A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

suddenly veiled, 'Silchas Ruin thinks . . . draconean . As cold, as calculating, as timeless . Abyss below,
Sukul Ankhadu, you have no idea . . .' A shudder took
Sheltatha then and she turned away. 'Be sure of your
schemes, sister,' she added in a guttural tone, 'and, no
matter how sure you make yourself, leave us a means of
escape. For when we fail.'
    Another faint groan, from the earth spirits on all sides,
and Sukul Ankhadu shivered, assailed by uncertainty – and
fear. 'You must tell me more of him,' she said. 'All you
learned—'
    'Oh, I shall. Freedom has left you . . . arrogant, sister. We
must strip that from you, we must free your gaze of that veil
of confidence. And refashion your plans accordingly.' A
long pause, then Sheltatha Lore faced Sukul once again, an
odd glint in her eyes. 'Tell me, did you choose in
deliberation?'
    'What?'
    A gesture. 'This place . . . for my recovery.'
    Sukul shrugged. 'Shunned by the local people. Private –
I thought—'
    'Shunned, aye. With reason.'
    'And that would be?'
    Sheltatha studied her for a long moment, then she simply
turned away. 'Matters not. I am ready to leave here
now.'
    As am I, I think. 'Agreed. North—'
    Another sharp glance, then a nod.
    Oh, I see your contempt, sister. I know you felt as Menandore did – I know you think little of me. And you thought I would step forward once she struck? Why? I spoke of trust, yes, but you did not understand. I do indeed trust you, Sheltatha. I trust you to lust for vengeance. And that is all I need. For ten thousand lifetimes of slight and disregard . . . it will be all I need.
    His tattooed arms bared in the humid heat, Taxilian walked
to the low table where sat Samar Dev, ignoring the curious
regard from other patrons in the courtyard restaurant.
Without a word he sat, reached for the jug of watered,
chilled wine and poured himself a goblet, then leaned
closer. 'By the Seven Holies, witch, this damned city is a
wonder – and a nightmare.'
    Samar Dev shrugged. 'The word is out – a score of
champions now await the Emperor's pleasure. You are
bound to attract attention.'
    He shook his head. 'You misunderstand. I was once an
architect, yes? It is one thing' – he waved carelessly – 'to stand
agape at the extraordinary causeways and spans, the bridges
and that dubious conceit that is the Eternal Domicile – even
the canals with their locks, inflows and outflows, the
aqueduct courses and the huge blockhouses with their
massive pumps and the like.' He paused for another mouthful
of wine. 'No, I speak of something else entirely. Did you
know, an ancient temple of sorts collapsed the day we arrived
– a temple devoted, it seems, to rats —'
'Rats?'
    'Rats, not that I could glean any hint of a cult centred on
such foul creatures.'
    'Karsa would find the notion amusing,' Samar Dev said
with a half-smile, 'and acquire in such cultists yet another
enemy, given his predilection for wringing the necks of
rodents—'
    Taxilian said in a low voice, 'Not just rodents, I
gather . . .'
    'Alas, but on that matter I would allow the Toblakai
some steerage room – he warned them that no-one was to
touch his sword. A dozen or more times, in fact. That guard
should have known better.'
    'Dear witch,' Taxilian sighed, 'you've been careless or,
worse, lazy. It's to do with the Emperor, you see. The
weapon destined to cross blades with Rhulad's own.
The touch signifies a blessing – did you not know? The
loyal citizens of this empire want the champions to succeed.
They want their damned tyrant obliterated. They pray for
it; they dream of it—'
    'All right,' Samar Dev hissed, 'keep your voice down!'
    Taxilian spread his hands, then he grimaced. 'Yes, of
course. After all, every shadow hides a Patriotist—'
    'Careful of whom you mock. That's a capricious, bloodthirsty
bunch, Taxilian, and you being a foreigner only adds
to your vulnerability.'
    'You need to eavesdrop on more conversations, witch.
The Emperor is unkillable. Karsa Orlong will join all the
others in that cemetery of urns. Do not expect otherwise.
And when that happens, why, all his . . . hangers-on, his
companions – all who came with him will suffer the same
fate. Such is the decree. Why would the Patriotists bother
with us, given our inevitable demise?' He drained the last
wine from his goblet, then refilled it. 'In any case, you distracted
me. I was speaking of that collapsed temple, and
what I saw of its underpinnings – the very proof for my
growing