A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

enemy is one who poses a threat. We
don't.'
    'Well, on that count, I see no need to enlighten you.
Yet.'
    Snorting, she turned and collected the pot with its
chunks of glittering ice.
    'Plan on keeping your find?' Clip asked.
    She looked down at the weapon in her right hand.
'Udinaas can use it as a crutch.'
    Clip's laugh was bitterly cruel. 'Oh, the injustice,
Acquitor. For a storied weapon such as that one.'
    She frowned at him. 'You speak as if you recognise it. Do
you?'
    'Let's just say it belongs with us.'
    Frustrated, she moved past him, back towards the camp.
    The spear drew attention, frighteningly fast from Silchas
Ruin, who – before he spun round to face her – seemed to
flinch. Udinaas, too – his head snapping up as she walked
towards him. She felt her heart lurch in her chest and was
suddenly afraid.
    She sought to hide it by holding stubbornly to her
original thought. 'Udinaas, I found this – you can use it to
keep your balance.'
    He grunted, then nodded. 'A ground-stone tip – can't
have much of an edge, can it? At least I won't stumble and
poke my eye out, unless I work hard at it, and why would I
do that?'
    'Do not mock it,' Silchas Ruin said. 'Use it in the
manner the Acquitor has suggested, by all means. But know
that it is not yours. You will have to surrender it –
know that, Udinaas.'
    'Surrender it – to you, perchance?'
    Again the flinch. 'No.' And Silchas Ruin turned away
once more.
    Udinaas grinned weakly at Seren. 'Have you just given
me a cursed weapon, Acquitor?'
    'I don't know.'
    He leaned on it. 'Well, never mind. I've a whole
collection of curses – one more won't make much
difference.'
    Ice was melted, waterskins refilled. Another pot of frozen
snow provided the water for a broth of herbs, rinds of myrid
fat, berries and nuggets of sap taken from maple trees – the
last of which they had seen ten days ago, at an elevation
where the air was invigorating and sweetly pungent with
life. Here, there were no trees. Not even shrubs. The vast
forest surrounding them was barely ankle high – a tangled
world of lichen and mosses.
    Holding a bowl of the soup in trembling hands, Udinaas
spoke to Seren. 'So, just to get things straight in this epic
farce of ours, did you find this spear or did it find you?'
    She shook her head. 'No matter. It's yours now.'
    'No. Silchas is right. You've but loaned it to me,
Acquitor. It slides like grease in my hands. I couldn't use it
to fight – even if I knew how, which I don't.'
    'Not hard,' Clip said. 'Just don't hold it at the sharp end
and poke people with it until they fall over. I've yet to face
a warrior with a spear I couldn't cut to pieces.'
    Fear Sengar snorted.
    And Seren knew why. It was enough to brighten this
morning, enough to bring a wry smile to her lips.
    Clip noted it and sneered, but said nothing.
    'Pack up,' Silchas Ruin said after a moment. 'I weary of
waiting.'
    'I keep telling you,' Clip said, spinning the rings once
more, 'it'll all come in its own time, Silchas Ruin.'
    Seren turned to face the rearing peaks to the north. The
gold had paled, as if drained of all life, all wonder. Another
day of weary travel awaited them. Her mood plunged and
she sighed.
    Given the choice, this game should have been his own.
Not Cotillion's, not Shadowthrone's. But enough details
had drifted down to Ben Adaephon Delat, heavy and grim
as the ash from a forest fire, to make him content, for the
moment, to choke on someone else's problems. Since
the Enfilade at Pale, his life had been rather headlong.
He felt as if he was plunging down a steep hill, for ever
but one step from bone-snapping, blood-spraying disaster.
    Used to be he thrived on such feelings. Proof that he was
alive.
    Yet . . . too many friends had fallen to the wayside on the
journey. Far too many, and he was reluctant to let others
take their places – not even this humble Tiste Edur with his
too-full heart, his raw wound of grief; nor that damned
T'lan Imass who now waded through a turgid sea of
memories, as if seeking one – just one – that did not sob
with futility. The wrong company indeed for Quick Ben –
they were such open invitations to friendship. Not pity –
which would have been easier. No, their damned nobility demolished that possibility.
    And look where all his friends had gone. Whiskeyjack,
Hedge, Trotts, Dujek Onearm, Kalam . . . well, wasn't it
always the way, that the pain of loss so easily overwhelmed
the . . . the not-yet-lost ? And that sad list was