A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

so of coughing and
scratching and clicking nits, he heads out, onto the street,
and sets off, Mistress (or Master), for one of six or so disreputable
establishments, and once ensconced among the
regulars, he argues about the nature of religion – or is it taxation
and the rise in port tithes? Or the sudden drop-off in the coraval
schools off the Jakatakan shoals? Or the poor workmanship of
that cobbler who'd sworn he could re-stitch that sole on this here
left boot – what? True enough, Master (or Mistress), it's all
nefarious code, sure as I can slink wi' the best slinkers, and I'm
as near to crackin' it as can be . ..'
    His lone source of entertainment these nights, these
imagined conversations. Gods, now that is pathetic. Then
again, pathos ever amuses me. And long before it could cease
amusing him, he'd be drunk, and so went another passage
of the sun and stars in that meaningless heaven overhead.
Assuming it still existed – who could tell with this solid
ceiling of grey that had settled on the island for almost a
week now, with no sign of breaking? Much more of this rain
and we'll simply sink beneath the waves. Traders arriving from
the mainland will circle and circle where Malaz Island used to
be. Circle and circle, the pilots scratching their heads ... There
he went again, yet another conjured scene with its subtle
weft of contempt for all things human – the sheer incompetence,
stupidity, sloth and bad workmanship – look
at this, after all, he limped like some one-footed shark
baiter – the cobbler met him at the door barefooted – he
should have started up with the suspicion thing about then. Don't you think?
    'Well, Empress, it's like this. The poor sod was half-Wickan,
and he'd paid for that, thanks to your refusal to rein in the mobs.
He'd been herded, oh Great One, with bricks and clubs, about
as far as he could go without diving headfirst into the harbour.
Lost all his cobbler tools and stuff – his livelihood, you see. And
me, well, I am cursed with pity – aye, Empress, it's not an
affliction that plagues you much and all the good to you, I say,
but where was I? Oh yes, racked with pity, prodded into mercy.
Hood knows, the poor broken man needed that coin more than
I did, if only to bury that little son of his he was still carrying
round, aye, the one with the caved-in skull —' No, stop this,
Banaschar.
    Stop.
    Meaningless mind games, right? Devoid of significance.
Nothing but self-indulgence, and for that vast audience out
there – the whispering ghosts and their intimations, their
suppositions and veiled insults and their so easily bored
minds – that audience – they are my witnesses, yes, that sea
of murky faces in the pit, for whom my desperate performance,
ever seeking to reach out with a human touch, yields nothing but
impatience and agitation, the restless waiting for the cue to
laugh. Well enough, this oratory pageant served only himself,
Banaschar knew, and all the rest was a lie.
    The child with the caved-in skull showed more than
one face, tilted askew and flaccid in death. More than one,
more than ten, more than ten thousand. Faces he could not
afford to think about in his day-to-day, night-through-night
stumble of existence. For they were as nails driven deep
into the ground, pinning down whatever train he dragged
in his wake, and with each forward step the resistance grew,
the constriction round his neck stretching ever tighter –
and no mortal could weather that – we choke on what we
witness, we are strangled by headlong flight, that will not do, not
do at all. Don't mind me, dear Empress. I see how clean is your
throne.
    Ah, here were the steps leading down. Coop's dear old
Hanged Man, the stone scaffold streaming with gritty tears
underfoot and a challenge to odd-footed descent, the
rickety uncertainty – was this truly nothing more than steps
down into a tavern? Or now transformed, my temple of
draughts, echoing to the vacuous moaning of my fellow-kind,
oh, how welcome this embrace —
    He pushed through the doorway and paused in the
gloom, just inside the dripping eaves, his feet planted in a
puddle where the pavestones sagged, water running down
him to add to its depth; and a half-dozen faces, pale and
dirty as the moon after a dust storm, swung towards him ...
for but a moment, then away again.
    My adoring public. Yes, the tragic mummer has returned.
    And there, seated alone at a table, was a monstrosity of
a man. Hunched over, tiny black eyes glittering