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Was this the driving force behind the quest for power? To tear away anonymity, to raise fame and infamy up like a blazing shield and shining sword? To voice a cry that would be heard beyond the gates of one’s own life?

But oh, Duiker had heard enough such cries. He had stood, cowering, in the midst of howls of defiance and triumph, all turning sour with despair, with senseless rage. The echoes of power were uniform, yes, in their essential emptiness. Any historian worthy of the title could see that.Advertisement

No, there was no value in writing. No more effect than a babe’s fists battering at the silence that ignored every cry. History meant nothing, because the only continuity was human stupidity. Oh, there were moments of greatness, of bright deeds, but how long did the light of such glory last? From one breath to the next, aye, and no more than that. No more than that. As for the rest, kick through the bones and wreckage for they are what remain, what lasts until all turns to dust.

‘You are looking thoughtful,’ Mallet observed, leaning forward with a grunt to top up Duiker’s tankard. ‘Which, I suppose, should not come as a surprise, since you just burned the efforts of most of a year, not to mention a high council’s worth of papyrus.’

‘I will reimburse you the cost,’ Duiker said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the healer said, leaning back. ‘I only said you looked thoughtful.’

‘Appearances deceive, Mallet. I am not interested in thinking any more. About anything.’

‘Good, then this is a true meeting of minds.’

Duiker continued studying the fire, continued watching the black crows wing up the chimney. ‘For you, unwise,’ he said. ‘You have assassins to consider.’

Mallet snorted. ‘Assassins. Antsy’s already talking about digging up a dozen cussers. Blend’s out hunting down the Guild’s headquarters, while Picker and Bluepearl work with Councillor Coll to sniff out the source of the contract. Cive it all a week and the problem will cease being a problem. Permanently.’

Duiker half smiled. ‘Don’t mess with Malazan marines, retired or otherwise.’

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‘You’d think people would know by now, wouldn’t you?’

‘People are stupid, Mallet.’

The healer winced. ‘Not all of us.’

‘True. But Hood waits for everyone, stupid, smart, witty, witless. Waits with the same knowing smile.’

‘No wonder you burned your book, Duiker.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, since you’re no longer writing history, what will you do?’

‘Do? Why, nothing.’

‘Now that’s something I know all about-oh, don’t even try to object. Aye, I heal someone every now and then, but I was a soldier, once. And now I’m not. Now I sit around getting fat, and it’s fat poisoned through and through with some kind of cynical bile. I lost all my friends, Duiker. No different from you. Lost ’em all, and for what? Damned if I know, damned and damned again, but no, I don’t know the why of it, the why of anything.’

‘A meeting of minds, indeed,’ Duiker said. ‘Then again, Mallet, it seems you are at war once more. Against the usual implacable, deadly enemy.’

‘The Guild? I suppose you’re right. But it won’t last long, will it? I don’t like being retired. It’s like announcing an end to your worth, whatever that worth was, and the longer you go on, the more you realize that that worth wasn’t worth anything like you once thought it was, and that just makes it worse.’

Duiker set down his tankard and rose. ‘The High Alchemist has invited me to lunch on the morrow. I’d best go to bed and get some sleep. Watch your back, healer. Sometimes the lad pushes and the lady’s nowhere in sight.’

Mallet simply nodded, having assumed the burden of staring at the fire now that Duiker was leaving.

The historian walked away from the warmth, passing through draughts and layers of chill air on his way to his room. Colder and colder, with every step.

Somewhere above this foul temple, crows danced with sparks above the mouth of a chimney, virtually unseen in the darkness. Each one carried a word, but the sparks were deaf. Too busy with the ecstasy of their own bright, blinding fire. At least, until they went out.

Gaz stormed out early, as soon as he realized he wasn’t going to get enough coin from the day’s take to buy a worthwhile night of drinking. Thordy watched her husband go, that pathetic forward tilt of the man’s walk which always came when he was enraged, the jerky strides as he marched out into the night. Where he went she had no idea, nor, truth be told, did she even cure. pqdm.com