Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,438

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