A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

but days away. We have already moved our agents, they are all in place, ready to complete their appointed tasks. The time for indecision is past. Decide. Now.'
    'Very well. Your path is clear, Febryl. I accept your offer. But my cult must remain my own, to shape as I choose. No interference—'
    'None. That is a promise—'
    'Whose?'
    'Mine.'
    And what of Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe?'
    Febryl's smile broadened. 'What worth their vows, Bidithal? The Empress had Korbolo Dom's once. Sha'ik did as well...'
    As she had yours, too, Febryl. 'Then we – you and I – understand each other.'
    'We do indeed.'
    Bidithal watched the High Mage stride away. He knew my shadow spirits surrounded me, yet was dismissive of them. There was no third option. Had I voiced defiance, I would now be dead. I know it. I can feel Hood's cold breath, here in this alley. My powers are . . . compromised. How? He needed to discover the source of Febryl's confidence. Before he could do anything, before he could make a single move. And which move will that be? Febryl's offer . . . appeals.
    Yet Febryl had promised no interference, even as he had revealed an arrogant indifference to the power Bidithal had already fashioned. An indifference that bespoke of intimate
knowledge. You do not dismiss what you know nothing of, after all. Not at this stage.
    Bidithal resumed his journey back to his temple. He felt ... vulnerable. An unfamiliar sensation, and it brought a tremble to his limbs.
     
    A faint stinging bite, then numbness spreading out from her lungs. Scillara leaned her head back, reluctant to exhale, believing for the briefest of moments that her need for air had vanished. Then she exploded into coughing.
    'Be quiet,' Korbolo Dom snarled, rolling a stoppered bottle across the blankets towards her. 'Drink, woman. Then open those screens – I can barely see with all the water wrung from my eyes.'
    She listened to his boots on the rushes, moving off into one of the back chambers. The coughing was past. Her chest felt full of thick, cloying liquid. Her head was swimming, and she struggled to recall what had happened a few moments earlier. Febryl had arrived. Excited, she believed. Something about her master, Bidithal. The culmination of a long-awaited triumph. They had both gone to the inner rooms.
    There had been a time, once, she was fairly certain, when her thoughts had been clear – though, she suspected, most of them had been unpleasant ones. And so there was little reason to miss those days. Except for the clarity itself – its acuity that made recollection effortless. She so wanted to serve her master, and serve him well. With distinction, sufficient to earn her new responsibilities, to assume new roles – ones that did not, perhaps, involve surrendering her body to men. One day, Bidithal would not be able to attend to all the new girls as he did now – there would be too many, even for him. She was certain she could manage the scarring, the cutting away of pleasure.
    They would not appreciate the freeing, of course. Not at first. But she could help them in that. Kind words and plenty of durhang to blunt the physical pain ... and the outrage.
    Had she felt outrage? Where had that word come from, to arrive so sudden and unexpected in her thoughts?
    She sat up, stumbled away from the cushions to the heavy screens blocking the outside night air. She was naked, but unmindful of the cold. A slight discomfort in the heaviness of her unbound breasts. She had twice been pregnant, but Bidithal had taken care of that, giving her bitter teas that broke the seed's roots and flushed it from her body. There had been that same heaviness at those times, and she wondered if yet another of the Napan's seeds had taken within her.
    Scillara fumbled at the ties until one of the screens folded down, and she looked out onto the dark street.
    The guards were both visible, near the entrance which was situated a few paces to her left. They glanced over, faces hidden by helms and the hoods of their telabas. And, it seemed, continued staring, though offering no greeting, no comment.
    There was a strange dullness to the night air, as if the smoke filling the tent chamber had settled a permanent layer over her eyes, obscuring all that she looked at. She stood for a moment longer, weaving, then walked over to the entrance.
    Febryl had left the flaps untied. She pushed them aside and stepped out between the two guards.
    'Had his fill of you this night, Scillara?' one