A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

the
Toblakai was busy retying the leather strings of one of his
moccasins, aided in some mysterious way by his tongue
which had curled into view from the corner of his mouth
– the gesture was so childlike she wondered if he wasn't
mocking her, aware as always that she was studying him.
    Havok cantered into view from a nearby basin, his dawn
hunt at an end. The other horses shifted nervously as the
huge beast drew closer with head held high as if to show off
the blood glistening on his muzzle.
    'We need to find water today,' Samar Dev said, pouring
out the tea.
    'So we will,' Karsa replied, standing now to test the
tightness of the moccasin. Then he reached beneath his
trousers to make some adjustments.
    'Reminding yourself it's there?' she asked. 'Here's your
tea. Don't gulp.'
    He took the cup from her. 'I know it's there,' he said. 'I
was just reminding you.'
    'Hood's breath,' she said, and then stopped as Traveller
seemed to flinch.
    He turned to face them, his eyes clouded, far away. 'Yes,'
he said. 'Spitting something out.'
    Samar Dev frowned. 'Yes what?'
    His gaze cleared, flitted briefly to her and then away
again. 'Something is happening,' he said, walking over to
pick up the tin cup. He looked down into the brew for a
moment, then sipped.
    'Something is always happening,' Karsa said easily. 'It's
why misery gets no rest. The witch says we need water – we
can follow yon valley, at least for a time, since it wends
northerly.'
    'The river that made it has been dead ten thousand years,
Toblakai. But yes, the direction suits us well enough.'
    'The valley remembers.'
    Samar Dev scowled at Karsa. The warrior was getting
more cryptic by the day, as if he was being overtaken by
something of this land's ambivalence. For the Dwelling
Plain was ill named. Vast stretches of . . . nothing. Animal
tracks but no animals. The only birds in the sky were
those vultures that daily tracked them, wheeling specks of
patience. Yet Havok had found prey.
    The Dwelling Plain was a living secret, its language
obscure and wont to drift like waves of heat. Even Traveller
seemed uneasy with this place.
    She drained the last of her tea and rose. 'I believe this
land was cursed once, long ago.'
    'Curses are immortal,' said Karsa in a dismissive grunt.
    'Will you stop that?'
    'What? I am telling you what I sense. The curse does not
die. It persists.'
    Traveller said, 'I do not think it was a curse. What we are
feeling is the land's memory.'
    'A grim memory, then.'
    'Yes, Samar Dev,' agreed Traveller. 'Here, life comes to
fail. Beasts too few to breed. Outcasts from villages and
cities. Even the caravan tracks seem to wander half lost
– none are used with any consistency, because the sources
of water are infrequent, elusive.'
    'Or they want to keep bandits guessing.'
    'I have seen no old camps,' Traveller pointed out. 'There
are no bandits here, I think.'
    'We need to find water,' Samar said again.
    'So you said,' Karsa said, with an infuriating grin.
    'Why not clean up the breakfast leavings, Toblakai.
Astonish me by being useful.' She walked over to her horse,
collecting the saddle on the way. She could draw a dagger,
she could let slip some of her lifeblood, could reach down
into this dry earth and see what was there to be seen. Or
she could keep her back turned, her self closed in. The two
notions warred with each other. Curiosity and trepidation.
    She swung the saddle on to the horse's broad back,
adjusted the girth straps and then waited for the animal to
release its held breath. Nothing likes to be bound. Not the
living, perhaps not the dead. Once, she might have asked
Karsa about that, if only to confirm what she already knew
– but he had divested himself of that mass of souls trailing
in his wake. Somehow, the day he killed the Emperor. Oh,
two remained, there in that horrid sword of his.
    And perhaps that was what was different about him,
she realized. Liberation. But then, has he not already begun
collecting more? She cinched the strap then half turned to
regard the giant warrior, who was using sand to scrub the
blackened pan on which she'd cooked knee-root, challenging
the pernicious crust with a belligerent scowl. No, she
could sense nothing – not as drawn in as she'd made herself.
Thus, sensing nothing didn't mean anything, did it? Perhaps
he had grown at ease with those victims dragged behind
him everywhere he went.
    A man like that should not smile. Should never smile, or
laugh. He should be haunted.
    But he was too