Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,805

could never dance well, unless drunk or otherwise softened up.'

'Do you miss those days, Scillara?'

'No. It's more fun this way.'

'What way?'

'Well now, you see, I don't miss a thing any more. Not a thing. That's very ... satisfying.'

'You know, Scillara, I do envy your happiness.'

She smiled across at him once more, a simple act that took all her will, all her strength. So be it.

Cutter said, 'I think ... I think I need to lie in your arms right now, Scillara.'

For all the wrong reasons. But there's this – in this Hood-damned world, it's worth taking what you can get. Whatever you can get.

Three streams.

Into one.

Karsa Orlong turned about as Samar Dev moved up beside him and settled down – a fierce gale was busy ripping off the surface of the waves in the sea beyond, and the hammering against the hull was incessant, as if eager spirits sought to tear the craft to pieces. 'Well, woman, what has got you looking so excited?'

'Something's happened,' she said. 'Here, give me some of that fur cloak, I'm chilled to the bone.'

He yielded the bear fur. 'Take it.'

'I bless your martyrdom, Karsa Orlong.'

'A wasted effort, then,' he rumbled in reply. 'I will be martyr to no-one, not even the gods.'

'Just a saying, you thick-skulled oaf. But listen, something happened. There was an assault. Hundreds of Edur warriors and Letherii auxiliaries. And, another champion.'

Karsa grunted. 'Plenty of those in this fleet.'

'But only that champion and his servant returned. And one Letherii. The rest were slaughtered.'

'Where was this battle? We have seen no other ships.'

'Through a warren, Karsa Orlong. In any case, I heard the name of the champion. And this is why you have to listen to me. We have to get off this damned ship – if we even come in sight of land between here and that empire, we should go over the side. You said I was excited? Wrong. I am terrified.'

'And who is this terrifying champion, then?'

'He is named Icarium. The Slayer—'

'Whose servant is a Trell.'

She frowned. 'No, a Gral. Do you know Icarium? Do you know the awful legends surrounding him?'

'I know nothing of legends, Samar Dev. But we fought, once, Icarium and I. It was interrupted before I could kill him.'

'Karsa—'

But the Toblakai was smiling. 'Your words please me, woman. I will face him again, then.'

She stared at him in the gloom of the hold, but said nothing.

On another ship in the fleet, Taralack Veed was curled up in the hold, back to the sloping, sweating hull, as shivers racked through him.

Icarium stood before him, and was speaking:'... difficult to understand. The Letherii seemed so contemptuous of me before, so what has changed? Now I see worship and hope in their eyes, their deference unnerves me, Taralack Veed.'

'Go away,' the Gral mumbled. 'I'm not well. Leave me.'

'What ails you is not physical, I fear, my friend. Please, come up on deck, breathe deep this enlivening air – it will soothe you, I am certain of it.'

'No.'

Icarium slowly crouched until his grey eyes were level with Taralack's belligerent stare. 'I awoke that morning more refreshed, more hopeful than I have ever been – I feel the truth of that claim. A warmth, deep within me, soft and welcoming. And it has not diminished since that time. I do not understand it, friend—'

'Then,' the Gral said in a grating voice, bitter with venom, 'I must tell you once more. Who, what you are. I must tell you, prepare you for what you must do. You leave me no choice.'

'There is no need,' Icarium said in a soft tone, reaching out one hand and resting it on Taralack Veed's shoulder.

'You fool!' the Gral hissed, twisting away from that touch. 'Unlike you,' he spat, 'I remember!'

Icarium straightened, looked down on his old friend. 'There is no need,' he said again, then turned away. You do not understand.

There is no need.

He stood on the highest tower of Mock's Hold, expressionless eyes on the chaos in the city below. The Adjunct's ships were drawing away from the harbour, out into the unlit waters of the bay beyond.

To his right, less than three strides away, was the fissure that gave the far side of the platform an alarming cant. The crack was recent, no more than a year old, reaching all the way down the keep into the cellars below, and the repairs by the engineers seemed desultory, verging on incompetent. The old heart of the Malazan Empire was wounded, and he did not