A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

in our tracks so we end up doing
nothing, which means your precious status quo persists
just that much longer – enough for you to live out your life
in whatever comfort you think you've earned. You won't
accept culpability for anything, so you tell us that nothing
ever changes.'
    'Ah, the fire of youth. Perhaps one day, pup, you'll be old
– assuming your stupidity doesn't get you killed first – and
I'll find you, somewhere. You'll be sitting on the stone steps
of some abandoned temple or, worse, some dead king's
glorious monument. Watching the young people rush
by. And I'll settle down beside you and ask you: "What's
changed, old man?" And you will squint, chew your gums
for a time, then spit on to the cobbles shaking your head.'
    'Plan on living for ever, Kallor?'
    'Yes, I do.'
    'What if your stupidity gets you killed?'
    Kallor's grin was feral. 'It hasn't yet.'
    Skintick glanced back again, eyes bright, and all at once
he laughed. 'I am changing my mind about you.'
    'The Dying God has stolen Clip's soul,' Nimander said.
'We're going to get it back.'
    'Good luck.'
    'I suppose we will need it.'
    'I'm not the kind who helps, Nimander,' Kallor said.
'Even kin of Rake. Maybe,' he added, 'especially kin of
Rake.'
    'What makes you think—'
    The man interrupted with a snort. 'I see him in all
of you – excepting the empty one you call Clip. You are
heading to Coral. Or you were, before this detour was
forced upon you. Tell me, what do you imagine will happen
when you find your glorious patron? Will he reach out one
perfect hand to brush your brows, to bless the gift of your
existence? Will you thank him for the privilege of being
alive?'
    'What do you know about it?' Nimander demanded, feeling
the heat rise to flush his face.
    'Anomander Rake is a genius at beginning things. It's
finishing them he has trouble with.'
    Ah, that stings of truth. Kallor, you have just prodded my
own soul. A trait I inherited from him, then? That makes too
much sense. 'So, when I speak to him of you, Kallor, he will
know your name?'
    'Were we acquaintances? Yes, we were. Did we delight in
each other's company? You will have to ask him that one.
Caladan Brood was simpler, easier to manage. Nothing but
earth and stone. As for K'azz, well, I'll know more when I
finally meet the bastard.'
    'I do not know those names,' Nimander said. 'Caladan
Brood. K'azz.'
    'It's of no real significance. We were allies in a war or
three, that is all. And perhaps one day we will be allies
once more, who can say? When some vast enemy forces
us once again into the same camp, all on the same side.'
He seemed to think about that for a moment, then said,
'Nothing changes.'
    'Are you then returning to Coral – where waits our
father?'
    'No. The dust I kicked up last time will need a few
centuries to settle, I expect.' He was about to add something
more when his attention was pulled away, and he stepped
across Nimander's path – forcing him to halt – to walk to
the road's edge, facing north.
    'I'd spotted that,' Skintick muttered, also stopping.
    Fifty or so paces from the road, just beyond a strip of
the alien plants and its row of wrapped effigies, was a ruin.
Only one of the walls of the squarish, tower-like structure
rose above man-height. The stones were enormous, fitted
without mortar. Trees of a species Nimander had never
seen before had rooted on top of the walls, snaking long,
thick ropes down to the ground. The branches were
skeletal, reaching horizontally out to the sides, clutching
mere handfuls of dark, leathery leaves.
    Nenanda had stopped the wagon and all were now
studying the ruin that had so captured Kallor's attention.
    'Looks old,' Skintick said, catching Nimander's eye and
winking.
    'Jaghut,' Kallor said. And he set out towards it. Nimander
and Skintick followed.
    In the field, the furrows of earth were bleached, dead,
and so too the ghastly plants. Even the terrible clouds of
insects had vanished.
    Kallor stepped between two corpses, but there was not
enough room so he reached out to either side and pushed
the stakes over. Dust spat from the bases as the scarecrows
sagged, then, pulling free, fell to the ground. The warrior
continued on.
    'We can hope,' said Skintick under his breath as he and
Nimander followed through the gap.
    'For what?' Nimander asked.
    'That he decides he doesn't like this Dying God. And
makes up his mind to do something about it.'
    'You believe he is that formidable?'
    Skintick shot him a glance. 'When he said he was