A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

disappeared into the back room.
    A grunt from Skintick. 'In need of the water closet?'
    Nimander rubbed at his face, flexed his fingers to ease
the ache, and then, as Nenanda arrived, he said, 'Skintick
and I will head out now. The rest of you . . . well, we could
run into trouble at any time. And if we do one of us will try
to get back here—'
    'If you run into trouble,' Aranatha said from the booth,
'we will know it.'
    Oh? How? 'All right. We shouldn't be long.'
    They had brought all their gear into the room and
Nimander now watched as first Desra and then the other
women began unpacking their weapons, their fine chain
hauberks and mail gauntlets. He watched as they readied
for battle, and said nothing as anguish filled him. None of
this was right. It had never been right. And he could do
nothing about it.
    Skintick edged his way round the bedding and, with a
tug on Nimander's arm, led him back outside. 'They will be
all right,' he said. 'It's us I'm worried about.'
    'Us? Why?'
    Skintick only smiled.
    They passed through the gate and came out on to the
main street once more. The mid-afternoon heat made the
air sluggish, enervating. The faint singing seemed to invite
them into the city's heart. An exchanged glance; then,
with a shrug from Skintick, they set out.
    'That machine.'
    'What about it, Skin?'
    'Where do you think it came from? It looked as if it just
. . . appeared, just above one of the buildings, and then
dropped, smashing everything in its path, ending with
itself. Do you recall those old pumps, the ones beneath
Dreth Street in Malaz City? Withal found them in those
tunnels he explored? Well, he took us on a tour—'
    'I remember, Skin.'
    'I'm reminded of those machines – all the gears and rods,
the way the metal components all meshed so cleverly, ingeniously
– I cannot imagine the mind that could think up
such constructs.'
    'What is all this about, Skin?'
    'Nothing much. I just wonder if that thing is somehow
connected with the arrival of the Dying God.'
    'Connected how?'
    'What if it was like a skykeep? A smaller version,
obviously. What if the Dying God was inside it? Some
accident brought it down, the locals pulled him out. What
if that machine was a kind of throne?'
    Nimander thought about that. A curious idea. Andarist
had once explained that skykeeps – such as the one Anomander
Rake claimed as his own – were not a creation of
sorcery, and indeed the floating fortresses were held aloft
through arcane manipulations of technology.
    K'Chain Che'Malle, Kallor had said. Clearly, he had
made the same connection as had Skintick.
    'Why would a god need a machine?' Nimander asked.
    'How should I know? Anyway, it's broken now.'
    They came to a broad intersection. Public buildings
commanded each corner, the architecture peculiarly
utilitarian, as if the culture that had bred it was singularly
devoid of creative flair. Glyphs made a mad scrawl on
otherwise unadorned walls, some of the symbols now striking
Nimander as resembling that destroyed mechanism.
    The main thoroughfare continued on another two hundred
paces, they could see, opening out on to an expansive
round. At the far end rose the most imposing structure
they had seen yet.
    'There it is,' Skintick said. 'The Abject . . . altar. It's
where the singing is coming from, I think.'
    Nimander nodded.
    'Should we take a closer look?'
    He nodded again. 'Until something happens.'
    'Does being attacked by a raving mob count?' Skintick
asked.
    Figures were racing into the round, threadbare but with
weapons in their hands that they waved about over their
heads, their song suddenly ferocious, as they began marching
towards the two Tiste Andii.
    'Here was I thinking we were going to be left alone,'
Nimander said. 'If we run, we'll just lead them back to the
inn.'
    'True, but holding the gate should be manageable, two of
us at a time, spelling each other.'
    Nimander was the first to hear a sound behind him and
he spun round, sword hissing from the scabbard.
    Kallor.
    The old warrior walked towards them. 'You kicked them
awake,' he said.
    'We were sightseeing,' said Skintick, 'and though this
place is miserable we kept our opinions to ourselves. In any
case, we were just discussing what to do now.'
    'You could stand and fight.'
    'We could,' agreed Nimander, glancing back at the mob.
Now fifty paces away and closing fast. 'Or we could beat a
retreat.'
    'They're brave right now,' Kallor observed, stepping
past and drawing his two-handed sword. As he