'Most certainly not,' Iskaral replied with indignation. 'Servant climbs, then pulls us up.'
'He would be a man of formidable strength to manage me,' the Trell said. 'And Icarium, too.'
Servant set down the tray he had been holding, spat on his hands and walked over to the rope. He launched himself upward with surprising agility. Iskaral crouched by the tray and poured wine into the three cups.
'Servant's half bhokar'al. Long arms. Muscles like iron. Makes friends with them, probable source of all my ills.' Iskaral collected a cup for himself and gestured down at the tray as he straightened. 'Fortunate for Servant I am such a gentle and patient master.' He swung to check on the man's climb. 'Hurry, you snub-tailed dog!'
Servant had already reached the window and was now clambering through it and out of sight.
'Ammanas's gift, is Servant. A life given for a life taken. One hand old, one hand new. This is true remorse. You'll see.'
The rope twitched. The High Priest quaffed down the last of his wine, flung the cup away and scrambled towards the rope. 'Too long exposed! Vulnerable. Quickly now!' He wrapped his hands around a knot, set his feet atop another. 'Pull! Are you deaf? Pull!'
Iskaral shot upward.
'Pulleys,' Icarium said. 'Too fast to be otherwise.'
The pain returning to his shoulders, Mappo winced, then said, 'Not what you were expecting, I take it.'
'Tesem,' Icarium said, watching the priest vanish through the window. 'A place of healing. Solitary reflection, repository of scrolls and tomes, and insatiable nuns...'
'Insatiable?'
The Jhag glanced at his friend, an eyebrow rising. 'Indeed.'
'Oh, sad demise.'
'Very.'
'In this instance,' Mappo said as the rope tumbled back down, 'I think solitary reflection has addled a brain. Battling wits with bhok'arala and the whisperings of a god most hold as himself insane...'
'Yet there is power here, Mappo,' Icarium said in a low voice.
'Aye,' the Trell agreed as he approached the rope. 'A warren opened in the cave when the mule entered.'
'Then why does the High Priest not use it?'
'I doubt we'll find easy answers to Iskaral Pust, friend.'
'Best hold tight, Mappo.'
'Aye.'
Icarium reached out suddenly, rested a hand on Mappo's shoulder. 'Friend.'
'Aye?'
The Jhag was frowning. 'I am missing an arrow, Mappo. More, there is blood on my sword, and I see upon you dreadful wounds. Tell me, did we fight? I recall... nothing.'
The Trell was silent a long moment, then he said, 'I was beset by a leopard while you slept, Icarium. Made some use of your weapons. I did not think it worthy of mention.'
Icarium's frown deepened. 'Once again,' he slowly whispered, 'I have lost time.'
'Nothing of worth, friend.'
'You would tell me otherwise?' There was a look of desperate pleading in the Jhag's grey eyes.
'Why would I not, Icarium?'
CHAPTER THREE
The Red Blades were, at this time, pre-eminent among those pro-Malazan organizations that arose in occupied territories. Viewing themselves as progressive in their embrace of the values of imperial unification, this quasi-military cult became infamous with their brutal pragmatism when dealing with dissenting kin ...
Lives of the Conquered
Hem Trauth
Felisin lay unmoving beneath Beneth until, with a final shudder, he was done. He pushed himself off and grabbed a handful of her hair. His face was flushed under the grime and his eyes gleamed in the lamp glow. 'You'll learn to like it, girl,' he said.
The edge of something savage always rose closer to the surface immediately after he'd lain with her. She knew it would pass. 'I will,' she said. 'Does he get a day of rest?'
Beneth's grip tightened momentarily, then relaxed. 'Aye, he does.' He moved away, began tying up his breeches. 'Though I don't much see the point. The old man won't last another month.' He paused, his breath harsh as he studied her. 'Hood's breath, girl, but you're beautiful. Show me some life next time. I'll treat you right. Get you soap, a new comb, lousebane. You'll work here in Twistings, that's a promise. Show pleasure, girl, that's all I ask.'
'Soon,' she said. 'Once it stops hurting.'
The day's eleventh bell had sounded. They were in the third reach off Twistings Far shaft. The reach had been gouged out by the Rotlegs and was barely high enough to crawl for most of its quarter-mile length. The air was close and stank of Otataral dust and sweating rock.
