A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

ominously silent and motionless, as if awaiting eternity's end.
    The thief approached the forbidden grounds behind the palace. She could see the Azath tower, its third and uppermost storey edging above the curved walls of the Jaghut dwellings. Not one of the structures stood fully upright. All were tilted in some fashion, the subsurface clay squeezing out from beneath their immense weight or lenses of sand washed away by underground runoff. Vines had climbed the sides in chaotic webs, although those that had reached out to the Azath died there, withered against the foundation stones amidst yellowed grasses.
    She did not need to see the blood trail in order to follow it. The smell was heavy in the sultry night air, invisible streaks riding the currents, and she pursued its wake until she came to the low, crooked wall surrounding the Azath tower.
    Just beyond, at the base of a twisted tree, sat the child Kettle. Nine or ten years old ... for ever. Naked, her pale skin smeared, her long hair clotted with coagulating blood. The corpse before her was already half under the earth, being dragged down into the darkness.
    To feed the Azath? Or some ravenous denizen? Shurq had no idea. Nor did she care. The grounds swallowed bodies, and that was useful.
    Kettle looked up, black eyes dully reflecting starlight. There were moulds that, if left unattended, could blind, and the film was thick over the girl's dead eyes. She slowly rose and walked over.
    'Why won't you be my mother?'
    'I've already told you, Kettle. I am no-one's mother.'
    'I followed you tonight.'
    'You're always following me,' Shurq said.
    'Just after you left that roof, another man came to the house. A soldier. And he was followed.'
    'And which of the two did you kill?'
    'Why, the one who followed, of course. I'm a good girl. I take care of you. Just as you take care of me—'
    'I take care of no-one, Kettle. You were dead long before I was. Living here in these grounds. I used to bring you bodies.'
    'Never enough.'
    'I don't like killing. Only when I have no choice. Besides, I wasn't the only one employing your services.'
    'Yes you were.'
    Shurq stared at the girl for a long moment. 'I was?'
    'Yes. And you wanted to know my story. Everyone else runs from me, just like they run from you now. Except that man on the roof. Is he another one not like everyone else?'
    'I don't know, Kettle. But I am working for him now.'
    'I am glad. Grown-ups should work. It helps fill their minds. Empty minds are bad. Dangerous. They fill themselves up. With bad things. Nobody's happy.'
    Shurq cocked her head. 'Who's not happy?'
    Kettle waved one grubby hand at the rumpled yard. 'Restless. All of them. I don't know why. The tower sweats all the time now.'
    'I will bring you some salt water,' Shurq said, 'for your eyes. You need to wash them out.'
    'I can see easily enough. With more than my eyes now. My skin sees. And tastes. And dreams of light.'
    'What do you mean?'
    Kettle pushed bloody strands of hair from her heart-shaped face. 'Five of them are trying to get out. I don't like those five – I don't like most of them, but especially those five. The roots are dying. I don't know what to do. They whisper how they'll tear me to pieces. Soon. I don't want to be torn to pieces. What should I do?'
    Shurq was silent. Then she asked, 'How much do you sense of the Buried Ones, Kettle?'
    'Most don't talk to me. They have lost their minds. Others hate me for not helping them. Some beg and plead. They talk through the roots.'
    'Are there any who ask nothing of you?'
    'Some are ever silent.'
    'Talk to them. Find someone else to speak to, Kettle. Someone who might be able to help you.' Someone else to be your mother ... or father. 'Ask for opinions, on any and all matters. If one remains then who does not seek to please you, who does not attempt to twist your desires so that you free it, and who holds no loyalty to the others, then you will tell me of that one. All that you know. And I will advise you as best I can – not as a mother, but as a comrade.'
    'All right.'
    'Good. Now, I came here for another reason, Kettle. I want to know, how did you kill that spy?'
    'I bit through his throat. It's the quickest, and I like the blood.'
    'Why do you like the blood?'
    'In my hair, to keep it from my face. And it smells alive, doesn't it? I like that smell.'
    'How many do you kill?'
    'Lots. The ground needs them.'
    'Why does the ground need them?'
    'Because it's dying.'
    'Dying? And what would