He had cursed, and she remembered that curse.
‘Hood’s frantic balls on the fire.’
She had since discovered that Hood was the god of death, and that if any god deserved its name being uttered in bitter curses, then he was the one. At the time, however, she had taken the High Mage’s expostulation somewhat more literally.
Fire, she’d thought. Yes, fire in the earth, heat cupped in my hand.
Her eyes had widened on the High Mage, astonished at his instant percipience, convinced in that moment of his profound genius. She had no place in his company. Her mind moved in a slow crawl at the best of times, especially in the early morning before she’d drawn alive the coal of her first smoker. Quickness of thought (and there, she’d assumed, must be the reason for his name) was in itself a thing of magic, a subtle sorcery, which she could only view with superstitious awe.
Such lofty opinion could persist only in the realm of mystery, however, and mystery rarely survived familiarity. The High Mage had formally requested that she be temporarily attached to his cadre. Since then, she’d heard plenty of curses from Ben Adaephon Delat, and had come to conclude that his quickness was less sorcerous than quixotic.
Oh, he was indeed brilliant. He was also in the habit of muttering to himself in a host of entirely distinct voices, and playing with dolls and lengths of string. And as for the company he kept…
She pulled fiercely on her smoker, watching a figure approach-walking like a drunk, his ill-fitting, cheap clothing caked in dust. Bottle’s strangely childlike face looked swollen, almost dissolute.
Here we go. Yet another incomprehensible conversation between them. And oh, he doesn’t like me being there for it, either. That makes two of us.
‘Is he breathing?’ the Malazan soldier asked as he halted in front of the tent.
She glanced at the drawn flap to her left. ‘He sent me out,’ she said.
‘He’ll want to see me.’
‘He wants to know how Fiddler fared.’
Bottle grimaced, looked away briefly, then back down to her, seeming to study her. ‘You’ve got sensitivity, Atri-Ceda. A draught of rum will soothe your nerves.’
‘I’ve already had one.’
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He had cursed, and she remembered that curse.
‘Hood’s frantic balls on the fire.’
She had since discovered that Hood was the god of death, and that if any god deserved its name being uttered in bitter curses, then he was the one. At the time, however, she had taken the High Mage’s expostulation somewhat more literally.
Fire, she’d thought. Yes, fire in the earth, heat cupped in my hand.
Her eyes had widened on the High Mage, astonished at his instant percipience, convinced in that moment of his profound genius. She had no place in his company. Her mind moved in a slow crawl at the best of times, especially in the early morning before she’d drawn alive the coal of her first smoker. Quickness of thought (and there, she’d assumed, must be the reason for his name) was in itself a thing of magic, a subtle sorcery, which she could only view with superstitious awe.
Such lofty opinion could persist only in the realm of mystery, however, and mystery rarely survived familiarity. The High Mage had formally requested that she be temporarily attached to his cadre. Since then, she’d heard plenty of curses from Ben Adaephon Delat, and had come to conclude that his quickness was less sorcerous than quixotic.
Oh, he was indeed brilliant. He was also in the habit of muttering to himself in a host of entirely distinct voices, and playing with dolls and lengths of string. And as for the company he kept…
She pulled fiercely on her smoker, watching a figure approach-walking like a drunk, his ill-fitting, cheap clothing caked in dust. Bottle’s strangely childlike face looked swollen, almost dissolute.
Here we go. Yet another incomprehensible conversation between them. And oh, he doesn’t like me being there for it, either. That makes two of us.
‘Is he breathing?’ the Malazan soldier asked as he halted in front of the tent.
She glanced at the drawn flap to her left. ‘He sent me out,’ she said.
‘He’ll want to see me.’
‘He wants to know how Fiddler fared.’
Bottle grimaced, looked away briefly, then back down to her, seeming to study her. ‘You’ve got sensitivity, Atri-Ceda. A draught of rum will soothe your nerves.’
‘I’ve already had one.’
He nodded, as if unsurprised. ‘Fiddler’s still losing what’s left of his supper. He’ll need a new tent.’
‘But he’s not even a mage.’
‘No, he isn’t.’
She fixed her eyes on him. ‘Are all you Malazans this cagey?’
He smiled. ‘And we’re getting worse, Atri-Ceda.’
‘Why is that?’
The smile dropped away, like it never really fitted in the first place. ‘It’s simple enough. The less we know, the less we say. Pretty soon, I expect, we’ll be an army of mutes.’
I can’t wait. Sighing, she flicked away the smoker, slowly rose.
The stars were returning to the sky in the northeast. At least that was something. But someone’s out there. Holding a weapon… gods, such a weapon! ‘Errant’s bouncing eye,’ she said, ‘he’s the High Mage. He can’t hide for ever.’
Bottle’s eyes were wide on her. ‘Never heard that curse before,’ he said.
‘I just made it up.’
‘Seems oddly irreverent coming from a Letherii. I’m slightly shocked, in fact.’
‘It’s all your bad habits, I suppose.’ She stepped to the tent-flap and rapped the hide with her knuckles. ‘We’re coming in.’
‘Fine!’ came the snapped reply.
The cramped interior was steamy, as scented candles flickered from the floor in a circle surrounding a crosslegged Quick Ben. The High Mage dripped with sweat. ‘Bastard’s reaching out to me,’ he said, voice grating. ‘Do I want a conversation? No, I do not. What’s to say? Anomander killed Hood, Dassem killed Anomander, Brood shattered Dragnipur, and now Draconus walks free. Burn trembles, the Gate of Starvald Demelain rages with fire, and cruel twisted warrens the like of which we’ve never before seen now lie in wait-when will they awaken? What will they deliver?
‘And there’s more. Do you realize that? There’s more-stop staring, just listen. Who brokered the whole damned mess? Bottle?’
‘Sorry, I was listening, not thinking. How should I know? No, wait-’
‘Aye. Shadowthrone and Cotillion. Does the Adjunct really believe she chooses her own path? Our path? She’s been driving us hard, ever since we landed-sure, it’s all a matter of logistics. It’s not like the Akryn traders are happily handing over everything they have, is it? It’s not like things won’t get worse the further east we march-the Wastelands are well named.’