A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Nimander. Desra – she
came in, she saw into the ice – saw you—'
    Fire burned his fingers, flicked flames up his hands and
into his wrists, sizzling fierce along the bones. Fresh blood
dripped from dust-caked wounds where nails had been.
'Desra,' he moaned. 'Why?'
    She looked up, fixed him with hard eyes. 'We're not
finished with you yet, Nimander,' she said in a rasp. 'Oh
no, not yet.'
    'You damned fool,' Gothos said. 'I was saving that one for
later. And now he's free.'
    Nimander twisted round. 'You cannot just collect people!
Like shiny stones!'
    'Why not? My point is, I needed that one. There is now
an Azath in the blood of dragons—'
    'The spilled blood – the blood of dead dragons—'
    'And you think the distinction is important? Oh, me and
my endless folly!' With sharp gestures he raised his hood
once more, then turned to settle down on a stool, facing
the hearth, his position a perfect match to the moment
Nimander, Skintick and Kallor had first entered this place.
'You idiot, Nimander. Dragons don't play games. Do you
understand me? Dragons play no games. Ah, I despair, or
I would if I cared enough. No, instead, I will make some
ashcakes. Which I will not share.'
    'It's time to leave,' Skintick said.
    Yes, that much was obvious.
    *
    'They're coming now,' Kallor said.
    Kedeviss looked but could not see any movement in the
gloom of the ruin's entrance.
    'It's too late to travel – we'll have to camp here. Make us
a fine meal, Aranatha. Nenanda, build a fire. A house of
sticks to set aflame – that'll make Gothos wince, I hope.
Yes, entice him out here tonight, so that I can kill him.'
    'You can't kill him,' Aranatha said, straightening in the
wagon bed.
    'Oh, and why not?'
    'I need to talk to him.'
    Kedeviss watched her kin descend from the wagon,
adjust her robes, then stride towards the ruin – where
Skintick had appeared, helping Nimander, whose hands
were dark with blood. Behind them, Desra.
    'That bitch sister of yours is uncanny,' Kallor said in a
growl.
    Kedeviss saw no need to comment on that.
    'She speaks with Gothos – why? What could they
possibly say to each other?'
    Shrugging, Kedeviss turned away. 'I think I will do the
cooking tonight,' she said.
    Dying, the Captain stared across at the giant warrior with
the shattered face. Woven carpets beneath each of them,
the one on which sat the Captain now sodden with blood
– blood that seemed to flow for ever, as if his body was but
a valve, broken, jammed open, and out it came, trickling
down from wounds that would never close. He was, he
realized, back where he began. Opulence surrounded him
this time, rather than grit and mud and dust on the edge
of a dried riverbed, but did that make any real difference?
Clearly it didn't.
    Only the dying could laugh at that truth. There were
many things, he now understood, to which only the
dying could respond with honest mirth. Like this nemesis
warrior sitting cross-legged, hunched and glowering
opposite him.
    A small brazier smouldered between them, perched on
three legs. On the coals rested a squat kettle, and the spiced
wine within steamed to sweeten the air of the chamber.
    'You shall have to knock out some of the inner walls,'
the Captain said. 'Have the slaves make you a new bed, one
long enough, and other furniture besides.'
    'You are not listening,' the giant said. 'I lose my temper
when people do not listen.'
    'You are my heir—'
    'No. I am not. Slavery is an abomination. Slavery is what
people who hate do to others. They hate themselves. They
hate in order to make themselves different, better. You.
You told yourself you had the right to own other people.
You told yourself they were less than you, and you thought
shackles could prove it.'
    'I loved my slaves. I took care of them.'
    'There is plenty of room for guilt in the heart of hate,'
the warrior replied.
    'This is my gift—'
    'Everyone seeks to give me gifts. I reject them all. You
believe yours is wondrous. Generous. You are nothing. Your
empire is pathetic. I knew village dogs who were greater
tyrants than you.'
    'Why do you torment me with such words? I am dying.
You have killed me. And yet I do not despise you for that.
No, I make you my heir. I give you my kingdom. My army
will take your commands. Everything is yours now.'
    'I don't want it.'
    'If you do not take it, one of my officers will.'
    'This kingdom cannot exist without the slaves. Your
army will become nothing more than one more band of
raiders, and so someone will hunt