A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

damned arrogant to suffer haunting, a
detail that invariably irritated her, even as she was drawn
to it (and was that not irritating in itself?).
    'You chew on him,' said Traveller, who had come unseen
to her side and now spoke quietly, 'as a jackal does an
antler. Not out of hunger so much as habit. He is not as
complicated as you think, Samar Dev.'
    'Oh yes he is. More so, in fact.'
    The man grimaced as he set about saddling his own
horse. 'A child dragged into the adult world, but no strength
was lost. No weakening of purpose. He remains young
enough,' Traveller said, 'to still be certain. Of his vision, of
his beliefs, of the way he thinks the world works.'
    'Oh, so precisely when will the world get round to kicking
him good and hard between the legs?'
    'For some, it never does.'
    She eyed him. 'You are saying it does no good to rail
against injustice.'
    'I am saying do not expect justice, Samar Dev. Not in
this world. And not in the one to come.'
    'Then what drives you so, Traveller? What forces your
every step, ever closer to whatever destiny waits for you?'
    He was some time in answering, although she did not
deceive herself into thinking that her words had struck
something vulnerable. These men here with her, they were
armoured in every way. He cinched the girth straps and
dropped the stirrups. 'We have an escort, Samar Dev.'
    'We do? The vultures?'
    'Well, yes, there are those, too. Great Ravens.'
    At that she squinted skyward. 'Are you sure?'
    'Yes, but I was speaking of another escort.'
    'Oh, then who? And why doesn't it show itself?'
    Traveller swung himself astride his horse and gathered
the reins. Karsa had completed packing the camp gear and
was now bridling Havok. 'I have no answers to those questions,
Samar Dev. I do not presume to know the minds of
Hounds of Shadow.'
    She saw Karsa Orlong glance over at that, but there was
nothing revealed in his expression beyond simple curiosity.
    Gods, he drives me mad!
    'Do they hunt us?' Karsa asked.
    'No,' Traveller replied. 'At least, not me, nor, I imagine,
our witch here.'
    Karsa mounted his Jhag horse. 'Today,' he announced, 'I
shall not ride with you. Instead, I shall find these Hounds
of Shadow, for I wish to see them for myself. And if they
in turn see me alone, then they may choose to make plain
their desires.'
    'Now what is the point of that?' demanded Samar Dev.
    'I have faced Hounds before,' he said. 'I am happy to
invite them close, so they can smell the truth of that.'
    'There is no need,' said Traveller. 'Karsa Orlong, the
Hounds began as my escort – one in truth – granted me by
Shadowthrone. They are not interested in you, I am sure
of it.'
    Samar Dev rounded on him. 'Then why did you suggest
otherwise?'
    He met her eyes and she saw him gritting his teeth, the
muscles of his jaws binding. 'You were right, witch,' he said,
'you know this warrior better than I.'
    Karsa snorted a laugh. 'I will see you later.'
    They watched him ride off.
    Samar Dev wanted to spit – the tea had left her mouth
dry, bitter. 'He probably will at that,' she muttered, 'whether
the Hounds like it or not.'
    Traveller simply nodded.
    Skintick knew precisely the day he died. The final terrible
battle waged on Drift Avalii, with four of his closest
companions falling, each just beyond his reach, beyond his
own life which he would have sacrificed to take their place.
And into the midst of the crumbling defence, Andarist
had stepped forward, making of himself a lodestone to the
attacking Tiste Edur.
    The death of the man whom Skintick thought of as
his father remained in his mind, like a scene painted by
some chronicler of abject, pathetic moments. And in that
sad, regretful face, he had seen all the kin who had fallen
before, killed for no cause worth thinking about – or so it
seemed at the time. The grey-skinned barbarians desired
the throne – perhaps they were collecting such things,
as if possession conferred a right, but what did it matter?
These games were stupidity, every trophy an absurd icon
symbolizing precisely nothing beyond the raging ego of the
players.
    Honourable souls had died for this, and, once the grief
washed away, what was left but this building contempt for
all of it? Defending this, fighting for that, winning in one
moment only to lose in the next. Raw magic blistering
flesh, javelins winging to thud into bodies, everything of
value spilling out on to dusty cobbles and the ribbons of
grass growing exuberant between them.
    The things that died