A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

rose from behind her desk, came
round with a gathering of her robes, and then bowed. 'Son
of Darkness, welcome. Did we have anything arranged?'
    His smile was wry. 'Do we ever?'
    'Please,' she said, 'do come in. I will send for wine
and—'
    'No need on my account, High Priestess.' Anomander
Rake walked into the small office, eyed the two chairs
and then selected the least ornate one to sit down in. He
stretched out his legs, fingers lacing together on his lap,
and eyed her speculatively.
    She raised her arms, 'Shall I dance?'
    'Shall I sing?'
    'Abyss take me, no. Please.'
    'Do sit down,' said Rake, indicating the other chair.
    She did so, keeping her back straight, a silent question
lifting her eyebrows.
    He continued watching her.
    She let out a breath and slumped back. 'All right, then.
    I'm relaxing. See?'
    'You have ever been my favourite,' he said, looking
away.
    'Your favourite what?'
    'High Priestess, of course. What else might I be thinking?'
    'Well, that is the eternal question, isn't it?'
    'One too many people spend too much time worrying
about.'
    'You cannot be serious, Anomander.'
    He seemed to be studying her desk – not the things
scattered on its surface, but the desk itself. 'That's too small
for you,' he pronounced.
    She glanced at it. 'You are deceived, alas. It's my disorganization
that's too big. Give me a desk the size of a
concourse and I'll still fill it up with junk.'
    'Then it must be your mind that is too big, High Priestess.'
    'Well,' she said, 'there is so little to think about and so
much time.' She fluttered a hand. 'If my thoughts have
become oversized it's only out of indolence.' Her gaze
sharpened. 'And we have become so indolent, haven't we?'
    'She has been turned away for a long time,' Anomander
Rake said. 'That I allowed all of you to turn instead to me
was ever a dubious enterprise.'
    'You made no effort to muster worship, Son of Darkness,
and that is what made it dubious.'
    One brow lifted. 'Not my obvious flaws?'
    'And Mother Dark is without flaws? No, the Tiste Andii
were never foolish enough to force upon our icons the impossibility
of perfection.'
    '"Icons",' said Anomander Rake, frowning as he continued
studying the desk.
    'Is that the wrong word? I think not.'
    'And that is why I rejected the notion of worship.'
    'Why?'
    'Because, sooner or later, the believers shatter their
icons.'
    She grunted, and thought about that for a time, before
sighing and nodding. 'A hundred fallen, forgotten civilizations,
yes. And in the ruins all those statues . . . with
their faces chopped off. The loss of faith is ever violent, it
seems.'
    'Ours was.'
    The statement stung her. 'Ah, we are not so different
then, after all. What a depressing realization.'
    'Endest Silann,' he said.
    'Your stare is making the legs of my desk tremble, Lord
Rake – am I so unpleasant that you dare not rest eyes upon
me?'
    He slowly turned his head and settled his gaze upon her.
    And seeing all that was in his eyes almost made her
flinch, and she understood, all at once, the mercy he had
been giving her – with his face turned away, with his eyes
veiled by distraction. But then she had asked for his regard,
as much out of vanity as the secret pleasure of her attraction
to him – she could not now break this connection.
Marshalling her resolve, she said, 'Endest Silann, yes. The
reason for this visit. I understand.'
    'He is convinced he was broken long ago, High Priestess.
We both know it is not true.'
    She nodded. 'He proved that when he sustained Moon's
Spawn beneath the sea – proved it to everyone but himself.'
    'I reveal to him my confidence,' said Rake, 'and each
time he . . . contracts. I cannot reach through, it seems, to
bolster what I know is within him.'
    'Then it is his faith that is broken.'
    He grimaced, made no reply.
    'When the time comes,' she said, 'I will be there. To do
what I can. Although,' she added, 'that may not be much.'
    'You need not elaborate on the efficacy of your presence,
High Priestess. We are speaking, as you said, of faith.'
    'And there need be no substance to it. Thank you.'
    He glanced away once more, and this time the wry smile
she had seen before played again across his features. 'You
were always my favourite,' he said.
    'Me, or the desk you so seem to love?'
    He rose and she did the same. 'High Priestess,' he said.
    'Son of Darkness,' she returned, with another bow.
    And out he went, leaving in his wake a sudden absence,
an almost audible clap of displacement – but