question these things, else we trap ourselves in a conversation that will outlive Raraku itself. So, Heboric, shall I begin?’
‘No. Not now. I am too weary for this. Tomorrow, L’oric.’
‘Delay may prove… disastrous.’ After a moment, the High Mage sighed. ‘Very well. I can see your exhaustion. Permit me, at least, to brew your tea for you.’
The gesture of kindness was unexpected, and Heboric lowered his head. ‘L’oric, promise me this-that when the final day comes, you be a long way from here.’
‘A difficult promise. Permit me to think on it. Now, where is the hen’bara?’
‘Hanging from a bag above the pot.’
‘Ah, of course.’
Heboric listened to the sounds of preparation, the rustle of flower-heads from the bag, the slosh of water as L’oric filled the pot. ‘Did you know,’ the High Mage murmured as he worked, ‘that some of the oldest scholarly treatises on the warrens speak of a triumvirate. Rashan, Thyr and Meanas. As if the three were all closely related to one another. And then in turn seek to link them to corresponding Elder warrens.’
Heboric grunted, then nodded. ‘All flavours of the same thing? I would agree. Tiste warrens. Kurald this and Kurald that. The human versions can’t help but overlap, become confused. I am no expert, L’oric, and it seems you know more of it than I.’
‘Well, there certainly appears to be a mutual insinuation of themes between Darkness and Shadow, and, presumably, Light. A confusion among the three, yes. Anomander Rake himself has asserted a proprietary claim on the Throne of Shadow, after all…’
The smell of the brewing tea tugged at Heboric’s mind. ‘He has?’ he murmured, only remotely interested.
‘Well, of a sort. He set kin to guard it, presumably from the Tiste Edur. It is very difficult for us mortals to make sense of Tiste histories, for they are such a long-lived people. As you well know, human history is ever marked by certain personalities, rising from some quality or notoriety to shatter the status quo. Fortunately for us, such men and women are few and far between, and they all eventually die or disappear. But among the Tiste… well, those personalities never go away, or so it seems. They act, and act yet again. They persist. Choose the worst tyrant you can from your knowledge of human history, Heboric, then imagine him or her as virtually undying. In your mind, bring that tyrant back again and again and again. How, having done so, would you imagine our history then?’
‘Far more violent than that of the Tiste, L’oric. Humans are not Tiste. Indeed, I have never heard of a Tiste tyrant…’
‘Perhaps I used the wrong word. I meant only-in human context-a personality of devastating power, or potential. Look at this Malazan Empire, born from the mind of Kellanved, a single man. What if he had been eternal?’
Something in L’oric’s musings had reawakened Heboric. ‘Eternal?’ He barked a laugh. ‘Perhaps he is at that. There is one detail you might consider, perhaps more relevant than anything else that’s been said here. And that is, the Tiste are no longer isolated in their scheming. There are humans now, in their games-humans, who’ve not the patience of the Tiste, nor their legendary remoteness. The warrens of Kurald Galain and Kurald Emurlahn are no longer pure, unsullied by human presence. Meanas and Rashan? Perhaps they are proving the doors into both Darkness and Shadow. Or perhaps the matter is more complex than even that-how can one truly hope to separate the themes of Darkness and Light from Shadow? They are as those scholars said, an interdependent triumvirate. Mother, father and child-a family ever squabbling… only now the in-laws and grandchildren are joining in.’
He waited for a reply from L’oric, curious as to how his comments had been received, but none was forthcoming. The ex-priest looked up, struggled to focus on the High Mage-
– who sat motionless, a cup in one hand, the ring of the brewing pot in the other. Motionless, and staring at Heboric.
‘L’oric? Forgive me, I cannot discern your expression-’
‘Well that you cannot,’ the High Mage rasped. ‘Here I sought to raise the warning of Tiste meddling in human affairs-to have you then voice a warning in the opposite direction. As if it is not us who must worry, but the Tiste themselves.’
Heboric said nothing. A strange, whispering suspicion flitted through him for a moment, as if tickled into being by something in L’oric’s voice. After a moment, he dismissed it. Too outrageous, too absurd to entertain.
L’oric poured the tea.
Heboric sighed. ‘It seems I am to be ever denied the succour of that brew. Tell me, then, of the giant of jade.’
‘Ah, and in return you will speak of the Master of the Deck?’
‘In some things I am forbidden to elaborate-’
‘Because they relate to Sha’ik’s own secret past?’
‘Fener’s tusk, L’oric! Who in this rat’s nest might be listening in to our conversation right now? It is madness to speak-’
‘No-one is listening, Heboric. I have made certain of that. I am not careless with secrets. I have known much of your recent history since the very beginning-’
‘How?’
‘We agreed to not discuss sources. My point is, no-one else is aware that you are Malazan, or that you are an escapee from the otataral mines. Except Sha’ik, of course. Since she escaped with you. Thus, I value privacy-with my knowledge and with my thoughts-and am ever vigilant. Oh, there have been probes, sorcerous questings-a whole menagerie of spells as various inhabitants seek to keep track of rivals. As occurs every night.’
‘Then your absence will be detected-’
‘I sleep restful in my tent, Heboric, as far as those questings are concerned. As do you in your tent. Each alone. Harmless.’
‘You are more than a match for their sorceries, then. Which makes you more powerful than any of them.’ He heard as much as saw L’oric’s shrug, and after a moment the ex-priest sighed. ‘If you wish details concerning Sha’ik and this new Master of the Deck, then it must be the three of us who meet. And for that to occur, you will have to reveal more of yourself to the Chosen One than you might wish.’
‘Tell me this, at least. This new Master-he was created in the wake of the Malazan disaster on Genabackis. Or do you deny that? That bridge on which he stands-he was of, or is somehow related to, the Bridgeburners. And those ghostly guardians are all that remains of the Bridgeburners, for they were destroyed in the Pannion Domin.’
‘I cannot be certain of any of that,’ Heboric replied, ‘but what you suggest seems likely.’
‘So, the Malazan influence ever grows-not just on our mundane world, but throughout the warrens, and now in the Deck of Dragons.’
‘You make the mistake of so many of the empire’s enemies, L’oric. You assume that all that is Malazan is perforce unified, in intent and in goal. Things are far more complicated than you imagine. I do not believe this Master of the Deck is some servant of the Empress. Indeed, he kneels before no-one.’
‘Then why the Bridgeburner guardians?’
Heboric sensed that the question was a leading one, but decided he would play along. ‘Some loyalties defy Hood himself-’
‘Ah, meaning he was a soldier in that illustrious company. Well, things are beginning to make sense.’
‘They are?’
‘Tell me, have you heard of a Spiritwalker named Kimloc?’
‘The name is vaguely familiar. But not from around here. Karakarang? Rutu Jelba?’
‘Now resident of Ehrlitan. His history is not relevant here, but somehow he must have come into recent contact with a Bridgeburner. There is no other explanation for what he has done. He has given them a song, Heboric. A
Heboric turned away, faced the hearth and its dry heat, and said nothing.
‘Of course,’ L’oric went on after a moment, ‘that significance has now diminished somewhat, since the Bridgeburners are no more. There can be no sanctification…’
