A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Discarded One?'
She tossed the apple to one side, then straightened. 'We
have much to talk about, you and I.'
    'I do not know you,' the Trell replied.
    'My name is Spite.'
    'Oh,' said Iskaral Pust, 'now that's fitting, since I hate
you already.'
    'Allies need not be friends,' she replied, gaze flicking
with contempt to the High Priest. Her eyes narrowed
momentarily on the mule, then she said, 'I am without
friends and I seek no friendships.'
    'With a name like Spite, is it any wonder?'
    'Iskaral Pust, the Hounds have done well in disposing of
Dejim Nebrahl. Or, rather, I begin to comprehend the subtle
game they have played, given the proximity of the
Deragoth. Your master is clever. I give him that.'
    'My master,' hissed Iskaral Pust, 'has no need to fashion
an alliance with you.'
    She smiled, and it was, Mappo judged, a most beautiful
smile. 'High Priest, from you and your master, I seek
nothing.' Her eyes returned once more to rest upon the
Trell. 'You, Discarded One, have need of me. We shall
travel together, you and I. The services of the Magi of
Shadow are no longer required.'
    'You'll not get rid of me so easily,' Iskaral Pust said, his
sudden smile, intended to be unctuous, sadly marred by the
mosquito carcass squished against one snaggled, crooked
incisor. 'Oh no, I will be as a leech, hidden beneath a fold
in your clothing, eagerly engorging upon your very
lifeblood. I shall be the fanged bat hanging beneath your
udder, lapping lapping lapping your sweet exudence. I shall
be the fly who buzzes straight into your ear, there to make
a new home with a full larder at my beck and call. I shall be
the mosquito—'
    'Crushed by your flapping lips, High Priest,' Spite said
wearily, dismissing him. 'Discarded One, the coast is but
half a league distant. There is a fishing village, sadly devoid
of life now, but that will not impede us at all.'
    Mappo did not move. 'What cause have I,' he asked, 'to
ally myself with you?'
    'You shall need the knowledge I possess, Mappo Runt, for
I was one of the Nameless Ones who freed Dejim Nebrahl,
with the aim of slaying you, so that the new Guardian
could take your place at Icarium's side. It may surprise you,'
    she added, 'that I am pleased the T'rolbarahl failed in the
former task. I am outlawed from the Nameless Ones, a fact
that gives me no small amount of satisfaction, if not
pleasure. Would you know what the Nameless Ones
intend? Would you know Icarium's fate?'
    He stared at her. Then asked, 'What awaits us in the
village?'
    'A ship. Provisioned and crewed, in a manner of speaking.
To pursue our quarry, we must cross half the world,
Mappo Runt.'
    'Don't listen to her!'
    'Be quiet, Iskaral Pust,' Mappo said in a growl. 'Or take
your leave of us.'
    'Fool! Very well, it is clear to me that my presence in
your foul company is not only necessary, but essential! But
you, Spite, be on your guard! I will permit no betrayal of
this bold, honourable warrior! And watch your words, lest
their unleashing haunt him unto madness!'
    'If he has withstood yours this long, priest,' she said,
'then he is proof to all madness.'
    'You, woman, would be wise to be silent.'
    She smiled.
    Mappo sighed. Ah, Pust, would that you heeded your own
admonishments ...
     
    The boy was nine years old. He had been ill for a time, days
and nights unmeasured, recalled only in blurred visions,
the pain-filled eyes of his parents, the strange calculation in
those of his two younger sisters, as if they had begun contemplating
life without an older brother, a life freed of the
torments and teasings and, as demanded, his stolid
reliability in the face of the other, equally cruel children in
the village.
    And then there had been a second time, one he was able
to imagine distinct, walled on all sides, roofed in black
night where stars swam like boatmen spiders across wellwater.
In this time, this chamber, the boy was entirely
alone, woken only by the needs of thirst, finding a bucket
beside his bed, filled with silty water, and the wood and
horn ladle his mother used only on feast-nights. Waking,
conjuring the strength to reach out and collect that ladle,
dipping it into the bucket, struggling with the water's
weight, drawing the tepid fluid in through cracked lips, to
ease a mouth hot and dry as the bowl of a kiln.
    One day he awoke yet again, and knew himself in the
third time. Though weak, he was able to crawl from
the bed, to lift the bucket and drink down the last of the
water, coughing at its soupy consistency,