Memories of Ice & House of Chains - By Steven Erikson Page 0,634

the Malazans, and fear that you would awaken them to themselves.'

'I shall consider your words,' Leoman replied. 'And now ask that you consider mine. Beware your gods, friend. If you must kneel before a power, first look upon it with clear eyes. Tell me, what would your kin say to you in parting?'

'"May you slay a thousand children."'

Leoman blanched. 'Journey well, Toblakai.'

'I shall.'

Karsa knew that Leoman could neither see nor sense that he was flanked where he stood at the trail's gap in the wall. Delum Thord on the left, Bairoth Gild on the right. Teblor warriors, blood-oil smeared in crimson tones even the Whirlwind could not eradicate, and they stepped forward as the Teblor swung about to face the western trail.

'Lead us. Lead your dead, Warleader.'

Bairoth's mocking laugh clicked and cracked like the potsherds breaking beneath Karsa Orlong's moccasins. The Teblor grimaced. There would be, it seemed, a fierce price for the honour.

None the less, he realized after a moment, if there must be ghosts, it was better to lead them than to be chased by them.

'If that is how you would see it, Karsa Orlong.'

In the distance rose the swirling wall of the Whirlwind. It would be good, the Teblor reflected, to see the world beyond it again, after all these months. He set out, westward, as the day was born.

'He has left,' Kamist Reloe said as he settled onto the cushions.

Korbolo Dom eyed the mage, his blank expression betraying nothing of the contempt he felt for the man. Sorcerers did not belong in war. And he had shown the truth of that when destroying the Chain of Dogs. Even so, there were necessities to contemplate, and Reloe was the least of them. 'That leaves only Leoman,' he rumbled from where he lay on the pillows and cushions.

'Who departs with his rats in a few days.'

'Will Febryl now advance his plans?'

The mage shrugged. 'It is hard to say, but there is a distinct avidness in his gaze this morning.'

Avidness. Indeed. Another High Mage, another insane wielder of powers better left untapped. 'There is one who remains, who perhaps presents us with the greatest threat of them all, and that is Ghost Hands.'

Kamist Reloe sneered. 'A blind, doddering fool. Does he even know that hen'bara tea is itself the source of the thinning fabric between his world and all that he would flee from? Before long, his mind will vanish entirely within the nightmares, and we need concern ourselves with him no more.'

'She has secrets,' Korbolo Dom muttered, leaning forward to collect a bowl of figs. 'Far beyond those gifted her by the Whirlwind. Febryl proceeds headlong, unmindful of his own ignorance. When the battle with the Adjunct's army is finally joined, success or failure will be decided by the Dogslayers – by my army. Tavore's otataral will defeat the Whirlwind – I am certain of it. All that I ask of you and Febryl and Bidithal is that I am unobstructed in commanding the forces, in shaping that battle.'

'We are both aware,' Kamist growled, 'that this struggle goes far beyond the Whirlwind.'

'Aye, so it does. Beyond all of Seven Cities, Mage. Do not lose sight of our final goal, of the throne that will one day belong to us.'

Kamist Reloe shrugged. 'That is our secret, old friend. We need only proceed with caution, and all that opposes us will likely vanish before our very eyes. Febryl kills Sha'ik, Tavore kills Febryl, and we destroy Tavore and her army.'

'And then become Laseen's saviour – as we crush this rebellion utterly, Gods, I swear I will see this entire land empty of life if need be. A triumphant return to Unta, an audience with the Empress, then the driven knife. And who will stop us? The Talon are poised to cut down the Claws. Whiskeyjack and the Bridgeburners are no more, and Dujek remains a continent away. How fares the Jhistal priest?'

'Mallick travels without opposition, ever southward. He is a clever man, a wise man, and he will play out his role to perfection.'

Korbolo Dom made no reply to that. He despised Mallick Rel, but could not deny his usefulness. Still, the man was not one to be trusted ... to which High Fist Pormqual would attest, were the fool still alive. 'Send for Fayelle. I would a woman's company now. Leave me, Kamist Reloe.'

The High Mage hesitated, and Korbolo scowled.

'There is the matter,' Kamist whispered, 'of L'oric ...'

'Then deal with him!' Korbolo snapped. 'Begone!'

Bowing his head, the High Mage