Just then from the north a brilliant yellow-orange light illuminated the darkness – the Imperial pavilion bursting aflame. It pushed back the night for a half-league all around. The flames climbed like those of an immense bonfire, a celebration of light and vitality, if short-lived. Possum stared his arms falling to his sides. Oh, Cowl! Master-stroke! So much for such careful preparations and precautions! I bow before your unbending ruthlessness.
What now for poor Possum? Imperial forces routed, the pavilion aflame, and he himself assassin of the Imperial High Maze. What could possibly be left? Was not all lost? A giddy, almost fey mood took him and he laughed aloud. He felt like dancing amid the dead. His anxious oh-so-important worries of rivals amid the order? Utterly irrelevant! A lifetime of scheming, positioning, manipulating? A life wasted! His own ambitions, hopes, dreams? Completely thwarted!
He walked down on to the field between the fallen, laughing aloud. Come Cowl! Come Lacy, Tarkhan or Isha! Let us put an end to the comic tragedy!
Return of the Crimson Guard, by Ian C. Esslemont (Novels of the Malazan Empire #2)
