A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

commanded the entire platform, a softly coruscating web of Kurald Galain.
    'Rake's own hand,' the wizard murmured. 'These ... spells. He worked alone.'
    Paran nodded. He had heard the same from Picker, but he understood Quick Ben's need to talk, to fill the chamber with his echoing voice.
    'It was his leg, you know. Gave out at the wrong moment. Probably a lunge ... meaning he had Kallor. Had him dead. He would never have extended himself so fully otherwise. That damned leg. Shattered in that garden in Darujhistan. A marble pillar, toppling... and Whiskeyjack was just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
    'From then ... to this.'
    And now, Picker and the others are watching Mallet. Every moment, someone's hovering close. The healer might try to fall on his knife at any time . . . given the chance. Ah, Mallet, he kept pushing you away. 'Another time, I've too much on my mind right now. Nothing more than a dull ache. When this is done, we'll get to it, then.' It wasn't your fault, Mallet. Soldiers die.
    He watched Quick Ben remove a small pebble from his pouch and lay it on the floor in front of the dais. 'I may want to visit later,' he said, offering Paran a faint, sad smile. 'Me and Kalam ...'
    Oh, Wizard . . .
    Paran lifted his gaze to the three sarcophagi. He did not know which one held whom. For some reason, that didn't matter much. Whiskeyjack and two marines – they were there for Tattersail, at the last.
    Always an even exchange, sorceress.
    'I am ready to leave them, now, Captain.'
    Paran nodded.
    They turned and slowly retraced their steps.
    Reaching the arched entrance, they stopped.
    Quick Ben glanced into the hallway. 'They left everything, you know.'
    'What? Who?'
    'Rake. The Tiste Andii. Left their possessions. Everything.'
    'Why would they do that? They are to settle in Black Coral, aren't they? The city's been stripped clean ...'
    Quick Ben shrugged. 'Tiste Andii,' he said, in a tone that silently added: we'll never know.
    A vague portal took shape before them.
    The wizard grunted. 'You've certainly a particular style with these things, Captain.'
    Yes, the style of awkward ignorance. 'Step through, Wizard.'
    He watched Quick Ben vanish within the portal. Then Paran turned, one last time, to look upon the chamber. The globe of light was fast dimming.
    Whiskeyjack, for all that you have taught me, I thank you. Bridgeburners, I wish I could have done better by you. Especially at the end. At the very least, I could have died with you.
    All right, it's probably far too late. But I bless you, one and all.
    With that, he turned back, stepped through the portal.
    In the silent chamber, the light faded, the globe flickering, then finally vanishing.
    But a new glow had come to the chamber. Faint, seeming to dance with the black web on the sarcophagi.
    A dance of mystery.
     
    The carriage of bone clattered its way down the trader road, Emancipor flicking the traces across the broad, midnight backs of the oxen.
    Gruntle, halfway across the road, stopped, waited.
    The manservant scowled, reluctantly halted the carriage. He thumped one fist on the wall behind him, the reptilian skin reverberating like a war drum.
    A door opened and Bauchelain climbed out, followed by Korbal Broach.
    Bauchelain strode to stand opposite Gruntle, but his flat grey eyes were focused on the dark city beyond. 'Extraordinary,' he breathed. 'This – this is a place I could call home.'
    Gruntle's laugh was harsh. 'You think so? There are Tiste Andii there, now. More, it is now a part of the Malazan Empire. Do you believe that either will tolerate your friend's hobbies?'
    'He's right,' Korbal Broach whined from beside the carriage. 'I won't have any fun there.'
    Bauchelain smiled. 'Ah, but Korbal, think of all the fresh corpses. And look to this field below. K'Chain Che'Malle, already conveniently dismembered – manageable portions, if you will. Enough material, dear colleague, to build an entire estate.'
    Gruntle watched Korbal Broach suddenly smile.
    Gods, spare me the sight of that – never again, please.
    'Now, barbed Captain,' Bauchelain said, 'kindly remove yourself from our path. But first, if you would be so kind, a question for you.'
    'What?'
    'I have but recently received a note. Terrible penmanship, and worse, written on bark. It would seem that a certain Jib Bole and his brothers wish to pay me a visit. Are you, by any chance, knowledgeable of these good sirs? If so, perhaps some advice on the proper etiquette of