A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

in him on that day would be
deemed virtues by most. Duty had revealed its lie,
shattering the sanctity of loyalty and honour. They'd
fought for nothing. They could have retreated, holed up
at the decrepit temple entrance, and simply waited for
the arrival of the humans, first the assassins and then
the one named Traveller and his followers. Traveller, who
murdered everyone foolish enough to step into his path.
Whose arrival made Andarist's death – and the deaths of
his friends – meaningless.
    How Skintick hated that man. Competence was no gift
when it arrived too late.
    He no longer believed in honesty either. To be told the
truth was to feel the shackles snap shut on one's ankle.
Truth was delivered with the expectation that it would
force a single course of action – after all, how could one
honourably turn away? Truth was used as a weapon, and
all one could do in defence against such an assault was to
throw up a wall of lies. Lies of acceptance, capitulation.
Lies to oneself, too. That things mattered. That ideas had
currency and symbols deserved the servitude of courageous
fools. And that it all had meaning.
    Nor was he a believer in courage. People relied on the
bravery of others to reap whatever profits they imagined
they had earned or deserved, but the blood spilled was
never theirs, was it? No, it was clear now to Skintick.
Virtues were lauded to ensure compliance, to wrap round
raw, reprehensible servitude. To proclaim the sacrifice of
others – each of whom stood in place of those reaping the
rewards and so were paid in suffering and pain.
    So much for the majesty of patriotism.
    He was having none of it, not any more, never again.
And this was what made him dead now. And as with
anyone for whom nothing matters, he now found much of
what he saw around him profoundly amusing. Snide commentary,
derisive regard and an eye for the horror of true
irony, these were the things he would now pursue.
    Did Anomander Rake grieve for his dead brother? For
Andarist, who had stood in his place? Did he spare a
thought for his wretched spawn, so many of whom were now
dead? Or was he now lolling fat and dissolute on whatever
mockery he called his throne, reaping all the rewards of his
brother's final sacrifice? And that of my cousins? My closest
friends, who each died to defend a possession so valuable to
you that it rots in an empty temple? Remind me to ask you that
question when we finally meet.
    Though he loved Nimander – indeed, loved them all in
this pathetic band (save Clip, of course) – Skintick could
not help but observe with silent hilarity the desperate
expectations of this journey's fated end. They all sought
safety and, no doubt, a pat on the head for services
rendered. They all wanted to be told that their sacrifices
had meaning, value, were worthy of pride. And Skintick
knew that he alone would be able to see the disdain veiled
in the eyes of the Son of Darkness, even as he spouted all
the necessary platitudes, before sending them off to their
small rooms in some forgotten wing of whatever palace
Rake now occupied.
    And then what, my dearest kin? Shunted out on to the streets
to wander in the dusk, as the presence of others slowly prises
our band apart, until all we once were becomes memories thick
with dust, barely worthy of the occasional reminiscence, some
annual gathering in some tavern with a leaking roof, where we
will see how we each have sagged with the years, and we'll get
drunk swapping tales we all know by heart, even as the edges
grow blunt and all the colours bleed out.
    Desra lying on her back, her legs spread wide, but the
numbness inside can't be pierced that way and she probably
knows but habits never die, they just wear disguises. Nenanda
will polish his weapons and armour every morning – we'll see
him clanking round guarding everything and nothing, his eyes
mottled with verdigris and rust. Aranatha sits in an overgrown
garden, mesmerized for ten years and counting by a lone
blossom beneath a tree; do we not envy the bliss in her empty
eyes? Kedeviss? Well, she will chronicle our despair, our sordid
demise. Rounding us up for the night in the tavern will be her
one task with any meaning – at least to her – and she will
silently rail at our turgid, insipid uninterest.
    Nimander, ah, Nimander, what waits for you? One night,
your vision will clear. One deadly, devastating night. You will
see the blood on your hands, dear vicious Phaed's blood. And
that of so many others, since you