A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

without end, but if so, such meaning was too
obscure for the mind of anyone but a Jaghut.
    He had followed the Warlock King to the dead Azath,
remained there long enough to discern Hannan Mosag's
intentions, and had now returned to the Eternal Domicile,
where he could walk these empty corridors in peace.
Contemplating, among other things, stepping once again
into the fray. To battle, one more time, the ravages of
dissolution.
    He thought he could hear Gothos laughing, somewhere.
But no doubt that was only his imagination, ever eager to
mock his carefully reasoned impulses.
    Finding himself in a stretch of corridor awash with slime-laden
water, the Errant paused. 'Well,' he said with a soft
sigh, 'to bring a journey to a close, one must first begin it.
Best I act whilst the will remains.'
    His next step took him into a glade, thick verdant grasses
underfoot, a ring of dazzling flowers at the very edges of the
black-boled trees encircling the clearing. Butterflies danced
from one bloom of colour to the next. The patch of sky
visible overhead was faintly tinted vermilion and the air
seemed strangely thin.
    A voice spoke behind him. 'I do not welcome company
here.'
    The Errant turned. He slowly cocked his head. 'It's not
often the sight of a woman inspires fear in my soul.'
    She scowled. 'Am I that ugly, Elder?'
    'To the contrary, Menandore. Rather . . . formidable.'
    'You have trespassed into my place of refuge.' She
paused, then asked, 'Does it so surprise you, that one such
as myself needs refuge?'
    'I do not know how to answer that,' he replied.
    'You're a careful one, Errant.'
    'I suspect you want a reason to kill me.'
    She walked past him, long black sarong flowing from
frayed ends and ragged tears. 'Abyss below,' she murmured,
'am I so transparent? Who but you could have guessed that
I require justification for killing?'
    'So your sense of sarcasm has survived your solitude,
Menandore. It is what I am ever accused of, isn't it? My . . .
random acts.'
    'Oh, I know they're not random. They only seem that
way. You delight in tragic failure, which leads me to wonder
what you want with me? We are not well suited, you and I.'
    'What have you been up to lately?' he asked.
    'Why should I tell you?'
    'Because I have information to impart, which you will
find . . . well suited to your nature. And I seek recompense.'
    'If I deny it you will have made this fraught journey for
nothing.'
    'It will only be fraught if you attempt something untoward,
Menandore.'
    'Precisely.'
    Her unhuman eyes regarded him steadily.
    He waited.
    'Sky keeps,' she said.
    'Ah, I see. Has it begun, then?'
    'No, but soon.'
    'Well, you are not one to act without long preparation,
so I am not that surprised. And which side will we, eventually,
find you on, Menandore?'
    'Why, mine of course.'
    'You will be opposed.'
    One thin brow arched.
    The Errant glanced around. 'A pleasant place. What
warren are we in?'
    'You would not believe me if I told you.'
    'Ah,' he nodded, ' that one. Very well, your sisters conspire.'
    'Not against me, Errant.'
    'Not directly, or, rather, not immediately. Rest assured,
however, that the severing of your head from your
shoulders is the eventual goal.'
    'Has she been freed, then?'
    'Imminent.'
    'And you will do nothing? What of the others in that fell
city?'
    Others? 'Mael is being . . . Mael. Who else hides in
Letheras, barring your two sisters?'
    'Sisters,' she said, then sneered as she turned away,
walked to one edge of the glade, where she crouched and
plucked a flower. Facing him once more, she lifted the
flower to draw deep its scent.
    From the snapped stem, thick red blood dripped
steadily.
    I've indeed heard it said that beauty is the thinnest skin.
    She suddenly smiled. 'Why, no-one. I misspoke.'
    'You invite me to a frantic and no doubt time-devouring
search to prove your ingenuousness, Menandore. What
possible reason could you have to set me on such a trail?'
    She shrugged. 'Serves you right for infringing upon my
place of refuge, Errant. Are we done here?'
    'Your flower is bled out,' he said, as he stepped back, and
found himself once more in the empty, flooded corridor of
the Eternal Domicile's fifth wing.
    Others. The bitch.
    As soon as the Errant vanished from the glade, Menandore
flung the wilted flower to one side, and two figures emerged
from the forest, one from her left, the other from her right.
    Menandore arched her back as she ran both hands
through her thick red hair.
    Both figures paused to watch.
    She