A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

that had been a squalid encampment,
where a monastery was now under construction,
although for the moment a military tent was the temple
wherein dwelt Salind, the High Priestess of the Redeemer.
    Would she accept him?
    Mother Dark, hear me please. For Spinnock Durav, who stood
in your son's place, again and again. Give him peace. Give him
happiness.
    At the Great Barrow there were other workers, pilgrims
for the most part, raising a lesser burial mound, to hold the
bones of someone named Seerdomin, who had been chosen
to stand eternal vigilance at the foot of the Redeemer. It
was odd and mysterious, how such notions came to pass.
Nimander reminded himself that he would have to send a
crew out there, to see if they needed any help.
    'What are you thinking, Lord Nimander?'
    Nimander winced at the title. 'I was thinking,' he said,
'about prayers. How they feel . . . cleaner when one says
them not for oneself, but on behalf of someone else.' He
shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. 'I was praying for Spinnock.
Anyway, that's what I was thinking. Well, the High
Priestess says there are things we need to talk about. I'd
best be off.'
    As he turned, Skintick said, 'It's said that Anomander
Rake would stand facing the sea.'
    'Oh, and?'
    'Nothing. It's just that I've noticed that you've taken to
staring out over land, out to that Great Barrow. Is there
something about the Redeemer that interests you?'
    And Nimander just smiled, and then he went inside,
leaving Skintick staring after him.
    In a chamber devoted to the most arcane rituals, forty-seven
steps beneath the ground floor of the High Alchemist's
estate, two iron anvils had been placed within an inscribed
circle. The torches lining the walls struggled to lift flames
above their blackened mouths.
    Sitting at a table off to one side was the witch, Derudan,
a hookah at her side, smoke rising from her as if she
steamed in the chilly air. At the edge of the circle stood
Vorcan, who now called herself Lady Varada, wrapped
tight inside a dark grey woollen cloak. The Great Raven,
Crone, walked as if pacing out the chamber's dimensions,
her head crooking again and again to regard the anvils.
    Baruk was by the door, eyeing Vorcan and Derudan.
The last of the T'orrud Cabal. The taste in his mouth
was of ashes.
    There were servants hidden in the city, and they were
even now at work. To bring about a fell return, to awaken
one of the Tyrants of old. Neither woman in this room was
unaware of this, and the fear was palpable in its persistent
distraction.
    The fate of Darujhistan – and of the T'orrud Cabal – was
not their reason for being here, however.
    The door swung open with a creak and in strode
Caladan Brood, carrying in one hand the sword Dragnipur.
He paused just inside and glowered across at Vorcan, and
then Derudan. 'This has nothing to do with you,' he told
them.
    Vorcan bowed. 'Forgive us, Warlord, but we will stay.'
    Clearing his throat, Baruk said, 'My fault, Warlord. It
seems they do not trust me – not in such close proximity
to that weapon.'
    Brood bared his teeth. 'Am I not guardian enough?'
    Seeing Vorcan's faint smile, Baruk said, 'The lack of
trust is mutual, I am afraid. I am more at ease with these
two here in front of us, rather than, um, my starting at
every shadow.'
    The warlord continued staring at Vorcan. 'You'd try for
me, Assassin?'
    Crone cackled at the suggestion.
    'I assume,' Vorcan said, 'there will be no need.'
    Brood glanced at Baruk. 'What a miserable nest you live
in, High Alchemist. Never mind, it's time.'
    They watched him walk into the circle. They watched
him set Dragnipur down, bridging the two anvils. He took
a single step back, then, and grew still as he stared down
at the sword.
    'It is beautiful,' he said. 'Fine craftsmanship.'
    'May you one day be able to compliment its maker in
person,' Vorcan said. 'Just don't expect me to make the
introduction. I don't know where they will all spill out, so
long as it isn't in my city.'
    Brood shrugged. 'I am the wrong one from whom to seek
reassurance, Assassin.' He drew the huge hammer from his
back and readied the weapon. 'I'm just here to break the
damned thing.'
    No one spoke then, and not one of the watchers moved
a muscle as the warlord took a second step back and raised
the hammer over his head. He held it poised for a moment.
'I'd swear,' he said in a low rumble, 'that Burn's smiling in
her sleep right now.'
    And down came the hammer.
    Fisher was waiting in the garden, strangely fresh,