A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

of
Anomander Rake into his arms, the chamber within was
ready. And when he then emerged, pausing as if startled
upon seeing the tens of thousands of silent mourners
forming a ring round the hill's base, an enormous capstone
had risen into view, splitting the grassy ground.
    And when with one hand Caladan Brood had guided
it into place, he drew his hammer. To seal the barrow for
ever.
    Anomander Rake was interred in darkness. Weaponless,
accompanied by no gifts, no wealth, no treasured possessions.
His flesh was not treated against the ravages of
decay. The blood and gore covering his face was not even
washed away. None of these gestures belonged to the Tiste
Andii, for whom the soul's departure leaves the flesh blind,
insensate and indifferent.
    Dying delivers one into the river of darkness, that passes
into and out of the ruined city of Kharkanas, the womb
long dead, long abandoned. Into the river, and the river
must travel on, ever on.
    Caladan Brood sealed the barrow, and upon the capstone
of bleached dolomite he set a symbol, carved deep into the
stone's face. An ancient Barghast glyph, its meaning precise
and yet a thing of countless layers – although this is
known only to those who in life come to face it directly.
    A single Barghast glyph.
    Which said Grief.
    When Baruk had vanished inside his carriage and the
conveyance had rumbled off on its way to the High
Alchemist's venerable estate; when the huge Toblakai
warrior and Picker had concluded their conversation,
and each had gone their own way, the former trailed by
his daughters and the limping dog; when the place where
two warriors had met in mortal combat bore nothing but a
scattering of masonry, sun-darkened swaths of spilled blood
and the motionless forms of dead Hounds of Light – when
all this had come to pass, two figures emerged from the
shadows.
    One was barely visible despite the harsh sunlight:
ghostly, leaning on a cane. And after a time of silence, this
one spoke in a rasping voice. To begin with, a single word:
'Well?'
    And his companion replied in kind. 'Well.'
    The cane tapped a few times on the cobbles.
    The companion then said, 'It's out of our hands now,
until the end.'
    'Until the end,' agreed Shadowthrone. 'You know,
Cotillion, I never much liked Caladan Brood.'
    'Really? I never knew.'
    'Do you think . . .'
    'I think,' said Cotillion, 'that we need not worry on that
count.'
    Shadowthrone sighed. 'Are we pleased? It was . . . delicate
. . . the timing. Are we pleased? We should be.'
    'The damned Hounds of Light,' said Cotillion, 'that was
unexpected. Two, yes. But ten? Gods below.'
    'Hmph! I was more worried by my Magus's temporary
sanity.'
    'Is that what you call it?'
    'He had a chance – a slim one, but he had a chance.
Imagine that one wielding Dragnipur.'
    Cotillion regarded his companion. 'Are you suggesting
he would not have relinquished it? Ammanas, really. That
was all your play. I'm not fooled by his seemingly going
rogue on you. You vowed you'd not try to steal the sword.
But of course you never mentioned anything about one of
your High Priests doing it for you.'
    'And it would have been mine!' Shadowthrone hissed in
sudden rage. 'If not for that confounded fat man with the
greasy lips! Mine!'
    'Iskaral Pust's, you mean.'
    Shadowthrone settled down once more, tapped his cane.
'We'd have seen eye to eye, eventually.'
    'I doubt it.'
    'Well, who cares what you think, anyway?'
    'So where is he now?'
    'Pust? Back in the temple, poring through the archives of
the Book of Shadows.'
    'Looking for what?'
    'Some provision, any provision, for a High Priest of
Shadow having two wives.'
    'Is there one?'
    'How should I know?'
    'Well,' Cotillion said, 'didn't you write it?'
    Shadowthrone shifted about. 'I was busy.'
    'So who did?'
    Shadowthrone would not answer.
    Cotillion's brows rose. 'Not Pust! The Book of Shadows,
where he's proclaimed the Magus of the High House
Shadow?'
    'It's called delegation,' Shadowthrone snapped.
    'It's called idiocy.'
    'Well, hee hee . I dare say he'll find what he's looking for,
won't he?'
    'Aye, with the ink still wet.'
    They said nothing then for a time, until Cotillion drew
in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, and then said,
'We should give him a few days, I think.' And this time, he
was not speaking of Iskaral Pust.
    'Unless you want to get cut to pieces, yes, a few days.'
    'I wasn't sure he'd, well, accept. Right up until the
moment he . . .' Cotillion winced and looked up the street,
as if