A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

mine if you could think of a way to dodge my spitting it right back.
    'Aye, I would at that. Which is my point. You chose
wrongly, wind. Because I am a soldier.'
    Let's play a game.
    'Let's not.'
    Among the Fallen, who—
    'The answer is children , wind. More children than anyone
else.'
    Then where is your despair?
    'You understand nothing,' he said, pausing to spit. 'For a
man or a woman to reach adulthood, they must first kill the
child within them.'
    You are a most vicious man, soldier.
    'You still understand nothing. I have just confessed my
despair, wind. You win the game. You win every game. But
I will march on, into your icy breath, because that's what
soldiers do.'
    Odd, it does not feel as if I have won.
    On a flat stretch of cold but not yet frozen mud, he came
upon tracks. Broad, flattened and bony feet, one set, heading
in the same direction. Someone . . . seeking perhaps
what he sought. Water pooled in the deep prints, motionless
and reflecting the pewter sky.
    He crouched down, studying the deep impressions. 'Be
useful, wind. Tell me who walks ahead of me.'
    Silent. One who does not play.
    'Is that the best you can do?'
    Undead.
    He squinted down at the tracks, noting the wide, slightly
misaligned gait, the faint streaks left by dangling tufts of
hide, skins, whatever. 'T'lan Imass?'
    Broken.
    'Two, maybe three leagues ahead of me.'
    More. Water crawls slowly here.
    'I smell snow and ice.'
    My breath betrays all that I devour. Turn back to a sweeter kiss, beloved.
    'You mean the reek of fly-swarmed swamp I've endured
for the past two months?' He straightened, adjusted his
heavy pack.
    You are cruel. At least the one ahead says nothing. Thinks nothing. Feels nothing.
    'T'lan Imass for certain, then.'
    Broken.
    'Yes, I understood you the first time.'
    What will you do?
    'If need be, I will give you a gift, wind.'
    A gift? Oh, what is it?
    'A new game – you have to guess.'
    I will think and think and—
    'Hood's breath – oh – oh ! Forget I just said that!'
    —and think and think . . .
    They rode hard, westward at first, paralleling the great river
for most of two days, before reaching the feeder track that
angled northerly towards Almas, a modest town
distinguished only by its garrison and stables, where Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, Varat Taun and their Letherii company
could rest, resupply and requisition fresh mounts.
    Varat Taun knew flight when he saw it, when he found
himself part of it. Away from Letheras, where, a day before
their departure, the palace and barracks seemed caught in a
rising storm of tension, the smell of blood heady in the air,
a thousand rumours cavorting in all directions but none of
them possessing much substance, beyond news relating the
casting out of two families, the widows and children of two
men who had been the Chancellor's bodyguards, and who
were clearly no longer among the living.
    Had someone tried to assassinate Triban Gnol? He'd
wondered that out loud early in this journey and his
commander had simply grunted, as if nothing in the notion
surprised or even alarmed her. Of course she knew more
than she was letting on, but Twilight had never been free
with her words.
    Nor am I, it turns out. The horrors of what I witnessed in that cavern – no, nothing I can say could possibly convey the . . . the sheer extremity of the truth. So best leave it. The ones who will witness will not live long past the experience. What then will remain of the empire?
    And is this not why we are running away?
    A foreigner rode with them. A Mocker, Yan Tovis had
said, whatever that meant. A monk of some sort. With the painted face of a cavorting mummer – what mad religion is that? Varat Taun could not recall the strange little man saying a
word – perhaps he was mute, perhaps his tongue had been
cut out. Cultists did terrible things to themselves. The
journey across the seas and oceans of the world had provided
a seemingly endless pageantry of bizarre cultures and
customs. No amount of self-mutilation in misguided service
to some god would surprise Varat Taun. The Mocker had
been among the challengers, but the absurdity of this was now
obvious – after the first day of riding he had been exhausted,
reeling in the saddle. He was, evidently, a healer.
    Who healed me. Who guided me out from the terror and confusion. I have spoken my gratitude, but he just nodded. Did he witness the visions in my mind? Is he now struck mute, his very sanity under siege? In any case, he was no challenger