Reaper's Gate & Toll the Hounds - By Steven Erikson Page 0,701

her wings to slow her plummet, the keep still rushing up to meet her. A flurry of beating wings and she settled atop the stone wall, talons crunching into the granite.

'And does the view ever change?' Crone asked.

Anomander Rake looked down, regarded her for a time.

She opened her beak to laugh in silence for a few heartbeats. 'The Tiste Andii are not a people prone to sudden attacks of joy, are they? Dancing into darkness? The wild cheerful cavort into the future? Do you imagine that our flight from his rotting flesh was not one of rapturous glee? Pleasure at being born, delight at being alive? Oh, I have run out of questions for you – it is indeed now a sad time.'

'Does Baruk understand, Crone?'

'He does. More or less. Perhaps. We'll see.'

'Something is happening to the south.'

She bobbed her head in agreement. 'Something, oh yes, something all right. Are the priestesses in a wild orgy yet? The plunge that answers everything! Or, rather, postpones the need for answers for a time, a time of corresponding bliss, no doubt. But then . . . reality returns. Damn reality, damn it to the Abyss! Time for another plunge!' 'Travel has soured your mood, Crone.'

'It is not in my nature to grieve. I despise it, in fact. I rail against it! My sphincter explodes upon it! And yet, what is it you force upon me, your old companion, your beloved servant?'

'I have no such intention,' he replied. 'Clearly, you fear the worst. Tell me, what have your kin seen?'

'Oh, they are scattered about, here and there, ever high above the petty machinations of the surface crawlers. We watch as they crawl this way and that. We watch, we laugh, we sing their tales to our sisters, our brothers.'

'And?'

She ducked her head, fixed one eye upon the tumultuous black seas below. 'This darkness of yours, Master, breeds fierce storms.'

'So it does.'

'I will fly high above the twisting clouds, into air clear and cold.'

'And so you shall, Crone, so you shall.'

'I dislike it when you are generous, Master. When that soft regard steals into your eyes. It is not for you to reveal compassion. Stand here, yes, unseen, unknowable, that I might hold this in my mind. Let me think of the ice of true justice, the kind that never shatters – listen, I hear the bells below! How sure that music, how true the cry of iron.'

'You are most poetic this day, Crone.'

'It is how Great Ravens rail at grief, Master. Now, what would you have me do?'

'Endest Silann is at the deep river.'

'Hardly alone, I should think.'

'He must return.'

She was silent for a moment, head cocked. Then she said, 'Ten bells have sounded.'

'Ten.'

'I shall be on my way, then.'

'Fly true, Crone.'

'I pray you tell your beloved the same, Master, when the time is nigh.'

He smiled. 'There is no need for that.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Who are you to judge whether she is old

or young, and if she is lifting the bucket

or lowering it down into this well?

And is she pretty or plain as undyed linen,

is she a sail riding the summer wind

bright as a maiden's eye above waves of blue?

Does her walk sway in pleasure and promise

of bracing dreams as if the earth could sing

fertile as joyous butterflies in a flowered field,

or has this saddle stretched slack in cascades

of ripe fruit and rides no more through

blossomed orchards? Who then are you

to cage in presumptuous iron the very

mystery that calls us to life where hovers

the brimming bucket, ever poised between

dark depths and choral sunlight – she is beauty

and this too is a criminal exhortation, and

nothing worthwhile is to be found in your

regard that does little more than stretch

this frayed rope – so shame!

Dismissal delivers vicious wounds and she

walks away or walks to with inner cringing.

Dare not speak of fairness, dare not indulge

cruel judgement when here I sit watching

and all the calculations between blinks

invite the multitude to heavy scorn and see

that dwindling sail passing for ever beyond you

as is her privilege there on the sea of flowers

all sweet fragrance swirling in her wake –

it will never ever reach you – and this is

balance, this is measure, this is the observance

of strangers who hide their tears

when turning away.

Young Men Against a Wall

Nekath of One Eye Cat

No purer artist exists or has ever existed than a child freed to imagine. This scattering of sticks in the dust, that any adult might kick through without a moment's thought, is in truth the bones of a vast world, clothed, fleshed, a