A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

turn, be brought before the Empress herself.
    And then what? That snake of a priest would announce an extraordinary reversal of fortunes in Seven Cities. Korbolo Dom had been working in her interests all along. Or some such nonsense. Febryl was certain of his suspicions. Korbolo Dom wanted a triumphant return into the imperial fold. Probably the title of High Fist of Seven Cities as well. Mallick Rel would have twisted his part in the events at the Fall and immediately afterwards. The dead man, Pormqual,
would be made the singular focus for the debacle of Coltaine's death and the slaying of the High Fist's army. The Jhistal would slip through, somehow, or, if all went awry, he would somehow manage to escape. Korbolo Dom, Febryl believed, had agents in the palace in Unta – what was being played out here in Raraku was but a tremble on a much vaster web.
    But I shall defeat it in the end. Even if I must appear to acquiesce right now. He has accepted my conditions, after all — a lie, of course — and I in turn accept his — another lie, naturally.
    He had walked through the outskirts of the city and now found himself in the wilder region of the oasis. The trail had the appearance of long disuse, covered in crackling, dried palm fronds and gourd husks, and Febryl knew his careless passage was destroying that illusion, but he was indifferent to that. Korbolo's killers would repair the mess, after all. It fed their self-deceptions well enough.
    He rounded a bend in the path and entered a clearing ringed in low stones. There had once been a well here, but the sands had long since filled it. Kamist Reloe stood near the centre, hooded and vulpine, with four of Korbolo's assassins positioned in a half-circle behind him.
    'You're late,' Kamist Reloe hissed.
    Febryl shrugged. 'Do I look like a prancing foal? Now, have you begun the preparations?'
    'The knowledge here is yours, Febryl, not mine.'
    Febryl hissed, then waved one claw-like hand. 'No matter. There's still time. Your words only remind me that I must suffer fools—'
    'You're not alone in that,' Kamist Reloe drawled.
    Febryl hobbled forward. 'The path your ... servants would take is a long one. It has not been trod by mortals since the First Empire. It has likely grown treacherous—'
    'Enough warnings, Febryl,' Kamist Reloe snapped, his fear showing through. 'You need only open the path. That is all we ask of you – all we have ever asked.'
    'You need more than that, Kamist Reloe,' Febryl said
with a smile. 'Would you have these fools stride in blind? The goddess was a spirit, once—'
    'That is no secret.'
    'Perhaps, but what kind of spirit? One that rides the desert winds, you might think. But you are wrong. A spirit of stone? Sand? No, none of these.' He waved one hand. 'Look about you. Raraku holds the bones of countless civilizations, leading back to the First Empire, the empire of Dessimbelackis. And still further – aye, the signs of that are mostly obliterated, yet some remain, if one has the eyes to see . . . and understand.' He limped over to one of the low stones ringing the clearing, struggling to hide the wince of pain from his overworked bones. 'Were you to dig down through this sand, Kamist Reloe, you would discover that these boulders are in fact menhirs, stones standing taller than any of us here. And their flanks are pitted and grooved in strange patterns ...'
    Kamist swung in a slow circle, studying the protruding rocks with narrowed eyes. 'T'lan Imass?'
    Febryl nodded. 'The First Empire of Dessimbelackis, Kamist Reloe, was not the first. That belonged to the T'lan Imass. There was little, it is true, that you or I might recognize as being ... imperial. No cities. No breaking of the ground to plant crops or irrigate. And its armies were undead. There was a throne, of course, upon which was meant to sit a mortal – the progeny race of the T'lan Imass. A human. Alas, humans viewed empire ... differently. And their vision did not include T'lan Imass. Thus, betrayal. Then war. An unequal contest, but the T'lan Imass were reluctant to annihilate their mortal children. And so they left—'
    'Only to return with the shattering of the warren,' Kamist Reloe muttered, nodding. 'When the chaos erupted with the ritual of Soletaken and D'ivers.' He faced Febryl once more. 'The goddess spirit is ... was ... T'lan Imass?'
    Febryl shrugged. 'There were once texts – inscribed on fired clay – from a cult of the First Empire, copies of which
survived