'The former implies… manipulation.'
'And you would understand that well.'
'Yes.'
'Does Cotillion haunt you still?'
'Yes, but not as… intimately.'
'And now you are one of his chosen servants, an agent of Shadow. An assassin, just like the assassin you once were.'
She levelled her gaze on him. 'What is your point?'
'I'm not sure. I'm just trying to find my feet, regarding you, and whatever mission you are on right now.'
'If you want details of that, best speak with Cotillion yourself.'
'I am considering it.'
'Is that why you have crossed an ocean, Ganoes Paran?'
'No. As I said, we are at war. I was not idle in Darujhistan, or in the weeks before Coral. I was discovering the players… and among them, true enemies.'
'Of you?'
'Of peace.'
'I trust you will kill them all.'
He seemed to wince, looked down at the wine in his glass. 'For a short time, Apsalar, you were innocent. Naive, even.'
'Between the possession of a god and my awakening to certain memories.'
'I was wondering, who created in you such cynicism?'
'Cynicism? You speak of peace, yet twice you have told me we are at war. You have spent months learning the lie of the battle to come. But I suspect that even you do not comprehend the vastness of the coming conflict, the conflict we are in right now.'
'You are right. Which is why I wanted to speak with you.'
'It may be we are on different sides, Ganoes Paran.'
'Maybe, but I don't think so.'
She said nothing.
Paran refilled their glasses. 'The pantheon is splitting asunder. The Crippled God is finding allies.'
'Why?'
'What? Well… I don't really know. Compassion?'
'And is that something the Crippled God has earned?'
'I don't know that, either.'
'Months of study?' Her brows rose.
He laughed, a response that greatly relieved her.
'You are likely correct,' she said. 'We are not enemies.'
'By 'we' I take it you include Shadowthrone and Cotillion.'
'As much as is possible, which isn't as much as I would like. None can fathom Shadowthrone's mind. Not even Cotillion, I suspect. Certainly not me. But he has shown… restraint.'
'Yes, he has. Quite surprising, if you think about it.'
'For Shadowthrone, the pondering of the field of battle has consumed years, maybe decades.'
He grunted, a sour expression on his face. 'Good point.'
'What role do you possess, Paran? What role are you seeking to play?'
'I have sanctioned the Crippled God. A place in the Deck of Dragons. A House of Chains.'
She considered for a time, then nodded. 'I can see the reason in that.
All right, what has brought you to Seven Cities?'
He stared at her, then shook his head. 'A decision I chewed on for what seemed forever, and you grasp my motives in an instant. Fine. I am here to counter an enemy. To remove a threat. Only, I am afraid I will not get there in time, in which case I will clean up the mess as best I can, before moving on-'
'To Quon Tali.'
'How – how did you know that?'
She reached for the brick of cheese, produced a knife from her sleeve and sliced off a piece. 'Ganoes Paran, we are going to have a rather long conversation now. But first, where do you plan to make landfall?'
'Kansu.'
'Good, this will make my journey quicker. Two minuscule companions of mine are even now clambering onto the deck, having ascended via the trees. They will any moment begin hunting rats and other vermin, which should occupy them for some time. As for you and me, let us settle to this meal.'
He slowly leaned back in his chair. 'We will reach port in two days.
Something tells me those two days will fly past like a gull in a gale.'
For me as well, Ganoes Paran.
Ancient memories whispered through Dejim Nebrahl, old stone walls lit red with reflected fire, the cascade of smoke down streets filled with the dead and the dying, the luscious flow of blood in the gutters. Oh, there was a grandness to the First Empire, that first, rough flowering of humanity. The T'rolbarahl were, in Dejim's mind, the culmination of truly human traits, blended with the strength of beasts. Savagery, the inclination towards vicious cruelty, the cunning of a predator that draws no boundaries and would sooner destroy one of its own kind than another. Feeding the spirit on the torn flesh of children. That stunning exercise of intelligence that could justify any action, no matter how abhorrent.
Mated with talons, dagger-long teeth and the D'ivers gift of becoming many from one… we should have survived, we should have ruled. We were born masters and all humanity were rightly our slaves. If only Dessimbelackis had not betrayed us. His own children.
Well, even among T'rolbarahl, Dejim Nebrahl was supreme. A creation beyond even the First Emperor's most dread nightmare. Domination, subjugation, the rise of a new empire, this is what awaited Dejim, and oh how he would feed. Bloated, sated by human blood. He would make the new, fledgling gods kneel before him.
Once his task was complete, the world awaited him. No matter its ignorance, its blind disregard. That would all change, so terribly change.
Dejim's quarry neared, drawn ever so subtly onto this deadly track.
Not long now.
The seashell vest glimmered white in the morning light. Karsa Orlong had drawn it from his pack to replace the shredded remnants of the padded leather he had worn earlier. He sat on his tall, lean horse, the blood-spattered, stitched white fur cloak sweeping down from his broad shoulders. Bare-headed, with a lone, thick braid hanging down the right side of his chest, the dark hair knotted with fetishes: finger bones, strips of gold-threaded silk, bestial canines. A row of withered human ears was sewn onto his belt. The huge flint sword was strapped diagonally across his back. Two bone-handled daggers, each as long and broad-bladed as a short sword, were sheathed in the high moccasins that reached to just below his knees.
Samar Dev studied the Toblakai a moment longer, gaze lifting to fix on his tattooed face. The warrior was facing west, his expression unreadable. She turned back to check the tethers of the packhorses once more, then drew herself up and into the saddle. She settled the toes of her boots into the stirrups and gathered the reins. '
Contrivances,' she said, 'that require no food or water, that do not tire or grow lame, imagine the freedom of such a world as that would bring, Karsa Orlong.'
The eyes he set upon her were those of a barbarian, revealing suspicion and a certain animal wariness. 'People would go everywhere.
What freedom in a smaller world, witch?'
