A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

upon
their honour, fuelling their extreme acts of zealotry ever
since.
    Barathol was to have been crucified on Aren Way.
Instead, the city had risen in rebellion, slaughtering the
Malazan garrison and driving the Red Blades from the city.
    And then the T'lan Imass had arrived, delivering the
harsh, brutal lesson of imperial vengeance. And Barathol
Mekhar had been seen, by scores of witnesses, flinging open
the north gate ...
    But it is true. T'lan Imass need no opened gates ...
    The question no-one had asked was: why would an officer
of the Red Blades murder the city's Fist?
    L'oric suspected Barathol was not one to give him the
satisfaction of an answer. The man was well past defending
himself, with words at any rate. The High Mage could see
as much in the huge man's dark eyes – he had long ago
given up on humanity. And his own sense of his place in it.
He was not driven to justify what he did; no sense of
decency nor honour compelled the man to state his case.
Only a soul that has surrendered utterly gives up on notions
of redemption. Something had happened, once, that
crushed Barathol's faith, leaving unbarred the paths of
betrayal.
    Yet these local folk came close to outright worship in
their regard for Barathol Mehkar, and it was this that L'oric
could not understand. Even now, when they knew the
truth, when they knew what their blacksmith had done
years ago, they defied the High Mage's expectations. He
was baffled, left feeling strangely helpless.
    Then again, admit it, L'oric, you have never been able to
gather followers, no matter how noble your cause. Oh, there
were allies here, adding their voices to his own outrage at
Scillara's appalling indifference regarding her child, but he
knew well enough that such unity was, in the end,
transitory and ephemeral. They might all decry Scillara's
position, but they would do nothing about it; indeed, all
but Nulliss had already come to accept the fact that the
child was going to be passed into the hands of two women
both named Jessa. There, problem solved. But in truth it is
nothing but a crime accommodated.
    The demon Greyfrog ambled to his side and settled
belly-down in the dust of the street. Four eyes blinking
lazily, it offered nothing of its thoughts, yet an ineffable
whisper of commiseration calmed L'oric's inner tumult.
    The High Mage sighed. 'I know, my friend. If I could but
learn to simply pass through a place, to be wilfully unmindful
of all offences against nature, both small and large.
This comes, I suspect, of successive failures. In Raraku, in
Kurald Liosan, with Felisin Younger, gods below, what a
depressing list. And you, Greyfrog, I failed you as well ...'
    'Modest relevance,' the demon said. 'I would tell you a tale,
brother. Early in the clan's history, many centuries past, there
arose, like a breath of gas from the deep, a new cult. Chosen as
its representative god was the most remote, most distant of gods
among the pantheon. A god that was, in truth, indifferent to the
clans of my kind. A god that spoke naught to any mortal, that
intervened never in mortal affairs. Morbid. The leaders of the
cult proclaimed themselves the voice of that god. They wrote
down laws, prohibitions, ascribances, propitiations,
blasphemies, punishments for nonconformity, for dispute and
derivations. This was but rumour, said details maintained in
vague fugue, until such time as the cult achieved domination and
with domination, absolute power.
    'Terrible enforcement, terrible crimes committed in the name
of the silent god. Leaders came and went, each further twisting
words already twisted by mundane ambition and the zeal for
unity. Entire pools were poisoned. Others drained and the silts
seeded with salt. Eggs were crushed. Mothers dismembered.
And our people were plunged into a paradise of fear, the laws
made manifest and spilled blood the tears of necessity. False
regret with chilling gleam in the centre eye. No relief awaited,
and each generation suffered more than the last.'
    L'oric studied the demon at his side. 'What happened?'
    'Seven great warriors from seven clans set out to find the
Silent God, set out to see for themselves if this god had indeed
blessed all that had come to pass in its name.'
    'And did they find the silent god?'
    'Yes, and too, they found the reason for its silence. The god
was dead. It had died with the first drop of blood spilled in its
name.'
    'I see, and what is the relevance of this tale of yours,
however modest?'
    'Perhaps this. The