A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

all
dubious propaganda, of course. In fact, the lair's a good
market for the local woodcutters and the pitch-sloppers –
huge hearths and torches and murky oil lamps – that's the
problem with underground lairs – they're dark. Worse than
that, everyone's been sharing a cold for the past eight
hundred years. Anyway, even an evil lair needs the necessities
of reasonable existence. Vegetables, bushels of berries,
spices and medicines, cloth and pottery, hides and well-gnawed
leather, evil-looking hats. Of course I've not even
mentioned all the weapons and intimidating uniforms.'
    'You have stumbled from your narrative trail, Udinaas,'
Seren Pedac observed.
    'So I have, and that too is an essential point. Life is like
that. We stumble astray. Just like those evil minions. A
crisis – no new prisoners, no fresh meat. Children are
starving. It's an unmitigated disaster.'
    'What's the solution?'
    'Why, they invent a story. A magical item in their
possession, something to lure fools into the lair. It's reasonable,
if you consider it. Every hook needs a wriggling worm.
And then they choose one among them to play the role of
the Insane Master, the one seeking to unlock the dire
powers of that magical item and so bring about a utopia of
animated corpses stumbling through a realm of ash and
rejected tailings. Now, if this doesn't bring heroes in by the
drove, nothing will.'
    'Do they succeed?'
    'For a time, but recall those ill-conceived torture
implements. Invariably, some enterprising and lucky fool
gets free, then crushes the skull of a dozing guard or three,
and mayhem is let loose. Endless slaughter – hundreds,
then thousands of untrained evil warriors who forgot to
sharpen their swords and never mind the birch-bark shields
that woodcutter with the hump sold them.'
    Even Fear Sengar grunted a laugh at that. 'All right,
Udinaas, you win. I think I prefer your version after all.'
    Udinaas, surprised into silence, stared across at Seren
Pedac, who smiled and said, 'You have revealed your true
talent, Udinaas. So the hero wins free. Then what?'
    'The hero does nothing of the sort. Instead, the hero
catches a chill down in those dank tunnels. Makes it out
alive, however, and retreats to a nearby city, where the
plague he carries spreads and kills everyone. And for
thousands of years thereafter, that hero's name is a curse to
both people living above ground and those below.'
    After a moment, Fear spoke. 'Ah, even your version has
an implicit warning, slave. And this is what you would
have me heed, but that leads me to wonder – what do you
care for my fate? You call me your enemy, your lifelong foe,
for all the injustices my people have delivered upon you.
Do you truly wish me to take note of your message?'
    'As you like, Edur,' Udinaas replied, 'but my faith runs
deeper than you imagine, and on an entirely different
course from what you clearly think. I said the hero wins
clear, at least momentarily, but I mentioned nothing of his
hapless followers, his brave companions.'
    'All of whom died in the lair.'
    'Not at all. In the aftermath there was dire need for new
blood. They were one and all adopted by the evil ones, who
were only evil in a relative sense, being sickly and miserable
and hungry and not too bright. In any case, there was
a great renaissance in the lair's culture, producing the finest
art and treasures the world had ever seen.'
    'And what happened then?' Seren asked.
    'It lasted until a new hero arrived, but that's another tale
for another time. I have talked myself hoarse.'
    'Among the women of the Tiste Edur,' Fear Sengar said
then, 'is told the tale that Father Shadow, Scabandari
Bloodeye, chose of his own free will to die, freeing his soul
to journey down the Grey Road, a journey in search of
absolution, for such was the guilt of what he had done on
the plains of the Kechra.'
    'Now that is a convenient version.'
    'Now it is you who lack subtlety, Udinaas. This alternative
interpretation is itself allegorical, for what it truly
represents is our guilt. For Scabandari's crime. We cannot
take back the deeds of Father Shadow; nor were we in any
position, ever, to gainsay him. He led, the Edur followed.
Could we have defied him? Possibly. But not likely. As
such, we are left with a guilt that cannot be appeased,
except in an allegorical sense. And so we hold to legends of
redemption.'
    Seren Pedac rose and walked over to set her scabbarded
sword down beside the food pack. 'Yet this was a tale held
in private