A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

For this, despair is your
greatest foe. When the time comes for you to stand
between Icarium and all that the Nameless Ones seek ...
well, I believe that you will not fail.'
    Mappo watched Cotillion walk into the darkness, the
Hounds slipping into the god's wake. After a moment,
the Trell glanced over at Iskaral Pust. And found sharp,
glittering eyes fixed on him. 'High Priest,' Mappo asked, 'do
you intend to join me in my journey?'
    'Alas, I cannot.' The Dal Honese glanced away. 'The
Trell's insane! He will fail! Of course he will fail! As good
as dead, ah, I cannot bear now to even so much as look at
him. All Mogora's healing – for naught! A waste!' Iskaral
Pust rubbed at his face, then leapt to his feet. 'Too many
equally important tasks await me, Mappo Runt. No, you
and I shall walk momentarily divergent paths, yet side
by side to glory nonetheless! As Cotillion has said, you
shall not fail. Nor will I. Victory shall be ours!' He raised a
bony fist and shook it at the night sky. Then hugged himself.
'Gods below, we're doomed.'
    A cackle from Mogora, who had reappeared, her arms
loaded down with firewood implausibly cut and split as if by
a master woodsman. She dumped it beside the fire. 'Stir
them embers, dear pathetic husband of mine.'
    'You cannot command me, hag! Stir them yourself! I
have more vital tasks before me right now!'
    'Such as?'
    'Well, to begin with, I need to pee.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    And all these people gathered
to honour the one who had died,
was it a man, a woman, a warrior,
a king, a fool, and where were
the statues, the likenesses painted
on plaster and stone?
    yet so they stood or sat, the wine
spilling at their feet, dripping red
from their hands, with wasps
in their dying season spinning
about in sweet thirst and drunken
voices cried out, stung awake
    voices blended in confused
profusion, the question asked
again then again – why? But this
is where a truth finds its own wonder,
for the question was not why did
this one die, or such to justify
    for in their heart of milling lives
there were none for whom
this gathering was naught
but an echo, of former selves.
They asked, again and yet again,
why are we here?
    The one who died had no name
but every name, no face but every
face of those who had gathered,
and so it was we who learned
among wasps swept past living
yet nerve-firing one last piercing
    that we were the dead
and all in an unseen mind—
stood or sat a man, or a woman,
a warrior, queen or fool, who
in drunken leisure gave a moment's
thought to all passed by in life.
    Fountain Gathering
Fisher Kel Tath
     
     
    E ven with four new wheels, the Trygalle carriage was a
battered, decrepit wreck. Two of the horses had died
in the fall. Three shareholders had been crushed and
a fourth had broken his neck. Karpolan Demesand sat on a
folding camp-stool, his head swathed in a bloodstained
bandage, sipping herbal tea in successive winces.
    They had left Ganath's warren of Omtose Phellack, and
now the familiar desert, scrubland and barren hills of Seven
Cities surrounded them, the sun reaching towards noon
behind a ceiling of cloud. The smell of rain tinged the
unusually humid air. Insects spun and swirled overhead.
    'This comes,' said Ganath, 'with the rebirth of the inland
sea.'
    Paran glanced over at her, then resumed cinching tight
the girth strap on his horse – the beast had taken to holding
its breath, chest swollen in an effort to keep the strap
loose, likely hoping Paran would slide off from its back at
some perfectly inopportune moment. Horses were reluctant
companions in so many human escapades, disasters and
foibles – Paran could not resent the animal's well-earned
belligerence. 'Ganath,' he said, 'do you know precisely
where we are?'
    'This valley leads west to Raraku Sea, beyond the inside
range; and east, through a little-used pass, down to the city
of G'danisban.' She hesitated, then added, 'It has been a
long time since I have been this far east ... this close to the
cities of your kind.'
    'G'danisban. Well, I have need of supplies.'
    She faced him. 'You have completed your task, Master of
the Deck. The Deragoth unleashed, the D'ivers known as
Dejim Nebrahl, the hunter, now the hunted. Do you now
return to Darujhistan?'
    He grimaced. 'Not yet, alas.'
    'There are still more forces you intend to release upon
the world?'
    A certain edge to her voice brought him round. 'Not if I
can help it, Ganath. Where do you now go?'
    'West.'
    'Ah, yes, to repair the damage to that