Some wounds never heal, and that man has just taken such a wounding. Would that Dujek had left Whiskeyjack hidden beneath the rain-cape …
Anomander Rake was at Korlat's side. He said nothing for a long time, then he turned away. 'Korlat, how will you answer this?'
She replied tonelessly, 'Orfantal makes ready, Lord. We will hunt Kallor down, my brother and I.'
Rake nodded. 'When you do, leave him alive. He has earned Dragnipur.'
'We shall, Lord.'
The Son of Darkness then faced the others. 'High Fist Dujek. High Mage Tayschrenn. Moon's Spawn is dying, and so has been abandoned by my people. It shall be sent eastward, over the ocean — the power within it is failing, and so it will soon settle beneath the waves. I ask that these three fallen Malazans — slain by a betrayer delivered here by myself and Caladan Brood — these three Malazans, be interred in Moon's Spawn. It is, I believe, a worthy sarcophagus.'
No-one spoke.
Rake then looked at Picker. 'And I ask that the dead among the Bridgeburners be interred there, as well.'
'Is there room for all our fallen?' Picker asked.
'Alas, no. Most of the chambers within are flooded.'
Picker drew a deep breath, then glanced at Dujek.
The High Fist seemed incapable of making a decision. 'Has anyone seen Captain Paran?'
No-one replied.
'Very well. As to the disposition of the fallen Bridgeburners, the decision is yours, Lieutenant Picker.'
'They were always curious about what was inside Moon's Spawn,' she said, managing a wry grin. 'I think that would please them.'
In the supply camp haphazardly assembled in the parkland north of the killing field, at one edge, the seven hundred and twenty-two Mott Irregulars were slowly gathering, each one carrying burlap sacks stuffed with loot taken from the city.
Leaning against a tree was a massive table, flipped over to reveal the painted underside. The legs had snapped off some time in the past, but that had simply made it easier to transport.
The painted image had been glowing for some time before anyone noticed, and a substantial crowd had gathered to stare at it by the time the warren within the image opened, and out stepped Paran and Quick Ben, followed by a short, robustly muscled woman with black hair.
All three were sheathed in frost, which began to fade immediately as the warren closed behind them.
One of the Mott Irregulars stepped forward. 'Greetings. I am High Marshal Jib Bole, and something's confusing me.'
Paran, still shivering from Omtose Phellack's brutally cold air, stared at the man for a moment, then shrugged. 'And what's that, High Marshal?'
Jib Bole scratched his head. 'Well, that's a table, not a door…'
A short while later, as Paran and Quick Ben made their way through the dusk towards the killing field, the wizard softly laughed.
The captain glanced over at him. 'What?'
'Backwoods humour, Paran. Comes with talking with the scariest mages we've ever faced.'
'Mages?'
'Well, maybe that's the wrong name for them. Warlocks might be better. Swamp-snuffling warlocks. With bits of bark in their hair. Get them into a forest and you won't find them unless they want you to. Those Bole brothers, they're the worst of the lot, though I've heard that there's a lone sister among them who you wouldn't want to meet, ever.'
Paran shook his head.
Kilava had departed their company immediately after their arrival. She had offered the two men a simple word of thanks, which Paran sensed was in itself an extraordinary lowering of her guard, then had slipped into the gloom of the forest.
The captain and the wizard reached the trader track and could see it straightening and climbing towards the ridge that faced the killing field and the city beyond. Moon's Spawn hung almost directly above them, shedding misty rain. A few fires still lit Coral, but it seemed that the darkness that was Kurald Galain was somehow smothering them.
He could not push the recent events from his mind. He was unused to being the hand of … redemption. The deliverance of the Jaghut child from the wounded portal of Morn had left him numb.
So long ago, now. outside Pale. I'd felt her, felt this child, trapped in her eternal pain, unable to comprehend what she had done to deserve what was happening to her. She had thought she was going to find her mother — so Kilava had told her. She had been holding her brother's hand -And then it had all been torn away.
Suddenly alone.
Knowing only pain.
For thousands of years.
Quick Ben and Talamandas had done something to the child, had worked their sorcery to take from her all memory of what had happened. Paran had sensed Hood's direct involvement in that — only a god could manage such a thing, not a simple blocking of memories, but an absolute taking away, a cleansing of the slate.
