A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

belong. Not here in the sea, and that
wavering haze, like dust skirling through yellow grasses –
even to Mappo's dull eyes, blatantly out of place.
    An intruder, but one of power, and that power seemed to
be growing.
    'Mael,' Iskaral Pust had said with a manic laugh, 'he's
resisting, and getting his nose bloodied. Do you sense his fury,
Trell? His spitting outrage? Hee. Hee hee. But she's not afraid
of him, oh no, she's not afraid of anyone!'
    Mappo had no idea who that 'she' was, and had not the
energy to ask. At first, he had thought the High Priest had
been referring to Spite, but no, it became increasingly
apparent that the power manifesting itself over the bow of
the ship was nothing like Spite's. No draconean stink, no
cold brutality. No, the sighs of wind reaching the Trell were
warm, dry, smelling of grasslands.
    The conversation had begun at dawn, and now the sun
was directly overhead. It seemed there was much to discuss
... about something.
    Mappo saw two spiders scuttle past his moccasined feet. You damned witch, I don't think you're fooling anyone.
    Was there a connection? Here, on this nameless ship,
two shamans from Dal Hon, a land of yellow grasses,
acacias, huge herds and big cats – savannah – and now, this
... visitor, striding across foreign seas.
    'Outraged, yes,' Iskaral Pust had said. 'Yet, do you sense his
reluctance? Oh, he struggles, but he knows too that she, who
chooses to be in one place and not many, she is more than his
match. Dare he focus? He doesn't even want this stupid war,
hah! But oh, it is that very ambivalence that so frees his
followers to do as they please!'
    A snarling cry as the High Priest of Shadow fell from the
back of the mule. The animal brayed, dancing away and
wheeling round to stare down at the thrashing old man. It
brayed again, and in that sound Mappo imagined he could
hear laughter.
    Iskaral Pust ceased moving, then lifted his head. 'She's
gone.'
    The wind that had been driving them steady and hard,
ever on course, grew fitful.
    Mappo saw Spite making her way down the forecastle
steps, looking weary and somewhat dismayed.
    'Well?' Iskaral demanded.
    Spite's gaze dropped to regard the High Priest where he
lay on the deck. 'She must leave us for a time. I sought to
dissuade her, and, alas, I failed. This places us ... at risk.'
    'From what?' Mappo asked.
    She glanced over at him. 'Why, the vagaries of the
natural world, Trell. Which can, at times, prove alarming
and most random.' Her attention returned to Iskaral Pust.
'High Priest, please, assert some control over your
bhok'arala. They keep undoing knots that should remain
fast, not to mention leaving those unsightly offerings to you
everywhere underfoot.'
    'Assert some control?' Iskaral asked, sitting up with a
bewildered look on his face. 'But they're crewing this ship!'
    'Don't be an idiot,' Spite said. 'This ship is being crewed
by ghosts. Tiste Andii ghosts, specifically. True, it was
amusing to think otherwise, but now your little smallbrained
worshippers are becoming troublesome.'
    'Troublesome? You have no idea, Spite! Hah!' He cocked
his head. 'Yes, let her think on that for a while. That tiny
frown wrinkling her brow is so endearing. More than that,
admit it, it inspires lust – oh yes, I'm not as shrivelled up as
they no doubt think and in so thinking perforce nearly
convince me! Besides, she wants me. I can tell. After all, I
had a wife, didn't I? Not like Mappo there, with his bestial
no doubt burgeoning traits, no, he has no-one! Indeed, am
I not experienced? Am I not capable of delicious, enticing
subtlety? Am I not favoured by my idiotic, endlessly miscalculating
god?'
    Shaking her head, Spite walked past him, and halted
before Mappo. 'Would that I could convince you, Trell, of
the necessity for patience, and faith. We have stumbled
upon a most extraordinary ally.'
    Allies. They ever fail you in the end. Motives clash, divisive
violence follows, and friend betrays friend.
    'Will you devour your own soul, Mappo Runt?'
    'I do not understand you,' he said. 'Why do you involve
yourself with my purpose, my quest?'
    'Because,' she said, 'I know where it shall lead.'
    'The future unfolds before you, does it?'
    'Never clearly, never completely. But I can well sense the
convergence ahead – it shall be vast, Mappo, more terrible
than this or any other realm has ever seen before. The Fall
of the Crippled God, the Rage of Kallor, the Wounding at
Morn, the Chainings – they all shall be dwarfed by what