A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

highborn widows. They have been in there some time, and no, I do not know what concerns them.'
    'And you imagine I would have asked you?'
    'How are your dreams, Feather Witch?'
    She paled, and looked round as if seeking somewhere else to wait. But a light rain had begun to fall, and beneath the projecting roof of the longhouse they were dry. 'You know nothing of my dreams, Indebted.'
    'How can I not? You come to me in them every night. We talk, you and I. We argue. You demand answers from me. You curse the look in my eyes. And, eventually, you flee.'
    She would not meet his gaze. 'You cannot be there. In my mind,' she said. 'You are nothing to me.'
    'We are just the fallen, Feather Witch. You, me, the ghosts. All of us. We're the dust swirling around the ankles of the conquerors as they stride on into glory. In time, we may rise in their ceaseless scuffling, and so choke them, but it is a paltry vengeance, don't you think?'
    'You do not speak as you used to, Udinaas. I no longer know who speaks through you.'
    He looked down at his scale-smeared hands. 'And how do I answer that? Am I unchanged? Hardly. But does that mean the changes are not mine? I fought the White Crow for you, Feather Witch. I wrested you from its grasp, and now all you do is curse me.'
    'Do you think I appreciate owing you my life?'
    He winced, then managed a smile as he lifted his gaze once more, catching her studying him – though once more she glanced away. 'Ah, I see now. You have found yourself ... indebted. To me.'
    'Wrong,' she hissed. 'Uruth would have saved me. You did nothing, except make a fool of yourself.'
    'She was too late, Feather Witch. And you insist on calling me Indebted, as if saying it often enough will take away—'
    'Be quiet! I want nothing to do with you!'
    'You have no choice, although if you speak any louder both our heads will top a pike outside the walls. What did the Acquitor want with Mayen?'
    She shifted nervously, hesitated, then said, 'A welcome for the Nerek. They're dying.'
    Udinaas shook his head. 'That gift is for the Warlock King to make.'
    'So you would think, yet Mayen offered herself in his stead.'
    His eyes widened. 'She did? Has she lost her mind?'
    'Quiet, you fool!' Feather Witch crouched down across from him. 'The impending marriage has filled her head. She fashions herself as a queen and so has become insufferable. And now she would bless the Nerek—'
    'Bless?'
    'Her word, yes. I think even the Acquitor was taken aback.'
    'That was Seren Pedac, wasn't it?'
    Feather Witch nodded.
    Both were silent for a few moments, then Udinaas said, 'What would such a blessing do, do you think?'
    'Probably nothing. The Nerek are a broken people. Their gods are dead, the spirits of their ancestors scattered. Oh, a ghost or two might be drawn to the newly sanctified ground—'
    'An Edur's blessing could do that? Sanctify the ground?'
    'Maybe. I don't know. But there could be a binding. Of destinies, depending on the purity of Mayen's bloodline, on all that awaits her in her life, on whether she's—' Feather Witch gestured angrily and clamped her mouth shut.
    On whether she's a virgin. But how could that be in question? She's not yet married, and Edur do not break those rules. 'We did not speak of this, you and I,' Udinaas said. 'I told you that you had to wait, because that is expected of me. You had no reason to think your message from Mayen was urgent. We are slaves, Feather Witch. We do not think for ourselves, and of the Edur and their ways we know next to nothing.'
    Her eyes finally locked with his. 'Yes.' A moment, then, 'Hannan Mosag meets with the Letherii tonight.'
    'I know.'
    'Buruk the Pale. Seren Pedac. Hull Beddict.'
    Udinaas smiled, but the smile held no humour. 'If you will, at whose feet shall the tiles be cast, Feather Witch?'
    'Among those three? Errant knows, Udinaas.' As if sensing her own softening towards him, she scowled and straightened. 'I will stand over there. Waiting.'
    'You do intend to cast the tiles tonight, don't you?'
    She admitted it with a terse nod, then walked to the corner of the longhouse front, to the very edge of the thickening rain.
    Udinaas resumed stripping scales. He thought back to his own words earlier. Fallen. Who tracks our footsteps, I wonder? We who are the forgotten, the discounted and the ignored. When the path is failure, it is never willingly taken. The fallen. Why does my heart weep for them? Not them but us, for most assuredly I am counted among them. Slaves,