A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

and natures at war are normally blind to every pacifying
gesture. What was needed was the proper incentive.
    Alas, it did not occur to either twin that their father
understood all too well the potential danger of his
daughters forged together in alliance. And in shaping
them – as carefully, as perfectly as he shaped Dragnipur
itself – he had done what he could to mitigate the risk.
    And so, as they walked side by side up the street, in
Spite's mind she had already begun scheming her fateful
stab into her sister's back. While Envy amused herself with
virtually identical thoughts, roles reversed, naturally.
    First things first, however.
    They would kill Anomander Rake.
    For Dragnipur has drunk deep, so very deep . . .
    'Karsa, please.'
    Ashes drifted in the air, amidst foul smoke. Distant
screams announced tragic scenes. The last night of the
Gedderone Fête was sinking into misery and suffering.
    'There is nothing to be done, Samar Dev. But we will do
this – we will witness. We will withstand the cost of that,
if we can.'
    She had not expected such uncertainty in the Toblakai.
Always a stranger to humility, or so he seemed to her. He
had not even drawn his flint sword.
    They were twenty-five paces behind Traveller. They
could see an angled gate arching over the broad street as
it sloped upward, a hundred paces ahead. But the warrior
they tracked had slowed his steps. There was something
– someone – in the centre of the street in front of Traveller.
And silent crowds on both sides – crowds that flinched
back as the Hounds lumbered into view; flinched, but did
not flee.
    Something held them in place, something stronger than
fear.
    Samar Dev sensed the pressure sliding past, like a wind
sweeping round her, drawing inward once more – straight
into that huddled figure, who now, at last, stirred.
    Traveller stood, six or so paces away from the stranger,
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and watched in silence as the man slowly straightened.
    Tiste Andii.
    Silver-haired. In his hands, a sword trailing ghostly
chains . . . oh . . . spirits below, oh, no—
    Traveller spoke. 'He said you would stand in my way.'
That voice carried, strong as waves surging against a dark
shore.
    Samar Dev's heart stuttered.
    When Anomander Rake replied, his words were cold,
solid and unyielding, 'What else did he tell you?'
    Traveller shook his head. 'Where is he?' he demanded. 'I
can feel – he's close. Where is he?'
    Not Cotillion. A different 'he' this time. The one Traveller
seeks. The one he has ever sought.
    'Yes,' said Rake. 'Close.'
    Thick, flapping sounds, drifting in from the smoky night
sky. She looked up in alarm and saw Great Ravens. Landing
upon roof ledges. Scores, hundreds, silent but for the
beat of air beneath crooked wings. Gathering, gathering,
along the arched gate and the sections of wall to either
side. Landing everywhere, so long as it's a place from which
they can see.
    'Then stand aside,' commanded Traveller.
    'I cannot.'
    'Dammit, Rake, you are not my enemy.'
    The Son of Darkness tilted his head, as if receiving a
compliment, an unexpected gift.
    'Rake. You have never been my enemy. You know that.
Even when the Empire . . .'
    'I know, Dassem. I know.'
    'He said this would happen.' There was dismay in that
statement, and resignation.
    Rake made no reply.
    'He said,' continued Dassem, 'that you would not yield.'
    'No, I will not yield.'
    'Please help me, Rake, help me to understand . . . why?'
    'I am not here to help you, Dassem Ultor.' And Samar
Dev heard genuine regret in that admission. The Son
of Darkness closed both hands about the long grip of
Dragnipur and, angling the pommel upward and to his
right, slowly widened his stance. 'If you so want Hood,' he
said, 'come and get him.'
    Dassem Ultor – the First Sword of the Malazan Empire – who was supposed to be dead. As if Hood would even want this
one – Dassem Ultor, the one they had known as Traveller,
unsheathed his sword, the water-etched blade flashing as if
lapped by molten silver. Samar Dev's sense of a rising wave
now burgeoned in her mind. Two forces. Sea and stone, sea
and stone.
    Among the onlookers to either side, a deep, soft chant
had begun.
    Samar Dev stared at those arrayed faces, the shining
eyes, the mouths moving in unison. Gods below, the cult of
Dessembrae. These are cultists – and they stand facing their
god.
    And that chant, yes, it was a murmuring, it was the
cadence of deep water rising. Cold and hungry.
    Samar Dev saw Anomander Rake's gaze settle