A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

in what I intend, Trull Sengar, I shall
return to your side.'
    'Then you had better be quick killing that leader.'
    'Such is my intention.'
    'Onrack, I hear something new in your voice.'
    'Yes.'
    'What does it mean?'
    'It means, Trull Sengar, that Onrack the Broken, in discovering
impatience, has discovered something else.'
    'What?'
    'This: I am done with defending the indefensible. I am
done with witnessing the fall of friends. In the battle to come,
you shall see in me something terrible. Something neither
Ibra Gholan nor Monok Ochem can achieve. Trull Sengar,
you shall see a T'lan Imass, awakened to anger.'
     
    Banaschar opened the door, wavered for a moment, leaning
with one hand against the frame, then staggered into his
decrepit room. The rank smell of sweat and unclean
bedding, stale food left on the small table beneath the
barred window. He paused, considering whether or not to
light the lantern – but the oil was low and he'd forgotten
to buy more. He rubbed at the bristle on his chin, more
vigorously than normal since it seemed his face had gone
numb.
    A creak from the chair against the far wall, six paces
distant. Banaschar froze in place, seeking to pierce the
darkness. 'Who's there?' he demanded.
    'There are few things in this world,' said the figure seated
in the chair, 'more pathetic than a once-Demidrek fallen
into such disrepair, Banaschar. Stumbling drunk into this
vermin-filled hovel every night – why are you here?'
    Banaschar stepped to his right and sank heavily onto the
cot. 'I don't know who you are,' he said, 'so I see no reason
to answer you.'
    A sigh, then, 'You send, one after another for a while
there, cryptic messages. Pleading, with increasing desperation,
to meet with the Imperial High Mage.'
    'Then you must realize,' Banaschar said, struggling to
force sobriety into his thoughts – the terror was helping –
'that the matter concerns only devotees of D'rek—'
    'A description that no longer fits either you or
Tayschrenn.'
    'There are things,' Banaschar said, 'that cannot be left
behind. Tayschrenn knows this, as much as I—'
    'Actually, the Imperial High Mage knows nothing.' A
pause, accompanying a gesture that Banaschar interpreted
as the man studying his fingernails, and something in his
tone changed. 'Not yet, that is. Perhaps not at all. You see,
Banaschar, the decision is mine.'
    'Who are you?'
    'You are not ready yet to know that.'
    'Why are you intercepting my missives to Tayschrenn?'
    'Well, to be precise, I have said no such thing.'
    Banaschar frowned. 'You just said the decision was
yours.'
    'Yes I did. That decision centres on whether I remain
inactive in this matter, as I have been thus far, or – given
sufficient cause – I elect to, um, intervene.'
    'Then who is blocking my efforts?'
    'You must understand, Banaschar, Tayschrenn is the
Imperial High Mage first and foremost. Whatever else he
once was is now irrelevant—'
    'No, it isn't. Not given what I have discovered—'
    'Tell me.'
    'No.'
    'Better yet, Banaschar, convince me.'
    'I cannot,' he replied, hands clutching the grimy bedding to
either side.
    'An imperial matter?'
    'No.'
    'Well, that is a start. As you said, then, the subject pertains
to once-followers of D'rek. A subject, one presumes,
related to the succession of mysterious deaths within the
cult of the Worm. Succession? More like slaughter, yes? Tell
me, is there anyone left? Anyone at all?'
    Banaschar said nothing.
    'Except, of course,' the stranger added, 'those few who
have, at some time in the past and for whatever reasons,
fallen away from the cult. From worship.'
    'You know too much of this,' Banaschar said. He should
never have stayed in this room. He should have been finding
different hovels every night. He hadn't thought there'd
be anyone, anyone left, who'd remember him. After all,
those who might have were now all dead. And I know why.
Gods below, how I wish I didn't.
    'Tayschrenn,' said the man after a moment, 'is being
isolated. Thoroughly and most efficiently. In my professional
standing, I admit to considerable admiration, in
fact. Alas, in that same capacity, I am also experiencing
considerable alarm.'
    'You are a Claw.'
    'Very good – at least some intelligence is sifting through
that drunken haze, Banaschar. Yes, my name is Pearl.'
    'How did you find me?'
    'Does that make a difference?'
    'It does. To me, it does, Pearl.'
    Another sigh and a wave of one hand. 'Oh, I was bored.
I followed someone, who, it turned out, was keeping