that drive me mad!'
    'You were born mad,' Mogora muttered.
    Ignoring her, he continued addressing the now vanished dragon. 'Well, the crisis is past, isn't it? Could you have held? Against all those children of yours? Not without Iskaral Pust, oh no! Not without me!'
    Mogora barked a contemptuous laugh.
    He threw her a glare, then scampered ahead.
    Stopping beneath the lone, gaping window high in the cliff tower, he screamed, 'I'm home! I'm home!' The words echoed forlornly, then faded.
    The High Priest of Shadow began dancing in place, too agitated to remain still, and he kept dancing as a minute passed, then another. Mogora watched him, one eyebrow raised.
    Finally a small, brown head emerged from the window and peered down.
    The bared fangs might have been a smile, but Iskaral Pust could not be sure of that. He could never be sure of that.
    'Oh, look,' Mogora murmured, 'one of your fawning worshippers.'
    'Aren't you funny.'
    'What I am is hungry. Who's going to prepare meals now that Servant's gone?'
    'You are, of course.'
    She flew into a spitting rage. Iskaral Pust watched her antics with a small smile on his face. Ah, glad to see I've not lost my charm . . .
     
    The enormous, ornate wagon stood in a cloud of dust well away from the road, the horses slow to lose their terror, stamping, tossing their heads.
    Two knee-high creatures scampered from the wagon and padded on bandy legs towards the road, their long arms held out to the sides. Outwardly, they resembled bhok'arala, their small, wizened faces corkscrewing as they squinted in the harsh sunlight.
    Yet they were speaking Daru.
    'Are you sure?' the shorter of the pair said.
    The other snarled in frustration. 'I'm the one who's linked, right? Not you, Irp, not you. Baruk would never be such a fool as to task you with anything – except grunt work.'
    'You got that right, Rudd. Grunt work. I'm good at that, ain't I? Grunt work. Grunt, grunt, grunt – you sure about this? Really sure?'
    They made their way up the bank and approached the last tree lining the road. Both creatures squatted down before it, staring up in silence at the withered corpse nailed to the bole.
    'I don't see nothing,' Irp muttered. 'I think you're wrong. I think you've lost it, Rudd, and you won't admit it. I think—'
    'I'm one word away from killing you, Irp, I swear it.'
    'Fine. I die good, you know. Grunt, gasp, grunt, sigh ... grunt.'
    Rudd ambled to the tree's base, the few stiff hairs of his hackles the only sign of his simmering temper. He clambered upward, pulled himself onto the chest of the corpse and rummaged with one hand beneath the rotted shirt. He plucked loose a tattered, soiled piece of cloth. Unfolding it, he frowned.
    Irp's voice rose from below. 'What is it?'
    'A name's written on here.'
    'Whose?'
    Rudd shrugged. '"Sa'yless Lorthal.'"
    'That's a woman's name. He's not a woman, is he?'
    'Of course not!' Rudd snapped. A moment later he tucked the cloth back under the shirt. 'Mortals are strange,' he muttered, as he began searching beneath the shirt again. He quickly found what he sought, and drew forth a small bottle of smoky glass.
    'Well?' Irp demanded.
    'It broke all right,' Rudd said with satisfaction. 'I can see the cracks.' He leaned forward and bit through the thong, then, clutching the bottle in one hand, scrambled back down. Crouched at the base, he held the bottle to the sun and squinted through it.
    Irp grunted.
    Rudd then held the bottle against one pointed ear and shook it. 'Ah!