A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

eager
for a place to stand that didn't feel so isolated and lonely,
or filling oneself with bravado to mask the fragile self
hiding within. But all that was no surprise. Youth was headlong,
even when it felt static, stagnant and stifling. It liked
its emotions extreme, doused in fiery spices, enough to burn
the throat and set flame to the heart. The future was not
consciously rushed into – it was just the place you suddenly
ended up in, battered and weary and wondering how in
Hood's name you got there. Well. He could see that. He
didn't need the echoes of his grandmother's ceaseless
advice whispering through his thoughts.
    Assuming, of course, that voice belonged to his grandmother.
He had begun to suspect otherwise.
    Bottle crossed the heap, moved down onto the south
side. At the base here the desiccated ground was pitted,
revealing much older leavings of rubbish – red-glazed
sherds with faded images of chariots and stilted figures
wearing ornate headdresses and wielding strange hookbladed
weapons. The massive olive-oil jars common to this
region retained these old forms, clinging to a mostly forgotten
antiquity as if the now lost golden age was any
different from the present one.
    His grandmother's observations, those ones. She'd had
nothing good to say about the Malazan Empire, but even
less about the Untan Confederacy, the Li Heng League and
all the other despotic rulers of the pre-empire days on Quon
Tali. She had been a child through all the Itko Kan–Cawn
Por wars, the Seti Tide, the Wickan migrations, the Quon
attempt at hegemony. All blood and stupidity, she used to say. All prod and pull. The old with their ambitions and the young
with their eager mindless zeal. At least the Emperor put an end
to all that – a knife in the back for those grey tyrants and distant
wars for the young zealots. It ain't right but nothing ever is.
Ain't right, as I said, but better than worst, and I remember the
worst.
    Now here he was, in the midst of one of those distant
wars. Yet there had been no zeal in his motivations. No,
something far more pathetic. Boredom was a poor reason to
do anything. Better to hold high some raging brand of
righteousness, no matter how misguided and lacking in
subtlety.
    Cuttle talks of vengeance. But he makes his trying to feed us
something too obvious, and we're not swelling with rage like we're
supposed to. He couldn't be sure of it, but this army felt lost.
At its very core was an empty place, waiting to be filled, and
Bottle feared it would wait for ever.
    He settled down onto the ground, began a silent series of
summonings. Before long, a handful of lizards scampered
across the dusty earth towards him. Two rhizan settled
down onto his right thigh, their wings falling still. An arch
spider, big as a horse's hoof and the colour of green glass,
leapt from a nearby rock and landed light as a feather on his
left knee. He studied his array of companions and decided
they would do. Gestures, the stroke of fingers, silent commands,
and the motley servants hurried off, making one
and all towards the sheep pen where the captain would
address the sergeants.
    It paid to know just how wide Hood's Gate was going to
be come the assault.
    And then something else was on its way.
    Sudden sweat on Bottle's skin.
    She appeared from the heat haze, moving like an animal
– prey, not predator, in her every careful, watchful motion –
fine-furred, deep brown, a face far more human than ape,
filled with expression – or at least its potential, for the look
she fixed upon him now was singular in its curiosity. As tall
as Bottle, lean but heavy-breasted, belly distended.
Skittish, she edged closer.
    She is not real. A manifestation, a conjuration. A memory
sprung from the dust of this land.
    He watched her crouch to collect a handful of sand, then
fling it at him, voicing a loud barking grunt. The sand fell
short, a few pebbles bouncing off his boots.
    Or maybe I am the conjured, not her. In her eyes the wonder
of coming face to face with a god, or a demon. He looked past
her, and saw the vista of a savannah, thick with grasses,
stands of trees and wildlife. Nothing like it should have
been, only what it once was, long ago. Oh, spirits, why won't
you leave me alone?
    She had been following. Following them all. The entire
army. She could smell it, see the signs of its passing, maybe
even hear the distant clack of metal and wooden wheels
punching down the sides of stones in the road as they
rocked along. Driven