A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

depths. The shafts of
the spears urged her on. The floor of packed earth beneath
her feet was free of rubble, but the slope was getting ever
steeper and she felt herself sliding, losing purchase.
    Suddenly the shafts pressed hard against her and
shoved.
    Shouting in alarm, Picker pitched forward, slid on the
damp floor as if it was layered in grease. She fought to grasp
hold of something, but nothing touched her flailing hands
– and then the floor vanished beneath her, and she was
falling.
    Harllo's sudden unexpected plummet ended quickly amidst
sharp-edged boulders. Gashes ripped across his back, one
thigh and the ankle of the same leg. The impact left him
stunned. He vaguely heard something strike the rocks
nearby, a terrible snapping, crunching sound.
    Eventually, he stirred. The pain from the wounds was
fierce, and he could feel blood trickling down, but it
seemed he'd broken no bones. He crawled slowly to where
he'd heard Bainisk land, and heard ragged breathing.
    When his probing hands touched warm flesh, he found
it wet, broken. And at the brush of his fingertips it flinched
away.
    'Bainisk!'
    A low groan, and then a gasp.
    'Bainisk, it's me. We made it down – we got away.'
    'Harllo?' The voice was awful in its weakness, its pain.
    'Tell me . . .'
    He pulled himself up alongside Bainisk, his eyes making
out a rough shape. He found Bainisk's face, tilted towards
him, and Harllo drew himself on to his knees and eased up
his friend's head – feeling strange shards moving under his
hands, beneath Bainisk's blood-matted hair – and then, as
gently as he could manage, he settled the head on to his
lap.
    'Bainisk.'
    The face was crushed along one side. It was a miracle that
he could speak at all. 'I dreamed,' he whispered. 'I dreamed
of the city. Floating on the lake . . . going wherever the
waves go. Tell me, Harllo, tell me about the city.'
    'You'll see it soon enough—'
    'Tell me.'
    Harllo stroked his friend's brow. 'In the city . . . Bainisk,
oh, in the city, there's shops and everybody has all the
money they need and you can buy whatever you want.
There's gold and silver, beautiful silver, and the people
are happy to give it away to anyone they like. No one
ever argues about anything – why should they? There's no
hunger, no hurts, no hurts of any kind, Bainisk. In the city
every child has a mother and a father . . . and the mother
loves her son for ever and ever and the father doesn't rape
her. And you can just pick them for yourself. A beautiful
mother, a strong, handsome father – they'd be so happy to
take care of you – you'll see, you'll see.
    'They'd see how good you are. They'd see right through
to your heart, and see it pure and golden, because all you
ever wanted to do was to help out, because you were a
burden to them and you didn't want that, and maybe if
you helped enough they'd love you, and want you to be
with them, to live with them. And when it didn't work,
well, it just means you have to work harder. Do more, do
everything.
    'Oh, Bainisk, the city . . . there are mothers . . .'
    He stopped then, for Bainisk had stopped breathing. He
was perfectly still, his whole broken-up body folded over
the sharp rocks, his head so heavy in Harllo's lap.
    Leave them there, now.
    The city, ah, the city. As dusk closes in, the blue fires
awaken. Figures stand in a cemetery surrounded by squat
Daru crypts, and they are silent as they watch the workers
sealing the door once more. Starlings flit overhead.
    Down at the harbour a woman steps lithely on to the
dock and breathes deep the squalid air, and then sets out
to find her sister.
    Scorch and Leff stand nervously at the gate of an
estate. They're not talking much these nights. Within the
compound, Torvald Nom paces. He is not sure if he should
go home. The night has begun strange, heavy, and his
nerves are a mess. Madrun and Lazan Door are throwing
knuckles against a wall, while Studious Lock stands on a
balcony, watching.
    Challice Vidikas sits in her bedroom, holding a glass
globe and staring at the trapped moon within its crystal
clear sphere.
    In a room above a bar Blend sits beside the motionless
form of her lover, and weeps.
    Below, Duiker slowly looks up as Fisher, cradling a lute,
begins a song.
    In the Phoenix Inn, an old, worn-out woman, head
pounding, shambles to her small cubicle and sinks down on
to the bed. There were loves in the world that never found
voice. There were secrets never unveiled, and what would
have been the point of