A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

enmity against
you. Nor Rake.' He waved one chain-clad hand in the air
behind him. 'Not even those who pursue me. Heed me,
please. I have always respected you, Spinnock – by the
Abyss, I railed at how Rake used you—'
'You do not understand,' the Tiste Andii said. 'You never
did, Kallor.'
    'You're wrong. I have nothing against any of you!'
    'Korlat—'
    'Did you think it was my intention to murder
Whiskeyjack? Do you think I just cut down honourable
men and loyal soldiers out of spite? You weren't even there!
It was Silverfox who needed to die, and that is a failure we
shall all one day come to rue. Mark my words. Ah, gods,
Spinnock. They got in my way, damn you! Just as you're
doing now!'
    Spinnock sighed. 'It seems there will be no mulled wine
this night.'
    'Don't.'
    'I am here, High King, to stand in your way.'
    'You will die. I cannot stay my hand – everything will be
beyond control by then. Spinnock Durav, please! This does
not need to happen.'
    The Tiste Andii's faint smile nearly broke Kallor's heart. No, he understands. All too well. This will be his last battle, in
Rake's name, in anyone's name.
    Kallor drew out his sword. 'Does it occur, to any of you,
what these things do to me ? No, of course not. The High
King is cursed to fail, but never to fall. The High King is
but . . . what? Oh, the physical manifestation of ambition.
Walking proof of its inevitable price. Fine.' He readied his
two-handed weapon. 'Fuck you, too.'
    With a roar that ripped like fire from his throat, Kallor
charged forward, and swung his sword.
    Iron rang on iron.
    Four torches lit the crossroads. Four torches painted
two warriors locked in battle. Would these be the only
witnesses? Blind and miserably indifferent with their gift
of light?
    For now, the answer must be yes.
    The black water looked cold. Depthless, the blood of
darkness. It breathed power in chill mists that clambered
ashore to swallow jagged, broken rocks, fallen trees. Night
itself seemed to be raining down into this sea.
    Glittering rings spun and clicked, and Clip slowly turned
to face Nimander and the others. 'I can use this,' he said.
'The power rising from this water, it is filled with currents
of pure Kurald Galain. I can use this.'
    'A Gate?'
    'Well, at least one of you is thinking. A Gate, yes, Nimander.
    A Gate. To take us to Black Coral.'
    'How close?' Skintick asked.
    Clip shrugged. 'Close enough. We will see. At the very
least, within sight of the city walls.'
    'So get on with it,' said Nenanda, his words very nearly
a snarl.
    Smiling, Clip faced the Cut once more. 'Do not speak,
any of you. I must work hard at this.'
    Nimander rubbed at his face. He felt numb, haunted
by exhaustion. He moved off to sit on a boulder. Just up
from the steep shoreline, thick moss blunted everything,
the stumps of rotted trees, the upended roots, the tumbled
black stones. The night air clung to him, cold and damp,
reaching in to his bones, closing tight about his heart. He
listened to the soft lap of the water, the suck and gurgle
among the rocks. The smell was rich with decay, the mists
sweet with brine.
    He could feel the cold of the boulder seeping through,
and his hands ached.
    Clip spun his chain, whirled the two rings, one gold, one
silver, and round and round they went. Apart from that he
stood motionless, his back to them all.
    Skintick settled down beside Nimander. Their eyes
met and Skintick shrugged a silent question, to which
Nimander replied with a faint shake of his head.
    He'd thought he'd have a few more days. To decide
things. The when. The how. The options if they should
fail. Tactics. Fall-back plans. So much to think about, but
he could speak to no one, could not even hint of what he
thought must be done. Clip had stayed too close to them
on this descent, as if suspicious, as if deliberately forcing
Nimander to say nothing.
    There was so much he needed to tell them, and so much
that he needed to hear. Discussions, arguments, the weighing
of risks and contingencies and coordination. All the
things demanded of one who would lead; but his inability
to give voice to his intentions, to deliver orders at the end
of a long debate, had made him next to useless.
    By his presence alone, Clip had stopped Nimander in
his tracks.
    In this game of move and counter-move, Clip had outwitted
him, and that galled. The moment the charade was
shattered, there would be chaos, and in that scene Clip
held the advantage. He had only himself to worry about,
after all.
    No,