A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

shifted away. 'Because I am not interested in becoming his servant.
I possess too many of his memories, including his mortal life as Dancer, to be entirely trustworthy.'
    'That's not an encouraging statement, Apsalar—'
    A new voice hissed from the shadows, 'Encouragement is needed? Simple, easy, unworthy of concern – why can't I think of a solution! Something stupid to say, that should be effortless for me. Shouldn't it?' After a moment, Iskaral Pust edged out from the gloom, sniffing the air. 'She's been ... cooking!' His eyes then lit on the bowls on the table. 'And you've been eating it! Are you mad? Why do you think I've been hiding all these months? Why do you think I have my bhok'arala sift through her hoard for the edible stuff? Gods, you fools! Oh yes, fine food ... if you're an antelope!'
    'We're managing,' Cutter said. 'Is there something you want with us? If not, I'm with Mogora on one thing – the less I see of you the better—'
    'She wants to see me, you Daru idiot! Why do you think she's always trying to hunt me down?'
    'Yes, it's a good act, isn't it? But let's be realistic, Pust, she's happier without you constantly in her face. You're not wanted. Not necessary. In fact, Pust, you are completely useless.'
    The High Priest's eyes widened, then he snarled and bolted back into the corner of the room, vanishing into its shadows.
    Cutter smiled and leaned back in his chair. 'That worked better than I could have hoped.'
    'You have stepped between husband and wife, Crokus. Not a wise decision.'
    He narrowed his gaze on her. 'Where do you want to go from here, Apsalar?'
    She would not meet his eyes. 'I have not yet made up my mind.'
    And Cutter knew that she had.
     
    The spear was a heavy wood, yet surprisingly flexible for its
solid feel. Upright, its fluted chalcedony point reached to Trull Sengar's palm when he stood with one arm stretched upward. 'Rather short for my fighting style, but I will make do. I thank you, Ibra Gholan.'
    The T'lan Imass swung round and strode to where Monok Ochem waited.
    Onrack watched Trull Sengar blow on his hands, then rub them on his tattered buckskin leggings. He flexed the spear shaft once more, then leaned it on one shoulder and faced Onrack. 'I am ready. Although I could do with some furs – this warren is cold, and the wind stinks of ice – we'll have snow by nightfall.'
    'We shall be travelling south,' Onrack said. 'Before long, we shall reach the tree line, and the snow will turn to rain.'
    'That sounds even more miserable.'
    'Our journey, Trull Sengar, shall be less than a handful of days and nights. And in that time we shall travel from tundra to savanna and jungle.'
    'Do you believe we will reach the First Throne before the renegades?'
    Onrack shrugged. 'It is likely. The path of Tellann will present to us no obstacles, whilst that of chaos shall slow our enemies, for its path is never straight.'
    'Never straight, aye. That notion makes me nervous.'
    Ah. That is what I am feeling. 'A cause for unease, granted, Trull Sengar. None the less, we are faced with a more dire concern, for when we reach the First Throne we must then defend it.'
    Ibra Gholan led the way, Monok Ochem waiting until Onrack and the Tiste Edur passed by before falling in step.
    'We are not trusted,' Trull Sengar muttered.
    'That is true,' Onrack agreed. 'None the less, we are needed.'
    'The least satisfying of alliances.'
    'Yet perhaps the surest, until such time as the need passes. We must remain mindful, Trull Sengar.'
    The Tiste Edur grunted in acknowledgement.
    They fell silent then, as each stride took them further south.
    As with so many tracts within Tellann, the scars of Omtose Phellack remained both visible and palpable to Onrack's senses. Rivers of ice had gouged this landscape, tracing the history of advance and, finally, retreat, leaving behind fluvial spans of silts, rocks and boulders in screes, fans and slides, and broad valleys with basins worn down to smooth-humped bedrock. Eventually, permafrost gave way to sodden peat and marshland, wherein stunted black spruce rose in knotted stands on islands formed by the rotted remains of ancestral trees. Pools of black water surrounded these islands, layered with mists and bubbling with the gases of decay.
    Insects swarmed the air, finding nothing to their liking among the T'lan Imass and the lone mortal, though they circled in thick, buzzing clouds none the less. Before long, the marshes gave way to upthrust domes of bedrock,