The Warleader wiped the blade on a scrap of cloth then resheathed it. He crossed his arms on the horn of the saddle and regarded Jatal through half-slit eyes. ‘Still … these Thaumaturgs and their horrors ought to be wiped from the earth, yes?’
‘That is not our goal, Warleader. But yes, if it could be done.’
The man gave a slow thoughtful nod. ‘Yes. If it could be done.’
Jatal inclined his head a fraction and then urged his mount aside. ‘Until later.’
The Warleader bowed. ‘Aye, prince of the Hafinaj.’
As he walked Ash back to the column, something urged Jatal to glance behind; he found the Warleader’s gaze yet remained upon him, steady and unblinking. Under that hot stabbing stare he rode on feeling a new foreboding.
That evening in his tent, reclining on the unrolled carpets and bedding, Jatal attempted yet again to ease his mind by treating himself to selections from Shivanara. But the magic of the words eluded him — his mind wandered elsewhere, flirting with the stories of the Thaumaturgs he’d heard whispered at wayside inns and round the hearthfires late at night. Of harems of playthings drugged into unending desire, or their bodies altered to heighten their master’s ecstasy — the manner of said refinements usually varying with the teller. Privately, he’d scoffed at such heated prurient imaginings. It seemed to him that these theurgists were far too keenly preoccupied with matters of life and death to waste time and resources on such debauchery. Yet the low class labourers, soldiers and servants did enjoy the titillation of such fantasies.
Sighing, he pressed the slim volume to his forehead, murmuring, ‘Apologies, O Poet.’
The heavy cloth flap lifted and a female servant entered, bowing, a tray in her arms. ‘An evening repast, my prince?’
He waved to the low table and shut his eyes, attempting to steady his thoughts. What awaited them at Isana Pura? How large a garrison? They needed better intelligence. Perhaps he should investigate …’
Jatal frowned and opened his eyes: the servant yet remained, head bowed. ‘Yes?’
The woman raised her head and Jatal stared, stunned. Princess Andanii regarded him, one expressive brow cocked. He sprang to his feet. ‘Princess! By the ancestors-’ He clamped his mouth shut, hunching, terrified he’d been overheard.
She covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘If only you could have seen your face, Jatal.’
He crossed to her side, hissing, ‘What are you doing here?’
Her teasing smile hardened. ‘Really, Prince. What sort of question is that?’
Jatal flinched, bowing. ‘Apologies, Princess. I mean — what if you are discovered? Your reputation …’
‘If I am discovered?’ She pressed a hand to her chest, ‘All will sigh … Ah, young love!’
Jatal forced himself to a low table to pour himself a tumbler of wine from one of the decanters. He sat, rather heavily, and set down the leather-bound volume. ‘Of course, my princess …’
She reclined opposite, regarded him, chin in fist. ‘Is that why you have not come to me?’
Jatal hurriedly swallowed his drink. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘My reputation. You feared compromising my reputation.’
‘Of course!’
‘Ah, yes. Of course …’
She lay back, stretching. Her breasts rose beneath the thin servant’s shift. Jatal looked away. ‘Have you given more thought to our union?’ she asked.
Jatal coughed on his drink. He gestured to the glass, which he hurriedly set down. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, my princess. I have. I believe we should keep it secret. Only the master of your horse, and mine, need know. Publicly, our uneasy accord stands. Privately, we have agreed to a — temporary — formal cessation of hostilities.’
Andanii sat up. She affected a frown and tugged at the string tying the front of her plain servant’s blouse. ‘A cessation of hostilities only … my prince? Not an intimate … partnership? A union of our … resources?’
Prince Jatal found he could not speak. His pulse was now a pounding roar; his throat as parched as the worst quarter of their Quar-el emptiness. He could only watch fascinated as Andanii glided towards him on all fours.
‘In some lands,’ she began, her voice low, ‘a woman who is not afraid of power is denounced as a shameless seductress. A slut and a whore. While a man from that same culture who reaches out and takes what he wants is lauded as justly virile, a daring hero.’ She pushed him back upon the bedding and straddled him. ‘What think you of that inconsistency, O learned prince?’
Jatal slid his hands over her thighs, up under her skirt, found them hot and slick with sweat. He forced a swallow to wet his throat, almost dizzy with need. ‘I think that any man who denounces a woman merely for acting as he would …’ he hissed as Andanii clenched her thighs, ‘is a very small and frightened little man.’
Andanii began untying his belt. ‘And you, Jatal? Are you frightened?’
‘No, my princess. I am not frightened.’ Not of you. It is your ambition that terrifies me. Are you here with me now because you see a worthy alliance … or a weak partner easily dominated? This uncertainty tortures me. That, and the truth that I do not know what I would do … if either should prove true.
A line from Shivanara came to him then:
And — oh, gods — what does it mean that amid fields of rotting corpses
The most fragrant blossoms grow?
* * *
The moment the solid canopy of tall trees closed over him, Murk knew he didn’t want to be where he was. The column of Malazan regulars, however, plunged on without pause, as if some enraged Ascendant were on their tails — which, frankly, was as close to the truth as Murk wished to tiptoe. He and Sour followed the chest strapped in its litter, bouncing and being knocked about as Dee and Ostler stumbled over exposed roots, banged into trees, and ducked branches. And with each knock and judder of the chest Sour, at his side, would grab his arm, or gasp, or whine, until sick of it Murk shook him off, growling, ‘It ain’t made of glass, damn it!’
Sour released his arm, hunching like a browbeaten child. Sighing, Murk jerked a thumb to the rear. ‘Cover our tracks.’
The crab-like fellow straightened, his brows shooting up. ‘Oh! Right.’
Murk watched, sidelong, as his partner’s gaze got that absent look and turned inward. He walked now avoiding roots and branches, but without actually looking directly at anything. Behind them Murk knew a distracting maze of misdirection, erasures and blind paths was now uncoiling, all springing from the muddled mind at his side. A frustrating addled mess that would drive any sane person who tried to order it into despair. How Sour did it was a mystery to him: a personal twisted melding of Thyr and Mockra, or simply a path demarking the borderlands between. Either way, it helped immensely that the fellow wasn’t quite sane in the conventional sense.
As for himself, it was time for him to do his part. If Sour was deflecting any effort to trace them, then he would see to it they weren’t really here at all. He summoned his Warren and with his next step he not only trod the jungle around them but simultaneously walked the paths of Meanas.
He found that he now walked two jungles. One was of Jacuruku; the other was a shadow-forest of dark trees. The discovery almost made him trip over his own feet. He knew this shadow-forest: it was a feature, a hazard, of the Shadow Realm that all avoided. A wide impenetrable wood from which none ever returned. So this was what it hid. Or mirrored. Jacuruku. Or, perhaps more accurately, a Shadow of Ardata’s realm.
In any case, bad news for him. There was little he could do here. He would have to limit himself to manipulations from outside the Warren proper. In fact, I’ve lingered long enough as it is …
He was about to drop his access when he glimpsed a bright light off to one side.
Now, a light in the woods might not be too unusual. But this was Shadow, where a bright glow was as natural as a pool of water in the coals of a blacksmith’s forge. He knew it was stupid, and he shouldn’t, but he was curious — what could possibly be generating such a radiance here in the very home of Shadow? He picked his way onward, threading between the brittle black branches.