A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

muttered. 'For the Empress, is my guess. He's probably back in the Claw – that's where he started, after all, isn't it?'
    Cord looked thoughtful, then he shrugged and turned away. 'This is making my head ache. Let's get below.'
    Kalam watched the sergeant push between the clump of soldiers crowding the corridor. Something tells me I'm not going to enjoy this much.
    Sinn danced a step.
     
    A blurred sword of dark iron rose along the horizon, a massive, bruised blade that flickered as it swelled ever larger. The wind had fallen off, and it seemed that the island in the path of the sword's tip grew no closer. Cutter moved up to the lone mast and began storm-rigging the luffing sail. 'I'm going to man the sweeps for a while,' he said. 'Will you take the tiller?'
    With a shrug Apsalar moved to the stern.
    The storm still lay behind the island of Drift Avalii, over which hung a seemingly permanent, immovable bank of heavy clouds. Apart from a steeply rising shoreline, there seemed to be no high ground; the forest of cedars, firs and redwoods looked impenetrable, their boles ever cloaked in gloom.
    Cutter stared at the island for a moment longer, then gauged the pace of the approaching storm. He settled onto the bench behind the mast and collected the sweeps. 'We might make it,' he said, as he dropped the oar blades into the murky water and pulled.
    'The island will shatter it,' Apsalar replied.
    He narrowed his eyes on her. It was the first time in days that she had ventured a statement without considerable prodding on his part. 'Well, I may have crossed a damned ocean, but I still understand nothing of the sea. Why should an island without a single mountain break that storm?'
    'A normal island wouldn't,' she answered.
    'Ah, I see.' He fell silent. Her knowledge came from Cotillion's memories, appearing to add yet another layer to Apsalar's miseries. The god was with them once more, a haunting presence between them. Cutter had told her of the spectral visitation, of Cotillion's words. Her distress – and barely constrained fury – seemed to originate from the god's recruitment of Cutter himself.
    His choosing of his new name had displeased her from the very first, and that he had now become, in effect, a minion of the patron god of assassins appeared to wound her deeply. He had been naive, it now seemed in retrospect, to have believed that such a development would bring them closer.
    Apsalar was not happy with her own path – a realization that had rocked the Daru. She drew no pleasure or satisfaction from her own cold, brutal efficiency as a killer. Cutter had once imagined that competency was a reward in itself, that skill bred its own justification, creating its own hunger and from that hunger a certain pleasure. A person was drawn to his or her own proficiency – back in Darujhistan, after all, his thieving habits had not been the product of necessity. He'd suffered no starvation on the city's streets, no depredation by its crueller realities. He had stolen purely for pleasure, and because he had been good at it. A future as a master thief had seemed a worthy goal, notoriety indistinguishable from respect.
    But now, Apsalar was trying to tell him that competence was not justification. That necessity demanded its own path and there was no virtue to be found at its heart.
    He'd found himself at subtle war with her, the weapons those of silence and veiled expressions.
    He grunted at the sweeps. The seas were growing choppy. 'Well, I hope you're right,' he said. 'We could do with the shelter . . . though from what the Rope said, there will be trouble among the denizens of Drift Avalii.'
    'Tiste Andii,' Apsalar said. 'Anomander Rake's own. He settled them there, to guard the Throne.'
    'Do you recall Dancer – or Cotillion – speaking with them?'
    Her dark eyes flicked to his for a moment, then she looked away. 'It was a short conversation. These Tiste Andii have known isolation for far too long. Their master left them there, and has never returned.'
    'Never?'
    'There are . . . complications. The shore ahead offers no welcome – see for yourself.'
    He drew the oars back in and twisted round on the seat.
    The shoreline was a dull grey sandstone, wave-worn into undulating layers and shelves. 'Well, we can draw up easily enough, but I see what you mean. No place to pull the runner up, and tethering it risks battering by the waves. Any suggestions?'
    The storm – or the island – was drawing breath, tugging the sail.