The Crippled God

spoke of journeying. Northeast, you said, to the coast.’
    Icarium looked up, frowned. ‘I did?’
    ‘Seeking the Tanno, the Spiritwalkers. They are said to have collected ancient records from as far back as the First Empire.’
    ‘Yes.’ Icarium nodded. ‘I have heard that said, too. Think of all that secret knowledge! Tell me, do you think the priests will permit me entry to their libraries? There is so much I need to learn – why would they stop me? Do you think they will be kind, friend? Kind to me?’
    Mappo studied the shards on the road. ‘The Tanno are said to bevery wise, Icarium. I do not imagine they would bar their doors to you.’
    ‘Good. That’s good.’
    The Trell scratched at the bristle on his jaw. ‘So, it shall be Icarium and Mappo, walking across the wastes, all the way to the coast, there to take ship to the island, to the home of the Spiritwalkers.’
    ‘Icarium and Mappo,’ the Jhag repeated, and then he smiled. ‘Mappo, my friend, this seems a most promising day, does it not?’
    ‘I shall draw water from the caravan wells, and then we can be on our way.’
    ‘Water,’ said Icarium. ‘Yes, so I can wash this mud off – I seem to have bathed in it.’
    ‘You slid down a bank yesterday evening.’
    ‘Just so, Mappo. Clumsy of me.’ He slowly straightened, cupped in his hands a score of fragments. ‘See the beautiful blue glaze? Like the sky itself – they must have been beautiful, these vessels. It is such a loss, when precious things break, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, Icarium, a terrible loss.’
    ‘Mappo?’ He lifted eyes sharp with anguish. ‘In the city, I think, something happened. Thousands have died – thousands lie dead in that city – it’s true, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, Icarium, a most tragic end.’
    ‘What awful curse was visited upon it, do you think?’
    Mappo shook his head.
    Icarium studied the shards in his hands. ‘If I could put it all back together, I would. You know that, don’t you? You understand that – please, say that you understand.’
    ‘I do, friend.’
    ‘To take what’s broken. To mend it.’
    ‘Yes,’ Mappo whispered.
    ‘Must everything break in the end?’
    ‘No, Icarium, not everything.’
    ‘Not everything? What will not break in the end? Tell me, Mappo.’
    ‘Why,’ and the Trell forced a smile, ‘you need not look far. Are we not friends, Icarium? Have we not always been friends?’
    A sudden light in the Jhag’s grey eyes. ‘Shall I help you with the water?’
    ‘I would like that.’
    Icarium stared at the shards in his hands and hesitated.
    Mappo dragged his satchel over. ‘In here, if you like. We can try to put them together later.’
    ‘But there’s more on the road, all about – I would need—’
    ‘Leave the water to me, then, Icarium. Fill the satchel, if you like, as many as you can gather.’
    ‘But the weight – no, I think it would prove too heavy a burden, friend, this obsession of mine.’
    ‘Don’t worry on that account, friend. Go on. I will be back shortly.’
    ‘You are certain?’
    ‘Go on.’
    With a smile, Icarium knelt once again. His gaze caught on his sword, lying on the verge a few paces to his right, and Mappo saw him frown.
    ‘I cleaned the mud from it last night,’ Mappo said.
    ‘Ah. That was kind of you, friend.’
    Shikimesh and the Redworm Silks. An age ago, a thousand lies ago, and the biggest lie of all. A friendship that could never break . He sat in the gloom, encircled by a ring of stones he had rolled together – an old Trell ritual – with the gap opening to the east, to where the sun would rise. In his hands a dozen or so dusty, pale blue potsherds.
    We never got round to putting them back together. He’d forgotten by the afternoon, and I made no effort to remind him – and was that not my task? To feed him only those memories I judged useful, to starve all the others until they vanished .
    Kneeling that day, he had been like a child, with all his games in waiting before him – waiting for someone like me to come along. Before that, he was content with the company of his own toys and nothing more. Is that not a precious gift? Is that not the wonder of a child? The way they have of building their own worlds, of living in them, and finding joy in the living itself?
    Who would break that? Who would crush and destroy such a wondrous thing?
    Will I find you kneeling in the dust, Icarium? Will I find you puzzling over the wreckage surrounding you? Will we speak