A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

'im, the
way he fought – killing everything fast, wi'out breaking a
sweat. Too bad he didn't come wi' these ones.'
    Banaschar stared at the huge man opposite him. What
was he talking about? Whatever it was, it went on, and on,
and on. Travelling fast? Slingers and fights with barbarians.
The man was drunk. Drunk and incomprehensible. 'So,
what was Mud's story again?'
    'I just told you.'
    'And what about those Tiste Andii, Braven Tooth?
They're going to get killed—'
    'No they ain't. See the tallest one there, with the long
white hair. His name is Nimander Golit. And that pretty
woman beside him, that's Phaed, his first daughter. All
seven of 'em are cousins, sisters, brothers, but it's Nimander
who leads, since he's the oldest. Nimander says he is the
first son of the Son.'
    'The what?'
    'The Son of Darkness, Banaschar. Know who that is?
That's Anomander Rake. Look at 'em, they're all Rake's
brood – grandchildren mostly, except for Nimander, who's
father to a lot of 'em, but not all. Now, maybe someone's
got a hate on for foreigners – you really think that someone
would be stupid enough to go after the whelps of
Anomander Rake?'
    Banaschar turned slightly, stared over at the figures. He
slowly blinked, then shook his head. 'Not unless they're
suicidal.'
    'Right, and that's something you'd know all about, ain't
it?'
    'So, if Anomander Rake is Nimander's father, who was
the mother?'
    'Ah, you're not completely blind, then. You can see,
can't you? Different mothers, for some of 'em. And one of
those mothers wasn't no Tiste Andii, was she? Look at
Phaed—'
    'I can only see the back of her head.'
    'Whatever. I looked at her, and I asked her that very
same question you just asked me.'
    'What?'
    '"Who was your mother?"'
    'Mine?'
    'And she smiled – and I nearly died, Banaschar, and I
mean it. Nearly died. Bursting blood vessels in my brain,
toppling over nearly died. Anyway, she told me, and it
wasn't no Tiste Andii kind of name, and from the looks of
her I'd say the other half was human, but then again, can
you really tell with these things? Not really.'
    'No, really, what was the name?'
    'Lady Envy, who used to know Anomander Rake himself,
and got her revenge taking his son as a lover. Messy, eh? But
if she was anything like that Phaed there, with that smile,
well, envy's the only word – for every other woman in the
world. Gods below ... hey, Banaschar, what's wrong? You
suddenly look real sick. The ale's not that bad, not like
what we had last night, anyway. Look, if you're thinking of
fillin' a plate on the tabletop, there ain't no plate, right?
And the boards are warped, and that means it'll sluice onto
my legs, and that'll get me very annoyed – for Hood's sake,
man, draw a damned breath!'
     
    Leaning on the scarred, stained bartop fifteen paces away,
the man Banaschar called Foreigner nursed a flagon of
Malaz Dark, a brew for which he had acquired a taste,
despite the expense. He heard the ex-priest and the Master
Sergeant arguing back and forth at a table behind him,
something they had been doing a lot of lately. On other
nights, Foreigner reflected, he would have joined them,
leaning back to enjoy what would be an entertaining – if
occasionally sad – performance.
    But not tonight.
    Not with them, sitting back there.
    He needed to think, now, and think hard. He needed to
come to a decision, and he sensed, with a tremor of fear,
that upon that decision rode his destiny.
    'Coop, another Dark here, will you?'
     
    The carrack Drowned Rat looked eager to pull away from
the stone pier south of the rivermouth as the tide tugged
fitfully on its way out. Scrubbed hull, fresh paint, and a
bizarre lateen rig and centre-stern steering oar had garnered
the curious attention of more than a few sailors and fisher
folk who'd wandered past in the last few days. Irritating
enough, the captain mused, but Oponn was still smiling
nice twin smiles, and before long they'd be on their way,
finally. Out of this damned city and the sooner the better.
    First Mate Palet was lying curled up on the mid deck, still
nursing the bruises and knocks he'd taken from a drunken
mob the night before. The captain's lizard gaze settled on
him for a moment, before moving on. They were docked,
trussed up neat, and Vole was perched in his oversized
crow's nest – the man was mad as a squirrel with a broken
tail – and everything seemed about right, so right, in fact,
that the captain's nerves were a taut, tangled mess.
    It wasn't just the