A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

the heavens, close about all
those spinning pieces in the sky, and remake the entire
moon.
    But this was not a healing power. This was not a benign
will.
    The Hounds howled anew, announcing all that they had
sensed, all that they even now reeled away from. Goaded,
they lashed out in all directions, killing with mindless
frenzy. And once more madness was unleashed upon the
hapless people of Darujhistan.
    Oh, the master would be furious at this loss of control.
Most furious.
    Chillbais opened his mouth and managed an impossibly
broad grin. A smile to the crazed night sky. The demon
worked its way out of the niche and flapped its wings a few
times to work out the folds. Then it sprang into the air.
    Plunging into the milling crowd was not part of the plan,
and the panic that ensued seemed out of all proportion to
this modest demon's unexpected arrival. After some hectic
moments, Chillbais succeeded in flapping upward once
more, bruised and scraped, scratched and scuffed, winging
his way to the estate of his master.
    Eager to deliver a message.
    He is here! He is here! Dassem Ultor is here!
    Can I leave now?
    Both Karsa and Samar Dev had witnessed the demon's
plight, but neither made comment, even as it winged
back up to vanish over the wall. They were rushing, Karsa
Orlong imposing enough to clear a path, straight for the
gate.
    A short time later they stumbled through, out on to a
broad avenue into which citizens streamed from every conceivable
direction.
    They saw Traveller sixty or so paces ahead, reaching an
intersection oddly empty of refugees. Those figures nearest
it were running in blind panic.
    Traveller had halted. A solitary figure, bathed in the
light of the shattered moon.
    A Hound trotted into view on the warrior's left. A
mangled, headless torso hung in its jaws, still draining
thick blood. Its lambent eyes were on Traveller, who had
not moved, although it was clear that he was tracking the
beast with his gaze.
    Karsa unsheathed his sword and quickened his pace.
Samar Dev, her heart pounding, hurried after him.
    She saw the Toblakai slow suddenly, and then stop, still
thirty paces from the intersection, and a moment later she
saw why.
    Cotillion was walking up to Traveller. Another Hound
– the black one – had appeared to guard the god's other
flank.
    Behind them a distant building suddenly crashed down,
and in the heart of that thunder there was the sound of
two beasts locked in mortal combat, neither yielding. Frail
screams echoed in fragile counterpoint.
    Traveller waited. Cotillion came to stand directly in
front of him, and began to speak.
    Samar Dev wanted to rush forward, at least to a spot
from where she could overhear the god, catch whatever response
Traveller delivered. But Karsa's hand held her back,
and he shook his head, saying in a murmur, 'This is not for
us, witch.'
    Traveller seemed to be refusing something, stepping
back, looking away.
    Cotillion pressed on.
    'He does not want it,' Karsa said. 'Whatever he asks,
Traveller does not want it.'
    Yes, she could see that. 'Please, I need to—'
    'No.'
    'Karsa—'
    'What drives you is want, not need.'
    'Fine, then! I'm a nosy bitch – just leave me to it—'
    'No. This is between them, and so it must remain. Samar
Dev, answer me this. If you could hear what they say, if you
comprehended all that it might mean, would you be able
to stay silent?'
    She bristled, and then hissed in frustration. 'I'm not very
good at doing that, am I? All right, Karsa – but what if I did
say something? What harm would that do?'
    'Leave him,' said Karsa. 'Leave him free to choose for
himself.'
    Whatever Cotillion was saying seemed to strike like
physical blows, which Traveller absorbed one after another,
still looking away – still clearly unable to meet the god's
eyes.
    The Hound with the chewed-up torso was now eating it
with all the mindless intensity common to carnivores filling
their stomachs. The other beast had half turned away
and seemed to be listening to that distant fight.
    Cotillion was unrelenting.
    For the god, for Traveller, and for Samar Dev and Karsa
Orlong, the world beyond this scene had virtually vanished.
A moment was taking portentous shape, hewn one piece at
a time, like finding a face in the heart of a block of stone.
A moment that spun on some kind of decision, one that
Traveller must make, here, now, for it was obvious that
Cotillion had placed himself in the warrior's path, and
would not step to one side.
    'Karsa – if this goes