A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

difference.' She began the climb.
'You know, as a Soletaken, you could just—'
    'No,' he said as he followed, 'there is too much bloodlust
in the veering. The draconean hunger within me is
where lives my anger, and that anger is not easily
contained.'
    She snorted, unable to help herself.
    'You are amused, Acquitor?'
    'Scabandari is dead. Fear has seen his shattered skull. You
were stabbed and then imprisoned, and now that you are
free, all that consumes you is the desire for vengeance –
against what? Some incorporeal soul? Something less than
a wraith? What will be left of Scabandari by now? Silchas
Ruin, yours is a pathetic obsession. At least Fear Sengar
seeks something positive – not that he'll find it since you
will probably annihilate what's left of Scabandari before he
gets a chance to talk to it, assuming that's even possible.'
When he said nothing, she continued, 'It seems I am now
fated to guiding such quests. Just like my last journey, the
one that took me to the lands of the Tiste Edur. Everyone
at odds, motives hidden and in conflict. My task was
singular, of course: deliver the fools, then stand well back as
the knives are drawn.'
    'Acquitor, my anger is more complicated than you
believe.'
    'What does that mean?'
    'The future you set before us is too simple, too confined.
I suspect that when we arrive at our destination, nothing
will proceed as you anticipate.'
    She grunted. 'I will accept that, since it was without
doubt the case in the village of the Warlock King. After all,
the fallout was the conquest of the Letherii Empire.'
    'Do you take responsibility for that, Acquitor?'
    'I take responsibility for very little, Silchas Ruin. That
much must be obvious.'
    The steps were steep, the edges worn and treacherous. As
they climbed, the air thinned, mists swirling in from the
tumbling falls on their left, the sound a roar that clambered
among the stones in a tumult of echoes. Where the ancient
stairs vanished entirely, wooden trestles had been constructed,
forming something between a ladder and steps
against the sheer, angled rock.
    They found a ledge a third of the way up where they
could gather to rest. Among the scatter of rubble on the
shelf were remnants of metopes, cornices and friezes bearing
carvings too fragmented to be identifiable – suggesting
that an entire façade had once existed directly above them.
The scaffolding became a true ladder here, and off to the
right, three man-heights up, gaped the mouth of a cave,
rectangular, almost door-shaped.
    Udinaas stood regarding that dark portal for a long time,
before he turned to the others. 'I suggest we try it.'
    'There is no need, slave,' replied Fear Sengar. 'This trail
is straightforward, reliable—'
    'And getting icier the higher we go.' The Indebted
grimaced, then laughed. 'Oh, there're songs to be sung, are
there, Fear? The perils and tribulations, the glories of
suffering, all to win your heroic triumph. You want the
elders who were once your grandchildren to gather the clan
round the fire, for the telling of your tale, a lone warrior's
quest for his god. I can almost hear them now, describing
the formidable Fear Sengar of the Hiroth, brother to the
Emperor, with his train of followers – the lost child,
the inveterate Letherii guide, a ghost, a slave and of
course the white-skinned nemesis. The White Crow with
his silver-tongued lies. Oh, we have here the gamut of
archetypes, yes?' He reached into the satchel beside him
and drew out a waterskin, took a long drink, then wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand. 'But imagine all of it
going for naught, when you pitch from a slippery rung and
plunge five hundred man-heights to your ignominious
death. Not how the story goes, alas, but then, life isn't a
story now, is it?' He replaced the skin and shouldered his
pack. 'The embittered slave chooses a different route to the
summit, the fool. But then,' he paused to grin back at Fear,
'somebody has to be the moral lesson in this epic, right?'
    Seren watched the man climbing the rungs. When he
came opposite the cave mouth, he reached out until one
hand gripped the edge of stone, then followed with a foot,
stretching until the probing tip of his moccasin settled on
the ledge. Then, in a swift shifting of weight, combined
with a push away from the ladder, he fluidly spun on one
leg, the other swinging over empty air. Then stepping
inward, pulled by the weight of the satchel on his back,
into the gloom of the entrance.
    'Nicely done,'