A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

continued. 'My apologies to one and all. As this man,' Rake gestured towards Quick Ben, 'has wisely noted, to act now – knowing so little of the nature of the powers revealed here – would indeed be precipitous.'
    'It may already be too late,' Kallor said, his flat, ancient eyes fixed on Silverfox. 'The child's sorcery was Tellann, and it has been a long time since it has been so thoroughly awakened. We are now all of us in peril. A combined effort, begun immediately, might succeed in cutting down this creature – we may never again possess such an opportunity.'
    'And should we fail, Kallor?' Anomander Rake asked. 'What enemy will we have made for ourselves? At the moment this child has acted to defend herself, nothing more. Not an inimical stance, is it? You risk too much in a single cast, High King.'
    'Finally,' boomed Caladan Brood, returning the dreaded, all-breaking hammer to its harness, 'the notion of strategy arrives.' The anger remained in his voice, as if he was furious at having to state what to him had been obvious all along. 'Neutrality remains the soundest course open to us, until the nature of Silverfox's power reveals itself. We've enough enemies on our plate as it is. Now, enough of the drama, if you please. Welcome back, Rake. No doubt you've information to impart regarding the status of Moon's Spawn, among other details of note.' He faced Paran with sudden exasperation. 'Captain, can you not do something about that damned floating table!'
    Flinching at the attention, Paran stared up at it. 'Well,' he managed, 'nothing immediately comes to mind, Warlord. Uh, I'm no mage—'
    Brood grunted, swung away. 'Never mind, then. We'll consider it a crass ornament.'
    Quick Ben cleared his throat. 'I might be able to manage something, Warlord, in time ...'
    Caladan glanced at Dujek, who grinned and nodded his permission to Quick Ben.
    'Not simply a soldier, I see,' Anomander Rake said.
    The Seven Cities mage shrugged. 'I appreciate challenges, Lord. No guarantee that I'll have any success, mind you – no, do not quest towards me, Son of Darkness. I value my privacy.'
    'As you wish,' Rake said, turning away.
    'Is anyone else hungry?'
    All eyes turned to Kruppe.
     
    With everyone's attention elsewhere, the Mhybe edged away from the clearing, between two rows of peaked Tiste Andii tents, then she spun and tried to run. Bone and muscle protested, even as her veins burned with panic and terror.
    She hobbled on, half blinded by tears, her breath harsh, rattling gasps broken by soft whimpers. Oh . . . dear spirits . . . look upon me. Show me mercy, I beg you. Look at me stumble and totter – look! Pity me, spirits below! I demand it! Take my soul, you cruel ancestors, I beg you!
    The copper on her wrists and ankles – minor tribal wards against the aches in her bones – felt cold as ice against her withered skin, cold as a rapist's touch, disdainful of her frailty, contemptuous of her labouring heart.
    The Rhivi spirits refused her, mocking, laughing.
    The old woman cried out, staggered, fell hard to her knees. The jolt of the impact drove the air from her lungs. Twisting, she sagged to the ground, bedraggled, alone in an alley of dirt.
    ' "Flesh,"' a voice murmured above her, ' "which is the life within." These, cherished friend, are the words of birth, given in so many forms, in countless languages. They are joy and pain, loss and sacrifice, they give voice to the binds of motherhood ... and more, they are the binds of life itself.'
    Grey hair dangling, the Mhybe raised her head.
    Crone sat atop a tent's ridgepole, wings hunched, eyes glittering wet. 'I am not immune to grief, you see, my dear – tell no-one you have seen me so weakened by love. How can I comfort you?'
    The Mhybe shook her head, croaked, 'You cannot.'
    'She is you more than the others – more than the woman Tattersail, and Nightchill, more than the T'lan Imass—'
    'Do you see me, Crone? Do you truly see me?' The Mhybe pushed herself to her hands and knees, then sat back and glared up at the Great Raven. 'I am naught but bones and leather skin, I am naught but endless aches. Dried brittle – spirits below, each moment of this life, this terrible existence, and I edge closer to ... to ...' her head drooped, 'to hatred,' she finished in a ragged whisper. A sob racked her.
    'And so you would die now,' Crone said. 'Yes, I understand. A mother must not be led to hate the child she has birthed ... yet you demand too much of yourself.'
    'She