A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

staring into
a crazed face, the features so twisted that he could not for
a moment recognize who was accosting him – some lost
sailor from a drowned ship? Flung aboard the carriage as
gods rolled in helpless laughter? – but no, it was Faint,
and that expression was not abject terror. It was wild, gut-wrenching
hilarity.
    She tugged on the rings attached to the iron rails and
managed to pull herself yet closer, enough to dip her head
down beside his, and in the half-sheltered cave their arms
created her voice seemed to come from his own skull. 'I
thought you were dead! So pale, like a damned cadaver!'
    And this left her convulsed with laughter? 'I damn well
wish I was!' he shouted back.
    'We've known worse!'
    Now, he'd heard that a dozen times since this venture
began, and he had begun to suspect it was one of those
perfect lies that people voiced to stay sane no matter what
madness they found themselves in. 'Has Quell ever done
anything like this before?'
    'Like what? This is the Trygalle Trade Guild, shareholder! This is what we do, man!'
    And when she began laughing again, he planted a hand
on her head and pushed her away. Faint retreated, back
along the rail, and Gruntle was alone once more.
    How long had it been? Days. Weeks. Decades. He
desperately needed fresh water – whatever rain reached
his face was as salty as the sea. He could feel himself
weakening – even could he find something to eat, he would
never hold it down. Outrageous, to think that he could die
here, body flopping about on its straps, slowly torn apart by
the storm. Not with a weapon in hand, not with a defiant
bellow tearing loose from his throat. Not drenched in hot
blood, not staring his killer in the eye.
    This was worse than any demise he might imagine. As
bad as some unseen disease – the sheer helplessness of
discovering that one's own body could fail all on its own.
He could not even roar to the heavens with his last breath
– the gesture would flood his mouth, leave him choking,
defiance flung straight back at him, right back down his
own throat.
    More screaming – laughter? No, this was screaming.
    What now?
    Gruntle snatched a breath and then looked up.
    Walls of water on all sides – he flinched – and then a
swell heaved them skyward, the carriage twisting, pitching.
Rings squealed as he was tossed up, until sharp, savage tugs
from the straps snatched him back down.
    But he had seen – yes – all his companions – their wide
eyes, their gaping mouths – and he had seen, too, the
object of their terror.
    They were racing, faster than any wave, straight for a
towering cliff-face.
    'Land ho!' shrieked Glanno Tarp from his perch.
    Explosions of foam at the cliff's base appeared with every
lift of the waves. Jagged spires of black rock, reefs, shoals
and all those other names for killers of people and ships.
And carriages. All looming directly ahead, a third of a
league away and closing fast.
    Can those horses climb straight up a cliff-face? Sounds
ridiculous – but I won't put it past them. Not any more.
    Even so, why is everyone screaming?
    A moment later Gruntle had his answer. Another
upward pitch, and this time he twisted round and glanced
back, into their wake – no reason, at least, he didn't think
there was, but the view, surely, could not be as horrifying
as what lay ahead.
    And he saw another wall of water, this one high as a
damned mountain.
    Its sickly green flank picked up the carriage and then
the horses, and began carrying them into the sky. So fast
that the water streamed from the roof, from every flattened
shareholder, and even the rain vanished as higher they
went, into the gut of the clouds.
    He thought, if he dared open his eyes, he would see stars,
the ferment above, to the sides, and indeed below – but
Gruntle's nerve had failed him. He clung, eyes squeezed
shut, flesh dry and shivering in the bitter cold of the
wind.
    More sound than a mortal brain could comprehend –
thunder from beneath, animal squeals and human shrieks,
the swollen thrash of blood in every vein, every artery, the
hollow howl of wind in his gaping mouth.
    Higher, and higher still—
    And wasn't there a cliff dead ahead?
    He could not look.
    Everyone thought that Reccanto Ilk was the one with the
bad eyes, and that was a most pleasing misindirection as
far as Glanno Tarp was concerned. Besides, he was fine
enough with things within, oh, thirty or so paces. Beyond
that, objects acquired a soft-edged dissolidity, became
blocks