A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Civilization, I mean. The whole thing, from
sea to sea. When Karsa Orlong is done, not a single city in
the world will remain standing, isn't that right, Toblakai?'
    'I see no value in modest ambitions, witch.'
    Traveller was quiet then, and the silence was like an
expanding void, until even the moan of the incessant wind
seemed distant and hollow.
    Gods, how often have I wished him well? Even as the
thought horrifies me – he would kill millions. He would crush
every symbol of progress. From ploughs back to sticks. From
bricks to caves. From iron to stone. Crush us all back into the
ground, the mud of waterholes. And the beasts will hunt us,
and those of us who remain, why, we will hunt each other.
    Traveller finally spoke. 'I dislike cities,' he said.
    'Barbarians both,' she muttered under her breath.
    Neither man responded. Perhaps they hadn't heard. She
shot each of them a quick glance, right and then left, and
saw that both were smiling.
    Riding onward, the day rustling in waves of red grass.
    Until Traveller once again began speaking. 'The first law
of the multitude is conformity. Civilization is the mechanism
of controlling and maintaining that multitude. The
more civilized a nation, the more conformed its population,
until that civilization's last age arrives, when multiplicity
wages war with conformity. The former grows ever wilder,
ever more dysfunctional in its extremities; whilst the latter
seeks to increase its measure of control, until such efforts
acquire diabolical tyranny.'
    'More of Kellanved?' Samar Dev asked.
    Traveller snorted. 'Hardly. That was Duiker, the Imperial
Historian.'
    Through the course of the night just past, Nimander Golit
had led his meagre troupe through the city of Bastion.
Children of Darkness, with Aranatha's quiet power embracing
them, they had moved in silence, undetected as far
as they could tell, for no alarms were raised. The city was a
thing seemingly dead, like a closed flower.
    At dusk, shortly before they set out, they had heard
clattering commotion out on the main avenue, and went
to the gates to watch the arrival into the city of scores of
enormous wagons. Burdened with trade goods, the carters
slack-faced, exhausted, with haunted eyes above brown-stained
mouths. Bales of raw foodstuffs, casks of figs and
oils, eels packed in salt, smoked bhederin, spiced mutton,
and countless other supplies that had been eagerly pressed
upon them in exchange for the barrels of kelyk.
    There was cruel irony to be found in the sordid disinterest
the locals displayed before such essential subsistence
– most were past the desire for food. Most were starving in
an ecstatic welter of saemankelyk, the black ink of a god's
pain.
    The Tiste Andii wore their armour. They wore their
gear for fighting, for killing. Nimander did not need a
glance back to know the transformation and what it did
to the expressions on all but one of the faces of those
trailing behind him. Skintick, whose smile had vanished,
yet his eyes glittered bright, as if fevered. Kedeviss, ever
rational, now wore a mask of madness, beauty twisted
into something terrible. Nenanda, for all his postures of
ferocity, was now ashen, colourless, as if the truth of desire
soured him with poison. Desra, flushed with something
like excitement. Only Aranatha was unchanged. Placid,
glassy-eyed with concentration, her features somehow
softer, blurred.
    Skintick and Kedeviss carried Clip between them.
Nenanda held over one shoulder the man's weapons, his
bow and quiver, his sword and knife belt – all borne on
a single leather strap that could be loosed in a moment
should the need arise.
    They had slipped past buildings in which worshippers
danced, starved limbs waving about, distended bellies
swaying – doors had been left open, shutters swung back to
the night. Voices moaned in disjointed chorus. Even those
faces that by chance turned towards the Tiste Andii as
they moved ghostly past did not awaken with recognition,
the eyes remaining dull, empty, unseeing.
    The air was warm, smelling of rancid salt from the
dying lake mixed with the heavier stench of putrefying
corpses.
    They reached the edge of the central square, looked out
across its empty expanse. The altar itself was dark, seemingly
lifeless.
    Nimander crouched down, uncertain. There must be
watchers. It would be madness to think otherwise. Could
they reach the altar before some hidden mob rushed forth
to accost them? It did not seem likely. They had not seen
Kallor since his