A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

life as easily as you read a scroll. Is that
supposed to frighten me?'
    She chewed, then, with a struggle, swallowed. 'I wield a
far deadlier weapon, little man.'
    'And that would be?'
    'I slip into your head. I see through your eyes. Swim the
streams of your thought. I stand there, looking at the soiled
creature chained to this rape-bed. And eventually, I begin
to understand you. It's more intimate than making love,
little man, because all your secrets vanish. And, in case you
were wondering, yes, I am doing it even now. Listening to
my own words as you listen, feeling the tightness gripping
your chest, that odd chill beneath your skin despite the
fresh sweat. The sudden fear, as you realize the extent of
your vulnerability—'
    He struck her. Hard enough to snap her head to one side.
Blood gushed from her mouth. She coughed, spat, then spat
again, her breath coming in ragged, liquid gasps. 'We can
resume this meal later,' he said, struggling to keep his words
toneless. 'I expect you'll do your share of screaming in the
days and weeks to come, Janath, but I assure you, your cries
will reach no-one.'
    A peculiar hacking sound came from her.
    After a moment, Tanal realized she was laughing.
    'Impressive bravado,' he said, with sincerity. 'Eventually,
I may in truth free you. For now, I remain undecided. I'm
sure you understand.'
    She nodded.
    'You arrogant bitch,' he said.
    She laughed again.
    He backed away. 'Do not think I will leave the lantern,'
he snarled.
    Her laughter followed him out, cutting like broken glass.
    The ornate carriage, trimmed in gleaming bloodwood, was
motionless, drawn up to one side of the main thoroughfare
of Drene, its tall wheels straddling the open sewer. The four
bone-white horses stood listless in the unseasonal heat,
heads hanging down over their collars. Directly ahead of
them the street was framed in an arching open gate, and
beyond it was the sprawling maze of the High Market, a
vast concourse crowded with stalls, carts, livestock and
throngs of people.
    The flow of wealth, the cacophony of voices and the
multitude of proffering or grasping hands seemed to
culminate in a force, battering at Brohl Handar's senses
even from where he sat, protected within the plush
confines of the carriage. The heaving sounds from the
market, the chaotic back and forth flow of people beneath
the gate, and the crowds on the street itself, all made the
Overseer think of religious fervour, as if he was witness to a
frenzied version of a Tiste Edur funeral. In place of the
women voicing their rhythmic grunts of constrained grief,
drovers bullied braying beasts through the press. Instead of
unblooded youths wading through blood-frothed surf
pounding paddles against the waves, there was the clatter
of cartwheels and the high, piping cries of hawkers. The
woodsmoke of the pyres and offerings enwreathing an Edur
village was, here, a thick, dusty river tainted with a
thousand scents. Dung, horse piss, roasting meat, vegetables
and fish, uncured myrid hides and tanned rodara
skins; rotting wastes and the cloying smells of intoxicating
drugs.
    Here, among the Letherii, no precious offerings were
thrown into the sea. Tusked seal ivory leaned against shelves
like fang-rows from some wooden mechanisms of torture. In
other stalls, that ivory reappeared, this time carved into a
thousand shapes, many of them mimicking religious objects
from the Edur, the Jheck and the Fent, or as playing pieces for
a game. Polished amber was adornment, not the sacred tears
of captured dusk, and bloodwood itself had been carved into
bowls, cups and cooking utensils.
    Or to trim an ostentatious carriage.
    Through a slit in the shutters, the Overseer watched the
surging to and fro on the street. An occasional Tiste Edur
appeared in the crowds, a head taller than most Letherii,
and Brohl thought he could read something of bemusement
behind their haughty, remote expressions; and once, in the
face of an overdressed, ring-speared Elder whom Brohl
knew personally, he saw the glint of avarice in the Edur's
eyes.
    Change was rarely chosen, and its common arrival was
slow, subtle. Granted, the Letherii had experienced the
shock of defeated armies, a slain king, and a new ruling
class, but even then such sudden reversals had proved not
nearly as catastrophic as one might have expected. The
skein that held Lether together was resilient and, Brohl
now knew, far stronger than it appeared. What disturbed
him the most, however, was the ease with which