He smiled. ‘Is this a time, do you think, for some creative conjecture?’
Thoughts of murder flashed through her, not for the first time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It is not unusual to see the warrens of Meanas and Rashan as the closest of kin. Yet are not the games of illusion and shadow games of light? At some point, therefore, the notion of distinctions between these warrens ceases to have meaning. Meanas, Rashan and Thyr. Only the most fanatic of practitioners among these warrens would object to this. The aspect all three share is ambivalence; their games the games of ambiguity. All is deceit, all is deception. Among them, nothing-nothing at all-is as it seems.
A Preliminary Analysis of the Warrens
FIFTEEN HUNDRED DESERT WARRIORS HAD ASSEMBLED AT THE southern edge of the ruined city, their white horses ghostly through the clouds of amber dust, the glint of chain vests and scaled hauberks flashing dully every now and then from beneath golden telabas. Five hundred spare mounts accompanied the raiders.
Korbolo Dom stood near Sha’ik and Ghost Hands atop a weathered platform that had once been the foundation of a temple or public building of some sort, allowing them a clear view of the assembling warriors.
The Napan renegade watched, expressionless, as Leoman of the Flails rode up for a last word with the Chosen One. He himself would not bother with any false blessings, for he would much prefer that Leoman never return. And if he must, then not in triumph in any case. And though his scarred face revealed nothing, he well knew that Leoman entertained no delusions about Korbolo’s feelings for him.
They were allies only in so far as they both served Sha’ik. And even that was far less certain than it might have outwardly seemed. Nor did the Malazan believe that the Chosen One was deluded as to the spite and enmity that existed between her generals. Her ignorance existed solely in the plans that were slowly, incrementally settling into place to achieve her own demise. Of that Korbolo was certain.
Else she would have acted long before now.
Leoman reined in before the platform. ‘Chosen One! We set out now, and when we return we shall bring you word of the Malazan army. Their disposition. Their rate of march-’
‘But not,’ Sha’ik cut in sternly, ‘their mettle. No engagements, Leoman. The first blooding of her army will be here. By my hand.’
Mouth pressing into a thin line, Leoman nodded, then he said, ‘Tribes will have conducted raids on them, Chosen One. Likely beginning a league beyond the walls of Aren. They will have already been blooded-’
‘I cannot see such minor exchanges as making a difference either way,’ Sha’ik replied. ‘Those tribes are sending their warriors here-they arrive daily. Your forces would be the largest she would have to face-and I will not have that. Do not argue this point again, Leoman, else I forbid you to leave Raraku!’
‘As you say, Chosen One,’ Leoman grated. His startling blue eyes fixed on Ghost Hands. ‘If you require anything, old man, seek out Mathok.’
Korbolo’s brows rose.
‘An odd thing to say,’ Sha’ik commented. ‘Ghost Hands is under my protection, after all.’
‘Minor requirements only, of course,’ Leoman said, ‘such as might prove distracting, Chosen One. You have an army to ready, after all-’
‘A task,’ Korbolo cut in, ‘which the Chosen One has entrusted in me, Leoman.’
The desert warrior simply smiled. Then he collected his reins. ‘May the Whirlwind guard you, Chosen One.’
‘And you, Leoman.’
The man rode back to his waiting horse warriors.
May your bones grow white and light as feathers, Leoman of the Flails. Korbolo swung to Sha’ik. ‘He will disobey you, Chosen One.’
‘Of course he will.’
The Napan blinked, then his gaze narrowed. ‘Then it would be madness to yield the wall of sand to him.’
She faced him, her eyes questioning. ‘Do you fear the Adjunct’s army, then? Have you not said to me again and again how superior you have made our forces? In discipline, in ferocity? This is not Onearm’s Host you will be facing. It is a shaky mass of recruits, and even should they have known hardening in a minor engagment or two, what chance have they against your Dogslayers? As for the Adjunct… leave her to me. Thus, what Leoman does with his fifteen hundred desert wolves is, in truth, without relevance. Or are you now revising all your opinions, Korbolo Dom?’
‘Of course not, Chosen One. But a wolf like Leoman should remain leashed.’
‘Leashed? The word you’d rather have used is killed. Not a wolf, but a mad dog. Well, he shall not be killed, and if indeed he is a mad dog then where better to send him than against the Adjunct?’
‘You are wiser in these ways than I, Chosen One.’
Ghost Hands snorted at that, and even Sha’ik smiled. The blood was suddenly hot in Korbolo’s face.
‘Febryl awaits you in your tent,’ Sha’ik said. ‘He grows impatient with your lateness, Korbolo Dom. You need not remain here any longer.’
From heat to ice. The Malazan did not trust himself to speak, and at the Chosen One’s dismissive wave he almost flinched. After a moment, he managed to find his voice, ‘I had best find out what he wants, then,’ he said.
‘No doubt he views it as important,’ Sha’ik murmured. ‘It is a flaw among ageing men, I think, that brittle self-importance. I advise you to calm him, Korbolo Dom, and so slow his pounding heart.’
‘Sound advice, Chosen One.’ With a final salute, Korbolo strode to the platform’s steps.
Heboric sighed as the Napan’s bootsteps faded behind them. ‘The poor bastard’s been left reeling. Would you panic them into acting, then? With Leoman now gone? And Toblakai as well? Who is there left to trust, lass?’
‘Trust? Do you imagine I trust anyone but myself, Heboric? Oh, perhaps Sha’ik Elder knew trust… in Leoman and Toblakai. But when they look upon me, they see an impostor-I can see that well enough, so do not attempt to argue otherwise.’
‘And what about me?’ Heboric asked.
‘Ah, Ghost Hands, now we come to it, don’t we? Very well, I shall speak plain. Do not leave. Do not leave me, Heboric. Not now. That which haunts you can await the conclusion of the battle to come. When that is done, I shall extend the power of the Whirlwind-back to the very edge of the Otataral Isle. Within that warren, your journey will be virtually effortless. Otherwise, wilful as you are, I fear you will not survive the long, long walk.’
He looked at her, though the effort earned him little more than a blur where she stood, enfolded in her white telaba. ‘Is there anything you do not know about, lass?’
‘Alas, far too much, I suspect. L’oric, for example. A true mystery, there. He seems able to fend off even the Whirlwind’s Elder magic, evading my every effort to discern his soul. And yet he has revealed much to you, I think.’
‘In confidence, Chosen One. I am sorry. All I can offer you is this: L’oric is not your enemy.’
‘Well, that means more to me than you perhaps realize. Not my enemy. Does that make him my ally, then?’
Heboric said nothing.
After a moment, Sha’ik sighed. ‘Very well. He remains a mystery, then, in the most important of details. What can you tell me of Bidithal’s explorations of his old warren? Rashan.’
He cocked his head. ‘Well, the answer to that, Chosen One, depends in part on your own knowledge. Of the goddess’s warren-your Elder warren fragment that is the Whirlwind.’
‘Kurald Emurlahn.’
He nodded. ‘Indeed. And what do you know of the events that saw it torn apart?’
‘Little, except that its true rulers had ceased to exist, thus leaving it vulnerable. The relevant fact is this, however: the Whirlwind is the largest fragment in this realm. And its power is growing. Bidithal would see himself as its first-and its penultimate-High Priest. What he does not understand is that there is no such role to be taken. I am the High Priestess. I am the Chosen One. I am the single mortal manifestation of the Whirlwind Goddess. Bidithal would enfold Rashan into the Whirlwind, or, conversely, use the Whirlwind to cleanse the Shadow Realm of its false rulers.’ She paused, and Heboric sensed her shrug. ‘Those false rulers once commanded the Malazan Empire. Thus. We are all here, preparing for a singular confrontation. Yet what each of us seeks from that battle is at odds. The challenge, then, is to cajole all those disparate motives into one, mutually triumphant effect.’