out of the city, out along the lake shore where the world stretched away, where beyond the shanties there were hills with nothing but goats and shepherds and beyond even them there was nothing but empty land. That such a thing could exist whispered to Harllo of possibilities, ones that he couldn’t hope to name or put into words, but were all out in the future life that seemed blurry, ghostly, but a promise even so. As bright as Gruntle’s eyes, that promise, and it was that promise that Harllo held on to, when Snell’s fists were coming down.
Bedek and Gruntle talked about the old days, when they’d both worked the same caravans, and it seemed to Harllo that the past-a world he’d never seen because it was before the Rape-was a place of great deeds, a place thick with life where the sun was brighter, the sunsets were deeper, the stars blazed in a black sky and the moon was free of mists, and men stood taller and prouder and nobody had to talk about the past back then, because it was happening right now.
Maybe that was how he would find the future, a new time in which to stand tall. A time he could stretch into.
Across from Harllo, Snell crouched in a gloomy corner, his eyes filled with their own promise as he grinned at Harllo.
Myrla brought them plates heaped with food.
The papyrus sheets, torn into shreds, lit quickly, sending black flakes upward in the chimney’s draught, and Duiker watched them go, seeing crows, thousands of crows. Thieves of memory, stealing everything else he might have thought about, might have resurrected to ease the uselessness of his present life. All the struggles to recall faces had been surrendered, and his every effort to write down this dread history had failed. Words flat and lifeless, scenes described in the voice of the dead.
Who were those comrades at his side back then? Who were those Wickans and Malazans, those warlocks and warriors, those soldiers and sacrificial victims who perched above the road, like sentinels of futility, staring down at their own marching shadows?
Bult. Lull. Sormo Enath.
Coltaine.
Names, then, but no faces. The chaos and terror of lighting, of reeling in exhaustion, of wounds slashed open and bleeding, of dust and the reek of spilled wastes-no, he could not write of that, could not relate t he truth of it, any of it.
Memory fails. For ever doomed as we seek to fashion scenes, framed, each act described, reasoned and reasonable, irrational and mad, bn(somewhere beneath there must be the thick, solid sludge of motivation, of significance, of meaning-there must be. The alternative is… unacceptable.
But this was where his attempts delivered him, again and again. The unacceptable truths, the ones no sane person could ever face, could ever meet eye to eye. ‘That nothing was worth revering, not even the simple fact of survival, and certainly not that endless cascade of failures, of deaths beyond counting.
Even here, in this city of peace, he watched the citizens in all their daily dances, and with each moment that passed, his disdain deepened. He disliked the way his thoughts grew ever more uncharitable, ever more baffled by the endless scenes of seemingly mindless, pointless existence, but there seemed no way out of that progression as his observations unveiled the pettiness of life, the battles silent and otherwise with wives, husbands, friends, children, parents; with the very crush on a crowded street, each life closed round itself, righteous and uncaring of strangers-people fully inside their own lives. Yet should he not revel in such things? In their profound freedom, in their extraordinary luxury of imagining themselves in control of their own lives?
Of course, they weren’t. In freedom, such as each might possess, they raised their own barriers, carried shackles fashioned by their own hands. Rattling the chains of emotions, of fears and worries, of need and spite, of the belligerence that railed against the essential anonymity that gripped a person. Aye, a most unac¬ceptable truth.
Was this the driving force behind the quest for power? To tear away anonymity, to raise fame and infamy up like a blazing shield and shining sword? To voice a cry that would be heard beyond the gates of one’s own life?
But oh, Duiker had heard enough such cries. He had stood, cowering, in the midst of howls of defiance and triumph, all turning sour with despair, with senseless rage. The echoes of power were uniform, yes, in their essential emptiness. Any historian worthy of the title could see that.
No, there was no value in writing. No more effect than a babe’s fists battering at the silence that ignored every cry. History meant nothing, because the only continuity was human stupidity. Oh, there were moments of greatness, of bright deeds, but how long did the light of such glory last? From one breath to the next, aye, and no more than that. No more than that. As for the rest, kick through the bones and wreckage for they are what remain, what lasts until all turns to dust.
‘You are looking thoughtful,’ Mallet observed, leaning forward with a grunt to top up Duiker’s tankard. ‘Which, I suppose, should not come as a surprise, since you just burned the efforts of most of a year, not to mention a high council’s worth of papyrus.’
‘I will reimburse you the cost,’ Duiker said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the healer said, leaning back. ‘I only said you looked thoughtful.’
‘Appearances deceive, Mallet. I am not interested in thinking any more. About anything.’
‘Good, then this is a true meeting of minds.’
Duiker continued studying the fire, continued watching the black crows wing up the chimney. ‘For you, unwise,’ he said. ‘You have assassins to consider.’
Mallet snorted. ‘Assassins. Antsy’s already talking about digging up a dozen cussers. Blend’s out hunting down the Guild’s headquarters, while Picker and Bluepearl work with Councillor Coll to sniff out the source of the contract. Cive it all a week and the problem will cease being a problem. Permanently.’
Duiker half smiled. ‘Don’t mess with Malazan marines, retired or otherwise.’
‘You’d think people would know by now, wouldn’t you?’
‘People are stupid, Mallet.’
The healer winced. ‘Not all of us.’
‘True. But Hood waits for everyone, stupid, smart, witty, witless. Waits with the same knowing smile.’
‘No wonder you burned your book, Duiker.’
‘Yes.’
‘So, since you’re no longer writing history, what will you do?’
‘Do? Why, nothing.’
‘Now that’s something I know all about-oh, don’t even try to object. Aye, I heal someone every now and then, but I was a soldier, once. And now I’m not. Now I sit around getting fat, and it’s fat poisoned through and through with some kind of cynical bile. I lost all my friends, Duiker. No different from you. Lost ’em all, and for what? Damned if I know, damned and damned again, but no, I don’t know the why of it, the why of anything.’
‘A meeting of minds, indeed,’ Duiker said. ‘Then again, Mallet, it seems you are at war once more. Against the usual implacable, deadly enemy.’
‘The Guild? I suppose you’re right. But it won’t last long, will it? I don’t like being retired. It’s like announcing an end to your worth, whatever that worth was, and the longer you go on, the more you realize that that worth wasn’t worth anything like you once thought it was, and that just makes it worse.’
Duiker set down his tankard and rose. ‘The High Alchemist has invited me to lunch on the morrow. I’d best go to bed and get some sleep. Watch your back, healer. Sometimes the lad pushes and the lady’s nowhere in sight.’
Mallet simply nodded, having assumed the burden of staring at the fire now that Duiker was leaving.
The historian walked away from the warmth, passing through draughts and layers of chill air on his way to his room. Colder and colder, with every step.
Somewhere above this foul temple, crows danced with sparks above the mouth of a chimney, virtually unseen in the darkness. Each one carried a word, but the sparks were deaf. Too busy with the ecstasy of their own bright, blinding fire. At least, until they went out.
Gaz stormed out early, as soon as he realized he wasn’t going to get enough coin from the day’s take to buy a worthwhile night of drinking. Thordy watched her husband go, that pathetic forward tilt of the man’s walk which always came when he was enraged, the jerky strides as he marched out into the night. Where he went she had no idea, nor, truth be told, did she even cure.
Twice now in the past week that skinny mite of an urchin had raided her vegetable stand. Gods, what were
