A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

Lucky for you your urinating friend found me, then led me here. Oh, and it's marked the enkar'al, too – what a stench! Sizzling hide! Anyway, it'll carry you. Yes, back to my haunted abode—'
    'Who in Hood's name are you?' Kalam demanded, struggling to rise. Though the paralysis was gone, he was crusted in dried blood, the puncture wounds burning like coals, his every bone feeling brittle.
    'Me? You do not know? You do not recognize the very famosity exuding from me? Famosity? There must be such a
word. I used it! The act of being famous. Of course. Most devoted servant of Shadow! Highest Archpriest Iskaral Pust! God to the bhok'arala, bane of spiders, Master Deceiver of all the world's Soletaken and D'ivers! And now, your saviour! Provided you have something for me, that is, something to deliver. A bone whistle? A small bag, perchance? Given to you in a shadowy realm, by an even shadowier god? A bag, you fool, filled with dusky diamonds?'
    'You're the one, are you?' Kalam groaned. 'The gods help us. Aye, I have the diamonds—' He tried to sit up, reaching for the pouch tucked under his belt – and caught a momentary glimpse of the azalan demon, flowing amidst shadows behind the priest, until oblivion found him.
     
    When he awoke once more he was lying on a raised stone platform that suspiciously resembled an altar. Oil lamps flickered from ledges on the walls. The room was small, the air acrid.
    Healing salves had been applied – and likely sorcery as well – leaving him feeling refreshed, though his joints remained stiff, as if he had not moved for some time. His clothing had been removed, a thin blanket stiff with grime laid over him. His throat ached with a raging thirst.
    The assassin slowly sat up, looking down at the purple weals where the enkar'al's talons had plunged, then almost jumped at a scurrying sound across the floor – a bhok'aral, casting a single, absurdly guilty, glance over a knobby shoulder a moment before darting out through the doorway.
    A dusty jug of water and a clay cup lay on a reed mat on the stone floor. Flinging the blanket aside, Kalam moved towards it.
    A bloom of shadows in one corner of the chamber caught his attention as he poured a cup, so he was not surprised to see Iskaral Pust standing there when the shadows faded.
    The priest was hunched down, looking nervously at the doorway, then tiptoeing up to the assassin. 'All better now, yes?'
    'Is there need to whisper?' Kalam asked.
    The man flinched. 'Quiet! My wife!'
    'Is she sleeping?'
    Iskaral Pust's small face was so like a bhok'aral's that the assassin was wondering at the man's bloodlines – no, Kalam, don't be ridiculous – 'Sleeping?' the priest sputtered. 'She never sleeps! No, you fool, she hunts!'
    'Hunts? What does she hunt?'
    'Not what. Who. She hunts for me, of course.' His eyes glittered as he stared at Kalam. 'But has she found me? No! We've not seen each other for months! Hee hee!' He jutted his head closer. 'It's a perfect marriage. I've never been happier. You should try it.'
    Kalam poured himself another cup. 'I need to eat—'
    But Iskaral Pust was gone.
    He looked around, bemused.
    Sandalled feet approached from the corridor without, then a wild-haired old woman leapt in through the doorway. Dal Honese – not surprisingly. She was covered in cobwebs. She glared about. 'Where is he? He was here, wasn't he? I can smell him! The bastard was here!'
    Kalam shrugged. 'Look, I'm hungry—'
    'Do I look appetising?' she snapped. A quick, appraising glance at Kalam. 'Mind you, you do!' She began searching the small room, sniffing at corners, crouching to peer into the jug. 'I know every room, every hiding place,' she muttered, shaking her head. 'And why not? When veered, I was everywhere—'
    'You're a Soletaken? Ah, spiders...'
    'Oh, aren't you a clever and long one!'
    'Why not veer again? Then you could search—'
    'If I veered, I'd be the one hunted! Oh no, old Mogora's not stupid, she won't fall for that! I'll find him! You watch!'
    She scurried from the room.
    Kalam sighed. With luck, his stay with these two would be a short one.
    Iskaral Pust's voice whispered in his ear. 'That was close!'
     
    Cheekbone and orbital ridge were both shattered, the pieces that remained held in place by strips of withered tendon and muscle. Had Onrack possessed anything more than a shrunken, mummified nugget for an eye, it would have been torn away by the Tiste Liosan's ivory scimitar.
    There was, of course, no effect on