A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

simple! Simpler,
even! Listen, dear middling bard, when all this is done, eke
out the eel – no, wait – er, seek out the eel. Seal? Damn, I
had the message memorized and everything! Peek at – eat
an eel – seek and peek the bleak earl – perk the veal, deal
the prick – oh, Hood's breath! What was it again? And I
had the gall to call him brilliant! He should've sent Sordiko
Qualm, yes, so I could've followed the glorious rocking ship
of her sweet hips—' and he wagged his head side to side,
side to side, eyes glazing, 'slib-slab, slib-slab, oh!'
    'Thank you,' Fisher said as the man began muttering
under his breath and pausing every now and then to lick
his lips, 'for, er, the message. I assure you, I understand.'
    'Of course you do – you're a man, aren't you? Gods, that
a simple casual stride could so reduce one to gibbering
worship – why, who needs gods and goddesses when we
have arses like that?'
    'Indeed, who? Now, since you have successfully delivered
your message from your master, may I proceed on my way?'
    'What? Naturally. Go away. You're a damned distraction,
is what you are.'
    A tilt of the head, and the bard was indeed on his way
once more.
    The mob outside the newly consecrated Temple of the
Fallen One, or the Crippled God, or indeed the name by
which most knew it – the Temple of Chains – was thick
and strangely rank. More than natural sweat as might be
squeezed out by the midmorning sun, this was the human
rendering of desperation, made even sicklier with obsequious
anticipation.
    Yet the door to the narrow-fronted temple remained
shut, evidently barred from within. Offerings were heaped
up against it – copper and tin coins as well as links of chain
and the odd clasp and cheap jewellery.
    Bedek on his cart and Myrla standing before him,
gripping the handles, found themselves in the midst of
trembling alcoholics, the pock-scarred, the lame and the
deformed. Milky eyes stared, as if cataracts were punishment
for having seen too much – all other eyes were filled
with beseeching need, the hunger for blessing, for even
the passing brush of a twisted hand if it belonged to the
Prophet. Misshapen faces lifted up, held fixedly upon that
door. Within the press the stink became unbearable. The
breath of rotting teeth and consumptive dissolution. From
his low perch, Bedek could see nothing but shoulders and
the backs of heads. Whimpering, he plucked at his wife's
tunic.
    'Myrla. Myrla!'
    The look she turned on him was both savage and . . .
small, and with a shock Bedek suddenly saw her – and himself
– as meaningless, insignificant, worthless. They were,
he realized, no better than anyone else here. Each of them,
seeking to be singled out, to be guided out, to be raised up
from all the others. Each dreaming of coming into glorious
focus in the eyes of a god – eyes brimming with pity and
knowledge, eyes that understood injustice and the unfairness
of existence. A god, yes, to make them right. To make
us all – each and every one of us – right. Whole.
    But Bedek had held no such notions. They were not why
he was here. He and Myrla were different. From all of these
people. They, you see, had lost a child.
    The door would remain locked, they learned, until at
least midday. Sometimes even later. And even then, the
Prophet might not emerge. If he was communing with
his own pain, they were told, he might not be seen for
days.
    Yes, but did he bless people? Did he help people?
    Oh, yes. Why, I saw a man in terrible pain, and the
Prophet took it all away.
    He healed the man?
    No, he smothered him. Delivered his spirit – now at
peace – into the hands of the Fallen One. If you are in
pain, this is where you can end your life – only here, do
you understand, can you be sure your soul will find a home.
There, in the loving heart of the Fallen One. Don't you
want to find your legs again? Other side of life, that's where
you'll find them.
    And so Bedek came to understand that, perhaps, this
Crippled God could not help them. Not with finding
Harllo. And all at once he wanted to go home.
    But Myrla would have none of that. The yearning was
unabated in her eyes, but it had been transformed, and
what she sought now had nothing to do with Harllo. Bedek
did not know what that new thing might be, but he was
frightened down to the core of his soul.
    Snell struggled to form a sling to take the runts, both of
whom were lying senseless on the floor. He had checked to
see they were both breathing, since he'd