A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

had
been a battle ... and the committing of a terrible crime.
Y'Ghatan's lust for Malazan blood was legendary, and
Apsalar feared that it had drunk deep once more.
    In every land, there were places that saw battle again and
again, an endless succession of slaughter, and more often
than not such places held little strategic value in any
greater scheme, or were ultimately indefensible. As if the
very rocks and soil mocked every conqueror foolish enough
to lay claim to them. Cotillion's thoughts, these. He had
never been afraid to recognize futility, and the world's
pleasure in defying human grandiosity.
    She passed the last of the burned-out buildings, relieved
to have left their stench behind – rotting bodies she was
used to, but something of that charred reek slipped beneath
her senses like a premonition. It was nearing dusk.
Apsalar climbed back into the saddle and gathered up the
reins.
    She would attempt the warren of Shadow, even though
she already knew it was too late – something had happened
at Y'Ghatan; at the very least, she could look upon the
wounds left behind and pick up the trail of the survivors. If
any existed.
    'She dreams of death,' Telorast said. 'And now she's
angry.'
    'With us?'
    'Yes. No. Yes. No.'
    'Ah, she's opened a warren! Shadow! Lifeless trail winding
through lifeless hills, we shall perish from ennui! Wait,
don't leave us!'
     
    They climbed out of the pit to find a banquet awaiting
them. A long table, four high-backed Untan-style chairs, a
candelabra in the centre bearing four thick-stemmed
beeswax candles, the golden light flickering down on silver
plates heaped with Malazan delicacies. Oily santos fish
from the shoals off Kartool, baked with butter and spices
in clay; strips of marinated venison, smelling of almonds in
the northern D'avorian style; grouse from the Seti plains
stuffed with bull-berries and sage; baked gourds and fillets
of snake from Dal Hon; assorted braised vegetables and four
bottles of wine: a Malaz Island white from the Paran
Estates, warmed rice wine from Itko Kan, a full-bodied red
from Gris, and the orange-tinted belack wine from the
Napan Isles.
    Kalam stood staring at the bounteous apparition, as
Stormy, with a grunt, walked over, boots puffing in the
dust, and sat down in one of the chairs, reaching for
the Grisian red.
    'Well,' Quick Ben said, dusting himself off, 'this is nice.
Who's the fourth chair for, you think?'
    Kalam looked up at the looming bulk of the sky keep. 'I'd
rather not think about that.'
    Snorting sounds from Stormy as he launched into the
venison strips.
    'Do you suspect,' Quick Ben ventured as he sat down,
'there is some significance to the selection provided us?' He
collected an alabaster goblet and poured himself a helping
of the Paran white. 'Or is it the sheer decadence that he
wants to rub our noses in?'
    'My nose is just fine,' Stormy said, tipping his head to
one side and spitting out a bone. 'Gods, I could eat all of
this myself! Maybe I will at that!'
    Sighing, Kalam joined them at the table. 'All right, at
least this gives us time to talk about things.' He saw the
wizard glance suspiciously at Stormy. 'Relax, Quick, I doubt
Stormy can hear us above his own chewing.'
    'Hah!' the Falari laughed, spitting fragments across the
table, one landing with a plop in the wizard's goblet. 'As if
I give a Hood's toenail about all your self-important preening!
You two want to talk yourselves blue, go right ahead –
I won't waste my time listening.'
    Quick Ben found a silver meat-spear and delicately
picked the piece of venison from the goblet. He took a
tentative sip, made a face, and poured the wine away. As he
refilled the goblet, he said, 'Well, I'm not entirely
convinced Stormy here is irrelevant to our conversation.'
    The red-bearded soldier looked up, small eyes narrowing
with sudden unease. 'I couldn't be more irrelevant if I
tried,' he said in a growl, reaching again for the bottle of
red.
    Kalam watched the man's throat bob as he downed
mouthful after mouthful.
    'It's that sword,' said Quick Ben. 'That T'lan Imass
sword. How did you come by it, Stormy?'
    'Huh, santos. In Falar only poor people eat those ugly
fish, and the Kartoolii call it a delicacy! Idiots.' He
collected one and began scooping the red, oily flesh from
the clay shell. 'It was given to me,' he said, 'for safekeeping.'
    'By a T'lan Imass?' Kalam asked.
    'Aye.'
    'So it plans on coming back for it?'
    'If it can, aye.'
    'Why would a T'lan Imass give you its sword?