A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

theirs, wasn't it?' The Claw sat forward. 'Banaschar.
Are you telling me that D'rek killed them all? Her entire
priesthood? They betrayed her! In what way? What did they
demand?'
    'There is war,' he said in a dull voice.
    'Yes. War among the gods, yes – gods below – those
worshippers chose the wrong side!'
    'She heard them,' Banaschar said, forcing the words out.
'She heard them choose. The Crippled God. And the power
they demanded was the power of blood. Well, she decided, if
they so lusted for blood ... she would give them all they
wanted.' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'All they wanted.'
    'Banaschar ... hold on a moment ... why would D'rek's
followers choose blood, the power of blood? That is an
Elder way. What you are saying makes no sense.'
    'The Cult of the Worm is ancient, Pearl. Even we cannot
determine just how old. There is mention of a goddess, the
Matron of Decay, the Mistress of Worms – a half-dozen
titles – in Gothos's Folly – in the fragments possessed by the
temple. Or at least, once in the temple's possession – those
scrolls disappeared—'
    'When?'
    Banaschar managed a bitter smile. 'On the night of
Tayschrenn's flight from the Grand Temple in Kartool. He
has them. He must have them. Don't you see? Something is
wrong! With all of this! The knowledge that I hold, and the
knowledge that Tayschrenn must possess – with his access
to Gothos's Folly – we must speak, we must make sense of
what has happened, and what it means. This goes beyond
the Imperium – yet this war among the gods – tell me,
whose blood do you think will be spilled? What happened
in the cult of D'rek, that is but the beginning!'
    'The gods will betray us?' Pearl asked, leaning back. 'Us
... mortals. Whether we worship or not, it is mortal blood
that will soak the earth.' He paused, then said, 'Perhaps,
given the opportunity, you will be able to persuade
Tayschrenn. But what of the other priesthoods – do you
truly believe you can convince them – and what will
you say to them? Will you plead for some kind of reformation,
Banaschar? Some revolution among believers? They
will laugh in your face.'
    Banaschar looked away. 'In my face, perhaps. But ...
Tayschrenn ...'
    The man opposite him said nothing for a time. A
graininess filled the gloom – dawn was coming, and with it
a dull chill. Finally, Pearl rose, the motion fluid and silent.
'This is a matter for the Empress—'
    'Her? Don't be a fool—'
    'Careful,' the Claw warned in a soft voice.
    Banaschar thought quickly, in desperation. 'She only
comes into play with regard to releasing Tayschrenn from
his position as High Mage, in freeing him to act. And
besides, if the rumours are true about the Grey Mistress
stalking Seven Cities, then it is clear that the pantheonic
war has already begun in its myriad manipulations of the
mortal realm. She would be wise to heed that threat.'
    'Banaschar,' Pearl said, 'the rumours do not even come
close to the truth. Hundreds of thousands have died. Perhaps
millions.'
    Millions?
    'I shall speak with the Empress,' Pearl repeated.
    'When do you leave?' Banaschar asked. And what of those
who are isolating Tayschrenn? What of those who contemplate
killing me?
    'There will be no need for that,' the Claw said, walking
to the door. 'She is coming here.'
    'Here? When?'
    'Soon.'
    Why? But he did not voice that question, for the man
    had gone.
     
    Saying it needed the exercise, Iskaral Pust was sitting atop
his mule, struggling to guide it in circles on the mid deck.
From the looks of it, he was working far harder than the
strange beast as it was cajoled into a step every fifty heartbeats
or so.
    Red-eyed and sickly, Mappo sat with his back to the
cabin wall. Each night, in his dreams, he wept, and would
awaken to find that what had plagued his dreams had
pushed through the barrier of sleep, and he would lie
beneath the furs, shivering with something like a fever. A
sickness in truth, born of dread, guilt and shame. Too many
failures, too many bad judgements; he had been stumbling,
blind, for so long.
    Out of friendship he had betrayed his only friend.
    I will make amends for all of this. So I vow, before all the Trell
spirits.
    Standing at the prow, the woman named Spite was
barely visible within the gritty, mud-brown haze that
engulfed her. Not one of the bhok'arala, scrambling about
in the rigging or back and forth on the decks, would come
near her.
    She was in conversation. So Iskaral Pust had claimed.
With a spirit that didn't