A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

something
febrile.
    'Apsalar, I was ... complacent—'
    'Cotillion, you are many things, but complacency is not
one of them.'
    'Careless, then. Something has happened – it is difficult
to piece together. As if the necessary details have been
flung into a muddy pool, and I have been able to do little
more than grope, half-blind and not even certain what it is
I am looking for.'
    'Cutter.'
    He nodded. 'There was an attack. An ambush, I think –
even the memories held in the ground, where the blood
spilled, were all fragmented – I could read so little.'
    What has happened? She wanted to ask that question.
Now, cutting through his slow, cautious approach – not
caution – he is hedging —
    'A small settlement is near the scene – they were the
ones who cleaned things up.'
    'He is dead.'
    'I don't know – there were no bodies, except for horses.
One grave, but it had been opened and the occupant
exhumed – no, I don't why anyone would do that. In any
case, I have lost contact with Cuttet, and that more than
anything else is what disturbs me.'
    'Lost contact,' she repeated dully. 'Then he is dead,
Cotillion.'
    'I honestly do not know. There are two things, however,
of which I am certain. Do you wish to hear them?'
    'Are they relevant?'
    'That is for you to decide.'
    'Very well.'
    'One of the women, Scillara—'
    'Yes.'
    'She gave birth – she survived to do that at least, and the
child is now in the care of the villagers.'
    'That is good. What else?'
    'Heboric Light Touch is dead.'
    She turned at that – but away from him – staring out
over the seas, to that distant, murky moon. 'Ghost Hands.'
    'Yes. The power – the aura – of that old man – it burned
like green fire, it had the wild rage of Treach. It was unmistakable,
undeniable—'
    'And now it is gone.'
    'Yes.'
    'There was another woman, a young girl.'
    'Yes. We wanted her, Shadowthrone and I. As it turns
out, I know she lives, and indeed she appears to be precisely
where we wanted her to be, with one crucial difference—'
    'It is not you and Shadowthrone who control her.'
    'Guide, not control – we would not have presumed
control, Apsalar. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of
her new master. The Crippled God.' He hesitated, then
said, 'Felisin Younger is Sha'ik Reborn.'
    Apsalar nodded. 'Like a sword that kills its maker ...
there are cycles to justice.'
    'Justice? Abyss below, Apsalar, justice is nowhere to be
seen in any of this.'
    'Isn't it?' She faced him again. 'I sent Cutter away,
because I feared he would die if he stayed with me. I sent
him away and that is what killed him. You sought to use
Felisin Younger, and now she finds herself a pawn in another god's hand. Treach wanted a Destriant to lead his followers
into war, but Heboric is killed in the middle of nowhere,
having achieved nothing. Like a tiger cub getting its skull
crushed – all that potential, that possibility, gone. Tell me,
Cotillion, what task did you set Cutter in that company?'
    He did not answer.
    'You charged him to protect Felisin Younger, didn't you?
And he failed. Is he alive? For his own sake, perhaps it is
best that he is not.'
    'You cannot mean that, Apsalar.'
    She closed her eyes. No, I do not mean that. Gods, what
am I to do ... with this pain? What am I to do?
    Cotillion slowly reached up, his hand – the black leather
glove removed – nearing the side of her face. She felt his
finger brush her cheek, felt the cold thread that was all that
was left of the tear he wiped away. A tear she had not
known was there.
    'You are frozen,' he said in a soft voice.
    She nodded, then shook her head suddenly as everything
crumbled inside – and she was in his arms, weeping
uncontrollably.
    And the god spoke, 'I'll find him, Apsalar. I swear it. I'll
find the truth.'
    Truths, yes. One after another, one boulder settling down,
then another. And another. Blotting out the light, darkness
closing in, grit and sand sifting down, a solid silence when the
last one is in place. Now, dear fool, try drawing a breath. A
single breath.
    There were clouds closed fast round the moon. And one
by one, gardens died.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    Cruel misapprehension, you choose the shape
and cast of this wet clay in your hands, as the wheel
ever spins
    Tempered in granite, this fired shell hardens
into the scarred shield of your deeds, and the dark
decisions within
    Settle hidden in suspension, unseen in banded strata
awaiting death's weary arrival, the journey's repast
to close you out
    We