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‘Olar Shayn. What in Hood’s name were you doing in that warren? Who were you trying to kill?’
‘We did not try; we succeeded. The wounds delivered were mortal. It will die, and my kin pursue to witness.’
‘It? What, precisely?’
‘A false god. I know no more than that. I was commanded to kill it. Now, find for me a worthy place of rest, mortal.’
‘I will. As soon as I find a tree.’
Lostara wiped sweat from her brow, then went over to sit on a boulder. ‘It doesn’t need a tree, Pearl,’ she said, sighing. ‘This ledge should do.’
The Claw swung the severed head so that it faced the basin and the vista beyond. ‘Is this pleasing enough, Olar Shayn?’
‘It is. Tell me your name, and you shall know my eternal gratitude.’
‘Eternal? I suppose that’s not an exaggeration either, is it? Well, I am Pearl, and my redoubtable companion is Lostara Yil. Now, let’s find a secure place for you, shall we?’
‘Your kindness is unexpected, Pearl.’
‘Always is and always will be,’ he replied, scanning the ledge.
Lostara stared at her companion, surprised at how thoroughly her sentiments matched those of the T’lan Imass. ‘Pearl, do you know precisely where we are?’
He shrugged. ‘First things first, lass. I’d appreciate it if you allowed me to savour my merciful moment. Ah! Here’s the spot, Olar Shayn!’
Lostara closed her eyes. From ashes and dust… to sand. At least it was home. Now, all that remained was finding the trail of a Malazan lass who vanished months ago. ‘Nothing to it,’ she whispered.
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‘Olar Shayn. What in Hood’s name were you doing in that warren? Who were you trying to kill?’
‘We did not try; we succeeded. The wounds delivered were mortal. It will die, and my kin pursue to witness.’
‘It? What, precisely?’
‘A false god. I know no more than that. I was commanded to kill it. Now, find for me a worthy place of rest, mortal.’
‘I will. As soon as I find a tree.’
Lostara wiped sweat from her brow, then went over to sit on a boulder. ‘It doesn’t need a tree, Pearl,’ she said, sighing. ‘This ledge should do.’
The Claw swung the severed head so that it faced the basin and the vista beyond. ‘Is this pleasing enough, Olar Shayn?’
‘It is. Tell me your name, and you shall know my eternal gratitude.’
‘Eternal? I suppose that’s not an exaggeration either, is it? Well, I am Pearl, and my redoubtable companion is Lostara Yil. Now, let’s find a secure place for you, shall we?’
‘Your kindness is unexpected, Pearl.’
‘Always is and always will be,’ he replied, scanning the ledge.
Lostara stared at her companion, surprised at how thoroughly her sentiments matched those of the T’lan Imass. ‘Pearl, do you know precisely where we are?’
He shrugged. ‘First things first, lass. I’d appreciate it if you allowed me to savour my merciful moment. Ah! Here’s the spot, Olar Shayn!’
Lostara closed her eyes. From ashes and dust… to sand. At least it was home. Now, all that remained was finding the trail of a Malazan lass who vanished months ago. ‘Nothing to it,’ she whispered.
‘Did you say something, lass?’
She opened her eyes and studied him where he crouched anchoring stones around the undead warrior’s severed head. ‘You don’t know where we are, do you?’
He smiled. ‘Is this a time, do you think, for some creative conjecture?’
Thoughts of murder flashed through her, not for the first time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It is not unusual to see the warrens of Meanas and Rashan as the closest of kin. Yet are not the games of illusion and shadow games of light? At some point, therefore, the notion of distinctions between these warrens ceases to have meaning. Meanas, Rashan and Thyr. Only the most fanatic of practitioners among these warrens would object to this. The aspect all three share is ambivalence; their games the games of ambiguity. All is deceit, all is deception. Among them, nothing-nothing at all-is as it seems.
A Preliminary Analysis of the Warrens
Konoralandas
Fifteen hundred desert warriors had assembled at the southern edge of the ruined city, their white horses ghostly through the clouds of amber dust, the glint of chain vests and scaled hauberks flashing dully every now and then from beneath golden telabas. Five hundred spare mounts accompanied the raiders.
Korbolo Dom stood near Sha’ik and Ghost Hands atop a weathered platform that had once been the foundation of a temple or public building of some sort, allowing them a clear view of the assembling warriors.
The Napan renegade watched, expressionless, as Leoman of the Flails rode up for a last word with the Chosen One. He himself would not bother with any false blessings, for he would much prefer that Leoman never return. And if he must, then not in triumph in any case. And though his scarred face revealed nothing, he well knew that Leoman entertained no delusions about Korbolo’s feelings for him.
They were allies only in so far as they both served Sha’ik. And even that was far less certain than it might have outwardly seemed. Nor did the Malazan believe that the Chosen One was deluded as to the spite and enmity that existed between her generals. Her ignorance existed solely in the plans that were slowly, incrementally settling into place to achieve her own demise. Of that Korbolo was certain.
Else she would have acted long before now.
Leoman reined in before the platform. ‘Chosen One! We set out now, and when we return we shall bring you word of the Malazan army. Their disposition. Their rate of march-’
‘But not,’ Sha’ik cut in sternly, ‘their mettle. No engagements, Leoman. The first blooding of her army will be here. By my hand.’
Mouth pressing into a thin line, Leoman nodded, then he said, ‘Tribes will have conducted raids on them, Chosen One. Likely beginning a league beyond the walls of Aren. They will have already been blooded-’
‘I cannot see such minor exchanges as making a difference either way,’ Sha’ik replied. ‘Those tribes are sending their warriors here-they arrive daily. Your forces would be the largest she would have to face-and I will not have that. Do not argue this point again, Leoman, else I forbid you to leave Raraku!’
