A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

intention. We distort
with deliberate purpose; we confine vast meaning into
the strictures of imagined necessity. In this lies both
failing and gift, for in the surrender of truth we fashion,
rightly or wrongly, universal significance. Specific gives
way to general; detail gives way to grandiose form, and
in the telling we are exalted beyond our mundane
selves. We are, in truth, bound into greater humanity by
this skein of words ...
    Introduction to Among the Consigned
Heboric

CHAPTER TWELVE
    'He spoke of those who would fall, and in
his cold eyes stood naked the truth that it was
we of whom he spoke. Words of broken reeds
and covenants of despair, of surrender given
as gifts and slaughter in the name of salvation.
He spoke of the spilling of war, and he told us
to flee into unknown lands, so that we might
be spared the spoiling of our lives ...'
    Words of the Iron Prophet Iskar Jarak
The Anibar (the Wickerfolk)
     
    O ne moment the shadows between the trees were
empty, the next moment that Samar Dev glanced
up, her breath caught upon seeing figures. On all
sides where the sunlit clearing was clawed back by the
tangle of black spruce, ferns and ivy, stood savages ...
'Karsa Orlong,' she whispered, 'we have visitors ...'
    The Teblor, his hands red with gore, cut away another
slice of flesh from the dead bhederin's flank, then looked
up. After a moment he grunted, then returned to his
butchering.
    They were edging forward, emerging from the gloom.
Small, wiry, wearing tanned hides, strips of fur bound round
their upper arms, their skin the colour of bog water,
stitched with ritual scarring on exposed chests and
shoulders. On their faces grey paint or wood ash covered
their lower jaws and above the lips, like beards. Elongated
circles of icy blue and grey surrounded their dark eyes.
Carrying spears, axes at hide belts along with an assortment
of knives, they were bedecked in ornaments of coldhammered
copper that seemed shaped to mimic the phases
of the moon; and on one man was a necklace made from
the vertebrae of some large fish, and descending from it was
a gold-ringed, black copper disc, representing, she surmised,
a total eclipse. This man, evidently a leader of some
kind, stepped forward. Three strides, eyes on an unmindful
Karsa Orlong, out into the sunlight, where he slowly knelt.
    Samar now saw that he held something in his hands.
'Karsa, pay attention. What you do now will determine
whether we pass through their land peaceably or ducking
spears from the shadows.'
    Karsa reversed grip on the huge skinning knife he had
been working with, and stabbed it deep into the bhederin
carcass. Then he rose to face the kneeling savage.
    'Get up,' he said.
    The man flinched, lowering his head.
    'Karsa, he's offering you a gift.'
    'Then he should do so standing. His people are hiding
here in the wilderness because he hasn't done enough of
that. Tell him he needs to stand.'
    They had been speaking in the trader tongue, and something
in the kneeling warrior's reactions led Samar to
suspect that he had understood the exchange ... and the
demand, for he slowly climbed to his feet. 'Man of the
Great Trees,' he now said, his accent harsh and guttural to
Samar's ears. 'Deliverer of Destruction, the Anibar offer
you this gift, and ask that you give us a gift in return—'
    'Then they are not gifts,' Karsa replied. 'What you seek
is to barter.'
    Fear flickered in the warrior's eyes. The others of his
tribe – the Anibar – remained silent and motionless
between the trees, yet Samar sensed a palpable dismay
spreading among them. Their leader tried again: 'This is
the language of barter, Deliverer, yes. Poison that we must
swallow. It does not suit what we seek.'
    Scowling, Karsa turned to Samar Dev. 'Too many words
that lead nowhere, witch. Explain.'
    'This tribe follows an ancient tradition lost among most
peoples of Seven Cities,' she said. 'The tradition of giftgiving.
The gift itself is a measure of a number of things,
with subtle and often confusing ways of attributing value.
These Anibar have of necessity learned about trading, but
they do not ascribe value the same way as we do, and
so they usually lose in the deal. I suspect they generally fare
poorly when dealing with canny, unscrupulous merchants
from the civilized lands. There is—'
    'Enough,' Karsa interrupted. He gestured towards the
leader – who flinched once more – and said, 'Show me this
gift. But first, tell me your name.'
    'I am, in the poison tongue,