The Malazan Empire, page 1004
‘Ben Adaephon Delat.’
He stared, disbelieving, thunderstruck at his own stupidity. ‘That name…’
‘High Mage Quick Ben, Captain. He vowed he would save Burn, and that was one vow he would not surrender. He said the cancer needed cutting out – Ruthan? What is wrong?’
But he had turned away, struggling to hold it all in. Struggling – and then failing. Laughter burst from him. Disbelieving, wondrous laughter. ‘Delat? Adaephon Delat? Quick Ben – oh, by the Abyss! The bloody nerve of him! Was it a glamour, that made me so thick? No wonder he stayed away from me!’
‘Captain?’
He stared at her, and he could feel his mouth stretched wide in a manic, helpless grin. ‘And down he went, in the battle with the Short-Tails? Like Hood he did!’
Her lips thinned into a straight line. ‘Captain Ruthan Gudd, even you could not be so dense. Of course he isn’t dead.’ She pointed to a nearby figure perched atop an outcrop of rock. ‘Ask our resident Septarch of D’rek. He will tell you, since he at last has figured it out.’
As if commanded, Banaschar rose then, tottering as he walked to them. He wagged a finger at Ruthan Gudd, and through cracked, bleeding lips, he said, ‘This is Quick Ben’s game, O Elder. The bones are in his sweaty hands and they have been for some time. Now, if at his table you’ll find the Worm of Autumn, and the once Lord of Death, and Shadowthrone and Cotillion, not to mention the past players Anomander Rake and Dessembrae, and who knows who else, well – did you really believe a few thousand damned Nah’ruk could take him down? The thing about Adaephon Delat’s game is this: he cheats.’
He turned to the Adjunct and managed a faint bow. ‘Lady Tavore, it is fair to say that I will remember the light in your eyes – as I am privileged to see it now – for the rest of my days. Did I not speak of heroism? I believe I did, though in your despond perhaps you were not listening.’
‘By your words, High Priest, I found the strength for the next step. Forgive me if I could give you nothing in return.’
He cocked his head and regarded her, and then said softly, ‘My lady, have you not given enough?’
Ruthan Gudd clawed at his beard. The delight was fast fading, and he feared stirring the ashes and finding that hope had been nothing but a lone spark, already gone. ‘We still face a dilemma, and oh how I wish Delat was here, though I think even he would have no answers for our plight. This desert will have us.’
Tavore said, ‘Captain, if I fall – take up my sword.’
‘If I do, Adjunct – and if indeed a time comes when I must draw that weapon – it will kill me.’
‘Then as you have said, you must not be an Elder God.’
‘As I said,’ he agreed wryly. ‘But the matter is simpler than that. I have lived a long time, and that is by magic alone. Without sorcery, I would be less than dust.’ He glanced at Banaschar. ‘Delat is not the only one to have gamed at the table of the gods.’
‘I would know your story some day, Ruthan Gudd,’ said Banaschar, with a sad smile.
Ruthan Gudd shrugged. ‘To be honest, too sordid to tell.’
They were silent, as if so thoroughly wrung out by all that had been said – and felt – that nothing remained.
Lostara then returned, and at her side was the girl named Badalle, and a boy carrying a sack.
Nom Kala walked through a silent camp, bodies lying motionless on all sides, half-closed eyes tracking her as she strode past. She saw suffering on a scale that made long-dead emotions tremble inside her, and she remembered the fate of her own kind, when walls of ice closed in, when the animals died out or went away, when there was nothing left to eat, when the humans hunted them down.
Their answer had been the Ritual, an escape that proved a prison. But such a thing was not available to these mortals. Another day. A lie to give them that, if one is even possible. See how weak they are. See how they fail. Another day – but would that be a gift? The marching, the dragging steps, the ones falling to the side to surrender. Will they thank me for those extra moments?
Perhaps her desire to help was in fact one of cruelty—
‘So, how does it feel?’
At the faint voice she halted, looked round, saw a soldier sitting nearby, studying her. ‘How does what feel?’ she asked.
‘Being…dust.’
She did not know how to answer him and so was silent.
‘We’ll be joining you soon enough, I suppose.’
‘No, you won’t. No memory will remain, nothing to draw you back.’
‘But I have strings, T’lan Imass. That’s my private curse. I will be pulled back together – or they’ll try, anyway. Over and over again.’
Nom Kala studied the man, and then shook her head. ‘I see no strings, mortal. If they once existed, now they are gone. Nothing holds you. Not the will of gods, not the lies of destiny or fate. You are severed from everything but that which lives within you.’
‘Truly? No wonder I feel so lonely.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is the reason.’
‘But…you are not alone, are you, T’lan Imass?’
‘No, but that is no salvation. Together, we but share our loneliness.’
He snorted. ‘Not sure that makes sense, but I think I understand you anyway. Listen, do us a favour. Once the last of us has fallen, don’t fall to dust, don’t give up just yet. Walk out of this desert. Walk out of it. Please, will you do that?’
‘Because it is said that this desert cannot be crossed. Yes, I understand you, mortal.’
‘Will you do it?’
‘We shall.’
He settled back on his bedroll with an uneven sigh. ‘Good. Prove them wrong. It’s good enough, I think.’
Nom Kala hesitated, and then said, ‘Do not give up, soldier. One more march.’
Eyes closed, he asked, ‘What would be the point of that?’
‘Push your comrades on – through this next night. Do this, please. As I have agreed to do as you wish, I ask that you reciprocate.’
He opened his eyes, squinted at her. ‘Is it that important?’
‘Suffering is a chasm. But there is the other side, and upon that side waits the Fallen God. I am one of the Seven now. I am one among the Unbound. The Fallen One understands suffering, mortal. In that you are not alone. In that, neither are the T’lan Imass alone.’
‘Aye, I’ll grant you that he knows a thing or two about suffering. That you do, as well. I just don’t see the comfort in that kind of sharing.’
‘If not comfort, then find strength.’
‘To keep bearing that suffering? What for?’
Yes, Nom Kala, what for? Do you have an answer? Does anyone? ‘When you at last reach across that chasm, mortal, and grasp tight the hand of the Fallen One, ask him your question.’
He managed a sour smile. ‘Convenient.’ And he closed his eyes once more.
She continued on, troubled, heavy with anguish. The T’lan Imass have seen civilizations rise and fall. We have seen lands die, only to be reborn. We have seen the seas rise and we have walked ancient seabeds. We have witnessed life’s myriad struggles. From the lone creature suffering its last moments to thousands dying in a bleak season.
And what have we learned?
Only that life is its own purpose. And that, where there is life, there shall be suffering. Has it any meaning? Is existence reason enough?
I am an Unbound. I am free to see, and what is it that I see?
I see…nothing.
Ahead, at the vanguard of the column, there were figures. Standing. Now, I must find a worthy lie. And if my name is to be cursed in the last breaths of these humans, so be it. My crime was hope. My punishment is to see it fail.
But the T’lan Imass have weathered that punishment for a long time, and the failure of hope has a name: it is called suffering.
‘Words,’ said Badalle, meeting the Adjunct’s eyes. ‘I found power in words. But that power is gone. I have nothing left.’
Mother turned to her companions, but said nothing. There was almost no life left in her plain face, her plain eyes, and seeing that hurt Badalle somewhere inside. I had a poem for you. But it is gone. Dried up.
A man combed his beard with filthy fingers and said, ‘Child…if your strength returns – another day…’
‘It is not that kind of strength,’ Badalle replied. ‘It is gone, perhaps for ever. I do not know how to get it back. I think it has died.’ I am not your hope. I cannot be. It was meant to be the other way round, don’t you see that? We are children. That and nothing more. ‘The god that died here, it was the same.’
Mother frowned. ‘Can you explain that, Badalle?’
She shook her head.
The other man – the one with the haunted eyes – then spoke. ‘What can you tell us of that god, Badalle?’
‘He broke apart.’
‘Did he just break apart or did someone break him apart?’
‘He was murdered by his followers.’
The man reacted as if he’d been struck in the face.
‘It is in the Song of the Shards,’ she continued. ‘The god sought to give his people one last gift. But they refused it. They would not live by it, and so they killed him.’ She shrugged. ‘It was long ago, in the age when believers murdered their gods if they didn’t like what the god had to say. But it’s all different now, isn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ the bearded man muttered. ‘Now we just ignore them to death.’
‘It’s not the gods that we ignore,’ said the woman standing beside Mother, ‘just their gifts of wisdom.’
The other man spoke. ‘Do that long enough and the gods just wither and die. So it takes longer, but in the end, it’s still murder. And we’re just as vicious with mortals who have the nerve to say things we don’t want to hear.’ He cursed, and then said, ‘Is it any wonder we’ve outstayed our welcome?’
Mother met Badalle’s eyes and asked, ‘This city – Icarias – who dwells there?’
‘Only ghosts, Mother.’
Beside her, Saddic had seated himself on the ground, taking out his useless things, but at the mention of Icarias he looked up and then pointed at the bearded man. ‘Badalle,’ he said. ‘I saw this man. In the crystal caves beneath the city.’
She considered this, and then shrugged. ‘Not ghosts, then. Memories.’
‘For ever frozen,’ the bearded man said, eyeing the boy. He faced Mother. ‘Adjunct, they cannot help you. Look at them – they’re dying just as we are.’
‘Would that we could have done better by them,’ said the other man.
Mother hesitated, and then nodded, as if in defeat.
This is not how it should be. What am I not seeing? Why do I feel so helpless?
The bearded man was still watching Saddic, and then he said, ‘Send them back to their beds, Adjunct. This is all too…cruel. The sun and heat, I mean.’
‘Lostara—’
‘No, I will escort them, Adjunct.’
‘Very well, Captain. Badalle, this man, Ruthan Gudd, will take you back now.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
The captain settled into a crouch, facing Saddic. ‘Here,’ he said gruffly, ‘let me help with these toys.’
Badalle stared, suddenly breathless, watching as Ruthan Gudd and Saddic filled the tattered bag. Something made Saddic look up then, his eyes meeting hers.
‘Badalle? What is it? What did he say?’
She struggled to breathe, struggled to speak. Something fierce and wild rushed through her. She fell to her knees, snatched the bag from Saddic’s small hands. She spilled the objects back out and stared down at them in wonder.
‘Badalle?’
The captain had leaned back, startled by the vehemence in her gesture, yet he said nothing.
‘Badalle?’
‘Saddic – these things – they’re toys.’
He looked up at her, the colour leaving his face. Showing her, bared and raw, wretched astonishment. Then that shattered, and she could see that he was about to cry.
I’m sorry. I’d…forgotten.
She watched as Saddic’s attention returned to the collection of objects spilled out on the ground before him. He reached out as if to touch one – a bundle of twine and feathers – and then snatched back his hand. ‘Toys,’ he whispered. ‘They’re toys.’
The captain climbed to his feet and backed away. His dark eyes met her gaze, and she saw the horror in them, and she understood. Yes, this is what we lost. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ she said quietly. ‘We will go back. Just…not yet. Please?’
He nodded, and then led the other adults away, and though it was obvious that they were confused, that they had questions, not one of them said a word.
Badalle moved to kneel across from Saddic. She stared down at the array, weakened by a sudden feeling of helplessness. I – I don’t remember. Yet, when she reached down to pick up the pommel from a knife or sword, when she hesitated and looked over at Saddic, he simply nodded his invitation.
Thirty paces away, hot but dry-skinned in the burgeoning heat, Ruthan Gudd stood watching, his only company the Adjunct. In a few terse, difficult words, he had explained his sense of what had just happened.
Neither spoke for some time.
It wasn’t fair. Of all the crimes he had seen in a life almost too long to comprehend…this one surpasses them all. The look on her face. On the boy’s when she told him. That pathetic collection, carried like a treasure, and is it not a treasure? Finally, he wiped a hand before his eyes and said, ‘We spoke of murdering gods, with a strange diffidence, almost a bluster – and what did they show us? Adjunct, what are we, when we murder innocence?’
Tavore’s sigh was ragged. ‘It will be answered.’
He saw her take on the burden, in the settling of her shoulders, recognized the breathtaking courage in the way she lifted her head, the way she refused to look away from the scene – of two children, trying to remember what it is to play. Adjunct – do not do this. You cannot carry anything more—
Hearing someone behind them, they both turned.
A T’lan Imass. Ruthan Gudd grunted. ‘One of our deserters.’
‘Nom Kala,’ the apparition replied. ‘Now in the service of the Fallen One, Elder.’
‘What do you wish to tell me?’ Tavore asked.
‘Adjunct. You must march for another night – you cannot stop here. You cannot give up. One more night.’
‘I intend to march for as many nights as we can, Nom Kala.’
She was silent, as if nonplussed.
Ruthan Gudd cleared his throat. ‘You don’t want us to give up – we understand that, Nom Kala. We are the Fallen One’s last hope.’
‘Your soldiers fail.’
‘They’re not interested in worshipping the Crippled God,’ he said. ‘They don’t want to give their lives to a cause they don’t understand. This confusion and reluctance weakens their spirit.’
‘Yes, Elder. Thus, there must be one more night of marching.’
‘And then?’ the Adjunct demanded. ‘What salvation will find us by tomorrow’s dawn?’
‘The Seven of the Dying Fires shall endeavour to awaken Tellann,’ Nom Kala replied. ‘We have begun our preparations for a Ritual of Opening. Once we have created a gate we shall travel through, to a place where there is fresh water. We shall fill the casks once more and return to you. But we need another day.’
‘There are but seven of you,’ Ruthan said. ‘In this desert, that is not enough.’
‘We shall succeed in this, Elder.’
Ruthan cocked his head. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Now, please inform your soldiers. One more march.’
‘To reach salvation,’ said the Adjunct.
‘Yes.’
‘Very well, Nom Kala.’
The T’lan Imass bowed to them both, turned and then strode back into the camp.
When she was gone, the Adjunct sighed. ‘In your obviously long life, Captain, did you ever throw dice with a T’lan Imass?’
‘No, and I used to think that wisdom on my part.’
‘And now?’
Ruthan Gudd shook his head. ‘They are terrible liars.’
‘Still,’ she said under her breath, ‘I appreciate the effort.’
‘We don’t need it, Adjunct. To keep us all going – we don’t need it.’
‘We don’t?’
‘No.’ And he pointed to Badalle and Saddic. ‘I will go among the troops this day, Adjunct, for I have a story to tell. Two children, a sack of toys.’
She eyed him. ‘These children?’
He nodded. ‘These children.’
Chapter Eighteen
Down on the strand where the sea meets the land
Where fishermen kneel over wounds that won’t heal
And the water weeps at the end of the day
In the mirror you walk away
Among the red trees and the long dead leaves
The axeman wanders but cannot remember
And the earth runs like tears and will not stay
In the mirror you walk away
In the silent season high on the hill’s bastion
In the burning rain and the soul’s dark stain
Where the children lie where they lay
In the mirror you walk away
Along the furrows of his heels a long shadow steals
Down from the altar pulled all the destinies fulfilled
Tell the tale another god has had his day
And in the mirror you walk away
When on the grey fields the troubles fall still
Another soldier’s cause dies for what never was
Drifting past the dreams now gone astray
In the mirror you walk away
Soiled the sacrament and broken the monument
Sullied the sculpture and soured the rapture
Beauty lives but brief its stay
And in the mirror you walk away
Gods will give and then take away
If faith tastes of blood
drink deep when you pray
Beauty lives but brief its stay
And when it all goes away
