And then Anomander Rake himself would arrive, striding through the wreckage with black sword in his hands, to take the life of a god – whatever life happened to be left.
Shivering in the damp, he rose, pulling his tattered raincape about him. Gradithan was probably looking for him, wanting to know what Monkrat’s countless sets of eyes in the city might have seen – not that there was much to report. The Tiste Andii weren’t up to much, but then they never were, until such time as necessity stirred them awake. Besides, he’d woken up with a headache, a dull throb just behind the eyes – it was the weather, pressure building in his sinuses. And even the rats in the camp were proving elusive, strangely nervous, skittish when he sought to snare them to his will.
He wasn’t interested in seeing Gradithan. The man had moved from opportunist to fanatic alarmingly fast, and while Monkrat had no problem understanding the former, he was baffled by the latter. And frightened.
The best way to avoid Gradithan was to wander down into Black Coral. The blessing of darkness was far too bitter for the worshippers of saemankelyk.
He worked his way into the ankle-deep river of mud that was the trail leading into Night.
From somewhere nearby a cat suddenly yowled and Monkrat started as he sensed a wave of panic sweep through every rat within hearing. Shaking himself, he continued on.
A moment later he realized someone was walking behind him – a pilgrim, perhaps, smart enough to elect to avoid the camp, someone now looking for an inn, all thoughts of salvation riding the tide out in waves of revulsion.
‘No believer should arrive willing.’ So said that High Priestess, Salind, before Gradithan destroyed her. Monkrat recalled being confused by that statement back then. Now, he wasn’t. Now, he understood precisely what she’d meant. Worship born of need could not but be suspect, fashioned from self-serving motives as it was. ‘Someone wanting their bowl filled will take whatever is poured into it.’ No, revelation could not be sought, not through willing deprivation or meditation. It needed to arrive unexpected, even undesired. ‘Do not trust an easy believer.’ Aye, she’d been a strange High Priestess, all right.
He remembered one night, when—
A knife edge pressed cold against his throat.
‘Not a move,’ hissed a voice behind him, and it was a moment before Monkrat realized that the words had been spoken in Malazan.
‘Figured I wouldn’t recognize you, soldier?’
Cold sweat cut through the steamy heat beneath his woollen clothes. His breath came in gasps. ‘Hood’s breath, if you’re gonna kill me just get it done with!’
‘I’m sore tempted, I am.’
‘Fine, do it then – I’ve got a curse ready for you—’
The Malazan snorted, and dogs started barking. ‘That’d be a real mistake.’
Monkrat’s headache had redoubled. He felt something trickling down from his nostrils. The air was rank with a stench he struggled to identify. Bestial, like an animal’s soaked pelt. ‘Gods below,’ he groaned. ‘Spindle.’
‘Aye, my fame precedes me. Sorry I can’t recall your name, or your squad, even. But you were a Bridgeburner – that much I do remember. Vanished up north, listed as dead – but no, you deserted, ran out on your squadmates.’
‘What squadmates? They were all killed. My friends, all killed. I’d had enough, Spindle. We were getting chewed to pieces in that swamp. Aye, I walked. Would it have been better if I’d stayed, only to die here in Black Coral?’
‘Not everyone died here, soldier—’
‘That’s not what I heard. The Bridgeburners are done, finished.’
After a moment the knife fell away.
Monkrat spun round, stared at the short, bald man, wearing that infamous hairshirt – and Hood’s breath, it stank. ‘Which has me wondering – what are you doing here? Alive? Out of uniform?’
‘Dujek looked at us – a handful left – and just went and added our names to the list. He sent us on our way.’
‘And you—’
‘I decided on the pilgrimage. The Redeemer – I saw Itkovian myself, you see. And I saw Capustan. I was here when the barrow went up – there’s a sharper of mine in that heap, in fact.’
‘A sharper?’
Spindle scowled. ‘You had to have been there, soldier.’
‘Monkrat. That’s my name now.’
‘Wipe the blood from your nose, Monkrat.’
‘Listen, Spindle – hear me well – you want nothing to do with the Redeemer. Not now. You didn’t kill me, so I give you that – my warning. Run, run fast. As far away from here as you can.’ He paused. ‘Where’d you come from anyway?’
‘Darujhistan. It’s where we settled. Me and Antsy, Bluepearl, Picker, Blend, Captain Paran. Oh, and Duiker.’
‘Duiker?’
‘The Imperial Historian—’
‘I know who he is – was – whatever. It’s just, that don’t fit, him being there, I mean.’
‘Aye, he didn’t fit well at all. He was on the Chain of Dogs.’
Monkrat made a gesture. Fener’s blessing.
Spindle’s eyes widened. He sheathed his knife. ‘I’ve worked up a thirst, Monkrat.’
‘Not for kelyk, I hope.’
‘That shit they tried to force on me back there? Smelled like puke. No, I want beer. Ale. Wine.’
‘We can find that in Black Coral.’
‘And you can tell me what’s happened – to the Redeemer.’
Monkrat rubbed at the bristle on his chin, and then nodded. ‘Aye, I will.’ He paused. ‘Hey, you remember the red dragon? From Blackdog?’
‘Aye.’
‘She’s here – and when it gets bad enough with the Redeemer, well, she’ll spread her wings.’
‘No wonder I got so edgy when I arrived. Where’s she hiding, then?’
Monkrat grimaced. ‘In plain sight. Come on, see for yourself.’
The two ex-soldiers set out for Black Coral.
The clouds closed in, thick as curtains of sodden sand. In the camp, new dancers spun and whirled through the detritus, while a handful of terrified pilgrims fled back up the trail.
Rain arrived in a torrent, the water rushing down the flanks of the barrow, making it glisten and gleam until it seemed it was in motion. Shivering, moments from splitting wide open. From the clouds, thunder rattled like ironshod spears, a strange, startling sound that drew denizens of Black Coral out into the streets, to stare upward in wonder.
The water in the black bowls surrounding the High Priestess trembled in answer to that reverberation. She frowned as a wave of trepidation rolled through her. The time was coming, she realized. She was not ready, but then, for some things, one could never be ready. The mind worked possibilities, countless variations, in a procession that did nothing but measure the time wasted in waiting. And leave one exhausted, even less prepared than would have been the case if, for example, she had spent that period in an orgy of hedonistic abandon.
Well, too late for regrets – she shook her head. Oh, it’s never too late for regrets. That’s what regrets are all about, you silly woman. She rose from the cushion and spent a moment shaking out the creases in her robe. Should she track down Endest Silann?
Another heavy clatter of thunder.
Of course he felt it, too, that old priest, the deathly charge growing ever tauter – he didn’t need her to remind him, rushing in all hysterical foam to gush round the poor man’s ankles. The absurd image made her smile, but it was a wry smile, almost bitter. She had worked hard at affecting the cool repose so essential to the role of High Priestess, a repose easily mistaken for wisdom. But how could a woman in her position truly possess wisdom, when the very goddess she served had rejected her and all that she stood for? Not wisdom, but futility. Persistent, stubborn futility. If anything, what she represented was a failure of the intellect, and an even graver one of the spirit. Her worship was founded on denial, and in the absence of a true relationship with her goddess, she – like all those who had
come before her – was free to invent every detail of that mock relationship.
The lie of wisdom is best hidden in monologue. Dialogue exposes it. Most people purporting to wisdom dare not engage in dialogue, lest they reveal the paucity of their assumptions and the frailty of their convictions. Better to say nothing, to nod and look thoughtful.
Was that notion worth a treatise? Yet another self-indulgent meander for the hall of scrolls? How many thoughts could one explore? Discuss, weigh, cast and count? All indulgences. The woman looking for the next meal for her child has no time for such things. The warrior shoulder to shoulder in a line facing an enemy can only curse the so-called wisdom that led him to that place. The flurry of kings and their avaricious terrors. The brutal solidity of slights and insults, grievances and disputes. Does it come down to who will eat and who will not? Or does it come down to who will control the option? The king’s privilege in deciding who eats and who starves, privilege that is the taste of power, its very essence, in fact?
Are gods and goddesses any different?
To that question, she knew Anomander Rake would but smile. He would speak of Mother Dark and the necessity of every decision she made – even down to the last one of turning away from her children. And he would not even blink when stating that his betrayal had forced upon her that final necessity.
She would walk away then, troubled, until some stretch of time later, when, in the solitude of her thoughts, she would realize that, in describing the necessities binding Mother Dark, he was also describing his very own necessities – all that had bound him to his own choices.
His betrayal of Mother Dark, she would comprehend – with deathly chill – had been necessary.
In Rake’s mind, at any rate. And everything had simply followed on from there, inevitably, inexorably.
She could hear the rain lashing down on the temple’s domed roof, harsh as arrows on upraised shields. The sky was locked in convulsions, a convergence of inimical elements. A narrow door to her left opened and one of her priestesses hurried in, then abruptly halted to bow. ‘High Priestess.’
‘Such haste,’ she murmured in reply, ‘so unusual for the temple historian.’
The woman glanced up, and her eyes were impressively steady. ‘A question, if I may.’
‘Of course.’
‘High Priestess, are we now at war?’
‘My sweetness – old friend – you have no idea.’
The eyes widened slightly, and then she bowed a second time. ‘Will you summon Feral, High Priestess?’
‘That dour creature? No, let the assassin stay in her tower. Leave her to lurk or whatever it is she does to occupy her time.’
‘Spinnock Durav—’
‘Is not here, I know that. I know that.’ The High Priestess hesitated, and then said, ‘We are now at war, as you have surmised. On countless fronts, only one of which – the one here – concerns us, at least for the moment. I do not think weapons need be drawn, however.’
‘High Priestess, shall we prevail?’
‘How should I know?’ Those words snapped out, to her instant regret as she saw her old friend’s gaze harden. ‘The risk,’ she said, in a quieter tone, ‘is the gravest we have faced since . . . well, since Kharkanas.’
That shocked the temple historian – when nothing else had, thus far. But she recovered and, drawing a deep breath, said, ‘Then I must invoke my role, High Priestess. Tell me what must be told. All of it.’
‘For posterity?’
‘Is that not my responsibility?’
‘And if there will be no posterity? None to consider it, naught but ashes in the present and oblivion in place of a future? Will you sit scribbling until your last moment of existence?’
She was truly shaken now. ‘What else would you have me do?’
‘I don’t know. Go find a man. Make fearful love.’
‘I must know what has befallen us. I must know why our Lord sent away our greatest warrior, and then himself left us.’
‘Countless fronts, this war. As I have said. I can tell you intent – as I understand it, and let me be plain, I may well not understand it at all – but not result, for each outcome is unknown. And each must succeed.’
‘No room for failure?’
‘None.’
‘And if one should fail?’
‘Then all shall fail.’
‘And if that happens . . . ashes, oblivion – that will be our fate.’
The High Priestess turned away. ‘Not just ours, alas.’
Behind her, the historian gasped.
On all sides, water trembled in bowls, and the time for the luxurious consideration of possibilities was fast fading.
Probably just as well.
‘Tell me of redemption.’
‘There is little that I can say, Segda Travos.’
Seerdomin snorted. ‘The god known as the Redeemer can say nothing of redemption.’ He gestured to that distant quiescent figure kneeling in the basin. ‘She gathers power – I can smell it. Like the rot of ten thousand souls. What manner of god does she now serve? Is this the Fallen One? The Crippled God?’
‘No, although certain themes are intertwined. For followers of the Crippled God, the flaw is the virtue. Salvation arrives with death, and it is purchased through mortal suffering. There is no perfection of the spirit to strive towards, no true blessing to be gained as a reward for faith.’
‘And this one?’
‘As murky as the kelyk itself. The blessing is surrender, the casting away of all thought. The self vanishes within the dance. The dream is shared by all who partake of pain’s nectar, but it is a dream of oblivion. In a sense, the faith is anti-life. Not in the manner of death, however. If one views life as a struggle doomed to fail, then it is the failing that becomes the essence of worship. He is the Dying God, after all.’
‘They celebrate the act of dying?’
‘In a manner, yes, assuming you can call it celebration. More like enslavement. Worship as self-destruction, perhaps, in which all choice is lost.’
‘And how can such a thing salve the mortal soul, Redeemer?’
‘That I cannot answer. But it may be that we shall soon find out.’
‘You do not believe I can protect you – at least in that we’re in agreement. So, when I fall – when I fail – the Dying God shall embrace me as it will you.’ He shook his head. ‘I am not unduly worried about me. I fear more the notion of what eternal dying can do to redemption – that seems a most unholy union.’
The Redeemer simply nodded and it occurred to Seerdomin that the god had probably been thinking of little else. A future that seemed sealed into fate, an end to what was, and nothing glorious in what would follow.
He rubbed at his face, vaguely dismayed at the weariness he felt. Here, disconnected from his body, from any real flesh and bone, it was his spirit that was exhausted, battered down. And yet . . . and yet, I will stand. And do all I can. To defend a god I have chosen not to worship, against a woman who dreamt once of his embrace, and dreams of the same now – with far deadlier intent. He squinted down at her, a form almost shapeless in the gathering gloom beneath gravid, leaden clouds.
After a moment raindrops splashed against his helm, stained his forearms and his hands. He lifted one hand, and saw that the rain was black, thick, wending like slime.
The sky was raining kelyk.
She raised her head, and the distance between them seemed to vanish. Her eyes shone with fire, a slow, terrible pulse.
Gods below . . .
Like the worn ridge of a toothless jaw, the Gadrobi Hills rose into view, spanning the north horizon. Kallor halted to study them. An end to this damned plain, to this pointless sweep of grasses. And there, to the northwest, where the hills sank back down, there was a city.
He could not yet see it. Soon.
The temple would be nondescript, the throne within it a paltry thing, poorly made, an icon of insipid flaws. A broken fool once named Munug would writhe before i
t, in obeisance, the High Priest of Pathos, the Prophet of Failure – enough thematic unity, in fact, to give any king pause. Kallor allowed himself a faint smirk. Yes, he was worthy of such worship, and if in the end he wrested it body and soul from the Crippled God, so be it.
The temple his domain, the score of bent and maimed priests and priestesses his court, the milling mob outside, sharing nothing but chronic ill luck, his subjects. This, he decided, had the makings of an immortal empire.
Patience – it would not do, he realized, to seek to steal the Fallen One’s worshippers. There was no real need. The gods were already assembling to crush the Crippled fool once and for all. Kallor did not think they would fail this time. Though no doubt the Fallen One had a few more tricks up his rotted sleeve, not least the inherent power of the cult itself, feeding as it did on misery and suffering – two conditions of humanity that would persist for as long as humans existed.
Kallor grunted. ‘Ah, fuck patience. The High King will take this throne. Then we can begin the . . . negotiations.’
He was no diplomat and had no interest in acquiring a diplomat’s skills, not even when facing a god. There would be conditions, some of them unpalatable, enough to make the hoary bastard choke on his smoke. Well, too bad.
One more throne. The last he’d ever need.
He resumed walking. Boots worn through. Dust wind-driven into every crease of his face, the pores of his nose and brow, his eyes thinned to slits. The world clawed at him, but he pushed through. Always did. Always would.
One more throne. Darujhistan.
Long ago, in some long lost epoch, people had gathered on this blasted ridge overlooking the flattened valley floor, and had raised the enormous standing stones that now leaned in an uneven line spanning a thousand paces or more. A few had toppled here and there, but among the others Samar Dev sensed a belligerent vitality. As if the stones were determined to stand sentinel for ever, even as the bones of those who’d raised them now speckled the dust that periodically scoured their faces.
She paused to wipe sweat from her forehead, watching as Traveller reached the crest, and then moved off into the shade of the nearest stone, a massive phallic menhir looming tall, where he leaned against it with crossed arms. To await her, of course – she was clearly slowing them down, and this detail irritated her. What she lacked, she understood, was manic obsession, while her companions were driven and this lent them the vigour common to madmen. Which, she had long since decided, was precisely what they were.