‘Try thinking your own thoughts on occasion,’ Desra said drily.
‘He saw truly-’
‘Andarist surrendered his soul and thought it earned him wisdom,’ Clip cut in, punctuating his statement with a snap of rings. ‘In this case, though, he probably struck true. Even so, this has the flavour of. . necessity.’
Skintick snorted. ‘Necessity, now there’s a word to feed every outrage on decency.’
Beyond the ghastly army and the ghoulish purple-leaved plants squatted a town, quaint and idyllic against a backdrop of low, forested hills. Smoke rose above thatched roofs. A few figures were visible on the high street.
‘I think we should avoid meeting anyone,’ Nimander said. ‘I do not relish the notion of ending up staked above a plant.’
‘That will not occur,’ said Clip. ‘We need supplies and we can pay for them. In any case, we have already been seen. Come, with luck there will be a hostel or inn.’
A man in a burgundy robe was approaching up the track that met the raised road. Below the tattered hem of the robe his legs were bare and pale, but his feet were stained black. Long grey hair floated out from his head, unkempt and tan shy;gled. His hands were almost comically oversized, and these too were dyed black.
The face was lined, the pale blue eyes wide as they took in the Tiste Andii on the road. Hands waving, he began shouting, in a language Nimander had never heard before. After a moment, he clearly cursed, then said in broken Andii, ‘Traders of Black Coral ever welcome! Morsko town happy of guests and kin of Son of Darkness! Come!’
Clip gestured for his troupe to follow.
The robed man, still smiling like a crazed fool, whirled and hurried back down the track.
Townsfolk were gathering on the high street, watching in silence as they drew nearer. The score or so parted when they reached the edge of the town. Nimander saw in their faces a bleak lifelessness, in their eyes the wastelands of scorched souls, so exposed, so unguarded, that he had to look away.
Hands and feet were stained, and on more than a few the blackness rimmed their gaping mouths, making the hole in their faces too large, too seemingly empty and far too depthless.
The robed man was talking. ‘A new age, traders. Wealth! Bastion. Heath. Even Outlook rises from ash and bones. Saemankelyk, glory of the Dying God. Many the sacrifices. Of the willing, oh yes, the willing. And such thirst!’
They came to a broad square with a bricked well on a centre platform of water-worn limestone slabs. On all sides stood racks from which harvested plants hung drying upside down, their skull-sized rootballs lined like rows of children’s heads, faces deformed by the sun. Old women were at the well, drawing water in a chain that wended between racks to a low, squat temple, empty buckets returning.
The robed man pointed at the temple — probably the only stone building in the town — and said, ‘Once sanctified in name of Pannion. No more! The Dying God now, whose body, yes, lies in Bastion. I have looked upon it. Into its eyes. Will you taste the Dying God’s tears, my friends? Such demand!’
‘What horrid nightmare rules here?’ Skintick asked in a whisper.
Nimander shook his head.
‘Tell me, do we look like traders?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Black Coral, Nimander. Son of Darkness — our kinfolk have become merchants!’
‘Yes, but merchants of what?’
The robed man — a priest of some sort — now led them to an inn to the left of the temple that looked half dilapidated. ‘Few traders this far east, you see. But roof is sound. I will send for maids, cook. There is tavern. Opens of midnight.’
The ground floor of the inn was layered in dust, the planks underfoot creaking and strewn with pellets of mouse droppings. The priest stood beside the front door, large hands entwined, head bobbing as he held his smile.
Clip faced the man. ‘This will do,’ he said. ‘No need for maids, but find a cook.’
‘Yes, a cook. Come midnight to tavern!’
‘Very well.’
Tht priest left,
Nenanda began pacing, kicking detritus away from his path. ‘I do not like this, Herald. There aren’t enough people for this town — you must have seen that.’
‘Enough,’ muttered Skintick as he set his pack down on a dusty tabletop, ‘for planting and harvesting.’
‘Saemankelyk,’ said Nimander. ‘Is that the name of this dying god?’
‘I would like to see it,’ Clip said, chain spinning once more as he looked out through the smeared lead-paned window. ‘This dying god.’
‘Is this place called Bastion on the way to Black Coral?’
Clip glanced across at Nimander, disdain heavy in his eyes. ‘I said I wish to see this dying god. That is enough.’
‘I thought-’ began Nenanda, but Clip turned on him sharply.
‘That is your mistake, warrior. Thinking. There is time. There is always time.’
Nimander glanced across at Skintick. His cousin shrugged; then, eyes narrowing, he suddenly smiled.
‘Your god, Nimander?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not likely to die any time soon, then.’
‘No, never that.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ Clip demanded, then, dismissing any possible reply, he faced the window once more. ‘A dying god needs to die sometime.’
‘Notions of mercy, Great One?’ Skintick asked.
‘Not where you are concerned.’
‘Just as well, since I could never suffer the gratitude.’
Nimander watched as Desra glided up to stand beside Clip. They stood looking out through the pane, like husband and wife, like allies against the world. Her left arm almost touching him, up near her elbow, but she would not draw any closer. The spinning rings prevented that, whirling a metal barrier.
‘Tonight,’ Clip said loudly, ‘no one drinks.’
Nimander thought back to those black-stained mouths and the ravaged eyes above them, and he shivered.
Mist drifted down from the parklike forest north of the Great Barrow, merging with the smoke of cookfires from the pilgrims encamped like an army around the enormous, circular mound. Dawn was paling the sky, seeming to push against the unnatural darkness to the south, but this was a war the sun could not win.
From the city gate the cobbled road ran between lesser barrows where hundreds of corpses had been interred following the conquest. Malazans, Grey Swords, Rhivi, Tiste Andii and K’Chain Che’Malle. Farther to the west rose longer barrows, final home to the fallen citizens and soldiers of the city.
Seerdomin walked the road through the gloom. A path through ghosts — too many to even comprehend — but he thought he could hear the echoes of their death-cries, their voices of pain, their desperate pleas for mothers and loved ones. Once he was past this place, who was there to hear those echoes? No one, and it was this truth that struck him the hardest. They would entwine with naught but themselves, falling unheeded to the dew-flattened grass.
He emerged into morning light, like passing through a curtain, suddenly brushed with warmth, and made his way up the slope towards the sprawled encampment. For this, he wore his old uniform, a kind of penance, a kind of self-flagellation. There was need, in his mind, to bear his guilt openly, brazenly, to leave himself undefended and indefensible. This was how he saw his daily pilgrimage to the Great Barrow, although he well knew that some things could never be purged, and that redemption was a dream of the deluded.
Eyes fixed on him from the camps to either side as he continued on towards that massive heap of treasure — wealth of such measure that it could only belong to a dead man, who could not cast covetous eyes upon his hoard, who would not feel its immense weight night and day, who would not suffer beneath its terrible curse. He was tracked, then, by no doubt hardening eyes, the fixation of hatred, contempt, perhaps even the desire of murder. No matter. He understood such sentiments, the purity of such desires.