A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Kalam's eyes. 'When? Never, you idiot.'
    'What?'
    'That was a Hood-damned illusion. Thank the gods
cowering in their outhouses right now that the idiots
swallowed the hook – but listen, it wasn't just that. I had
help. And then I had help!' 'What does that mean?'
    'I don't know! Let me think!'
    'No time for that,' Kalam said, sitting back, 'the
Adjunct's here.'
    Quick Ben's hand snapped up and grasped Kalam's shirt,
tugged him close. 'Gods, friend,' he whispered, 'I've never
been so scared in my entire life! Don't you see? It started
out as an illusion. Yes, but then—'
    The Adjunct's voice: 'High Mage, you and I must talk.'
    'It wasn't—'
    'Ben Adaephon Delat, you and I will talk. Now.'
    Straightening, Kalam backed away, then halted at a gesture
from Tavore.
    'Oh no, assassin. You as well.'
    Kalam hesitated, then said, 'Adjunct, this conversation
you propose ... it cannot be one-sided.'
    She frowned, then, slowly, nodded.
     
    Fiddler stood next to Bottle where he lay on the deck. 'You,
soldier.'
    The man's eyes were closed, and at Fiddler's words the
eyes scrunched tight. 'Not now, Sergeant. Please.'
    'Soldier,' Fiddler repeated, 'you have, uh, made something
of a mess of yourself. You know, around your crotch.'
    Bottle groaned.
    Fiddler glanced over at the others of the squad. Still busy
with themselves for the moment. Good. He crouched
down. 'Dammit, Bottle, crawl off and get yourself cleaned
up – if the others see this – but hold on, I need to know
something. I need to know what you found so exciting about
all that?'
    Bottle rolled onto his side. 'You don't understand,' he
mumbled. 'She likes doing that. When she gets the chance.
I don't know why. I don't know.'
    'She? Who? Nobody's been near you, Bottle!'
    'She plays with me. With ... it.'
    'Somebody sure does,' Fiddler said. 'Now get below and
clean yourself up. Smiles sees this and you're looking at a
life of torment.'
    The sergeant watched the man crawl away. Excited. Here
we were, about to get annihilated. Every damned one of us.
And he fantasizes about some old sweetheart.
    Hood's breath.
     
    Taralack Veed studied the confusion on the deck for a time,
frowning as he watched the commander, Tomad Sengar,
pacing back and forth whilst Edur warriors came and went
with messages somehow signalled across from the seemingly
countless other Edur ships. Something had struck
Tomad Sengar an almost physical blow – not the ritual
sorcery that had challenged their own, but some news that
arrived a short time later, as the Malazan fleet worked to
extricate itself from the encirclement. Ships were passing
within a quarrel's flight of each other, faces turned and
staring across the gap, something like relief connecting that
regard – Taralack had even seen a Malazan soldier wave.
Before a fellow soldier had batted the man in the side of the
head with a fist.
    Meanwhile, the two Edur fleets were conjoining into one
– no simple task, given the unsettled waters and the vast
number of craft involved, and the fading light as the day
waned.
    And, there in the face of Tomad Sengar, the admiral of
this massive floating army, the haunting that could only
come with news of a very personal tragedy. A loss, a terrible
loss. Curious indeed.
    The air hung close about the ship, still befouled with
Elder sorcery. These Edur were abominations, to so
flagrantly unleash such power. Thinking they would wield
it as if it were a weapon of cold, indifferent iron. But with
Elder powers – with chaos – it was those powers that did the
wielding.
    And the Malazans had answered in kind. A stunning
revelation, a most unexpected unveiling of arcane knowledge.
Yet, if anything, the power of the Malazan ritual
surpassed that of the scores of Edur warlocks. Extraordinary.
Had not Taralack Veed witnessed it with his own eyes, he
would have considered such ability in the hands of the
Malazan Empire simply unbelievable. Else, why had they
never before exploited it?
    Ah, a moment's thought and he had the answer to that. The Malazans might be bloodthirsty tyrants, but they are not
insane. They understand caution. Restraint.
    These Tiste Edur, unfortunately, do not.
    Unfortunate, that is, for them.
    He saw Twilight, the Atri-Preda, moving among her
Letherii soldiers, voicing a calming word or two, the
occasional low-toned command, and it seemed the distraught
eddies calmed in her wake.
    The Gral headed over.
    She met his eyes and greeted him with a faint nod.
    'How fares your companion below?'