A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

each
one broken, cracked or otherwise rough-edged, and set
them down in the sand, creating an ellipse that encompassed
the Trell. She then urinated over these rocks,
achieving this with an extraordinary half-crab half-chicken
wide-legged waddle, straddling the stones and proceeding
widdershins until returning to the place she had started.
Iskaral marvelled at the superior muscle control, not to
mention the sheer volume, that Mogora obviously
possessed. In the last few years his own efforts at urination
had met with mixed success, until even starting and
stopping now seemed the highest of visceral challenges.
    Satisfied with her piddle, Mogora then started pulling
hairs from her head. She didn't have that many up there,
and those she selected seemed so deeply rooted that Iskaral
feared she would deflate her skull with every successful
yank. His anticipation of seeing such a thing yielded only
disappointment, as, with seven long wiry grey hairs in one
hand, Mogora stepped into the ellipse, one foot planted to
either side of the Trell's torso. Then, muttering some
witchly thing, she flung the hairs into the inky blackness
overhead.
    Instinct guided Iskaral's gaze upward after those silvery
threads, and he was somewhat alarmed to see that the stars
had vanished overhead. Whereas, out on the horizons, they
remained sharp and bright. 'Gods, woman! What have you
done?'
    Ignoring him, she stepped back out of the ellipse and
began singing in the Woman's Language, which was, of
course, unintelligible to Iskaral's ears. Just as the Man's
Language – which Mogora called gibberish – was beyond
her ability to understand. The reason for that, Iskaral Pust
knew, was that the Man's Language was gibberish, designed
specifically to confound women. It's a fact that men don't
need words, but women do. We have penises, after all. Who
needs words when you have a penis? Whereas with women there
are two breasts, which invites conversation, just as a good
behind presents perfect punctuation, something every man
knows.
    What's wrong with the world? You ask a man and he says,
'Don't ask.' Ask a woman and you'll be dead of old age before
she's finished. Hah. Hah ha.
    Strange streams of gossamer began descending through
the reflected light of the fire, settling upon the Trell's body.
    'What are those?' Iskaral asked. Then started as one
brushed his forearm and he saw that it was a spider's silk,
and there was the spider at one end, tiny as a mite. He
looked skyward in alarm. 'There are spiders up there? What
madness is this? What are they doing up there?'
    'Be quiet.'
    'Answer me!'
    'The sky is filled with spiders, husband. They float on the
winds. Now I've answered you, so close that mouth of yours
lest I send a few thousand of my sisters into it.'
    His teeth clacked and he edged closer to the hearth. Burn, you horrid things. Burn!
    The strands of web covered the Trell now. Thousands,
tens, hundreds of thousands – the spiders were wrapping
about Mappo Runt's entire body.
    'And now,' Mogora said, 'time for the moon.'
    The blackness overhead vanished in a sudden bloom of
silver, incandescent light. Squealing, Iskaral Pust fell onto
his back, so alarming was the transformation, and he found
himself staring straight up at a massive, full moon, hanging
so low it seemed within reach. If he but dared. Which he
did not. 'You've brought the moon down! Are you mad? It's
going to crash on us!'
    'Oh, stop it. It only seems that way – well, maybe I
nudged it a bit – but I told you this was a serious ritual,
didn't I?'
    'What have you done with the moon?'
    She crowed with manic laughter. 'It's just my little ritual,
darling. How do you like it?'
    'Make it go away!'
    'Frightened? You should be! I'm a woman! A witch! So
why don't you just drag that scrawny behind of yours into
that tent and cower, dear husband. This is real power, here, real magic!'
    'No it isn't! I mean, it's not witch magic, not Dal Honese
– I don't know what this is—'
    'You're right, you don't. Now be a good little boy and go
to sleep, Iskaral Pust, while I set about saving this Trell's
miserable life.'
    Iskaral thought to argue, then decided against it. He
crawled into the tent.
    From outside, 'Is that you gibbering, Iskaral?'
    Oh be quiet.
     
    Lostara Yil opened her eyes, then slowly sat up.
    A grey-cloaked figure was standing near a stone-arched
portal, his back to her. Rough-hewn walls to either side,
forming a circular chamber with Lostara – who had been
lying on an