The old man staggered, righted himself and made a show of reassembling his dignity. 'A concurrence of reactions. Too long out of social engagements and the like. Must examine my manners, and more, my personality.' He cocked his head. 'Honest. Forthright. Amusing. Gentle and impressive integrity. Well! Where's the problem, then? Soldiers are crude. Callow and thick. Distempered. Do you know the Chain of Dogs?'
Fiddler started, blinked as if shaken from a trance. 'What?'
'It's begun, though not yet known. Anabar Thy'lend. Chain of Dogs in the Malazan tongue. Soldiers have no imaginations, meaning they're capable of vast surprises. There are some things even the Whirlwind cannot sweep aside.'
Mappo Trell returned, bearing a tray. 'Harassing our guest again, Iskaral Pust?'
'Shadow-borne prophecies,' the High Priest muttered, eyeing Fiddler with cool appraisal. 'The gutter under the flood, raising ripples on the plunging surface. A river of blood, the flow of words from a hidden heart. All things sundered. Spiders in every crook and corner.' He whirled about, stamped out of the room.
Mappo stared after him.
'Pay him no heed, right?'
The Trell swung around, his heavy brows lifting. 'Hood, no, pay that man every heed, Fiddler.'
'I was afraid you'd say that. He mentioned Tremorlor. He knows.'
'He knows what even your companions don't,' Mappo said, carrying the tray to the sapper. 'You seek the fabled Azath House, out in the desert. Somewhere.'
'I follow Icarium,' the Trell replied. 'A search without end.'
'And you've devoted your life to helping him in his search?'
'No,' Mappo sighed, then whispered without meeting Fiddler's gaze, 'I seek to keep it endless. Here, break your fast. You've been unconscious for two days. Your friends are restless with questions, eager to speak with you.'
'I suppose I've no choice — I'd better answer those questions.'
'Aye, and once you've mended some, we can begin our journey …' He smiled cautiously. 'To find Tremorlor.'
Fiddler frowned. 'Mended, you said. My ankle was crushed — I can barely feel a thing beyond my knee. Seems likely you'll have to cut that foot off.'
'I've some experience in healing,' Mappo said. 'This temple once specialized in such alchemies, and the nuns left much behind. And, oddly enough, Iskaral Pust seems to show some talent as well, though one has to keep an eye on him. His wits scatter sometimes and he confuses elixirs with poisons.'
'He's an avatar of Shadowthrone,' the sapper said, eyes narrowing. 'Or the Rope, Cotillion, the Patron of Assassins — there's little difference between the two.'
The Trell shrugged. 'The art of assassination requires a complementary knowledge of healing. Two sides to the same alchemical coin. In any case, he actually did surgery on your ankle — fear not, I observed. And, I admit, learned much. Essentially, the High Priest rebuilt your ankle. Using an unguent, he sealed the fragments — I've never before seen the like. Thus, you will heal, and quickly.'
'A pair of hands devoted to Shadow poked around under my skin? Hood's breath!'
'It was that or lose your foot. You had a punctured lung as well — beyond my skills, that, but the High Priest contrived to drain your lung of blood, then made you breathe a healing vapour. You owe Iskaral Pust your life.'
'Precisely my point,' Fiddler muttered.
There were voices outside, then Apsalar appeared in the doorway, Crokus behind her. The two days out of the desiccating storm had done much to revive both of them. They entered, Crokus rushing past to crouch beside Fiddler's bed.
'We have to get out of here!' he hissed.
The sapper glanced at Mappo, noted his wry smile as he slowly backed away. 'Calm down, lad. What is the problem?'
'The High Priest — he's of the Shadow Cult, Fiddler. Don't you see — Apsalar …'
Something cold slithered along the sapper's bones. 'Oh, damn,' he whispered. 'I see your point.' He looked up as the young woman stepped to the foot of the bed, and spoke in a low tone. 'Your mind still your own, lass?'
'The little man treats me well,' she said, shrugging.
'Well?' Crokus spluttered. 'Like the prodigal returned, you mean! What's to stop Cotillion from possessing you all over again?'
'You need only ask his servant,' a new voice said from the doorway. Icarium stood leaning, arms crossed, against the frame. His slitted grey eyes were fixed on the room's far corner.
From the gloom of the shadows there a figure took shape. Iskaral Pust, seated on a strangely wrought chair, squirmed and flung a glare at the Jhag. 'I was to remain unseen, fool! What gift shadows when you so clearly divine what they hide? Pah! I am undone!'
Icarium's thin lips quirked slightly. 'Why not give them answer, Iskaral Pust? Put them at ease.'
