A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

are to be an incongruous lot, and it
seems we are, then it follows that we confound each other
at every turn.'
    'You are speaking nonsense, Skintick.'
    'That is my task, isn't it? I have no sense of where it is
we're heading – no, I don't mean Bastion, nor even the
confrontation that I think is coming. I mean us , Nimander.
Especially you. The less control you have, the greater your
talent for leadership seems to become, the qualities demanded
of such a person – like those flowers in your hand,
petals unfolding.'
    Nimander grimaced at this and scowled down at the
blossoms. 'They'll be dead shortly.'
    'So may we all,' Skintick responded. 'But . . . pretty while
it lasts.'
    Kallor joined them as they prepared to resume the
journey. His weathered face was strangely colourless, as
if drained of blood by the incessant wind. Or whatever
memories haunted him. The flatness in his eyes suggested
to Nimander that the man was without humour, that the
notion was as alien to him as mending the rips in his own
clothes. 'Are you all finally done with your rest?' Kallor
asked, noting the flowers still in Nimander's hand with a
faint sneer.
    'The horses needed it,' Nimander said. 'Are you in a hurry?
If so, you could always go ahead of us. When you stop
for the night we'll either catch up with you or we won't.'
    'Who would feed me, then?'
    'You could always feed yourself,' Skintick said. 'Presumably
you've had to do that on occasion.'
    Kallor shrugged. 'I will ride the wagon,' he said, heading
off.
    Nenanda had collected the horses and now led them
over. 'They all need re-shoeing,' he said, 'and this damned
road isn't helping any.'
    A sudden commotion at the wagon brought them all
round, in time to see Kallor flung backward from the side
rail, crashing heavily on the cobbles, the look on his face
one of stunned surprise. Above him, standing on the bed,
was Aranatha, and even at that distance they could see
something dark and savage blazing from her eyes.
    Desra stood near her, mouth hanging open.
    On the road, lying on his back, Kallor began to laugh. A
rasping, breathy kind of laugh.
    With a bemused glance at Skintick and Nenanda,
Nimander walked over.
    Aranatha had turned away, resuming her ministrations
to Clip, trickling water between the unconscious man's
lips. Tucking the flowers under his belt, Nimander pulled
himself on to the wagon and met Desra's eyes. 'What happened?'
    'He helped himself to a handful,' Desra replied tonelessly,
nodding towards Aranatha. 'She, er, pushed him away.'
    'He was balanced on a wheel spoke?' Skintick asked
from behind Nimander.
    Desra shook her head. 'One hand on the rail. She just . . . sent him flying.'
    The old man, his laughter fading away, was climbing to
his feet. 'You damned Tiste Andii,' he said, 'no sense of
adventure.'
    But Nimander could see that, despite Kallor's seeming
mirth, the grizzled warrior was somewhat shaken.
Drawing a deep breath and wincing at some pain in his
ribs, he moved round to the back of the wagon and once
more climbed aboard, this time keeping his distance from
Aranatha.
    Nimander leaned on the rail, close to Aranatha. 'Are
you all right?' he asked.
    Glancing up, she gave him another one of those appallingly
innocent smiles. 'Can you feel me now, Nimander?'
    Was the idea of water enough to create an illusion so perfect
that every sense was deceived? The serpent curl of the One
River, known as Dorssan Ryl, encircled half the First City
of Kharkanas. Before the coming of light there was no
reflection from its midnight surface, and to settle one's
hand in its ceaseless flow was to feel naught but a cooler
breath against the skin as the current sighed round the
intrusion. 'Water in Darkness, dreams in sleep' – or so wrote
one of the Mad Poets of the ninety-third century, during
the stylistic trend in poetry characterized by brevity, a style
that crashed in the following century during the period of
art and oratory known as the Flowering Bright.
    Water in perfect illusion . . . was this fundamentally
no different from real water? If the senses provide all that
defines the world, then were they not the arbiters of reality?
As a young acolyte, fired with passions of all sorts, Endest
Silann had argued bell after bell with his fellow students
over such matters. All those 'Essence of truth, senses will lie' themes that seemed so important then, before every
universe exploded in the conflagration of creation, shoving
all those bright, flaring candles over the table