A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

circumstances ... are not normal.'
    The Grey Goddess said, 'I do not understand—'
    'Catch!'
    A small, gleaming object flashed from his hand.
    She raised hers in defence.
    A whispering, strangely thin sound marked the impact.
Impaling her hand, a shard of metal. Otataral.
    The goddess convulsed, a terrible, animal scream bursting
from her throat, ripping the air. Chaotic power,
shredding into tatters and spinning away, waves of grey fire
charging like unleashed creatures of rage, mosaic tiles
exploding in their wake.
    On a bridling, skittish horse, Paran watched the conflagration
of agony, and wondered, of a sudden, whether he
had made a mistake.
    He looked down at the mortal woman, curled up on the
floor. Then at her fragmented shadow, slashed through by
... nothing. Well, I knew that much. Time's nearly up.
     
    A different throne, this one so faint as to be nothing more
than the hint of slivered shadows, sketched across planes of
dirty ice – oddly changed, Quick Ben decided, from the last
time he had seen it.
    As was the thin, ghostly god reclining on that throne.
Oh, the hood was the same, ever hiding the face, and the
gnarled black hand still perched on the knotted top of
the bent walking stick – the perch of a scavenger, like a
one-legged vulture – and emanating from the apparition
that was Shadowthrone, like some oversweet incense
reaching out to brush the wizard's senses, a cloying, infuriating
... smugness. Nothing unusual in all of that. Even
so, there was ... something ...
    'Delat,' the god murmured, as if tasting every letter of the
name with sweet satisfaction.
    'We're not enemies,' Quick Ben said, 'not any longer,
Shadowthrone. You cannot be blind to that.'
    'Ah but you wish me blind, Delat! Yes yes yes, you do.
Blind to the past – to every betrayal, every lie, every vicious
insult you have delivered foul as spit at my feet!'
    'Circumstances change.'
    'Indeed they do!'
    The wizard could feel sweat trickling beneath his
clothes. Something here was ... what?
    Was very wrong.
    'Do you know,' Quick Ben asked, 'why I am here?'
    'She has earned no mercy, wizard. Not even from you.'
    'I am her brother.'
    'There are rituals to sever such ties,' Shadowthrone said,
'and your sister has done them all!'
    'Done them all? No, tried them all. There are threads
that such rituals cannot touch. I made certain of that. I
would not be here otherwise.'
    A snort. 'Threads. Such as those you take greatest
pleasure in spinning, Adaephon Delat? Of course. It is your
finest talent, the weaving of impossible skeins.' The
hooded head seemed to wag from side to side as
Shadowthrone chanted, 'Nets and snares and traps, lines
and hooks and bait, nets and snares and—' Then he leaned
forward. 'Tell me, why should your sister be spared? And
how – truly, how – do you imagine that I have the power to
save her? She is not mine, is she? She's not here in Shadow
Keep, is she?' He cocked his head. 'Oh my. Even now she
draws her last few breaths ... as the mortal lover of the
Grey Goddess – what, pray tell, do you expect me to do?'
    Quick Ben stared. The Grey Goddess? Poliel? Oh,
Torahaval ... 'Wait,' he said, 'Bottle confirmed it – more than
instinct – you are involved. Right now, wherever they are, it
has something to do with you!'
    A spasmodic cackle from Shadowthrone, enough to
make the god's thin, insubstantial limbs convulse momentarily.
'You owe me, Adaephon Delat! Acknowledge this
and I will send you to her! This instant! Accept the debt!'
    Dammit. First Kalam and now me. You bastard,
Shadowthrone – 'All right! I owe you! I accept the debt!'
    The Shadow God gestured, a lazy wave of one hand.
    And Quick Ben vanished.
    Alone once again, Shadowthrone settled back in his throne.
    'So fraught,' he whispered. 'So ... careless, unmindful of this vast, echoing,
    mostly empty hall. Poor man. Poor, poor man. Ah, what's this I find in my
    hand?' He looked over to see a short-handled scythe now gripped and poised
    before him. The god narrowed his gaze, looked about in the gloomy air, then
    said, 'Well, look at these! Threads! Worse than cobwebs, these! Getting everywhere
    – grossly indicative of sloppy ... housekeeping. No, they won't do,
    won't do at all.' He swept the scythe's blade through the sorcerous tendrils,
    watched as they spun away into nothingness. 'There now,' he said, smiling,
    'I feel more hygienic already.'
     
    Throttled awake by gloved hands at his throat, he flailed
about, then was dragged to