A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

theories?'
    'They're only convoluted because they are without substance
– if you'll kindly excuse that inadvertent pun. Light,
Dark, Shadow. Hounds of this and that and that. These
beasts may exist only because of semantics.'
    Shadowthrone snorted. 'You don't have to clean up
after them – the only possible excuse for such an idiotic
suggestion. They smell, they slaver and slobber, they
scratch and they lick, Cotillion. Oh, and they tear things
to pieces. When it suits them.'
    'Because we expect them to.'
    'Really now.'
    'Listen – what was the mess behind the origin of the
Deragoth? Wild beasts from the dusty aeons of past ages,
seven left in all the world, and the First Emperor – who
was anything but – chooses them as the repositories of his
divided soul. All very well, but then we have the Hounds of
Shadow, and, presumably, the Hounds of Light—'
    'They're just damned albinos, Cotillion, a detail probably
irrelevant, and besides, there're only two of them—'
    'That we know of, and we know of them only because
they wandered into our realm – why? What or who summoned
them?'
    'I did, of course.'
    'How?'
    Shadowthrone shrugged. 'I mused out loud on the need
for . . . replacements.'
    'And that constitutes summoning? I believe I have also
heard you musing on the "need" for a breathlessly beautiful
Queen of Shadow, a slave to your every desire—'
    'You were hiding behind the curtain! I knew it!'
    'The point is, where is she?'
    The question was left unanswered, as Tulas Shorn had
arrived, halting ten paces before them. 'It seems,' the undead
Tiste Edur said, 'my Hounds have found new . . . pets.'
    'Saw his head off, Cotillion,' Shadowthrone said. 'I hate
him already.'
    Shan slid up beside Cotillion, eyes fixed on Tulas Shorn.
A moment later Baran, Rood, Blind and Gear arrived,
padding round the rulers of the Realm of Shadow, and
onward to encircle the Tiste Edur.
    Who held out his hands, as if inviting the beasts to draw
close.
    None did.
    'They preferred you living, I think,' Cotillion observed.
'The dead surrender so much.'
    'If only my sentiments were dead,' Tulas Shorn said, then
sighed as it lowered its hands to its sides once more. 'Still,
it pleases me to see them. But two are missing.'
    At that Cotillion glanced round. 'Well, you're right.'
    'Killed?'
    'Killed,' confirmed Shadowthrone.
    'Who?'
    'Anomander Rake.'
    At the name Tulas Shorn started.
    'Still around,' said Shadowthrone, 'yes. Hee hee. Houndslayer.'
    'And neither of you strong enough to avenge the slayings,
it seems. I am astonished that my Hounds have accepted
such feeble masters.'
    'I thought it was pets. No matter. Ganrod and Doan died
because they were precipitate. Blame poor training. I do.'
    'I am of a mind to test you,' said Tulas Shorn after a
moment.
    'You want the Throne of Shadow, do you?'
    'My first rule was cut short. I have learned since—'
    'Hardly. You died.' Shadowthrone waved one ephemeral
hand. 'Whatever you learned, you did not learn well
enough. Obviously.'
    'You seem certain of that.'
    'He is,' said Cotillion.
    'Is it simply megalomania, then, that so afflicts him?'
    'Well, yes, but that's beside the point.'
    'And what is the point?'
    'That you clearly have not learned anything worthwhile.'
    'And why do you say that?'
    'Because you've just said that you were of a mind to test
us.'
    Tulas Shorn cocked its head. 'Do you imagine the
Hounds will defend you?'
    'These ones? Probably not.'
    'Then—' But the rest of his statement was left unfinished,
as Lock and Pallid arrived, heads low, hackles
upright like spines, to flank Shadowthrone and Cotillion.
Upon seeing them, Tulas Shorn stepped back. 'By the
Abyss,' it whispered, 'have you two lost your minds? They
cannot be here – they must not be among you—'
    'Why?' Cotillion demanded, leaning forward in sudden
interest.
    But the Tiste Edur simply shook its head.
    The two bone-white Hounds looked barely restrained,
moments from exploding into a deadly charge. The hate
was avid in their eyes.
    'Why?' Cotillion asked again.
    'The . . . implacability of forces – we think to tame, but
the wildness remains. Control is a delusion in the mind of
self-proclaimed masters .' And that last word dripped with
contempt. 'The leash, you fools, is frayed – don't you understand
anything at all?'
    'Perhaps—'
    Tulas Shorn lifted both hands again, but this time in
a warding gesture. 'We thought the same, once. We'd
deceived ourselves into thinking we were the masters, that
every force