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‘Have you decided where yet?’
‘I’m sure that will be answered soon enough,’ he said, bending down to collect the arrows and the belt holding the quiver and kit pouch.
‘The sorcery here is… strange.’
His head snapped up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I am not sure. My familiarity with warrens is somewhat vicarious.’
I know.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘if this is Kurald Emurlahn, then it is tainted in some way. Necromantically. Life and death magicks, carved directly into the wood of this ship. As if warlocks and shoulder-women had done the consecrating.’
Cutter frowned. ‘Consecrating. You make it sound as if this ship was a temple.’
‘It was. Is. The spilling of blood has done nothing to desecrate it, which is precisely my point. Perhaps even warrens can sink into barbarity.’
‘Meaning the wielders of a warren can affect its nature. My late uncle would have found the notion fascinating. Not desecration, then, but denigration. ’
She slowly glanced around. ‘Rashan. Meanas. Thyr.’
He comprehended the thought. ‘You think all warrens accessible to humans are in fact denigrations of Elder Warrens.’
She raised her hands then. ‘Even blood decays.’
Cutter’s frown deepened. He was not sure what she meant by that, and found himself disinclined to ask. Easier, safer, to simply grunt and make his way to the gunnel. ‘We should make use of this breeze. Assuming you’re done here.’
In answer she walked to the ship’s side and clambered over the rail.
Cutter watched her climb down to the runner, taking her place at the tiller. He paused for a final look around. And stiffened.
On the distant strand of Drift Avalii, there stood a lone figure, leaning on a two-handed sword.
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‘Have you decided where yet?’
‘I’m sure that will be answered soon enough,’ he said, bending down to collect the arrows and the belt holding the quiver and kit pouch.
‘The sorcery here is… strange.’
His head snapped up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I am not sure. My familiarity with warrens is somewhat vicarious.’
I know.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘if this is Kurald Emurlahn, then it is tainted in some way. Necromantically. Life and death magicks, carved directly into the wood of this ship. As if warlocks and shoulder-women had done the consecrating.’
Cutter frowned. ‘Consecrating. You make it sound as if this ship was a temple.’
‘It was. Is. The spilling of blood has done nothing to desecrate it, which is precisely my point. Perhaps even warrens can sink into barbarity.’
‘Meaning the wielders of a warren can affect its nature. My late uncle would have found the notion fascinating. Not desecration, then, but denigration. ’
She slowly glanced around. ‘Rashan. Meanas. Thyr.’
He comprehended the thought. ‘You think all warrens accessible to humans are in fact denigrations of Elder Warrens.’
She raised her hands then. ‘Even blood decays.’
Cutter’s frown deepened. He was not sure what she meant by that, and found himself disinclined to ask. Easier, safer, to simply grunt and make his way to the gunnel. ‘We should make use of this breeze. Assuming you’re done here.’
In answer she walked to the ship’s side and clambered over the rail.
Cutter watched her climb down to the runner, taking her place at the tiller. He paused for a final look around. And stiffened.
On the distant strand of Drift Avalii, there stood a lone figure, leaning on a two-handed sword.
Traveller.
And Cutter now saw that there were others, squatting or seated around him. A half-dozen Malazan soldiers. In the trees behind them stood Tiste Andu, silver-haired and ghostly. The image seemed to burn in his mind, as of a touch so cold as to feel like fire. He shivered, pulling his gaze away with an effort, and quickly joined Apsalar in the runner, taking the mooring line with him.
He set the oars in their locks and pushed the craft away from the ship’s black hull.
‘I believe they intend to commandeer this Edur dromon,’ Apsalar said.
‘What about protecting the Throne?’
‘There are demons from Shadow on the island now. Your patron god has clearly decided to take a more active role in defending the secret.’
‘ Your patron god.’ Thank you for that, Apsalar. And who was it who held your soul cupped in his two hands? A killer’s hands . ‘Why not just take it back to the Shadow Realm?’
‘No doubt if he could, he would,’ she replied. ‘But when Anomander Rake placed his kin here to guard it, he also wrought sorcery around the Throne. It will not be moved.’
Cutter shipped the oars and began preparing the sail. ‘Then Shadowthrone need only come here and plant his scrawny arse on it, right?’
He disliked her answering smile. ‘Thus ensuring that no-one else could claim its power, or the position of King of High House Shadow. Unless, of course, they killed Shadowthrone first. A god of courage and unassailable power might well plant his scrawny arse on that throne to end the argument once and for all. But Shadowthrone did just that, once before, as Emperor Kellanved.’
‘He did?’
‘He claimed the First Throne. The throne of the T’lan Imass.’
Oh.
‘Fortunately,’ Apsalar continued, ‘as Shadowthrone, he has shown little interest in making use of his role as Emperor of the T’lan Imass.’
‘Well, why bother? This way, he negates the chance of anyone else finding and taking that throne, while his avoidance of using it himself ensures that no-one takes notice he has it in the first place-gods, I’m starting to sound like Kruppe! In any case, that seems clever, not cowardly.’
She studied him for a long moment. ‘I had not thought of that. You are right, of course. Unveiling power invites convergence, after all. It seems Shadowthrone has absorbed well his early residence in the Deadhouse. More so, perhaps, than Cotillion has.’
‘Aye, it’s an Azath tactic, isn’t it? Negation serves to disarm . Given the chance, he’d probably plant himself in every throne in sight, then, with all the power accrued to him, he would do nothing with it. Nothing at all.’
Her eyes slowly widened.
He frowned at her expression. Then his heart started pounding hard. No. I was only kidding. That’s not just ambitious, it’s insane. He could never pull it off… but what if he did ? ‘All the games of the gods…’
