A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

here in these images. Fear not, such emotions amuse me, for they are the paths to despair.'
    'Yes, master.'
    'Now, Munug of Darujhistan, your payment...'
    The old man screamed as fire blossomed within the tumours between his legs. Twisting with agony, he curled up tight on the filthy rushes.
    The god laughed, the horrible sound breaking into lung-ravaging coughs that were long in passing.
    The pain, Munug realized after a while, was fading.
    'You are healed, mortal. You are granted more years of your miserable life. Alas, as perfection is anathema to me, so it must be among my cherished children.'
    'M-master, I cannot feel my legs!'
    'They are dead, I am afraid. Such was the price of curing. It seems, artisan, that you will have a long, wearying crawl to wherever it is you seek to go. Bear in mind, child, that the value lies in the journey, not in the goal achieved.' The god laughed again, triggering yet another fit of coughing.
    Knowing he was dismissed, Munug pulled himself around, dragged the dead weight of his lower limbs through the tent entrance, then lay gasping. The pain he now felt came from his own soul. He pulled his pack up alongside him, rested his head on it. The columns of stacked coins were hard against his sweat-runnelled forehead. 'My rewards,' he whispered. 'Blessed is the touch of the Fallen One. Lead me, dear master, down the paths of despair, for I deserve this world's pain in unending bounty ...'
    From the tent behind him, the Crippled God's laughter hacked the air. 'Cherish this moment, dear Munug! By your hand, the new game is begun. By your hand, the world shall tremble!'
    Munug closed his eyes. 'My rewards ...'
     
    Blend continued staring up the trail long after the trader had disappeared from view. 'He was not,' she muttered, 'as he seemed.'
    'None of them are,' Picker agreed, tugging at the torcs on her arm. 'These things are damned tight.'
    'Your arm will probably rot and fall off, Corporal.'
    She looked up with wide eyes. 'You think they're cursed?'
    Blend shrugged. 'If it was me I'd have Quick Ben take a good long peer at them, and sooner not later.'
    'Togg's balls, if you'd a suspicion—'
    'Didn't say I did, Corporal – it was you complaining they were tight. Can you get them off ?'
    She scowled. 'No, damn you.'
    'Oh.' Blend looked away.
    Picker contemplated giving the woman a good, hard cuff, but it was a thought she entertained at least ten times a day since they'd paired up for this posting, and once again she resisted it. 'Three hundred councils to buy my arm falling off. Wonderful.'
    'Think positive, Corporal. It'll give you something to talk about with Dujek.'
    'I really do hate you, Blend.'
    She offered Picker a bland smile. 'So, did you drop a pebble in that old man's pack, then?'
    'Aye, he was fidgety enough to warrant it. He damn near fainted when I called him back, didn't he?'
    Blend nodded.
    'So,' Picker said, unrolling her sleeve, 'Quick Ben tracks him—'
    'Unless he cleans out his pack—'
    The corporal grunted. 'He cared less about what was in it than I did. No, whatever serious booty he carried was under his shirt, no doubt about it. Anyway, he'll be sure to put out the word when he gets to Pale – the traffic of smugglers through these hills will drop right off, mark my words and I'll lay coin on that wager – and I threw him the line about better chances at the Divide when you was off collecting the councils.'
    Blend's smile broadened. ' "Chaos at the crossroads", eh? The only chaos Paran's crew has over there is what to do with all the takings.'
    'Let's fix some food – the Moranth will likely be as punctual as usual.'
    The two Bridgeburners made their way back up the trail.
     
    An hour after sunset the flight of Black Moranth arrived, descending on their quorls in a slithering flutter of wings to the circle of lanterns Picker and Blend had set out. One of them carried a passenger who clambered off as soon as his quorl's six legs alighted on the stony ground.
    Picker grinned at the cursing man. 'Over here, Quick—'
    He spun to face her. 'What in Hood's name have you been up to, Corporal?'
    Her grin fell away. 'Not much, Wizard. Why?'
    The thin, dusk-skinned man glanced over a shoulder at the Black Moranth, then hastened to the position where Picker and Blend waited. He lowered his voice. 'We need to keep things simple, damn it. Coming over the hills I almost fell out of that knobby saddle – there's warrens swirling around down here, power bleeding from