A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

friend,' the High Priest said as he set to
cleaning the visible wounds. 'And High Denul ointments,
elixirs, tinctures, salves, poultices ... have I forgotten any?
No, I think not. Internal injuries, oh yes, crushed ribs, that
whole side. So, much bleeding inside, yet, obviously, not
enough to kill you outright. Remarkable. You are almost as
stubborn as my servant here—' He looked up. 'You, beast,
set up the tent and start us a fire! Do that and then maybe
I'll feed you and not, hee hee, feed on you—'
    'You are an idiot!' This cry came from the darkness off to
one side, and a moment later Mogora appeared from the
gloom.
    The gloom, yes, that explains everything. 'What are you
doing here, hag?'
    'Saving Mappo, of course.'
    'What? I have saved him already!'
    'Saving him from you, I meant!' She scrabbled closer.
'What's that vial in your hand? That's venom of paralt! You
damned idiot, you were going to kill him! After all he's
been through!'
    'Paralt? That's right, wife, it's paralt. You arrived, so I was
about to drink it.'
    'I saw you deal with that T'rolbarahl, Iskaral Pust.'
    'You did?' He paused, ducked his head. 'Now her adoration
is complete! How could she not adore me? It must be
near worship by now. That's why she followed me all the
way. She can't get enough of me. It's the same with everyone
– they just can't get enough of me—'
    'The most powerful High Priest of Shadow,' cut in
Mogora as she removed various healing unguents from her
pack, 'cannot survive without a good woman at his side.
Failing that, you have me, so get used to it, warlock. Now,
get out of my way so I can tend to this poor, hapless Trell.'
    Iskaral Pust backed away. 'So what do I do now? You've
made me useless, woman!'
    'That's not hard, husband. Make us camp.'
    'I already told my mule to do that.'
    'It's a mule, you idiot ...' Her words trailed away as she
noted the flicker of firelight off to one side. Turning,
she studied the large canvas tent, expertly erected, and the
stone-ringed hearth where a pot of water already steamed
beneath a tripod. Nearby stood the mule, eating from its
bag of oats. Mogora frowned, then shook her head and
returned to her work. 'Tend to the tea, then. Be useful.'
    'I was being useful! Until you arrived and messed everything
up! The most powerful High Priest in Seven Cities
does not need a woman! In fact, that's the very last thing he
needs!'
    'You couldn't heal a hangnail, Iskaral Pust. This Trell has
the black poison in his veins, the glittering vein-snake. We
shall need more than High Denul for this—'
    'Oh here we go! All your witchy rubbish. High Denul
will conquer the black poison—'
    'Perhaps, but the dead flesh will remain dead. He will be
crippled, half-mad, his hearts will weaken.' She paused and
glared over at him. 'Shadowthrone sent you to find him,
didn't he? Why?'
    Iskaral Pust smiled sweetly. 'Oh, she's suspicious now,
isn't she? But I won't tell her anything. Except the hint, the
modest hint, of my vast knowledge. Yes indeed, I know my
dear god's mind – and a twisted, chaotic, weaselly mind it
is. In fact, I know so much I am speechless – hah, look at
her, those beetle eyes narrowing suspiciously, as if she dares
grow aware of my profound ignorance in all matters pertaining
to my cherished, idiotic god. Dares, and would
challenge me openly. I would crumble before that
onslaught, of course.' He paused, reworked his smile, then
spread his hands and said, 'Sweet Mogora, the High Priest
of Shadow must have his secrets, kept even from his wife,
alas. And so I beg you not to press me on this, else you
suffer Shadowthrone's random wrath—'
    'You are a complete fool, Iskaral Pust.'
    'Let her think that,' he said, then added a chuckle. 'Now
she'll wonder why I have laughed – no, not laughed, but chuckled, which, all things considered, is far more alarming.
I mean, it sounded like a chuckle so it must have been
one, though it's the first I've ever tried, or heard, for
that matter. Whereas a chortle, well, that's different.
I'm not fat enough to chortle, alas. Sometimes I wish—'
    'Go sit by your mule's fire,' Mogora said. 'I must prepare
my ritual.'
    'See how that chuckle has discomfited her! Of course,
my darling, you go and play with your little ritual, that's a
dear. Whilst I make tea for myself and my mule.'
     
    Warmed by the flames and his tralb tea, Iskaral Pust
watched – as best as he was able in the darkness – Mogora
at work. First, she assembled large chunks of stone,