A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

enlighten the blind. Yes yes,'
Gumble sighed, the effort proving alarmingly deflating –
alarming even to himself. He quickly drew in another
breath. 'We wage our ceaseless war, you and I. What will
adorn the walls of the great man's barrow? Why, from you,
the usual. Propagandistic pageantry, the politically aligned
reaffirmation of the status quo. Heroic deeds in service of
the empire, and an even more heroic death, for in this age
as in every other, we are in need of our heroes – dead ones,
that is. We do not believe in living ones, after all, thanks
to you—'
    'To me? To me!?'
    'The rendition of flaws is your forte, Ormulogun. Oh,
consider that statement! I impress even myself with such
perfectly resonating irony. Anyway, such flaws in the subject
are as poison darts flung into heroism. Your avid
attention destroys as it always must—'
    'No no, fool, not always. And with me, with Ormulogun
the Great, never. Why? Well, it is simple, although not so
simple you will ever grasp it – even so, it is this: great art is
not simply rendition. Great art is transformation. Great art
is exaltation and exaltation is spiritual in the purest, most
spiritual sense—'
    'As noted earlier,' Gumble drawled, 'comprehensive
erudition and brevity eludes the poor man. Besides which,
I am certain I have heard that definition of great art before.
In some other context, likely accompanied by a pounding
of the fist on table- or skull-top, or at the very least a knee
in the kidneys. No matter, it all sounds very well. Too bad
you so consistently fail to translate it into actuality.'
    'I have a mallet with which I could translate you into
actuality, Gumble.'
    'You would break this exquisite bowl.'
    'Aye, I'd shed a few tears over that. But then I'd get
better.'
    'Dujek Onearm standing outside the shattered gates of
Black Coral. Dujek Onearm at the parley with Caladan
Brood and Anomander Rake. Dujek Onearm and
Tayschrenn outside Pale, the dawn preceding the
attack. Three primary walls, three panels, three images.'
    'You've looked at my sketchings! Gods how I hate you!'
    'There was no need,' Gumble said, 'to do something so
crass, not to mention implicitly depressing, as to examine
your sketchings.'
    Ormulogun quickly gathered up his chosen paints, styli
and brushes, then made his way down into the barrow.
    Gumble stayed where he was, and thought about eating
flies.
     
    Ganoes Paran looked down at the armour laid out on the
cot. A High Fist's armour, one sleeve of chain newly
attached. The inheritance left a sour, bitter taste in his
mouth. Proclamation, was it? As if anything he'd done
whilst a soldier could justify such a thing. Every Fist in this
army was better qualified to assume command. What could
it have been, there in Dujek's logs, to so thoroughly twist,
even falsify, Paran's legacy as the captain and commander
of the Bridgeburners? He considered finding out for himself,
but knew he would do no such thing. He already felt
imposter enough without seeing proof of the duplicity
before his own eyes. No doubt Dujek had good reasons,
likely having to do with protecting, if not elevating, the
reputation of House Paran, and thereby implicitly supporting
his sister Tavore in her new command of the
Fourteenth.
    Politics dictated such official logs, of course. As, I
suppose, they will dictate my own entries. Or not. What do I
care? Posterity be damned. If this is my army, then so be it. The
Empress can always strip me of the command, as she no doubt
will when she hears about this field promotion. In the meantime,
he would do as he pleased.
    Behind him, Hurlochel cleared his throat, then said,
'High Fist, the Fists may be on their feet, but they're still
weak.'
    'You mean they're out there standing at attention?'
    'Yes, sir.'
    'That's ridiculous. Never mind the armour, then.'
    They walked to the flap and Hurlochel pulled the canvas
aside. Paran strode outside, blinking in sunlight. The entire
army stood in formation, standards upright, armour
glinting. Directly before him were the Fists, Rythe Bude
foremost among them. She was wan, painfully thin in gear
that seemed oversized for her frame. She saluted and said,
'High Fist Ganoes Paran, the Host awaits your inspection.'
    'Thank you, Fist. How soon will they be ready to march?'
    'By dawn tomorrow, High Fist.'
    Paran scanned the ranks. Not a sound from them, not
even the rustle of armour. They stood like dusty statues.
'And precisely how,' he asked in a whisper, 'am I to live up
to