The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (900 page)

‘But then who will finish it?'

Nimander looked away. He was trapped here, possibly for ever. If he did as Gothos did, if he remained inside the house to await its completion, he might find a way out. He might walk those hidden pathways. And in so doing, he would doom this creature to eternity here. This child, this mason.

And that I cannot do. I am not like Gothos. I am not that cruel.

He heard laughter in his head. Phaed, shrieking with laughter. Then she said, ‘
Don't be an idiot. Take the way out. Leave this fool to his building blocks! He's pathetic!
'

‘I will set the last stone,' Nimander said. ‘Just make sure it's small enough for me to lift and push into place.' And he looked up, and he saw that the giant was smiling, and no, it no longer looked like a child, and in its eyes something shone and its light flowed down, bathed Nimander.

‘I am different,' the Elder said in a deep, warm voice, ‘
when I build.
'

 

‘Get him out,' Desra said.

‘I cannot.'

‘Why?'

The Jaghut blinked like a lizard. ‘I don't know how. The gate is Omtose Phellack, but the realm beyond is something else, something I want nothing to do with.'

‘But you made this gate – and gates open from both sides.'

‘I doubt he could ever find it,' the Jaghut said. ‘Even assuming anyone lets him get close.'

‘Anyone? Who's in there with him?'

‘A few million miserable wretches.'

Desra glared at Skintick. ‘How could you let this happen?'

He was weeping and could only shake his head.

‘Do not blame this one,' the Jaghut said. ‘Do not blame anyone. Accidents happen.'

‘You drugged us,' Skintick suddenly accused him, his voice harsh with grief.

‘Alas, I did. And I had my reasons for doing so…which seem to have failed. Therefore I must be more…direct, and oh how I dislike being direct. When next you see Anomander, tell him this from me: he chose wisely. Each time, he chose wisely. Tell him, then, that of all whom I ever met, there is but one who has earned my respect, and he is that one.'

A sudden sob from Skintick.

Desra felt strangely shaken by the Jaghut's words.

‘And,' the Jaghut then added, ‘for you. Do not trust Kallor.'

Feeling helpless, useless, she stepped closer to the wall of ice, squinted into its dark depths.

‘Careful, woman. That blood pulls hard on you Tiste.'

And yes, she could feel that, but it was nothing to trust, nothing to even pay attention to – it was the lie she had always known, the lie of something better just ahead, of all the questions answered, just ahead.
Another step, one more. One more.
Time's dialogue with the living, and time was a deceitful creature, a liar. Time promised everything and delivered nothing.

She stared into the darkness, and thought she saw movement, deep, deep within.

 

‘No Jaghut is to be trusted,' Kallor said, glaring at the lowering sun. ‘Especially not Gothos.'

Aranatha studied the ancient warrior with an unwavering gaze, and though he would not meet her sister's eyes, it was clear to Kedeviss that Kallor felt himself under siege. A woman's attention, devastating barrage of inexorable calculation – even a warrior flinched back.

But these were momentary distractions, she knew. Something had happened. Desra had rushed into the ruin and not returned. Nenanda stood fidgeting, eyes on the crumbled edifice.

‘Some gods are born to suffer,' Kallor said. ‘You'd be better off heading straight to Coral. Unleash Anomander Rake against that Dying God, if getting this Clip back is so important to you. At the very least you'll have your vengeance.'

‘And is vengeance so important?' Kedeviss asked.

‘Often it's all there is,' Kallor replied, still squinting westward.

‘Is that why they're after you?'

He turned, studied her. ‘And who would be after me?'

‘Someone. That much seems obvious. Am I wrong?'

Aranatha spoke from the wagon, ‘You are not, sister. But then, he has always been hunted. You can see it in his eyes.'

‘Be glad that you remain marginally useful to me,' Kallor said, turning away once more.

Kedeviss saw Nenanda glaring at the warrior's back.

 

How much time had passed? Days, perhaps weeks. Nimander stood, watching the mason build his tower. Shaping stone with fists, with round hammerstones found somewhere, with leather-wrapped wooden mallets to edge the pumice facing he had decided to add to ‘lighten the walls'.

To accommodate the giant, the tower needed to be huge, four storeys or more to the ceiling. ‘
Made with the blood of dragons, the glass of what flowed, the pumice of what foamed with dying breaths. A tower, yes, but also a monument, a grave marker. What will come of this? I know not. You were clever, Nimander, with this idea. Too clever to stay here. You must leave, when the tower vanishes, you must be within it. I will stay.
'

They repeated that argument again and again, and each time Nimander prevailed, not through brilliant reasoning, not through appealing to the Elder's selfish desires (because it turned out he didn't have any), but only through his refusal to surrender.

He had nothing awaiting him, after all. Nenanda could lead the others through – he was finding his own kind of wisdom, his restraint, and with Skintick and Kedeviss to guide him, he would do well. Until such time as they reached Coral.

Nimander had lost too many battles – he could see that in himself. Could feel every scar, still fresh, still wounding. This place would give him time to heal, if such a thing were possible. How long?
Why not eternity?

A chorus of wails surrounded them, an army of spirits grovelling in the ash and dust at the base of the volcanic cone. Bemoaning the end of the world – as if this world suited them just fine, when clearly it didn't, when each one dreamed of reclaiming flesh and bone, blood and breath. They sought to assail the slope but somehow failed again and again.

Nimander helped when he could, carrying tools here and there, but mostly he sat in the soft dust, seeing nothing, hearing only the cries from beyond the tower's growing wall, feeling neither thirst nor hunger, slowly emptying of desire, ambition, everything that might once have mattered.

Around him the darkness deepened, until the only light came from some preternatural glow from the pumice. The world closing in…

Until—

‘One stone remains. This stone. The base of this low window, Nimander, within your reach. I will help you climb outside – then push the stone through, like this – but tell me, please, why can we not both leave here? I am within the tower. So are you. If I set the stone—'

‘Elder,' cut in Nimander. ‘You are almost done here. Where is Gothos?'

A look of surprise. ‘I don't know.'

‘He does not dare this realm, I think.'

‘Perhaps that is true.'

‘I don't even know if this will work – if it will create for you a way out.'

‘I understand, Nimander. Remain inside with me. Let me set this stone.'

‘I don't know where this tower will take you,' Nimander replied. ‘Back to your realm, wherever that is, perhaps – but not my home. Nothing I know. Besides, you carved this to be pushed into place from outside – the angles—'

‘I can reshape it, Nimander.'

I cannot go with you.
‘In finding out where you are, Elder, I become lost. You are the mason, the maker of the houses. It is your task. You do not belong here.'

‘Nor do you.'

‘Don't I? There are Tiste Andii spirits out there. And Tiste Edur. Even Liosan. The ones who fell in the first wars, when dragons burst through every gate to slay, to die. Listen to them out there! They have made peace with one another – a miracle, and one I would be happy to share.'

‘You are not a ghost. They will take you. They will fight over you, a beginning of a new war, Nimander. They will tear you to pieces.'

‘No, I will reason with them—'

‘You cannot.'

Despair stirred awake in Nimander, as he saw the truth of the Elder's words. Even here, he was not welcome. Even here he would bring destruction.
Yet, when they tear me limb from limb, I will die. I will become just like them. A short war.
‘Help me through the window,' he said, pulling himself up on to the rough ledge.

‘As you wish. I understand, Nimander.'

Yes, perhaps you do.

‘Nimander.'

‘Yes?'

‘Thank you. For this gift of creation.'

‘Next time you meet Gothos,' Nimander said as his friend pushed him through the portal, ‘punch him in the face for me, will you?'

‘Yes, another good idea. I will miss you. You and your good ideas.'

He fell through on to a thick powdery slope, hastily reaching up to grip the window's edge to keep from sliding. Behind and below voices cried out in sudden hunger. He could feel their will churning up to engulf him.

A heavy scrape from the window and out came the final stone, end first, grinding as it was forced through. Catching Nimander by surprise. The weight pushed against his fingers where he held tight and he swore in pain as the tips were crushed, pinned – tearing one hand free left nails behind, droplets of blood spattering. He scrabbled for another handhold, then, voicing a scream, he tore loose his other arm.

Gods, how was he going to manage this? With two mangled hands, with no firm footing, with a mob surging frantic up the slope behind him?

Inexorable, the stone ground its way out. He brought a shoulder beneath it, felt the massive weight settling. His arms began to tremble.

Far enough now, yes, and he reached with one hand, began pushing to one side the nearest end of the blood-slick chunk of obsidian. He could see the clever angles now, the planes and how everything would somehow, seemingly impossibly, slide into perfect position. Push, some more – not much – almost in place—

Thousands, hundreds of thousands – a storm of voices, screams of desperation, of dismay, of terrible horror –
too much! Please, stop! Stop!

He was weakening – he would not make it – he could not hold on any longer – with a sob he released his grip and in the last moment, tottering, he pushed with both hands, setting the stone – and then he was falling, back, down, swallowed in cascading ash, stones, scouring chunks of rough pumice. Down the slope he tumbled, buried beneath ever more rubble. Hot. Suffocating. Blind. Drowning – and one flailing hand was grasped, hard, by one and then two hands – small – a woman's hands.

His shoulder flared in pain as that grip tightened, pulled him round. The collapsing hillside tugged at him, eager to take him – he understood its need, he sympathized, yes, and wanted to relent, to let go, to vanish in the crushing darkness.

The hands dragged him free. Dragged him by one bloody arm. The storm of voices raged anew, closer now and closing fast. Cold fingertips scrabbled against his boots, nails clawing at his ankles and oh he didn't care, let them take him, let them—

He tumbled down on to damp earth. Gloom, silence but for harsh breaths, a surprised grunt from nearby.

Rolling on to his back, coughing through a mouth caked in ash. Eyes burning—

Desra knelt over him, her head down, her face twisted in pain as she held her arms like two broken wings in her lap. Skintick, rushing close to crouch beside him.

‘I thought – she—'

‘How long?' Nimander demanded. ‘How could you have waited so long? Clip—'

‘What? It's been but moments, Nimander. Desra – she came in, she saw into the ice – saw you—'

Fire burned his fingers, flicked flames up his hands and into his wrists, sizzling fierce along the bones. Fresh blood dripped from dust-caked wounds where nails had been. ‘Desra,' he moaned. ‘Why?'

She looked up, fixed him with hard eyes. ‘We're not finished with you yet, Nimander,' she said in a rasp. ‘Oh no, not yet.'

‘You damned fool,' Gothos said. ‘I was saving that one for later. And now he's free.'

Nimander twisted round. ‘You cannot just
collect
people! Like shiny stones!'

‘Why not? My point is, I needed that one. There is now an Azath in the blood of dragons—'

‘The spilled blood – the blood of dead dragons—'

‘And you think the distinction is important? Oh, me and my endless folly!' With sharp gestures he raised his hood once more, then turned to settle down on a stool, facing the hearth, his position a perfect match to the moment Nimander, Skintick and Kallor had first entered this place. ‘You idiot, Nimander. Dragons don't play games. Do you understand me?
Dragons play no games.
Ah, I despair, or I would if I cared enough. No, instead, I will make some ashcakes. Which I will not share.'

‘It's time to leave,' Skintick said.

Yes, that much was obvious.