A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

is
coming. And you shall be there, for you are part of that
convergence. As is Icarium. Just as I will come face to face
with my evil sister at the very end, a meeting from which
but one of us will walk away when all is done between us.'
    Mappo stared at her. 'Will I,' he whispered, 'will I stop
him? In the end? Or, is he the end – of everything?'
    'I do not know. Perhaps the possibilities, Mappo Runt,
depend entirely on how prepared you are at that moment,
at your readiness, your faith, if you will.'
    He slowly sighed, closed his eyes, then nodded. 'I
understand.'
    And, not seeing, he did not witness her flinch, and was
himself unaware of the pathos filling the tone of that
admission.
    When he looked upon her once more, he saw naught but
a calm, patient expression. Cool, gauging. Mappo nodded.
'As you say. I shall ... try.'
    'I would expect no less, Trell.'
    'Quiet!' Iskaral Pust hissed, still lying on the deck, but
now on his belly. He was sniffing the air. 'Smell her? I do. I
smell her! On this ship! That udder-knotted cow! Where is
she!?'
    The mule brayed once more.
     
    Taralack Veed crouched before Icarium. The Jhag was paler
than he had ever seen him before, the consequence of day
after day in this hold, giving his skin a ghoulish green cast.
The soft hiss of iron blade against whetstone was the only
sound between them for a moment, then the Gral cleared
his throat and said, 'A week away at the least – these Edur
take their time. Like you, Icarium, they have already begun
their preparations.'
    'Why do they force an enemy upon me, Taralack Veed?'
    The question was so lifeless that for a moment the Gral
wondered if it had been rhetorical. He sighed, reaching up
to ensure that his hair was as it should be – the winds
upside were fierce – then said, 'My friend, they must be
shown the extent of your ... martial prowess. The enemy
with which they have clashed – a number of times,
apparently – has proved both resilient and ferocious. The
Edur have lost warriors.'
    Icarium continued working the sword's single, notched
edge. Then he paused, his eyes fixed on the weapon in his
hands. 'I feel,' he said, 'I feel ... they are making a mistake.
This notion ... of testing me – if what you have told me is
true. Those tales of my anger ... unleashed.' He shook his
head. 'Who are those I will face, do you know?'
    Taralack Veed shrugged. 'No, I know very little – they do
not trust me, and why should they? I am not an ally –
indeed, we are not allies—'
    'And yet we shall soon fight for them. Do you not see the
contradictions, Taralack Veed?'
    'There is no good side in the battle to come, my friend.
They fight each other endlessly, for both sides lack the
capacity, or the will, to do anything else. Both thirst for the
blood of their enemies. You and I, we have seen all of this
before, the manner in which two opposing forces – no
matter how disparate their origins, no matter how
righteously one begins the conflict – end up becoming
virtually identical to each other. Brutality matches
brutality, stupidity matches stupidity. You would have me
ask the Tiste Edur? About their terrible, evil enemies?
What is the point? This, my friend, is a matter of killing.
That and nothing more, now. Do you see that?'
    'A matter of killing,' Icarium repeated, his words a
whisper. After a moment, he resumed honing the edge of
his sword.
    'And such a matter,' Taralack Veed said, 'belongs to you.'
    'To me.'
    'You must show them that. By ending the battle. Utterly.'
    'Ending it. All the killing. Ending it, for ever.'
    'Yes, my friend. It is your purpose.'
    'With my sword, I can deliver peace.'
    'Oh yes, Icarium, you can and you will.' Mappo Runt, you
were a fool. How you might have made use of this Jhag. For the
good of all. Icarium is the sword, after all. Forged to be used, as
all weapons are.
    The weapon, then, that promises peace. Why, you foolish
Trell, did you ever flee from this?
     
    North of the Olphara Peninsula, the winds freshened, filling
the sails, and the ships seemed to surge like migrating
dhenrabi across the midnight blue of the seas. Despite her
shallow draught, the Silanda struggled to keep pace with the
dromons and enormous transports.
    Almost as bored as the other marines, Bottle walked up
and down the deck, trying to ignore their bickering, trying
to nail down this sense of unease growing within him. Something ... in this wind ... something ...
    'Bone monger,' Smiles said, pointing her knife at