A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

left us
humbled.
    Oh, do I make too much of this? Are we all no more
than children, and these the silly, meaningless games of children?
    'He killed Kedeviss,' muttered Nenanda.
    'Yes.'
    'And Nimander will give answer to that.'
    Yes.
    Monkrat squatted in the mud and watched the line of new
pilgrims edge closer to the camp. Most of their attention,
at least to begin with, had been on the barrow itself
– on that emperor's ransom of wasted wealth – but now,
as they approached the decrepit ruin, he could see how
they hesitated, as something of the wrongness whispered
through. Most were rain-soaked, senses dulled by long,
miserable journeys. It would take a lot to stir their unease.
    He watched the sharpening of their attention, as details
resolved from the gloom, the mists and the woodsmoke.
The corpse of the child in the ditch, the rotting swaths of
clothes, the broken cradle with four crows crowding the
rail, looming over the motionless, swaddled bundle. The
weeds now growing up on the path leading to and from the
barrow. Things were not as they should be.
    Some might beat a quick retreat. Those with a healthy
fear of corruption. But so many pilgrims came with the
desperate hunger that was spiritual need – it was what
made them pilgrims in the first place. They were lost and
they wanted to be found. How many would resist that first
cup of kelyk, the drink that welcomed, the nectar that stole
. . . everything?
    Perhaps more than among those who had come
before – as they saw the growing signs of degradation,
of abandonment of all those qualities of humanity the
Redeemer himself honoured. Monkrat watched them
hesitate, even as the least broken of the kelykan shuffled
into their midst, each offering up a jug of the foul poison.
    'The Redeemer has drunk deep!' they murmured again
and again.
    Well, not yet. But that time was coming, of that Monkrat
had little doubt. At which point . . . he shifted about slightly
and lifted his gaze to the tall, narrow tower rising into the
dark mists above the city. No, he couldn't make her out
from here, not with this sullen weather sinking down, but
he could feel her eyes – eternally open. Oh, he knew that
damned dragon of old, could well recall his terror as the
creature sailed above the treetops in Blackdog and Mott
Wood, the devastation of her attacks. If the Redeemer
fell, she would assail the camp, the barrow, everything and
everyone. There would be fire, a fire that needed no fuel,
yet devoured all.
    And then Anomander Rake himself would arrive,
striding through the wreckage with black sword in his
hands, to take the life of a god – whatever life happened
to be left.
    Shivering in the damp, he rose, pulling his tattered
raincape about him. Gradithan was probably looking for
him, wanting to know what Monkrat's countless sets of
eyes in the city might have seen – not that there was much
to report. The Tiste Andii weren't up to much, but then
they never were, until such time as necessity stirred them
awake. Besides, he'd woken up with a headache, a dull
throb just behind the eyes – it was the weather, pressure
building in his sinuses. And even the rats in the camp were
proving elusive, strangely nervous, skittish when he sought
to snare them to his will.
    He wasn't interested in seeing Gradithan. The man had
moved from opportunist to fanatic alarmingly fast, and
while Monkrat had no problem understanding the former,
he was baffled by the latter. And frightened.
    The best way to avoid Gradithan was to wander down
into Black Coral. The blessing of darkness was far too
bitter for the worshippers of saemankelyk.
    He worked his way into the ankle-deep river of mud that
was the trail leading into Night.
    From somewhere nearby a cat suddenly yowled and
Monkrat started as he sensed a wave of panic sweep
through every rat within hearing. Shaking himself, he
continued on.
    A moment later he realized someone was walking behind
him – a pilgrim, perhaps, smart enough to elect to avoid
the camp, someone now looking for an inn, all thoughts of
salvation riding the tide out in waves of revulsion.
    'No believer should arrive willing .' So said that High
Priestess, Salind, before Gradithan destroyed her. Monkrat
recalled being confused by that statement back then. Now,
he wasn't. Now, he understood precisely what she'd meant.
Worship born of need could not but be suspect, fashioned
from self-serving motives as it was. 'Someone wanting their
bowl filled will take whatever is poured into