Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen, #1)

by Steven Erikson

‘Every decision you make can change the world. The best life is the one the gods don’t notice. You want to live free, boy, live quietly.’

I will tell you this: two now approach the city, one is a T’lan Imass, the other a bane to magic. Their purposes are destructive, but already forces are in play attending to them. Seek knowledge of them, but do not openly oppose them. They are dangerous. Power attracts power, Kruppe. Leave them to the consequences of their actions.’ Kruppe nodded. ‘Kruppe is no fool, K’rul. He openly opposes no one, and he finds power a thing to be avoided at all costs.’

In the empty eyes of this child, he’d seen the withering of his own soul. The reflection had been unblemished, with no imperfections to challenge the truth of what he saw.

During the Fête, worries of the Malazan Empire’s exploits in the far north disappeared for a time. His uncle always smiled at that, saying the turn of the season gave the efforts of humanity their proper perspective. ‘The mewling, petty acts,’ he’d say, ‘of a short-lived and short-sighted species, Crokus, can do nothing to mar the Great Cycles of Life.’

Quick Ben looked up. ‘Personally, I’d rather we just dropped everything and ran – away from it all, from the Empire, from Darujhistan, from war. But try convincing the sergeant to do that. He’s loyal to an idea, and that’s the hardest kind to turn.’ Kalam nodded. ‘Honour, integrity, all that expensive crap.’

Empire was a part of them, a legacy flowing like blood through human muscle, bone and brain. But such a thing could easily be seen as a curse. Were they destined one day to become human versions of the T’lan Imass? Was war all there was? Would they bow to it in immortal servitude, no more than deliverers of death?

Through the gamut of life we struggled for control, for a means to fashion the world around us, an eternal, hopeless hunt for the privilege of being able to predict the shape of our lives.

‘Baruk,’ he said softly, ‘as any commander of long standing knows, treachery breeds its own. Once committed, whether against an enemy or an ally, it becomes a legitimate choice for everyone in your command, from the lowest private seeking promotion, to your personal aides, bodyguards and officers. My people know of our alliance with you, Alchemist. If I were to betray it, I would not long remain the Lord of Moon’s Spawn. And rightly so.’

‘Thus duty holds me, yet a duty that is in itself hollow. Is it enough to preserve the Tiste Andii? Simply preserve them? Do I raise Moon’s Spawn into the heavens, where we live on, beyond any risk, any threat? What, then, will I be preserving? A history, a particular point of view.’ He shrugged. ‘The history is done, Baruk, and the Tiste Andii point of view is one of disinterest, stoicism and quiet, empty despair. Are these gifts to the world worthy of preservation? I think not.’

There’s no certainty in this, Baruk. That seems a fact particularly galling to you humans. You’d better learn to accept it.

There was silence in the room. Then Hedge punched Fiddler in the arm. ‘I’ll be damned! You got a brain in there, after all. I guess I been wrong about you all these years.’

He’d seen too much in his life. There’d be no sudden faith in his view of human history, no burgeoning optimism to chase away all the demonic memories of the hells he’d lived through.

‘I have to go!’ Crokus announced. Baruk wondered at the sudden panic in the boy’s face. ‘I mean,’ Crokus continued, ‘if everything’s over here, that is.’ ‘I believe it is,’ the alchemist answered. ‘I thank you, Crokus, for your skill at throwing bricks.’