Steven Erikson - Dust of Dreams

The Errant’s lone eye seemed to flare. ‘I am the Master of the Tiles-’

‘And I don’t care. Go on then. Play with your tiles, Elder. You cannot stand against the Master of the Deck-your time, Errant, is past.’

‘ I have returned! ’

As the Errant, raw power building round him, took another stride into the chamber, Fiddler’s low words cut into his path. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

The Elder God sneered. ‘Do you think Brys Beddict can stop me? Can stop what I intend here?’

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.’

‘They… what?’

‘ The caster held back, Acquitor. No one attacked Ursto and Pinosel. Even your unborn son’s card did not try for him . The caster locked it down. As would a carpenter driving a nail through a plank of wood. Abyss take me, the sheer brazen power to do that leaves me breathless. Acquitor, Ursto and Pinosel were here to defend you from the Errant. And yes, we felt him. We felt his murderous desire. But then he was thrown back, his power scattered. What arrived in its place was like the face of the sun, ever growing, becoming so vast as to fill the world-they were pinned there, trapped in those chairs, unable to move…’ He shook himself. ‘We all were.’ He looked down at the puddles. ‘Acquitor, I truly do not know if they are dead. The Lord of Death fed on no one this night, beyond a few hapless souls in a destroyed inn. They may be simply… reduced… and after a time they will reconstitute themselves, find their shapes-their flesh and bone-once more. I do not know, yet I will hope.’

He saw her studying his face, and wondered if he’d managed to hide any of his anxiety, his grief. The look in her eyes spoke of his failure.

‘Speak with this caster,’ she said. ‘And… ask him… to refrain. Never again in this city. Please.’

‘He was unwilling, Acquitor. He did what he could. To protect… everyone.’ Except, I think, himself. ‘I do not think there will be another reading.’

She stared out the window. ‘What awaits him? My… son,’ she asked in a whisper.

He understood her question. ‘He will have you, Seren Pedac. Mothers possess a strength, vast and strange-’

‘Strange?’

Bugg smiled. ‘Strange to us. Unfathomable. Also, your son’s father was much loved. There will be those among his friends who would not hesitate-’

‘Onrack T’emlava,’ she said.

Bugg nodded. ‘An Imass.’

‘Whatever that is.’

‘Acquitor, the Imass are many things, and among those things, one virtue stands above all the others. Their loyalty cannot be sundered. They feel such forces with a depth vast and-’

‘Strange?’

Bugg said nothing for a moment, knowing that he could, if he so chose, be offended by the implication in that lone word she had added to his sentence. Instead, he smiled. ‘Even so.’

‘I am sorry, Ceda. You are right. Onrack was… remarkable, and a great comfort to me. Still, I do not expect him to visit again.’