A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

his head and approached.
    'What are you doing, Bottle?'
    The young man looked up guiltily. 'Uh, not much, Sergeant—'
    'Trying a divination,' Cuttle growled, 'and as far as I can tell, getting nowhere.'
    Strings slowly crouched down in the circle, opposite Bottle. 'Interesting style there, lad. Sticks and twigs. Where did you pick that up?'
    'Grandmother,' he muttered.
    'She was a witch?'
    'More or less. So was my mother.'
    'And your father? What was he?'
    'Don't know. There were rumours ...' He ducked his head, clearly uncomfortable.
    'Never mind,' Strings said. 'That's earth-aspected, the pattern you have there. You need more than just what anchors the power ...'
    All the others were staring at Strings now.
    Bottle nodded, then drew out a small doll made of woven grasses, a dark, purple-bladed variety. Strips of black cloth were wrapped about it.
    The sergeant's eyes widened. 'Who in Hood's name is that supposed to be?'
    'Well, the hand of death, sort of, or so I wanted it to be. You know, where it's going. But it's not co-operating.'
    'You drawing from Hood's warren?'
    'A little ...'
    Well, there's more to this lad than I'd first thought. 'Never mind Hood. He may hover, but won't stride forward until after the fact, and even then, he's an indiscriminate bastard. For that figure you've made, try the Patron of Assassins.'
    Bottle flinched. 'The Rope? That's too, uh, close ...'
    'What do you mean by that?' Smiles demanded. 'You said you knew Meanas. And now it turns out you know Hood, too. And witchery. I'm starting to think you're just making it all up.'
    The mage scowled. 'Fine, then. Now stop flapping your lips. I've got to concentrate.'
    The squad settled down once more. Strings fixed his gaze on the various sticks and twigs that had been thrust into the sand before Bottle. After a long moment, the mage slowly set the doll down in their midst, pushing the legs into the sand until the doll stood on its own, then carefully withdrew his hand.
    The pattern of sticks on one side ran in a row. Strings assumed that was the Whirlwind Wall, since those sticks began waving, like reeds in the wind.
    Bottle was mumbling under his breath, with a growing note of urgency, then frustration. After a moment the breath gusted from him and he sat back, eyes blinking open. 'It's no use—'
    The sticks had ceased moving.
    'Is it safe to reach in there?' Strings asked.
    'Aye, Sergeant.'
    Strings reached out and picked up the doll. Then he set it back down ... on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. 'Try it now.'
    Bottle stared across at him for a moment, then leaned forward and closed his eyes once more.
    The Whirlwind Wall began wavering again. Then a number of the sticks along that row toppled.
    A gasp from the circle, but Bottle's scowl deepened. 'It's not moving. The doll. I can feel the Rope ... close, way too close. There's power, pouring into or maybe out of that doll, only it's not moving—'
    'You're right,' Strings said, a grin slowly spreading across his features. 'It's not moving. But its shadow is ...'
    Cuttle grunted. 'Queen take me, he's right. That's a damn strange thing – I've seen enough.' He rose suddenly, looking nervous and shaken. 'Magic's creepy. I'm going to bed.'
    The divination ended abruptly. Bottle opened his eyes and looked around at the others, his face glistening with sweat. 'Why didn't he move? Why only his shadow?'
    Strings stood. 'Because, lad, he isn't ready yet.'
    Smiles glared up at the sergeant. 'So, who is he? The Rope himself?'
    'No,' Bottle answered. 'No, I'm sure of that.'
    Saying nothing, Strings strode from the circle. No, not the Rope. Someone even better, as far as J am concerned. As far as every Malazan is concerned, for that matter. He's here. And he's on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. And I know precisely who he's sharpened his knives for.
    Now, if only that damned singing would stop ...
     
    He stood in the darkness, under siege. Voices assaulted him from all sides, pounding at his skull. It wasn't enough that he had been responsible for the death of soldiers; now they would not leave him alone. Now their spirits screamed at him, ghostly hands reaching out through Hood's Gate, fingers clawing through his brain.
    Gamet wanted to die. He had been worse than useless. He had been a liability, joined now to the multitude of incompetent commanders who had left a river of blood in
their wake, another name in that sullied, degrading history that fuelled the worst fears of the common