A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

saw no imperative to turn away from the pleasures of the flesh. Indeed, the interweaving of the shadows possesses great power.'
    'And so you raped Sha'ik when she was but a child. And scourged from her all future chance at such pleasures as you now espouse. I see little logic in that, Bidithal – only sickness.'
    'My purposes are beyond your ability to comprehend, Ghost Hands,' the High Mage said with a smirk. 'You cannot wound me with such clumsy efforts.'
    'I'd been given to understand you were agitated, discomfited.'
    'Ah, L'oric. Another stupid man. He mistook excitement for agitation, but I will say no more of that. Not to you.'
    'Allow me to be equally succinct, Bidithal.' Heboric stepped closer. 'If you even so much as look in Felisin's direction, these hands of mine will twist your head from your neck.'
    'Felisin? Sha'ik's dearest? Do you truly believe she is a virgin? Before Sha'ik returned, the child was a waif, an orphan in the camp. None cared a whit about her—'
    'None of which matters,' Heboric said.
    The High Mage turned away. 'Whatever you say, Ghost Hands. Hood knows, there are plenty of others—'
    'All now under Sha'ik's protection. Do you imagine she will permit such abuses from you?'
    'You shall have to ask her that yourself,' Bidithal replied. 'Now leave me. You are guest no longer.'
    Heboric hesitated, barely resisting an urge to kill the man now, this instant. Would it even be pre-emptive? Has he not as much as admitted to his crimes? But this was not a place of Malazan justice, was it? The only law that existed here was Sha'ik's. Nor will I be alone in this. Even Toblakai has vowed protection over Felisin. But what of the other children? Why does Sha'ik tolerate this, unless it is as Leoman has said. She needs Bidithal. Needs him to betray Febryl's plotting.
    Yet what do I care for all of that? This . . . creature does not deserve to live.
    'Contemplating murder?' Bidithal murmured, his back turned once more, his own shadow dancing on its own on the tent wall. 'You would not be the first, nor, I suspect, the last. I should warn you, however, this temple is newly resanctified. Take another step towards me, Ghost Hands, and you will see the power of that.'
    'And you believe Sha'ik will permit you to kneel before Shadowthrone?'
    The man whirled, his face black with rage. 'Shadowthrone? That . . . foreigner? The roots of Meanas are found in an elder warren! Once ruled by—' he snapped his mouth shut, then smiled, revealing dark teeth. 'Not for you. Oh no, not for you, ex-priest. There are purposes within the Whirlwind – your existence is tolerated but little more than that. Challenge me, Ghost Hands, and you will know holy wrath.'
    Heboric's answering grin was hard. 'I've known it before, Bidithal. Yet I remain. Purposes? Perhaps mine is to block your path. I'd advise you to think on that.'
    Stepping outside once more, he paused briefly, blinking in the harsh sunlight. Silgar was nowhere to be seen, yet he
had completed an elaborate pattern in the dust around Heboric's moccasins. Chains, surrounding a figure with stumps instead of hands ... yet footed. The ex-priest scowled, kicking through the image as he set forth.
    Silgar was no artist. Heboric's own eyes were bad. Perhaps he'd seen only what his fears urged – it had been Silgar himself within the circle of chains the first time, after all. In any case, it was not important enough to make him turn back for a second look. Besides, his own steps had no doubt left it ruined.
    None of which explained the chill that clung to him as he walked beneath the searing sun.
    The vipers were writhing in their pit, and he was in their midst.
     
    The old scars of ligature damage made his ankles and wrists resemble segmented tree trunks, each pinched width encircling his limbs to remind him of those times, of every shackle that had snapped shut, every chain that had held him down. In his dreams, the pain reared like a thing alive once more, weaving mesmerizing through a tumult of confused, distraught scenes.
    The old Malazan with no hands and the shimmering, near solid tattoo had, despite his blindness, seen clearly enough, seen those trailing ghosts, the wind-moaning train of deaths that stalked him day and night now, loud enough in Toblakai's mind to drown out the voice of Urugal, close enough to obscure his god's stone visage behind veil after veil of mortal faces – each and every one twisted with the agony and fear that carved out the moment of