A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

sunk to their ankles in the sand, one here, one there, standing just so. One says this, the other says that, then you reach down and rearrange them accordingly. Scenes, vistas, stark with certainty. Poor Hull Beddict, who took a knife to his heart so long ago that he twists daily to confirm it's still there.'
    'If you would see me as a child,' the huge man said in growl, 'that is your error, not mine, Buruk.'
    'A gentle warning,' the merchant replied, 'that you are not among children.'
    Buruk then gestured them to follow and made his way towards the citadel.
    Falling in step beside Hull – with the merchant a half-dozen paces ahead, barely visible in the dark – Seren asked, 'Have you met this Hannan Mosag?'
    'I have been guest here before, Seren.'
    'Of the Warlock King's?'
    'No, of the Sengar household. Close to the royal blood, the eldest son, Fear Sengar, is Hannan Mosag's Marshal of War – not his actual title, but it serves well as translation.'
    Seren considered this for a moment, then frowned and said, 'You anticipate, then, that friends will be present tonight.'
    'I had, but it is not to be. None of the Sengar barring the patriarch, Tomad, and his wife are in the village. The sons have left.'
    'Left? Where?'
    Hull shook his head. 'I don't know. It is ... odd. I have to assume Fear and his brothers will be back in time for the treaty meeting.'
    'Is the Warlock King aware of the blood-ties you have bound with Binadas Sengar?'
    'Of course.'
    Buruk the Pale had reached the bridge leading to the inner ward. The mists had thickened into fog, obscuring the world surrounding the three Letherii. There was no-one else in sight, nor any sound beyond the crunch of their feet on the pebbled path. The massive bulk of the citadel rose before them.
    The broad, arched entranceway was lurid with firelight.
    'He has no guards,' Seren murmured.
    'None that can be seen,' Hull Beddict replied.
    Buruk climbed the two shallow steps to the landing, paused to release the clasps of his cape, then strode inside. A moment later Seren and Hull followed.
    The long hall was virtually empty. The feast table was a much smaller version than what normally occupied the centre axis of the room, as evinced by the wear patterns on the vast rug covering the wood-slatted floor. And off to the right, Seren saw, stood that table, pushed flush against the tapestry-lined wall.
    Near the far end of the chamber, the modest feast table had been positioned crossways, with three high-backed chairs awaiting the Letherii on this side. Opposite them sat the Warlock King, already well into his meal. Five Edur warriors stood in shadows behind Hannan Mosag, motionless.
    They must be the K'risnan. Sorcerors ... they look young.
    The Warlock King waited until they had divested themselves of their outer clothing, then gestured them forward, and said in passable Letherii, 'Join me, please. I dislike cold food, so here you see me, rudely filling my belly.'
    Buruk the Pale bowed from the waist, then said, 'I did not think we were late, sire—'
    'You're not, but I am not one for formality. Indeed, I am often tried by mere courtesy. Forgive, if you will, this king's impatience.'
    'Appetites care little for demands of decorum, sire,' Buruk said, approaching.
    'I was confident a Letherii would understand. Now,' he suddenly rose, the gesture halting the three in their tracks, 'I proclaim as my guests Buruk the Pale, Acquitor Seren Pedac and Sentinel Hull Beddict. Seat yourselves, please. I only devour what my cooks prepare for me.'
    His was a voice one could listen to, hours passing without notice, discomforts forgotten. Hannan Mosag was, Seren realized, a very dangerous king.
    Buruk the Pale took the central seat, Seren moving to the one on the merchant's left, Hull to the right. As they settled into the Blackwood chairs, the Warlock King sat down once more and reached for a goblet. 'Wine from Trate,' he said, 'to honour my guests.'
    'Acquired through peaceful trade, one hopes,' Buruk said.
    'Alas, I am afraid not,' Hannan Mosag replied, glancing up almost diffidently into the merchant's eyes, then away once more. 'But we are all hardy folk here at this table, I'm sure.'
    Buruk collected his goblet and sipped. He seemed to consider, then sighed, 'Only slightly soured by provenance, sire.'
    The Warlock King frowned. 'I had assumed it was supposed to taste that way.'
    'Not surprising, sire, once one becomes used to it.'
    'The comfort that is familiarity, Buruk the Pale,