A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

his own blood, even
more than once ... although, as always, there would come
that terrible scream ...
    We are made, and unmade, and so it goes on. For ever.
    And I will never see my home.
     
    With eyes the colour of weathered granite, the Letherii
Marine Commander, Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, known to her
soldiers as Twilight, looked down upon the sickly man. The
gloomy hold of the ship was fetid and damp, the walkway
above the keel smeared with puke and slimy mould. Creaks
and thumps filled the air with the impact of every wave
against the hull. The muted light of lanterns pitched about,
making riotous the shadows. 'Here,' she said. 'Drink
this.'
    The man looked up, red-rimmed eyes set in a face the
hue of whale fat. 'Drink?' Even the word seemed nearly
sufficient to double him over yet again, but she saw him
struggle mightily against the impulse.
    'I speak your language not well,' she said. 'Drink. Two
swallows. Wait, then more.'
    'I'll not keep it down,' the man said.
    'No matter. Two, you feel better. Then more. Sick goes.'
    With a trembling hand, he accepted the small patinated
glass bottle.
    'Ceda make,' Twilight said. 'Made, generations ago. Sick
goes.'
    He swallowed once, then twice, was motionless for a
moment, then he lunged to one side. Spitting, coughing,
gasping, then, 'Spirits take me, yes.'
    'Better?'
    A nod.
    'Drink rest. It will stay.'
    He did so, then settled back, eyes closed. 'Better. Better,
yes.'
    'Good. Now, go to him.' She pointed towards the bow,
twenty paces further along the walkway, where a figure
leaned, huddled against the prow's uplift. 'Preda Tomad
Sengar has doubts. Champion will not survive voyage. Will
not eat, drink. Wastes away. Go to him. You claim much,
his prowess. We see otherwise. We see only weakness.'
    The man lying on the walkway would not meet her eyes,
but he slowly sat up, then climbed awkwardly, unevenly to
his feet. Legs wide to maintain his balance, he straightened.
    Spat into the palms of his hands, rubbed his palms
together for a moment, then swept both hands back
through his hair.
    Taralack Veed met the woman's eyes. 'Now, you are the
one looking ill,' he said, frowning. 'What is wrong?'
    Twilight simply shook her head. 'Go. The Preda must be
convinced. Else we throw you both over side.'
    The Gral warrior turned about and made his way, crablike,
up the walkway. To either side of him, pressed together
between crates and casks, were chained figures. Greyskinned
like their captors, almost as tall, with many bearing
facial traits that revealed Edur blood. Yet, here they were,
rotting in their own filth, their dull, owlish gazes following
Taralack as he made his way forward.
    The Gral crouched before Icarium, reached out a hand
to rest it on the warrior's shoulder.
    Icarium flinched at the contact.
    'My friend,' Taralack said in a low voice. 'I know this is
not illness of the flesh that so afflicts you. It is illness of the
spirit. You must struggle against it, Icarium.'
    The Jhag was drawn up, knees to his chest, arms wrapped
tight, the position reminding the Gral of the burial style
practised by the Ehrlii. For a long moment, there was no
response to his words, then a shudder racked the figure
curled up before him. 'I cannot do this,' Icarium said, lifting
his head to fix despairing eyes upon Taralack. 'I do not
wish ... I do not wish to kill anyone!'
    Taralack rubbed at his face. Spirits below, that draught
from Twilight had done wonders. I can do this. 'Icarium.
Look down this walkway. Look upon these filthy creatures –
who were told they were being liberated from their
oppressors. Who came to believe that in these Edur was
their salvation. But no. Their blood is not pure. It is muddied –
they were slaves! Fallen so far, knowing nothing of their own
history, the glory of their past – yes, I know, what glory? But
look upon them! What manner of demons are these Tiste
Edur and their damned empire? To so treat their own kind?
Now tell me, Icarium, what have I procured for you? Tell me!'
    The warrior's expression was ravaged, horror swimming
in his eyes – and something else, a light of wildness. 'For
what we witnessed,' the Jhag whispered. 'For what we saw
them do ...'
    'Vengeance,' Taralack Veed said, nodding.
    Icarium stared at him like a drowning man. 'Vengeance ...'
    'But you will not be given that chance, Icarium. The Preda
loses faith in you – in me – and we are in grave peril of being
thrown to the sharks—'
    'They ask me to kill their emperor, Taralack