A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

needs—'
    'I am sorry, Barathol.'
    And the alchemist was backing through the gate once
more. The panel clicked shut.
    Antsy snatched and tugged at his moustache in
agitation, and then reached out to restrain Barathol, who
seemed about to kick down that door. 'Hold on, hold on
– I got another idea. It's desperate, but I can't think of
anything else. Come on, it's not far.'
    Barathol was too distraught to say anything – he would
grasp any hope, no matter how forlorn. Face ashen, he went
back to the ox, and when Antsy set out, he and the ox and
the cart bearing the body of Chaur followed.
    In the stricken man's mind, few sparks remained. The black
tide was very nearly done. Those flickers that knew themselves
as Chaur had each lost touch with the others, and
so wandered lost. But then, some of them had known only
solitary existences throughout their lives – crucial sparks
indeed – for ever blind to pathways that might have awakened
countless possibilities.
    Until one, drifting untethered, so strangely freed, now
edged forward along a darkened path it had never before
explored, and the track it burned remained vibrant in its
wake. And then, in a sudden flaring, that spark found
another of its kind.
    Something stirred then, there in the midst of an inner
world fast dying.
    Awareness.
    Recognition.
    A tumbling complexity of thoughts, connections, relationships,
meanings.
    Flashing, stunned with its own existence, even as the
blackness closed in on all sides.
    Cutting down an alley away from Baruk's estate, Antsy,
ten paces in the lead, stumbled suddenly on something.
Swearing, he glanced back at the small object lying on the
cobbles, and then bent down to collect it, stuffing the limp
thing into his cloak.
    He swore again, something about a stink, but what's a
dead nose gonna know or care? And then he resumed walking.
    They arrived at an estate that Barathol recognized.
Coll's. And Antsy returned to help lead the suddenly
uneasy ox down the side track, to that primordial thicket
behind the garden wall. Beneath the branches the gloom
was thick with flying moths, their wings a chorus of dry
whispering. Fog crawled between the boles of twisted trees.
The air was rich with a steamy, earthy smell.
    Tears ran down Barathol's cheeks, soaked his beard. 'I
told him to stay on the ship,' he said in a tight, distraught
voice. 'He usually listens to me. He's not one to disobey,
not Chaur. Was it Spite? Did she force him out?'
    'What was he doing at the gaol?' Antsy asked, just to
keep his friend talking for reasons even he could not explain.
'How did he even find it, unless someone led him
there? It's all a damned mystery.'
    'He saved my life,' said Barathol. 'He was coming to
break me out – he had my axe. Chaur, you fool, why didn't
you just leave it all alone?'
    'He couldn't do that,' said Antsy.
    'I know.'
    They arrived at the edge of the clearing, halting just beyond
a low, uneven stone wall almost buried beneath vines.
The gateway was an arch of rough stone veined with black
roots. The house beyond showed a blackened face.
    'Let's do this, then,' said Antsy in a growl, coming round
to the back of the cart. 'Before the ox bolts—'
    'What are we doing?'
    'We're carrying him up the path. Listen, Barathol, we got
to stay on that path, you understand? Not one step off it,
not one. Understand?'
    'No—'
    'This is the Finnest House, Barathol. It's an Azath.'
    The ex-sergeant seemed to be standing within a cloud of
rotting meat. Moths swarmed in a frenzy.
    Confused, frightened, Barathol helped Antsy lift Chaur's
body from the cart bed, and with the Falari in the lead and
walking backwards – one tender step at a time – they made
their way up the flagstone path.
    'You know,' Antsy said between gasps – for Chaur was a
big man, and, limp as he was, it was no easy thing carrying
him – 'I was thinking. If the damned moon can just break
apart like that, who's to say that can't happen to our own
world? We could just be—'
    'Be quiet,' snapped Barathol. 'I don't give a shit about
the moon – it's been trying to kill me for some time. Careful,
you're almost there.'
    'Right, set him down then, easy, on the stones . . . aye,
that'll do.'
    Antsy stepped up to the door, reached for the knife at
his belt and then swore. 'I lost my knife, too. I can't believe
this!' He made a fist and pounded against the wood.
    The sound that made was reminiscent of punching a
wall of meat. No reverberation, no echoes.
    'Ow, that hurt.'
    They