A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

and the heat from the hearth was fierce. He quickly made his way outside, turned right instead of left and came to what had once been a sort of unofficial mews, now cluttered with refuse and discarded building materials, the fronts facing onto it sealed by bricks or doors with their latches removed.
    Shurq Elalle emerged from the shadows, her hood drawn about her face. 'Tell me more about this Selush.'
    They began walking, threading single file down a narrow lane to reach the street beyond. 'A past associate of Bugg's. Embalmers and other dealers of the dead are a kind of extended family, it seems. Constantly exchanging techniques and body parts. It's quite an art, I gather. A body's story can be unfurled from a vast host of details, to be read like a scroll.'
    'What value assembling a list of flaws when the subject is already dead?'
    'Morbid curiosity, I imagine. Or curious morbidity.'
    'Are you trying to be funny?'
    'Never, Shurq Elalle. I have taken to heart your warnings on that.'
    'You, Tehol Beddict, are very dangerous to me. Yet I am drawn, as if you were intellectual white nectar. I thirst for the tension created by my struggle to avoid being too amused.'
    'Well, if Selush succeeds in what she intends, the risk associated with laughter will vanish, and you may chortle fearlessly.'
    'Even when I was alive, I never chortled. Nor do I expect to do so now that I am dead. But what you suggest invites ... disappointment. A releasing of said tension, a dying of the sparks. I now fear getting depressed.'
    'The risk of achieving what you wish for,' Tehol said, nodding as they reached Trench Canal and began to walk along its foul length. 'I empathize, Shurq Elalle. It is a sore consequence to success.'
    'Tell me what you know of the old tower in the forbidden grounds behind the palace.'
    'Not much, except that your undead comrade resides in the vicinity. The girl.'
    'Yes, she does. I have named her Kettle.'
    'We cross here.' Tehol indicated a footbridge. 'She means something to you?'
    'That is difficult to answer. Perhaps. It may prove that she means something to all of us, Tehol Beddict.'
    'Ah. And can I be of some help in this matter?'
    'Your offer surprises me.'
    'I endeavour to remain ever surprising, Shurq Elalle.'
    'I am seeking to discover her ... history. It is, I think, important. The old tower appears to be haunted in some way, and that haunting is in communication with Kettle. It poses desperate need.'
    'For what?'
    'Human flesh.'
    'Oh my.'
    'In any case, this is why Gerun Eberict is losing the spies he sets on you.'
    Tehol halted. 'Excuse me?'
    'Kettle kills them.'
    Steeply sloped, the black wall of rock reached up into the light. The currents swept across its rippled face with unceasing ferocity, and all that clung to it to draw sustenance from that roiling stream was squat, hard-shelled and stubborn. Vast flats stretched out from the base of the trench wall, and these were scoured down to bedrock. Enormous tangled islands of detritus, crushed and bound together by unimaginable pressures, crawled across the surface, like migrating leviathans in the flow of dark water.
    Brys stood on the plain, watching the nearest tumbling mass roll past. He knew he was witness to sights no mortal had ever seen, where natural eyes would see only darkness, where the pressures would have long since killed corporeal flesh descending from the surface far above. Yet here he stood, to his own senses as real, as physical, as he had been in the palace. Clothed, armoured, his sword hanging at his hip. He could feel the icy water and its wild torrent in a vague, remote fashion, but the currents could not challenge his balance, could not drag him off his feet. Nor did the cold steal the strength from his limbs.
    He drew breath, and the air was cool and damp – it was, he realized, the air of the subterranean chamber of the Cedance.
    That recognition calmed his heart, diminished his disorientation.
    A god dwells in this place. It seemed well suited for such a thing. Primal, fraught with extremes, a realm of raw violence and immense, clashing forces of nature.
    Another mass of wreckage shambled past, and Brys saw, amidst pale, skeletal branches and what seemed to be bundles of unravelled rope, flattened pieces of metal whose edges showed extruded white tendrils. By the Errant, that metal is armour, and those tendrils are ...
    The detritus tumbled away. As it did, Brys saw something beyond it. Stationary, blockish, vertical shapes