locating him.
Outside, the horse was brought up and he mounted. Wishing the men good luck, he urged his mount inland. He was a good few leagues off, climbing the gentle rolling hillside, when something tugged at him from the Strait. Something’s gathering. He reined in and turned. Shading his eyes, he could just make out the distant Blue and Talian men-of-war anchored in the bay. What were they up to? Then he felt it: the puissance literally pushed him backwards. Ye gods, what was this? Ruse, awakening? Had an Ascendant taken to the field?
A great wave bulged in the bay, heaving shoreward. That renegade Mare mage! Sweeping the shore clear! Where came she by such might? Too much. Far too much for him to contest. That was one battle he had to concede. She could have the shore — but this was her one and only throw. He still had many more. He sawed the reins around and made inland as fast as he could urge the horse.
Warran took Kiska through Shadow — just how he did it she wasn’t sure. He simply invited her to walk to the darkened rear of the tent and she found herself stepping on much farther than its dimensions. The gloom then brightened to the familiar haziness of the Chaos region and she turned to him. ‘Where are we?’
‘Within the boundary threshold of the Whorl itself.’ The short fellow clasped his hands at his front. ‘Myself, I have no wish to go any farther.’
‘But it was dark…’
‘To those looking from the outside, yes. It would appear that those within create their own local conditions.’
Kiska peered around, dubious. ‘I don’t think I understand…’
The old priest cocked his head. ‘Some say every consciousness is like a seed. Perhaps that is true. I know of small pocket realms that act in this manner. Perhaps we create our own — for a time. Now I understand why the Liosan would come in such numbers. Their local conditions would be that much stronger, and more enduring.’
‘Enduring?’
Warran gave a serious nod. ‘You don’t really think you can forestall the eroding effects for ever, do you? Eventually you will be consumed.’ He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Or perhaps you will drift in nothingness dreaming for ever… Hmm. An interesting problem…’
Kiska stared at the ragged fellow. ‘That’s supposed to reassure me?’
Warran blinked. ‘Does it? It certainly wouldn’t reassure me.’
Exasperated, she raised her arms to turn full circle. ‘Well, which direction should I go?’
‘I really do not think it matters. Here, all directions lead to the centre.’
‘All directions lead — that doesn’t make any sense!’
The priest pursed his lips, head cocked. ‘You could say it has its own kind of logic… you just have to learn to think a different way.’
‘You sound as if you’ve done this before.’
The greying tangled brows rose in surprise. ‘Time is wasting. You’d better start searching.’ He raised a finger. ‘Oh! I took the liberty…’ He reached into his dirty torn robes and pulled out Kiska’s staff.
Mute with wonder, she accepted it, then stared from it to him: it was taller than he. ‘How…’
He waved goodbye, started off. Over his shoulder he called, ‘Take care. Remember the logic!’ He’d taken only a few steps when he disappeared.
Kiska stared, squinting. Was that the border of her own personal space? The thought unnerved her utterly. She squeezed the staff in her hands, feeling emboldened by its familiarity, and started off in the opposite direction from the one in which the priest had gone.
She had no sense of time passing, of course. It might have been a moment, or a day, but eventually the sky darkened, seeming to close in until she jogged beneath a night sky blazing with stars that showed no constellation she knew. The ground to either side fell away in steep slopes down to an equally dark abyss, leaving a narrow walk, and here someone was waiting for her.
It was Jheval-Leoman, arms crossed, an almost embarrassed look on his wind-tanned face. Kiska noted he once more wore his morningstars on his belt — that damned priest! She lowered her staff. ‘Keep your distance.’
He held up his opened hands. ‘Kiska. I have no vendetta. Believe me. My only motive is to get you damned Malazans off my back.’
She motioned him to walk ahead of her. ‘So you say. But I can’t trust that, can I?’
He let out a long breath, his arms slowly falling. ‘No. I suppose not.’ He walked ahead of her. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me of this manifestation, and I’m worried. You said Tayschrenn didn’t create this-’
‘Agayla would not deceive me! I trust her completely!’
He turned, walking backwards. ‘Kiska. She did not object to me…’
She stopped. Objections crowded her throat but none could escape. Agayla was deceived? Hardly. She didn’t know? The Queen of Dreams, ignorant? Even less likely. And yet… how could she accept this criminal? Nothing less than a mass murderer?
A dark shape caught her eye ahead. A figure, prone, wearing dark torn robes. Tayschrenn! She dashed ahead.
‘Kiska! Wait!’
She dropped to her knees next to the figure, an old man on his back, thin, with long grey hair. ‘Tayschrenn!’ She touched a shoulder. ‘It’s me…’
The figure stirred, turning over. A hand grasped her wrist. Kiska stared, stunned. For it was not Tayschrenn. The man stood, his grip on her wrist inhumanly strong. He was sun-darkened, with a great hooked nose and black glittering eyes. ‘And you are?’ he grated in accented Talian.
Kiska could not speak, couldn’t think. Impossible. All this… impossible…
The avid eyes slid aside, narrowing. ‘And who is this?’
Kiska followed his gaze to Leoman, kneeling, bowed.
‘Arise,’ the man growled.
Leoman straightened, inclined his head in obeisance. ‘Greetings, Yathengar. Faladan, priest of Ehrlitan. The Seven bless us.’
The man, Yathengar, pushed Kiska away. He took an uncertain step, his gaze furrowed. ‘Leoman? In truth? Leoman — Champion of Sha’ik?’ He clasped Leoman’s shoulders and laughed. ‘The Seven Gods are not so easily swept aside, yes? How they must have schemed to bring us together! We shall return, you and I. All Seven Cities will rise aflamed! You shall be my general. We will destroy them.’
Leoman bowed again. ‘I am yours to command.’
To one side a brightening disturbed the uniformity of this island, or eye of calm, at the centre of the Whorl. Yathengar peered aside, frowning. ‘What is this?’
Leoman shot Kiska a warning glance. ‘Tiste Liosan, m’lord. This place touches upon their Realm and they are here to destroy it.’
‘Fools to challenge me here. I will sweep them aside like chaff.’
Leoman had backed away a step. ‘No doubt, m’lord.’
Kiska eyed him — what was the bastard up to? Has he deceived everyone? Every friend or loyalty he has ever established, he has betrayed. And now he would whip this madman upon the Liosan? Was there no limit to his debasement? Was it all nothing more than gleeful nihilism?
Leoman looked up, directing her gaze to the sky. Unwilling to cooperate, she reluctantly glanced up anyway. And she saw it. A tiny bat-like dot flapping overhead.
Her gaze snapped back to him, her heart lurching. The man took another careful step away from Yathengar. She followed suit.
‘Watch, Leoman,’ the priest commanded. ‘See how I have grown in might here.’
Leoman bowed again. ‘Yes, m’lord.’
Kiska cast quick furtive glances to their little guide. It descended to the rear, behind them, where the ground fell away to the dark abyss that seemed to surround them. It disappeared, arcing down into the gulf, and Kiska’s gaze rose to Leoman, appalled.
He nodded, his gaze steady, insistent.
