A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

could see nothing – blood filled his eyes – a savage
ringing filled his head, nausea rising up his throat, spilling
out in racking heaves, streaked with gore from the gouting
stub of his tongue. Lostara, my love, come close to the gate –
and you will see me. Walking.
    A voice, soft and low, cut through it all, brutally clear,
brutally close. 'My final target. You, Pearl. I had planned to
make it quick.' A long pause, in which he heard slow, even
breathing. 'But for Kalam Mekhar.'
    Something stabbed into his stomach, was pushed deep.
    'I give you back the quarrel that killed him, Pearl.' And
the figure straightened once more, walked a few paces away,
then returned, even as the first horrifying pulses of fire
began to sear his veins, gathering behind his eyes – a
poison that would keep him alive for as long as possible,
feeding his heart with everything it needed, even as vessels
throughout his body burst, again and again and again—
    'Kalam's long-knives, Pearl. You weren't thinking. You
cannot open a warren with otataral in your hand. And so,
he and I together, we have killed you. Fitting.'
    Fires! Gods! Fire!
    As Apsalar walked away. Continuing up the alley, away
from the harbour-front. Away, from everything.
     
    A scrawny, shadowy apparition appeared before her near
the far end, where the alley reached a side street just this
side of a bridge leading across the river and into the Mouse.
Apsalar halted before it.
    'Tell Cotillion, I have done as he asked.'
    Shadowthrone made a whispering sound, like sighing,
and one almost formless hand emerged from the folds of his
ghostly cloak, gripping the silver head of a cane, that
tapped once on the cobbles. 'I watched, my dear. Your
Shadow Dance. From the foot of Rampart Way and
onward, I was witness.'
    She said nothing.
    Shadowthrone resumed. 'Not even Cotillion. Not even
Cotillion.'
    Still, Apsalar did not speak.
    The god suddenly giggled. 'Too many bad judgements,
the poor woman. As we feared.' A pause, then another
giggle. 'Tonight, the Clawmaster, and three hundred and
seven Claws – all by your hands, dear lass. I still ... disbelieve.
No matter. She's on her own, now. Too bad for her.'
The barely substantial hooded head cocked slightly. 'Ah.
Yes, Apsalar. We keep our promises. You are free. Go.'
    She held out the two long-knives, handles first.
    A bow, and the god accepted Kalam Mekhar's weapons.
    Then Apsalar moved past Shadowthrone, and walked
on.
    He watched her cross the bridge.
    Another sigh. A sudden lifting of the cowled head, sniffing
the air. 'Oh, happy news. But for me, not yet. First, a
modest detour, yes. My, what a night!'
    The god began to fade, then wavered, then re-formed.
Shadowthrone looked down at the long-knives in his right
hand. 'Absurd! I must walk. And, perforce, quickly!'
    He scurried off, cane rapping on the stones.
     
    A short time later, Shadowthrone reached the base of a
tower that was not nearly as ruined as it looked. Lifted the
cane and tapped on the door. Waited for a dozen heartbeats,
then repeated the effort.
    The door was yanked open.
    Dark eyes stared down at him, and in them was a growing
fury.
    'Now now, Obo,' Shadowthrone said. 'This is a courtesy,
I assure you. Two most meddling twins have commandeered
the top of your tower. I humbly suggest you oust
them, in your usual kindly manner.' The god then sketched
a salute with his cane, turned about and departed.
    The door slammed shut after two strides.
    And now, Shadowthrone began to quicken his pace once
more. For one last rendezvous this night, a most precious
one. The cane rapped swift as a soldier's drum.
    Halfway to his destination, the top of Obo's tower
erupted in a thunderous fireball that sent pieces of brick
and tile flying. Amidst that eruption there came two outraged
screams.
    Recovering from his instinctive duck, Shadowthrone
murmured. 'Most kindly, Obo. Most kindly indeed.'
    And the god walked the streets of Malaz City. Once
more with uncharacteristic haste.
     
    They moved quickly along the street, keeping to the
shadows, ten paces behind Legana Breed, who walked
down the centre, sword tip clattering along the cobbles.
The few figures who had crossed their path had hurriedly
fled upon sighting the tattered apparition of the T'lan
Imass.
    Fiddler had given Gesler and Stormy crossbows, both
fitted with the sharper-packed grenados, whilst his own
weapon held a cusser. They approached a wider street that
ran parallel to the harbour-front, still south of the