Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7) Page 114

The sunlit air seemed to spin and swirl, so thick were the clouds of flying insects, and there was a taint of something in the warm, sultry air that left Sukul Ankhadu with a vague sense of unease, as if ghosts watched from the black knots on the trees surrounding them. She had quested out-! ward more than once, finding nothing but minute life-sparks-the natural denizens of any forest-and the low murmurings of earth spirits, too weak to do much more than stir restlessly in their eternal, dying sleep. Nothing to concern them, then, which was well.

Standing close to one of the shin-high walls, she glanced back at the makeshift shelter, repressing yet another surge of irritation and impatience.

Freeing her sister should have yielded nothing but gratitude from the bitch. Sheltatha Lore had not exactly fared well in that barrow-beaten senseless by Silchas Ruin and a damned Locqui Wyval, left near-drowned in a bottomless bog in some memory pocket realm of the Azath, where every moment stretched like centuries-so much so that Sheltatha had emerged indelibly stained by those dark waters, her hair a burnt red, her skin the hue of a betel nut, as waxy and seamed as that of a T’lan Imass. Wounds gaped bloodless. Taloned fingernails gleamed like elongated beetle carapaces-Sukul had found her eyes drawn to them again and again, as if waiting for them to split, revealing wings of exfoliated skin as they dragged the fingers loose to whirl skyward.

And her sister was fevered. Day after day, raving with madness. Dialogue-negotiation-had been hopeless thus far. It had been all Sukul had managed, just getting her from that infernal city out here to a place of relative quietude.

She now eyed the lean-to which, from this angle, hid the recumbent form of Sheltatha Lore, grimly amused by the sight. Hardly palatial, as far as residences were concerned, and especially given their royal blood-if the fiery draconean torrent in their veins could justify the appellation, and why wouldn’t it? Worthy ascendants were few and far between in this realm, after all. Barring a handful of dour Elder Gods-and these nameless spirits of stone and tree, spring and stream. No doubt Menandore has fashioned for herself a more stately abode-ripe for appropriation. Some mountain fastness, spired and impregnable, so high as to be for ever wreathed in clouds. I want to walk those airy halls and call them my own. Our own. Unless I have no choice but to lock Sheltatha in some crypt, where she can rave and shriek disturbing no-one-

‘I should tear your throat out.’

The croak, coming from beneath the boughed shelter, triggered a sigh from Sukul. She approached until she came round to the front and could look within. Her sister had sat up, although her head was bowed, that long, crimson hair obscuring her face. Her long nails at the end of her dangling hands glistened as if leaking oil. ‘Your fever has broken-that is well.’

Sheltatha Lore did not look up. ‘Is it? I called for you-when Ruin was clawing loose-when he turned upon me-that self-serving, heartless bastard! Turned on me! I called on you!’

‘I heard, sister. Alas, too far away to do much about it-that fight of yours. But I came at last, didn’t I? Came, and freed you.’

Silence for a long moment; then, her voice dark and brutal, ‘Where is she, then?’

‘Menandore?’

‘It was her, wasn’t it?’ Lore looked up suddenly, revealing amber eyes, the whites stained like rust. A ghastly gaze, yet wide and searching. ‘Striking me from behind-I suspected nothing-I thought you were there, I thought-you were there, weren’t you!’

‘As much a victim as you, Sheltatha. Menandore had prepared long for that betrayal, a score of rituals-to drive you down, to leave me helpless to intervene.’

‘She struck first, you mean.’ The statement was a half-snarl. ‘Were we not planning the same, Sukul?’

‘That detail is without much relevance now, isn’t it?’

‘And yet, dear sister, she didn’t bury you, did she?’

‘Not through any prowess on my part. Nor did I bargain for my freedom. No, it seemed Menandore was not interested in destroying me.’ Sukul could feel her own sneer of hatred twisting her features. ‘She never thought I was worth much. Sukul Ankhadu, Dapple, the Fickle. Well, she is about to learn otherwise, isn’t she?’

‘We must find an Azath,’ Sheltatha Lore said, baring brown teeth. ‘She must be made to suffer what I suffered.’

‘I agree, sister. Alas, there are no surviving Azath in this place-on this continent, I mean. Sheltatha Lore-will you trust me? I have something in mind-a means of trapping Menandore, of exacting our long-awaited revenge. Will you join me? As true allies-together, there are none here powerful enough to stop us-’