A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

long fingers. 'This must
now steep for a time. Am I unusual in my penchant for
evading such direct questions? A trait exclusive to Jaghut?
Hardly. Knowledge may be free; my voice is not. I am a
miser, alas, although I was not always this way.'
    'Since I see little value in this particular matter,' said
Kallor, 'I would not bargain with you.'
    'Ah, and what of the Others with you? Might not they
be interested?'
    Clearing his throat, Skintick said, 'Venerable one, we
possess nothing of worth to one such as you.'
    'You are too modest, Tiste Andii.'
    'I am?'
    'Each creature is born from one not its kind. This is a
wonder, a miracle forged in the fires of chaos, for chaos
indeed whispers in our blood, no matter its particular
hue. If I but scrape your skin, so lightly as to leave but a
momentary streak, that which I take from you beneath my
nail contains every truth of you, your life, even your death,
assuming violence does not claim you. A code, if you will,
seemingly precise and so very ordered. Yet chaos churns.
For all your similarities to your father, neither you nor the
one named Nimander – nor any of your brothers and sisters
– is identical to Anomander Dragnipurake. Do you refute
this?'
    'Of course not—'
    'For each kind of beast there is a first such beast, more
different from its parents than the rest of its kin, from
which a new breed in due course emerges. Is this firstborn
then a god?'
    'You spoke of a wolf god,' Skintick said. 'You began to
tell us a story.'
    'So I did. But you must be made to understand. It is a
question of essences. To see a wolf and know it as pure, one
must possess an image in oneself of a pure wolf, a perfect
wolf.'
    'Ridiculous,' Kallor grunted. 'See a strange beast and
someone tells you it is a wolf – and from this one memory,
and perhaps a few more to follow, you have fashioned your
image of a wolf. In my empires, philosophers spewed such
rubbish for centuries, until, of course, I grew tired of them
and had them tortured and executed.'
    A strange muffled noise came from the hunched-over
Jaghut. Nimander saw the shoulders shaking and realized
the ancient was laughing.
    'I have killed a few Jaghut,' Kallor said; not a boast, simply
a statement. A warning.
    'The tea is ready,' the Jaghut said, pouring dark liquid
into four clay cups that Nimander had not noticed before.
'You might wonder what I was doing when the wolf god
found me. I was fleeing. In disguise. We had gathered to
imprison a tyrant, until our allies turned upon us and resumed
the slaughter. I believe I may be cursed ever to be in
the wrong place at the wrong time.'
    'T'lan Imass allies,' Kallor said. 'Too bad they never
found you.'
    'Kron, the clan of Bek'athana Ilk who dwelt in the
Cliffs Above the Angry Sea. Forty-three hunters and a
Bonecaster. They found me.'
    Skintick squatted to pick up two of the cups, straightening
to hand one to Nimander. The steam rising from the
tea was heady, hinting of mint and cloves and something
else. The taste numbed his tongue.
    'Where is mine?' Kallor demanded. 'If I must listen to
this creature I will drink his tea.'
    Smiling, Skintick pointed down to where the cups
waited on the ground.
    Another soft laugh from the Jaghut. 'Raest was the name
of the Tyrant we defeated. One of my more obnoxiously
arrogant offspring. I did not mourn his fall. In any case,
unlike Raest, I was never the strutting kind. It is a sign of
weakness to shine blinding bright with one's own power.
Pathetic diffidence. A need that undermines. I was more
. . . secure.'
    He had Kallor's attention now. 'You killed forty-three
T'lan Imass and a Bonecaster?'
    'I killed them all.' The Jaghut sipped from his own cup.
    'I have killed a few T'lan Imass,' he said, the intonation a
perfect mimicry of Kallor's own claim a few moments past.
'Tell me, then, do you like my abode? My garden?'
    'Solitude has driven you mad,' Kallor said.
    'You would know all about that now, wouldn't you, O
Lord of Failures? Partake of the tea, lest I take offence.'
    Teeth bared, Kallor bent down to retrieve his cup.
    The Jaghut's left hand shot out, closing about Kallor's
wrist. 'You wounded that wolf god,' he said.
    Nimander stared as he saw the old man struggle to
twist free of that grip. Veins standing out on his temple,
jaw muscles bunching beneath the beard. But there was
no pulling loose. There was no movement at all from that
withered, green hand.
    'When you laid waste to your realm,' the Jaghut continued.
'You wounded it