Yes, she had need to defend herself against the events of this night. No room in her thoughts, for the moment, for anything but the child within her. Despite her words, she was not indifferent to the sundering of Pinosel and Ursto. Everything right now was about control-and this, Bugg understood, came from that ineffable strength within a woman who was or would be a mother. ‘They are stubborn, those two. I would not discount them quite yet.’
‘I hope you are right. Thank you, Ceda-even if the threat did not come to pass, I do appreciate your willingness to protect us. Please do not be offended if I add that I hope I never experience another night like this.’
‘I take no offence. Goodnight, Acquitor.’
Beyond the moment’s heat, in the cool trickle that was the aftermath of a confrontation, bleak realizations shook free in the mind of the Errant. While he did not know if indeed the Master of the Deck had awakened-as the Malazan had claimed-the risk of such a premature clash had been too great. As for Brys Beddict and his bold arrogance, ah, that was a different matter.
The Errant stood in an alley, not far from the Malazan headquarters, and he trembled with rage and something else, something that tasted delicious. The promise of vengeance. No, Brys Beddict would not survive his return journey to the palace. It did not matter the fool’s skills with a sword. Against the raw assault of the Errant’s sorcery, no flickering blade could defend.
True, this would be no gentle, unseen nudge. But old habits, by their very predictability, could be exploited. Defended against. Besides, at times, the subtle did not satisfy. He recalled, with a rush of pleasure, holding Feather Witch’s head under the water, until her feeble struggles ceased. Yes, there was glory in being so forceful, so direct in the implementation of one’s own will.
It could become addictive, and indeed, he welcomed the invitation.
So much gnawed at him at the moment, however, that he was anxious and wary about doing much of anything. The caster had been… frightening. The ones who were made miserable by the use of their own power ever disturbed the Errant, for he could not fathom such creatures, did not understand their reluctance, the self-imposed rules governing their behaviour. Motives were essential-one could not understand one’s enemy without a sense of what they wanted, what they hungered for. But that caster, all he had hungered for was to be left alone.
Perhaps that in itself could be exploited. Except that, clearly, when the caster was pushed, he did not hesitate to push back. Unblinking, smiling, appallingly confident. Leave him for now. Think of the others-any threats to me?
The Acquitor’s child had guardians assembled to defend it. Those squalid drunks. Mael. Other presences, as well. Something ancient, black-furred with glowing eyes-he’d heard its warning growl, like a rumble of thunder-and that had been enough to discourage the Errant’s approach.
Well, the child could wait.
Oh, this was a vicious war indeed. But he had potential allies. Banaschar. A weak man, one he could use again. And Fener, the cowering god of war-yes, he could feed on the fool’s power. He could take what he wanted, all in exchange for the sanctuary he offered. Finally, there were other forces, far to the east, who might well value his alliance.
Much still to do. But for now, this night, he would have his vengeance against that miserable heap of armour, Brys Beddict.
And so he waited for the fool to depart the headquarters. No nudge this time. No, only his hands on the bastard’s throat would appease the depth of the Errant’s malice. True enough, the man who had died was not the same man who returned. More to Brys Beddict than just an interminable skein of names written into the stone of his soul. There was something else. As if the man cast more than one shadow. If Brys was destined for something else, for something more than he was now, then it behoved the Errant to quell the threat immediately.
Remove him from the game, and this time make certain he stayed dead.
Nothing could be worse than to walk into a room in a middling inn, stride up to the bed, and fling back the woollen blanket, only to find a dragon. Or two. All unwillingly unveiled. And in a single miserable instant, the illusions of essential, mutual protection, are cast off. Violent transformation and lo, it turns out, one small room in an inn cannot hold two dragons.
It is the conviction of serving staff the world over that they have seen everything. The hapless maid working at the inn in question could now make claim to such an achievement. Alas, it was a shortlived triumph.
Telorast and Curdle, sembled once more into their quaint, tiny skeletal forms-which had become so much a part of them, so preciously adorable, that neither could bear to part with the lovely lizards-were now on a hilltop a few leagues north of the city. Once past the indignity of the unexpected event and their panicked flight from Letheras, they had spent the last bell or so howling in laughter.
