A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Veed. It
makes no sense—'
    'What they ask,' the Gral said, baring his teeth, 'and
what you shall deliver, are two entirely different things.'
    'Vengeance,' Icarium said again, as if tasting the word,
then he brought both hands to his face. 'No, no, it is not
for me. Already too much blood – more can achieve
nothing. I will be no different than them!' He reached out
suddenly and grasped Taralack, dragging him close. 'Don't
you see that? More innocent lives—'
    'Innocent? You fool, Icarium – can't you understand? Innocence is a lie! None of us is innocent! Not one! Show
me one, please, I beg you – show me that I am wrong!' He
twisted round in the Jhag's iron grip, jabbed a finger
towards the huddled forms of the slaves. 'We both
witnessed, did we not? Yesterday! Two of those pathetic
fools, choking the life out of a third one – all three in
chains, Icarium, all three starving, dying! Yet, some old
quarrel, some old stupidity, unleashed one last time!
Victims? Oh yes, no doubt of that. Innocent? Hah! And
may the spirits above and below strike me down if my
judgement is false!'
    Icarium stared at him, then, slowly, his long fingers
relaxed their grip on the Gral's hide shirt.
    'My friend,' Taralack said, 'you must eat. You must keep
your strength. This empire of the Tiste Edur, it is an
abomination, ruled by a madman whose only talent is with
a sword, and to that the weak and strong must bow, for such
is the cast of the world. To defy the powerful is to invite
subjugation and annihilation – you know this, Icarium. Yet
you and you alone, friend, possess what is necessary to
destroy that abomination. This is what you were born
to do. You are the final weapon of justice – do not waver
before this flood of inequity. Feed upon what you have
witnessed – what we have witnessed – and all that we shall
see on the voyage ahead. Feed on it, to fuel the justice
within you – until it is blinding with power. Icarium, do not
let these terrible Edur defeat you – as they are doing now.'
    A voice spoke behind him. Twilight. 'The Preda
considers a test. For this warrior.'
    Taralack Veed turned, looked up at the woman. 'What
do you mean? What sort of test?'
    'We fight many wars. We walk paths of Chaos and
Shadow.'
    The Gral's eyes narrowed. 'We?'
    She grimaced. 'The Edur now rule Lether. Where they
lead, Letherii must follow. Edur swords make river of blood,
and from river of blood, there is river of gold. The loyal
have grown rich, so very rich.'
    'And the disloyal?'
    'They tend the oars. Indebted. It is so.'
    'And you, Atri-Preda? Are you loyal?'
    She studied him, silent for a half-dozen heartbeats, then
she said, 'Each champion believes. By their sword the
Emperor shall die. What is believed and what is true is not
same,' she said, strangely twisting Taralack's own words. 'To
what is true, I am loyal. The Preda considers a test.'
    'Very well,' the Gral said, then held his breath, dreading
a refusal from Icarium. But none came. Ah, that is good.
    The woman walked away, armour rustling like coins
spilling onto gravel.
    Taralack Veed stared after her.
    'She hides herself,' Icarium said in a low, sad voice. 'Yet
her soul dies from within.'
    'Do you believe, my friend,' the Gral said, turning back
to the Jhag once more, 'that she alone suffers in silence?
That she alone cowers, her honour besieged by what she
must do?'
    Icarium shook his head.
    'Then think of her when your resolve falters, friend.
Think of Twilight. And all the others like her.'
    A wan smile. 'Yet you say there is no innocence.'
    'An observation that does not obviate the demand for
justice, Icarium.'
    The Jhag's gaze shifted, down and away, and seemed to
focus on the slime-laden planks of the hull to his right.
'No,' he whispered in a hollow tone, 'I suppose it doesn't.'
     
    Sweat glistened on the rock walls, as if the pressure of the
world had grown unbearable. The man who had just
appeared, as if from nowhere, stood motionless for a time,
the dark grey of his cloak and hood making him indistinct
in the gloom, but the only witnesses to this peculiarity were
both indifferent and blind – the maggots writhing in torn,
rotting flesh among the sprawl of bodies that stretched
before him down the chasm's elongated, rough floor.
    The stench was overpowering, and Cotillion could feel
himself engulfed in grief-laden familiarity, as if this was the
true scent of existence. There had been times – he was
almost certain – when he'd known unmitigated joy, but