A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

could feel
judgement hardening upon his back, an ever thickening
succession of layers, from Desra, from Nenanda, and
most painfully from Skintick, and it seemed the burdens
would never relent. He longed for Aranatha to speak up,
to whisper the truth to them all, but she was silent as a
ghost.
    They were now all in grave danger. They needed to be
warned, but Nimander could guess the consequences of
such a revelation. Blood would spill, and he could not be
certain that it would be Clip's. Not now, not when Clip
could unleash the wrath of a god – or whatever it was that
possessed the warrior.
    Kedeviss had brought to him her suspicions down in the
village beside the lakebed, giving firm shape to what he
had already begun to believe. Clip had awakened but at
a distance, as if behind a veil. Oh, he had always shown
his contempt for Nimander and the others, but this was
different. Something fundamental had changed. The new
contempt now hinted of hunger, avarice, as if Clip saw
them as nothing more than raw meat, awaiting the flames
of his need.
    Yet Nimander understood that Clip would only turn
upon them if cornered, if confronted. As Kedeviss had
done – even when Nimander had warned her against such
a scene. No, Clip still needed them. His way in. As for
what would happen then, not even the gods knew. Lord
Anomander Rake did not suffer upstarts. He was never
slowed by indecisiveness, and in delivering mercy even
the cruellest miser could not match his constraint. And
as for Clip's claim to be some sort of emissary from Mother
Dark, well, that had become almost irrelevant, unless the
god within the warrior was seeking to usurp Mother Dark
herself.
    This notion disturbed Nimander. The goddess was,
after all, turned away. Her leaving had left a void. Could
something as alien as the Dying God assume the Unseen
Crown? Who would even kneel before such an entity?
    It was hard to imagine Anomander Rake doing so, or
any of the other Tiste Andii that Nimander and his kin
had known. Obedience had never been deemed a pure
virtue among the Tiste Andii. To follow must be an act
born of deliberation, of clear-eyed, cogent recognition that
the one to be followed has earned the privilege. So often,
after all, formal structures of hierarchy stood in place of
such personal traits and judgements. A title or rank did
not automatically confer upon the one wearing it any true
virtue, or even worthiness to the claim.
    Nimander had seen for himself the flaws inherent
in that hierarchy. Among the Malazans, the renegade
army known as the Bonehunters, there had been officers
Nimander would not follow under any circumstances. Men
and women of incompetence – oh, he'd seen how such
fools were usually weeded out, through the informal justice
system practised by the common soldier, a process often
punctuated by a knife in the back, which struck Nimander
as a most dangerous habit. But these were human ways, not
those of the Tiste Andii.
    If Clip and the Dying God that possessed him truly
believed they could usurp Mother Dark, and indeed her
chosen son, Anomander Rake, as ruler of the Tiste Andii,
then that conceit was doomed. And yet, he could not but
recall the poisonous lure of saemankelyk. There could be
other paths to willing obedience.
    And that is why I can say nothing. Why Aranatha is right.
We must lull Clip into disregarding us, so that he continues
believing we are fools. Because there is the chance, when the
moment arrives, that I alone will be standing close enough. To
strike. To catch him – them – unawares.
    It may be that Anomander Rake and the others in Black
Coral will have nothing to fear from Clip, from the Dying God.
It may be that they will swat them down with ease.
    But we cannot be sure of that.
    In truth, I am afraid . . .
    'I can see water.'
    Startled, Nimander glanced back at Skintick, but his
cousin would not meet his eyes.
    'Where the valley dips down, eastward – I think that is
the Cut that Clip described. And along the north shore of
it, we will find Black Coral.'
    Clip had halted on an outcropping and was staring down
into the misty valley. They had left most of the cloud in
their wake, descending beneath its ceiling. Most of the
range was now on their left, westward, the nearest cliff-face
grey and black and broken only by a dozen or so mountain
sheep wending their way along a seam.
    Skintick called out to the warrior, 'That looks to be a
long swim across, Clip.'
    The man turned, rings spinning on their chain.