A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Knight of Darkness – a faint rumble of
wooden wheels, a chorus of moans drifting like smoke from
the sword in the Knight's hands.
    Thus, The Rope on one side, the Knight on the other.
She saw that her hands were trembling. Three more cards
quickly followed – another nest. King of High House
Death, King in Chains, and Dessembrae, Lord of Tragedy.
Knight of Darkness as the inside frame. She set down the
other end and gasped. The card she wished she had never
made. The Tyrant.
    Closing the field. The spiral was done. City and Tyrant
at beginning and end.
    Tiserra had not expected anything like this. She was not
seeking prophecy – her thoughts had been centred on her
husband and whatever web he had found himself trapped
in – no, not prophecy, nothing on such a grand scale as
this . . .
    I see the end of Darujhistan. Spirits save us, I see my city's
end. This, Torvald, is your nest.
    'Oh, husband,' she murmured, 'you are in trouble indeed
. . .'
    Her eyes strayed once more to The Rope. Is that you,
Cotillion? Or has Vorcan returned? It's not just the Guild – the
Guild means nothing here. No, there are faces behind that veil.
There are terrible deaths coming. Terrible deaths. Abruptly,
she swept up the cards, as if by that gesture alone she could
defy what was coming, could fling apart the strands and so
free the world to find a new future. As if things could be so
easy. As if choices were indeed free.
    Outside, a cart clunked past, its battered wheels crackling
and stepping on the uneven cobbles. The hoofs of the
ox pulling it beat slow as a dirge, and there came to her the
rattle of a heavy chain, slapping leather and wood.
    She wrapped the deck once more and returned it to its
hiding place. And then went to another, this one made by
her husband – perhaps indeed he'd thought to keep it a
secret from her, but such things were impossible. She knew
the creak of every floorboard, after all, and had found his
private pit only days after he'd dug it.
    Within, items folded in blue silk – the silk of the Blue
Moranth. Tor's loot – she wondered again how he'd come
by it. Even now, as she knelt above the cache, she could feel
the sorcery roiling up thick as a stench, reeking of watery
decay – the Warren of Ruse, no less, but then, perhaps not.
    This, I think, is Elder. This magic, it comes from Mael.
    But then, what connection would the Blue Moranth have
with the Elder God?
    She reached down and edged back the silk. A pair of
sealskin gloves, glistening as if they had just come up from
the depths of some ice-laden sea. Beneath them, a wateretched
throwing axe, in a style she had never seen before
– not Moranth, for certain. A sea-raider's weapon, the inset
patterns on the blue iron swirling like a host of whirlpools.
The handle was an ivory tusk of some sort, appallingly
oversized for any beast she could imagine. Carefully
tucked in to either side of the weapon were cloth-wrapped
grenados, thirteen in all, one of which was – she had
discovered – empty of whatever chemical incendiary was
trapped inside the others. An odd habit of the Moranth,
but it had allowed her a chance to examine more closely
the extraordinary skill involved in manufacturing such
perfect porcelain globes, without risk of blowing herself
and her entire home to pieces. True, she had heard that
most Moranth munitions were made of clay, but not these
ones, for some reason. Lacquered with a thick, mostly
transparent gloss that was nevertheless faintly cerulean,
these grenados were – to her eye – works of art, which
made the destruction implicit in their proper use strike her
as almost criminal.
    Now, dear husband, why do you have these? Were they
given to you, or did you – as is more likely – steal them?
    If she confronted him, she knew, he would tell her the
truth. But that was not something she would do. Successful
marriages took as sacrosanct the possession of secrets.
When so much was shared, certain other things must ever
be held back. Small secrets, to be sure, but precious ones
none the less.
    Tiserra wondered if her husband foresaw a future need
for such items. Or was this just another instance of his
natural inclination to hoard, a quirk both charming and
infuriating, sweet and potentially deadly (as all the best
ones were).
    Magic flowed in endless half-visible patterns about
the porcelain globes – another detail she suspected was
unusual.
    Ensorcelled munitions – what were the Blue Moranth thinking?
    Indeed, whatever