The Bonehunters (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #6)

by Steven Erikson

And to weep was to be inside oneself, entirely, an inner place far more unrelenting and unforgiving than anything that could be found outside. She wept for the man she had abandoned, fleeing the pain she had seen in his eyes, as his love for her kept him stumbling in her wake, matching each footfall yet unable to come any closer. For that she could not allow. The intricate patterns on a hooded snake held mesmerizing charms, but the bite was no less deadly for that. She was the same. There was nothing in her – nothing that she could see – worth the overwhelming gift of love. Nothing in her worthy of him. He had blinded himself to that truth, and that was his flaw, the flaw he had always possessed. A willingness, perhaps a need, to believe in the good, where no good could be found. Well, this was a love she could not abide, and she would not take him down her path.

‘We should visit that monastery,’ Cutter said. ‘Make use of the well, and if there’s any foodstuffs—’ ‘They’re all dead,’ Heboric croaked. Cutter studied the old man, then grunted. ‘Explains the vultures. But we still need water.’ The Destriant of Treach gave him an unpleasant smile. Cutter understood the meaning of that smile. He was becoming heartless, inured to the myriad horrors of this world. A monastery filled with dead priests and priestesses was as … nothing. And the old man could see it, could see into him. His new god is the Tiger of Summer, Lord of War. Heboric Ghost Hands, the High Priest of strife, he sees how cold I have become. And is … amused.

‘You’re a torturer.’ ‘Someone has to be,’ he said, offended. ‘In a culture that admits the need for torture, there must perforce be a torturer. A culture, Samar Dev, that values the acquisition of truths more than it does any single human life. Do you see? Oh,’ he added, edging closer to frown down at the demon’s corpse, ‘the justifications are always the same. To save many more lives, this one must be surrendered. Sacrificed. Even the words used disguise the brutality. Why are torture chambers in the crypts? To mask the screams? True enough, but there’s more. This,’ he said, waving one gnarled hand, ‘is the nether realm of humanity, the rotted heart of unpleasantness.’

So they stood, oh yes, discussing details, finalizing the preparations for the siege to come. The smell of sex a heady smugness enveloping the two like a poisonous fog. He, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, who had ridden at Leoman’s side through battle after battle, who had saved Leoman’s life more than once, who had done all that had ever been asked of him, was loyal. But she, she is desirable.

Desire and necessity, the war within a mortal’s spirit, this was at the heart of the Cold Dream.

Never again. Two skeletons buried beneath a dead city. No more fitting a barrow for a warrior of the Apocalypse and a Malazan soldier. That seemed just, poetic even. He would not complain, and when he stood at this sergeant’s side at Hood’s Gate, he would be proud for the company. So much had changed inside him. He was no believer in causes, not any more. Certainty was an illusion, a lie. Fanaticism was poison in the soul, and the first victim in its inexorable, ever-growing list was compassion. Who could speak of freedom, when one’s own soul was bound in chains? He thought, now, finally, that he understood Toblakai. And it was all too late. This grand revelation. Thus, I die a wise man, not a fool. Is there any difference? I still die, after all.

‘The Malazan soldier is trained to think,’ Pores said. ‘That tradition has been with us since Kellanved and Dassem Ultor. Have you forgotten that?’ ‘No, sir, we ain’t. There’s thinkin’ and there’s thinkin’ and that’s jus’ the way it is. Soldiers do one kind and leaders do the other. Ain’t good the two gettin’ mixed up.’ ‘Must make life easy for you.’ A nod. ‘Aye, sir, that it does.’ ‘If your friend scratches that comb he’s admiring, Captain Kindly will kill you both.’ ‘Thikburd! Put that down!’ ‘But it’s pretty!’ ‘So’s a mouthful of teeth and you want to keep yours, don’t ya?’ And with soldiers like these, we won an empire.

She had wondered, briefly, if the absence of regret or sorrow within her at the surrendering of the child she had carried inside all those months was truly indicative of some essential lack of morality in her soul, some kind of flaw that would bring horror into the eyes of mothers, grandmothers and even little girls as they looked upon her. But such thoughts had not lasted long. The truth of the matter was, she didn’t care what other people thought, and if most of them saw that as a threat to … whatever … to their view on how things should be … well, that was just too bad, wasn’t it? As if her very existence could lure others into a life of acts without consequence.

Now that’s a laugh, isn’t it? The most deadly seducers are the ones encouraging conformity. If you can only feel safe when everybody else feels, thinks and looks the same as you, then you’re a Hood-damned coward … not to mention a vicious tyrant in the making.

She smiled her dazzling smile. ‘A quote? From whom?’ ‘Kellanved, the founding emperor of the Malazan Empire.’ ‘Indeed, you grasp the essence of my meaning. Now, the nature of fanaticism can be likened to that of a tree – many branches, but one tap-root.’ ‘Inequity.’ ‘Or at least the comprehension of and the faith in, whether such inequity is but imagined or exists in truth. More often than not, of course, such inequity does exist, and it is the poison that breeds the darkest fruit. Mundane wealth is usually built upon bones, piled high and packed deep. Alas, the holders of that wealth misapprehend the nature of their reward, and so are often blithely indifferent in their ostentatious display of their wealth. The misapprehension is this: that those who do not possess wealth all yearn to, and so seek likeness, and this yearning occludes all feelings of resentment, exploitation and, most relevantly, injustice. To some extent they are right, but mostly they are woefully wrong. When wealth ascends to a point where the majority of the poor finally comprehend that it is, for each of them, unattainable, then all civility collapses, and anarchy prevails. Now, I was speaking of war among the gods. Do you grasp the connection, Mappo Runt?’ ‘Not entirely.’

Silence from the ancient undead warrior, then, ‘What do you demand of me?’ ‘We – me, Stormy and Fiddler here – we need an escort. Back to our ship. It could mean a fight.’ ‘There are four thousand mortals between us and the docks,’ Legana Breed said. ‘One and all driven into madness by chaotic sorcery.’ ‘And?’ Gesler sneered. ‘Are you afraid, T’lan Imass?’ ‘Afraid.’ A declarative statement. Then the head cocked. ‘Humour?’ ‘So what’s the problem?’ ‘The docks.’ Hesitation, then, ‘I just came from there.’ Fiddler began collecting his gear. ‘With answers like that one, Legana Breed,’ he said, ‘you belong in the marines.’ He glanced over at Braven Tooth. ‘Well met, old friend.’ The Master Sergeant nodded. ‘And with you. The three of you. Sorry about punching you in the gut, Fid.’ ‘Like Hood you are.’ ‘I didn’t know it was you—’ ‘To Hood you didn’t.’ ‘All right, I heard you come in. Heard cloth against fiddle strings. Smelled Moranth munitions. Not hard with all that.’ ‘So you punched me anyway?’ Braven Tooth smiled. The particular smile that gave the bastard his name. Legana Breed spoke: ‘You are all marines?’ ‘Aye,’ Fiddler said. ‘Tonight, then, I too am a marine. Let us go kill people.’