A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

oiled
wick into the spring spark tube. Three quick hissing pumps
of the sparker and flame darted up.
    'Nice trick, that.'
    'The tube's got blue gas, not much and runs out fast so
it needs refilling. There's bladders upside. Why didn't you
die?'
    'I have had some time to ponder that question, cub. I
have reached but one conclusion that explains my condition.
    The Ritual of Tellann.'
    'What made the evil T'lan Imass! I heard about that
from Uncle Gruntle! Undead warriors at Black Coral
– Gruntle saw them with his own eyes! And they kneeled
and all their pain was taken from them by a man who then
died since there was so much pain he took from them and
so they built a barrow and it's still there and Gruntle said
he wept but I don't believe that because Gruntle is big and
the best warrior in the whole world and nothing could
make him weep nothing at all!' And Harllo had to stop
then so that he could regain his breath. And still his heart
hammered like hailstones on a tin roof.
    From the Imass named Dev'ad Anan Tol, silence.
    'You still there?' Harllo asked.
    'Cub. Take my tools. The first ever made and by my own
hand. I was an inventor. In my mind ideas bred with such
frenzy that I lived in a fever. At times, at night, I went half
mad. So many thoughts, so many notions – my clan feared
me. The Bonecaster feared me. Raest himself feared me,
and so he had me thrown down here. To die. And my ideas
with me.'
    'Should I tell everyone about you? They might decide to
lift you out, so you can see the world again.'
    'The world? That tiny flame you hold has shown me more
of the world than I can comprehend. The sun . . . oh, the
sun . . . that would destroy me, I think. To see it again.'
    'We have metal picks now,' Harllo said. 'Iron.'
    'Skystone. Yes, I saw much of it in the tunnels. The
Jaghut used sorcery to bring it forth and shape it – we were
not permitted to witness such things. But I thought, even
then, how it might be drawn free, without magic. With
heat. Drawn out, given shape, made into useful things.
Does Raest still rule?'
    'Never heard of any Raest,' said Harllo. 'Bainisk rules
Chuffs and Workmaster rules the mine and in the city
there's a council of nobles and in faraway lands there're
kings and queens and emperors and empresses.'
    'And T'lan Imass who kneel.'
    Harllo glanced up the shaft – he could hear faint voices,
echoing down. 'They want to pull me back up. What
should I tell them about this place?'
    'The wrong rock, the white grit that sickens people. Foul
air.'
    'So no one else comes down here.'
    'Yes.'
    'But then you'll be alone again.'
    'Yes. Tell them, too, that a ghost haunts this place. Show
them the ghost's magical tools.'
    'I will. Listen, could be I might sneak back down here,
if you like.'
    'Cub, that would be most welcome.'
    'Can I bring you anything?'
    'Yes.'
    'What?'
    'Splints.'
    And now Harllo was making his way back to daylight,
and in his extra-heavy bag there clunked the tools of the
corpse. Antler and bone hardened into stone, tines jabbing
at his hip.
    If Venaz found out about them he might take them, so
Harllo knew he had to be careful. He had to hide them
somewhere. Where nobody went or looked or picked
through things. Plenty to think about, he had.
    And he needed to find something called 'splints'. Whatever
they were.
    She insisted on taking his arm as they walked towards the
Phoenix Inn, down from the Estate District, through Third
Tier Wall, and into the Daru District. 'So many people,'
she was saying. 'This is by far the biggest city I've ever been
in. I think what strikes me is how many familiar faces I
see – not people I actually know, just people who look like
people I've known.'
    Duiker thought about that, and then nodded. 'The world
is like that, aye.'
    'Is it now? Why?'
    'I have no idea, Scillara.'
    'Is this all the wisdom you can offer?'
    'I even struggled with that one,' he replied.
    'All right. Let's try something else. I take it you see no
point in history.'
    He grunted. 'If by that you mean that there is no
progress, that even the notion of progress is a delusion, and
that history is nothing more than a host of lessons nobody
wants to pay attention to, then yes, there is no point. Not
in writing it down, not in teaching it.'
    'Never mind, then. You choose.'
    'Choose what?'
    'Something to talk about.'
    'I don't think I can – nothing comes to mind, Scillara.
Well, I suppose I'd like to know about Heboric.'
    'He was losing his mind. We were trying to get to
Otataral