A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Patriotists will
pounce.'
    'Ah, this leads me into the second subject. There has, I
understand, been news from Drene – no, I have no specifics
as yet, but it seems to have triggered something very much
like panic among the Patriotists. Last night, here in
Letheras, a number of unprecedented arrests occurred—'
    Uster laughed. 'What could be unprecedented about the
Patriotists arresting people?'
    'Well, foremost among them was the First Concubine.'
    Silence around the table.
    Rautos Hivanar cleared his throat, working hard to keep
the fury from his voice. 'It seems Karos Invictad acted in
haste, which, as I am sure you all know, is quite unlike him.
As a result, things went awry. There was a clash, both
inside and outside the Eternal Domicile, between the
Patriotists and the Tiste Edur.'
    'That damned fool!' bellowed Barrakta, one fist pounding
on the tabletop.
    'The First Concubine is, I understand, dead. As are a
number of guards – primarily those in the Patriotist compound,
and at least two bodyguards to the Chancellor.'
    'Has that damned snake turned suicidal as well?'
    'It almost seems so, Barrakta,' Rautos conceded. 'All very
troubling – especially Karos Invictad's reluctance to be
forthcoming on what exactly happened. The only hint I
possess of just how extreme events were last night is a
rumour that Karos was beaten, nearly to death. I cannot
confirm that rumour, since he was seeing no-one, and
besides, no doubt healers visited in the aftermath.'
    'Rautos,' murmured Druz, 'do we need to distance ourselves
from the Patriotists?'
    'It is worth considering,' Rautos replied. 'You might wish to
begin preparations in that regard. In the meantime, however,
we need the Patriotists, but I admit to worry that they may
prove lacking come the day we most need their services.'
    'Hire our own,' Barrakta said.
    'I have done so.'
    Sharp nods answered this quiet statement.
    Uster Taran cleared his throat. 'My apologies, Rautos.
You proceed on matters with your usual assurance. I regret
my doubt.'
    'As ever,' Rautos said, reaching once more for the cloth
and wiping his hands, 'I welcome discourse. Indeed, even
challenge. Lest I grow careless. Now, we need to assess the
health of our own holdings, to give us all a better
indication of our resilience . . .'
    As the meeting continued, Rautos wiped at his hands
again and again. A corpse had snagged on one of the mooring
poles opposite the estate's landing this morning.
Bloated and rotting, crawling with crayfish and seething
with eels.
    An occasional occurrence, but one that each time struck
him with greater force, especially in the last few years. This
morning it had been particularly bad, and though he had
approached no closer than the uppermost tier in his yard,
still it was as if some residue had reached him, making his
hands oddly sticky – a residue that he seemed unable to
remove, no matter how hard he tried.

CHAPTER TEN
    The One God strode out – a puppet trailing
severed strings – from the conflagration. Another
city destroyed, another people cut down in their
tens of thousands. Who among us, witnessing
his emergence, could not but conclude that
madness had taken him? For all the power of
creation he possessed, he delivered naught but
death and destruction. Stealer of Life, Slayer and
Reaper, in his eyes where moments earlier there
had been the blaze of unreasoning rage, now
there was calm. He knew nothing. He could not
resolve the blood on his own hands. He begged
us for answers, but we could say nothing.
    We could weep. We could laugh.
    We chose laughter.
    Creed of the Mockers
Cabal
    Let's play a game, the wind whispered. Then it laughed
in the soft hiss of dust and sand.
    Hedge sat, listening, the crumbly stone block
beneath him eroded into a saddle shape, comforting
enough, all things considered. It might have been an altar
once, fallen through some hole in the sky – Hood knew,
enough strange objects had tumbled down from the low,
impenetrable clouds during his long, meandering journey
across this dire world. Some of them far too close for
comfort.
    Yes, probably an altar. The depression wherein resided
his behind felt too even, too symmetrical to be natural. But
he did not worry about blasphemy – this was, after all,
where the dead went. And the dead included, on occasion,
gods.
    The wind told him as much. It had been his companion
for so long, now, he had grown accustomed to its easy
revelations, its quiet rasp of secrets and its caressing
embrace.