A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

long-legged
High Priestess. 'Long legs, yes! Ooh. Ooh ooh ooh. Look at
them scythe, see the waggle of those delicious—'
    'Quiet!' she hissed over a shapely shoulder.
    'Shadowthrone understood. Yes he did. He saw the
necessity of our meeting, her and me. The consummation
of Shadow's two most perfect mortals. The fated storybook
love – the lovely innocent woman – but not too innocent,
one hopes – and the stalwart man with his brave smile and
warm thews. Er, brave thews and warm smile. Is "thews"
even the right word? Muscled arms and such, anyway. Why,
I am a mass of muscles, am I not? I can even make my ears
flex, when the need presents itself – no point in showing
off. She despises the strutting type, being delicate and all.
    And soon—'
    'Watch that damned elbow, runt!'
    'And soon the glory will be delivered unto us—'
    '—a damned apology!'
    'What?'
    A hulking oaf of a man was forcing himself into Iskaral
Pust's path, his big flat face looking like something one
found at the bottom of a nightsoil bucket. 'I said I expect a
damned apology, y'damned toad-faced ferret!'
    Iskaral Pust snorted. 'Oh, look, a hulking oaf of a
man with a big flat face looking like something one finds
at the bottom of a nightsoil bucket wants me to apologize!
And I will, good sir, as soon as you apologize for your
oafishness and your bucket-face – in fact, apologize for
existing!'
    The enormous apish hand that reached for his throat was
so apish that it barely possessed a thumb, or so Iskaral Pust
would later report to his wide-eyed murmuring audience of
bhokarala.
    Naturally, he ignored that hand and did some reaching
out of his own, straight into the oaf's crotch, where
he squeezed and yanked back and forth and tugged and
twisted, even as the brute folded up with a whimper and
collapsed like a sack of melons on to the filthy cobbles,
where he squirmed most pitifully.
    Iskaral Pust stepped over him and hurried to catch up to
Sordiko Qualm, who seemed to have increased her pace,
her robes veritably flying out behind her.
    'The rudeness of some people!' Iskaral Pust gasped.
    They arrived at the gates of a modest estate close to
Hinter's Tower. The gates were locked and Sordiko Qualm
tugged on a braided rope, triggering chiming from somewhere
within.
    They waited.
    Chains rattled on the other side of the gates, and a
moment later the solid doors creaked open, streams of rust
drifting down from the hinges.
    'Not many visitors, I take it?'
    'From this moment on,' said Sordiko Qualm, 'you will be
silent, Iskaral Pust.'
    'I will?'
    'You will.'
    Whoever had opened the gates seemed to be hiding
behind one of them, and the High Priestess strode in
without any further ceremony. Iskaral Pust rushed in
behind her to avoid being locked out, as both gates
immediately began closing. As soon as he was clear he
turned to upbraid the rude servant. And saw, working a
lever to one side, a Seguleh.
    'Thank you, Thurule,' said Sordiko. 'Is the Lady in the
garden?'
    There was no reply.
    The High Priestess nodded and walked on, along a winding
path through an overgrown, weedy courtyard, its walls
covered in wisteria in full bloom. Sordiko paused upon seeing
a large snake coiled in the sun on the path, then edged
carefully round it.
    Iskaral crept after her, eyes on the nasty creature as it
lifted its wedge-shaped head, tongue flicking out in curiosity
or maybe hunger. He hissed at it as he passed and was
pleased at its flinch.
    The estate's main house was small, elegant in a vaguely
feminine way. Arched pathways went round it on both
sides, vine-webbed tunnels blissfully draped in shadows.
The High Priestess chose one and continued on towards
the back.
    As they drew closer they heard the murmur of voices.
    The centre of the back garden was marked by a flagstone
clearing in which stood a dozen full-sized bronze statues
in a circle facing inward. Each statue wept water from its
oddly shielded face down into the ringed trough it stood in,
where water flowed ankle deep. The statues, Iskaral Pust
saw with faint alarm as they drew closer, were of Seguleh,
and the water that fell down did so from beneath masks
sheathed in moss and verdigris. In the middle of the circle
was a thin-legged, quaint table of copper and two chairs.
    In the chair facing them sat a man with long grey hair.
    There was blood-spatter on his plain shirt. A woman was
seated with her back to them. Long, lustrous black hair
shimmered, contrasting perfectly with the white linen of
her