Reaper's Gate & Toll the Hounds - By Steven Erikson Page 0,473

an idiot, you ain't that important. It was the winged monkeys did that.'

The barkeep's thin, overlong face twisted slightly as he arched a single brow.

Hellian turned to her corporal. 'What kinda sword you using, fool? One that don't work right, that's what kind, I'd say.'

'Aye, Sergeant.

'Sorry, Sergeant.'

'Aye and sorry don't cut it with me, Corporal. Now get that sword outa my sight.'

'Did you hear it coming?' another one of her soldiers asked.

'What? What's that supposed to mean, Boatsnort?'

'Uh, my name's—'

'I just told you your name!'

'Nothing, Sergeant. I didn't mean nothing.'

The barkeep cleared his throat. 'Now, if you are done with jabbering amongst yourselves, you can kindly leave. As I said before, this tavern is dry—'

'They don't make taverns dry,' Hellian said.

'I'm sure you didn't say that quite right—'

'Corporal, you hearing all this?'

'Yes.

'Aye.'

'Good. String this fool up. By his nostrils. From that beam right there.'

'By his nostrils, Sergeant?'

'That you again, Snortface?'

Hellian smiled as the corporal used four arms to grab the barkeep and drag him across the counter. The man was suddenly nowhere near as laconic as he was a moment ago. Sputtering, clawing at the hands gripping him, he shouted, 'Wait! Wait! '

Everyone halted.

'In the cellar,' the man gasped.

'Give my corporal directions and proper ones,' Hellian said, so very satisfied now, except for her dribbling ear, but oh, if any of her soldiers got out of line she could pick the scab and bleed all over them and wouldn't they feel just awful about it and then do exactly what she wanted them to do, 'which is guard the door.'

'Sergeant?'

'You heard me, guard the door, so we're not disturbed.'

'Who are we on the lookout for?' Snivelnose asked. 'Ain't nobody—'

'The captain, who else? She's probably still after us, damn her.'

Memories, Icarium now understood, were not isolated things. They did not exist within high-walled compartments in a mind. Instead, they were like the branches of a tree, or perhaps a continuous mosaic on a floor that one could play light over, illuminating patches here and there. Yet, and he knew this as well, for others that patch of light was vast and bright, encompassing most of a life, and although details might be blurred, scenes made hazy and uncertain with time, it was, nevertheless, a virtual entirety. And from this was born a sense of a self.

Which he did not possess and perhaps had never possessed. And in the grip of such ignorance, he was as malleable as a child. To be used; to be, indeed, abused. And many had done so, for there was power in Icarium, far too much power.

Such exploitation was now at an end. All of Taralack Veed's exhortations were as wind in the distance, and he was not swayed. The Gral would be Icarium's last companion.

He stood in the street, all of his senses awakened to the realization that he knew this place, this modest patch of the mosaic grey with promise. And true illumination was finally at hand. The measuring of time, from this moment and for ever onward. A life begun again, with no risk of losing his sense of self.

My hands have worked here. In this city, beneath this city.

And now awaits me, to be awakened.

And when I have done that, I will begin anew. A life, a host of tesserae to lay down one by one.

He set out, then, for the door.

The door into his machine.

He walked, unmindful of those scurrying in his wake, of the figures and soldiers moving out of his path. He heard but held no curiosity for the sounds of fighting, the violence erupting in the streets to either side, the detonations as of lightning although this dawn was breaking clear and still. He passed beneath diffused shadows cast down by billowing smoke from burning buildings, wagons and barricades. He heard screams and shouts but did not seek out where they came from, even to lend succour as he would normally have done. He stepped over bodies in the street.

He walked alongside an ash-laden greasy canal for a time, then reached a bridge and crossed over into what was clearly an older part of the city. Down another street to an intersection, whereupon he swung left and continued on.

There were more people here in this quarter – with the day growing bolder and all sounds of fighting a distant roar to the west – yet even here the people seemed dazed. None of the usual conversations, the hawkers crying their wares, beasts pulling loaded carts. The drifting smoke wafted