A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

terribly.'
    'Release me,' Kallor said in a rasp. And with his other
hand he reached back for the grip of his sword.
    All at once the Jaghut's hand fell away.
    Kallor staggered back and Nimander saw a white impression
of fingers encircling the old warrior's wrist. 'This is not
how a host behaves. You force me to kill you.'
    'Oh, be quiet, Kallor. This tower was an Azath once.
Shall I awaken it for you?'
    Wondering, Nimander watched as Kallor backed towards
the entrance, eyes wide in that weathered, pallid
face, the look of raw recognition dawning. 'Gothos, what
are you doing here?'
    'Where else should I be? Now remain outside – these two
Tiste Andii must go away for a while.'
    Heat was spreading fast, out from Nimander's stomach.
He cast a wild look at Skintick, saw his friend sinking
slowly to his knees. The empty cup in his hand fell away,
rolled briefly on the damp ground. Nimander stared at the
Jaghut. 'What have you done?'
    'Only what was necessary.'
    With a snarl Kallor spun round and stalked from the
chamber. Over his shoulder he said, 'I will not wait long.'
    Nimander's eyes were drawn once more to the walls of
ice. Black depths, shapes moving within. He staggered,
reached out his hands—
    'Oh, don't step in there—'
And then he was falling forward, his hands passing into
the wall before him, no resistance at all.
    'Nimander, do not—'
    Blackness.
    Desra wandered round the wagon, drawing up to halt
beside the ox. She set a hand on its back, felt the beast's
heat, the rippling with every twitch shedding the biting
flies. She looked down into the animal's eye, saw with a
start how delicate its lashes. 'You must take the world as
it is.' Andarist's last words to her, before the world took
him.
    It wasn't hard. People either had strength or they
didn't. The weak ones left her disgusted, welling with
dark contempt. If they chose at all it was ever the wrong
choice. They let the world break them time and again,
then wondered – dull-eyed as this ox – why it was so cruel.
But it wasn't the world that was the problem, was it? It was
stepping into the stampede's path over and over again. It
was learning nothing from anything. Nothing.
    There were more weak people than strong ones. The
weak were legion. Some just weren't smart enough to cope
with anything beyond meeting immediate needs: the field
to sow, the harvest to bring on to the threshing floor, the
beasts of burden to feed. The child to raise, the coin for
the next jug of ale, the next knuckle bag of d'bayang.
They didn't see beyond the horizon. They didn't even see
the next valley over. The world outside was where things
came from, things that caused trouble, that jarred the
proper order of life. They weren't interested in thinking.
Depths were frightening, long roads a journey without
purpose where one could end up lost, curling up to die in
the ditch.
    She had seen so many of the weak ones. They died
unjustly in their thousands. Tens of thousands. They died
because they worshipped ignorance and believed this blind
god could make them safe.
    Among the strong, only a few were worth paying
attention to. Most were bullies. Their threats were physical
or they were emotional, but the effect was the same – to
make the victim feel weak. And it was the self-appointed
task of these bullies to convince as many people as possible
that they were inherently weak, and their lives ones of
pathetic misery. Once this was done, the bully would then
say: do as I say and I will keep you safe. I will be your strength
. . . unless you anger me. If you anger me I will terrorize you.
I might even kill you. There were plenty of these bastards,
pig-eyed and blustery little boys in big bodies. Or fish-eyed
nasty bitches – although these ones, after proving to their
victims how weak they were, would then lap up all the
spilled blood. Delicate tongues flicking in and out. You
had the physical bullies and the emotional bullies, and
they both revelled in destroying lives.
    No, she had no time for them. But there were others
whose strength was of a much rarer kind. Not easy to find,
because they revealed nothing. They were quiet. They
often believed themselves to be much weaker than they
were. But when pushed too hard, they surprised themselves,
finding that they would not back away another step, that
a wall had risen in their souls, unyielding, a barrier that
could not be passed. To find one such as this was the most
precious of discoveries.
    Desra had played the bully more than