A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

again.'
    'Yes, Udinaas. You are the emperor's slave. You have the right of it; there is much wisdom in your words. I think we will listen to you, Indebted though you are. You have been ... elevated.' He nodded. 'Feather Witch failed us—'
    'Do not be so harsh on her, Virrick. Now, go.'
    He watched the servant hurry off down the corridor, then Udinaas swung about and returned to the throne chamber.
    'What took you so long?' Rhulad demanded in near panic. 'I heard voices.'
    'I was informing Virrick of your requirements, Emperor.'
    'You are too slow. You must be quicker, slave.'
    'I shall, master.'
    'Everyone must be told what to do. No-one seems capable of thinking for themselves.'
    Udinaas said nothing, and did not dare smile even as the obvious observation drifted through his mind.
    'You are useful to us, slave. We will need ... reminding ... again. At unexpected times. And that is what shall you do for us. That, and food and drink at proper times.'
    'Yes, master.'
    'Now, stand in attendance, whilst we rest our eyes for a time.'
    'Of course, master.'
    He stood, waiting, watching, a dozen paces away.
    The distance between emperor and slave.
    As he made his way onto the bridge, Trull Sengar saw the Acquitor. She was standing midway across the bridge, motionless as a frightened deer, her gaze fixed on the main road leading through the village. Trull could not see what had snared her attention.
    He hesitated. Then her head turned and he met her eyes.
    There were no words for what passed between them at that instant. A gaze that began searchingly, then swiftly and ineffably transformed into something else. That locked contact was mutually broken in the next moment, instinctive reactions from them both.
    In the awkward wake, nothing was said for a half-dozen heartbeats. Trull found himself struggling against a sense of vast emptiness deep in his chest.
    Seren Pedac spoke first. 'Is there no room left, Trull Sengar?'
    And he understood. 'No, Acquitor. No room left.'
    'I think you would have it otherwise, wouldn't you?'
    The question brushed too close to the wordless recognition they had shared only a few moments earlier, and he saw once again in her eyes a flicker of ... something. He mentally recoiled from an honest reply. 'I serve my emperor.'
    The flicker vanished, replaced by a cool regard that slipped effortlessly through his defences, driving like a knife into his chest. 'Of course. Forgive me. It is too late for questions like that. I must be leaving now, to escort Buruk the Pale back to Trate.'
    Each word a twist of that knife, despite their being seemingly innocuous. He did not understand how they – and the look in her eyes – could hurt him so deeply, and he wanted to cry out. Denials. Confessions. Instead he punctuated the break of that empathy with a damning shrug. 'Journey well, Acquiror.' Nothing more, and he knew himself for a coward.
    He watched her walk away. Thinking on his life's journey as much as the Acquitor's, on the stumbles that occurred, with no awareness of their potential for profundity. Balance reacquired, but the path had changed.
    So many choices proved irrevocable. Trull wondered if this one would as well.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    Where is the darkness
In the days gone past
When the sun bathed everything
In godling light
And we were burnished bright
In our youthful ascendancy
Delighted shrieks and
Distant laughter
Carried on the gilden stream
Of days that did not pause
For night with every shadow
Burned through
By immortal fire
Where then is the darkness
Arrived at sun's death
Arrived creeping and low
To growl revelations
Of the torrid descent
That drags us down
Onto this moment.
    Immortal fire
Fisher kel Tath
    A voice spoke from the darkness. 'I wouldn't go down that street, old man.'
    Bugg glanced over. 'I thank you for the warning,' he replied, walking on.
    Ten paces into the narrow alley he could smell spilled blood. Footsteps behind him told him the look-out had moved into his wake, presumably to block his avenue of retreat.
    'I warned you.'
    'I'm the one you sent for,' Bugg said.
    Four more figures appeared from the gloom in front of him, cut-throats one and all. They looked frightened.
    The look-out came round and stepped close to peer at Bugg's face. 'You're the Waiting Man? You ain't what I 'spected.'
    'What has happened here? Who's dead and who killed him?'
    'Not "who" killed 'im,' one of the four standing before Bugg muttered. 'More like "what". An' we don't know. Only it was big,