A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

then taking a
single step that placed him in the centre of the room. 'I
know that smell. Ghosts, spirits, it's the stink of forgetting.'
    'Forgetting?'
    'When the dead forget they're dead, witch.'
    'Like your friends in that stone sword of yours?'
    The eyes that fixed on her were cold as ashes. 'They have
cheated death, Samar Dev. Such was my gift. Such was
theirs, to turn away from peace. From oblivion. They live
because the sword lives.'
    'Yes, a warren within a weapon. Don't imagine that as
unique as you might want it to be.'
    He bared his teeth. 'No. After all, you have that knife.'
    She started. 'Hardly a warren in this blade, Karsa Orlong.
It's just folded iron. Folded in a very specific way—'
    'To fashion a prison. You civilized people are so eager to
blunt the meaning of your words. Probably because you
have so many of them, which you use too often and for no
reason.' He looked round. 'So you have bound a ghost.
That is not like you.'
    'I could not argue that,' she admitted, 'since I am no
longer sure who I am. What I'm supposed to be like.'
    'You once told me you did not compel, you did not bind.
You bargained.'
    'Ah, that. Well, yes, given the choice. Seems that being
in your company crushes under heel the privilege of choice,
Toblakai.'
    'You blame me for your greed?'
    'Not greed. More like an overwhelming need for power.'
    'To oppose me?'
    'You? No, I don't think so. To stay alive, I think. You are
dangerous, Karsa Orlong. Your will, your strength, your . . .
disregard. You present the quaint and appalling argument
that through wilful ignorance of the laws and rules of the
universe you cannot suffer their influence. As you might
imagine, your very success poses evidence of that tenet, and
it is one I cannot reconcile, since it runs contrary to a lifetime
of observation.'
    'Too many words again, Samar Dev. State it plain.'
    'Fine,' she snapped. 'Everything about you terrifies
me.'
    He nodded. 'And fascinates as well.'
    'Arrogant bastard. Believe what you like!'
    He turned back to the doorway. Collecting his sword, he
said over one shoulder, 'The Seguleh has unsheathed her
swords for me, witch.'
    Then he was gone.
    Samar Dev remained on her cot for another dozen heartbeats,
then, 'Damn him!' And she rose, hurrying to arrive
before the bout began. Damn him!
    The sun had crawled far enough to one side of the sky to
leave the compound in shadow. As she emerged from the
covered colonnade Samar Dev saw the Seguleh standing in
the middle of the exercise area, a thin-bladed longsword
in each gloved hand. Her dark hair hung in greasy strands
down her shoulders, and through the eye-holes of the mask
her midnight gaze tracked Karsa Orlong as he strode to join
her in the sand-floored clearing.
    A full score of champions looked on, indicating that
word had travelled, and Samar Dev saw – with shock – the
Gral, Taralack Veed, and, behind him, Icarium. Gods below, the name, the Jhag . . . all that I know, all that I have heard. Icarium is here. A champion.
    He will leave this city a heap of rubble. He will leave its citizens a mountain of shattered bones. Gods, look at him! Standing calm, so deep in shadow as to be almost invisible – Karsa does not see him, no. The Toblakai's focus rests on the Seguleh, as he circles her at a distance. And she moves like a cat to ever face him.
    Oh, she is a fighter all right.
    And Karsa will throw her over the damned wall.
    If she dares close. As she must. Get inside that huge flint sword.
    Over the wall. Or through it.
    Her heart pounded, the beat rapid, disturbingly erratic.
    She sensed someone at her side and saw, with a jolt of
alarm, a Tiste Edur – and she then recognized him. Preda . . . Tomad. Tomad Sengar.
    The Emperor's father.
    Karsa, you don't want this audience—
    * * *
    An explosion of motion as the two contestants closed –
afterwards, none could agree on who moved first, as if some
instinctive agreement was reached between the Seguleh
and Karsa, and acted upon faster than thought itself.
    And, as iron rang on stone – or stone on iron – Karsa
Orlong did something unexpected.
    Pounded down with one foot. Hard onto the packed
sand.
    In the midst of the Seguleh's lithe dance.
    Pounded down, hard enough to stagger onlookers as the
entire compound floor thundered.
    The Seguleh's perfect balance . . . vanished.
    No doubt it was but a fraction, the dislodging so minor
few would even register it, and no doubt her recovery was
as instantaneous – but she was already