Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1)

Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) Page 176

“That's right,” Crokus murmured. “Everything's fine. Do you understand?” He pointed at his mouth and made talking motions.

Coll groaned.

The girl surprised them both by replying in Daru, “I understand you,” she said haltingly. “More now. You're not Malazan, you're not speaking Malazan. But I understand you.” She frowned. “How?”

“Malazan, huh?” Coll said. “Where are you from, girl?”

She thought for a moment. “Itko Kan,” she said.

“What the hell?” Coll laughed. “What storm blew you here?”

Realization flooded her eyes. “Where's my father? What happened to the nets? I bought the twine, and there was that Seer-Riggalai the Seer, the wax-witch. I remember her-she died!” The girl fell to her knees. “She died. And then-”

Coll's expression was severe, thoughtful. “And then?”

“I don't remember,” the girl whispered, looking down at her hands. “I don't remember anything more.” She began to cry.

“Gedderone's thousand teats,” Coll cursed quietly, waving Crokus to his side. “Listen carefully, lad. Don't wait for us. Take this girl to your uncle. Take her to Mammot, and quickly.”

Crokus scowled. “Why? I can't just leave you here, Coll. Who knows when Murillio and Kruppe will come around? What if that mercenary comes back?”

“What if she does?” Coll asked pointedly.

Crokus flushed and looked away.

“Murillio's a tough bastard, despite the perfume,” Coll said. “He'll be up and dancing in no time. Take the girl to your uncle, lad. Do as I say.”

“You still haven't told me why,” Crokus said.

“It's a hunch, no more.” Coll reached up and gripped the boy's shoulder. “This girl's been possessed. I think. Someone, something, brought her here, to Darujhistan, and on to our trail. The truth is somewhere in her head, Crokus, and it could be vital. Your uncle knows the right people, they can help her, lad. Now, saddle up my horse. I'll wait here for our friends to wake. Hell, I can't walk anyway. I shouldn't move for at least a couple of days. Kruppe and Murillio will handle things here. Go!”

Crokus eyed the weeping girl. Then he said. “All right, Coll. We'll go back, me and her.”

“Good,” Coll grunted. “Now, lay me out a bedroll and some food. Then ride on out of here, and if that damn horse of mine has a heart attack outside the city gates, even better. Hop to it, lad.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dessembrae knows the sorrows in our souls.

He walks at the side of each mortal a vessel of regret on the fires of vengeance.

Dessembrae knows the sorrows and would now share them with us all.

The Lord of Tragedy Holy Book prayer (Canon of Kassal)

The puncture wound in lorn's left shoulder was not deep. Without magical aid, however, the risk of infection was a cause for concern. She returned to the camp to find Tool still positioned where he had been since dawn.

Ignoring the Imass, the Adjunct found her collection of herbs in her saddle bag. She sat down and leaned back against the saddle, then set to treating the wound.

It had been a foolish, unnecessary attack. Too many things had happened recently, too many ideas, too much of the woman Lorn interfering with her functions and duties as Adjunct to the Empress. She was making mistakes that she would not have made a year ago.

Tool had given her more to think about than she could handle. The words the Imass had thrown at her feet, as if in afterthought, had reached into and grasped something deep within her and now would not let go. Emotions seeped into the Adjunct, clouding the world around her.

She'd abandoned sorrow long ago, along with regret. Compassion was anathema to the Adjunct. Yet now all these feelings swept through her in tides pulling her every which way. She found herself clinging to the title of Adjunct, and what it meant, as if it was a lifeline to sanity, to stability and control.

She completed cleaning the wound as best she could, then prepared a poultice. Control. The word rebounded in her thoughts, clipped, hard and sure. What was the heart of Empire, if not control? What shaped Empress Laseen's every act, her every thought? And what had been at the heart of the very first Empire-the great wars that shaped the T'lan Imass to this day?

She sighed and looked down at the dirt beneath her. But that was no more than we all sought, she told herself. From a young girl bringing twine home to her father, to the immortal power that had seized her for its own use. Through the gamut of life we struggled for control, for a means to fashion the world around us, an eternal, hopeless hunt for the privilege of being able to predict the shape of our lives.