A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

the
compound's outer wall, one hand out to brush with fingertips
the bleached, dusty stone and its faded frieze.
    On that frieze, faded images of imperial heroes and glory-soaked
kings, chipped and scarred now by the weapons of
unmindful foreigners sparring with each other, each and
every one of those foreigners intent upon the murder of the
Emperor now commanding the throne.
    Thus, a lone set of footprints now, tracking along that
wall, a shadow diminished to almost nothing beneath the
tall, olive-skinned warrior, who paused to look skyward as a
flock of unfamiliar birds skittered across the blue gap, then
continued on until he reached the far end, where a huge
barred gate blocked the way into the street beyond. The
figures of guards were just visible beyond the thick, rust-pitted
bars. Icarium halted facing that gate, stood
motionless, the sunlight bleaching him as if the Jhag had
just stepped out from the frieze on his left, as faded and
worn as any hero of antiquity.
    But no, not a hero. Not in anyone's eyes. Not ever. A weapon and nothing more. Yet . . . he lives, he breathes, and when something breathes, it is more than a weapon. Hot blood in the veins, the grace of motion, a cavort of thoughts and feelings in that skull, awareness like flames in the eyes . The
Nameless Ones had knelt on the threshold of stone for too
long. Worshipping a house, its heaved grounds, its echoing
rooms – why not the living, breathing ones who might
dwell within that house? Why not the immortal builders? A
temple was hallowed ground not to its own existence but to
the god it would honour. But the Nameless Ones did not
see it that way. Worship taken to its absurd extreme . . . yet perhaps in truth as primitive as leaving an offering in a fold of rock, of blood-paint on that worn surface . . . oh, I am not the one for this, for thoughts that chill the marrow of my soul.
    A Gral, cut and scarred by the betrayals. The ones that wait in every man's shadow – for we are both house and dweller. Stone and earth. Blood and flesh. And so we will haunt the old rooms, walk the familiar corridors, until, turning a corner, we find ourselves facing a stranger, who can be none other than our most evil reflection.
    And then the knives are drawn and a life's battle is waged, year after year, deed after deed. Courage and vile treachery, cowardice and bright malice.
    The stranger has driven me back, step by step. Until I no longer know myself – what sane man would dare recognize his own infamy? Who would draw pleasure from the sensation of evil, satisfaction from its all too bitter rewards? No, instead we run with our own lies – do I not utter my vows of vengeance each dawn? Do I not whisper my curses against all those who wronged me?
    And now I dare judge the Nameless Ones, who would wield one evil against another. And what of my place in this dread scheme?
    He stared across at Icarium, who still faced the gate, who
stood like a statue, blurred behind ripples of heat. My stranger. Yet which one of us is the evil one?
    His predecessor, Mappo – the Trell – had long ago left
such struggles behind, Taralack suspected. Choosing to
betray the Nameless Ones rather than this warrior before
the gate. An evil choice? The Gral was no longer so sure of
his answer.
    Hissing under his breath, he pushed himself from the
wall and walked the length of the compound, through
waves of heat, to stand at the Jhag's side. 'If you leave your
weapons,' Taralack said, 'you are free to wander the city.'
    'Free to change my mind?' Icarium asked with a faint
smile.
    'That would achieve little – except perhaps our
immediate execution.'
    'There might be mercy in that.'
    'You do not believe your own words, Icarium. Instead,
you speak to mock me.'
    'That may be true, Taralack Veed. As for this city,' he
shook his head, 'I am not yet ready.'
    'The Emperor could decide at any moment—'
    'He will not. There is time.'
    The Gral scowled up at the Jhag. 'How are you certain?'
    'Because, Taralack Veed,' Icarium said, quiet and
measured as he turned to walk back, 'he is afraid.'
    Staring after him, the Gral was silent. Of you? What does he know? Seven Holies, who would know of this land's history? Its legends? Are they forewarned of Icarium and all that waits within him?
    Icarium vanished in the shadow beneath the building
entranceway. After a dozen rapid heartbeats, Taralack
followed, not to reclaim the Jhag's dour companionship,
but to find one who might give him the answers