A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

the exhausted world the manifold parts to assemble a new whole.
    But healing belonged to the land. It was not guaranteed to that which lived upon it. Breeds ended; the last of a particular beast, the last of a particular race, each walked alone for a time. Before the final closing of those singular eyes, and the vision behind them.
    Seren longed to hold on to that long view. She desperately sought out the calm wisdom it promised, the peace that belonged to an extended perspective. With sufficient distance, even a range of mountains could look flat, the valleys between each peak unseen. In the same manner, lives and deaths, mortality's peaks and valleys, could be levelled. Thinking in this way, she felt less inclined to panic.
    And that was becoming increasingly important.
    'And where in the Errant's name is that delegation?' Buruk asked.
    'From Trate,' Seren said, 'they'll be tacking all the way. They're coming.'
    'Would that they had done so before all this.'
    'Do you fear that Rhulad poses a threat to the treaty?'
    Buruk's gaze remained fixed on the flames. 'It was the sword that raised him,' he said in a low voice. 'Or whoever made it and sent it to the Edur. Did you catch a glimpse of the blade? It's mottled. Made me think of one of the Daughters they worship, the dappled one, what was her name?'
    'Sukul Ankhadu.'
    'Maybe she exists in truth. An Edur goddess—'
    'A dubious gift, then, for the Edur view Sukul Ankhadu as a fickle creature. She is feared. They worship Father Shadow and Daughter Dusk, Sheltatha Lore. And, on a day to day basis, more of the latter than the former.' Seren finished the tea then refilled the tin cup. 'Sukul Ankhadu. I suppose that is possible, although I can't recall any stories about those gods and goddesses of the Edur ever manifesting themselves in such a direct manner. It seemed more like ancestor worship, the founders of the tribes elevated into holy figures, that sort of thing.' She sipped and grimaced.
    'That will burn holes in your gut, Acquitor.'
    'Too late for that, Buruk.'
    'Well, if not Ankhadu, then who? That sword came from somewhere.'
    'I don't know.'
    'Nor does it sound as if you even care. This listlessness ill suits you, Acquitor.'
    'It's not listlessness, Buruk, it's wisdom. I'm surprised you can't tell the difference.'
    'Is it wisdom taking the life from your eyes, the sharpness from your thoughts? Is it wisdom that makes you indifferent to the nightmare miracle we witnessed yesterday?'
    'Absolutely. What else could it be?'
    'Despair?'
    'And what have I that's worthy of despair?'
    'I'm hardly the one to answer that.'
    'True—'
    'But I'll try anyway.' He drew out a flask and pulled out the stopper, then tilted it back. Two quick swallows, after which he sighed and leaned back. 'It strikes me you're a sensitive type, Acquitor, which probably is a quality for someone in your profession. But you're not able to separate business from everything else. Sensitivity is a pervasive kind of vulnerability, after all. Makes you easy to hurt, makes the scars you carry liable to open and weep at the slightest prod.' He took another drink, his face growing slack with the effects of the potent liquor and nectar, a looseness coming to his words as he continued, 'Hull Beddict. He's pushed you away, but you know him too well. He is rushing headlong. Into a fate of his own choosing, and it will either kill him or destroy him. You want to do something about it, maybe even stop him, but you can't. You don't know how, and you feel that as your own failure. Your own flaw. A weakness. Thus, for the fate that will befall him, you choose not to blame him, but yourself. And why not? It's easier.'
    She had chosen to stare at the bitter dregs in the cup embraced by her hands, sometime during the course of Buruk's pronouncements. Eyes tracking the battered rim, then out to the fingers and thumbs, swathed in stained, scarred leather. Flattened pads polished and dark, seams fraying, the knuckles stretched and gnarled. Somewhere within was skin, flesh, muscle, tendon and callus. And bone. Hands were such extraordinary tools, she mused. Tools, weapons, clumsy and deft, numb and tactile. Among tribal hunters, they could speak, a flurry of gestures eloquent in silence. But they could not taste. Could not hear. Could not weep. For all that, they killed so easily.
    While from the mouth sounds issued forth, recognizably shaped into meanings of passion, of beauty, of blinding clarity. Or muddied or quietly