The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (644 page)

‘Very noble of you,' Paran remarked. ‘Oddly enough, I heard a different tale about your priestly demise. More specifically, you lost a power struggle at the temple in Kartool. Something about the disposition of the treasury.'

‘Clearly, such events are open to interpretation. Tell me, Captain, since you can walk through walls thicker than a man is tall, do you possess magical sensitivities as well? Can you feel the foul hunger in the air? It is hateful. It wants us, our flesh, where it can take root and suck from us every essence of health. This is Poliel's breath, and even now it begins to claim us.'

‘We are not alone, cutter.'

‘No. I would be surprised if we were. She will spare her followers, her
carriers
. She will—'

‘Quiet,' Paran said, reining in. ‘I meant, we are not alone right now.'

Eyes darting, Noto Boil scanned the immediate area. ‘There,' he whispered, pointing towards an alley mouth.

They watched as a young woman stepped out from the shadows of the alley. She was naked, frighteningly thin, her eyes dark, large and luminous. Her lips were cracked and split, her hair wild and braided in filth. An urchin who had survived in the streets, a harvester of the discarded, and yet…

‘Not a carrier,' Paran said in a murmur. ‘I see about her…purest health.'

Noto Boil nodded. ‘Aye. In spite of her apparent condition. Captain Kindly, this child has been chosen…by Soliel.'

‘I take it, not something you even thought possible, back when you were a priest.'

The cutter simply shook his head.

The girl came closer. ‘Malazans,' she said, her voice rasping as if from lack of use. ‘Once. Years – a year? Once, there were other Malazans. One of them pretended he was a Gral, but I saw the armour under the robes, I saw the sigil of the Bridgeburners, from where I hid beneath a wagon. I was young, but not too young. They saved me, those Malazans. They drew away the hunters. They saved me.'

Paran cleared his throat. ‘And so now Soliel chooses you…to help us.'

Noto Boil said, ‘For she has always blessed those who repay kindness.' The cutter's voice was tremulous with wonder. ‘Soliel,' he whispered, ‘forgive me.'

‘There are hunters,' the girl said. ‘Coming. They know you are here. Strangers, enemies to the goddess. Their leader holds great hatred, for all things. Bone-scarred, broke-faced, he feeds on the pain he delivers. Come with me—'

‘Thank you,' Paran said, cutting in, ‘but no. Know that your warning is welcome, but I intend to meet these hunters. I intend to have them lead me to the Grey Goddess.'

‘Brokeface will not permit it. He will kill you, and your horse. Your horse first, for he hates such creatures.'

Noto Boil hissed. ‘Captain, please – this is an offer from
Soliel
—'

‘The offer I expect from Soliel,' Paran said, tone hardening, ‘will come later. One goddess at a time.' He readied his horse under him, then hesitated, glanced over at the cutter. ‘Go with her, then. We will meet up at the entrance to the Grand Temple.'

‘Captain, what is it you expect of me?'

‘Me? Nothing. What I expect is for Soliel to make use of you, but not as she has done this child here. I expect something a lot more than that.' Paran nudged his mount forward. ‘And,' he added amidst clumping hoofs, ‘I won't take no for an answer.'

 

Noto Boil watched the madman ride off, up the main avenue, then the healer swung his horse until facing the girl. He drew the fish spine from his mouth and tucked it behind an ear. Then cleared his throat. ‘Goddess…child. I have no wish to die, but I must point out, that man does not speak for me. Should you smite him down for his disrespect, I most certainly will not see in that anything unjust or undeserving. In fact—'

‘Be quiet, mortal,' the girl said in a much older voice. ‘In that man the entire world hangs in balance, and I shall not be for ever known as the one responsible for altering that condition. In any way whatsoever. Now, prepare to ride – I shall lead, but I shall not once wait for you should you lose the way.'

‘I thought you offered to guide me—'

‘Of lesser priority now,' she said, smirking. ‘Inverted in a most unholy fashion, you might say. No, what I seek now is to witness. Do you understand?
To witness!
' And with that the girl spun round and sped off.

Swearing, the cutter drove heels into his mount's flanks, hard on the girl's trail.

 

Paran rode at a canter down the main avenue that seemed more a processional route into a necropolis than G'danisban's central artery, until he saw ahead a mob of figures fronted by a single man – in his hands a farmer's scythe from which dangled a blood-crusted horse-tail. The motley army – perhaps thirty or forty in all – looked as if they had been recruited from a paupers' burial pit. Covered in sores and weals, limbs twisted, faces slack, the eyes glittering with madness. Some carried swords, others butcher's cleavers and knives, or spears, shepherd's crooks or stout branches. Most seemed barely able to stand.

Such was not the case with their leader, the one the girl had called Brokeface. The man's visage was indeed pinched misshapen, flesh and bones folded in at right lower jaw, then across the face, diagonally, to the right cheekbone. He had been bitten, the captain realized, by a horse.

…your horse first. For he hates such creatures…

In that ruined face, the eyes, misaligned in the sunken pits of their sockets, burned bright as they fixed on Paran's own. Something like a smile appeared on the collapsed cave of the man's mouth.

‘Her breath is not sweet enough for you? You are strong to so resist her. She would know, first, who you are. Before,' his smile twisted further, ‘before we kill you.'

‘The Grey Goddess does not know who I am,' Paran said, ‘for this reason. From her, I have turned away. From me she can compel nothing.'

Brokeface flinched. ‘There is a beast…in your eyes. Reveal yourself, Malazan. You are not as the others.'

‘Tell her,' Paran said, ‘I come to make an offering.'

The head cocked to one side. ‘You seek to appease the Grey Goddess?'

‘In a manner of speaking. But I should tell you, we have very little time.'

‘Very little? Why?'

‘Take me to her and I will explain. But quickly.'

‘She does not fear you.'

‘Good.'

The man studied Paran for a moment longer, then he gestured with his scythe. ‘Follow, then.'

 

There had been plenty of altars before which she had knelt over the years, and from them, one and all, Torahaval Delat had discovered something she now held to be true. All that is worshipped is but a reflection of the worshipper. A single god, no matter how benign, is tortured into a multitude of masks, each shaped by the secret desires, hungers, fears and joys of the individual mortal, who but plays a game of obsequious approbation.

Believers lunged into belief. The faithful drowned in their faith.

And there was another truth, one that seemed on the surface to contradict the first one. The gentler and kinder the god, the more harsh and cruel its worshippers, for they hold to their conviction with taut certainty, febrile in its extremity, and so cannot abide dissenters. They will kill, they will torture, in that god's name. And see in themselves no conflict, no matter how bloodstained their hands.

Torahaval's hands were bloodstained, figuratively now but once most literally. Driven to fill some vast, empty space in her soul, she had lunged, she had drowned; she had looked for some external hand of salvation – seeking what she could not find in herself. And, whether benign and love-swollen or brutal and painful, every god's touch had felt the same to her – barely sensed through the numbed obsession that was her need.

She had stumbled onto this present path the same way she had stumbled onto so many others, yet this time, it seemed there could be no going back. Every alternative, every choice, had vanished before her eyes. The first strands of the web had been spun more than fourteen months ago, in her chosen home city Karashimesh, on the shores of the inland Karas Sea – a web she had since, in a kind of lustful wilfulness, allowed to close ever tighter.

The sweet lure from the Grey Goddess, in spirit now the poisoned lover of the Chained One – the seduction of the flawed had proved so very inviting. And deadly.
For us both.
This was, she realized as she trailed Bridthok down the Aisle of Glory leading to the transept, no more than the spreading of legs before an inevitable, half-invited rape. Regret would come later if at all.

Perhaps, then, a most appropriate end.

For this foolish woman, who never learned how to live.

The power of the Grey Goddess swirled in thick tendrils through the battered-down doorway, so virulent as to rot stone.

Awaiting Bridthok and Torahaval at the threshold were the remaining acolytes of this desperate faith. Septhune Anabhin of Omari; and Sradal Purthu, who had fled Y'Ghatan a year ago after a failed attempt to kill that Malazan bitch, Dunsparrow. Both looked shrunken, now, some essence of their souls drained away, dissolving in the miasma like salt in water. Pained terror in their eyes as both turned to watch Bridthok and Torahaval arrive.

‘Sribin is dead,' Septhune whispered. ‘She will now choose another.'

And so she did.

Invisible, a hand huge and clawed – more fingers than could be sanely conceived – closed about Torahaval's chest, spears of agony sinking deep. A choked gasp burst from her throat and she staggered forward, pushing through the others, all of whom shrank back, gazes swimming with relief and pity – the relief far outweighing the pity. Hatred for them flashed through Torahaval, even as she staggered into the altar chamber; eyes burning in the acid fog of pestilence she lifted her head, and looked upon Poliel.

And saw the hunger that was desire.

The pain expanded, filled her body – then subsided as the clawed hand withdrew, the crusted talons pulling loose.

Torahaval fell to her knees, slid helplessly in her own sweat that had pooled on the mosaic floor beneath her.

Ware what you ask for. Ware what you seek.

The sound of horse hoofs, coming from the Aisle of Glory, getting louder.

A rider comes. A rider? What – who dares this – gods below, thank you, whoever you are. Thank you.
She still clung to the edge. A few breaths more, a few more…

 

Sneering, Brokeface pushed past the cowering priests at the threshold. Paran scanned the three withered, trembling figures, and frowned as they each in turn knelt at the touch of his regard, heads bowing.

‘What ails them?' he asked.

Brokeface's laugh hacked in the grainy air. ‘Well said, stranger. You have cold iron in your spine, I'll give you that.'

Idiot. I wasn't trying to be funny.

‘Get off that damned horse,' Brokeface said, blocking the doorway. He licked his misshapen lips, both hands shifting on the shaft of the scythe.

‘Not a chance,' Paran said. ‘I know how you take care of horses.'

‘You cannot
ride
into the altar chamber!'

‘Clear the way,' Paran said. ‘This beast does not bother biting – it prefers to kick and stamp. Delights in the sound of breaking bones, in fact.'

As the horse, nostrils flared, stepped closer to the doorway, Brokeface flinched, edged back. Then he bared his crooked teeth and hissed, ‘Can't you feel her wrath?
Her outrage?
Oh, you foolish man!'

‘Can she feel mine?'

Paran ducked as his horse crossed the threshold. He straightened a moment later. A woman writhed on the tiles to his left, her dark skin streaked in sweat, her long limbs trembling as the plague-fouled air stroked and slipped round her, languid as a lover's caress.

Beyond this woman rose a dais atop three broad, shallow steps on which were scattered the broken fragments of the altarstone. Centred on the dais, where the altar had once stood, was a throne fashioned of twisted, malformed bones. Commanding this seat, a figure radiating such power that her form was barely discernible. Long limbs, suppurating with venom, a bared chest androgynous in its lack of definition, its shrunken frailty; the legs that extended outward seemed to possess too many joints, and the feet were three-toed and taloned, raptorial yet as large as those of an enkar'al. Poliel's eyes were but the faintest of sparks, blurred and damp at the centre of black bowls. Her mouth, broad and the lips cracked and oozing, curled now into a smile.

‘Soletaken,' she said in a thin voice, ‘do not frighten me. I had thought, for a moment…but no, you are nothing to me.'

‘Goddess,' Paran said, settling back on his horse, ‘I remain turned away. The choice is mine, not yours, and so you see only what I will you to see.'

‘Who are you? What are you?'

‘In normal circumstances, Poliel, I am but an arbiter. I have come to make an offering.'

‘You understand, then,' the Grey Goddess said, ‘the truth beneath the veil. Blood was
their
path. And so we choose to poison it.'

Paran frowned, then he shrugged and reached into the folds of his shirt. ‘Here is my gift,' he said. Then hesitated. ‘I regret, Poliel, that these circumstances…are not normal.'

The Grey Goddess said, ‘I do not understand—'

‘Catch!'

A small, gleaming object flashed from his hand.

She raised hers in defence.

A whispering, strangely thin sound marked the impact. Impaling her hand, a shard of metal. Otataral.

The goddess convulsed, a terrible, animal scream bursting from her throat, ripping the air. Chaotic power, shredding into tatters and spinning away, waves of grey fire charging like unleashed creatures of rage, mosaic tiles exploding in their wake.