A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

self-referential
slyness, that the unwitting simply skip on past – imagining
their time to be so precious, imagining themselves above
all manner of conviction, save that of their own witty perfection.
Sigh and sigh again.
    'See Kruppe totter in these high shoes – nay, even his
balance is not always precise, no matter how condign he
may be in so many things. Totter, I say, as down fall the
stars and off wail the gods and helplessness is an ocean in
flood, ever rising – but we shall not drown alone, shall we?
No, we shall have plenty of company in this chill comfort.
The guilty and the innocent, the quick and the thick, the
wise and the dumb, the righteous and the wicked – the
flood levels all, faces down in the swells, oh my.
    'Oh my . . .'
    A miracle, better than merely recounted second or third
hand – witnessed. Witnessed: the four bearers would
have carried their charge directly past, but then – see – a
gnarled, feeble hand reached out, damp fingertips pressing
against Myrla's forehead.
    And the bearers – who were experienced in such random
gestures of deliverance – halted.
    She stared up into the Prophet's eyes and saw terrible
pain, a misery so profound it purified, and knowledge
beyond anything her useless, dross-filled mind could
comprehend. 'My son,' she gasped. 'My son . . . my self – oh
my heart—'
    'Self, yes,' he said, fingers pressing against her forehead
like four iron nails, pinning her guilt and shame, her weakness,
her useless stupidity. 'I can bless that. So I shall. Do
you feel my touch, dear woman?'
    And Myrla could not but nod, for she did feel it, oh, yes,
she felt it.
    From behind her Bedek's quavering voice drifted past.
'Glorious One – our son has been taken. Kidnapped. We
know not where, and we thought, we thought . . .'
    'Your son is beyond salvation,' said the Prophet. 'He
has the vileness of knowledge within his soul. I can sense
how you two merged in his creation – yes, your blood
was his poison of birth. He understands compassion, but
he chooses it not. He understands love, but uses it as a
weapon. He understands the future, and knows it does not
wait for anyone, not even him. He is a living maw, your son,
a living maw, which all of the world must feed.'
    The hand withdrew, leaving four precise spots of ice on
Myrla's forehead – every nerve dead there, for ever more.
'Even the Crippled God must reject such a creature. But
you, Myrla, and you, Bedek, I bless. I bless you both in your
lifelong blindness, your insensitive touch, the fugue of your
malnourished minds. I bless you in the crumpling of the
two delicate flowers in your hands – your two girls – for
you have made of them versions no different from you, no
better, perhaps much worse. Myrla. Bedek. I bless you in
the name of empty pity. Now go.'
    And she staggered back, stumbled into the cart,
knocking it and Bedek over. He cried out, falling hard
on to the cobbles, and a moment later she landed on top
of him. The snap of his left arm was loud in the wake of
the now-resumed procession of bearers and Prophet, the
swirling press of begging worshippers sweeping in, stepping
without care, without regard. A heavy boot stamped down
on Myrla's hip and she shrieked as something broke,
lancing agony into her right leg. Another foot collided
with her face, toenails slashing one cheek. Heels on hands,
fingers, ankles.
    Bedek caught a momentary glimpse upward, to see the
face of a man desperate to climb over them, for they were in
his way and he wanted to reach the Prophet, and the man
looked down, his pleading expression transforming into
one of black hate. And he drove the point of his boot into
Bedek's throat, crushing the trachea.
    Unable to breathe past the devastation that had once
been his throat, Bedek stared up with bulging eyes. His
face deepened to a shade of blue-grey, and then purple. The
awareness in the eyes flattened out, went away, and away.
    Still screaming, Myrla dragged herself over her husband
– noting his stillness but otherwise uncomprehending
– and pulled herself through a forest of hard, shifting legs
– shins and knees, jabbing feet, out into a space, suddenly
open, clear, the cobbles slick beneath her.
    Although she was not yet aware of them, four spots of
gangrene were spreading across her forehead – she could
smell something foul, horribly foul, as though someone had
dropped something in passing, somewhere close; she just
couldn't see it yet. The pain of her broken hip was now
a