A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

pit, and soon.'
    He could face that down, if need be. But he would not
subject her to such a fate. Not even for love could he do
that.
    He had returned to his city, only to lose it for ever.
    This journey to Challice would be his last. By dawn he
would be gone. Darujhistan would not miss him.
    She looked down once more at the imprisoned moon
cupped in her hands. And here, she realized, was her
childhood in all its innocence. Frozen, timeless, and for
ever beyond her reach. She need only let her gaze sink in,
to find all that she had once been. Cursed with beauty,
blessed with health and vigour, the glow of promise—
    Dust of dreams, will you now command the wind?
    Dust of dreams, is it not time to set you free?
    It was easy, then, to climb up on to the low wall, to stare
down at the garden flagstones far below. Easy, yes, to set it
all free.
    Together, they plummeted through the smoky air, and
when they struck, the globe shattered, the tiny moon flung
loose to sparkle briefly in the air. Before twinkling out.
    Dreams will not linger, but their dust rides the winds
for ever.
    Kruppe is no stranger to sorrow. The round man need only
look at his own waistline to grasp the tragedies of past
excesses, and understand that all the things that come
to pass will indeed come to pass. Heart so heavy he must
load it into a wheelbarrow (or nearly so), and with not a
single sly wink to offer, he leaves the grim confines of the
Phoenix Inn and commences the torrid trek to the stables,
where he attends to his sweet-natured mule, deftly avoiding
its snapping bites and lashing kicks.
    The moon's face has broken apart into a thousand glittering
eyes. Nothing can hide and all is seen. All can see that
there is nothing left to hide. Dread clash is imminent.
    The vast pressure snuffs blazing fires as would a thumb
and finger a candle wick, snuff! Here and there and
elsewhere, too. But this blessing is borne with harsh, cruel
burden. A god has died, a pact been sealed, and in a street
where onlookers now gather at the very edges, a most
honourable man sits hunched over his knees, head bowed
low. The wind takes ethereal chains emerging from the
sword in his hands, and tugs them, tears at them, shreds
them into ghostly nothings that drift up only to vanish in
the smoke enwreathing the city.
    Will he rise again?
    Can he answer this final challenge?
    What sort of man is this? This white-maned Tiste Andii
whose hands remain stained with a brother's blood, a
people's vast loss?
    Ah, but look closely. The core burns still, hot and pure,
and it gathers unto itself, bound by indomitable will. He
will take the wounds of the heart, for Anomander Rake is
the sort of man who sees no other choice, who accepts no
other choice.
    Still. For now, grant him a few more moments of peace.
    The round man rides out into Darujhistan.
    There are temptations, and to some they can prove, ah,
overwhelming. If need be, the round man can prove a most
blunt barrier.
    Just ask the man with the hammer.
    As a warrior walked alone – in his wake a Toblakai and a
witch, on the flanks three, now four Hounds of Shadow
– an ox and cart drew to a halt outside an estate. The two
men leading it separated, one heading to the back of the
cart to set a trembling hand upon a chest – terrified that
he might find it still, silent – and a moment later a faint sob
broke free, but it was one of relief. The other man hurried
up to the postern gate and tugged on a braided cord.
    He ducked upon hearing the heavy flap of feathered
wings overhead, and glared upward, but saw nothing but
a thick, impenetrable layer of smoke. He twitched as he
waited, muttering under his breath.
    The door creaked open.
    'Master Baruk! I am glad it's you and not one of your
damned servants – getting past them is impossible. Listen,
we have a hurt man – bad hurt – who needs healing. We'll
pay—'
    'Sergeant—'
    'Just Antsy these days, sir.'
    'Antsy, I am so sorry, but I must refuse you—'
    At that, Barathol came round the cart and marched up,
his hands curling into fists for a moment, before loosening
as he reached towards the huge axe slung across his back.
But these gestures were instinctive – he was not even aware
of them, and when he spoke it was in a tone of despairing
fury. 'His skull is fractured! He'll die without healing – and
I will not accept that!'
    Baruk held up both hands. 'I was about to leave – I cannot
delay any longer. Certain matters demand my immediate
attention—'
    'He