A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

room.
    In a city of unending Night, no bell was too early for a
drink. He left the temple and the keep, made his way down
ghostly streets to the Scour.
    Inside, Resto was behind the bar, red-eyed and scratching
at his beard and saying nothing as Spinnock walked to
the table at the back. Tavern-keepers knew well the myriad
faces of misery, and unbidden he drew a tall tankard of ale,
bringing it over with gaze averted.
    Glaring at the other tables – all empty; he was the only
customer – Spinnock collected the tankard and swallowed
down half its foamy contents.
    Moments after Resto delivered the third such tankard
the door opened and in walked Seerdomin.
    Spinnock felt a sudden apprehension. Even from there
the man smelled of blood, and his face was a ravaged thing,
aged and pallid, the eyes so haunted that the Tiste Andii
had to look away.
    As if unaware of his reaction, Seerdomin came to
Spinnock's table and sat down opposite him. Resto arrived
with a jug and a second tankard.
    'She doesn't want my help,' Spinnock said.
    Seerdomin said nothing as he poured ale into his tankard,
setting the jug back down with a thump. 'What are you
talking about?'
    Spinnock looked away. 'I couldn't find you. I searched
everywhere.'
    'That desperate for a game?'
    A game? Oh. Kef Tanar. 'You are looking at a pathetic
old man, Seerdomin. I feel I must sacrifice the last of my
dignity, here and now, and tell you everything.'
    'I don't know if I'm ready for that,' the man replied. 'Your
dignity is important to me.'
    Spinnock flinched, and still would not meet Seerdomin's
eyes. 'I have surrendered my heart.'
    'Well. You can't marry her, though, can you?'
    'Who?'
    'The High Priestess – although it's about time you
realized that she loves you in return, probably always
has. You damned Andii – you live so long it's as if you're
incapable of grasping on to things in the here and now. If
I had your endless years . . . no, scratch out the eyes of that
thought. I don't want them. I've lived too long as it is.'
    Spinnock's mind was spinning. The High Priestess? 'No,
she doesn't. Love me, I mean. I didn't mean her, anyway.'
    'Gods below, Spinnock Durav, you're a damned fool.'
    'I know that. I've as much as confessed it, for Hood's
sake.'
    'So you're not interested in making the High Priestess
happier than she's been in a thousand years. Fine. That's
your business. Some other woman, then. Careful, someone
might up and murder her. Jealousy is deadly.'
    This was too off-hand for Seerdomin, too loose, too
careless. It had the sound of a man who had surrendered to
despair, no longer caring – about anything. Loosing every
arrow in his quiver, eager to see it suddenly, fatally empty.
This Seerdomin frightened Spinnock. 'What have you
been up to?' he asked.
    'I have been murdering people.' He poured another
round, then settled back in his chair. 'Eleven so far. They
saw themselves as liberators. Scheming the downfall of
their Tiste Andii oppressors. I answered their prayers and
liberated every one of them. This is my penance, Spinnock
Durav. My singular apology for the madness of humanity.
Forgive them, please, because I cannot.'
    Spinnock found a tightness in his throat that started
tears in his eyes. He could not so much as look at this
man, dared not, lest he see all that should never be revealed,
never be exposed. Not in his closest friend. Not
in anyone. 'That,' he said, hating his own words, 'was not
necessary.'
    'Strictly speaking, you are right, friend. They would have
failed – I lack no faith in your efficacy, especially that of
your Lord. Understand, I did this out of a desire to prove
that, on occasion, we are capable of policing our own.
Checks and balances. This way the blood stains my hands,
not yours. Giving no one else cause for hating you.'
    'Those who hate need little cause, Seerdomin.'
    The man nodded – Spinnock caught the motion peripherally.
    There was a silence. The tale had been told, Spinnock
recalled, more than once. How the Bridgeburner named
Whiskeyjack – a man Anomander Rake called friend
– had intervened in the slaughter of the Pannion witches,
the mad mothers of Children of the Dead Seed. Whiskeyjack,
a human, had sought to grant the Son of Darkness a
gift, taking away the burden of the act. A gesture that had
shaken his Lord to the core. It is not in our nature to permit
others to share our burden.
    Yet we will, unhesitatingly, take on theirs.
    'I wonder if we blazed his trail.'
    'What?'
    Spinnock rubbed at