A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

this room
was there darkness and that, she realized, was answer
enough.
    The old blood splashed on the walls was black, eager to
swallow the lantern's light. Dust still trickled down from
stress fractures in the canted ceiling, reminding Seerdomin
that half a mountain stood above him. The keep's upper
levels were crushed, collapsed, yet still settling even after
all this time. Perhaps, some time soon, these lower tunnels
would give away, and the massive ruin atop the hollowed-out
cliff would simply tilt and slide into the sea.
    In the meantime, there were these unlit, wending,
buckled corridors, a chaotic maze where no one belonged,
and yet boot prints tracked the thick, gritty dust. Looters?
Perhaps, although Seerdomin well knew there was little to
be found in these lower levels. He had walked these routes
many times, doing what he could for the various prisoners
of the Pannion Seer, though it was never enough – no,
never enough.
    If there was a curse, a most vicious kind of curse, whereby
a decent person found him or herself in inescapable
servitude to a creature of pure, unmitigated evil, then
Seerdomin had lived it. Decency did not exculpate. Honour
purchased no abeyance on crimes against humanity. And
as for duty, well, it increasingly seemed the sole excuse of
the morally despicable. He would offer up none of these in
defence of the things he had done at his master's behest.
Nor would he speak of duress, of the understandable desire
to stay alive under the threat of deadly coercion. None of
these was sufficient. When undeniable crimes had been
committed, justification was the act of a coward. And it
was our cowardice that permitted such crimes in the first place. No tyrant could thrive where every subject said no .
    The tyrant thrives when the first fucking fool salutes.
    He well understood that many people delighted in such
societies – there had been fellow Seerdomin, most of them
in fact, who revelled in the fear and the obedience that fear
commanded. And this was what had led him here, trailing
an old palace retainer of the Seer who had made his furtive
way into the ruins of the old keep. No, not a looter. A
sordid conspiracy was afoot, Seerdomin was certain of
that. Survivors of one nightmare seeking to nurture yet
another. That man would not be alone once he reached
his destination.
    He closed the shutter to the lantern once more and
continued on.
    Malazan soldiers had died here, along with the Pannion's
own. Seguleh had carved through the ranks of palace guard.
Seerdomin could almost hear the echoes of that slaughter,
the cries of the dying, the desperate pleading against cruel
mischance, the stinging clash of weapons. He came to a set
of steps leading down. Rubble had been cleared away. From
somewhere below came the murmur of voices.
    They had set no guard, proof of their confidence, and
as he stealthily descended he could make out the glow of
lanterns emanating from the cell down below.
    This chamber had once been home to the one called
Toc the Younger. Chained against one wall, well within
reach of the Seer's monstrous mother. Seerdomin's paltry
gifts of mercy had probably stung like droplets of acid on
the poor man. Better to have left him to go entirely mad,
escaping into that oblivious world where everything was
so thoroughly broken that repair was impossible. He could
still smell the reek of the K'Chain matron.
    The voices were becoming distinguishable – three,
maybe four conspirators. He could hear the excitement, the
sweet glee, along with the usual self-importance, the songs
of those who played games with lives – it was the same the
world over, in every history, ever the same.
    He had crushed down his outrage so long ago, it was a
struggle to stir it into life once more, but he would need it.
Sizzling, yet hard, controlled, peremptory. Three steps from
the floor, still in darkness, he slowly drew out his tulwar. It
did not matter what they were discussing. It did not even
matter if their plans were pathetic, doomed to fail. It was
the very act that awakened in Seerdomin the heart of
murder, so that it now drummed through him, thunderous
with contempt and disgust, ready to do what was needed.
    When he first stepped into the chamber, none of the
four seated at the table even noticed, permitting him
to take another stride, close enough to send his broad-bladed
weapon through the first face that lifted towards
him, cutting it in half. His return attack was a looping
backswing, chopping