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‘Was your audience with the Chosen One fruitful, Bidithal?’
‘As always, Febryl,’ Bidithal smiled, wondering at how the ancient High Mage managed to get so close before being detected by his secret guardians. ‘What do you wish of me? It’s late.’
‘The time has come,’ Febryl said in a low, rasping tone. ‘You must choose. Join us, or stand aside.’
Bidithal raised his brows. ‘Is there not a third option?’
‘If you mean you would fight us, the answer is, regrettably, no. I suggest, however, we withhold on that discussion for the moment. Instead, hear our reward for you-granted whether you join us or simply remove yourself from our path.’
‘Reward? I am listening, Febryl.’
‘She will be gone, as will the Malazan Empire. Seven Cities will be free as it once was. Yet the Whirlwind Warren will remain, returned to the Dryjhna-to the cult of the Apocalypse which is and always has been at the heart of the rebellion. Such a cult needs a master, a High Priest, ensconced in a vast, rich temple, duly honoured by all. How would you shape such a cult?’ Febryl smiled. ‘It seems you have already begun, Bidithal. Oh yes, we know all about your… special children. Imagine, then, all of Seven Cities at your disposal. All of Seven Cities, honoured to deliver to you their unwanted daughters.’
Bidithal licked his lips, eyes shifting away. ‘I must think on this-’
‘There’s no more time for that. Join us, or stand aside.’
‘When do you begin?’
‘Why, Bidithal, we already have. The Adjunct and her legions are but days away. We have already moved our agents, they are all in place, ready to complete their appointed tasks. The time for indecision is past. Decide. Now.’
‘Very well. Your path is clear, Febryl. I accept your offer. But my cult must remain my own, to shape as I choose. No interference-’
‘None. That is a promise-’
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‘Was your audience with the Chosen One fruitful, Bidithal?’
‘As always, Febryl,’ Bidithal smiled, wondering at how the ancient High Mage managed to get so close before being detected by his secret guardians. ‘What do you wish of me? It’s late.’
‘The time has come,’ Febryl said in a low, rasping tone. ‘You must choose. Join us, or stand aside.’
Bidithal raised his brows. ‘Is there not a third option?’
‘If you mean you would fight us, the answer is, regrettably, no. I suggest, however, we withhold on that discussion for the moment. Instead, hear our reward for you-granted whether you join us or simply remove yourself from our path.’
‘Reward? I am listening, Febryl.’
‘She will be gone, as will the Malazan Empire. Seven Cities will be free as it once was. Yet the Whirlwind Warren will remain, returned to the Dryjhna-to the cult of the Apocalypse which is and always has been at the heart of the rebellion. Such a cult needs a master, a High Priest, ensconced in a vast, rich temple, duly honoured by all. How would you shape such a cult?’ Febryl smiled. ‘It seems you have already begun, Bidithal. Oh yes, we know all about your… special children. Imagine, then, all of Seven Cities at your disposal. All of Seven Cities, honoured to deliver to you their unwanted daughters.’
Bidithal licked his lips, eyes shifting away. ‘I must think on this-’
‘There’s no more time for that. Join us, or stand aside.’
‘When do you begin?’
‘Why, Bidithal, we already have. The Adjunct and her legions are but days away. We have already moved our agents, they are all in place, ready to complete their appointed tasks. The time for indecision is past. Decide. Now.’
‘Very well. Your path is clear, Febryl. I accept your offer. But my cult must remain my own, to shape as I choose. No interference-’
‘None. That is a promise-’
‘Whose?’
‘Mine.’
‘And what of Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe?’
Febryl’s smile broadened. ‘What worth their vows, Bidithal? The Empress had Korbolo Dom’s once. Sha’ik did as well…’
As she had yours, too, Febryl . ‘Then we-you and I-understand each other.’
‘We do indeed.’
Bidithal watched the High Mage stride away. He knew my shadow spirits surrounded me, yet was dismissive of them. There was no third option. Had I voiced defiance, I would now be dead. I know it. I can feel Hood’s cold breath, here in this alley. My powers are… compromised. How ? He needed to discover the source of Febryl’s confidence. Before he could do anything, before he could make a single move. And which move will that be? Febryl’s offer… appeals .
Yet Febryl had promised no interference, even as he had revealed an arrogant indifference to the power Bidithal had already fashioned. An indifference that bespoke of intimate knowledge. You do not dismiss what you know nothing of, after all. Not at this stage .
Bidithal resumed his journey back to his temple. He felt… vulnerable. An unfamiliar sensation, and it brought a tremble to his limbs.
A faint stinging bite, then numbness spreading out from her lungs.
Scillara leaned her head back, reluctant to exhale, believing for the briefest of moments that her need for air had vanished. Then she exploded into coughing.
‘Be quiet,’ Korbolo Dom snarled, rolling a stoppered bottle across the blankets towards her. ‘Drink, woman. Then open those screens-I can barely see with all the water wrung from my eyes.’
She listened to his boots on the rushes, moving off into one of the back chambers. The coughing was past. Her chest felt full of thick, cloying liquid. Her head was swimming, and she struggled to recall what had happened a few moments earlier. Febryl had arrived. Excited, she believed. Something about her master, Bidithal. The culmination of a long-awaited triumph. They had both gone to the inner rooms.
There had been a time, once, she was fairly certain, when her thoughts had been clear-though, she suspected, most of them had been unpleasant ones. And so there was little reason to miss those days. Except for the clarity itself-its acuity that made recollection effortless.
She so wanted to serve her master, and serve him well. With distinction, sufficient to earn her new responsibilities, to assume new roles-ones that did not, perhaps, involve surrendering her body to men. One day, Bidithal would not be able to attend to all the new girls as he did now-there would be too many, even for him. She was certain she could manage the scarring, the cutting away of pleasure.
