A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

why so public a visit – the strange sorcerer was legendary
for moving unseen, for acting behind the scenes to ensure the
health of the empire. He was the very foundation of Laseen's
power, after all, her left hand where the right belonged to the
Claw. If he was here, it was to oversee—
    He is here. Banaschar could feel the bastard, an aura
brooding and ominous drifting down from Mock's Hold.
Day upon day, night after night. And why? Oh, all you fools.
    For the same reason I am here.
    Six messengers thus far. Six, all paid enough to be
reliable, all swearing afterwards that they had passed the
urgent missive on – to the Hold's gate watchman, that bent
creature said to be as old as Mock's Hold itself, who had in
turn nodded each time, saying he would deliver the missive
to the High Mage.
    And yet, no reply. No summons.
    Someone is intercepting my messages. There can be no other
possibility. True, I was coy in what I said – how could I not be?
But Tayschrenn would recognize my sigil, and he would understand
... with heart suddenly pounding, cold sweat on the skin,
with trembling hands ... he would have understood. Instantly.
    Banaschar did not know what to do. The last messenger
had been three weeks ago.
    'It's that desperate glint in your eye,' the man opposite
him said, half-grinning once again, though his gaze slid
away as soon as Banaschar focused on him.
    'Enamoured, are you?'
    'No, but close to curious. Been watching you these
weeks. Giving up, but slowly. Most people do that in an
instant. Rising from bed, walking to the window, then
standing there, motionless, seeing nothing, as inside it all
falls down with nary a whisper, nary a cloud of dust to mark
its collapse, its vanishing into nothingness.'
    'You do better talking and thinking like a damned sailor,'
Banaschar said.
    'The more I drink, the clearer and steadier I get.'
    'That's a bad sign, friend.'
    'I collect those. You ain't the only one cursed with waiting.'
    'Months!'
    'Years for me,' the man said, dipping into his cup with
one blunt finger, fishing out a moth that had landed in the
wine.
    'Sounds like you're the one who should have given up
long ago.'
    'Maybe, but I've come to a kind of faith. Not long now,
I'd swear it. Not long.'
    Banaschar snorted. 'The drowning man converses with
the fool, a night to beggar acrobats, jugglers and dancers,
come one come all, two silvers buys you endless – and I do
mean endless – entertainment.'
    'I ain't too unfamiliar with drowning, friend.'
    'Meaning?'
    'Something tells me, when it comes to fools, you might
say the same thing.'
    Banaschar looked away. Saw another familiar face,
another huge man – shorter than the foreigner opposite but
equally as wide, his hairless pate marked with liver spots,
scars seaming every part of his body. He was just collecting
a tankard of Coop's Old Malazan Dark. The ex-priest raised
his voice. 'Hey, Temper! There's room to sit here!' He
sidled along the bench, watched as the old yet still formidable
man – a veteran without doubt – made his way over.
    At least now the conversation could slip back into the
meaningless.
    Still. Another bastard waiting ... for something. Only, with
him, I suspect it'd be a bad thing if it ever arrived.
     
    Somewhere in the vaults of a city far, far away, rotted a wall
hanging. Rolled up, home to nesting mice, the genius of
the hands that had woven it slowly losing its unwitnessed
war to the scurry-beetle grub, tawryn worms and ash moths.
Yet, for all that, the darkness of its abandonment hid
colours still vibrant here and there, and the scene depicted
on that huge tapestry retained enough elements of the
narrative that meaning was not lost. It might survive
another fifty years before finally surrendering to the ravages
of neglect.
    The world, Ahlrada Ahn knew, was indifferent to the
necessity of preservation. Of histories, of stories layered
with meaning and import. It cared nothing for what was
forgotten, for memory and knowledge had never been able
to halt the endless repetition of wilful stupidity that so
bound peoples and civilizations.
    The tapestry had once commanded an entire wall, to the
right when facing the Obsidian Throne – from which,
before the annexation, the High King of Bluerose, Supreme
Servant to the Black Winged Lord, had ruled, and flanking
the dais, the Council of the Onyx Wizards, all attired in
their magnificent cloaks of supple, liquid stone – but no, it
was the tapestry that so haunted Ahlrada Ahn.
    The