Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

Or would you claim that these are in fact all facets of the same world? A man kneels in awe before a statue or standing stone, whilst another pisses at its base. Do these two men see the same thing? Do they even live in the same world?

And if I tell you that I have witnessed each in turn, that indeed I have both bowed in humility and reeled before witless desecration, what value my veracity when I state with fierce certainty that numberless worlds exist, and are in eternal collision, and that the only miracle worth a damned thing is that we manage to agree on anything?

Nothing stinks worse than someone else’s piss. And if you do not believe me, friends, try standing in my boots for a time.

And so to this day I look with fond indulgence upon my memories of the Indifferent God, if god he was, there within the cracked pot of Arpo Relent’s head, for all the pure pleasure he found in the grip of his right hand. Its issue was one of joy, after all, and far preferable to the spiteful, small-minded alternative.

The name of Avas Didion Flicker is not entirely unknown among the purveyors of entertainment, if not culture, throughout Seven Cities, and by virtue of living as long as I have, I am regarded with some modest veneration. This has not yielded vast wealth, not by any measure beyond that of personal satisfaction at the canon of words marking a lifetime’s effort, and as everyone knows, satisfaction is a wavering measure in one’s own mind, as quick to pale as it is to glow. If I now choose to stand full behind this faint canon and its even fainter reputation, well, the stance is not precisely comfortable.

And the relevance of this humble admission? Well now, that’s the question, isn’t it?

Mortal Sword Tulgord Vise had girthed himself for battle. Weapons cluttered his scaled hands, the pearled luminescence of his armour was fair blinding in the noble light. His eyes were savage arrow-heads straining at the taut bowstring of righteous anticipation. His beard bristled like the hackled rump of a furious hedgehog. The veins webbing his nose were bursting into crimson blooms beneath the skin. His teeth gnashed with every flare of his nostrils and strange smells swirled in his wake.

The Chanter brothers walked in a three-man shieldwall, suddenly festooned with halberds and axes and two-handed and even three-handed swords. Swathed in bear skin, Tiny commanded the centre, with the seal skinned Midge on his left and the seal skinned Flea on his right, thus forming a bestial wall in need of a good wash. Relish sauntered a step behind them, regal as a pregnant queen immune to bastardly rumours (they’re just jealous).

Steck Marynd still rode ahead, crossbow at the ready. Two thousand paces ahead the trail lifted to form a rumpled ridge, and behind it was naught but sky. Flanking this ominously near horizon was a host of crooked, leaning standards from which depended sun-bleached rags flapping like the wings of skewered birds. Every dozen or so heartbeats Steck twisted round in his saddle to look upon the Chanters, who being on foot were dictating the pace of this avenging army. He visibly ground his teeth at their insouciance.

Purse Snippet, with visage fraught and drawn, cast pensive glances my way, as did Sardic Thew and indeed Apto Canavalian, but still I held my silence. Yes, I could feel the twisting, knotting strain of the Nehemothanai, possibly only moments from launching forward, but I well knew that neither Tulgord nor Steck were such fools as to abandon the alliance with the Chanters upon the very threshold of battle. By all counts, Bauchelain and Korbal Broach were deadly, both in sorcery and in hard iron. Indeed, if but a small portion of the tales we had all heard on this pilgrimage were accurate, why, the necromancers had left a trail of devastation across half the known world, and entire frothing armies now nipped at their heels.

No, the Chanters, formidable and vicious, would be needed. And what of Arpo Relent? Why, he could be host to a terrible god, and had he not promised assistance?

Yet, for all this, the very air creaked.

“Gods,” whispered Brash Phluster clawing at his hair,’let them find them! I cannot bear this!”

I fixed my placid gaze upon the broad furry back of Tiny Chanter. “Perhaps the enemy is closer than any might imagine.” So I spoke, at a pitch that might or might not reach that lumbering shieldwall. “After all, what secrets did Calap Roud possess? Did he not choose his tale after much consideration? Or so I seem to recall.”

Apto frowned. “I don’t-”

Tiny Chanter swung round, weapons shivering. “You! Flicker!”

“Lady Snippet,” said I, calm as ever, “There is more to my tale, my gift to you, this offering of redemption in this sullied, terrible world.”

Tulgord barked something to Steck who reined in and then wheeled his mount. The entire party had now halted, Mister Must grunting in irritation as he tugged on his traces.

Arpo looked round. “Is it raining again? Bouncing cat eyes, how I hate rain!”

“Through gritted teeth and clenched jaws,” I began, eyes fixed upon Purse Snippet’s, “do we not despair of the injustice that plagues our precious civilization? Are we not flayed by the unfairness to which we are ever witness? The venal escape unscathed. The corrupt duck into shadows and leave echoes of mocking laughter. Murderers walk the streets. Bullies grow hulking and make fortunes buying and selling property. Legions of black-tongued clerks steal from you every last coin, whilst their shrouded masters build extensions to their well-guarded vaults. Money lenders recline in the filth of riches stripped from the poor. Justice? How can one believe in justice when it bleeds and crawls, when it wears a thousand faces and each one dying before your very eyes? And without justice, how can redemption survive?

We are whipped round, made to turn our backs on notions of righteous restitution, and should we raise our voices in protest, why, our heads are lopped off and set on spikes as warnings to everyone else. ‘Keep in line, you miserable shits, or you’ll end up like this!”

Now that I had their attention, even Nifty’s, I waved my arms about, consumed by pious wrath. “Shall we plead to the gods for justice?” And I jabbed a finger at Arpo Relent. “Do so, then! One is among us! But be warned, justice cuts clean, and what you ask for could well slice you in two on the backswing!” I wheeled to face Purse Snippet once again. “Do you believe in justice, Lady?”

Mutely she shook her head.

“Because you have seen! With your own eyes!”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I have seen.”

I hugged myself, wretched with all my haunting thoughts. “Evil hides. Sometimes right in front of you. I hear something… something. It’s close. Yes, close. Lady, to our tale, then. She walked in the company of pilgrims and killers, but as the journey went on, as the straits grew ever direr, she began to lose the distinction-there among her companions, even within her own soul. Which the pilgrim? Which the killer? The very titles blurred in blood-stained mockery-how could she remain blind to that? How could anyone?

“And so, as dreadful precipices loomed ever closer, it seemed the world was swallowed in grisly confusion. Killers, yes, on all sides. Wearing brazen faces. Wearing veiled ones. The masks all hide the same bloodless visage, do they not? Where is the enemy? Where? Somewhere ahead, just beyond the horizon? Or somewhere much closer. What was that warning again? Ah, yes… be careful who you invite into your camp. I hear something. What is it? Is it laughter? I think-”

Bellowing, Tiny Chanter pushed through our ranks and thumped against the carriage. “Everyone quiet!” And he set the side of his head against the shuttered side window. “I hear… breathing.”