A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

of the rhythm normally found in both song and
speech. And if it was nothing but chanting, then the old
fools could not even agree on the tempo.
    And he had thought the Tiste Edur strange. They were
nothing compared to these Tiste Andii, who had carried
dour regard to unhuman extremes.
    It was no wonder, though. The Andara was a crumbling
blackstone edifice at the base of a refuse-cluttered gorge. As
isolated as a prison. The cliff walls were honeycombed with
caves, pocked with irregular chambers, like giant burst
bubbles along the course of winding tunnels. There were
bottomless pits, dead ends, passages so steep they could not
be traversed without rope ladders. Hollowed-out towers
rose like inverted spires through solid bedrock; while over
subterranean chasms arched narrow bridges of white
pumice, carved into amorphous shapes and set without
mortar. In one place there was a lake of hardened lava,
smoother than wind-polished ice, the obsidian streaked
with red, and this was the Amass Chamber, where the
entire population could gather – barefooted – to witness
the endless wrangling of the Reve Masters, otherwise
known as the Onyx Wizards.
    Master of the Rock, of the Air, of the Root, of the Dark
Water, of the Night. Five wizards in all, squabbling over
orders of procession, hierarchies of propitiation, proper
hem-length of the Onyx robes and Errant knew what else.
With these half-mad neurotics any burr in the cloth
became a mass of wrinkles and creases.
    From what Udinaas had come to understand, no more
than fourteen of the half-thousand or so denizens – beyond
the wizards themselves – were pure Tiste Andii, and of
those, only three had ever seen daylight – which they
quaintly called the blinded stars – only three had ever
climbed to the world above.
    No wonder they'd all lost their minds.
    'Why is it,' Udinaas said, 'when some people laugh it
sounds more like crying?'
    Seren Pedac glanced up from the sword bridging her
knees, the oil-stained cloth in her long-fingered hands. 'I
don't hear anyone laughing. Or crying.'
    'I didn't necessarily mean out loud,' he replied.
    A snort from Fear Sengar, where he sat on a stone bench
near the portal way. 'Boredom is stealing the last fragments
of sanity in your mind, slave. I for one will not miss them.'
    'The wizards and Silchas are probably arguing the
manner of your execution, Fear Sengar,' Udinaas said. 'You
are their most hated enemy, after all. Child of the Betrayer,
spawn of lies and all that. It suits your grand quest, for the
moment at least, doesn't it? Into the viper's den – every
hero needs to do that, right? And moments before your
doom arrives, out hisses your enchanted sword and evil
minions die by the score. Ever wondered what the aftermath
of such slaughter must be? Dread depopulation,
shattered families, wailing babes – and should that crucial
threshold be crossed, then inevitable extinction is assured,
hovering before them like a grisly spectre. Oh yes, I heard
my share when I was a child, of epic tales and poems and
all the rest. But I always started worrying . . . about those
evil minions, the victims of those bright heroes and their
intractable righteousness. I mean, someone invades your
hide-out, your cherished home, and of course you try to kill
and eat them. Who wouldn't? There they were, nominally
ugly and shifty-looking, busy with their own little lives,
plaiting nooses or some such thing. Then shock! The
alarms are raised! The intruders have somehow slipped
their chains and death is a whirlwind in every corridor!'
    Seren Pedac sheathed the sword. 'I think I would like to
hear your version of such stories, Udinaas. How you would
like them to turn out. At the very least, it will pass the
time.'
    'I'd rather not singe Kettle's innocent ears—'
    'She's asleep. Something she does a lot of these days.'
    'Perhaps she's ill.'
    'Perhaps she knows how to wait things out,' the Acquitor
responded. 'Go on, Udinaas, how does the heroic epic of
yours, your revised version, turn out?'
    'Well, first, the hidden lair of the evil ones. There's a
crisis brewing. Their priorities got all mixed up – some past
evil ruler with no management skills or something. So,
they've got dungeons and ingenious but ultimately ineffective
torture devices. They have steaming chambers with
huge cauldrons, awaiting human flesh to sweeten the pot –
but alas, nobody's been by of late. After all, the lair is reputedly
cursed, a place whence no adventurer ever returns –