A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

a cursed sleep, only to die in truth—'
    A new voice spoke. 'Actually, while a little worse for wear, Raest was admirably animate the last time I saw him.'
    Silverfox spun. 'Ganoes, what do you mean? The Tyrant was slain.'
    The small, round man now standing beside Captain Paran drew a handkerchief from a sleeve and mopped his brow. 'Well, as to that ... not quite, Kruppe reluctantly advises. Matters were somewhat confused, alas—'
    'A House of the Azath took the Jaghut Tyrant,' K'rul explained. 'The Malazan plan, as I understand it, was to force Anomander Rake's hand – a confrontation that was intended to weaken him, if not see him slain outright. Raest never did come face to face with the Lord of Moon's Spawn, as it turned out—'
    'I see little relevance in all this,' Silverfox cut in. 'If the Clanless One has indeed broken his vow, then he will have to answer to me.'
    'My point was,' Dujek said, 'you make a claim that the T'lan Imass and what they do or don't do is separate from everyone and everything else. You insist on detachment, but, as a veteran of the Malazan campaigns, I tell you that what you assert is patently untrue.'
    'Perhaps indeed the Logros T'lan Imass grew ... confused. If so, such ambivalence is past. Unless, of course, you would challenge the authority that I was born to.'
    No-one spoke in answer to that.
    Silverfox nodded. 'Very well. You have been told of the position of the T'lan Imass. We will have this Jaghut Tyrant. Does anyone here wish to counter our claim?'
    'From the implicit threats in your tone, woman,' Brood grated, 'that would be a foolhardy position to take. I for one will not squabble and tug the Seer's limbs.' He swung to Dujek. 'High Fist?'
    The one-armed soldier grimaced, then shook his head.
    Itkovian's attention was drawn to the short, fat Daru, for some reason he could not have hoped to explain. A benign smile curved those full, slightly greasy lips.
    This is a most fell gathering of powers here. Yet why do I believe that the very epicentre of efficacy lies with this strange little man? He holds even K'rul's regard, as would an admiring companion rest eyes upon a lifelong . . . prodigy of sorts, per-haps. A prodigy whose talents have come to overwhelm his master's. But there is no envy in that regard, nor even pride – which always whispers of possessiveness, after all. No, the emotion is far more subtle, and complex . . .
    'We have matters of supply to discuss,' Caladan Brood finally said. The High Priestess still leaned on him. He now guided her back to her chair, with surprising gentleness, and spoke to her in low tones. She nodded in reply.
    'The Barghast,' Cafal said, 'have come prepared. Your numbers are manageable.'
    'And the price?' Dujek asked.
    The young warrior grinned. 'You'll find it palatable ... more or less.'
    Silverfox strode away, as if she had said all she'd intended to say and had no interest in the mundane matters still needing discussion. Itkovian noted that Captain Paran, his dark-skinned companion and Whiskeyjack had already departed. Gruntle seemed to have begun dozing in his chair, oblivious of Stonny's scowl opposite him. Rath'Hood and Rath'Shadowthrone were slumped in their chairs, masks angled into morose expressions – leaving Itkovian to wonder at how much control the priests had over those lacquered, hinged contrivances.
    The new Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords sat motionless, her gaze fixed on Itkovian with unveiled sorrow.
    And . . . pity.
    I am a distraction. Very well. He stepped back, turned about and made his way towards the back of the tarp.
    He was surprised to find Paran, Whiskeyjack and the dark-skinned man waiting there. A tall, martial woman with midnight skin had joined them and now studied Itkovian with extraordinary, almond-shaped eyes the colour of sun-bleached grass.
    Meeting that gaze, Itkovian almost staggered. Fener's tusks, such sadness – an eternity of loss . . . empty existence —
    She broke the contact with a startled, then alarmed, expression.
    Not for me. Not for my embrace. Not that. Some wounds can never be healed, some memories should never be reawakened. Cast no light upon that darkness, sir. It is too much — He came then to another realization. Fener was gone, and with the god had vanished his protection. Itkovian was vulnerable as he had never been before. Vulnerable to the world's pain, to its grief.
    'Itkovian, we were hoping,' Captain Paran said, 'that you'd come. This is my commander,