A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

hard on you Tiste.'
    And yes, she could feel that, but it was nothing to trust,
nothing to even pay attention to – it was the lie she had
always known, the lie of something better just ahead, of all
the questions answered, just ahead. Another step, one more.
One more. Time's dialogue with the living, and time was
a deceitful creature, a liar. Time promised everything and
delivered nothing.
    She stared into the darkness, and thought she saw movement,
deep, deep within.
    'No Jaghut is to be trusted,' Kallor said, glaring at the lowering
sun. 'Especially not Gothos.'
    Aranatha studied the ancient warrior with an
unwavering gaze, and though he would not meet her
sister's eyes, it was clear to Kedeviss that Kallor felt
himself under siege. A woman's attention, devastating
barrage of inexorable calculation – even a warrior
flinched back.
    But these were momentary distractions, she knew.
Something had happened. Desra had rushed into the ruin
and not returned. Nenanda stood fidgeting, eyes on the
crumbled edifice.
    'Some gods are born to suffer,' Kallor said. 'You'd be
better off heading straight to Coral. Unleash Anomander
Rake against that Dying God, if getting this Clip back is
so important to you. At the very least you'll have your
vengeance.'
    'And is vengeance so important?' Kedeviss asked.
    'Often it's all there is,' Kallor replied, still squinting
westward.
    'Is that why they're after you?'
    He turned, studied her. 'And who would be after me?'
    'Someone. That much seems obvious. Am I wrong?'
    Aranatha spoke from the wagon, 'You are not, sister.
But then, he has always been hunted. You can see it in his
eyes.'
    'Be glad that you remain marginally useful to me,' Kallor
said, turning away once more.
    Kedeviss saw Nenanda glaring at the warrior's back.
    How much time had passed? Days, perhaps weeks.
Nimander stood, watching the mason build his tower.
Shaping stone with fists, with round hammerstones found
somewhere, with leather-wrapped wooden mallets to edge
the pumice facing he had decided to add to 'lighten the
walls'.
    To accommodate the giant, the tower needed to be huge,
four storeys or more to the ceiling. 'Made with the blood of
dragons, the glass of what flowed, the pumice of what foamed
with dying breaths. A tower, yes, but also a monument, a grave
marker. What will come of this? I know not. You were clever,
Nimander, with this idea. Too clever to stay here. You must
leave, when the tower vanishes, you must be within it. I will
stay.'
    They repeated that argument again and again, and each
time Nimander prevailed, not through brilliant reasoning,
not through appealing to the Elder's selfish desires (because
it turned out he didn't have any), but only through
his refusal to surrender.
    He had nothing awaiting him, after all. Nenanda could
lead the others through – he was finding his own kind
of wisdom, his restraint, and with Skintick and Kedeviss
to guide him, he would do well. Until such time as they
reached Coral.
    Nimander had lost too many battles – he could see that
in himself. Could feel every scar, still fresh, still wounding.
This place would give him time to heal, if such a thing were
possible. How long? Why not eternity? A chorus of wails surrounded them, an army of spirits
grovelling in the ash and dust at the base of the volcanic
cone. Bemoaning the end of the world – as if this world
suited them just fine, when clearly it didn't, when each one
dreamed of reclaiming flesh and bone, blood and breath.
They sought to assail the slope but somehow failed again
and again.
    Nimander helped when he could, carrying tools here and
there, but mostly he sat in the soft dust, seeing nothing,
hearing only the cries from beyond the tower's growing wall,
feeling neither thirst nor hunger, slowly emptying of desire,
ambition, everything that might once have mattered.
    Around him the darkness deepened, until the only light
came from some preternatural glow from the pumice. The
world closing in . . .
    Until—
    'One stone remains. This stone. The base of this low
window, Nimander, within your reach. I will help you
climb outside – then push the stone through, like this
– but tell me, please, why can we not both leave here? I am
within the tower. So are you. If I set the stone—'
    'Elder,' cut in Nimander. 'You are almost done here.
Where is Gothos?'
    A look of surprise. 'I don't know.'
    'He does not dare this realm, I think.'
    'Perhaps that is true.'
    'I don't even know if this will work – if it will