‘I shall call it Tufty,’ said Raest.
The black tide ceased its seemingly inexorable crawl. A slow, shallow breath held half drawn. A struggling heart hovered in mid-beat. And yet that spark of aware shy;ness, suddenly emboldened, set out on a journey of exploration and discovery. So many long-dark pathways. .
Dragnipur has drunk deep, so deep.
Dragnipur, sword of the father and slayer of the same. Sword of Chains, Gate of Darkness, wheeled burden of life and life ever flees dissolution and so it must! Weapon of edges, caring naught who wields it. Cut indifferent, cut blind, cut when to do so is its very purpose, its perfect function.
Dragnipur.
Dread sisterly feuds dwindled in significance — something was proffered, some shy;thing was almost within reach. Matters of final possession could be worked out later, at leisure in some wrought-iron, oversized bathtub filled to the brim with hot blood.
Temporary pact. Expedience personified, Spite quelled, Envy in abeyance.
In their wake a crater slowly sagged, edges toppling inward, heat fast dissipat shy;ing. The melted faces of buildings turned glassy in rainbow hues. For now the brilliance of these colours was but hinted at in this moon-glow. But that reflected light had begun a thousand new games, hinting at something far deadlier. Still to come, still to come.
Everywhere in the city, fires ebbed.
The pressure of Dragnipur Unsheathed starves the flames of destruction. Dark shy;ness is anathema to such forces, after all.
Yes, salvation found, in a weapon let loose.
The sisters were mad, but not so mad as to fail to grasp the pleasing irony of such things.
Quell the violence.
Invite murder.
He was in no condition to resist them — not both of them — extraordinary that such an alliance had not occurred long before this night. But sibling wounds are the festering kind, and natures at war are normally blind to every pacifying gesture. What was needed was the proper incentive.
Alas, it did not occur to either twin that their father understood all too well the potential danger of his daughters forged together in alliance. And in shaping them — as carefully, as perfectly as he shaped Dragnipur itself — he had done what he could to mitigate the risk.
And so, as they walked side by side up the street, in Spite’s mind she had already begun scheming her fateful stab into her sister’s back. While Envy amused herself with virtually identical thoughts, roles reversed, naturally.
First things first, however.
They would kill Anomander Rake.
For Dragnipur has drunk deep, so very deep. .
‘Karsa, please.’
Ashes drifted in the air, amidst foul smoke. Distant screams announced tragic scenes. The last night of the Gedderone Fete was sinking into misery and suffering.
‘There is nothing to be done, Samar Dev. But we will do this — we will witness. We will withstand the cost of that, if we can.’
She had not expected such uncertainty in the Toblakai. Always a stranger to humility, or so he seemed to her. He had not even drawn his flint sword.
They were twenty-five paces behind Traveller. They could see an angled gate arching over the broad street as it sloped upward, a hundred paces ahead. But the warrior they tracked had slowed his steps. There was something — someone — in the centre of the street in front of Traveller. And silent crowds on both sides — crowds that flinched back as the Hounds lumbered into view; flinched, but did not flee.
Something held them in place, something stronger than fear.
Samar Dev sensed the pressure sliding past, like a wind sweeping round her, drawing inward once more — straight into that huddled figure, who now, at last, stirred.
Traveller stood, six or so paces away from the stranger, and watched in silence as the man slowly straightened.
Tiste Andii.
Silver-haired. In his hands, a sword trailing ghostly chains. . oh. . spirits below, oh, no-
Traveller spoke. ‘He said you would stand in my way.’ That voice carried, strong as waves surging against a dark shore.
Samar Dev’s heart stuttered.
When Anomander Rake replied, his words were cold, solid and unyielding, ‘What else did he tell you?’
Traveller shook his head. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘I can feel — he’s close. Where is he?’
Not Cotillion. A different ‘he’ this time. The one Traveller seeks. The one he has ever sought.
‘Yes,’ said Rake. ‘Close.’
Thick, flapping sounds, drifting in from the smoky night sky. She looked up in alarm and saw Great Ravens. Landing upon roof ledges. Scores, hundreds, silent but for the beat of air beneath crooked wings. Gathering, gathering, along the arched gate and the sections of wall to either side. Landing everywhere, so long as it’s a place from which they can see.
‘Then stand aside,’ commanded Traveller.
‘I cannot.’
‘Dammit, Rake, you are not my enemy.’
The Son of Darkness tilted his head, as if receiving a compliment, an unex shy;pected gift.
‘Rake. You have never been my enemy. You know that. Even when the Empire. .’
‘I know, Dassem. I know.’
‘He said this would happen.’ There was dismay in that statement, and resig shy;nation.
Rake made no reply.
‘He said,’ continued Dassem, ‘that you would not yield.’
‘No, I will not yield.’
‘Please help me, Rake, help me to understand. . why?’
‘I am not here to help you, Dassem Ultor.’ And Samar Dev heard genuine regret in that admission. The Son of Darkness closed both hands about the long grip of Dragnipur and, angling the pommel upward and to his right, slowly widened his stance. ‘If you so want Hood,’ he said, ‘come and get him.’
Dassem Ultor — the First Sword of the Malazan Empire — who was supposed to be dead. As if Hood would even want this one — Dassem Ultor, the one they had known as Traveller, unsheathed his sword, the water-etched blade flashing as if lapped by molten silver. Samar Dev’s sense of a rising wave now burgeoned in her mind. Two forces. Sea and stone, sea and stone.
Among the onlookers to either side, a deep, soft chant had begun.
Samar Dev stared at those arrayed faces, the shining eyes, the mouths moving in unison. Gods below, the cult of Dessembrae. These are cultists — and they stand facing their god.
And that chant, yes, it was a murmuring, it was the cadence of deep water rising. Cold and hungry.
Samar Dev saw Anomander Rake’s gaze settle briefly on Dassem’s sword, and it seemed a sad smile showed itself, in the instant before Dassem attacked.
To all who witnessed — the cultists, Samar Dev, Karsa Orlong, even unto the five Hounds of Shadow and the Great Ravens hunched on every ledge — that first clash of weapons was too fast to register. Sparks slanted, the night air rang with savage parries, counterblows, the biting crunch of edges against cross-hilts. Even their bodies were but a blur.
And then both warriors staggered back, opening up the distance between them once more.
‘Faces in the Rock,’ hissed Karsa Orlong.
‘Karsa-’
‘No. Only a fool would step between these two.’
And the Toblakai sounded. . shaken.
Dassem launched himself forward again. There were no war cries, no bellowed curses, not even the grunts bursting free as ferocious swings hammered forged iron. But the swords had begun singing, a dreadful, mournful pair of voices rising in eerie syncopation. Thrusts, slashes, low-edged ripostes, the whistle of a blade cutting through air where a head had been an instant earlier, bodies writhing to evade counterstrokes, and sparks rained, poured, from the two combatants, bounced like shattered stars across the cobbles.