Deadhouse Gates (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #2)

by Steven Erikson

Fiddler grunted. ‘Are you implying that an Empire born of Soletaken and D’ivers would be inherently worse – more evil – than any other? I’m surprised, Trell. Nastiness grows like a cancer in any and every organization – human or otherwise, as you well know. And nastiness gets nastier. Whatever evil you let ride becomes commonplace, eventually. Problem is, it’s easier to get used to it than carve it out.’

He let out a slow breath, only now realizing he was lying on an ants’ nest and its inhabitants were telling him to leave in no uncertain terms. I lie with the weight of a god on their world, and these ants don’t like it. We’re so much more alike than most would think.

‘I’m tempted to have her attend to you afterward,’ Lull said. ‘Hood’s breath, man – when did you last take a sip of water?’ ‘What water?’ ‘We’ve casks left for the soldiers. You take a skin every morning, Historian, up where the wagons carrying the wounded are positioned. Each dusk you bring the skin back.’ ‘There’s water in the stew, isn’t there?’ ‘Milk and blood.’ ‘If there are casks left for the soldiers, what of everyone else?’ ‘Whatever they managed to carry with them from the Sekala River,’ Lull said. ‘We’ll protect them, aye, but we’ll not mother them. Water’s become the currency, I hear, and the trading’s fierce.’ ‘Children are dying.’ Lull nodded. ‘That’s a succinct summary of humankind, I’d say. Who needs tomes and volumes of history? Children are dying. The injustices of the world hide in those three words. Quote me, Duiker, and your work’s done.’

The bastard’s right. Economics, ethics, the games of the gods – all within that single, tragic statement. ‘I’ll quote you, soldier. Be assured of that. An old sword, pitted and blunt and nicked, that cuts clean to the heart. ‘You humble me, Captain.’

The historian found himself musing as he eyed the herd. The animals had matched them step for step on this soul-destroying journey. Month after month of suffering. That is one curse we all share – the will to live. Their fates had been decided, though thankfully they knew nothing of that. Yet even that will change in the last moments. The dumbest of beasts seems capable of sensing its own impending death. Hood grants every living thing awareness at the very end. What mercy is that?

‘Indeed. Finally, my last set of borrowed memories – the most confusing of all. An assassin’s. Once mortal, then Ascendant. Assassins bow to the altar of efficiency, Icarium, and efficiency is brutal. It sacrifices mortal lives without a second thought, all for whatever is perceived as the greater need. At least it was so in the case of Dancer, who did not kill for coin, but for a cause that was less self-aggrandizing than you might think. In his mind, he was a man who fixed things. He viewed himself as honourable. A man of integrity, was Dancer. But efficiency is a cold-blooded master. And there’s a final irony. A part of him, in defiance of his need to seek vengeance upon Laseen, actually . . . sympathizes. After all, she bowed to what she perceived as a greater need – one of Empire – and chose to sacrifice two men she called friends to answer that need.’ ‘Within you, then, is chaos.’ ‘Aye, Icarium. Such are memories in full flood. We are not simple creatures. You dream that with memories will come knowledge, and from knowledge, understanding. But for every answer you find, a thousand new questions arise. All that we were has led us to where we are, but tells us little of where we’re going. Memories are a weight you can never shrug off.’

Duiker set off through the restless, sleepless encampment. He heard few conversations, yet a bleak awareness roared around him, a sound only his bones could feel.

But it was the captain who was the true mystery aboard the Ragstopper. Kalam had heard enough talk in the galley and between the First and Second Mates to gauge that the man was viewed with both respect and some kind of twisted affection. In the manner that you’d view a touchy dog. Pat once and the tail wags, pat twice and lose a hand.

Duiker had found his own oblivion deep inside himself, and he had no desire to leave its numbing comfort. Within that place, pain could do naught but gnaw at the very edges, and those edges seemed to be growing ever more distant.