A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

rituals has
been shattered. I must needs repair it.'
    Paran thought about that, then asked, 'A binding ritual?
Something, or someone was imprisoned, and, like you just
now, it seeks freedom?'
    She looked displeased with the comparison. 'Unlike the
entity I imprisoned, I have no interest in conquering
the world.'
    Oh. 'I am Ganoes Paran.'
    'Ganath. You look pitiful, like a malnourished Imass –
are you here to oppose me?'
    He shook his head. 'I was but passing by, Ganath. I wish
you good fortune—'
    She suddenly turned, stared eastward, head cocking.
    'Something?' he asked. T'lan Imass?'
    She glanced at him. 'I am not certain. Perhaps ...
nothing. Tell me, is there a sea south of here?'
    'Was there one when you were ... not yet in your barrow?'
    'Yes.'
    Paran smiled. 'Ganath, there is indeed a sea just south of
here, and it is where I am headed.'
    'Then I shall travel with you. Why do you journey
there?'
    'To talk with some people. And you? I thought you were
in a hurry to repair that ritual?'
    'I am, yet I find a more pressing priority.'
    'And that is?'
    'The need for a bath.'
     
    Too bloated to fly, the vultures scattered with outraged
cries, hopping and waddling with wings crooked, leaving
the once-human feast exposed in their wake. Apsalar
slowed her steps, not sure whether she wanted to continue
walking down this main street, although the raucous
chattering and bickering of feeding vultures sounded from
the side avenues as well, leading her to suspect that no
alternative route was possible.
    The villagers had died suffering – there was no mercy in
this plague, for it had carved a long, tortured path to Hood's
Gate. Swollen glands, slowly closing the throat, making it
impossible to eat solid food, and narrowing the air passages,
making every breath drawn agony. And, in the gut, gases
distending the stomach. Blocked from any means of escape,
they eventually burst the stomach lining, allowing the
victim's own acids to devour them from within. These, alas,
were the final stages of the disease. Before then, there was
fever, so hot that brains were cooked in the skull, driving
the person half-mad – a state from which, even were the
disease somehow halted then and there – there was no
recovery. Eyes wept mucus, ears bled, flesh grew gelatinous
at the joints – this was the Mistress in all her sordid glory.
    The two skeletal reptiles accompanying Apsalar had
sprinted ahead, entertaining themselves by frightening the
vultures and bursting through buzzing masses of flies. Now
they scampered back, unmindful of the blackened, halfeaten
corpses they clambered over.
    'Not-Apsalar! You are too slow!'
    'No, Telorast,' cried Curdle, 'not slow enough!'
    'Yes, not slow enough! We like this village – we want to
play!'
    Leading her placid horse, Apsalar began picking her way
down the street. A score of villagers had crawled out here
for some unknown reason, perhaps in some last, pathetic
attempt to escape what could not be escaped. They
had died clawing and fighting each other. 'You are
welcome to stay as long as you like,' she said to the two
creatures.
    'That cannot be,' Telorast said. 'We are your guardians,
after all. Your sleepless, ever-vigilant sentinels. We shall
stand guard over you no matter how diseased and disgusting
you become.'
    'And then we'll pick out your eyes!'
    'Curdle! Don't tell her that!'
    'Well, we'll wait until she's sleeping, of course. Thrashing
in fever.'
    'Exactly. She'll want us to by then, anyway.'
    'I know, but we've walked through two villages now and
she still isn't sick. I don't understand. All the other mortals
are dead or dying, what makes her so special?'
    'Chosen by the usurpers of Shadow – that's why she can
just saunter through with her nose in the air. We may have
to wait before we can pick out her eyes.'
    Apsalar stepped past the heap of corpses. Just ahead,
the village came to an abrupt end and beyond stood the
charred remnants of three outlying buildings. A crowhaunted
cemetery surmounted a nearby low hill where
stood a lone guldindha tree. The black birds crowded the
branches in sullen silence. A few makeshift platforms
attested to some early efforts at ceremony to attend the
dead, but clearly that had been short-lived. A dozen white
goats stood in the tree's shade, watching Apsalar as she
continued on down the road, flanked by the skeletons of
Telorast and Curdle.
    Something had happened, far to the north and west. No,
she could be more precise than that. Y'Ghatan. There