The Crippled God (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #10)

The Crippled God (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #10) Page 39

‘If it wasn’t for you I’d never have tried climbing it.’

‘Yes you would.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because, Stormy, you never think.’

He’d gathered things. Small things. Shiny stones, shards of crystal, twigs from the fruit trees, and he carried them about, and when he could he’d sit down on the floor and set them out, making mysterious patterns or perhaps no patterns, just random settings. And then he’d look at them, and that was all.

The whole ritual, now that she’d witnessed it dozens of times, deeply disturbed Badalle, but she didn’t know why.

Saddic has things in a bag

He’s a boy trying to remember

Though I tell him not to

Remembering’s dead

Remembering’s stones and twigs

In a bag and each time they come out

I see dust on his hands

We choose not remembering

To keep the peace inside our heads

We were young once

But now we are ghosts in the dreams

Of the living.

Rutt holds a baby in a bag

And Held remembers everything

But will not speak, not to us.

Held dreams of twigs and stones

And knows what they are .

She thought to give Saddic these words, knowing he would hide them in the story he was telling behind his eyes, and then it occurred to her that he didn’t need to hear to know, and the story he was telling was beyond the reach of anyone. I am trapped in his story. I have flown in the sky, but the sky is the dome of Saddic’s skull, and there is no way out. Look at him studying his things, see the confusion on his face. A thin face. Hollowed face. Face waiting to be filled, but it will never be filled . ‘Icarias fills our bellies,’ she said, ‘and starves everything else.’

Saddic looked up, met her eyes, and then looked away. Sounds from the window, voices in the square below. Families were taking root, sliding into the crystal walls and ceilings, the floors and chambers. Older boys became pretend-fathers, older girls became pretend-mothers, the young ones scampered but never for long – they’d run, as if struck with excitement, only to falter after a few steps, faces darkening with confusion and fear as they ran back to find shelter in their parents’ arms.

This is the evil of remembering .

‘We can’t stay here,’ she said. ‘Someone is seeking us. We need to go and find them. Rutt knows. That’s why he walks to the end of the city and stares into the west. He knows.’

Saddic began collecting his things. Into his little bag. Like a boy who’d caught something out of the corner of his eye, only to find nothing when he turned.

If you can’t remember it’s because you never had what it is you’re trying to remember. Saddic, we’ve run out of gifts. Don’t lie to fill up your past . ‘I don’t like your things, Saddic.’

He seemed to shrink inside himself and would not meet her eyes as he tied up the bag and tucked it inside his tattered shirt.

I don’t like them. They hurt .

‘I’m going to find Rutt. We need to get ready. Icarias is killing us.’

‘I knew a woman once, in my village. Married. Her husband was a man you wanted, like a hot stone in your gut. She’d walk with him, a step behind, down the main track between the huts. She’d walk and she’d stare right at me all the way. You know why? She was staring at me to keep me from staring at him. We are really nothing but apes, hairless apes. When she’s not looking, I’ll piss in her grass nest – that’s what I decided. And I’d do more than that. I’d seduce her man. I’d break him. His honour, his integrity, his honesty. I’d break him between my legs. So when she walked with him through the village, she’d do anything but meet my eyes. Anything.’

With that, Kisswhere reached for the jug.

The Gilk Warchief, Spax, studied her from beneath a lowered brow. And then he belched. ‘How dangerous is love, hey?’

‘Who said anything about love?’ she retorted with a loose gesture from the hand holding the jug. ‘It’s all about possession. And stealing. That’s what makes a woman wet, what makes her eyes shine. ’Ware the dark streak in a woman’s soul.’

‘Men have their own,’ he muttered.

She drank, and then swung the jug back to his waiting hand. ‘Different.’

‘Mostly, aye. But then, maybe not.’ He swallowed down a mouthful, wiped his beard. ‘Possession only counts for too much in a man afraid of losing whatever he has. If he’s settled he doesn’t need to own, but then how many of us are settled? Few, I’d wager. We’re restless enough, and the older we get, the more restless we are. The misery is, the one thing an old man wants to possess the most is the one thing he can’t have.’