A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

waited.
    Sighing, Antsy prepared to knock a second time, but
then something clunked on the other side of the barrier,
and a moment later the door swung back with a loud
squeal.
    The tall, undead monstrosity filled the doorway. Empty,
shadow-drowned eye sockets regarded them – or not; it was
impossible to tell.
    Antsy shifted from one foot to the other. 'You busy,
Raest? We need to make use of the hallway floor behind
you—'
    'Oh yes, I am very busy.'
    The Falari blinked. 'Really?'
    'Dust breeds. Cobwebs thicken. Candle wax stains precious
surfaces. What do you want?'
    Antsy glanced back at Barathol. 'Oh, a corpse with a
sense of humour, what do you know? And surprise, it's so droll.' He faced the Jaghut again and smiled. 'In case you
ain't noticed, the whole city has gone insane – that's why I
figured you might be suffering some—'
    'I am sorry,' cut in Raest, 'is something happening?'
    Antsy's eyes bulged slightly. 'The Hounds of Shadow are
loose!'
    Raest leaned forward as if to scan the vicinity, and then
settled back once more. 'Not in my yard.'
    Antsy clawed through his hair. 'Trust me, then, it's a bad
night – now, if you'd just step back—'
    'Although, come to think of it, I did have a visitor earlier
this evening.'
    'What? Oh, well, I'm happy for you, but—'
Raest lifted one desiccated hand and pointed.
    Antsy and Barathol turned. And there, in the yard,
there was a fresh mound of raw earth, steaming. Vines were
visibly snaking over it. 'Gods below,' the Falari whispered,
making a warding gesture with one hand.
    'A T'lan Imass with odd legs,' said Raest. 'It seemed to
harbour some dislike towards me.' The Jaghut paused. 'I
can't imagine why.'
    Antsy grunted. 'It should've stayed on the path.'
    'What do T'lan Imass know of footpaths?' Raest asked.
'In any case, it's still too angry for a conversation.' Another
pause. 'But there's time. Soldier, you have been remiss. I am
therefore disinclined to yield the floor, as it were.'
    'Like Hood I have!' And Antsy reached beneath his tunic
and tugged out a bedraggled, half-rotted shape. 'I found
you your damned white cat!'
    'Oh, so you have. How sweet. In that case,' Raest edged
back, 'do come in.'
    Barathol hesitated. 'What will this achieve, Antsy?'
    'He won't die,' the ex-sergeant replied. 'It's like time
doesn't exist in there. Trust me. We can find us a proper
healer tomorrow, or a month from now – it don't matter.
S'long as he's breathing when we carry him across the
threshold. So, come on, help me.' He then realized he was
still clutching the dead cat, and so he went up to the Jaghut
and thrust the ghastly thing into most welcoming arms.
    'I shall call it Tufty,' said Raest.
    The black tide ceased its seemingly inexorable crawl. A
slow, shallow breath held half drawn. A struggling heart
hovered in mid-beat. And yet that spark of awareness,
suddenly emboldened, set out on a journey of exploration
and discovery. So many long-dark pathways . . .
    Dragnipur has drunk deep, so deep.
    Dragnipur, sword of the father and slayer of the same.
Sword of Chains, Gate of Darkness, wheeled burden of life
and life ever flees dissolution and so it must! Weapon of edges,
caring naught who wields it. Cut indifferent, cut blind, cut
when to do so is its very purpose, its perfect function.
    Dragnipur.
    Dread sisterly feuds dwindled in significance – something
was proffered, something was almost within reach.
Matters of final possession could be worked out later, at
leisure in some wrought-iron, oversized bath-tub filled to
the brim with hot blood.
    Temporary pact. Expedience personified, Spite quelled,
Envy in abeyance.
    In their wake a crater slowly sagged, edges toppling inward,
heat fast dissipating. The melted faces of buildings
turned glassy in rainbow hues. For now the brilliance of
these colours was but hinted at in this moon-glow. But that
reflected light had begun a thousand new games, hinting at
something far deadlier. Still to come, still to come.
    Everywhere in the city, fires ebbed.
    The pressure of Dragnipur Unsheathed starves the flames of
destruction. Darkness is anathema to such forces, after all.
    Yes, salvation found, in a weapon let loose.
    The sisters were mad, but not so mad as to fail to grasp
the pleasing irony of such things.
    Quell the violence.
    Invite murder.
    He was in no condition to resist them – not both of them
– extraordinary that such an alliance had not occurred
long before this night. But sibling wounds are the festering
kind,