A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

it .' No, revelation
could not be sought, not through willing deprivation or
meditation. It needed to arrive unexpected, even undesired. 'Do not trust an easy believer .' Aye, she'd been a strange High
Priestess, all right.
    He remembered one night, when—
    A knife edge pressed cold against his throat.
    'Not a move,' hissed a voice behind him, and it was a
moment before Monkrat realized that the words had been
spoken in Malazan.
    'Figured I wouldn't recognize you, soldier?'
    Cold sweat cut through the steamy heat beneath his
woollen clothes. His breath came in gasps. 'Hood's breath,
if you're gonna kill me just get it done with!'
    'I'm sore tempted, I am.'
    'Fine, do it then – I've got a curse ready for you—'
    The Malazan snorted, and dogs started barking. 'That'd
be a real mistake.'
    Monkrat's headache had redoubled. He felt something
trickling down from his nostrils. The air was rank with a
stench he struggled to identify. Bestial, like an animal's
soaked pelt. 'Gods below,' he groaned. 'Spindle.'
    'Aye, my fame precedes me. Sorry I can't recall your
name, or your squad, even. But you were a Bridgeburner
– that much I do remember. Vanished up north, listed as
dead – but no, you deserted, ran out on your squadmates.'
    'What squadmates? They were all killed. My friends, all
killed. I'd had enough, Spindle. We were getting chewed to
pieces in that swamp. Aye, I walked. Would it have been
better if I'd stayed, only to die here in Black Coral?'
    'Not everyone died here, soldier—'
    'That's not what I heard. The Bridgeburners are done,
finished.'
    After a moment the knife fell away.
    Monkrat spun round, stared at the short, bald man,
wearing that infamous hairshirt – and Hood's breath, it
stank. 'Which has me wondering – what are you doing
here? Alive? Out of uniform?'
    'Dujek looked at us – a handful left – and just went and
added our names to the list. He sent us on our way.'
    'And you—'
    'I decided on the pilgrimage. The Redeemer – I saw
Itkovian myself, you see. And I saw Capustan. I was here
when the barrow went up – there's a sharper of mine in
that heap, in fact.'
    'A sharper ?'
    Spindle scowled. 'You had to have been there, soldier.'
    'Monkrat. That's my name now.'
    'Wipe the blood from your nose, Monkrat.'
    'Listen, Spindle – hear me well – you want nothing to do
with the Redeemer. Not now. You didn't kill me, so I give
you that – my warning. Run, run fast. As far away from here
as you can.' He paused. 'Where'd you come from anyway?'
    'Darujhistan. It's where we settled. Me and Antsy,
Bluepearl, Picker, Blend, Captain Paran. Oh, and Duiker.'
    'Duiker?'
    'The Imperial Historian—'
    'I know who he is – was – whatever. It's just, that don't
fit, him being there, I mean.'
    'Aye, he didn't fit well at all. He was on the Chain of
Dogs.'
    Monkrat made a gesture. Fener's blessing.
    Spindle's eyes widened. He sheathed his knife. 'I've
worked up a thirst, Monkrat.'
    'Not for kelyk, I hope.'
    'That shit they tried to force on me back there? Smelled
like puke. No, I want beer. Ale. Wine.'
    'We can find that in Black Coral.'
    'And you can tell me what's happened – to the Redeemer.'
    Monkrat rubbed at the bristle on his chin, and then
nodded. 'Aye, I will.' He paused. 'Hey, you remember the
red dragon? From Blackdog?'
    'Aye.'
    'She's here – and when it gets bad enough with the Redeemer,
well, she'll spread her wings.'
    'No wonder I got so edgy when I arrived. Where's she
hiding, then?'
    Monkrat grimaced. 'In plain sight. Come on, see for
yourself.'
    The two ex-soldiers set out for Black Coral.
    The clouds closed in, thick as curtains of sodden sand.
In the camp, new dancers spun and whirled through the
detritus, while a handful of terrified pilgrims fled back up
the trail.
    Rain arrived in a torrent, the water rushing down the
flanks of the barrow, making it glisten and gleam until it
seemed it was in motion. Shivering, moments from splitting
wide open. From the clouds, thunder rattled like ironshod
spears, a strange, startling sound that drew denizens
of Black Coral out into the streets, to stare upward in
wonder.
    The water in the black bowls surrounding the High
Priestess trembled in answer to that reverberation. She
frowned as a wave of trepidation rolled through her. The
time was coming, she realized. She was not ready, but
then, for some things, one could never be ready. The mind
worked possibilities, countless variations, in a procession
that did nothing but measure the time