A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

stability, the
sure, unambiguous rules of law imposed by a people whose
own civilization spanned tens of thousands of years – even
longer if the rumours were at all accurate. How could any
human begrudge this gift?
    Many did, it was now clear. The notion of freedom could
make even peace and order seem oppressive, generate the
suspicion of some hidden purpose, some vast deceit, some
unspecified crime being perpetrated beyond human ken.
That was a generous way of looking at it; the alternative
was to acknowledge that humans were intrinsically conflicted,
cursed with acquisitive addictions of the spirit.
    He reached the steep ramp leading to the well-hidden
entrance to the tunnels, rats skittering from his path,
and emerged into the warmer, drier air of Night. Yes, he
would have to go to the pilgrim camp, but not now. This
would demand some planning. Besides, if he could excise
the cancer in the city, then the conspirators out there
would find themselves isolated, helpless and incapable of
achieving anything. He could then deal with them at his
leisure.
    Yes, that was a better course. Reasonable and methodical,
as justice should be. He was not deliberately avoiding such
a journey.
    Satisfied with these arguments, Seerdomin set out to
begin his night of slaughter, and here, in this city, night
was without end.
    The rats watched him set off. They could smell the blood
on him, and more than one had been witness to the
slaughter far below, and certain of these now ambled away
from the ruin, heading for the world of daylight beyond the
shroud.
    Summoned, yes, by their master, the one known as
Monkrat, an amusing enough name, implicitly contemptuous
and derisive. What none of the man's associates truly
understood was the truth underlying that name. Monkrat,
yes. The Monk of Rats, priest and wizard, conjuror and binder
of spirits. Laugh and snicker if you like . . . at your peril.
    The liberators had found an enemy, and something
would have to be done about that.
    The city of Bastion crouched above the vast dying lake, its
stolid, squat walls blackened and streaked with some kind
of oil. The shanties and hovels surrounding the wall had
been burned and then razed, the charred wreckage strewn
down the slope leading to the cobbled road. Smoke hung
above the battlements, thick and surly.
    Cradling his battered hands – the reins looped loose
about them – Nimander squinted up at the city and its
yawning gates. No guards in sight, not a single figure on
the walls. Except for the smoke the city looked lifeless,
abandoned.
    Riding at his side in the front of their modest column,
Skintick said, 'A name like "Bastion" invites images of
ferocious defenders, bristling with all manner of weapons,
suspicious of every foreigner climbing towards the gates. So,'
he added with a sigh, 'we must be witness here to the blessed
indolence of saemankelyk, the Dying God's sweet blood.'
    Memories of his time in the company of the giant
mason still haunted Nimander. It seemed he was cursed
with occurrences devoid of resolution, every life crossing
his path leaving a swirling wake of mysteries in which he
flailed about, half drowning. The Jaghut, Gothos, only
worsened matters, a creature of vast antiquity seeking to
make use of them, somehow, for reasons he had been too
uninterested to explain.
    Since we failed him.
    The smell of rotting salt filled the air and they could see
the bleached flats stretching out from the old shoreline,
stilted docks high and dry above struggling weeds, fisher
boats lying on their sides farther out. Off to their left,
inland, farmsteads were visible amidst rows of scarecrows,
but it looked as if there was nothing still living out there
– the plants were black and withered, the hundreds of
wrapped figures motionless.
    They drew closer to the archway, and still there was no
one in sight.
    'We're being watched,' Skintick said.
    Nimander nodded. He felt the same. Hidden eyes, avid
eyes.
    'As if we've done just what they wanted,' Skintick went
on, his voice low, 'by delivering Clip, straight to their
damned Abject Temple.'
    That was certainly possible. 'I have no intention of
surrendering him – you know that.'
    'So we prepare to wage war against an entire city? A
fanatic priesthood and a god?'
    'Yes.'
    Grinning, Skintick loosened the sword at his side.
    Nimander frowned at him. 'Cousin, I don't recall you
possessing such bloodlust.'
    'Oh, I am as reluctant as you, Nimander. But I feel we've
been pushed long enough. It's