A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

worked hard as a youth – long before his first, fateful visit into a temple of Fener – to excoriate those appellations, to eventually earn Light Touch, in response to certain skills he had acquired on the streets. But now, his sidling walk had undergone a transformation, yielding to an instinctive desire to drop even lower, even to using his hands to propel him along.
    Had he considered it, he would have concluded, sourly,
that he moved less like a cat than an ape, such as those found in the jungles of Dal Hon. Unpleasant to the eye, perhaps, but efficacious none the less.
    He slowed on the trail as he approached Toblakai's glade. A faint smell of smoke, the dull gleam of a fast-cooling fire, the murmur of voices.
    Heboric slipped to one side, among the stone trees, then sank down within sight of the two seated at the hearth.
    Too long his self-obsession, the seemingly endless efforts to create his temple – that now struck him as a strange kind of neurotic nesting; he had ignored the world beyond the walls for too long. There had been, he realized with a surge of bitter anger, a host of subtle alterations to his personality, concomitant with the physical gifts he had received.
    He had ceased being mindful.
    And that, he realized as he studied the two figures in the glade, had permitted a terrible crime.
    She's healed well. . . but not well enough to disguise the truth of what has happened. Should I reveal myself? No. Neither of them has made a move to expose Bidithal, else they would not be hiding here. That means they would try to talk me out of what must be done.
    But I warned Bidithal. I warned him, and he was . . . amused. Well, I think that amusement is about to end.
    He slowly backed away.
    Then, deep in the shadows, Heboric hesitated. There was no clash between his new and old instincts on this matter. Both demanded blood. And this night. Immediately. But something of the old Heboric was reasserting itself. He was new to this role as Destriant. More than that, Treach himself was a newly arrived god. And while Heboric did not believe Bidithal held any position – not any more – within the realm of Shadow, his temple was sanctified to someone.
    An attack would draw in their respective sources of power, and there was no telling how swiftly, and how uncontrollably, that clash could escalate.
    Better had I just remained old Heboric. With hands of otataral entwined with an unknown being's immeasurable power . . . Then I could have torn him limb from limb.
    He realized that, instead, he could do nothing. Not this night, in any case. He would have to wait, seeking an opportunity, a moment of distraction. But to achieve that, he would have to remain hidden, unseen – Bidithal could not discover his sudden elevation. Could not learn that he had become Destriant to Treach, the new god of war.
    The rage suddenly returned, and he struggled to push it away.
    After a moment his breathing slowed. He turned round and edged back onto the trail. This would require more thought. Measured thought. Damn you, Treach. You knew the guise of a tiger. Gift me some of your cunning ways, a hunter's ways, a killer's ...
    He approached the head of the trail, and halted at a faint sound. Singing. Muted, a child's, coming from the ruins of what had once been a modest building of some sort. Indifferent to the darkness, his eyes caught movement and fixed hard on that spot, until a shape resolved itself.
    A girl in rags, carrying a stick that she held in both hands. A dozen or so dead rhizan hung by their tails from her belt. As he watched, he saw her leap up and swing the stick. It struck something and she scrambled in pursuit, jumping about to trap a tiny shape writhing on the ground. A moment later and she lifted the rhizan into view. A quick twist of the neck, then another tiny body was tied to her belt. She bent down and retrieved her stick. And began singing once more.
    Heboric paused. He would have difficulty passing by her unnoticed. But not impossible.
    Probably an unnecessary caution. Even so. He held to the shadows as he edged forward, moving only when her back was turned, his eyes never leaving her form for a moment.
    A short while later and he was past.
    Dawn was approaching, and the camp was moments from stirring awake. Heboric increased his pace, and eventually reached his tent, slipping inside.
    Apart from the girl, he'd seen no-one.
    And when she judged that he was finally gone, the girl slowly turned about, her