A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

unfulfilled,
and be glad for that. That one's Cotillion and aye, he's
dancing his infernal dance all right, but his only role was in
starting the pebble from the hilltop – how it rolled and
what it picked up on the way down he left to the fates. Still,
you're right in choosing the House of Shadows. Was that
instinct? Never mind. Here's your problem.' He pointed at
another doll, this one hooded and cloaked entirely in
gauze-thin black linen.
    Quick Ben blinked, then frowned. 'Hardly. That's
Shadowthrone, and he's central to this. It's all got to do
with him and, damn you, Bottle, that's more than instinct!'
    'Oh, he's central all right, but see how his shadow doesn't
reach?'
    'I know it doesn't reach! But that's where he stands,
damn you!'
    Bottle reached out and collected the doll.
    Snarling, Quick Ben half rose, but Fiddler's hand
snapped out, pushed the wizard back down.
    'Get that paw off me, sapper,' the wizard said, his tone
low, even.
    'I warned you,' the sergeant said, 'didn't I?' He withdrew
his hand, and Quick Ben settled back as if something much
heavier had just landed on his shoulders.
    In the meantime, Bottle was busy reworking the doll.
Bending the wires within the arms and legs. For his own
efforts, he rarely used wire – too expensive – but in this case
they made his reconfiguring the doll much easier. Finally
satisfied, he set it back, in precisely the same position as
before.
    No-one spoke, all eyes fixed on the doll of
Shadowthrone – now on all fours, right foreleg and left rear
leg raised, the entire form pitched far forward, impossibly
balanced. The shadow stretching out to within a finger's
breadth of the figure that was Torahaval Delat.
    Shadowthrone ... now something else ...
    Kalam whispered, 'Still not touching ...'
    Bottle settled back, crossing his arms as he lay down on the
sand. 'Wait,' he said, then closed his eyes, and a moment later
was asleep once more.
    Crouched close at Quick Ben's side, Fiddler let out a long
breath.
    The wizard pulled his stare from the reconfigured
Shadowthrone, his eyes bright as he looked over at the
sapper. 'He was half asleep, Fid.'
    The sergeant shrugged.
    'No,' the wizard said, 'you don't understand. Half asleep.
Someone's with him. Was with him, I mean. Do you have
any idea how far back sympathetic magic like this goes? To
the very beginning. To that glimmer, that first glimmer, Fid.
The birth of awareness. Are you understanding me?'
    'As clear as the moon lately,' Fiddler said, scowling.
    'The Eres'al, the Tall Ones – before a single human
walked this world. Before the Imass, before even the
K'Chain Che'Malle. Fiddler, Eres was here. Now. Herself.
With him:
    The sapper looked back down at the doll of
Shadowthrone. Four-legged now, frozen in its headlong
rush – and the shadow it cast did not belong, did not fit at
all. For the head was broad, the snout prominent and wide,
jaws opened but wrapped about something. And whatever
that thing was, it slithered and squirmed like a trapped
snake.
    What in Hood's name? Oh. Oh, wait ...
     
    Atop a large boulder that had sheared, creating an inclined
surface, Apsalar was lying flat on her stomach, watching
the proceedings in the clearing twenty-odd paces distant.
Disturbing conversations, those, especially that last part,
about the Eres. Just another hoary ancient better left alone. That soldier, Bottle, needed watching.
    Torahaval Delat ... one of the names on that spy's –
Mebra's – list in Ehrlitan. Quick Ben's sister. Well, that was
indeed unfortunate, since it seemed that both Cotillion
and Shadowthrone wanted the woman dead, and they
usually got what they wanted. Thanks to me ... and people
like me. The gods place knives into our mortal hands, and need
do nothing more.
    She studied Quick Ben, gauging his growing agitation,
and began to suspect that the wizard knew something of the
extremity that his sister now found herself in. Knew, and,
in the thickness of blood that bound kin no matter how
estranged, the foolish man had decided to do something
about it.
    Apsalar waited no longer, allowing herself to slide back
down the flat rock, landing lightly in thick wind-blown
sand, well in shadow and thoroughly out of sight from anyone.
She adjusted her clothes, scanned the level ground
around her, then drew from folds in her clothing two
daggers, one into each hand.
    There was music in death. Actors and musicians knew
this as true. And, for this moment, so too did Apsalar.
    To a chorus of woe no-one