‘Pray let the Dance continue,’ he said, his eyes finding Lostara’s own. ‘The Song of the Reeds has never been performed in quite this manner before. No gentle breeze here, eh, Bidithal? Oh no, a veritable gale. The Dancers are virgins, yes?’ His laugh was low yet full. ‘Yet there is nothing virginal about this dance, now, is there? Oh, storm of desire!’
And those eyes held Lostara still, in fullest recognition of the desire that overwhelmed her-that gave shape to her shadow’s wild cavort. Recognition, and a certain pleased, but cool… acknowledgement. As if flattered, but with no invitation offered in return.
The stranger had other tasks that night-and in the nights that followed-or so Lostara would come to realize much later. At the moment, however, her face burned with shame, and she had broken off her dance to flee the chamber.
Of course, Delat had not come to steal the heart of a Caster. He had come to destroy Rashan.
Delat, who, it proved, was both a High Priest and a Bridgeburner, and whatever the Emperor’s reason for annihilating the cult, his was the hand that delivered the death-blow.
Although not alone. The night of the killings, at the bell of the third hour-two past midnight-after the Song of Reeds, there had been another, hidden in the black clothes of an assassin…
Lostara knew more of what had happened that night in the Rashan Temple of Ehrlitan than anyone else barring the players themselves, for Lostara had been the only resident to be spared. Or so she had believed for a long time, until the name of Bidithal rose once more, from Sha’ik’s Apocalypse army.
Setting foot onto the city’s streets the following morning, after seven years’ absence, she had been faced with the terrifying knowledge that she was alone, truly alone. Resurrecting an ancient memory of when she was awakened following the fifth birthday, and thrust into the hands of an old man hired to take her away, to leave her in a strange neighbourhood on the other side of the city. A memory that echoed with a child’s cries for her mother.
The short time that followed her departure from the temple, before she joined the Red Blades-the newly formed company of Seven Cities natives who avowed loyalty to the Malazan Empire-held its own memories, ones she had long since repressed. Hunger, denigration, humiliation and what seemed a fatal, spiralling descent. But the recruiters had found her, or perhaps she found them. The Red Blades would be a statement to the Emperor, the marking of a new era in Seven Cities. There would be peace. None of this interested Lostara, however. Rather, it was the widely-held rumour that the Red Blades sought to become the deliverers of Malazan justice.
She had not forgotten those impassive eyes. The citizens who were indifferent to her pleas, who had watched the acolyte drag her past to an unknown fate. She had not forgotten her own parents.
Betrayal could be answered by but one thing, and one thing alone, and the once-captain Lostara Yil of the Red Blades had grown skilled in that answer’s brutal delivery.
She turned away from the wooden chest. She was a Red Blade no longer. In a short while, Pearl would arrive, and they would set out to find the cold, cold trail of Tavore’s hapless sister, Felisin. Along which they might find opportunity to drive a blade into the heart of the Talons. Yet were not the Talons of the empire? Dancer’s own, his spies and killers, the deadly weapon of his will. Then what had turned them into traitors?
Betrayal was a mystery. Inexplicable to Lostara. She only knew that it delivered the deepest wounds of all.
And she had long since vowed that she would never again suffer such wounds.
She collected her sword-belt from the hook above the bed and drew the thick leather band about her hips, hooking it in place.
Then froze.
The small room before her was filled with dancing shadows.
And in their midst, a figure. A pale face of firm features, made handsome by smile lines at the corners of the eyes-and the eyes themselves, which, as he looked upon her, settled like depthless pools.
Into which she felt, in a sudden rush, she could plunge. Here, now, for ever.
The figure made a slight bow with his head, then spoke, ‘Lostara Yil. You may doubt my words, but I remember you-’
She stepped back, her back pressing up against the wall, and shook her head. ‘I do not know you,’ she whispered.
‘True. But there were three of us that night, so very long ago in Ehrlitan. I was witness to your… unexpected performance. Did you know Delat-or, rather, the man I would eventually learn was Delat-would have taken you for his own? Not just the one night. You would have joined him as a Bridgeburner, and that would well have pleased him. Or so I believe. No way to test it, alas, since it all went-outwardly-so thoroughly awry.’
‘I remember,’ she said.
The man shrugged. ‘Delat, who had a different name for that mission and was my partner’s responsibility besides-Delat let Bidithal go. I suppose it seemed a… a betrayal, yes? It certainly did to my partner. Certainly to this day Shadowthrone-who was not Shadowthrone then, simply a particularly adept and ambitious practitioner of Rashan’s sister warren, Meanas-to this day, I was saying, Shadowthrone stokes eternal fires of vengeance. But Delat proved very capable of hiding… under our very noses. Like Kalam. Just another unremarked soldier in the ranks of the Bridgeburners.’
‘I do not know who you are.’
The man smiled. ‘Ah, yes, I am well ahead of myself…’ His gaze fell to the shadows spread long before him, though his back was to an unlit, closed door, and his smile broadened as if he was reconsidering those words. ‘I am Cotillion, Lostara Yil. Back then, I was Dancer, and yes, you can well guess the significance of that name, given what you were being trained to do. Of course, in Seven Cities, certain truths of the cult had been lost, in particular the true nature of Shadow Dancing. It was never meant for performance, Lostara. It was, in fact, an art most martial. Assassination.’
‘I am no follower of Shadow-Rashan or your version-’
‘That is not the loyalty I would call upon with you,’ Cotillion replied.
She was silent, struggling to fit sense to her thoughts, to his words. Cotillion… was Dancer. Shadowthrone…
‘Very good,’ he replied. ‘I am pleased.’
‘And now you’re going to try to convince me that the Empress Laseen should not be the empire’s true ruler-’
‘Not at all. She is welcome to it. But, alas, she is in some trouble right now, isn’t she? She could do with some… help.’
‘She supposedly assassinated you!’ Lostara hissed. ‘You and Kellanved both!’
Cotillion simply shrugged again. ‘Everyone had their… appointed tasks. Lostara, the game being played here is far larger than any mortal empire. But the empire in question-your empire-well, its success is crucial to what we seek. And, were you to know the fullest extent of recent, distant events, you would need no convincing that the Empress sits on a tottering throne right now.’
‘Yet even you betrayed the Emper-Shadowthrone. Did you not just tell me-’
‘Sometimes, I see further than my dear companion. Indeed, he remains obsessed with desires to see Laseen suffer-I have other ideas, and while he may see them as party to his own, there is yet no pressing need to disabuse him of that notion. But I will not seek to deceive you into believing I am all-knowing. I admit to having made grave errors, indeed, to knowing the poison of suspicion. Quick Ben. Kalam. Whiskeyjack. Where did their loyalty truly reside? Well, I eventually got my answer, but I am not yet decided whether it pleases me or troubles me. There is one danger that plagues ascendants in particular, and that is the tendency to wait too long. Before acting, before stepping-if you will-from the shadows.’ He smiled again. ‘I would make amends for past, at times fatal, hesitation. And so here I stand before you, Lostara, to ask for your help.’
Her scowl deepened. ‘Why should I not tell Pearl all about this… meeting?’
‘No reason, but I’d rather you didn’t. I am not yet ready for Pearl. For you, remaining silent will not constitute
