‘The man, Anaster, might well view what we seek for him as torture, but that is a fear born of ignorance. He will not be harmed. Indeed, my Shield Anvil seeks the very opposite for the unfortunate man.’

‘She would take the pain from him.’

The Destriant nodded.

‘That spiritual embrace – such as Itkovian did to Rath’Fener.’

‘Even so, sir.’

Paran was silent a moment, then he said, ‘The notion terrifies Anaster?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he knows of nothing else within him. He has equated his entire identity with the pain of his soul. And so fears its end.’

Paran turned towards the Malazan camp. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

‘Sir?’ she asked behind him.

‘He is yours, Destriant. With my blessing.’

She staggered then, against her horse, which grunted and sidestepped.

Paran spun. ‘What—’

The woman righted herself, lifted a hand to her brow, then shook her head. ‘I am sorry. There was ... weight... to your use of that word.’

‘My use – oh.’

Oh. Hood’s breath, Ganoes – that was damned careless. ‘And?’ he reluctantly asked.

‘And ... I am not sure, sir. But I think you would be well advised to, uh, exercise caution in the future.’

‘Aye, I think you’re right. Are you recovered enough to continue?’

She nodded, collecting the reins of her horse.

Don’t think about it, Ganoes Paran. Take it as a warning and nothing more. You did nothing to Anaster – you don’t even know the man. A warning, and you’ll damn well heed it . . .

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Glass is sand and sand is glass!

The ant dancing blind as blind ants do

on the lip of the rim and the rim of the lip.

White in the night and grey in the day –

smiling spider she never smiles but smile she does

though the ant never sees, blind as it is –

and now was!

Tales to Scare Children

Malesen the Vindictive (b.?)

‘Mindless panic, alas, makes her twitch.’

The Seerdomin’s voice above him said, ‘I believe it has grown ... excessive of late, Holy One.’

The Pannion Seer’s reply was a shriek: ‘Do you think I can’t see that? Do you think I’m blind?’

‘You are all wise and all knowing,’ the Seerdomin officer rumbled. ‘I was simply expressing my concern, Holy One. He can no longer walk, and his breath seems so laboured within that malformed chest.’

‘He’ . . . crippled . . . crumpled ribs like skeleton hands closing tighter on lungs, ever tighter. Seerdomin. This is me you describe.

But who am I?

I’d felt power once, Long ago.

There is a wolf.

A wolf. Trapped in this cage – my chest, these bones, yes, he cannot breathe. It hurts so to breathe.

The howls are gone. Silenced. The wolf cannot call . . . call. . .

To whom?