A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

scowling,
another guard.
    'Do you know who we are?' the man holding him
demanded, baring stained teeth.
    'Karos Invictad's thugs, aye. His private police, the ones
who kick in doors at the middle of night. The ones who
take mothers from babes, fathers from sons. The ones
who, in the righteous glory that comes with unchallenged
power, then loot the homes of the arrested, not to mention
raping the daughters—'
    Bugg was thrown a second time against the wall, the
back of his head crunching hard on the pitted brick.
    'For that, bastard,' the man snarled, 'you'll Drown.'
    Bugg blinked sweat from his eyes, then, as the thug's
words penetrated, he laughed. 'Drown? Oh, that's priceless.
Now, take your hands off me or I will lose my temper.'
    Instead, the man tightened his hold on the front of
Bugg's tunic, while the other said, 'You were right,
Kanorsos, he needs beating.'
    'The bully's greatest terror,' Bugg said, 'comes when he
meets someone bigger and meaner—'
    'And is that you?'
    Both men laughed.
    Bugg twisted his head, looked round. People were hurrying
past – it was never wise to witness such events, not
when the murderers of the Patriotists were involved. 'So be
it,' he said under his breath. 'Gentlemen, allow me to introduce
to you someone bigger and meaner, or, to be more
accurate, some thing .'
    A moment later Bugg was alone. He adjusted his tunic,
glanced about, then set off once more for his master's
abode.
    It was inevitable, he knew, that someone had witnessed
the sudden vanishing of two armed and amoured men. But
no-one cried out in his wake, for which he was relieved,
since he was not inclined to discuss much with anyone
right at that moment.
    Did I just lose my temper? It's possible, but then, you were distracted. Perturbed, even. These things happen.
    Feather Witch wasted little time. Off the cursed ships and
their countless, endlessly miserable crowds, the eyes always
upon her, the expressions of suspicion or contempt and the
stench of suffering that came of hundreds of prisoners –
the fallen Edur of Sepik, mixed-blood one and all, worse
in the eyes of the tribes than Letherii slaves; the scores of
foreigners who possessed knowledge deemed useful – at
least for now; the Nemil fisher folk; the four copper-skinned
Shal-Morzinn warriors dragged from a floundering
carrack; denizens of Seven Cities, hailing from Ehrlitan,
the Karang Isles, Pur Atrii and other places; Quon sailors
who claimed to be citizens of an empire called Malaz;
dwellers of Lamatath and Callows . . .
    Among them there were warriors considered worthy
enough to be treated as challengers. An axeman from the
ruined Meckros City the fleet had descended upon, a
Cabalhii monk and a silent woman wearing a porcelain
mask the brow of which was marked with eleven arcane
glyphs – she had been found near dead in a storm-battered
scow south of Callows.
    There were others, chained in the holds of other ships in
other fleets, but where they came from and what they were
was mostly irrelevant. The only detail that had come to
fascinate Feather Witch – among all these pathetic
creatures – was the bewildering array of gods, goddesses,
spirits and ascendants they worshipped. Prayers in a dozen
languages, voices reaching out into vast silences – all these
forlorn fools and all the unanswered calls for salvation.
    No end, in that huge, chaotic world, to the delusions of
those who believed they were chosen. Unique among their
kind, basking beneath the gaze of gods that gave a damn –
as if they would, when the truth was, each immortal visage,
for all its peculiar traits, was but a facet of one, and that one
had long since turned away, only to fight an eternal battle
against itself. From the heavens, only indifference rained
down, like ash, stinging the eyes, scratching raw the throat.
There was no sustenance in that blinding deluge.
    Chosen – now there was a conceit of appalling proportions. Either we all are, or none of us are. And if the former, then we will all face the same judge, the same hand of justice – the wealthy, the Indebted, the master, the slave, the murderer and the victim, the raper and the raped, all of us, so pray hard, everyone – if that helps – and look well to your own shadow .
More likely, in her mind, no-one was chosen, and there was
no day of judgement awaiting every soul. Each and every
mortal faced a singular end, and that was oblivion.
    Oh, indeed, the gods existed, but not one cared a whit
for the fate of a