A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

iron bolts. The Teblor gave it a shake. Dust sifted out from around the bolts, pattered onto the floor.
    'I see you're a man who ignores advice,' the stranger observed.
    'These Malazans are careless.'
    'Overconfident, I'd suggest. Then again, perhaps not. They've had dealings with Fenn, with Trell, Barghast – a whole host of oversized barbarians. They're tough, and sharper than they let on. They put an otataral anklet on that slavemaster – no magic from him any more—'
    Karsa turned. 'What is this "otataral" everyone speaks of?'
    'A bane to magic.'
    'And it must be mined.'
    'Yes. It's usually a powder, found in layers, like sandstone. Resembles rust.'
    'We scrape a red powder from cliffsides to make our blood-oil,' the Teblor murmured.
    'What is blood-oil?'
    'We rub it into our swords, and into our armour. To bring on battle madness, we taste it.'
    The stranger was silent for a moment, though Karsa
could feel the man's eyes on him. 'And how well does magic work against you?'
    'Those who attack me with sorcery usually reveal surprise on their faces ... just before I kill them.'
    'Well now, that is interesting. It is believed that otataral is only found on the single large island east of here. The empire controls its production. Tightly. Their mages learned the hard way during the conquest, in the battles before the T'lan Imass got involved. If not for the T'lan Imass, the invasion would have failed. I have some more advice for you. Reveal nothing of this to the Malazans. If they discover there is another source of otataral, a source they do not control, well, they will send into your homeland – wherever that is – every regiment they possess. They will crush your people. Utterly.'
    Karsa shrugged. 'The Teblor have many enemies.'
    The stranger slowly sat straighter. 'Teblor? That is what you call yourselves? Teblor?' After a moment, he leaned back again, and softly laughed.
    'What do you find so amusing?'
    An outer door clanged open, and Karsa stepped back from the barred door as a squad of soldiers appeared. The three at the front had unsheathed their swords, while the four behind them held large, cocked crossbows. One of the swordsmen stepped up to the door. He paused upon seeing Karsa. 'Careful,' he called to his companions, 'the savage has awakened.' He studied the Teblor and said, 'Do nothing stupid, Fenn. It matters nothing to us whether you live or die – the mines are crowded enough for them not to miss you. Understand me?'
    Karsa bared his teeth, said nothing.
    'You there, in the corner, on your feet. It's time for some sunshine.'
    The stranger slowly straightened. He was wearing little more than rags. Lean and dark-skinned, his eyes were a startling light blue. 'I demand a proper trial, as is my right under imperial law.'
    The guardsman laughed. 'Give it up. You've been identified. We know precisely who you are. Aye, your secret organization is not as seamless as you might think. Betrayed by one of your own – how does that feel? Let's go, you come out first. Jibb, you and Gullstream keep your crossbows on that Fenn – I don't like his smile. Especially now,' he added.
    'Oh look,' another soldier said, 'you've confused the poor ox. Bet he doesn't even know his entire face is one big tattoo. Scrawl did good work, though. Best I've seen in a long while.'
    'Right,' another drawled, 'and how many escaped prisoner tattoos have you seen, Jibb?'
    'Just one, and it's a work of art.'
    The source of the stinging sensation on Karsa's face was revealed now. He reached up, seeking to feel something of the pattern, and slowly began tracing lines of slightly raised, damp strips of raw skin. They were not contiguous. He could make no sense of what the tattoo portrayed.
    'Shattered,' the other prisoner said as he walked over to the door, which the first guard unlocked and swung open. 'The brand makes your face look like it's been shattered.'
    Two guards escorted the man outside, whilst the others, nervously eyeing Karsa, waited for their return. One of the crossbowmen, whose high forehead revealed white blotches
– leading the Teblor to speculate that he was the one
named Gullstream – leaned back against the opposite wall
and said, 'I don't know, I'm thinking Scrawl made it too big
– he was ugly enough to start with, now he looks damned
terrifying.'
    'So what?' another guard drawled. 'There's plenty of hill-grubbing savages that carve up their own faces to frighten weak-kneed recruits like you,