A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

ignoring
Mappo's questions – How did this come to be here? Where will
they be taking us? Are we in truth still pursuing Icarium? No
answers.
    And now, as the coastline crawled past, pitching and
rolling on their right, the tall woman stood, her balance
impressive, and stared with narrowed eyes to the south.
    'What is wrong?' Mappo asked, not expecting an answer.
    She surprised him. 'A murder. There are godless ones
walking the sands of Seven Cities once again. I believe I
understand the nature of this alliance. Complexities
abound, of course, and you are but a Trell, a hut-dwelling
herder.'
    'Who understands nothing of complexities, aye. Even so,
explain. What alliance? Who are the godless ones?'
    'That hardly matters, and serves little by way of explanation.
It falls to the nature of gods, Mappo Runt. And of
faith.'
    'I'm listening.'
    'If one asserts a distinction between the gifts from a god
    and the mortal, mundane world in which exists the believer,' she said, 'then
    this is as an open door to true godlessness. To the religion of disbelief,
    if you will.' She glanced over, sauntered closer. 'Ah, already I see you frowning
    in confusion—'
    'I frown at the implications of such a distinction, Spite.'
    'Truly? Well, I am surprised. Pleasantly so. Very well. You
must understand this, then. To speak of war among the
gods, it is not simply a matter of, say, this goddess here
scratching out the eyes of that god over there. Nor, even, of
an army of acolytes from this temple marching upon an
army from the temple across the street. A war among the
gods is not fought with thunderbolts and earthquakes,
although of course it is possible – but improbable – that it
could come to that. The war in question, then, is messy, the
battle-lines muddied, unclear, and even the central
combatants struggle to comprehend what constitutes a
weapon, what wounds and what is harmless. And worse still,
to wield such weapons proves as likely to harm the wielder as
the foe.'
    'Fanaticism breeds fanaticism, aye,' Mappo said,
nodding. ' "In proclamation, one defines his enemy for his
enemy".'
    She smiled her dazzling smile. 'A quote? From whom?'
    'Kellanved, the founding emperor of the Malazan
Empire.'
    'Indeed, you grasp the essence of my meaning. Now, the
nature of fanaticism can be likened to that of a tree – many
branches, but one tap-root.'
    'Inequity.'
    'Or at least the comprehension of and the faith in,
whether such inequity is but imagined or exists in truth.
More often than not, of course, such inequity does exist,
and it is the poison that breeds the darkest fruit. Mundane
wealth is usually built upon bones, piled high and packed
deep. Alas, the holders of that wealth misapprehend the
nature of their reward, and so are often blithely indifferent
in their ostentatious display of their wealth. The misapprehension
is this: that those who do not possess wealth
all yearn to, and so seek likeness, and this yearning
occludes all feelings of resentment, exploitation and, most
relevantly, injustice. To some extent they are right, but
mostly they are woefully wrong. When wealth ascends to a
point where the majority of the poor finally comprehend
that it is, for each of them, unattainable, then all civility
collapses, and anarchy prevails. Now, I was speaking of war
among the gods. Do you grasp the connection, Mappo
Runt?'
    'Not entirely.'
    'I appreciate your honesty, Trell. Consider this: when
inequity burgeons into violent conflagration, the gods
themselves are helpless. The gods cease to lead – they can
but follow, dragged by the will of their worshippers. Now,
suppose gods to be essentially moral entities – that is,
possessing and indeed manifestly representing a particular
ethos – well, then, such moral considerations become the
first victim in the war. Unless that god chooses to defend
him or herself from his or her own believers. Allies,
enemies? What relevance such primitive, simplistic notions
in that scenario, Mappo Runt?'
    The Trell gazed out at the heaving waves, this tireless
succession born of distant convulsions, the broken tug of
tides, hard and bitter winds and all that moved in the
world. And yet, staring long enough, this simple undulating
motion ... mesmerizing. 'We are,' he said, 'as the soil
and the sea.'
    'Another quote?'
    He shrugged. 'Driven by unseen forces, forever in
motion, even when we stand still.' He struggled against a
surge of despair. 'For all that the contestants proclaim that
they are but