The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1000 page)

She seemed doomed ever to open her arms to the wrong lover, to love fully yet never be so loved in return. It made her pathetic stock in this retinue of squandered opportunities that scrawled out the history of a clumsy life.

Could she live with that? Without plunging into self-pity? Time would tell, she supposed.

Scillara packed her pipe, struck sparks and drew deep.

A sound behind her made her turn—

As Barathol stepped close, one hand sliding up behind her head, leaned forward and kissed her. A long, deep, determined kiss. When he finally pulled away, she gasped. Eyes wide, staring up into his own.

He said, ‘I am a blacksmith. If I need to forge chains to keep you, I will.'

She blinked, and then gave him a throaty laugh. ‘Careful, Barathol. Chains bind both ways.'

His expression was grave. ‘Can you live with that?'

‘Give me no choice.'

 

Ride, my friends, the winds of love! There beside a belfry where a man and a woman find each other, and out in the taut billows of sails where another man stares westward and dreams of sweet moonlight, a garden, a woman who is the other half of his soul.

Gentle gust through a door, sweet sigh, as a guard comes home and is engulfed by his wife, who had suffered an eternal night of fears, but she holds him now and all is well, all is right, and children yell in excitement and dance in the kitchen.

The river of grief has swept through Darujhistan, and morning waxes in its wake. There are lives to rebuild, so many wounds to mend.

A bag of coins thumps on to the tabletop before a woman new to her blessed widowhood, and she feels as if she has awakened from a nightmare of decades, and this is, for her, a private kind of love, a moment for herself and no one else.

Picker strides into the bar and there waits Blend, tears in her eyes, and Samar Dev watches from a table and she smiles but that smile is wistful and she wonders what doors wait for her, and which ones will prove unlocked, and what might lie beyond.

And in a temple, Iskaral Pust blots dry the ink and crows over his literary genius. Mogora looks on with jaded eyes, but is already dreaming of alliances with Sordiko Qualm.

The bhokarala sit in a clump, exchanging wedding gifts.

Two estate guards, after a busy night, burst into a brothel, only to find nobody there. Love will have to wait, and is anyone really surprised at their ill luck?

At the threshold of a modest home and workshop, Tiserra stands facing the two loves of her life. And, for the briefest of moments, her imagination runs wild. She then recovers herself and, in a light tone, asks, ‘Breakfast?'

Torvald is momentarily startled.

Rallick just smiles.

 

There is a round man, circumference unending, stepping ever so daintily through rubble on his way back to the Phoenix Inn. It will not do to be a stranger to sorrow, if only to cast sharp the bright wonder of sweeter things. And so, even as he mourns in his own fashion (with cupcakes), so too he sighs wistfully. Love is a city, yes indeed, a precious city, where a thousand thousand paths wend through shadow and light, through air stale and air redolent with blossoms, nose-wrinkling perfume and nose-wrinkling dung, and there is gold dust in the sewage and rebirth in the shedding of tears.

And at last, we come to a small child, walking into a duelling school, passing through gilded streams of sunlight, and he halts ten paces from a woman sitting on a bench, and he says something then, something without sound.

A moment later two imps trundle into view and stop in their tracks, staring at Harllo, and then they squeal and rush towards him.

The woman looks up.

She is silent for a long time, watching Mew and Hinty clutching the boy. And then a sob escapes her and she makes as if to turn away—

But Harllo will have none of that. ‘No! I've come home. That's what this is, it's me coming home!'

She cannot meet his eyes, but she is weeping none the less. She waves a hand. ‘You don't understand, Harllo. That time, that time – I have no good memories of that time. Nothing good came of it, nothing.'

‘That's not true!' he shouts, close to tears. ‘That's not true. There was me.'

As Scillara now knew, some doors you cannot hold back. Bold as truth, some doors get kicked in.

Stonny did not know how she would manage this. But she would. She would. And so she met her son's eyes, in a way that she had never before permitted herself to do. And that pretty much did it.

And what was said by Harllo, in silence, as he stood there, in the moments before he was discovered? Why, it was this:
See, Bainisk, this is my mother.

Nimander stood on the roof of the keep, leaning with his arms on the battlement's cold stone, and watched the distant figure of Spinnock Durav as he crossed the old killing ground. A fateful, fretful meeting awaited that warrior, and Nimander was worried, for it was by Nimander's own command that Spinnock now went to find the woman he loved.

Skintick arrived to stand at his side.

‘It's madness,' said Nimander. ‘It should be Durav on the throne. Or Korlat.'

‘It's your lack of confidence we find so charming,' Skintick replied.

‘Is that supposed to be amusing?'

‘Well, it amuses me, Nimander. I settle for that, most times. Listen, it's simple and it's complicated. His blood courses strong within you, stronger than you realize. And like it or not, people will follow you. Listen to you. Spinnock Durav was a good example, I'd venture. He took your command like a body blow, and then he set out to follow it. Not a word of complaint – your irritated impatience stung him.'

‘Precisely my point. It was none of my business in the first place. I had no right to be irritated or impatient.'

‘You were both because you cared, and you barely know the man. You may not know it, but you made friends in that throne room, right then and right there. Korlat's eyes shone. And the High Priestess actually
smiled.
Like a mother, both proud and indulgent. They are yours, Nimander.' He hesitated, and then added, ‘We all are.'

Nimander wasn't ready to contemplate such notions. ‘How fares Nenanda?'

‘Recovering, as thin-skinned as ever.'

‘And Clip?'

Skintick shrugged. ‘I wish I could say
humbled.
'

‘I wish you could as well.'

‘He's furious. Feels cheated, personally slighted. He'll be trouble, I fear, an eternal thorn in your side.'

Nimander sighed. ‘They probably felt the same at the Andara, which was why they sent him to find us.'

‘On a wave of cheering fanfare, no doubt.'

Nimander turned. ‘Skin, I truly do not know if I can do this.'

‘Unlike Anomander Rake, you are not alone, Nimander. The burden no longer rests upon one person. She is with us now.'

‘She could have left us Aranatha.'

‘Aranatha was not Aranatha for some time – perhaps you don't remember when she was younger. Nimander, our sister was a simpleton. Barely a child in her mind, no matter that she grew into a woman.'

‘I always saw it as…innocence.'

‘There again, your generosity of spirit.'

‘My inability to discriminate, you mean.'

They were silent for a time. Nimander glanced up at the spire. ‘There was a dragon up there.'

‘Silanah. Er, very close to Anomander Rake, I'm told.'

‘I wonder where she went?'

‘You could always awaken Tiam's blood within you, and find out, Nimander.'

‘Ah, no thank you.'

Spinnock Durav had moved out past Night and had reached the razed stretch that had been a squalid encampment, where a monastery was now under construction, although for the moment a military tent was the temple wherein dwelt Salind, the High Priestess of the Redeemer.

Would she accept him?

Mother Dark, hear me please. For Spinnock Durav, who stood in your son's place, again and again. Give him peace. Give him happiness.

At the Great Barrow there were other workers, pilgrims for the most part, raising a lesser burial mound, to hold the bones of someone named Seerdomin, who had been chosen to stand eternal vigilance at the foot of the Redeemer. It was odd and mysterious, how such notions came to pass. Nimander reminded himself that he would have to send a crew out there, to see if they needed any help.

‘What are you thinking, Lord Nimander?'

Nimander winced at the title. ‘I was thinking,' he said, ‘about prayers. How they feel…cleaner when one says them not for oneself, but on behalf of someone else.' He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I was praying for Spinnock. Anyway, that's what I was thinking. Well, the High Priestess says there are things we need to talk about. I'd best be off.'

As he turned, Skintick said, ‘It's said that Anomander Rake would stand facing the sea.'

‘Oh, and?'

‘Nothing. It's just that I've noticed that you've taken to staring out over land, out to that Great Barrow. Is there something about the Redeemer that interests you?'

And Nimander just smiled, and then he went inside, leaving Skintick staring after him.

 

In a chamber devoted to the most arcane rituals, forty-seven steps beneath the ground floor of the High Alchemist's estate, two iron anvils had been placed within an inscribed circle. The torches lining the walls struggled to lift flames above their blackened mouths.

Sitting at a table off to one side was the witch, Derudan, a hookah at her side, smoke rising from her as if she steamed in the chilly air. At the edge of the circle stood Vorcan, who now called herself Lady Varada, wrapped tight inside a dark grey woollen cloak. The Great Raven, Crone, walked as if pacing out the chamber's dimensions, her head crooking again and again to regard the anvils.

Baruk was by the door, eyeing Vorcan and Derudan. The last of the T'orrud Cabal. The taste in his mouth was of ashes.

There were servants hidden in the city, and they were even now at work. To bring about a fell return, to awaken one of the Tyrants of old. Neither woman in this room was unaware of this, and the fear was palpable in its persistent distraction.

The fate of Darujhistan – and of the T'orrud Cabal – was not their reason for being here, however.

The door swung open with a creak and in strode Caladan Brood, carrying in one hand the sword Dragnipur. He paused just inside and glowered across at Vorcan, and then Derudan. ‘This has nothing to do with you,' he told them.

Vorcan bowed. ‘Forgive us, Warlord, but we will stay.'

Clearing his throat, Baruk said, ‘My fault, Warlord. It seems they do not trust me – not in such close proximity to that weapon.'

Brood bared his teeth. ‘Am I not guardian enough?'

Seeing Vorcan's faint smile, Baruk said, ‘The lack of trust is mutual, I am afraid. I am more at ease with these two here in front of us, rather than, um, my starting at every shadow.'

The warlord continued staring at Vorcan. ‘You'd try for me, Assassin?'

Crone cackled at the suggestion.

‘I assume,' Vorcan said, ‘there will be no need.'

Brood glanced at Baruk. ‘What a miserable nest you live in, High Alchemist. Never mind, it's time.'

They watched him walk into the circle. They watched him set Dragnipur down, bridging the two anvils. He took a single step back, then, and grew still as he stared down at the sword.

‘It is beautiful,' he said. ‘Fine craftsmanship.'

‘May you one day be able to compliment its maker in person,' Vorcan said. ‘Just don't expect me to make the introduction. I don't know where they will all spill out, so long as it isn't in my city.'

Brood shrugged. ‘I am the wrong one from whom to seek reassurance, Assassin.' He drew the huge hammer from his back and readied the weapon. ‘I'm just here to break the damned thing.'

No one spoke then, and not one of the watchers moved a muscle as the warlord took a second step back and raised the hammer over his head. He held it poised for a moment. ‘I'd swear,' he said in a low rumble, ‘that Burn's smiling in her sleep right now.'

And down came the hammer.

 

Fisher was waiting in the garden, strangely fresh, renewed, when Lady Envy returned home. She had walked in the midst of thousands, out to a barrow. She had watched, as had all the others, as if a stranger to the one fallen. But she was not that.

She found a delicate decanter of the thinnest Nathii greenglass, filled with amber wine, and collected two goblets, and walked out to join the bard. He rose from the bench he had been sitting on and would have taken a step closer to her, but then he saw her expression.

The bard was wise enough to hide his sigh of relief. He watched her fill both goblets to the brim. ‘What happened?' he asked.

She would not speak of her time at the barrow. She would, in fact, never speak of it. Not to this man, not to anyone. ‘Caladan Brood,' she replied, ‘that's what happened. And there's more.'

‘What?'

She faced him, and then drained her goblet. ‘My father.
He's back
.'

 

Oh frail city…

An empty plain it was, beneath an empty sky. Weak, flickering fire nested deep in its ring of charred stones, now little more than ebbing coals. A night, a hearth, and a tale now spun, spun out.

‘
Has thou ever seen Kruppe dance?
'

‘
No. I think not. Not by limb, not by word
.'

‘
Then, my friends, settle yourselves for this night. And witness…
'

And so they did. Bard and Elder God, and oh how Kruppe danced. Blind to the threat of frowns, blind to dismay, rolling eyes, blind even to contempt – although none of these things came from these two witnesses. But beyond this frail ring of warm light, out in that vast world so discordant, so filled with tumult, judgement harsh and gleeful in cruelty, there can be no knowing the cast of arrayed faces.

No matter.

One must dance, and dance did Kruppe, oh, yes, he did dance.

The night draws to an end, the dream dims in the pale silver of awakening. Kruppe ceases, weary beyond reason. Sweat drips down the length of his ratty beard, his latest affectation.

A bard sits, head bowed, and in a short time he will say
thank you
. But for now he must remain silent, and as for the other things he would say, they are between him and Kruppe and none other. Fisher sits, head bowed. While an Elder God weeps.

The tale is spun. Spun out.

Dance by limb, dance by word. Witness!

 

This ends the Eighth Tale of the
Malazan Book of the Fallen