A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

he's still that victim,
still lashing out. And as you said earlier, the victim and his
crutch, his virtue of misery – one feeds the other, without
cessation. No wonder he bridles with self-righteousness for
all his claims to emotionless intellect—'
    He struck her, hard, her head snapping to one side,
spittle and blood threading out.
    Breathing fast, chest strangely tight, Tanal hissed, 'Rail
at me all you will, Scholar. I expect that. But not at Karos
Invictad. He is the empire's last true hope. Only
Karos Invictad will guide us into glory, into a new age, an
age without the Edur, without the mixed-bloods, without
even the failed peoples. No, just the Letherii, an empire
expanding outward with sword and fire, all the way back to
the homeland of the First Empire. He has seen our future!
Our destiny!'
    She stared at him in the dull light. 'Of course. But first,
he needs to kill every Letherii worthy of the name. Karos
Invictad, the Great Scholar, and his empire of thugs—'
    He struck her again, harder than before, then lurched
back, raising his hand – it was trembling, skin torn and
battered, a shard of one broken tooth jutting from one
knuckle.
    She was unconscious.
    Well, she asked for it. She wouldn't stop. That means she wanted it, deep inside, she wanted me to beat her. I've heard about this – Karos has told me – they come to like it, eventually. They like the . . . attention.
    So, I must not neglect her. Not again. Plenty of water, keep her clean and fed.
    And beat her anyway.
    But she was not unconscious, for she then spoke in a
mumble. He could not make it out and edged closer.
    '. . . on the other side . . . I will wait for you . . . on the
other side . . .'
    Tanal Yathvanar felt a slither deep in his gut. And fled
from it. No god waits to pass judgement. No-one marks the imbalance of deeds – no god is beyond its own imbalances – for its own deeds are as subject to judgement as any other. So who then fashions this afterlife? Some natural imposition? Ridiculous – there is no balance in nature. Besides, nature exists in this world and this world alone – its rules mean nothing once the bridge is crossed . . .
    Tanal Yathvanar found himself walking up the corridor,
that horrid woman and her cell far behind him now – he
had no recollection of actually leaving.
    Karos has said again and again, justice is a conceit. It does not exist in nature. 'Retribution seen in natural catastrophes is manufactured by all too eager and all too pious people, each one convinced the world will end but spare them and them alone. But we all know, the world is inherited by the obnoxious, not the righteous.'
    Unless , came the thought in Janath's voice, the two are one and the same .
    He snarled as he hurried up the worn stone stairs. She
was far below. Chained. A prisoner in her solitary cell.
    There was no escape for her.
    I have left her down there, far below. Far behind. She can't escape.
    Yet, in his mind, he heard her laughter.
    And was no longer so sure.
    Two entire wings of the Eternal Domicile were empty, long,
vacated corridors and never-occupied chambers, storage
rooms, administration vaults, servant quarters and
kitchens. Guards patrolling these sections once a day
carried their own lanterns, and left unrelieved darkness in
their wake. In the growing damp of these unoccupied
places, dust had become mould, mould had become rot, and
the rot in turn leaked rank fluids that ran down plastered
walls and pooled in dips in the floors.
    Abandonment and neglect would soon defeat the ingenious
innovations of Bugg's Construction, as they
defeated most things raised by hands out of the earth, and
Turudal Brizad, the Errant, considered himself almost
unique in his fullest recognition of such sordid truths.
Indeed, there were other elders persisting in their nominal
existence, but they one and all fought still against the
ravages of inevitable dissolution. Whereas the Errant could
not be bothered.
    Most of the time.
    The Jaghut had come to comprehend the nature of
futility, inspiring the Errant to a certain modicum
of empathy for those most tragic of people. Where was
Gothos now, he wondered. Probably long dead, all things
considered. He had written a multiple-volumed suicide
note – his Folly – that presumably concluded at some point,
although the Errant had neither seen nor heard that such a
conclusion existed. Perhaps, he considered with sudden
suspicion, there was some hidden message in a suicidal
testimonial