Malazan Books of the Fallen quotes

[Cain]

As promised.  There are quite a lot of them, and some with minor commentary.  I'm not going to explain what the books are about, as that might take forever.  As a short introduction, the empire is in chaos.  The head of the internal intelligence agency, the Claw, has overthrown the Emperor in what appears to be a bloody coup.  The campaign on the continent of Genabackis has slowed to a crawl, and the Empire's conquest on the continent of Seven Cities are looking very unstable. And then, just to add to the mess, the gods appear to be playing games... 

If these are of interest, then all well and good.  And if not...well, you don't have to read them.  Quotes have been picked mainly for interest, examples of excellent scheming, or for the sake of humour.

Book 1: Gardens of the Moon

Finally, the man faced him.  His face was scarred, and something that might've been a burn marred his jaw and left cheek.  For all that, he looked young for a commander.  "Heed the lesson there, son."

"What lesson?"

"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 want to be a soldier.  A hero."

"You'll grow out of it."

Hairlock is not having a good time at the Siege of Pale...

"They're coming," said a voice, a dozen feet to her left.  Slowly, she turned.  The wizard Hairlock lay sprawled on the burnt armour, the pate of his shaved skull reflecting the dark sky.  A wave of sorcery had destroyed him from the hips down.  Pink, mud-spattered entrails billowed out from under his ribcage, webbed by drying fluids.  A faint penumbra of sorcery revealed his efforts at staying alive.

"Thought you were dead," Tattersail muttered.

"Felt lucky today."

She rubbed at her face, feeling grime gather under her nails.  Bridgeburners.  They'd been the old Emperor's elite, his favourites, but since Laseen's bloody coup nine years ago they'd been pushed hard into every rat's nest in sight.  Almost a decade of this had cut them down to a single, undermanned division.  Among them, names had emerged.  The survivors, mostly squad sergeants, names that had pushed their way into the Malazan armies on Genabackis, and beyond.  Names spicing the already sweeping legend of Onearm's Host.  Detoran, Antsy, Spindle, Whiskyjack.  Names heavy with glory and bitter with the cynicism that every army feeds on.  They carried the names with them like am emblazoned banner of the madness of this unending campaign.

At the very heart of things, he realized, he no longer knew who was the ultimate betrayer in all of this, if a betrayer there must be.  Was it the Empire, the Empress?  Or was it something else, a legacy, an ambition, a vision at the far end of peace and wealth for all?  Or was it a beast that could not cease devouring?  Darujhistan – the greatest city in the world.  Would it come to the Empire in flames?  Was there wisdom in opening its gates?  Within the troubled borders of the Malazan Empire, people lived in such peace as their ancestors had never imagined; and if not for the Claw, there would be freedom as well.  Had this been the Emperor's dream at the very beginning?  Did it matter any more?

Whiskeyjack, sergeant in the Bridgeburners, has a memory which explains why Sorry will always be considered a recruit, and never a soldier

A memory returned to Whiskyjack as he considered Dujek's words.  On a brief attachment to the 5th, away from the siege at Pale, in the midst of the Mott Campaign, Sorry had joined them from the new troops arriving at Nathilog.  He'd watched her put a knife to three local mercenaries they'd taken prisoner in Greydog – ostensibly to glean information but, he recalled with a shudder, it had been nothing like that.  Not an act of expedience.  He had stared aghast, horrified, as Sorry set to work on their loins.  He remembered meeting Kalam's gaze, and the desperate gesture that had sent the black man surging forward, knives bared.  Kalam had pushed past Sorry and with three quick motions had laid open the men's throats.  And then came the moment that still twisted Whiskyjack's heart.  In their last, frothing words, the mercenaries had blessed Kalam.

Sorry had merely sheathed her weapon and walked away.

Though the woman had been with the squad for two years, still his men called her a recruit, and they probably would do so until the day they died.  There was a meaning there, and Whiskyjack understood it well.  Recruits were not Bridgeburners.  The stripping away of that label was an earned thing, a recognition brought by deeds.  Sorry was a recruit because the thought of having her inextricably enfolded within the Bridgeburners burned like a hot knife in the throat of everyone in his squad.  And that was something to which the sergeant himself was not immune.

Tayschrenn and the Empress' Adjunct, Lorn, discuss the ever increasing possibility of Dujek's host rebelling:

"Dujek is just one man," Tayschren said.

Lorn took a large mouthful of wine, then set down the goblet and rubbed her brow.  "Dujek's not the enemy," she said wearily.  "Dujek's never been the enemy."

Tayschrenn stepped forward.  "He was the Emperor's man, Adjunct."

"Challenging that man's loyalty to the Empire is insulting, and it's that very insult that may well turn him.  Dujek's not just one man.  Right now he's ten thousand, and in a year's time he'll be twenty-five thousand.  He doesn't yield when you push, does he?  No, because he can't.  He's got ten thousand soldiers behind him – and believe me, when they get angry enough to push back, you'll not be able to withstand them.  As for Dujek, he'll just end up being carried on the tide."

"Then he is a traitor."

"No.  He's a man who cares for those he is responsible for and to.  He's the best of the Empire.  If he's forced to turn, Tayschrenn, then we're the traitors.  Am I getting through?"

Soon, Tattersail knew, there'd be the culling of the nobility, a scourge that would raise to the gallows the greediest, least-liked nobles.  And the executions would be public.  A tried and true procedure, that swelled recruitment on a tide of base vengeance – with every hand stained by a righteous glee.  A sword in such hands complemented the conspiracy and included all players in the hunt for the next victim to the cause – the Empire's cause.

She'd seen it run its course in a hundred such cities.  No matter how benign the original rulers, no matter how generous the nobility, the word of Empire, weighted by might, twisted the past into a tyranny of demons.  A sad comment on humanity, a bitter lesson made foul by her own role in it.

Kallor never learns:

Kallor said: "I walked this land when the T'lan Imass were but children.  I have commanded armies a hundred thousand strong.  I have spread the fire of my wrath across entire continents, and sat alone upon tall thrones.  Do you grasp the meaning of this?"

"Yes," said Caladan Brood, "you never learn."

Tool explains to Lorn the nature of convergence, how power attracts power, and how that is usually fatal for anyone standing too close at the time.

She sat up.  "Tell me, doesn't it strike you as odd that this supposedly empty Rhivi Plain should display so much activity?"

"Convergence," Tool said.  "Power ever draws other power.  It is not a complicated thought, yet it escaped us, the Imass."  The ancient warrior swung his head to the Adjunct.  "As it escapes their children.  The Jaghut well understood the danger.  Thus they avoided one another, abandoned each other to solitude, and left a civilization to crumble into dust.  The Forkrul Assail understood as well, though they chose another path.  What is odd, Adjunct, is that of these three founding peoples, it is the Imass whose legacy of ignorance survived the ages."

"Tell me, Tool, what dominates your thoughts?"
The Imass shrugged before replying.  "I think of futility, Adjunct."
"Do all Imass think about futility?"
"No.  Few think at all."
"Why is that?"
The Imass leaned his head to one side and regarded her.  "Because, Adjunct, it is futile."

Lorn partakes in some amatuer archaeology, probably the most dangerous hobby one could have in this series.

Curious, Lorn investigated further, scrambling down into the cavity.  Stone flakes carpeted the pit's base.  She crouched and picked up a piece of flint.  It was the tip of a spear point, expertly sharped.

The echo of this technology was found in Tool's chalcedony sword.  She needed no further proof of the Imass's assertions.  Humans had indeed come from them, had indeed inherited a world.

Empire was part of them, a legacy flowing like blood through human muscles, 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?

Lorn sat down in the quarry and leaned against the chiselled, weathered stone.  The Imass had conducted a war of extermination lasting hundreds of thousands of years.  Who or what had the Jaghut been?  According to Tool, they'd abandoned the concept of government, and turned their back on empires, on armies, on the cycles of rise and fall, fire and rebirth.  They'd walked alone, disdainful of their own kind, dismissive of community, of purposes greater than themselves.

They would not, she realized, have started a war.

"Oh Laseen," she mummered, tears welling in her eyes.  "I know why we fear this Jaghut Tyrant.  Because he became human, he became like us, he enslaved, he destroyed and he did it better than we could." She lowered her head into her hands.  "That's why we fear."

The T'lan Imass worked in the span of millennia, their purpose their own.  Yet their endless war had become her endless war.  Laseen's Empire was a shadow of the First Empire.  The difference lay in that the Imass conducted a genocide against another species.  Malaz killed its own.  Humanity had not climbed up since the dark age of the Imass: it had spiralled down.

Anomander Rake explains why treachery is rarely useful, nor smart, in the long run

Rake was silent for a time, studying his hands clapsed on his lap.  "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."

Paran thinks he's figured it all out.

He broke his hour-long silence and addressed Whiskyjack.  "You still intend to cripple Darujhistan.  And I keep thinking about that, and now I think I've worked out why."  He studied Whiskyjack's blank expression.  "What you seek is to crack the city wide open.  Chaos in the streets, a headless government.  Everybody who matters shows up and they kill each other.  What does that leave?"  Paran leaned forward, his eyes hard.  "Dujek's got an army ten thousand strong, about to become outlaws of the Empire.  Maintaining ten thousand soldiers is an expensive business.  Housing them is even tougher.  Dujek knows Pale's days are numbered.  Caladan Brood's on the march down the Rhivi Plain right now.  Are the Moranth about to pull out of the alliance?  Maybe make a move of their own?  Tayschrenn's in Pale – maybe old Onearm can handle him, maybe not.  How am I so far, sergeant?"

Whskyjack glanced over at Kalam, then shrugged.  "Go on," he said to Paran.

"Darujhistan's filled with panic.  No one knows anything.  In marches Dujek, rebel army at his heels.  He'll set things aright.  Wealth beyond measure falls into his lap – and he'll need all of it if he's to oppose what the Empress sends after him.  So the city gets conquered after all.  Fancy that."

And Kruppe explains the joyous nature of his relationship with Lady Simtal:

Murillio's eyes hardened.  "You're not coming, Kruppe."

"Well of course Kruppe will attend!  Do you think Lady Simtal would ever show herself if her long-time acquaintance, Kruppe the First, was not in attendance?  Why, she'd wither with shame!"

"Damnit, you've never even met Simtal!"

"Not relevant to Kruppe's argument, friend Murillio.  Kruppe has ever been acquainted with Simtal's existence for many years.  Such association is made better, nay pristine, for the fact she has not met Kruppe, not Kruppe her."

[Cain]

Book 2: The Deadhouse Gates

People of civilized countenance made much of exposing the soft underbellies of their psyche – effete and sensitive were the brands of finer breeding.  It was easy for them, safe, and that was the whole point, after all: a statement of coddled opulence that burned the throats of the poor more than any ostentatious show of wealth.

Some of the best observations in this book are made by Duiker and Heboric.  Given the author's own background in archaeology and anthropology, it is probably not surprising the historians get the best lines, even if he does show up the more...academic aspects of the discipline at times.

"Coltaine," the captain nodded, his scowl deepening.  "Sent here to take command of the Seventh and put down the rebellion-"

"After all," Duiker said dryly, "who better to deal with insurrection than a warrior who has led one himself?"

Conquerors could overrun a city's walls, could kill every living soul within, fill every estate and every house and every store with its own people, yet rule nothing but the city's thin surface, the skin of the present, and would one day be brought down by the spirits below, until they themselves were but one momentary layer among many.  This is an enemy we can never defeat, Duiker believed.  Yet history tells the stories of those who would challenge that enemy, again and again.  Perhaps victory is not achieved in overcoming that enemy, but by joining it, becoming one with it.

The Empress has sent a new Fist to batter down the restless centuries of this land.  Had she abandoned Coltaine, as I suggested to Mallick Rel?  Or had she just held him back in readiness, like a weapon forged and honed for one specific task?

As you'll come to appreciate, from the various quotes aboutand by him, the old Emperor may have been a bastard, he may have been mad, but there is no doubting he was a canny bastard:

The Emperor would have cut the heart out of this rebellion with its first beat.  A short, but unremitting bloodbath, followed by a long peace.  But Laseen had left the old wounds to fester, and what was coming would silence Hood himself.

""History comforts the dull-witted,"" the young Malazan said.

Beneth barked a laugh as he reached the gate.  "And whose words are those, Pella?  Not yours."

The guard's brows rose, then shrugged.  "I forget you're Korelri sometimes, Beneth.  Those words?  Emperor Kellanved."

Iskarak Pust, the High Priest of Meanas, attempts a convoluted explanation on Mappo, much in keeping with his patron god's domains of trickery and deceit.

The Trell pushed himself upright.  "Where is the library?"

"Turn right, proceed thirty-four paces, turn right again, twelve paces, then through the door on the right, thirty-five paces, through the archway on the right, another eleven paces, turn right one last time, fifteen paces, then enter the room on the right."

Mappo stared at Iskaral Pust.

The High Priest shifted nervously.

"Or," the Trell said, eyes narrowed, "turn left, nineteen paces."

I can safely say I have seen, and possibly even purchased, more obscure and pointless books than the ones being discussed.

"There are works here whose existence was but the faintest rumour.  And some – like this one – that I have never heard of before.  A Treatise on Irrigation Planning in the Fifth Millennium of Arakal, by no fewer than four authors."

Returning to the library with a pewter plate piled high with bread and cheese, Mappo leant over his friend's shoulder to examine the detailed drawings on the book's vellum pages, then the strange, braided script.  The Trell grunted.  Mouth suddenly dry, he managed to mutter,

"What is so astonishing about that?"

Icarium leant back.  "The sheer...frivolity, Mappo.  The materials alone for this time are a craftsman's annual wage.  No scholar in their right mind would waste such resources – never mind the time – on such a pointless, trite subject.  And this is not the only example.  Look, Seed Dispersal Patterns of the Purille Flower on the Skar Archipelago and here, Diseases of White Rimmed Clams of Lekoor Bay."

Gothos was a bastard.

"Rich, you said?"  The Trell struggled to drag the conversation away from what he knew to be a looming precipice.  "More like mired in minutiae.  Probably explains why it's dust and ashes.  Arguing over seeds in the wind while barbarians batter down the gates.  Indolence takes many forms, but it comes to every civilization that has outlived its will.  You know this as well as I.  In this case it was an indolence characterized by a pursuit of knowledge, a frenzied search for answers to everything, no matter the value of such answers.  A civilization can as easily drown in what it knows as in what it doesn't know.  Consider," he continued, "Gothos' Folly.  Gothos's curse was in being too aware – of everything.  Every permutation, every potential.  Enough to poison every scan he cast on the world.  It availed him naught, and worse, he was aware of even that."

Iskarak Pust has a vital and dangeous quest for Mappo and Icarium.  Or he's being a nusciance.  Again.

"Do you intend to the lead the D'ivers and Soletaken to the gate below, Iskaral Pust?"

"Blunt are the Trell, determined in headlong stumbling and headlong in stumbling determination.  As I said.  You know nothing of the mysteries involved, the plans of Shadowthrone, the many secrets of the Grey Keep, the Shrouded House where stands the Throne of Shadows.  Yet I do.  Alone of all the mortals, have been shown the truth arrayed before me.  My god is generous, my god is wise, as cunning as a rat.  Spiders must die."

"The bhok'arala have stolen my broom and this quest I set before you two guests.  Icarium and Mappo Trell, famed wanderers of the world, I charge you with this perilous task – find me my broom."

Fiddler, a former Bridgeburner, now outlawed with the rest of the army, is escorting Aspalar and Crokus back to the former's home.  Unfortunately, Seven Cities has erupted in bloody rebellion, which is not making the trip easier.  Apsalar was possessed by Cotillion, also known as the Rope, a god aligned with Shadowthrone, and sometimes his memories bleed through into hers.  But this particular incident suggests it is not a god's memories she is having...

Even the Gral gelding hesitated at the square's edge.  The bodies covering the cobbles numbered several hundred.  Old men and old women, and children, for the most part.  They had all been savagely cut to pieces or, in some cases, burned alive.  The stench of sun-warmed blood, bile and seared flesh hung thick in the square.

Fiddler swallowed back his revulsion, cleared his thread.  "Beyond this square," he said, "all pretences of control cease."

Crokus gestured shakily.  "These are Malazan?"

"Aye, lad."

"During the conquest, did the Malazan armies do the same to the locals here?"

"You mean, is this just reprisal?"

Apsalar spoke with almost personal vehemence.  "The Emperor warred against armies, not civilians-"

"Except at Aren," Fiddler sardonically interjected, recalling the words of the Tanno Spiritwalker.  "When the T'lan Imass rose in the city-"

"Not by Kellanved's command!" she retorted.  "Who ordered the T'lan Imass into Aren?  I shall tell you.  Surly, the commander of the Claw, the woman who took upon herself a new name-"

"Laseen."  Fiddler eyed the young woman, quizzically.  "I have never before heard that assertion, Apsalar.  There were no written orders – none found in any case-"

"I should have killed her there and then," Apsalar muttered.

Astonished, Fiddler glanced at Crokus.  The Daru shook his head.

"Apsalar," the sapper said slowly, "you were but a child when Aren rebelled then fell to the T'lan Imass."

"I know that," she replied.  "Yet these memories – they are so clear.  I was...sent to Aren... to see the slaughter.  To find out what happened.  I... I argued with Surly.  No-one else was in the room.  Just Surly and... and me."

Every fantasy novel is required to have a surly guard who threatens a mage, only to back down when threatened with being changed into a toad.  This particular incident does not go according to plan:

"You're Seventh Army."  He clearly had no intention of returning to his table.  "A deserter."

Kulp's wiry brows rose.  "Corporal, you've just come face with the Seventh's entire Mage Cadre.  Now back out of my face before I put gills and scales on yours."

The corporal's eyes flicked to Duiker, then back to Kulp.

"Wrong," the mage sighed.  "I'm the entire cadre.  This man is my guest."

"Gills and scales, huh?"  The corporal set his wide hands down on the tabletop and leaned close to Kulp.  "I get even a sniff of you opening a warren, you'll find a knife in your throat.  This is my guardpost, magicker, and any business you got here is my business.  Now, start explaining yourselves, before I cut those big ears off your head and add 'em to my belt.  Sir."

Fifty paces from the Estates Duiker found the first scene of true slaughter.  The Hissari mutineers had struck the Malazan quarter with sudden ferocity, probably at the same time as the other force had hemmed in the Seventh at the compound.  The merchant and noble houses had thrown their own private guards forward in frantic defence, but they were too few and, lacking cohesion, had been quickly and savagely cut down.  The mob had poured into the district, battering down estate posterns, dragging out into the wide street Malazan families.

It was then, Duiker saw as his mount picked a careful path through the bodies, that madness had truly arrived.  Men had been gutted, their entrails pulled out, wrapped around women – wives and mothers and aunts and sisters – who had been raped before being strangled with the intestinal ropes.  The historian saw children with their skulls crushed, babies spitted on tapu skewers. 
However, many young daughters had been taken by the attackers as they plunged deeper into the district.  If anything, their fates would be more horrific than those visited on their kin.

Duiker viewed all he saw with a growing numbness.  The terrible agony that had been unleashed here seemed to remain coiled in the air, poised, ready to snatch at his sanity.  In self-defence, his soul withdrew, deeper, ever deeper.  His power to observe remained, however, detached completely from his feelings – the release would come later, the historian well knew: the shaking limbs, the nightmares, the slow scarification of his faith.

Duiker made agreeable noises through all this, but his mind was racing.  Kamist Reloe was a High Mage, one believed to have been killed in Raraku over ten years ago, in a clash with Sha'ik over who was destined to lead the Apocalypse.  Instead of killing her rival, it was now apparent that Sha'ik had won his loyalty.  The hint of murderous rivalry, feuds and personality clashes had served Sha'ik well in conveying to the Malazans an impression of internal weaknesses plaguing her cause.  All a lie.  We were deceived, and now we are suffering the cost.

The historian Heboric has doubts about what happened on the night Emperor Kellanved and his second-in-command, Dancer, were murdered:

"It is said that on the night of Kellanved and Dancer's Return, Malaz City was a maelstrom of sorcery and dire visitations.  It is not a far reach to find one sustained in the belief that the assassinations were a messy, confused affair, and that success and failure are judgements dependent on one's perspective...
                                                                                                Conspiracies in the Imperium, Heboric

Coltaine, the Imperial Fist sent to stop the rebellion, clearly did not get the memo he and his Wicken warriors were meant to just roll over and die.

The Wickans were demons.  They breathed fire.  Their arrows magically multiplied mid-air.  Their horses fought with uncanny intelligence.  A Mezla Ascendant had been conjured and sent to Seven Cities, and now faced the Whirlwind goddess.  The Wickans could not be killed.  There would never come another dawn.

Duiker left the man to whatever fate awaited him and rode back to the road, resuming his journey to the oasis.  He had lost two hours, but had gleaned invaluable information amidst the Tithansi deserter's terror-spawned ravings.

This, the historian realised as he rode on, was more than the simple lashing-out of a wounded, tormented beast.  Coltaine clearly did not view the situation in that way.  Perhaps he never did.  The Fist was conducting a campaign.  Engaged in a war, not a panicked flight. The leaders of the Apocalypse had better reorder their thoughts, if they're to hold any hope of wresting the fangs from this serpent.  More, they'd better kill the notion evidently already rampant that the Wickans were more than just human, and that's easier said than done.

Kalam, former Bridgeburner former Claw assassin, has his doubts about the ability of a group of bandits who signed up to the rebellion:

"Your men are skilled with their bows?" the assassin asked a few minutes later.
"Like vipers, Mekral."
"With about the same range," Kalam muttered.

Thwarted ambitions come back to bite the Empire in the arse

"Who commands this army?"

"That bastard Korbolo Dom."

Kalam's eyes narrowed.  "But he's a Fist-"

"Was, 'till he married a local women who just happened to be the daughter of Halaf's last Holy Protector.  He's turned renegade, had to execute half his own legion who refused to step across with him.  The other half divested the Imperial uniform, proclaimed themselves a mercenary company, and took on Korbolo's contract.  It was that company that hit us in Orbal.  Call themselves the Whirlwind Legion or something like that."  Keneb rose and kicked the fire, scattering the last embers.  "They rode in like allies.  We didn't expect a thing."

There was more to this tale, the assassin sensed.  "I remember Korbolo," Kalam muttered.

"Thought you might.  He was Whiskeyjack's replacement, wasn't he?"

"For a time.  After Raraku.  A superb tactician, but a little too bloodthirsty for my tastes.  For Laseen, too, which was why she holed him in Halaf."

"And promoted Dujek instead."  The captain laughed.  "Who's now been outlawed."

"They'll charge," List affirmed grimly.  "If we're lucky, they'll wait too long and give us room to fall back."

"That's the kind of risk Hood loves," the historian muttered. 

"The ground underneath them whispers fear.  They won't be moving for a while."

"Do I see control on all sides, or the illusion of control?"

List's face twisted slightly.  "Sometimes, the two are the one and the same.  In terms of their effect, I mean.  The only difference – or so Coltaine says – is that when you bloody the real thing, it absorbs the damage, while the other shatters."

One of the Wickans explains how Emperor Kellanved persuaded them to end their rebellion

"The Emperor, as our enemy, united us.  By laughing at our small battles, our pointless feuds.  Laughing and more: sneering.  He shamed us with contempt, Historian.  When he met with Coltaine, our alliance was already breaking apart.  Kellanved mocked.  He said he need only sit back and watch to see the end of our rebellion.  With his words he branded our souls.  With his words and his offer of unity he bestowed on us wisdom.  With his words we knelt before him in true gratitude, accepted what he offered us and gave him our loyalty.  You once wondered how the Emperor won our hearts.  Now you know."

Yes, you read correctly: the Emepror defeated an insurgency with mockery.

"The Path of Hands.  The convergence of Soletaken and D'ivers – Pust is involved."

"Explain."

Mappo pointed a blunt finger at the paving stones beneath them.  "At the lowest levels of this temple there lies a chamber.  Its floor – flagstones – displays a series of carvings.  Inscribing something like a Deck of Dragons.  Neither Icarium nor I have seen anything like it before.  If it is indeed a Deck of Dragons, it's an Elder version.  Not Houses, but Holds, the forces more elemental, more raw and primitive."

"How does that relate to shapeshifting?"

"You can view the past as something like a mouldy old book.  The closer you get to the beginning, the more fragmented are the pages.  They veritably fall apart in your hands, and you're left with but a handful of words – most of them in a language you can't even understand."  Mappo closed his eyes for a long moment, then he looked up and said, "Somewhere among those scattered words is recounted the creation of shapeshifters – the forces that are Soletaken and D'ivers are that old, Fiddler.  They were old even in Elder times.  No one species can claim proprietry, and that includes the four Founding Races: Jaghut, Forkrul Assail, Imass and K'Chain Che'Malle.
No shapeshifter can abide another – under normal circumstances, that is.  There are exceptions but I need not go into them here.  Yet, within them all, there is a hunger as deep in the bone as the bestial fever itself.  The lure to dominance.  To command all other shapeshifters, to fashion an army of such creatures – all slaved to your desire.  From an army, an Empire.  An Empire of ferocity unlike anything that has been seen before-"

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."

Mappo's answering smile was broken-hearted.  "Well said, Fiddler.  When I said ferocity, I meant a miasma of chaos.  But I will grant you that terror thrives equally well in order."  He rolled his shoulders a third time, sat straighter to work out the kinks in his back.  "The shapeshifters are gathering to the promise of a gate through which they can attain such Ascendancy.  To become a god of the Soletaken and D'ivers – each shapeshifter seeks nothing less, and will abide no obstacle.  Fiddler, we think the gate lies below, and we think that Iskaral Pust will do all he can to prevent the shapeshifters from finding it – even to painting false trails in the desert, to mimic the trail of handprints that all led to the place of the gate."

[Cain]

Mappo has a very nasty suspicion about why Cotillion reliquished his control of Apsalar...

"Yet did not the solder say that Cotillion's relinquishing of the lass was forced upon him by the threat of Anomander Rake?  The possession was meant to last for much longer, taking the lass ever closer to the Empress herself..."

"So everyone assumes," Mappo said.  "Iskaral Pust is a High Priest of Shadow.  I think it is best to assume no matter how devious Pust is, Shadowthrone and Cotillion are more devious.  By far.  A truly possessed Apsalar would never get close to Laseen – the Claws would sniff it out, not to mention the Adjunct and her Otataral sword.  But an Apsalar no longer possessed...well...and Cotillion's made sure she's not just a simple fishergirl any more, hasn't he?"

"A scheme within a scheme.  Have you discussed this with Fiddler?"

Mappo shook his head.  "I may be wrong.  It may be that the rulers of Shadow simply saw an opportunity here, a means to take advantage of the convergence – the dagger is honed, then slipped in amidst the tumult."

Lull renders every history book in the world irrelevant with just three words.

"What water?"
"We've casks of water left for the soldiers.  You take a skin every morning, Historian, up where the wagons are carrying the wounded are positioned.  Each dusk you brink 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 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."

Those crossbow cords will stretch, unless they've been soaked in oil and waxed.  Of course they have – those soldiers aren't idiots.  Plan for any eventuality, even swimming beneath a dusty plain.  I once saw a fellow soldier find use for a fishing kit in the desert.  What makes a Malazan soldier so dangerous?  They're allowed to think.

Kulp and Heboric discuss alternate theories concerning the Path of Hands and the rebellion converging:

"Why don't we just give up?" Felisin said.

The mage sneered.

"I'm not being flippant.  We're in Raraku, the home of the Whirlwind.  There won't be a friendly face within a hundred leagues of here, not that there's any chance of making it that far in any case."

"And the faces closer at hand aren't even human," Heboric added.  "Every mask unveiled, and you know, the presence of D'ivers and Soletaken is most likely not at the Whirlwind's beckoning.  All a tragic coincidence, this Year of Dryjhna and the unholy convergence-"

"You're a fool if you think that," Kulp said.  "The timing is anything but accidental.  I've a hunch that someone started those shapeshifters on that convergence, and that someone acted precisely because of the uprising.  Or it went the other way around – the Whirlwind Goddess guided the prophecy to ensure that the Year of Dryjhna was now, when the convergence was under way, in the interest of creating chaos within the warrens."

"Interesting notions, Mage," Heboric said, slowly, nodding.  "Natural, of course, coming from a practitioner of Meanas, where deceit breeds like runaway weeds and inevitability defines the rules of the game...but only when useful."

Felisin stayed silent, watching the two men.  One conversation, here on the surface, yet another beneath.  The priest and the mage are playing games, the entwining of suspicion with knowledge.  Heboric sees a pattern, his plundering of ghostly lives gave him what he needed, and I think he's telling Kulp that the mage himself is closer to that pattern than he might imagine.

"Retaking Ubaryd will allow relief from Admiral Nok's fleet," Sulmar said.  "Through this avenue, a swift and safe journey to Aren can be effected."

"Admiral Nok's fleet is in Aren," Bult pointed out.

"Yes, sir.  However, once news reaches them that we are in Ubaryd, the obvious course will be clear."

"You mean they will hasten to relieve us?"  Bult's frown was exaggerated.  "Now I am confused, Captain.  The High Fist holds his army in Aren.  More, he holds the entire Seven Cities fleet as well.  Neither has moved in months.  He has had countless opportunities to despatch either force to our aid.  Tell me, Captain, in your family's hunting estates, have you ever seen a deer caught in a lantern light?  How it stands, frozen, unable to do anything?  The High Fist Pormqual is that deer.  Coltaine could deliver this train to a place three miles up the coast from Aren and Pormqual would not set forth to deliver us.  Do you truly believe that an ever greater plight, such as you envisage for us in Ubaryd, will shame the High Fist into action?"

"I was speaking more of Admiral Nok-"

"Who is dead, sick, or in a dungeon, Captain.  Else he would have sailed long ere now.  One man rules Aren, and one man alone.  Will you place your life in his hands, Captain?"

Heboric pretty much explains the majority of later Roman Imperial history: the Praetorian Guard really rule.

"I have fears, lass-"

"I'm not surprised," she cut in.  "That Toblakai means to kill you."

"Not that fool.  I mean Leoman."

"He was Sha'ik's bodyguard.  If I am to become her, I'll not need to mistrust his loyalty, Heboric.  My only concern is that he and the Toblakai did such a poor job of protecting Sha'ik the first time around."

"Leoman is no fanatic," the ex-priest said.  "Oh, he might well make the appropriate noises to lead you to believe otherwise, but there is an ambivalence in him.  I don't for a moment believe that he thinks you are truly Sha'ik reborn.  The simple fact is the rebellion needs a figurehead – a young, strong one, not the worn-down old woman that the original Sha'ik must have been.  Hood's breath, she was a force in this desert twenty-five years ago.  You might want to consider the possibility that these two bodyguards didn't break a sweat in their efforts to defend her."

She looked at him.  The tattoos made an almost solid whirling pattern on his weathered, toad-like face.  His eyes were red and rimmed in dried mucus and a thin, grey patina dulled his pupils.  "Then I can assume they will have greater cause this time around."

"Provided you play their game.  Leoman's game, to be more precise.  He will be the one to speak for you to the army at the encampment – if he has cause he will hint at doubts, and they will tear you apart."

Coltaine swung his horse around at their approach.  "Historian, I have called yet again for the captain of the company of Engineers.  I begin to believe the man does not exist – tell me, have you ever seen him?"

Duiker shook his head.  "I am afraid not, although I have been assured he still lives, Fist."

"By whom?"

The historian frowned.  "I... I can't actually recall."

"Precisely.  It occurs to me that the sappers have no captain, and they'd rather not acquire one."

"That would be a rather complicated deceit to carry off, Fist."

"You feel they are incapable?"

"Oh no, sir, not at all."

Leoman proves he's not just some simple desert warrior

"Eleven tribes.  Forty thousand of the best-trained cavalry the world has ever seen."

Heboric grunted.  "And what can cavalry do against legions of infantry, Leoman?"

The desert warrior grinned.  "Only change the face of war, old man."

"It's been tried before," Heboric said.  "What has made the Malazan military so successful is its ability to adapt, to alter tactics – even on the field of battle.  You think the Empire has not met horse cultures before, Leoman?  Met, and subdued.  A fine example would be the Wickans, or the Seti."

"And how did the Empire succeed?"

"I am not the historian for such details – they never interested me.  Had you a library with Imperial texts – works by Duiker and Tallobant – you could read for yourself.  Assuming you can read Malazan, that is."

"You define the limits of their region, the map of their seasonal rounds.  You take and hold water sources, building forts and trading posts – for trade weakens your enemy's isolation, the very source of their power.  And, depending on how patient you are, you either fire the grasslands and slaughter every animal on four legs, or you wait, and to every band of youth that rides into your settlements, you offer the glory of war and booty in foreign lands, with the promise to keep them intact as a fighting unit.  Such a lure plucks the flower from those tribes, until none but old men and old women mutter about the freedom that once existed," Leoman replied.

"Ah, someone's done their reading, then."

"Aye, we possess a library, Heboric.  A vast one, at Sha'ik Elder's insistence.  "Know your enemy better than they know themselves."  So said Emperor Kellanved."

Coltaine has finally found the Captain of the Engineers, and demoted him.

"From what I gathered, you never asked anyone's advice when you were captain."

"Aye, that's a fact."

"Nor did you attend any staff meetings."

"No, sir."

"And why was that?"

Mincer shrugged.

Captain Bungle spoke.  "Beauty sleep, sir.  That's what he always said."

"Hood knows the man needs it," Bult muttered.

Coltain raised an eyebrow.  "And did he sleep, Captain?  During those times?"

"Oh yes, sir.  He sleeps when we march too, sir.  Sleeps while walking – I've never seen the like.  Snoring away, sir, one foot in front of the other, a bag full of rocks on his back-"

"Rocks?"

"For when he breaks his sword, sir.  He throws them, and there ain't a damn thing he can't hit."

"Wrong," Mincer growled.  "That lapdog.."

Bult seemed to choke, then spat in sympathy.

Coltaine had his hands behind him, and Duiker saw them clench in a white-knuckled grip.  As if sensing his attention, the Fist called out without turning, "Historian!"

"I am here, Fist."

"You will record this?"

"Oh aye, sir.  Every blessed word."

"Excellent.  Engineers, you are dismissed."

The group wandered off, muttering.  One man clapped Mincer on the shoulder and received a blistering glare in return.

Coltaine watched them leave, then strode to Duiker, Bult and Lull following.  "Spirits below," Bult hissed.

Duiker smiled.  "Your soldiers, Commander."

"Aye," he said, suddenly beaming with pride.  "Aye."

"I did not know what to do," Coltaine confessed.

Lull grunted.  "You played it perfectly, Fist.  That was exquisite, no doubt already making the rounds as a Hood-damned full-blown legend, sir.  If they liked you before, they love you now, sir."

The Wickan remained baffled.  "But why?  I just demoted a man for unsurpassed bravery!"

"Returned him to the ranks, you mean.  And that lifted every one of them up, don't you see that?"

"But Mincer-"

"Never had so much fun in his life, I'd bet.  You can tell, when they get even uglier.  Hood knows, I can't explain it – only sappers know a sapper's way of thinking and behaving, and sometimes not even them."

There is no child immortality in this setting.  In fact, I think more children end up being killed than any other group. 

"The youngest son," List said, staring down at the primitive tomb.  His face was frightening to look at, for it wore a father's grief, as raw as if the child's death was but yesterday – a grief that had, if anything, grown, with the tortured, unfathomable passage of two hundred thousand years.

He stands guard still, that Jaghut ghost.  The statement, a silent utterance that was both simple and obvious, nevertheless took the historian's breath away.  How to comprehend this...

"How old?"  Duiker's voice was as parched as the Odhan that awaited them.

"Five.  The T'lan Imass chose this place for him.  The effort of killing him would have proved too costly, given that the rest of the family still awaited them.  So they dragged the child here – shattered his bones, every one, as many times as they could on such a small frame – then pinned him beneath this rock."

"But why?"  The question ripped from Duiker's throat.

"Pogroms need no reason, sir, none that can weather challenge, in any case.  Difference in kind is the first recognition, the only one needed, in fact.  Land, domination, pre-emptive attack – all just excuses, mundane justifications that do nothing but disguise the simple distinction.  They are not us.  We are not them."

"Did the Jaghut seek to reason with them, Corporal?"

"Many times, among those not thoroughly corrupted by power – the Tyrants – but you see, there was always an arrogance in the Jaghut, and it was a kind that could claw its way up your back when face to face.  Each Jaghut's interest was with him or herself.  Almost exclusively.  They viewed the T'lan Imass no differently from the way they viewed ants underfoot, herds on the grassland, or indeed the grass itself.  Ubiquitous, a feature of the landscape.  A powerful, emergent people, such as the T'lan Imass were, could not be but stung-"

"To the point of swearing a deathless vow?"

"I don't believe that, at first, the T'lan Imass realized how difficult the task of eradication would be.  Jaghut were very different in another way – they did not flaunt their power.  And many of their efforts in self-defence were...passive.  Barriers of ice – glaciers – they swallowed the lands around them, even the seas, swallowed whole continents, making them impassable, unable to support the food the mortal Imass required."

Every throne is an arrow-butt.
-Emperor Kellanved

"Even if the goddess did not guide you, someone or something else did.  Else Sha'ik would have never been given those visions."

"Now you speak of fate.  Argue that with your fellow scholars, Heboric. Not every mystery can be unravelled, much as you believe otherwise.  Sorry if that pains you..."

"Not half as sorry as I am.  But it occurs to me that even as mortals are but pieces on a gameboard, so too are the gods."

""Elemental forces in opposition,"" she said, smiling.

Heboric's brows rose, then he scowled.  "A quote.  A familiar one-"

It should be.  It's carved into the Imperial Gate in Unta, after all.  Kellanved's own words, as a means to justify the balance of destruction with creation – the expansion of the Empire, in all its hungry glory."

The Seventh Army has safely delivered the refugees to Aren, the last Malazan held city on the continent.  However, they are being heavily tested by Korbolo Dom, just outside the walls.

Soldiers of the Seventh, few with any armour left, held themselves in a solid ring around the others.  Many of them no longer raised weapons, yet stood their ground even as they were cut to pieces.  No quarter was given, every soldier who fell with wounds was summarily butchered – their helmets torn off, their forearms shattered as they sought to ward off the attacks, their skulls crumpling to multiple blows.

The stone beneath Duiker's hands had gone slick, sticky.  Iron lances of pain shot up his arms.  He barely noticed.

With a wrenching effort, the historian pulled back, reaching out red fingers to Pormqual-

The garrison commander blocked him, held him back.

The High Fist saw Duiker, flinched away.  "You do not understand!" he screamed.  "I cannot save them!  Too many!  Too many!"

"You can, you bastard!  A sortie can drive to that mound - a cordon, damn you!"

"No!  We'll be crushed!  I must not!"

The commander's low growl reached Duiker.  "You're right, Historian.  But he won't do it.  The High Fist won't let us save them-"

Duiker struggled to free himself from the man's grip, but was pushed back.

"For Hood's sake!" the commander snapped.  "We've tried – we've all tried-"

Mallick Rel stepped close, said softly, "My heart weeps, Historian.  The High Fist cannot be swayed-"

"This is murder!"

"For which Korbolo Dom shall pay, and dearly."

Duiker spun around, lurched back to the wall.

They were dying.  There, almost within reach – no, within a soldier's reach.  Anguish closed a black fist in the historian's gut.  I cannot watch.

Yet I must.

He saw fewer than a hundred soldiers still upright, but it had become a slaughter – the only battle that remained was among Korbolo's forces for the chance of delivering fatal blows and raising grisly trophies with triumphant shrieks.  The Seventh were falling, and falling, using naught but flesh and bone to shield their leaders – the ones who had led them across a continent, to die now, almost within the shadow of Aren's high walls.

And on those walls was ranged an army, ten thousand fellow soldiers to witness this, the greatest crime ever committed by a Malazan High Fist.

Mallick Rel is not as smart as he likes to think

The Jhistal dismounted, stepped forward and bowed.  "I deliver you High Fist Pormqual and his ten thousand.  More, I deliver to you the city of Aren, in Sha'ik's name-"

"Wrong," Duiker chuckled.

Mallick Rel faced him.

"You've not delivered Aren, Jhistal."

"What claims do you make now, old man?"

"I'm surprised you didn't notice," the historian said.  Too busy gloating, I guess.  Take a close look at the companies around you, especially those to the south..."

Mallick's eyes narrowed as he scanned the gathered legions.  Then he paled.  "Blistig!"

"Seems the commander and his garrison decided to stay behind after all.  Granted, they're only two or three hundred, but we both know that will be enough – for the week or so until Tavore arrives.  Aren's walls are high, well impregnated these days with Otataral, I believe – proof against any sorcery.  Thinking on it, I would predict there are Red Blades lining those walls now, as well as the garrison.  You have failed in your betrayal, Jhistal.  Failed."

Not that this is any mercy to the soldiers who followed them out

"Silence!" Korbolo snapped.  He eyed Duiker.  "You are the historian who rode with Coltaine."

The historian faced him.  "I am."

"You are a soldier."

"As you say."

"I do, and so you shall die with these soldiers, in a manner no different-"

"You mean to slaughter ten thousand unarmed men and women, Korbolo Dom?"

"I mean to cripple Tavore before she even sets foot on this continent.  I mean to make her too furious to think.  I mean to crack that façade so she dreams of vengeance day and night, poisoning her every decision."

"You always fashioned yourself as the Empire's harshest Fist, didn't you, Korbolo Dom?  As if cruelty's a virtue..."

And finally, a single D'ivers has found the gate Iskaral Pust worked so hard to hide, but gives possibly the best possible reason for not wanting to Ascend and become a god:

"What is your name, D'ivers?"

"Morgora, and I've been with you for months.  Months!  I saw you lay the false trail – I saw you painting those hand and paw marks on the rocks!  I saw you move that stone to the forest's edge!  My kin may be idiots, but I am not!"

"You'll never get to the real gate!" Iskaral Pust shrieked.  "Never!"

"I - don't – want - to!" 

His eyes narrowed on her sharp-featured face.  He began circling her.  "Indeed," he crooned, "and why is that?"

Twisting to keep him in front of her, she crossed her arms and regarded him down the length of her nose.  "I escaped Dal Hon to be rid of idiots.  Why would I become Ascendant just to rule over other idiots?"

[Cain]

Book Three: Memories of Ice

Toc the Younger is clearly somewhat taken with myths of noble savages, living in harmony with nature.  Tool sets him straight

The T'lan Imass reached out to rest the tips of its bony fingers on the Ay's broad head.  The animal went perfectly still.  "An old friend?  Yes, we adopted such animals into our tribes.  It was that or see them starve.  We were, you see, responsible for that starvation."

"Responsible?  As in overhunting?  I'd have thought your kind was one with nature.  All those spirits, all those rituals of propitiation-"

"Toc the Younger," Tool interrupted, "do you mock me, or your own ignorance?  Not even the lichen of the tundra is at peace.  All is struggle, all is a war for dominance.  Those who lose, vanish."

"And we're no different, you're saying-"

"We are, soldier.  We possess the privilege of choice.  The gift of foresight.  Though we often come too late in acknowledging those responsibilities..."

Sun Tzu did not say explicitly that the best form of fighting is to steal your enemies' provisions and run away really fast, but I'm fairly certain it was implied.

Dujek was frowning.  "Where is the Crimson Guard?"

"Prince K'azz D'Avore and his forces are attending to internal matters, for the moment, High Fist.  They will not be joining our efforts against the Pannion Domin."

"Too bad," Dujek muttered.

Brood shrugged.  "Auxiliary units have been assembled to replace them.  A Saltoan Horse Regiment, four clans of the Barghast, a mercenary company from One Eye Cat, and another from Mott-"

Whiskeyjack seemed to choke.  He coughed, then shook his head.  "That wouldn't be Mott Irregulars, Warlord, would it?"

Brood's smile revealed filed teeth.  "Aye, you've some experience with them, haven't you Commander?  When you soldiered among the Bridgeburners."

"They were a handful," Whiskeyjack agreed, "though not just in a fight – they spent most of their time stealing our supplies then running away, as I recall."

"A talent for logistics, we called it," Kallor commented.

The political situation in Capustan is explained.  Also, for people who played Civilization II, a very unfortunate reason as to why the Fanatic Unit needs no support is given here.,

"The situation in Capustan is a bit confused," the warlord explained.  "The city's ruled by a prince and a coalition of High Priests, and the two factions are ever at odds with each other.  Problems have been compounded by the prince's hiring a mercenary company to augment his own minimal forces-"

"Which company?" Whiskeyjack asked.

"The Grey Swords.  Have you heard of them, Commander?"

"No."

"Nor have I," Brood said.  "It's said they are from Elingarth – a decent complement: over seven thousand.  Whether they'll prove worthy of the usurious fees they've carved from the prince remains to be seen.  Hood knows, their so-called standard contract is almost twice the coin of what the Crimson Guard demands."

"Their commander read the situation," Kallor commented, his tone suggesting vast weariness, if not outright boredom.  "Prince Jelarkan has more coin than soldiers, and the Pannions won't be bought off – it's a holy war as far as the Seer's concerned, after all.  To worsen matters, the council of High Priests has the backing of each temple's private company of highly trained, well equipped soldiers.  That's almost three thousand of the city's most able fighters, whilst the prince himself has been left with the dregs for his own Capanthall – which he's prevented by expanding beyond two thousand by law.  For years the Mask Council – the coalition of temples – has been using the Capanthall as a recruiting ground for their own companies, bribing away the best-"

Clearly the Mhybe wasn't alone in suspecting that, given the opportunity, Kallor would have gone on all afternoon, for Whiskeyjack interrupted the man as he drew breath.

"So this Prince Jelarkan circumvented the law by hiring mercenaries.

"Correct," was Brood's swift reply.  "In any case, the Mask Council has managed to invoke yet another law, preventing the Grey Swords from active engagement beyond the city walls, so the crossing will not be contested-"

"Idiots," Dujek growled.  "Given this is a holy war, you'd think the temples would do all they could to effect a united front against the Pannions."

"I imagine they believe they are," Kallor answered with a sneer that could have been meant for Dujek, or the priests in Capustan, or both.  "While at the same time ensuring that the prince's power remains in check."

"It's more complicated than that," Brood countered.  "The ruler of Maurik capitulated with little bloodshed by arresting all the priests in her city and handing them over to the Pannions' Tenescowri.  In one move, she saved her city and its citizens, topped up her royal coffers with booty from the temples and got rid of an eternal thorn in her side.  The Pannion Seer granted her a governorship, which is better than being torn apart and devoured by the Tenescowri – which is what happened to the priests."

The Mhybe hissed.  "Torn apart and devoured?"

"Aye," the warlord said.  "The Tenescowri are the Seer's peasant army – they're fanatics that the Seer doesn't bother supplying.  Indeed, he's given them his holy blessing to do whatever is necessary to feed and arm themselves.  If certain other rumours are true, then cannibalism is the least of their horrors."

The Malazan system of conquest followed a set of rules that was systematic and effective.  The victorious army was never meant to remain in place beyond the peacekeeping transition and handover to a firmly entrenched and fully functioning civil government in the Malazan style.  Civic control was not a burden the army had been trained for – it was best achieved through bureaucratic manipulation of the conquered city's economy.  "Hold those strings and the people will dance for you," had been the core belief of the Emperor, and he'd proved the truth of it again and again – nor did the Empress venture any alterations to the method.  Acquiring that control involved both imposition of legal authority and a thorough infiltration of whatever black market happened to be operating at the time.  "Since you can never crush a black market the next best thing is to run it."  And that task belonged to the Claw.

Tool, First Sword of the T'lan Imass, has doubts about his skills

"She's a mage."

"The answer to that is before you."

"The hot bathwater appearing from nowhere, you mean."

Tool set the finished arrowhead down and reached for another blank.  "I meant the Seguleh, Toc the Younger."

The scout grunted.  "Ensorcelled – forced to serve her – Hood's breath, she's made them slaves!"

The T'lan Imass paused to regard him.  "This bothers you?  Are there not slaves in the Malazan Empire?"

"Aye.  Debtors, petty criminals, spoils of war.  But, Tool, these are Seguleh!  The most feared warriors on this continent.  Especially the way they attack without the slightest warning, for reasons they only know-"

"Their communication," Tool said, "is mostly non-verbal.  They assert dominance with posture, faint gestures, direction of stance and tilt of head."

Toc blinked.  "They do?  Oh.  Then why haven't I, in my ignorance, been cut down long ago?"

"Your unease in their presence conveys submission," the T'lan Imass replied.

"A natural coward, that's me.  I take it, then, that you show no...unease."

"I yield to no-one, Toc the Younger."

The Malazan was silent, thinking on Tool's words.  Then he said "that oldest brother – Mok – his mask bears but twin scars.  I think I know what that means and if I'm right..." He slowly shook his head.

The undead warrior glanced up, shadowed gaze not wavering from the scout's face.  "The young one who challenged me – Senu – was... good.  Hd I not anticipated him, had I not prevented him from fully drawing his swords, our duel might have been a long one."

Toc scowled.  How could you tell how good he was when he didn't even get his swords clear of their scabbards?"

"He parried my attacks with them, none the less."

Toc's lone eye slowly widened.  "He parried you with half-drawn blades?

"The first two attacks, yes, but not the third."

Sacrificing goats never helps.  Ever.

"Now," Whiskeyjack drawled, "why don't you tell me what else you've got going on, Quick Ben?"

The mage blinked innocently.  "Sir?"

"You've visited every temple and every seer in Pale, mage.  You've spent a small fortune on readers of the Deck.  Hood, I've a report of you sacrificing a goat at dawn atop a barrow – what in the Abyss were you up to with that, Quick?"

"All right," the man muttered, "the goat thing stinks of desperation, I admit it.  I got carried away."

The city's history was a tortured, bizarre tale, and it had been Itkovian's task among the company to glean its depths.  The Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords was a position that demanded both scholarly pursuits and military prowess.  While many would hold the two disciplines as distinct, the truth was in fact the opposite.

From histories and philosophies and religion came an understanding of human motivation, and motivation lay at the heart of tactics and strategy.  Just as people moved in patterns, so too did their thoughts.  A Shield Anvil must predict, anticipate, and this applied to the potential actions of allies as well as enemies.

Trake, the Tiger of Summer, Lord of War (contested) and Soletaken remembers how the First Empire ended:

I was there at the end, one of the few survivors once the T'lan Imass were done with us.  Brutal, merciful slaughter.  They had no choice – I see that now, though none of us were prepared to forgive.  Not then.  The wounds were too fresh.

Gods, we tore a warren to pieces on that distant continent.  Turned the eastlands into molten stone that cooled and became something that defied sorcery.  The T'lan Imass sacrificed thousands to cut away the cancer we had become.  It was the end, the end of wall that promise, all that bright glory.  The end of the First Empire.  Hubris, to have claimed a name that rightly belonged to the T'lan Imass...

We fled, a handful of survivors.  Ryllandaras, an old friend – we fell out, clashed, then clashed again on another continent.  He had gone the farthest, found a way to control the gifts – Soletaken and D'ivers both.  White Jackal.  Ay'tog.  Agkor.  And my other companion, Messremb – where has he gone?  A kind soul, twisted by madness, yet so loyal, ever loyal..

Ascending.  Fierce arrival – the First Heroes.  Dark, savage.

Brukhalian has doubts about the effectiveness of the help on its way, but thinks he can still turn it to his advantage:

Relief of Capustan, it seemed, was not their primary goal.  An attempt would be made, but the Mortal Sword began to suspect it would be characterized by feints and minor skirmishes – rather than a direct confrontation.  This led Brukhalian to suspect that Caladan Brood's vaunted army, worn down by years of war with this Malazan Empire, had either lost the will to fight, or was so badly mauled that its combat effectiveness was virtually gone.

None the less, he could still think of ways in which to make these approaching allies useful.  Often, the perception of threat was sufficient... if we can hurt the Septarch badly enough to make him lose his nerve upon the imminent arrival of Brood's relieving army.  Or, if the defence crumbled, then an avenue of withdrawal for the Grey Swords was possible.

BRUKHALIAN IS NOT INTERESTED IN YOUR EPIC TALE

A face of pallid, lined skin over taut bones, eyes set deep within ridged sockets and brow, the glimmer of tusks protruding above the lower lip.  The figure's mouth curved into a faint, mocking smile.  "Fener's Mortal Sword," he said in the language of the Elin, his voice low and soft, "I bring you greetings from Hood, Lord of Death."

Brukhalian grunted, said nothing.

"Warrior," the apparition continued after a moment, "your reaction to my arrival seems almost...laconic.  Are you truly as calm as you would have me believe?"

"I am Fener's Mortal Sword," Brukhalian replied.

"Yes," the Jaghut drawled.  "I know.  I, on the other hand, am Hood's Herald, once known as Gethol.  The tale that lies behind my present...servitude, is more than worthy of an epic poem.  Or three.  Are you not curious?"

"No."

The gods are scheming bastards.  Surprise!

"What does Hood propose, sir?"

"This city is doomed, Mortal Sword.  Yet your formidable army need not join in the inevitable crush at Hood's Gate.  Such a sacrifice would be pointless, and indeed a great loss.  The Pannion Domin is no more than single, rather minor, element in a much vaster war – a war in which all the gods shall partake...allied one and all...against an enemy who seeks nothing less than the annihilation of all rivals.  Thus.  Hood offers you his warren, a means of extrication for you and your soldiers.  Yet you must choose quickly, for the warren's path here cannot survive the arrival of the Pannion's forces."

"What you offer, sir, demands the breaking of our contract."

The Herald's laugh was contemptuous.  "As I most vehemently told Hood, you humans are a truly pathetic lot.  A contract?  Scratchings on vellum.  My lord's offer is not a thing to be negotiated."

"And in accepting Hood's warren," Brukhalian said quietly, "the face of our patron changes, yes? Fener's...inaccessibility... has made him a liability.  And so Hood acts quickly, eager to strip the Boar of Summer's mortal servants, preferably intact, to thereafter serve him and him alone."

"Foolish man," Gethol sneered.  "Fener shall be the first casualty in the war with the Crippled God.  The Boar shall fall – and none can save him."

Well, at least she had semi-regular baths

"It's always the way, isn't it?  A civilization flowers, then a horde of grunting savages with close-set eyes show up and step on it.  Malazan Empire take note."

""Never ignore the barbarians,"" Toc muttered.  "Emperor Kellanved's words."

"Surprisingly wise.  What happened to him?"

"He was murdered by a woman with close-set eyes... But she was from civilized stock.  Napan... if you can call Napans civilized.  From the heart of the empire, in any case."

[Cain]

Picker has had a revelation about her particular squad of Bridgeburners: they're all fucked in the head.

Convulsed in his own fits, Hedge had rolled perilously close to the flames.  Picker stretched out one booted foot and kicked the sapper.  "Everyone calm down," she snapped.  "Before the whole squad gets burnt crispy.  Hood's breath!"

In the gloom at her side, Blend spoke.  "We're dying of boredom, Corporal, that's the problem."

"If boredom was fatal there wouldn't be a soldier alive on this whole world, Blend.  Feeble excuse.  The problem's simple: starting with the sergeant writhing around over there, the whole Oponn-cursed squad is insane."

"Except for you, of course-"

"You kissing my dung-stained boots, lass?  Wrong move.  I'm crazier than the rest of you.  If I wasn't, I'd have run off long ago.  Gods, look at these idiots.  Got a mage wearing his dead mother's hair and every time he opens his warren, we get attacked by snarling ground squirrels.  Got a sapper with permanent flashburns whose bladder must be a warren unto itself since I ain't seen him wander off once and it's three days running now at this camp.  Got a Napan woman being stalked by a rogue bhederin bull that's either blind or sees a lot more than we do when he looks at her.  And then there's a healer who went and got himself so badly sunburned he's running a fever."

"Don't bother mentioning Antsy," Blend murmured.  "The sergeant would top anyone's list as a wall-eyed lunatic-"

"I wasn't done.  Got a woman who likes sneaking up on her friends.  And finally," she added in a low growl, "we've got dear old Antsy.  Nerves of cold iron, that one.  Convinced the gods themselves have snatched Quick Ben and it's all Ansty's own fault.  Somehow."

Capustan's walls are breached.  However, not everything is going well for the enemy forces...

"The Pannions had reached through to Tular Camp, Shield Anvil.  Senar Camp had fallen – its inhabitants slaughtered.  Everyone.  Children – sir – I am sorry, but the horror remains with me..."

"Go on."

"Jehbar Tower was surrounded, its defenders besieged.  Such was the situation on my arrival, sir.  Our soldiers were scattered, fighting in clumps, many of them surrounded.  We were being cut down everywhere I looked."  He paused, drew a ragged breath, then continued. 

"Such was the situation upon my arrival.  As I prepared to return to you with the news, I was...absconded-"

"You were what?"

"Apologies, sir.  I can think of no other word.  A foreigner appeared, with but half a score of Capan followers, a militia of sorts, sir.  And a Lestari sergeant.  The man took charge – of everyone, myself included.  Shield Anvil, I argued-"

"Clearly this man was persuasive.  Resume your tale, sir."

"The foreigner had his own soldiers break down the door into Tular Camp.  He demanded that its inhabitants come out and fight.  For their children-"

"And he convinced them?"

"Sir, he held in his arms what was left of a child from Senar Camp.  The enemy, sir – the Pannions – someone had begun to eat that child-" Karnadas moved up behind the young man, hands settling on his shoulders.

"He convinced them," Itkovian said.

The messenger nodded.  "The foreigner – he then....he then took what was left of the child's tunic, and has made of it a standard.  I saw it myself.  Sir, I ceased arguing then – I'm sorry-"

"I understand you, sir."

"There was no shortage of weapons.  The Tular Capanthall armed themselves – four, five hundred came out.  Men and women.  The foreigner had sent out his own followers and they began returning.  With them, surviving bands of Capanthall soldiery, a few Gidrath, Coralessian, and Grey Swords, sir.  The Trimaster had been killed, you see-"

"The foreigner rallied them," Itkovian cut in.  "Then what?"

"We marched to the relief of Jehbar Tower, sir.  Shield Anvil, behind that horrible banner, we delivered slaughter."

"The condition of the tower?"

"Ruined, sir.  Alas.  There were but twenty survivors among the Capanthall, defending it.  They are now with the foreigner.  I, uh, returned to my responsibilities then, sir, and was given leave to report to you-"

"Generous of this stranger.  What was the disposition of the militia at this time?"

"They were about to sortie through the rubble of the West Gate, sir-"

"What?"

"A Beklite company was coming up to reinforce the attackers inside the city.  But those attackers were all dead.  The foreigner planned on surprising them with that fact."

"Twin Tusks, who is this man?"

The T'lan Imass's side of the story:

"Have none of you ever wondered," Silverfox said, looking at each of them, "why the T'lan Imass warred with the Jaghut?"

"Perhaps an explanation," Dujek said, "will assist us in understanding."

Silverfox gave a sharp nod.  "When the first Imass emerged, they were forced to live in the shadow of the Jaghut.  Tolerated, ignored, but only in small, manageable numbers.  Pushed to the poorest of lands.  Then Tyrants arose among the Jaghut, who found pleasure in enslaving them, in forcing upon them a nightmarish existence – that successive generations were born into and so knew of no other life, nothing of freedom itself.

The lesson was hard, not easily swallowed, for the truth was this: there were intelligent beings in the world who exploited the virtues of others, their compassion, their love, their faith in kin.  Exploited and mocked.  How many Imass tribes discovered that their gods were in fact Jaghut Tyrants?  Hidden behind friendly masks.  Tyrants, who manipulated them with weapons of faith.

The rebellion was inevitable, and it was devastating for the Imass.  Weaker, uncertain even of what it was they sought, or what freedom would show them should they find it... But we would not relent.  We could not."

Kallor sneered.  "There were never more than but a handful of Tyrants among the Jaghut, woman."

"A handful was too many, and aye, we found allies among the Jaghut – those for whom the activities of the Tyrants were reprehensible.  But we now carried scars.  Scars born of mistrust, of betrayal.  We could trust only in our own kind.  In the name of our generations to come, all Jaghut would have to die. None could be left, to produce more children, to permit among those children the rise of new Tyrants."

"And how," Korlat asked, "does this relate to the K'Chain Che'Malle?"

"Before the Jaghut ruled this world, the K'Chain Che'Malle ruled.  The first Jaghut were to the K'Chain Che'Malle as the first Imass were to the Jaghut."  She paused, her heavy gaze moving among them all.  "In each species is born the seeds of domination.  Our wars with the Jaghut destroyed us, as a living people, as a vibrant, evolving culture.  This was the price we paid, to ensure the freedom you know possess.  Our eternal sacrifice."  She felt silent once more, then continued in a harder tone, "So, now, I ask you – all of you, who have taken upon yourselves the task of waging war against a tyrannical, all-devouring empire, of possibly sacrificing your own lives to the benefit of peoples who know nothing of you, of lands you have never seen and will never set foot upon – I ask you, what is there about the T'lan Imass that still escapes understanding?  Destroy the Pannion Domin.  It must be done.  For me, for my T'lan Imass, awaits the task of destroying the threat hiding behind the Pannion Seer."

Whiskeyjack has remarkable feet (uncomfirmed)

"Damned right.   Whiskeyjack should've been Emperor, when the old one got knocked off.  Not Laseen.  But she knew who her rival was, didn't she just.  That's why she stripped him of rank, turned him into a Hood-damned sergeant and sent him away, far away."

"An ambitious man, this Whiskeyjack, then."

"Not in the least, Daru.  And that's the whole point.  Would've made a good Emperor, I said.  Not wanting the job is the best and only qualification worth considering."

"A curious assertion, dear."

"I ain't."

"Pardon, you ain't what?"

"Curious.  Listen, the Malazan Empire would be a far different thing, if Whiskeyjack had taken the throne all those years ago.  If he'd done what we all wanted him to do and grabbed Laseen by the scruff of her neck and sent her through a tower window."

"And was he capable of such a remarkable feat?"

The two marines looked confused.  One turned to her companion.  "Seen him out of his boots?"

The other shook her head.  "No.  Still, they might be remarkable.  Why not?"

"Then it'd be a boot to the backside, but I said the scruff of the neck."

"Well, feet that could do that would be remarkable, wouldn't they?"

"You got a point, friend."

"Ahem," Kruppe interrupted.  "A remarkable feat, dears.  As in, achievement."

"Oh."

"Oh yeah, right.  Got it.  So you're asking could he have done it if he'd a mind to?  Sure.  Not good to cross Whiskeyjack, and if that's not enough, he's got wits."

"So, why then, Kruppe asks in wonder, did he not do so at the time?"

"Because he's a soldier, you idiot.  Laseen's taking back the throne was messy enough.  The whole empire was shaky.  People start stabbing and jumping into a blood-wet throne room and sometimes it don't stop, sometimes it's like dominoes, right?  One after another after another, and the whole thing falls apart.  He was the one we all looked to, right?  Waiting to see how he'd take it, Laseen and all that.  And when he just saluted and said, "Yes, Empress," well, things just settled back down.

Itkovian shows why a Shield Anvil can be the most fearsome enemy you can ever have the misfortune of facing:

On the centre of the table was a huge silver plate, on which had been made a fire from snapped chair legs and picture frames – mostly charcoal now. Spitted above it was the remains of a skinned human torso, no longer being turned, underside blackening. Severed at the knees, the two thighs bound as one by copper wire. Arms pulled off at the shoulders, though they too had once been tied. Head left on, split and charred. Knives had sliced off the flesh in places all over the body. Thighs, buttocks, chest, back, face. But this, Itkovian knew, had not been a feast born of hunger. These Tenescowri in this room looked better fed than any other he had yet seen. No, here, this night, had been a celebration. To the left of the throne, half in shadow, was an X-shaped cross made from two pikes. On it was stretched Prince Jelarkan's skin.

'The dear prince was dead before we began cooking,' the young man on the throne said. 'We are not consciously cruel, after all. You are not Brukhalian, for Brukhalian is dead. You must be Itkovian, the so-called Shield Anvil of Fener.'

Seerdomin appeared from behind the throne, pale-armoured and helmed, fur-backed, their faces hidden by grilled face-baskets, heavy battleaxes in their gauntleted hands. Four, eight, a dozen. Twenty. And still more filed out.

The man on the throne smiled. 'Your soldiers look ... tired. Unequal to this particular task. Do you know me, Itkovian? I am Anaster, First Child of the Dead Seed. Tell me, where are the people of this city? What have you done with them? Oh, let me guess. They cower in tunnels beneath the streets. Guarded by a handful of surviving Gidrath, a company or two of your Grey Swords, some of the prince's Capan Guard. I imagine Prince Arard hides below as well. A shame, that. We have wanted him a long time. Well, the search for the hidden entrances continues. They shall be found. Capustan shall be cleansed, Shield Anvil, though, alas, you will not live to see that glorious day.'

Itkovian studied the young man, and saw what he had not expected to see. 'First Child,' he said. 'There is despair within you. I will take it from you, sir, and with it your burdens.'

Anaster jolted as if he had been physically struck. He drew his knees up, climbed onto the seat of the throne, face twitching. A hand closed on the strange obsidian dagger in his belt, then flinched away as if the stone was hot. His mother screamed, clawed up her son's outstretched arm. Snarling, he pulled himself free. She sank down to the floor, curled up.

'I am not your father,' Itkovian continued, 'but I shall be as him. Unleash your flood, First Child.'

The young man stared, lips peeling back to bare his teeth. 'Who – what are you?' he hissed.

The captain stepped forward. 'We forgive your ignorance, sir,' she said. 'He is the Shield Anvil. Fener knows grief, so much grief that it is beyond his capacity to withstand it. And so he chooses a human heart. Armoured. A mortal soul, to assume the sorrow of the world. The Shield Anvil.

'These days and nights have witnessed vast sorrow, profound shame – all of which, we see now, is writ as plain knowledge in your eyes. You cannot deceive yourself, sir, can you?'

'You never could,' Itkovian said. 'Give me your despair, First Child. I am ready to receive it.'

Anaster's wail rang through the main hall. He clambered still further up the throne's high back, arms wrapping around himself. All eyes held on him. No-one moved. Chest heaving, the First Child stared at Itkovian. Then he shook his head. 'No,' he whispered, 'you shall not have my – my despair.'

The captain hissed.  'This is a gift! First Child—'

'Not!'

Itkovian seemed to sag. Sword-point wavering, lowering. The recruit moved close to support the Shield Anvil.

'You cannot have it! You cannot have it!'

The captain's eyes were wide as she turned to Itkovian. 'Sir, I am unable to countenance this—'

The Shield Anvil shook his head, slowly straightened once more. 'No, I understand. The First Child – within him there is naught but despair. Without it...' He is as nothing.

'I want them all killed!' Anaster shrieked brokenly. 'Seerdomin! Kill them all!'

[Cain]

Gruntle only wants to be the Mortal Sword of Trake on weekends and the occasional late evening.

'I believe we have matters to discuss, you and I, Mortal Sword.'

'You believe what you like,' the Daru replied. 'I've already made it plain to the Whiskered One that I'm a bad choice—'

Rath'Trake seemed to choke. 'The Whiskered One?' he sputtered in indignation. Stonny laughed, and clouted the priest on the shoulder. 'He's a reverent bastard, ain't he just?'

'I don't kneel to anyone,' Gruntle growled. 'And that includes gods. And if scrubbing would do it, I'd get these stripes off my hide right now.'

The priest rubbed his bruised shoulder, the eyes within the feline mask glaring at Stonny. At Gruntle's words he faced the Daru again.

'These are not matters open to debate, Mortal Sword. You are what you are—'

'I'm a caravan guard captain, and damned good at it. When I'm sober, that is.'

'You are the master of war in the name of the Lord of Summer—'

'We'll call that a hobby.'

'A – a what!?'

More Malazan tactics:

The details before the commander were precise in following the Malazan doctrine of set battles, as devised by Dassem Ultor decades past. Shield-locked lines and squares worked best in defending engagements. When delivering chaos into massed enemy ranks in an assault, however, it was found that smaller, tighter units worked best. A successful advance that drove the enemy back often lost its momentum, and, indeed, its contact with the retreating foes, amidst a corpse-cluttered ground and the need to maintain closed ranks. Almost a thousand four-squad wedges, of thirty-five to forty soldiers each, on the other hand, actually delayed the moment of rout. Flight was more difficult, communication problematic, and lines of sight to fellow soldiers often broken – none knew what the others were doing, and in the face of that uncertainty, they often hesitated before fleeing – a fatal option.

The Empire aint all bad:

'The Pannion Domin—'

'Is just another empire,' the Lord of Moon's Spawn drawled. 'And as such, its power represents a threat. Which we are intending to obliterate. Liberation of the commonalty may well result, but it cannot be our goal. Free an adder and it will still bite you, given the chance.'

'So we are to crush the Pannion Seer, only to have some High Fist of the Malazan Empire take his place?' Rake handed the warlord a cup of wine. The Tiste Andii's eyes were veiled, almost sleepy as he studied Brood.

'The Domin is an empire that sows horror and oppression among its own people,' Rake said. 'None of us here would deny that. Thus, for ethical reasons alone, there was just cause for marching upon it.'

'Which is what we've been saying all along—'

'I heard you the first time, Kallor. Your penchant for repetition is wearisome. I have described but one ... excuse. One reason. Yet it appears that you have all allowed that reason to overwhelm all others, whilst to my mind it is the least in importance.' He sipped his wine, then continued. 'However, let us stay with it for a moment. Horror and oppression, the face of the Pannion Domin. Consider, if you will, those cities and territories on Genabackis that are now under Malazan rule. Horror? No more so than mortals must daily face in their normal lives. Oppression? Every government requires laws, and from what I can tell Malazan laws are, if anything, among the least repressive of any empire I have known.

'Now. The Seer is removed, a High Fist and Malazan-style governance replaces it. The result? Peace, reparation, law, order.' He scanned the others, then slowly raised a single eyebrow. 'Fifteen years ago, Genabaris was a fetid sore on the northwest coast, and Nathilog even worse. And now, under Malazan rule? Rivals to Darujhistan herself. If you truly wish the best for the common citizens of Pannion, why do you not welcome the Empress?'

'The truth is simple – to me at least. Brood, you and I, we have fought the Malazans as liberators in truth. Asking no coin, no land. Our motives aren't even clear to us – imagine how they must seem to the Empress? Inexplicable. We appear to be bound to lofty ideals, to nearly outrageous notions of self-sacrifice. We are her enemy, and I don't think she even knows why.'

'Sing me the Abyss,' Kallor sneered. 'In her Empire there would be no place for us – not one of us.'

'Does that surprise you?' Rake asked. 'We cannot be controlled. The truth laid bare is we fight for our own freedom. No borders for Moon's Spawn. No world-spanning peace that would make warlords and generals and mercenary companies obsolete. We fight against the imposition of order and the mailed fist that must hide behind it, because we're not the ones wielding that fist.'

'Nor would I ever wish to,' Brood growled.

'Precisely. So why begrudge the Empress possessing the desire and its attendant responsibilities?'

Assassins: they're people who simplify matters.

My point is, if we're to escape this – with her – we've a better chance of finding help in Capustan than out here in this wasteland.'

'Saltoan—'

'Is a week or more away, longer with this wagon. Besides, the city is Hood's crusted navel incarnate. I wouldn't take Rallick Nom's axe-wielding mother to Saltoan.'

Murillio sighed. 'Rallick Nom.'

'What of him?'

'I wish he were here.'

'Why?'

'So he could kill someone. Anyone. The man's a wonder at simplifying matters.'

Coll grunted a laugh. ' "Simplifying matters." Wait until I tell him that one. Hey, Rallick, you're not an assassin, you know, you're just a man who simplifies.'

'The Tenescowri, sir, is the Domin's surviving commonalty – people torn from their land, from their villages, their homes, their farms. All food production has ceased, and in its place has arisen the horror of cannibalism. The countryside before us is indeed razed, but not in answer to us. It has been a wasteland for some time, sir. Thus, while the flower still blazes its colour, it is in fact already dead.'

'Drying from a hook beneath the Crippled God's shelf?'

Itkovian shrugged. 'Caladan Brood and the High Fist have selected cities as their destinations. Lest, Setta, Maurik and Coral. Of these, I believe only the last still lives. None of the others would be able to feed a defending army; indeed, not even its own citizenry – if any still remain. The Seer has no choice but to concentrate his forces on the one city where he now resides, and his soldiers will have no choice but to assume the practices of the Tenescowri. I suspect that the Tenescowri were created for that eventual purpose – as food for the soldiers.'

Gruntle's expression was troubled. 'What you describe, Itkovian, is an empire that was never meant to sustain itself.'

'Unless it could continue to expand without surcease.'

'But even then, it would be alive only on its outer, ever-advancing edges, spreading out from a dead core, a core that grew with it.'

Itkovian nodded. 'Aye, sir.'

'Whiskeyjack, we're the Malazans, remember? Nothing we do is ever supposed to reveal a hint of our long-term plans – mortal empires aren't supposed to think that far ahead. And we're damned good at following that principle, you and I. Hood take me, Laseen inverted the command structure for a reason, you know.'

'So the right people would be there at ground level when Shadowthrone and Cotillion made their move, aye.'

'Not just them, Whiskeyjack.'

'This should be made known to Quick Ben – to all of the Bridgeburners, in fact.'

'No. In any case, don't you think your wizard's figured things out yet?' 'If so, then why did he send Kalam after the Empress?'

'Because Kalam needs to be convinced in person, that's why. Face to face with the Empress. Quick Ben knew that.'

'Then I must be the only thick-witted one in this entire imperial game,' Whiskeyjack sighed.

'Maybe the only truly honourable one, at any rate. Look, we knew the Crippled God was getting ready to make a move. We knew the gods would make a mess of things. Granted, we didn't anticipate the Elder Gods getting involved, but that's neither here nor there, is it? The point was, we knew trouble was coming. From more than one direction – but how could we have guessed that what was going on in the Pannion Domin was in any way related to the efforts of the Crippled God?

'Even so, I don't think it was entirely chance that it was a couple of Bridgeburners who bumped into that agent of the Chained One – that sickly artisan from Darujhistan; nor that Quick Ben was there to confirm the arrival of the House of Chains. Laseen has always understood the value of tactical placement yielding results – Hood knows, she taught that to the Emperor, not the other way round. The Crippled God's pocket-warren wanders – it always has. That it wandered to the hills between Pale and Darujhistan was an opportunity the Crippled God could not pass up – if he was going to do anything, he had to act. And we caught him. Maybe not in a way we'd anticipated, but we caught him.'

'Sometimes,' Artanthos said from a half-dozen paces away, 'it comes back and sinks its teeth into you, doesn't it?'
Whiskeyjack eyed the man. 'What does?'

'Dassem Ultor's style of command. Soldiers given permission to think, to question, to argue ...'

'Making us the best army this world has ever seen, Standard- Bearer.'

'None the less ...'

'There is no "none the less". It is the reason why we're the best. And when time comes for the hard orders, you'll see the discipline – you may not have seen it here and now, but it's there, under the surface, and it's solid.'

A disturbing theory about the warren of Meanas and what Shadowthrone truly rules:

'The Tiste Edur are of Elder Shadow,' Quick Ben noted.

'Within the seas, shadows swim. Kurald Emurlahn. The Warren of the Tiste Edur, Elder Shadow, is broken, and has been lost to mortals.'

'Lost?' Quick Ben's brows rose. 'Never found, you mean. Meanas – where Shadowthrone and Cotillion and the Hounds dwell—'

'Is naught but a gateway,' the Moranth officer finished. Paran grunted.

'If a shadow could cast a shadow, that shadow would be Meanas – is that what you two are saying? Shadowthrone rules the guardhouse?'

Quick Ben grinned. 'What a delicious image, Captain.'

'A disturbing one,' he muttered in reply. The Hounds of Shadow – they are the guardians of the gate. Damn, that makes too much sense to be in error. But the warren is also shattered. Meaning, that gate might not lead anywhere. Or maybe it belongs to the largest fragment. Does Shadowthrone know the truth? That his mighty Throne of Shadows is ... is what? A castellan's chair? A gatekeeper's perch?

Mortal Sword is not a post that comes with a job description.

'You said you are glad that I've come,' Gruntle rumbled. 'Why?'

'Well, you're a Mortal Sword, right? They're calling me one, too. I guess, uh, well. What does that mean, anyway?'

'You don't know?'

'No. Do you?'

Gruntle said nothing for a long moment, then he grinned. 'Not really.'

[Cain]

Book Four: House of Chains

Karsa Orlong seeks his father's blessing for a raid:

"Then will you bless me?"

"What would you have me bless, son?  The Seven Gods who are a lie?  The glory that is empty?  Will I be pleased in your slaying of children?  In the trophies you will tie to your belt?  My father, Pahlk, would polish bright his own youth, for he is of that age.  What were his words of blessing, Karsa?  That you surpass his achievements?  I imagine not.  Consider his words carefully, and I expect you will find that they served him more than you."

Madness, if it was true, still plagued them, but this had nothing to do with what was eaten or drunk.  At times, the elders had explained, the burdens laid upon a man by the Seven proved too powerful.  A mind must be strong, and strength was found in faith.  For the weak man, for the man who knew doubt, rules and rites could become a cage and imprisonment led to madness.

"We are warriors as you said, Karsa.  And we are young.  Wisdom belongs to old men."

"Yes, the elders," Karsa snapped.  "Who would not bless our journey!"

Bairoth laughed.  "That is our truth and we must carry it with us, unchanged and bitter in our hearts.  But upon our return, Warleader, we shall find that that truth has changed in our absence.  The blessing will have been given after all.  Wait and see."

Karsa's eyes widened.  "The elders will lie?"

"Of course they will lie.  And they will expect us to accept their new truths, and we shall – no, we must, Karsa Orlong.  The glory of our successes must serve to bind the people together – to hold it close is not only selfish, it is potentially deadly.  Think on this, Warleader.  We will be returning to the village with our own claims.  Aye, no doubt a few trophies with us to add proof to our tale, but if we do not share out that glory then the elders will see to it that our claims shall know the poison of disbelief."

"Disbelief?"

"Aye.  They will believe, but only if they can partake of our glory.  They will believe us, but only if we in turn believe them – their reshaping of the past, the blessing that was not given, now given, all the villagers lining our ride out.  They were all there, or so they will tell you, and, eventually, they will themselves come to believe it, and will have the scenes carved in their minds.  Does this still confuse you, Karsa?  If so, then we'd best not speak of wisdom."

Bairoth made no move.  "You do not see what I see," he said quietly.  "There is potential within you, Karsa Orlong, to be your father's son.  I lied earlier when I said I prayed that you would remain free of doubt.  I pray for the very opposite, Warleader.  I pray that doubt comes to you, that it tempers you with its wisdom.  Those heroes in our legends, Karsa Orlong, they were terrible, they were monsters, for they were strangers to uncertainty."

Malazan doctrine summed up in a single sentence: clever beats nasty, every time

"Let's kill him, Sergeant-"
"Enough of that.  Shard, Bell, go find the slavemaster.  Tell him we got his prize.  We'll hand him over, but not for nothing.  Oh, and do it quietly – I don't want the whole town outside here with pitchforks and torches."  The sergeant looked up as another soldier arrived.  "Nice work, Ebron."
"I damn near wet my pants, Cord," the man named Ebron replied, "when he just threw off the nastiest I had."
"Just shows, doesn't it?" Shard muttered.
"Show's what?" Ebron demanded.
"Well, only that clever beats nasty every time, that's all."

Torvald Nom wants your vows checked over by a lawyer then signed in triplicate

"Very well.  I, Karsa Orlong of the Uryd, give my word."

"Good.  I like the formality of that vow.  Sounds like it's real."

"It is.  Do not mock me, else I kill you once I have freed you."

"Ah, now I see the hidden caveat.  I must twist another vow from you, alas-"

The Teblor growled with impatience, then relented and said, "I, Karsa Orlong, shall not kill you once I have freed you, unless given cause."

"Explain the nature of those causes-"

"Are all Daru like you?"

"It needn't be an exhaustive list.  "Cause" being, say, attempted murder, betrayal and mockery of course.  Can you think of any others?"

"Talking too much."

"Well, with that one we're getting into very grey, very murky shades, don't you think?  It's a matter of cultural distinctions-"

"I believe Darujhistan shall be the first city I conquer-"

"I've a feeling the Malazans will get there first, I'm afraid.  Mind you, my beloved city has never been conquered, despite being too cheap to hire a standing army.  The gods not only look down on Darujhistan with a protective eye, they probably drink in its taverns."

Karsa shrugged.  "The Malazan soldiers in Genabaris said the Seven Cities was going to rebel against their occupiers.  That is why the Teblor do not make conquests.  Better that the enemy keeps its land, so that we may raid it again and again."

"Not the imperial way," the Daru responded, shaking his head.  "Possession and control, the two are like insatiable hungers for some people.  Oh, no doubt the Malazans have thought up countless justifications for their wars of expansion.  It's well known the Seven Cities was a rat's warren of feuds and civil wars, leaving most of the population suffering and miserable and starving under the heels of fat warlords and corrupt priest-kings.  And that, with the Malazan conquest, the thugs ended up spiked to the city walls or on the run.  And the wilder tribes no longer sweep down out of the hills to deliver mayhem on their more civilized kin.  And the tyranny of the priesthoods was shattered, putting an end to human sacrifice and extortion.  And of course, the merchants have never been richer, or safer on these roads.  So, all in all, this land is rife for rebellion."

Karsa started at Torvald for a long moment, then said, "Yes, I can see how that would be true."

The Daru grinned.  "You're learning, friend."

"The lessons of civilization."

"Just so.  There's little value in seeking to find reasons for why people do what they do, or feel the way they feel.  Hatred is the most pernicious weed, finding root in any soil.  It feeds on itself."

"With words."

"Indeed, with words.  Form an opinion, say it often enough and pretty soon everyone is saying it right back at you, and then it becomes a conviction, fed by unreasoning anger and defended with weapons of fear.  At which point, words become useless and you're left with a fight to the death."

Karsa grunted.  "A fight beyond death, I would say."

"True enough.  Generation after generation."

"The resurgence of the noble class in the chambers of imperial power has been uncommonly swift.  Indeed, one might say unnaturally so.  Almost as if they were receiving help – but who? we wondered.  Oh, absurd rumours of the return of the Talons persisted.  And every now and then some poor fool who'd been arrested for something completely unrelated went and confessed to being a Talon, but they were young, caught up in romantic notions and the lure of cults and whatnot.  They might well call themselves Talons, but they did not even come close to the real organisation, to Dancer's own – of which many of us Claw possessed firsthand experience.

In any case, back to the matter at hand.  Tavore is of noble blood, and it's now clear a truly covert element of the Talons has returned to plague us, and is making use of the nobility.  Placing sympathetic agents in the military and administration – a mutually profitable infiltration.  But Tavore is now the Adjunct, and as such, her old ties, her old loyalties, must needs be severed."  Pearl paused to tap a finger on the laid-out scroll before him.  "She has given us the Talons, Captain.  We will find this Baudin Younger, and from him we will unravel the entire organization."

Crokus wants a word with Cotillion:

"I'd like some questions answered."

"Indeed."

"Yes.  Such as, why did you and Shadowthrone scheme to destroy Laseen and the empire?  Was it just a desire for revenge?"

The god seemed to flinch within his robes and Cutter felt unseen eyes harden.  "Oh my," Cotillion drawled, "you might force me to reconsider my offer."

"I would know," the Daru pressed on, "so I can understand what you did... did to Apsalar."

"You demand that your patron god justify his actions?"

"It wasn't a demand.  Just a question."

Cotillion said nothing for a long moment.

The fire was slowly dying, embers pulsating with the breeze.  Cutter sensed the presence of a second Hound somewhere in the darkness beyond, moving restlessly.

"Necessities," the god said quietly.  "Games are played, and what may appear precipitous might well be little more than a feint.  Or perhaps it was the city itself, Darujhistan, that would serve our purposes better if it remained free, independent.  There are layers of meaning behind every gesture, every gambit.  I will not explain myself any further than that, Cutter."

"Do – do you regret what you did?"

"You are indeed fearless, aren't you?  Regret?  Yes.  Many, many regrets.  One day, perhaps, you will see for yourself that regrets are as nothing.  The value lies in how they are answered."

"They are as vermin, these humans of yours."

"Not mine," Onrack replied.

"You feel no pride, then, at their insipid success?"

The T'lan Imass cocked his head.  "They are prone to mistakes, Trull Sengar.  The Logros have killed them in their thousands when the need to reassert order made doing so necessary.  With ever greater frequency they annihilate themselves, for success breeds contempt for those very qualities that purchased it."

"An army that waits is soon an army at war with itself" – Kellanved

Heboric shrugged.  His bag was nearly full.  "Alas, I possess my own prescient knowledge."  And little good it does me.  "The sundering of an ancient warren scattered fragments throughout the realms.  The Whirlwind Goddess possesses power, but it was not her own, not at first.  Just one more fragment, wandering lost and in pain.  What was the goddess, I wonder, when she first stumbled onto the Whirlwind?  Some desert tribe's minor deity, I suspect.  A spirit of the summer wind, protector of some whirlpool spring possibly.  One among many, without question.  Of course, once she made that fragment her own, it did not take long for her to destroy her old rivals, to assert complete, ruthless domination over the Holy Desert."

"A quaint theory, Ghost Hands," Felisin drawled.  "But it speaks nothing of the Seven Holy Cities, the Seven Holy Books, the prophecy of Dryjhna the Apocalyptic."

Heboric snorted.  "Cults feed upon one another, lass.  Whole myths co-opted to fuel the faith.  Seven Cities was born of nomadic tribes, yet the legacy preceding them was that of an ancient civilization, which in turn rested uneasy on the foundations of a still older empire – the First Empire of the T'lan Imass.  That which survives in memory or falters and fades away is but chance and circumstance."

Heboric is not impressed with the disease and violence at the heart of the rebellion against the Empire.

The city was a microcosm of the Seven Cities, in Heboric's opinion.  Proof of all the ills the Malazan Empire had set out to cure as conquerors then occupiers.  There seemed few virtues to the freedoms to which the ex-priest had been witness, here in this place.  Yet he suspected he was alone in his traitorous thoughts.  The empire sentenced me a criminal, yet I remain a Malazan none the less.  A child of the empire, a reawakened devotee to the old emperor's "peace by the sword".  So, dear Tavore, lead your army to the heart of this rebellion, and cut it dead.  I'll not weep for its loss.

Bidithal had not always been a High Mage.  Not in title, in any case.  In the Dhobri language, he had been known as Rashan'ais.  The archpriest of the cult of Rashan, which had existed in Seven Cities long before the Throne of Shadow had been reoccupied.  In the twisted minds of humanity, it seemed, there was nothing objectionable about worshipping an empty throne.  No stranger than kneeling before the Boar of Summer, before a god of war.

The cult of Rashan had not taken well the ascension of Ammanas – Shadowthrone – and the Rope into positions of penultimate power in the Warren of Shadow.  Though Heboric's knowledge of the details was sketchy at best, it seemed that the cult had torn itself apart.  Blood had been spilled within temple walls, and in the aftermath of desecrating murder, only those who acknowledged the mastery of the new gods remained among the devotees.  To the wayside, bitter and licking deep wounds, the banished slunk away.

Men like Bidithal.

Defeated but, Heboric suspected, not yet finished. For it is the Meanas temples of the Seven Cities that most closely mimic this ruin in architectural style... as if a direct descendant of this land's earliest cults...

Within the Whirlwind, the cast-out Rashan'ais had found refuge.  Further proof of his belief that the Whirlwind was but a fragment of a shattered warren, and that shattered warren was Shadow.  And if that is indeed the case, what hidden purpose holds Bidithal to Sha'ik?  Is he truly loyal to Dryjhna the Apocalyptic, to this holy conflagration in the name of liberty?  Answers to such questions were long in the coming, if at all.  The unknown player, the unseen current beneath this rebellion – indeed, beneath the Malazan Empire  itself – was the new ruler of Shadow and his deadly companion.  Ammanas Shadowthrone, who was Kellanved – the emperor of Malaz and conqueror of Seven Cities.  Cotillion, who was Dancer – master of the Talon and the empire's deadliest assassin, deadlier even than Surly.  Gods below, something breathes there... I now wonder, whose war is this?

Onrack has an encounter with the Titse Liosan, and a linguistic dispute:

Eyes of cold silver fixed on the T'lan Imass with distaste.  "Do you speak, Lifeless One?  Can you understand the Language of Purity?"

"It seems no purer than any other," Onrack replied.

Shrugging, Karsa strode to where his tool kit waited at the base of a tree.  "These years have served me well.  Your company, Leoman.  Sha'ik Elder.  I once vowed that the Malazans were my enemies.  Yet, from what I have seen of the world since that time, I now understand they are no crueller than any other lowlander.  Indeed, they alone seem to profess a sense of justice.  The people of Seven Cities, who so despise them and wish them gone – they seek nothing more than the power that the Malazans took from them.  Power that they used to terrorize their own people.  Leoman, you and your kind make war against justice, and it is not my war."

"Justice?" Leoman bared his teeth.  "You expect me to challenge your words, Toblakai?  I will not.  Sha'ik Reborn says there is no loyalty within me.  Perhaps she is right.  I have seen too much.  Yet here I remain – have you ever wondered why?"

Karsa drew out a chisel and mallet.  "The light fades – and that makes the shadows deeper.  It is the light, I now realize.  That is what is different about them."

"The Apocalyptic, Toblakai.  Disintegration.  Annihilation.  Everything.  Every human... lowlander.  With our twisted horrors – all that we commit on each other.  The depredations, the cruelties.  For every gesture of kindness and compassion, there are ten thousand acts of brutality.  Loyalty?  Aye, I have none.  Not for my kind, and the sooner we obliterate ourselves the better this world will be."

The notion of a life spent tilling fields was repellent to the Teblor warrior.  The rewards seemed to be exclusive to the highborn landowners, whilst the labourers themselves had only a minimal existence, prematurely aged and worn down by the ceaseless toil.  And the distinction between high and low status was born from farming itself – or so it appeared to Karsa.  Wealth was measured in control over other people, and the grip of that control could never be permitted to loosen.  Odd, then, that this rebellion had nothing to do with such inequities, that in truth it had been little more than a struggle between those who would be in charge.

Yet the majority of the suffering had descended upon the lowborn, upon the common folk.  What matter the colour of the collar around a man's neck, if the chains linked to them were identical?

Better to struggle against helplessness, as far as he was concerned.  This blood-soaked Apocalypse was pointless, a misdirected explosion of fury that, when it passed, left the world unchanged.

"Do you not see patterns in history, Fist?  Are you blind to the cycles we all suffer through?  Look upon this desert, this wasteland you would cross.  Yours is not the first empire that would claim it.  And what of the tribes?  Before the Khundryl, before the Kherahn Dhobri and the Tregyn, there were the Sanid, and the Oruth, and before them there were others whose names have vanished.  Look upon the ruined cities, the old roads.  The past is all patterns, and those patterns remain beneath our feet, even as the stars above reveal their own patterns – for the stars we gaze upon each night are naught but an illusion from the past."  He raised the jug again and studied it for a moment.  "Thus, the past lies beneath and above the present, Fist.  This is the truth my shamans embrace, the bones upon which the future clings like muscle."

[Cain]

Urugal shrugged.  "It is of no significance, Karsa Orlong.  A struggle of long ago, an enemy now dust, a failure best forgotten.  We have known wars beyond counting, and what have they achieved?  The Jaghut were doomed to extinction – we but hastened the inevitable.  Other enemies announced themselves and stood in our path.  We were indifferent to their causes, none of which was sufficient to turn us aside.  And so we slaughtered them.  Again and again.  Wars without meaning, wars that changed virtually nothing.  To live is to suffer.  To exist – even as we do – is to resist."

"This is all that was learnt, Karsa Orlong," said the T'lan Imass woman known as 'Siballe.  "In its totality.  Stone, sea, forest, city – and every creature that has ever lived – all share the same struggle.  Being resists unbeing.  Order wars against the chaos of dissolution, of disorder.  Karsa Orlong, this is the only worthy truth, the greatest of all truths.  What do the gods themselves worship, but perfection?  The unattainable victory over nature, over nature's uncertainty.  There are many words for this struggle.  Order against chaos, structure against dissolution, light against dark, life against death.  But they all mean the same thing."

Karsa smiled at the T'lan Imass he had once knelt before, in a distant glade, in a time of youth – when the world he saw was both simple and ... perfect.  "You are not gods."

"We are," Urugual replied.  "To be a god is to possess worshippers."

"To guide them," 'Siballe added.

"You are wong, both of you," Karsa said.  "To be a god is to know the burden of believers.  Did you protect?  You did not.  Did you offer comfort, solace?  Were you possessed of compassion?  Even pity?  To the Teblor, T'lan Imass, you were slavemasters, eager and hungry, making harsh demands and expecting cruel sacrifices – all to feed your own desires.  You were the Teblor's unseen chains."  His eyes settled on 'Siballe.  "And you, woman, 'Siballe the Unfound, you were the taker of children."

"Imperfect children, Karsa Orlong, who would otherwise had died.  And they do not regret my gifts."

"No, I would imagine not.  The regret remains with the mothers and fathers who surrendered them.  No matter how brief a child's life, the love of the parents is a power that should not be denied.  And know this, 'Siballe, it is immune to imperfection."  His voice was harsh in his own ears, grating out from a constricted throat.  "Worship imperfection, you said.  A metaphor you made real by demanding that those children be sacrificed.  Yet you were – and remain – unmindful of the most crucial gift that comes from worship.  You have no understanding of what it is ease the burdens of those who would worship you.  But even that is not your worst crime.  No.  You then gave us your own burdens."  He shifted his gaze.  "Tell me, Urugal, what have the Teblor done to deserve that?"

Karsa Orlong can sense an info dump at 10 paces

"Once, Karsa Orlong, these were the dominant trees across most of the world.  All things know their time, and when that time is past, they vanish-"

"But this one hasn't."

"No sharper an observation could be made.  And why, you ask?"

"I do not bother, for I know you shall tell me in any case."

Kamist Reloe is very, very worried

Kamist Reloe wrapped his arms about himself as he continued pacing.  "It's not who we know to be among us that is the source of my concerns, Korbolo Dom, it's who is among us that we do not know."

The Napan scowled.  "And how many hundreds of spies do we have in this camp?  And what of the Whirlwind Goddess herself – do you imagine she will permit the infiltration of strangers?"

"Your flaw, Korbolo Dom, is that you think in a strictly linear fashion.  Ask that question again, only this time ask it in the context of the goddess having suspicions about us."

The High mage was too distracted to notice the Napan's half-step forward, one hand lifting.  But Korbolo Dom's blow died at that very moment, as the import of Kamist Reloe's challenge reached him. 

His eyes slowly widened.  He then shook his head.  "No, that would be too great a risk to take.  A Claw let loose in this camp would endanger everyone – there would be no way to predict their targets-"

"Would there be a need to?"

"What do you mean?"

"We are the Dogslayers, Korbolo Dom.  The murderers of Coltaine, the Seventh and the legions at Aren.  More, we possess the mage cadre for the Army of the Apocalypse.  Finally, who will be commanding that army on the day of battle?  How many reasons do the Claw need to strike at us, at us specifically?  What chance would Sha'ik have if we were all dead?  Why kill Sha'ik at all?  We can fight this war without her and her damn goddess – we've done it before.  And we're about to-"

"Enough of that, Kamist Reloe.  I see your point.  So you fear that the goddess will permit a Claw to infiltrate ... in order to deal with us.  With you, Febryl and myself.  An interesting possibility, but I still think it remote.  The goddess is too heavy-handed, too ensnared by emotion, to think with such devious, insidious clarity."

"She does not have to initiate the scheme, Korbolo Dom. She need only comprehend the offer, and then decide whether to acquiesce or not.  It is not her clarity that is relevant, but that of Laseen's Claw.  And do you doubt the cleverness of Topper?"

Growling under his breath, Korbolo Dom looked away for a moment.  "No," he finally admitted.  "But I do rely on the goddess being in no mind to accept communication from the Empress, from Topper, or anyone else who refuses to kneel to her will.  You have thought yourself into a nightmare, Kamist Reloe, and now you invite me to join you.  I decline the offer, High Mage.  We are well protected, and too far advanced in our efforts for all of this fretting."

"I have survived this long, Korbolo Dom, because of my talent in anticipating what my enemies would attempt.  Soldiers say no plan of battle survives contact with the enemy.  But the game of subterfuge is the very opposite.  Plans derive from persistent contact with the enemy.  Thus, you proceed on your terms and I will proceed on mine."

Smiler is a bit of a psycho

"Spread the word.  First battle's tonight, one bell after we set camp."

Both soldiers swung their heads around at this.

"Tonight?"  Bottle asked.  "After what just-"

"You heard me.  Gesler and Borduke are getting their beauties primed, same as us.  We're ready, lads."

"It's going to draw quite a crowd," Corporal Tarr said, shaking his head.  "The lieutenant won't help but wonder-"

"Not just the lieutenant, I'd imagine," Strings replied.  "But there won't be much of a crowd.  We'll use the old word-line system.  Run the commentary back through the whole camp."

"Joyful's gonna get skewered," Bottle muttered, his expression growing sorrowful.  "And here I been feeding her, every night.  Big juicy capemoths... she'd just pounce real pretty, then start eating until there wasn't nothing left but a couple of wings and a crunched-up ball.  Then she'd spend half the night cleaning her pincers and licking her lips-"

"Lips?"  Smiles asked from behind the three men.  "What lips?  Scorpions don't have lips-"

"What do you even know?" Bottle shot back.  "You won't even get close-"

"When I get close to a scorpion I kill it.  Which is what any sane person would do."

"Sane?" the mage retorted.  "You pick them and start pulling things off!  Tails, pincers, legs – I ain't seen nothing so cruel in my life!"

"Well, ain't that close enough to see if it's got lips?"

Usually a good warning that something bad is about to happen, a scream of terror

"And that crossbow can lob cussers far enough?  Hard to believe."
"Well, the idea is to aim and shoot, then bite a mouthful of dirt."
"I can see the wisdom in that, Fid.  Now, you let us all know when you're firing, right."
"Nice and loud, aye."
"And what word should we listen for?"
Fiddler noticed that the rest of his squad had ceased their preparations and were now waiting for his answer.  He shrugged.  "Duck.  Or sometimes what Hedge used to use."
"Which was?"
"A scream of terror."

"What about protecting the Throne?"

"There are demons from Shadow on the island now.  Your patron god has clearly decided to take a more active role in defending the secret."
'Your patron god.'  Thanks for that, Apsalar.  And who was it who held your soul cupped in his two hands?  A killers hands. 

"Why not just take it back to the Shadow Realm?"

"No doubt if he could, he would," she replied.  "But when Anomander Rake placed his kin here to guard it, he also wrought sorcery around the Throne.  It will not be moved."

Cutter shipped the oars and began preparing the sail.  "Then Shadowthrone need only come here and plant his scrawny arse on it, right?"
He disliked her answering smile.  "Thus ensuring that no-one else could claim its power, or the position of King of High House Shadow. 

Unless, of course, they killed Shadowthrone first.  A god of courage and unassailable power might well plant his scrawny arse on that throne to end the argument once and for all.  But Shadowthrone did just that, once before, as Emperor Kellanved."

"He did?"

"He claimed the First Throne.  The throne of the T'lan Imass."

Oh.

"Fortunately," Apsalar continued, "as Shadowthrone, he has shown little interest in making use of his role as the Emperor of the T'lan Imass."

"Well, why bother?  This way, he negates the chance of anyone else ever finding out and taking that throne, while his avoidance of using it himself ensures that no-one takes notice that he has it in the first place – gods, I'm starting to sound like Kruppe!  In any case, that seems clever, not cowardly."

She studied him for a long moment.  "I had not thought of that.  You are right, of course.  Unveiling power invites convergence, after all.   It seems Shadowthrone has absorbed well his early residence in the Deadhouse.  More so, perhaps, than Cotillion has."

"Aye, it's an Azath tactic, isn't it?  Negation serves to disarm.  Given the chance, he'd probably plant himself in every throne in sight, then, will all the power accrued to him, he would do nothing with it.  Nothing at all."

Her eyes slowly widened.

He frowned at her expression.  Then his heart started pounding hard.  No.  I was only kidding.  That's not just ambitious, it's insane.  He could never pull it off... but what if he did?  "All the games of the gods..."

"You should know, Crokus," Apsalar continued, "that they knew Surly was waiting for them.  They knew what she had planned.  Yet they returned none the less."

"But that makes no sense."

"Unless she proceeded to do precisely what they wanted her to do.  After all, we both know that the assassinations failed – failed in killing either of them.  The question then becomes: what did that entire mess achieve?"

"A rhetorical question?"

She cocked her head.  "No."  Surprised.

Cutter rubbed at the bristle on his jaw, then shrugged.  "All right.  It left Surly on the Malazan throne.  Empress Laseen was born.  It stripped from Kellanved his secular seat of power.  Hmm.  Let's ask it another way.  What if Kellanved and Dancer had returned and successfully reclaimed the imperial throne?  But, at the same time, they had taken over the Shadow Realm.  Thus, there would be an empire spanning two warrens, an empire of Shadow."  He paused, then slowly nodded.  "They wouldn't have stood for that – the gods, that is.  Ascendants of all kinds would have converged on the Malazan Empire.  They would have pounded the empire and the two men ruling it into dust."

"Probably.  And neither Kellanved nor Dancer was in any position to mount a successful resistance to such a protracted assault.  They'd yet to consolidate their claim on the Shadow Realm."

"Right, so they orchestrated their own deaths, and kept their identity as the new rulers of Shadow a secret for as long as they could, whilst laying out the groundwork for a resumption of their grand schemes.  Well, that's all very cosy, if more than a little diabolical.  But does it help us answer the question of what they're up to right now?  If anything, I'm more confused than ever."

After watching Karsa Orlong kill a Deragoth, Kalam comes up with a Cunning Plan:

Kalam and Quick Ben slowly rose from behind the wall and stared in silence after the giant warrior.
   
Shadows had begun swarming in the darkness.  They gathered like capemoths to the carcass of the Deragoth, then sped away again as if in terror.
   
Kalam rolled his shoulders, then, long knives in his hands, he approached the hound.

Quick Ben followed.
   
They studied the mangled carcass.

"Wizard..."

"Aye?"

"Let's drop off the Napan and get out of here."

"A brilliant plan."

"I just thought it up."

"I like it very much.  Well done, Kalam."

"Like I've always told you, Quick, I ain't just a pretty face."

Karsa found his waterskin and drank deep.  Then he stared down at 'Siballe.  "You once said that if you were thrown into the sea, your soul would be freed.  That oblivion would come to you.  Is this true?"

"Yes."

With one hand, he lifted her from the ground, rose, and walked to the sea's edge.

"Wait!  Teblor, wait!  I do not understand!"

Karsa's expression soured.  "When I began this journey, I was young.  I believed in one thing.  I believed in glory.  I know now, 'Siballe, that glory is nothing.  Nothing.  That is what I now understand."

"What else do you now understand, Karsa Orlong?"

"Not much.  Just one other thing.  The same cannot be said for mercy."  He raised her higher, then swung her body outwards.

[Cain]

Book Five: Midnight Tides

Udinaas well understood his own kind.  To the Letherii, gold was all that mattered.  Gold and its possession defined their entire world.  Power, status, self-worth and respect – all were commodities that could be purchased by coin.  Indeed, debt bound the entire kingdom, defining every relationship, the motivation casting the shadow of every act, every decision.  This devious hunting of the seals was the opening move in a ploy the Letherii had used countless times, against every tribe beyond the borderlands.  To the Letherii, the Edur were no different.  But they are, you fools.

"Money is sleight of hand," Tehol said, nodding.  "Unless you've got diamonds in your hand.  Then it's not just an idea any more.  If you want to know the cheat behind the whole game, it's right there, lasses.  Even when money's just an idea, it has power.  Only, it's not real power.  Just the promise of power.  But that promise is enough so long as everyone keeps pretending it is real.  Stop pretending and it all falls apart."

"Unless the diamonds are in your hands," Shand said.

"Right.  Then it's real power."

"That's what you began to suspect, isn't it?  So you went and tested it.  And everything came within a stumble of falling apart."

Tehol smiled.  "Imagine my dismay."

"You weren't dismayed," she said.  "You just realized how deadly an idea could be, in the wrong hands."

"They're all the wrong hands, Shand.  Including mine."

"So you walked away."

"And I'm not going back.  Do your worst with me.  Let Hull know.  Take it all down.  What's written off can be written back in.  The Tolls are good at that. In fact, you'll trigger a boom.  Everyone will sigh with relief, seeing that it was all in the game after all."

"That's not what we want," Shand said.  "You still don't get it.  When we buy the rest of the islands, Tehol, we do it the same way you did.  Ten peaks... disappearing."

"The entire economy will collapse!"

At that, all three women nodded.

The Titse Edur rarely displayed much awareness of their slaves, and even less understanding of their ways.  It was, of course, the privilege of the conquerors to be that way, and the universal fate of the conquered to suffer that disregard.
   
Yet identities persisted.  On a personal level.  Freedom was little more than a tattered net, draped over a host of minor, self-imposed bindings.  Its stripping away changed little, except, perhaps, the comforting delusion of the ideal.  Mind bound to self, self to flesh, flesh to bone.  As the Errant wills, we are a latticework of cages, and whatever flutters within knows but one freedom, and that is death.
   
The conquerors always assumed that what they conquered was identity.  But the truth was, identity could only be killed from within, and even that gesture was a chimera.  Isolation had many children, and dissolution was but one of them – yet its path was unique, for that path began when identity was left behind.

Why not worship money?  At least its rewards are obvious and immediate.  But no, that was simplistic.  Letherii worship was more subtle, its ethics bound to those traits and habits that well served the acquisition of wealth.  Diligence, discipline, hard work, optimism, the personalization of glory.  And the corresponding evils: sloth, despair and the anonymity of failure.  The world was brutal enough to winnow from one to the other and leave no room for doubt or mealy equivocation.  In this way, worship could become pragmatism, and pragmatism was a cold god.

Errant make ours a cold god, so we may act without restraint.  A suitable Letherii prayer, though none would utter it in such a bold fashion.  Feather Witch said that every act made was a prayer, and thus in the course of a day were served a host of gods.  Wine and nectar and rushleaf and the imbibing thereof was a prayer to death, she said.  Love was a prayer to life.  Vengeance was a prayer to the demons of righteousness.  Sealing a business pact was, she said with a faint smile, a prayer to the whisperer illusions.  Attainment for one was born of deprivation of another, after all.  A game played with two hands.

The gifts of freedom, a will unchained unless one affixed upon oneself such chains – the crowding host's unaccountable, ever-rattling offers, each whispering promises of salvation against confusion – and wore them like an armour.

Trull Sengar saw the chains upon the Letherii.  He saw the impenetrable net which bound them, the links of reasoning woven together into a chaotic mass where no beginning and no end could be found.  He understood why they worshipped an empty throne.  And he knew the manner in which they would justify all that they did.  Progress was necessity, growth was pain.  Reciprocity belonged to fools and debt was the binding force of all nature, of every people and every civilization.  Debt was its own language, within which were used words like negotiation, compensation and justification, and legality was a skein of duplicity that blinded the eyes of justice.

An empty throne.  Atop a mountain of gold coins.

Father Shadow had sought a world wherein uncertainty could work its insidious poison against those who chose intransigence as their weapon – with which they held wisdom at bay.  Where every fortress eventually crumbled from within, from the very weight of those chains that exerted so inflexible an embrace.

Binadas shrugged.  "We have seen the traps you have laid out before the Nerek and the Tarthenal.  Each word is a knot in an invisible net.  Against it, the Nerek's swords were too blunt.  The Tarthenal too slow to anger.  The Faraed could only smile in their confusion.  We are not as those tribes."

"I know," Hull said.  "Friend, my people believe in the stacking of coins.  One atop another, climbing, ever climbing to glorious heights.  The climb signifies progress, and progress is the natural proclivity of civilization.  Progress, Binadas, is the belief from which emerge notions of destiny.  The Letherii believe in destiny – their own.  They are deserving of all things, born of their avowed virtues.  The empty throne is ever there for the taking."

Binadas was smiling at Hull's words, but it was a wry smile.  He turned suddenly to Seren Pedac.  "Acquitor.  Join us, please.  Do old wounds mar Hulll Beddict's view of Lether?"

"Destiny wounds us all," she replied, "and we Letherii wear the scars with pride.  Most of us," she added with an apologetic look at Hull.

"One of your virtues?"

"Yes, if you could call it that.  We have a talent for disguising greed under the cloak of freedom.  As for past acts of depravity, we prefer to ignore those.  Progress, after all, means to look ever forward, and whatever we have trampled in our wake is best forgotten."

"Progress, then," Binadas said, still smiling, "sees no end."

"Our wagons ever roll down the hill, Hiroth.  Faster and faster."

"Until they strike a wall."

"We crash through most of those."

The smile faded and Seren thought she detected a look of sadness in the Edur's eyes before he turned away.  "We live in different worlds."

Gerun shrugged.  "In many ways, Tehol walked the path of the King's Leave long before me, and without the actual sanction."
"Tehol's never killed anyone-"
Gerun's smile grew feral.  "The day the Tolls collapsed, Brys, an even dozen financiers committed suicide.  And that collapse was solely and exclusively by Tehol's hand.  Perfectly, indeed brilliantly timed.  He had his own list, only he didn't stick a knife in their throats; instead he made them all his business partners.  And took every one of them down-"
"But he went down, too."
"He didn't kill himself over it, though, did he?  Didn't that tell you something.  It should have."
"Only that he didn't care."
"Precisely."
"You're suggesting diabolical genius, Gerun."
"I am.  Tehol possesses what Hull does not.  Knowledge is not enough.  It never is.  It's the capacity to do something with that knowledge.  To do it perfectly.  Absolute timing.  With devastating consequences.  That is what Tehol has.  Hull, Errant protect him, does not."

A holiday festival was approaching, this one dedicated to the Errant, that eternally mysterious purveyor of chance, fateful circumstance and ill-chosen impulses.  Or some such thing.  Tehol was never certain.  The Holds and their multitude of denizens were invented as dependable sources of blame for virtually anything, or so he suspected.  Evading responsibility was a proclivity of the human species, it seemed.

There are upsides to being dead

"My apologies, Shurq Elalle, greetings.  Would you care for some tea?"
"Don't be absurd."
"Ah yes.  Thoughtless of me.  Your pardon."  Bugg walked over with the tray.
Tehol collected his cup and cautiously sniffed.  Then he frowned at his manservant.
Who shrugged.  "We don't have no herbs, master.  I had to improvise."
"With what?  Sheep hide?"
Bugg's brows rose.  "Very close, indeed.  I had some leftover wool."
"The yellow or the grey?"
"The grey."
"Well, that's all right, then."  He sipped.  "Smooth."
"Yes, it would be."
"We're not poisoning ourselves, are we?"
"Only mildly, master."
"There are times," Shurq Elalle said, "when I regret being dead.  This is not one of those times, however."

"Oh, we talk of progress, but what we really desire is the perpetuation of the present.  With its seemingly endless excesses, its ravenous appetites.  Ever the same rules, ever the same game."

The Crippled God scattered some deeds onto the brazier's coals.  Popping sounds, then more smoke.  "Peace.  Warm yourself, warrior, while I tell you of peace.  History is unerring, and even the least observant mortal can be made to understand through innumerable repetition.  Do you see peace as little more than the absence of war?  Perhaps, on a surface level, it is just that.  But let me describe the characteristics of peace, my young friend.  A pervasive dulling of the senses, a decadence afflicting the culture, evinced by a growing obsession with low entertainment.  The virtues of extremity – honour, loyalty, sacrifice – are lifted high as shoddy icons, currency for the cheapest of labours.  The longer peace lasts, the more those words are used, and the weaker they become.  Sentimentality pervades daily life.  All becomes a mockery of itself, and the spirit grows...restless."
   
The Crippled God paused, breath rasping.  "Is this a singular pessimism?  Allow me to continue with a description of what follows a period of peace.  Old warriors sit in taverns, telling tales of vigorous youth, their pasts when all things were simpler, clearer cut.  They are not blind to the decay all around them, are not immune to the loss of respect for themselves, for all that they gave for their king, their land, their fellow citizens."
   
"The young must not be abandoned to forgetfulness.  There are always enemies beyond the borders, and if none exist in truth, then one must be fashioned.  Old crimes dug out of indifferent earth.  Slights and open insults, or rumours thereof.  A suddenly perceived threat where none existed before.  The reasons matter not – what matters is that war is fashioned from peace, and once the journey is begun, an irresistible momentum is born."
   
"The old warriors are satisfied.  The young are on fire with zeal.  The king fears yet is relieved of domestic pressures.  The army draws its oil and whetstone.  Forges blast with molten iron, the anvils ring like temple bells.  Grain sellers and armourers and clothiers and horse-sellers and countless other suppliers smile with the pleasure of impending wealth.  A new energy has gripped the kingdom, and those few voices raised in objection are quickly silenced.  Charges of reason and summary execution soon persuade the doubters."
   
The Crippled God spread his hands.  "Peace, my young warrior, is born of relief, endured in exhaustion and dies with false remembrance.  False?  Ah, perhaps I am too cynical.  Too old, witness to far too much.  Do honour, loyalty and sacrifice truly exist?  Are such virtues born only from extremity?  What transforms them into empty words, words devalued from their overuse?  What are the rules of the economy of the spirit, that civilization repeatedly twists and mocks?"
   
He shifted slightly and Withal sensed the god's regard.  "Withal of the Third City.  You have fought wars.  You have forged weapons.  You have seen loyalty, and honour.  You have seen courage and sacrifice.  What say you to all this?"
   
"Nothing," Withal replied.

Hacking laughter.  "You fear angering me, yes?  No need, I give you leave to speak your mind."
   
"I have sat in my share of taverns," Withal said, "in the company of fellow veterans.  A select company, perhaps not grown so blind with sentimentality as to fashion nostalgia from times of horror and terror.  Did we spin out those days of our youth?  No.  Did we speak of war?  Not if we could avoid it, and we worked hard at avoiding it."

"Why?"

"Why?  Because the faces come back.  So young, one after another.  A flash of life, an eternity of death, there in our minds.  Because loyalty is not to be spoken of, and honour is to be endured.  Whilst courage is to be survived.  Those virtues, Chained One, belong to silence."

"Indeed." The god rasped, leaning forward.  "Yet how they proliferate in peace!  Crowed again and again, as if solemn pronouncement bestows those very qualities upon the speaker.  Do they not make you wince, every time you hear them?  Do they not twist in your gut, grip hard your throat?  Do you not feeling a building rage-"
   
"Aye," Withal growled, "when I hear them used to raise a people once more to war."

Tehol swung round and approached Ublala Pung.  "Most beloved bodyguard, whatever is wrong?"
   
Red-rimmed eyes stared up at him.  "You're not interested.  Not really.  Nobody is."

"Of course I'm interested.  Bugg, I'm interested, aren't I?  It's in my nature, isn't it?"
   
"Absolutely, master.  Most of the time."

"It's the women, isn't it Ublala?  I can tell."
   
The huge man nodded miserably.

"Are they fighting over you?"
   
He shook his head.

"Have you fallen for one of them?"
   
"That's just it.  I haven't had a chance to."

Tehol glanced over at Bugg, then back to Ublala.  "You haven't had a chance to.  What a strange statement.  Can you elaborate?"
   
"It's not fair, that's what it is.  Not fair.  You won't understand.  It's not a problem you have.  I mean, what am I?  Am I to be nothing but a toy?  Just because I have a big-"
   
"Hold on a moment," Tehol cut in.  "Let's see if I fully understand you, Ublala.  You feel they're just using you.  Interested in only your, uh, attributes.  All they want from you is sex.  No commitment, no loyalty even.  They're happy taking turns with you, taking no account of your feelings, your sensitive nature.  They probably don't even want to cuddle afterwards or make small talk, right?"

Ublala nodded.
   
"And all that is making you miserable?"

He nodded again, snuffling, his lower lip protouding, his broad mouth downturned at the corners, a muscle twitching in his right cheek.
   
Tehol stared for a moment longer, then he tossed up his hands.  "Ublala!  Don't you understand?  You're in a man's paradise!  What all the rest of us can only dream about!"
   
"But I want something more!"

"No!  You don't!  Trust me!  Bugg, don't you agree?  Tell him!"
   
Bugg frowned, then said, "It is as Tehol says, Ublala.  Granted, a tragic truth, and granted, Master's nature is to revel in tragic truths which to many might seem unusual, unhealthy even-"
   
"Thanks for the affirmation, Bugg," Tehol interrupted with a scowl. 

"As it now stands, then" Hannan Mosag said, "we begin this treaty in your debt."

"Yes."

"Based on the presumption that we possess the stolen harvest."

"Well, of course-"

"But we do not possess it, Prince Quillas Diskanar."

"What?  But you must!"

"You are welcome to visit our store houses for yourself," Hannan Mosag went on reasonably.  "We punished the harvesters, as was our right.  But we did not retrieve the harvest."

"The ships arrived in Trate with their holds empty!"

"Perhaps, in fleeing our wrath, they discharged their buden, so as to quicken their pace.  Without success, as it turned out."  As the prince simply started, Hannan Mosag went on, "Thus, we are not in your debt.  You, however, are in ours.  To the market value of the harvested tusked seals.  We are undecided, at the moment, on the nature of the recompense we will demand of you.  After all, we have no need of coin."

"We have brought gifts!" Quillas shouted.

"For which you will then charge us, with interest.  We are familiar with your pattern of cultural conquest among neighbouring tribes, Prince.  That the situation is now reversed earns our sympathy, but as you are wont to say, business is business."

[Cain]

"In your world," the figure said, "the prophecy approaches its azimuth.  An emperor shall arise.  You are from a civilization that sees war as an extension of economics.  Stacked bones become the foundations for your roads of commerce and you see nothing untoward in that-"

"Some of us do."

"Irrelevant.  Your legacy of crushed cultures speaks its own truth.  You intend to conquer the Titse Edur.  You claim that each circumstance is different, unique, but is neither different nor unique.  It is all the same.  Your military might proves the virtue of your cause.  But I tell you this, Brys Beddict, there is no such thing as destiny.  Victory is not inevitable.  Your enemy lies in waiting, in your midst.  Your enemy hides without the need for disguise, when belligerence and implied threat are sufficient to cause your gaze to shy away.  It speaks your language, takes your words and uses them against you.  It mocks your belief in truths, for it has made itself the arbiter of those truths."

"Lether is not a tyranny-"

"You assume the spirit of your civilization is personified in your benign king.  It is not.  Your king exists because it is deemed permissible that he exist.  You are ruled by greed, a monstrous tyrant lit gold with glory.  It cannot be defeated, only annihilated."  Another gesture towards the fiery chaos below.  "That is your only hope of salvation, Brys Beddict.  For greed kills itself, when there is nothing left to hoard, when the countless legions of labourers are nought but bones, when the grisly face of starvation is revealed in the mirror."

"I see little of exaltation and achievement in what we do, Finadd.  It would seem there is a growing imbalance-"

His laugh cut her off.  "And that is the truth of freedom, Seren Pedac."

She could feel her anger rising.  "I have always believed freedom concerned the granted right to be different, without fear or repression."

"A lofty notion, but you won't find it in the real world.  We have hammered freedom into a sword.  And if you won't be like us we will use that sword to kill you one by one, until your spirit is broken."

True to Tehol's prediction, Bugg's modest company was rising in the Tolls, frighteningly fast.  Since the list of shares was sealed, Bugg had managed to sell four thousand and twenty two per cent of shares, and still hold a controlling interest.

"To achieve peace, destruction is delivered.  To give the gift of freedom, one promises eternal imprisonment.  Adjudication obviates the need for justice.  This is a studied, deliberate embrace of diametric opposition.  It is a belief in balance, a belief asserted with the conviction of religion.  But in this case, the proof of a god's power lies not in the cause but in the effect.  Accordingly, in this world and in all others, proof is achieved by action, and therefore all action – including the act of choosing inaction – is inherently moral.  No deed stands outside of the moral context.  At the same time, most morally perfect is the one taken in opposition to what has occurred before."

"What do the rooms look like, through those openings?"

"In this civilization," he continued, "its citizens were bound to acts of utmost savagery.  Vast cities were constructed beneath the world's surface.  Each chamber, every building, assembled as the physical expression of the quality of absence.  Solid rock matched by empty space.  From these places, where they did not dwell but simply gathered, they set out to achieve balance."

It seemed he would not lead her through any of the doorways, so she fixed her attention instead on the images.  "There are no faces."

"The opposite of identity, yes, Kettle."

"The bodies look strange."

"Physically unique.  In some ways, more primitive, but as a consequence, less...specialized, and so less constrained.  Profoundly long-lived, more so than any other species.  Very difficult to kill, and, it must be said, they needed to be killed.  Or so was the conclusion reached after any initial encounter with them.  Most of the time.  They did fashion the occasional alliance.  With the Jaghut, for example.  But that was yet another tactic aimed at reasserting balance, and it ultimately failed.  As did this entire civilization."

Kettle swung around to study that distant heap of...something.  "Those are bodies, aren't they?"

"Bones, scrapes of clothing, the harnesses they wore."

"Who killed them?"

"You have to understand, Kettle.  The one within you must understand.  My refutation of the Forkrul Assail belief in balance is absolute.  It is not that I am blind to the way in which force is ever countered, in the way in which the natural world strains towards balance.  But in that striving I see no proof of a god's power; I see no guiding hand behind such forces.  And, even if one such existed, I see no obvious connection with the actions of a self-chosen people for whom chaos is the only rational response to order.  Chaos needs no allies, for it dwells like a poison in every one of us.  The only relevant struggle for balance I acknowledge is that within ourselves.  Externalizing it presumes inner perfection, that the internal struggle is over, victory achieved."

Such dark moments in Letherii history were systematically disregarded, she knew, and played virtually no role in their culture's vision of itself as bringers of progress, deliverers of freedom from the fetters of primitive ways of living, the cruel traditions and vicious rituals.  Liberators, then, destined to wrest from the savage tyrants their repressed victims, in the name of civilization.  That the Letherii then imposed their own rules of oppression was rarely acknowledged.  There was, after all, but one road to success and fulfilment, cold-cobbled and maintained by the Letherii toll-collectors, and only the free could walk it.

Free to profit from the same game.  Free to discover one's own inherent disadvantages.  Free to be abused.  Free to be exploited.  Free to be owned in the lieu of debt.  Free to be raped.

And to know misery.  It was a natural truth that some walked that road faster than others.  There would always be those who could only crawl.  Or fell to the wayside.  The most basic laws of existence, after all, were always harsh.

The statues before her were indifferent to all of that.  Their worshippers had died defending them, and all for nothing.  Memory was not loyal to the past, only to the exigencies of the present.  She wondered if the Titse Edur saw the world the same way.  How much of their own past had they selectively forgotten, how many unpleasant truths had they twisted into self-appeasing lies?  Did they suffer from the same flaw, this need to revise history to answer some deep-seated diffidence, a hollowness at the core that echoed with miserable uncertainty?  Was this entire drive for progress nothing more than a hopeless search for some kind of fulfilment, as if on some instinctive level there was a murky understanding, a recognition that the game had no value, and so victory was meaningless?

Such understanding would have to be murky, for clarity was hard, and the Letherii disliked things that were hard, and so rarely chose to think in that direction.  Baser emotions were the preferred response, and complex arguments were viewed with anger and suspicion.

"The time has come, I think, to see Shand, Hejun and Rissarh on their way."
"Will they complain?"
"Less than one might suspect.  This is a nervous city.  The few non-Letherii remaining are being subjected to harassment, and not just by citizens.  The authorities are showing their racist underpinnings with all these suspicions and the eagerness to tread over hard-won rights."
"Proof that the freedoms once accorded non-Letherii peoples were born of both paternalism and a self-serving posture as a benign overseer.  What is given is taken away, just like that."
"Indeed Bugg.  Is it because, do you think, at the human core, we are naught but liars and cheats?"
"Probably."
"With no hope of ever overcoming our instinctive nastiness?"
"Hard to say.  How have we done so far?"
"That's not fair.  Oh, fine, it's perfectly fair.  But it doesn't bode well, does it?"
"Few things do, master."
"Well, this is uncharacteristically glum of you, Bugg."
"Alas, I fear the Titse Edur won't be any better.  Coin is the poison, after all, and it infects indiscriminately."

He shrugged.  "The Letherii motive was, is and shall ever be but one thing.  Wealth.  Conquest as opportunity.  Opportunity as invitation.  Invitation as righteous claim.  Righteous claim as preordained destiny."  Something dark glittered in his eyes.  "Destiny as victory, victory as conquest, conquest as wealth.  But nowhere in that perfect scheme will you find the notion of defeat.  All failures are temporary, flawed in the particular.  Correct the particular and victory will be won, the next time round."

"Until a situation arises where there is no second opportunity."

"And future scholars will dissect every moment of these days, assembling their lists of the particulars, the specifics from which no generalization threatening the prime assumptions can ever be derived.  It is, in truth, an exquisite paradigm, the perfect mechanism ensuring the persistent survival of an entire host of terrible beliefs."

"The Kenryll'ah have ruled a long time, Trull Sengar.  And have grown weak with complacency.  They cannot see their own impending demise.  It is always the way of things, such blindness.  No matter how long and perfect the succession of fallen empires and civilizations so clearly writ into the past, the belief remains that one's own shall live for ever, and is not subject to the indomitable rules of dissolution that bind all of nature."  The small, calm eyes of the demon looked down steadily upon Trull.  "I am a caster of nets.  Tyrants and emperors rise and fall.  Civilizations burgeon then die, but there are always casters of nets.  And tillers of the soil, and herders in the pastures.  We are where civilization begins, and when it ends, we are there to begin it again."

Iron Bars is a badass

"We are the Seregahl," the lead Toblakai said.  "Before you hurt us, you might have begged for mercy.  You might have knelt in worship, and perhaps we would have accepted you.  But not now."
"No," the Avowed agreed, "I suppose not."
"That is all you would say?"
He shrugged.  "Nothing else comes to mind."
"You are frowning.  Why?"
"Well I've already killed a god today," Iron Bars said.  "If I had known this was going to be a day for killing gods, I might have paced myself better."

Ublala Pung explains why the Tarthenal pray to the Sereghal

"Hello, half-blood," he said.  "Have you come to worship your gods?"
The giant figure looked down at Corlo.  "Is it too late?" he asked.
"No, they're still alive.  Only one man opposes them, and not for much longer.  I'm doing all I can, but it's no easy thing to confuse gods."
The Tarthenal half-blood frowned.  "Do you know why we pray to the Seregahl?"
An odd question.  "To gain their favour?"
"No," Ublala replied, "we pray for them to stay away."

"So, if you could kill all those warriors.  Heal me.  Walk under a river.  Answer me this then.  Why didn't you kill all of them?  Halt this invasion in its tracks?"

"I have my reasons."

"To see Lether conquered?  Don't you like us?"

"Lether?  Not much.  You take your natural vices and call them virtues.  Of which geed is the most despicable.  That and betrayal of commonality.  After all, whoever decided that competition is always and without exception a healthy attribute?  Why that particular path to self-esteem?  Your heel on the hand of the one below.  This is worth something?  Let me tell you, it's worth nothing.  Nothing lasting.  Every monument that exists beyond the moment – no matter which king, emperor or warrior lays claim to it – is actually a testament to the common, to co-operation, to the plural rather than the singular."

"Ah," Tehol interjected, managing to raise a finger to mark his objection, "without a king, general or whomever – without a leader, no monument gets built."

"Only because you mortals know only two possibilities.  To follow or lead.  Nothing else."

"Hold on.  I've seen consortiums and co-operatives at work, Bugg.  They're nightmares."

"Aye, breeding grounds for all those virtues such as greed, envy, betrayal and so on.  In other words, each within the group seeks to impose a structure of followers and leaders.  Dispense with a formal hierarchy, and you have a contest of personalities."

"So what's the solution?"

"Would you be greatly disappointed to hear that you're not it?"

"Who?  Me?"

"Your species.  Don't feel bad.  None have been, as of yet.  Still, who knows what the future will bring?"

OK, that's enough for one day.

[Don Coyote]

 

TOO MUCH QUOTES TO READ!!!!!!

I guess I'll have to check out the books.

[Cainad (dec.)]

Wow, that's a fuckton of stuff. Definitely appreciating the wry humor.

The fact that you found so many excerpts to be worthy of putting in here just confirms that I must set up an appointment at the nearest bookstore.

[Cain]

Coyote, you are more than welcome to read the 10,000 bajillion or so pages that make up the series.  Trust me, as numerous as these seem, this is nothing compared to the books themselves.

Cainad, yes, agreed, although the fact every book could be used to bludgeon Afghan detainees to death, and it's a 10 book series (with another seven spinoffs) does explain why quotes are easy to find.

[Cain]

Book Six: The Bonehunters. 

Apsalar meets a pair of ghosts while mucking around in the Meanas Warren:

Apsalar crossed her arms.  "Your name?"
"Curdle."
"Curdle."
"I do not last long."
"Which is what brought us to this sorry demise in the first place," Telorast said.  "You were supposed to watch the path-"
"I did watch it!"
"But failed to see the Hound Baran-"
"I saw Baran, but I was watching the path."
"All right," Apsalar said, sighing, "why should I provide you two with an escort?  Give me a reason, please.  Any reason at all."
"We're loyal companions," Telorast said.  "We will stand by you no matter what horrible end you may come to."
"We'll guard your torn-up body for eternity," Curdle added, "or at least until someone else comes along-"
"Unless it's Edgewalker."
"Well, that goes without saying, Telorast," Curdle said.  "We don't like him."
"Or the Hounds."
"Of course-"
"Or Shadowthrone, or Cotillion, or an Apotorian, or one of those-"
"All right!" Curdle shrieked.
"I will escort you," Apsalar said, "to a gate.  Whereupon you may leave this realm, since that seems to be your desire.  In all probability, you will find yourselves walking through Hood's Gate, which would be a mercy to everyone, except perhaps Hood himself."

Cotillion has a friendly chat with some imprisoned dragons who had the misfortune to be on the wrong side of Anomander Rake:

"Ah, I think I can now assume I know who imprisoned the three of you."
"He very nearly killed us," said the female dragon.  "An overreaction on his part.  After all, better Eleint on the Throne of Shadow than another Titse Edur, or worse, a usurper."
"And how would Eleint not be usurpers?"
"Your pedantry does not impress us."
"Was all this before or after the Sundering of the Realm?"
"Such distinctions are meaningless.  The Sundering continues to this day, and as far as the forces that conspired to trigger the dread event, those were many and varied.  Like a pack of enkar'al closing on a wounded drypthara.  What is vulnerable attracts... feeders."
"Thus," said Cotillion, "if freed, you would once again seek the Shadow Throne.  Only this time, someone occupies that throne."
"The veracity of that claim is subject to debate," the female dragon said.
"A matter," added the first dragon, "of semantics.  Shadows cast by shadows."
"You believe that Ammanas is sitting on the wrong Shadow Throne?"
"The true throne is not even in this fragment of Emurlahn."
Cotillion crossed his arms and smiled.  "And is Ammanas?"
The dragons said nothing, and he sensed, with great satisfaction, their sudden disquiet.

It may be hard to believe, but Telorast and Curdle are extremely dangerous.  Erikson is in love with the Obsfucating Stupidity trope.  The first book has Kruppe, the second Iskaral Pust, the third Kruppe (again), the fifth Tehol and Bugg.  Even Shadowthrone gets in on the act...depending on whether you think his insanity is genuine or yet another ploy to make people underestimate him.

The warren crumbled around them.  The sky to the east was lightening.  They stood on the trader's track at the base of a winding climb to the coastal ridge, rhizan darting through the air around them.
"The sun returns!  Not again!  Telorast, we need to hide!  Somewhere!"
"No we don't, you idiot.  We just get harder to see, that's all, unless you not mindful.  Of course, Curdle, you are incapable of being mindful, so I look forward to your wailing dissolution.  Peace, at least.  For a while, at least-"
"You are evil Telorast!  I've always known it, even before you went and used that knife on-"
"Be quiet!  I never used that knife on anyone."
"And you're a liar!"
"Say that again and I'll stick you!"
"You can't, I'm dissolving!"

"I told you there'd be a forest," Telorast said.
Apsalar gestured at the wreckage on the slope immediately before them.  "What happened here?"
"Sorcery," Curdle said.  "Dragons."
"Not dragons."
"No, not dragons.  Telorast is right.  Not dragons."
"Demons."
"Yes, terrible demons, whose very breath is a warren's gate, oh don't jump down those throats!"
"No breath, Curdle," Telorast said.  "Just demons.  Small ones.  But lots of them.  Pushing trees down, one by one, because they're mean and inclined to senseless acts of destruction."
"Like children."
"Right, as Curdle says, like children.  Children demons.  But strong.  Very strong.  Huge, muscled arms."
"So," Apsalar said, "dragons fought here."
"Yes," Telorast said.

Paran on the nature of enemies:

"We are in a war," Paran said.  "Oddly enough, there was something one of my sisters once said to me, when we were young, pitching toy armies against each other.  To win a war, you must come to know all the players.  All of them.  Living ones, who will face you across the field.  Dead ones, whose legends are wielded like weapons, or held like eternally beating hearts.  Hidden players, inanimate players – the land itself, or the sea, if you will.  Forests, hills, mountains, rivers.  Currents both seen and unseen – no, Tavore didn't say all that; she was far more succinct, but it's taken me a long time to fully understand.  It's not "know your enemy."  That's simplistic and facile.  No, it's "know your enemies".  There's a big difference, Apsalar, because one of your enemies could be the face in the silver mirror."
"Yet you now call them players, rather than enemies," she said.  "Suggesting to me a certain shift in perspective – what comes, yes, of being the Master of the Deck of Dragons?"
"Huh, I hadn't thought about that.  Players.  Enemies.  Is there a difference?"
"The former implies... manipulation."

Never interrupt a Dal Honese death-dirge. Unless you're a mage.

"Sergeant, Captain wants a meeting-"
"Shut up, I'm busy."
"Dusk, in the sheep pen-"
"Interrupt a Dal Honese death dirge and you'll know a thousand thousand lifetimes of curses, your bloodlines for ever.  Hairy old women will steal your children and your children's children and chop them up with vegetables and tubers and a few precious threads of saffron-"
"I'm done, Sergeant.  Orders delivered.  Goodbye."
"- and Dal Honese warlocks wearing snake girdles will lie with your woman and she'll birth venomous worms all covered in curly black hair-"
"Keep it up, Sergeant, and I'll make a doll of you-"
Balm leapt from the pit, eyes suddenly wide.  "You evil man!  Get away from me!  I never done nothing to you!"  He spun around and ran away, gazelle-skins flapping.

Gesler asks a rather good question while preparing an assault:

"Anyway, why ain't there a few hands of Claw to do the dirty work?  You know, infiltrate the city and the palace and stick a knife in Leoman and be done with it.  Why do we have to get messed up with a real fight?  What kind of empire are we, these days?"

Balm is kind of a dick

"You stop moving again," Balm snarled to the child in front of him, "and the lizards will get you.  Eat you alive.  Eat us all alive.  Those are crypt lizards, you damned whelp.  You know what crypt lizards do?  I'll tell you what they do.  They eat human flesh.  That's why they're called crypt lizards, only they don't mind if it's living flesh-"
"For Hood's sake!" Deadsmell growled behind him.  "Sergeant – that ain't the way –"
"Shut your mouth!  He's still moving, ain't he?  Oh yes, ain't he just.  Crypt lizards, runt!  Oh yes!"
"Hope you ain't nobody's uncle, Sergeant."
"You're getting as bad as Whiddershins, Corporal, with that babbling mouth of yours.  I want a new squad-"
"Nobody'll have you, not after this-"
"You don't know nothing, Deadsmell."
"I know if I was that child in front of you, I'd shit right in your face."
Quiet!  You give him ideas, damn you!  Do it boy, and I'll tie you up, oh yes, and leave you for the crypt lizards-"
"Listen to me, little one!" Deadsmell called out, his voice echoing.  "Them crypt lizard, they're about as long as your thumb!  Balm's just being a-"
"I'm going to skewer you, Deadsmell, I swear it!"

People complain the gods are dicks, but then, so are their worshippers:

"No-one worships me, Ganath."
"They will.  You are newly ascended.  Even in this world of yours, I am certain that there is no shortage of followers, of those who are desperate to believe.  And they will hunt down others and make of them victims.  They will cut them and fill bowls with their innocent blood, in your name, Ganoes Paran, and so beseech your intercession, your adherence to whatever cause they righteously fashion.  The Errant thought to defeat them, as you might well seek to do, and so he became the god of change.  He walked the path of neutrality, yet flavoured it with a pleasure taken in impermanence.  The Errant's enemy was ennui, stagnation.  That is why the Forkrul Assail sought to annihilate him.  And all his mortal followers."  She paused, then added, "Perhaps they succeeded.  The Assail were never easily diverted from their chosen course."

"Look at you.  You were a priest of Fener, and now you're a priest of Treach.  Both gods of war.  Heboric, how many faces do you think the god of war has?  Thousands.  And in ages long past.  Tens of thousands.  Every damned tribe, old man.  All different, but all the same."  She lit her pipe, smoke wreathing her face, then said "Wouldn't surprise me if all the gods are aspects of just one god, and all this fighting is just proof that that one god is insane."
"Insane?"  Heboric was trembling.  He could feel his heart hammering away like some ghastly demon at the door to his soul.
"Or maybe just confused.  All those bickering worshippers, each one convinced that their version is the right one.  Imagine getting prayers from ten million believers, not one of them believing the same thing as the one kneeling beside him or her.  Imagine all those Holy Books, not one of them agreeing on anything, yet all of them purporting to be the word of that one god.  Imagine two armies annihilating each other, both in that god's name.  Who wouldn't be driven mad by all that?"

Shadowthrone Is Not An Idiot:

Shadowthrone raised a long-fingered hand that filled most of the card.  Closed it into a fist.  "Let me see," the god's voice purred, "if I understand you."  One dinger snapped upwards.  "The Nameless Idiots go and release Dejim Nebrahl.  Why?  Because they're idiots.  Their own lies caught up with them, so they needed to get rid of a servant who was doing what they wanted him to do in the first place, only doing it too well!"  Shadowthrone's voice was steadily climbing in pitch and volume.  A second finger shot into view.  "Then, you, the Master Idiot of the Deck of Dragons, decide to release the Deragoth, to get rid of Dejim Nebrahl.  But wait, even better!"  A third finger.  "Some other serious nasty wandering Seven Cities just killed two Deragoth, and maybe that nasty is still close by, and would like a few more trophies to drag behind his damned horse!"  His voice was now a shriek.  And now!  Now!"  The hand closed back into a fist, shaking about.  "You want me to send the Hounds of Shadow to Seven Cities!  Because it's finally occurred to that worm-ridden walnut you call a brain that the Deragoth won't bother with Dejim Nebrahl until they find my Hounds!  And if they come looking here in my realm, there'll be no stopping them!"  He halted suddenly, the fist motionless.  Then various fingers sprang into view, in an increasingly chaotic pattern.  Shadowthrone snarled, and the frenzied hand vanished.  A whisper: "Pure genius.  Why didn't I think of that?"  The tone began rising once more.  "Why?  Because I'm not an idiot!"

"We discovered the glory of civilization – and you, Teblor, hold still to your misplaced pride, holding up your ignorance of such glory as a virtue.  And so you still do not comprehend the great gift of civilization-"
"I comprehend it fine," Karsa Orlong replied around a mouthful of meat.  "The savage proceeds into civilization through improvements-"
"Yes!
"Improvements in the manner and efficiency of killing people."
"Hold on-"
"Improvements in the unassailable rules of degradation and misery."
"Karsa-"
"Improvements in ways to humiliate, impose suffering and justify slaughtering those savages too stupid and too trusting to resist what you hold as inevitable.  Namely, their extinction.  Between you and me, Samar Dev," he added, swallowing, "who should the Anibar fear more?"

[Cain]

"A civilization at war chooses only the most obvious enemy, and often also the one perceived, at first, to be the most easily defeatable.  But that enemy is not the true enemy, nor is it the greatest threat to that civilization.  Thus, a civilization at war often chooses the wrong enemy.  Tell me, Mappo Runt, for my two hypothetical kingdoms, where hid the truest threat?"
He shook his head.
"Yes, difficult to answer, because the threats were many, seemingly disconnected, and they appeared, disappeared then reappeared over a long period of time.  The game that was hunted to extinction, the forests that were cut down, the goats that were loosed on the hills, the very irrigation ditches that were dug.  And yet more: the surplus of food, the burgeoning population and its accumulating wastes.  And then diseases, soils blown or washed away; and kings – one after another – who could or would do nothing, or indeed saw nothing untoward beyond their fanatical focus on the ones they sought to blame."
"Alas," she said, leaning now on the rail, her face to the wind, "there is nothing simple in seeking to oppose such a host of threats.  First, one must recognize them, and to achieve that one must think in the long term; and then one must discern the intricate linkages that exist between all things, the manner in which one problem feeds into another.  From there, one must devise solutions and finally, one must motivate the population into concerted effort, and not just in one's own population, but that of neighbouring kingdoms, all of whom are participating in self-destruction.  Tell me, can you imagine such a leader ever coming to power?  Or staying there for long?  Me neither.  The hoarders of wealth will band together to destroy such a man or woman.  Besides, it is much easier to create an enemy and wage war, although why such hoarders of wealth actually believe they would survive such a war is beyond me.  But they do, again and again.  Indeed, it seems they believe they will outlive civilization."
"You propose little hope for civilization, Spite."
"Oh, my lack of hope extends far beyond mere civilization.  The Trell were pastoralists, yes?  You managed the half-wild bhederin herds of the Masai plains.  Actually a fairly successful way of living, all things considered."
"Until traders and settlers came."
"Yes, until those who coveted your land, driven as they were by enterprise or the wasting of their own lands, or by the poverty in their cities.  Each and all sought a new source of wealth.  To achieve it, alas, they first had to destroy your people."

The artistic version of wearing a hair shirt

"What is it, Hurlochel?"
"Where are we going?"
"To visit the imperial artist."
"Oh, him.  May I ask why?"
"Why suffer such torment, you mean?  Well, I have a request to make of him."
"High Fist?"
I need a new Deck of Dragons.  "Is he skilled, do you know?"
"A subject of constant debate, High Fist."
"Really?  Among whom?  The soldiers?  I find that hard to believe."
"Ormulogun has, accompanying him everywhere, a critic."
Oh, the poor man.

Yet another reason why the Grey Swords are awesome

Discipline is the greatest weapon against the self-righteous.  We must measure the virtue of our own controlled response when answering the atrocities of fanatics.  And yet, let it not be claimed, in our own oratory of piety, that we are without our own fanatics; for the self-righteous breed wherever tradition holds, and most often when there exists the perception that tradition is under assault.  Fanatics can be created as easily in an environment of moral decay (whether real or imagined) as in an environment of legitimate inequity or under the banner of common cause.  Discipline is as much facing the enemy within as the enemy before you; for without critical judgement, the weapon you wield delivers – and let us not be coy here – naught but murder.
And its first victim is the moral probity of your cause.
               (Words to the Adherents)
               Mortal Sword Brukhalian, the Grey Swords

Kalam pushed his way forward, slumped once more at Quick Ben's side.  "It's official," he said in the gloom of the hold.
"What is?"
"We're still alive."
"Oh, that's good, Kal.  I was sitting on coals down here waiting for that news."
"I prefer that image to the reality, Quick."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the idea that you were hiding, your loincloth suddenly baggy and a puddle spreading beneath you."
"You don't know anything.  I do.  I know more than I'd ever want to-"
"Impossible.  You drink in secrets like Hellian does rum.  The more you know, the drunker and more obnoxious you get."
"Oh yeah?  Well I know things you'd want to know, and I was going to tell you, but now I think I'll change my mind-"
"Out with it wizard, before I got back up and tell the Adjunct where she can find you."
"You can't do that.  I need time to think, damn you."
"So talk.  You can think while you're doing that, since with you the two activities are clearly distinct and mostly unrelated."

Kalam is too slow to be insane.  Unfortunately, this does not apply to Quick Ben.  Then again, none of the Bridgeburners are poster-children for sanity.

"So, how did you hide from Hood?"
"I was part of the Gate, of course.  Just another corpse, another staring face."
"Hey, now that's clever."
"Wasn't it?"
"What was it like, among all those bones and stuff?"
"Kind of...comforting..."
I can see that.  Kalam scowled again.  Hold on... I wonder... is there maybe something wrong with us?  "Quick, you and me?"
"Yes?"
"I think we're insane."
"You're not."
"What do you mean?"
"You're too slow.  You can't be insane if you only just realized we're insane.  Understand?"
"No."
"As I said, then."
"Well," the assassin grunted, "that's a relief."
"For you, yes."

Captain Kindly, the meanest bastard in the entire Malazan Army:

Kindly regarded him as he would a skewered grub.  "Your powers of observation are truly pathetic.  That ship is filled with Untans.  Coddled, noble-born pups.  Look at those damned uniforms, will you?  The only stains they got on them is gull shit, and that's because the gulls keep mistaking them for dead, bloated seals."

It seemed so easy for so many people to divide war from peace, to confine their definitions to the unambivalent.  Marching soldiers, pitched battles and slaughter.  Locked armouries, treaties, fetes, and city gates opened wide.  But Fiddler knew that suffering thrived in both realms of existence – he'd witnessed too many faces of the poor, ancient crones and babes in mothers arms, figures lying motionless on the roadside or in the gutters of streets – where sewage flowed unceasing like rivers gathering their spent souls.  And he had come to a conviction, lodged like an iron nail in his heart, and with its burning, searing realization, he could no longer look upon things the way he used to, he could no longer walk and see what he saw with a neatly partitioned mind, replete with its host of judgements – that critical act of moral relativity – this is less, that is more.  The truth in his heart was this: he no longer believed in peace.

It did not exist except as an ideal to which endless lofty words paid service, a litany offering up the delusion that the absence of overt violence was sufficient in itself, was proof that one was better than the other.  There was no dichotomy between war and peace – no true opposition except in their particular expressions of a ubiquitous inequity.  Suffering was all-pervasive.  Children starved at the feet of wealthy lords no matter how secure or unchallenged their rule.

There was too much compassion within him – he knew that, for he could feel the pain, the helplessness, the invitation to despair, and from that despair came the desire – the need – to disengage, to throw up his hands and simply walk away, turn his back on all that he saw, all that he knew.  If he could do nothing, then, damnit, he would see nothing.  What other choice did he have?