Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 7)

Tanal Yathvanar felt a slither deep in his gut. And fled from it. No god waits to pass judgement. No-one marks the imbalance of deeds-no god is beyond its own imbalances-for its own deeds are as subject to judgement as any other. So who then fashions this afterlife? Some natural imposition? Ridiculous-there is no balance in nature. Besides, nature exists in this world and this world alone-its rules mean nothing once the bridge is crossed…

Tanal Yathvanar found himself walking up the corridor, that horrid woman and her cell far behind him now-he had no recollection of actually leaving.

Karos has said again and again, justice is a conceit. It does not exist in nature. ‘Retribution seen in natural catastrophes is manufactured by all too eager and all too pious people, each one convinced the world will end but spare them and them alone. But we all know, the world is inherited by the obnoxious, not the righteous.’ -

Unless, came the thought in Janath’s voice, the two are one and the same.

He snarled as he hurried up the worn stone stairs. She was far below. Chained. A prisoner in her solitary cell. There was no escape for her.

I have left her down there, far below. Far behind. She can’t escape.

Yet, in his mind, he heard her laughter.

And was no longer so sure.

Two entire wings of the Eternal Domicile were empty, long, vacated corridors and never-occupied chambers, storage rooms, administration vaults, servant quarters and kitchens. Guards patrolling these sections once a day carried their own lanterns, and left unrelieved darkness in their wake. In the growing damp of these unoccupied places, dust had become mould, mould had become rot, and the rot in turn leaked rank fluids that ran down plastered walls and pooled in dips in the floors.

Abandonment and neglect would soon defeat the ingenious innovations of Bugg’s Construction, as they defeated most things raised by hands out of the earth, and Turudal Brizad, the Errant, considered himself almost unique in his fullest recognition of such sordid truths, indeed, there were other elders persisting in their nominal existence, but they one and all fought still against the ravages of inevitable dissolution. Whereas the Errant could not be bothered.

Most of the time.

The Jaghut had come to comprehend the nature of futility, inspiring the Errant to a certain modicum of empathy for those most tragic of people. Where was Gothos now, he wondered. Probably long dead, all things considered. He had written a multiple-volumed suicide note-his Folly-that presumably concluded at some point, although the Errant had neither seen nor heard that such a conclusion existed. Perhaps, he considered with sudden suspicion, there was some hidden message in a suicidal testimonial without end, but if so, such meaning was too obscure for the mind of anyone but a Jaghut.

br />

Tanal Yathvanar felt a slither deep in his gut. And fled from it. No god waits to pass judgement. No-one marks the imbalance of deeds-no god is beyond its own imbalances-for its own deeds are as subject to judgement as any other. So who then fashions this afterlife? Some natural imposition? Ridiculous-there is no balance in nature. Besides, nature exists in this world and this world alone-its rules mean nothing once the bridge is crossed…

Tanal Yathvanar found himself walking up the corridor, that horrid woman and her cell far behind him now-he had no recollection of actually leaving.

Karos has said again and again, justice is a conceit. It does not exist in nature. ‘Retribution seen in natural catastrophes is manufactured by all too eager and all too pious people, each one convinced the world will end but spare them and them alone. But we all know, the world is inherited by the obnoxious, not the righteous.’ -

Unless, came the thought in Janath’s voice, the two are one and the same.

He snarled as he hurried up the worn stone stairs. She was far below. Chained. A prisoner in her solitary cell. There was no escape for her.

I have left her down there, far below. Far behind. She can’t escape.

Yet, in his mind, he heard her laughter.

And was no longer so sure.

Two entire wings of the Eternal Domicile were empty, long, vacated corridors and never-occupied chambers, storage rooms, administration vaults, servant quarters and kitchens. Guards patrolling these sections once a day carried their own lanterns, and left unrelieved darkness in their wake. In the growing damp of these unoccupied places, dust had become mould, mould had become rot, and the rot in turn leaked rank fluids that ran down plastered walls and pooled in dips in the floors.

Abandonment and neglect would soon defeat the ingenious innovations of Bugg’s Construction, as they defeated most things raised by hands out of the earth, and Turudal Brizad, the Errant, considered himself almost unique in his fullest recognition of such sordid truths, indeed, there were other elders persisting in their nominal existence, but they one and all fought still against the ravages of inevitable dissolution. Whereas the Errant could not be bothered.

Most of the time.

The Jaghut had come to comprehend the nature of futility, inspiring the Errant to a certain modicum of empathy for those most tragic of people. Where was Gothos now, he wondered. Probably long dead, all things considered. He had written a multiple-volumed suicide note-his Folly-that presumably concluded at some point, although the Errant had neither seen nor heard that such a conclusion existed. Perhaps, he considered with sudden suspicion, there was some hidden message in a suicidal testimonial without end, but if so, such meaning was too obscure for the mind of anyone but a Jaghut.

He had followed the Warlock King to the dead Azath, remained there long enough to discern Hannan Mosag’s intentions, and had now returned to the Eternal Domicile, where he could walk these empty corridors in peace. Contemplating, among other things, stepping once again into the fray. To battle, one more time, the ravages of dissolution.

He thought he could hear Gothos laughing, somewhere. But no doubt that was only his imagination, ever eager to mock his carefully reasoned impulses.

Finding himself in a stretch of corridor awash with slime-laden water, the Errant paused. ‘Well,’ he said with a soft sigh, ‘to bring a journey to a close, one must first begin it. Best I act whilst the will remains.’

His next step took him into a glade, thick verdant grasses underfoot, a ring of dazzling flowers at the very edges of the black-boled trees encircling the clearing. Butterflies danced from one bloom of colour to the next. The patch of sky visible overhead was faintly tinted vermilion and the air seemed strangely thin.

A voice spoke behind him. ‘I do not welcome company here.’

The Errant turned. He slowly cocked his head. ‘It’s not often the sight of a woman inspires fear in my soul.’

She scowled. ‘Am I that ugly, Elder?’

‘To the contrary, Menandore. Rather… formidable.’

‘You have trespassed into my place of refuge.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Does it so surprise you, that one such as myself needs refuge?’

‘I do not know how to answer that,’ he replied.

‘You’re a careful one, Errant.’

‘I suspect you want a reason to kill me.’

She walked past him, long black sarong flowing from frayed ends and ragged tears. ‘Abyss below,’ she murmured, ‘am I so transparent? Who but you could have guessed that 1 require justification for killing?’

‘So your sense of sarcasm has survived your solitude, Menandore. It is what I am ever accused of, isn’t it? My… random acts.’