Dust of Dreams: Book Nine of The Malazan Book of the Fallen - By Steven Erikson Page 0,60

She paused. ‘Naturally, we must ensure that we are well supplied with all necessities—of course, we shall pay in silver and gold for said materiel.’

‘We would seek to dissuade you, Adjunct,’ said Brys. ‘The Wastelands are aptly named, and as for the lands east of them, what little we hear has not been promising.’

‘We’re not looking for promises,’ the Adjunct replied.

Brys Beddict bowed. ‘I shall take my leave now, Adjunct.’

‘Do you wish an escort?’

He shook his head. ‘That will not be necessary. Thank you for the offer.’

The roof would have to do. He’d wanted a tower, something ridiculously high. Or a pinnacle and some tottering, ragged keep moments from plunging off the cliff into the thrashing seas below. Or perhaps a cliff-side fastness on some raw mountain, slick with ice and drifts of snow. An abbey atop a mesa, with the only access through a rope and pulley system with a wicker basket to ride in. But this roof would have to do.

Quick Ben glared at the greenish smear in the south sky, that troop of celestial riders not one of whom had any good news to deliver, no doubt. Magus of Dark. The bastard! You got a nasty nose, Fid, haven’t you just. And don’t even try it with that innocent look. One more disarming shrug from you and I’ll ram ten warrens down your throat.

Magus of Dark.

There was a throne once . . . no, never mind.

Just stay away from Sandalath, that’s all. Stay away, ducked out of sight. It was just a reading, after all. Fiddler’s usual mumbo jumbo. Means nothing. Meant nothing. Don’t bother me, I’m busy.

Magus of Dark.

Fiddler was now drunk, along with Stormy and Gesler, badly singing old Napan pirate songs, not one of which was remotely clever. Bottle, sporting three fractured ribs, had shuffled off to find a healer he could bribe awake. Sinn and Grub had run away, like a couple of rats whose tails had just been chopped off by the world’s biggest cleaver. And Hedge . . . Hedge was creeping up behind him right now, worse than an addled assassin.

‘Go away.’

‘Not a chance, Quick. We got to talk.’

‘No we don’t.’

‘He said I was the Mason of Death.’

‘So build a crypt and climb inside, Hedge. I’ll be happy to seal it for you with every ward I can think of.’

‘The thing is, Fid’s probably right.’

Eyes narrowing, Quick Ben faced the sapper. ‘Hood’s been busy of late.’

‘You’d know more of that than me, and don’t deny it.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with us.’

‘You sure?’

Quick Ben nodded.

‘Then why am I the Mason of Death?’

The shout echoed from the nearby rooftops and Quick Ben flinched. ‘Because you’re needed,’ he said after a moment.

‘To do what?’

‘You’re needed,’ Quick Ben snarled, ‘to build us a road.’

Hedge stared. ‘Gods below, where are we going?’

‘The real question is whether we’ll ever get there. Listen, Hedge, she’s nothing like you think. She’s nothing like any of us thinks. I can’t explain—I can’t get any closer than that. Don’t try anticipating. Or second-guessing—she’ll confound you at every turn. Just look at this reading—’

‘That was Fid’s doing—’

‘You think so? You’re dead wrong. He knows because she told him. Him and no one else. Now, you can try to twist Fiddler for details all you like—it won’t work. The truth as much as cut out his tongue.’

‘So what’s made you the Magus of Dark? What miserable piss-sour secret you holding back on now, Quick?’

The wizard turned away once more, stared out over the city, and then stiffened. ‘Shit, what now?’

The sorcery erupted from an alley mouth, striking Brys Beddict from his left side. The impact sent him sprawling, grey tendrils writhing like serpents about his body. In the span of a single heartbeat, the magic had bound him tight, arms trapped. The coils began constricting.

Lying on his back, staring up at the night sky—that had at last begun to pale—Brys heard footsteps and a moment later the Errant stepped into the range of his vision. The god’s single eye gleamed like a star burning through mist.

‘I warned you, Brys Beddict. This time, there will be no mistakes. Yes, it was me who nudged you to take that mouthful of poisoned wine—oh, the Chancellor had not anticipated such a thing, but he can be forgiven that. After all, how could I have imagined that you’d found a guardian among Mael’s minions?’ He paused, and then said, ‘No matter. I am done with subtlety—this is much better. I can look into your eyes