Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 9)
Fiddler’s brows lifted. ‘I have no idea. But if you take one more step, Errant, the Master of the Deck will come through. Here, now. Will you face him? Are you ready for that?’
And Brys glanced to that card lying on the table. Inanimate, motionless. It seemed to yawn like the mouth of the Abyss itself, and he suddenly shivered.
Fiddler’s quiet challenge had halted the Errant, and Brys saw uncertainty stirred to life on the once-handsome features of Turudal Brizad.
‘For what it is worth,’ Brys Beddict said then, ‘you would not have made it past me anyway, Errant.’
The single eye flicked to him. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘I have lived in stone, Elder One. I am written with names beyond counting. The man who died in the throne room is not the man who has returned, no matter what you see.’
‘You tempt me to crush you,’ the Errant said in a half-snarl.
Fiddler swung round, stared down at the card on the table. ‘He is awakened.’ He faced the Elder God. ‘It may be too late… for you.’
And Brys saw the Errant suddenly step back, once, twice, the third time taking him through the doorway. A moment later and he vanished from sight.
Bodies were sliding slowly towards the floor. As far as Brys could see, not one was conscious. Something eased in the chamber like the release of a breath held far too long.
‘Adjunct.’
Tavore’s attention snapped from the empty doorway back to the sapper.
Spring the ambush. Find your enemy.
‘This wasn’t a reading,’ Fiddler said. ‘No one here was found. No one was claimed. Adjunct, they were marked. Do you understand?’
‘I do,’ she whispered.
‘I think,’ Fiddler said, as grief clenched his face, ‘I think I can see the end.’
She nodded.
‘Tavore,’ said Fiddler, his voice now ragged. ‘I am so sorry.’
To that, the Adjunct simply shook her head.
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Fiddler’s brows lifted. ‘I have no idea. But if you take one more step, Errant, the Master of the Deck will come through. Here, now. Will you face him? Are you ready for that?’
And Brys glanced to that card lying on the table. Inanimate, motionless. It seemed to yawn like the mouth of the Abyss itself, and he suddenly shivered.
Fiddler’s quiet challenge had halted the Errant, and Brys saw uncertainty stirred to life on the once-handsome features of Turudal Brizad.
‘For what it is worth,’ Brys Beddict said then, ‘you would not have made it past me anyway, Errant.’
The single eye flicked to him. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘I have lived in stone, Elder One. I am written with names beyond counting. The man who died in the throne room is not the man who has returned, no matter what you see.’
‘You tempt me to crush you,’ the Errant said in a half-snarl.
Fiddler swung round, stared down at the card on the table. ‘He is awakened.’ He faced the Elder God. ‘It may be too late… for you.’
And Brys saw the Errant suddenly step back, once, twice, the third time taking him through the doorway. A moment later and he vanished from sight.
Bodies were sliding slowly towards the floor. As far as Brys could see, not one was conscious. Something eased in the chamber like the release of a breath held far too long.
‘Adjunct.’
Tavore’s attention snapped from the empty doorway back to the sapper.
Spring the ambush. Find your enemy.
‘This wasn’t a reading,’ Fiddler said. ‘No one here was found. No one was claimed. Adjunct, they were marked. Do you understand?’
‘I do,’ she whispered.
‘I think,’ Fiddler said, as grief clenched his face, ‘I think I can see the end.’
She nodded.
‘Tavore,’ said Fiddler, his voice now ragged. ‘I am so sorry.’
To that, the Adjunct simply shook her head.
And Brys knew that, while he did not understand everything here, he understood enough. And if it could have meant anything, anything at all, he would have repeated Fiddler’s words to her. To this Adjunct, this Tavore Paran, this wretchedly lonely woman.
At that moment, the limp form of Banaschar settled on to the tabletop, like a corpse being lowered on a noose. As he came to rest, he groaned.
Fiddler walked over and collected the card called the Master of the Deck. He studied it for a moment, and then returned it to the deck in his hands. Glancing over at Brys, he winked.
‘Nicely played, Sergeant.’
‘Felt so lifeless… still does. I’m kind of worried.’
Brys nodded. ‘Even so, the role did not feel… vacant.’
‘That’s true. Thanks.’
‘You know this Master?’
‘Aye.’
‘Sergeant, had the Errant called your bluff-’
Fiddler grinned. ‘You would’ve been on your own, sir. Still, you sounded confident enough.’
‘Malazans aren’t the only ones capable of bluffing.’
And, as they shared a true smile, the Adjunct simply stared on, from one man to the other, and said nothing.
Bugg stood at the back window, looking out on Seren Pedac’s modest garden that was now softly brushed with the silvery tones reflected down from the dusty, smoky clouds hanging over the city. There had been damage done this night, far beyond one or two knocked-down buildings. The room had been silent behind him for some time now, from the moment that the reading had ended a short while ago. He still felt… fragile, almost fractured.
He heard her stir into motion behind him, the soft grunt as she climbed upright, and then she was beside him. ‘Are they dead, Bugg?’
He turned and glanced at the now conjoined, colourless puddles on the floor beneath the two chairs. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, and then added, ‘I think so.’
‘Th-that was not… expected-please tell me, Ceda, that such a fate was not in the plans tonight.’
‘No, Acquitor.’
‘Then… what happened ?’
He rubbed at the bristles on his chin, and then sighed and shook his head. ‘She chooses a narrow path-gods, the audacity of it! I must speak with the King. And with Brys-we need to decide-’
‘Ceda! Who killed Pinosel and Ursto?’
He faced her, blinked. ‘Death but passed through. Even the Errant was… dismissed.’ He snorted. ‘Yes. Dismissed. There is so much power in this Deck of Dragons. In the right hands, it could drain us all dry. Every god, new and elder. Every ascendant cast into a role. Every mortal doomed to become a face on a card.’ He resumed his gaze out the window. ‘He dropped one on to the table. Your son’s. The table would hold it, he said. Thus, he made no effort to claim your son. He let it be. He let him be.’ And then he shivered. ‘Pinosel and Ursto-they just sat too close to the fire.’