A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

hearth near the tents.
    Karsa studied the scene for a time, then, shrugging, made his way towards the two figures.
    He was less than twenty paces away before the huge, barbaric man seated on the boulder swung his head around.
    And gestured with the haunch in his hand. 'Help yourself. The thing damn near brained me, falling from the cliffside, so I feel obliged to eat it. Funny, that. You always see them, scampering and clambering way up there, and so you naturally believe they never make a misstep. Well, another delusion shattered.'
    He was speaking a desert dialect, a lowlander tongue, yet he was no lowlander. Large, thick canines, hair on shoulders like a boar's bristles, a heavy-boned face wide and flat. Eyes the hue of the sandstone cliffs around them.
    At his words, the stranger's companion ceased throwing
rocks and straightened, and was now regarding Karsa curiously.
    The Teblor was equally frank as he returned the stare. Almost as tall as he was, though leaner. Greyish, green-tinged skin. Lower canines large enough to be tusks. A longbow leaned nearby, along with a quiver, and a leather-strap harness to which a scabbarded sword was attached. The first weapons Karsa had yet seen – for the other one appeared to be entirely unarmed, barring the thick hunting knife at his belt.
    The mutual examination continued for a moment longer, then the tusked warrior resumed his excavation, disappearing from sight as he strode into the cavity he had cleared in the rockfall.
    Karsa glanced back at the other man.
    Who gestured again with the goat leg.
    The Teblor approached. He set down his pack near the hearth and drew a knife, then cut away a slab of meat and returned to where the other sat. 'You speak the language of the tribes,' Karsa said, 'yet I have never before seen your kind. Nor that of your companion.'
    'And you are an equally rare sight, Thelomen Toblakai. I am named Mappo, of the people known as Trell, who hail from west of the Jhag Odhan. My single-minded companion is Icarium, a Jhag—'
    'Icarium? Is that a common name, Mappo? There is a figure in my tribe's own legends who is so named.'
    The Trell's ochre eyes narrowed momentarily. 'Common? Not in the way you ask. The name certainly appears in the tales and legends of countless people.'
    Karsa frowned at the odd pedantry, if that was what it was. Then he crouched down opposite Mappo and tore off a mouthful of the tender meat.
    'It occurs to me, of a sudden,' Mappo said, a hint of a grin flickering across his bestial features, 'that this chance encounter is unique ... in ways too numerous to list. A Trell, a Jhag, and a Thelomen Toblakai... and we each are
likely the only one of our respective kinds in all of Seven Cities. Even more extraordinary, I believe I know of you – by reputation only, of course. Sha'ik has a bodyguard ... a Thelomen Toblakai, with an armoured vest made of petrified shells, and a wooden sword ...'
    Karsa nodded, swallowing down the last of the meat in his mouth before replying, 'Aye, I am in the service of Sha'ik. Does this fact make you my enemy?'
    'Not unless you choose to be,' Mappo answered, 'and I would advise against that.'
    'So does everyone,' Karsa muttered, returning to his meal.
    'Ah, so you are not as ignorant of us as you first said.'
    'A score of wolves spoke to me,' Karsa explained. 'Little was said, barring the warning itself. I do not know what makes you two so dangerous, nor do I much care. Impede me in my journey and I will kill you. It is as simple as that.'
    Mappo slowly nodded. 'And have we cause to impede you?'
    'Not unless you choose to have,' Karsa responded.
    The Trell smiled. 'Thus, it is best we learn nothing of each other, then.'
    'Aye, that would be best.'
    'Alas,' Mappo sighed, 'Icarium already knows all he needs to of you, and as to what he intends, while already decided, he alone knows.'
    'If he believes he knows me,' Karsa growled, 'he deceives himself.'
    'Well, let us consider the matter. On your shoulders is the fur of a Soletaken. One we both happen to know – you killed a formidable beast, there. Luckily, he was no friend of ours, but the measure of your martial prowess has been taken. Next, you are haunted by ghosts – not just the two kinsmen who even now hover behind you. But the ghosts of those you have slain in your short, but clearly terrible life. They are appallingly numerous, and their hatred for you is a palpable hunger. But who carries their dead in such
a manner? Only one who has