A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

surge of power, and the enormous dragon was in the air.
    Sukul Ankhadu and Menandore stared after him, until the dragon dwindled to a gleaming ember in the heavy sky, winked out and was gone.
    Sukul grunted, then said, 'I'm surprised Anomander didn't kill him.'
    'Something binds them, sister, of which not we nor anyone else knows a thing about. I am certain of it.'
    'Perhaps. Or it might be something far simpler.'
    'Such as?'
    'They would the game continue,' Sukul said with a tight smile. 'And the pleasure would pale indeed were one to kill the other outright.'
    Menandore's eyes fell to the motionless form of Sheltatha Lore. 'This one. She took a lover from among this world's gods, did she not?'
    'For a time. Begetting two horrid little children.'
    'Horrid? Daughters, then.'
    Sukul nodded. 'And their father saw that clearly enough from the very start, for he named them appropriately.'
    'Oh? And what were those names, sister?'
    'Envy and Spite.'
    Menandore smiled. 'This god – I think I would enjoy meeting him one day.'
    'It is possible he would object to what we plan to do with Sheltatha Lore. Indeed, it is possible that even now he seeks our trail, so that he might prevent our revenge. Accordingly, as Osserc is wont to say, we should make haste.'
    Udinaas watched as the two women moved apart, leaving their unconscious cousin where she lay.
    Menandore faced her sister across the distance. 'Sheltatha's lover. That god – what is his name?'
    Sukul's reply seemed to come from a vast distance, 'Draconus.'
    Then the two women veered into dragons, of a size almost to match that of Osserc. One dappled, one blindingly bright.
    The dappled creature lifted into the air, slid in a banking motion until she hovered over Sheltatha Lore's body. A taloned claw reached down and gathered her in its grasp.
    Then the dragon rose higher to join her sister. And away they wheeled. Southward.
    The scene quickly faded before the slave's eyes.
    And, once more, Udinaas was sitting outside the Sengar longhouse, a half-scaled fish in his red, cracked hands, its facing eye staring up at him with that ever-disturbing look of witless surprise – an eye that he had seen, with the barest of variations, all morning and all afternoon, and now, as dusk closed round him, it stared yet again, mute and emptied of life. As if what he held was not a fish at all.
    Just eyes. Dead, senseless eyes ... Yet even the dead accuse.
    'You have done enough, slave.'
    Udinaas looked up.
    Uruth and Mayen stood before him. Two Tiste women, neither dappled, neither blindingly bright. Just shades in faint, desultory variation.
    Between them and a step behind, Feather Witch stood foremost among the attending slaves. Large eyes filled with feverish warnings, fixed on his own.
    Udinaas bowed his head to Uruth. 'Yes, mistress.'
    'Find a salve for those hands,' Uruth said.
    'Thank you, mistress.'
    The procession filed past, into the longhouse.
    Udinaas stared down at the fish. Studied that eye a moment longer, then dug it out with his thumb.
    Seren Pedac stood on the beach in the rain, watching the water in its ceaseless motion, the way the pelting rain transformed the surface into a muricated skin, grey and spider-haired as it swelled shoreward to break hissing, thin and sullen on the smooth stones.
    Night had arrived, crawling out from the precious shadows. The dark hours were upon them all, a shawl of silence settling on the village behind her. She was thinking of the Letherii slaves.
    Her people seemed particularly well suited to surrender. Freedom was an altar supplicants struggled to reach all their lives, clawing the smooth floor until blood spattered the gleaming, flawless stone, yet the truth was it remained for ever beyond the grasp of mortals. Even as any sacrifice was justified in its gloried name. For all that, she knew that blasphemy was a hollow crime. Freedom was no god, and if it was, and if it had a face turned upon its worshippers, its expression was mocking. A slave's chains stole something he or she had never owned.
    The Letherii slaves in this village owed no debt. They served recognizable needs, and were paid in food and shelter. They could marry. Produce children who would not inherit the debts of their parents. The portions of their day allotted their tasks did not progress, did not devour ever more time from their lives. In all, the loss of freedom was shown to be almost meaningless to these kin of hers.
    A child named Feather Witch. As if a witch