A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

for all, slaves and free,
soldier and crafter. Cheat anyone and I will kill you.'
    Behind him on the carriage, flames licked out from
the countless windows and vents. Black smoke rose in a
thickening column. He could feel the heat gusting against
his back.
    'Come the dawn,' he said, 'everyone will leave. Go
home. Those without a home – go find one. And know
that the time I give you now is all that you will ever have.
For when next you see me, when you are hiding there in
your cities, I will come as a destroyer. Five years or twenty
– it is what you have, what I give you. Use it well. All of
you, live well.'
    And that such a farewell should be received, not as a
benediction, but as a threat, marked well how these people
understood Karsa Orlong – who came from the north,
immune to all weapons. Who slew the Captain without
even touching him. Who freed the slaves and scattered the
knights of the realm with not a single clash of swords.
    The god of the Broken Face came among them, as each
would tell others for the years left to them. And, so telling,
with eyes wide and licking dry lips, they would reach in
haste for the tankard and its nectar of forgetfulness.
    Some, you cannot kill. Some are deliverers of death and
judgement. Some, in wishing you a full life, promise you death.
There is no lie in that promise, for does not death come to us
all? And yet, how rare the one to say so. No sweet euphemism,
no quaint colloquialism. No metaphor, no analogy. There is
but one true poet in the world, and he speaks the truth.
    Flee, my friends, but there is nowhere to hide. Nowhere at
all.
    See your fate, there in his Broken Face.
    See it well.
    Horses drawn to a halt on a low hilltop, grasses whispering
unseen on all sides.
    'I once led armies,' Traveller said. 'I was once the will of
the Emperor of Malaz.'
    Samar Dev tasted bitterness and leaned to one side and
spat.
    The man beside her grunted, as if acknowledging the
gesture as commentary. 'We served death, of course, in all
that we did. For all our claims otherwise. Imposing peace,
ending stupid feuds and tribal rivalries. Opening roads to
merchants without fear of banditry. Coin flowed like blood
in veins, such was the gift of those roads and the peace we
enforced. And yet, behind it all, he waited.'
    'All hail civilization,' Samar Dev said. 'Like a beacon in
the dark wilderness.'
    'With a cold smile,' Traveller continued, as if not hearing
her, 'he waits. Where all the roads converge, where every
path ends. He waits.'
    A dozen heartbeats passed, with nothing more said.
    To the north something burned, lancing bright orange
flames into the sky, lighting the bellies of churning clouds
of black smoke. Like a beacon . . .
    'What burns?' Traveller wondered.
    Samar Dev spat again. She just couldn't get that foul
taste out of her mouth. 'Karsa Orlong,' she replied. 'Karsa
Orlong burns, Traveller. Because that is what he does.'
    'I do not understand you.'
    'It's a pyre,' she said. 'And he does not grieve. The
Skathandi are no more.'
    'When you speak of Karsa Orlong,' Traveller said, 'I am
frightened.'
    She nodded at that admission – a response he probably
could not even see. The man beside her was an honest one.
    In many ways as honest as Karsa Orlong.
    And on the morrow these two would meet.
    Samar Dev well understood Traveller's fear.

CHAPTER NINE
    The bulls ever walk alone to the solitude
Of their selves
Swaggering in their coats of sweaty felt
Every vein swollen
Defiant and proud in their beastly need
Thunderous in step
Make way make way the spurting swords
Slay damsel hearts
Cloven the cut gaping wide – so tender an attitude!
And we must swoon
Before red-rimmed eyes you'll find no guilt
In the self so proven
And the fiery charge of most fertile seed
Sings like gods' rain
Make way make way another bold word
The dancer's sure to misstep
In the rushing drums of the multitude
    Dandies of the Promenade
Seglora
    Expectation is the hoary curse of humanity. One can
listen to words, and see them as the unfolding of a
petal or, indeed, the very opposite: each word bent
and pushed tighter, smaller, until the very packet of meaning
vanishes with a flip of deft fingers. Poets and tellers
of tales can be tugged by either current, into the riotous
conflagration of beauteous language or the pithy reduction
of the tersely colourless.
    As with art, so too with life. See a man without fingers
standing at the back of his house. He is grainy with sleep
that yields no rest, no relief from