A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

clay jugs.
    As Monkrat drew closer Spindle reached down to help
him scrabble over the edge. The scrawny girls dangled like
straw dolls, heads lolling, as Monkrat passed each one up to
Spindle, who stumbled away with them, sloshing through
the muddy rivulet of the trench.
    Monkrat sagged, stared down at the ground to keep the
rain from his eyes and mouth as he drew in deep breaths.
    A lifetime of soldiering, aye, the kind that made miserable
slogs like this one old news, as familiar as a pair of
leaking leather boots. So what made this one feel so different?
    He could hear someone crying in the tunnel, and then
Spindle's voice, soothing, reassuring.
    And gods, how Monkrat wanted to weep.
    Different, aye, so very different.
    'Soldiers,' he muttered, 'come in all sorts.'
    He'd been one kind for a long time, and had grown so
sick of it he'd just walked away. And now Spindle showed
up, to take him and drag him inside out and make him into
a different kind of soldier. And this one, why, it felt right. It
felt proper. He'd no idea . . .
    He looked over as Spindle stumbled into view. 'Let's
leave it at this, Spin,' he begged. 'Please.'
    'I want to stick a knife in Gradithan's face,' Spindle
growled. 'I want to cut out his black tongue. I want to drag
the bastard up here so every one of them tykes can see what
I do to him—'
    'You do that and I'll kill you myself,' Monkrat vowed,
baring his teeth. 'They seen too much as it is, Spin.'
    'They get to see vengeance—'
    'It won't feel like vengeance to them,' Monkrat said, 'it'll
just be more of the same fucking horror, the same cruel
madness. You want vengeance, do it in private, Spindle.
Do it down there. But don't expect my help – I won't have
none of it.'
    Spindle stared at him. 'That's a different row of knots
you're showing me here, Monkrat. Last night, you was
talking it up 'bout how we'd run him down and do him
good—'
    'I changed my mind, Spin. These poor runts did that.'
He hesitated. 'You did that, making me do what we just
done.' He then laughed harshly. 'Fancy this, I'm feeling . . .
redeemed. Now ain't that ironic, Spin.'
    Spindle slowly settled back against the trench wall,
and then sank down until he was sitting in the mud.
'Shit. How about that. And I walked all this way, looking
for just what you done and found here. I was needing
something, I thought they was answers . . . but I didn't
even know the right questions.' He grimaced and spat. 'I
still don't.'
    Monkrat shrugged. 'Me neither.'
    'But you been redeemed.' And that statement was almost
bitter-sounding.
    Monkrat struggled with his thoughts. 'When that hits
you – me, when it hit me, well, what it's feeling like right
now, Spin, it's like redemption finds a new meaning. It's
when you don't need answers no more, because you know
that anybody promising answers is fulla crap. Priest, priestess,
god, goddess. Fulla crap, you understanding me?'
    'That don't sound right,' Spindle objected. 'To be redeemed,
someone's got to do the redeeming.'
    'But maybe it don't have to be someone else. Maybe
it's just doing something, being something, some one , and
feeling that change inside – it's like you went and redeemed
yourself. And nobody else's opinion matters. And you know
that you still got all them questions, right ones, wrong ones,
and maybe you'll be able to find an answer or two, maybe
not. But it don't matter. The only thing that matters is you
now know ain't nobody else has got a damned thing to do
with it, with any of it. That's the redemption I'm talking
about here.'
    Spindle leaned his head back and closed his eyes. 'Lucky
you, Monkrat. No, I mean that. I do.'
    'You idiot. I was rotting here, seeing everything and
doing nothing. If I now ended up someplace else, it's all
because of you. Shit, you just done what a real priest should
do – no fucking advice, no bullshit wisdom, no sympathy,
none of that crap. Just a damned kick in the balls and get
on with doing what you know is right. Anyway, I won't
forget what you done, Spin. I won't ever forget.'
    Spindle opened his eyes, and Monkrat saw an odd frown
on the man's face as he stared skyward.
    And then he too looked up.
    A lone figure walked towards the Temple of Darkness,
moccasins whispering on the slick cobbles. One hand was
held up, from which thin delicate chains whirled round
and round, the rings at their ends flashing. Thick rain
droplets burst apart in that spinning arc, spraying against
the face and the half-smile curving the lips.
    Someone