Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

Did I receive my reward from Purse Snippet? Why, on the night of the tumultuous party upon the awarding of the Century’s Greatest Artist to Brash Phluster (such a bright, rising star!), she did find me upon a private island amidst the swirl of smiling humanity, and we spoke then, at surprising length, and thereafter-

Oh dear, modesty being what it is, I can take that no further.

It was a considerable time afterwards (months, years?) that I happened to meet the grisly Nehemoth, quarry of ten thousand stone-eyed hunters, and over guarded cups of wine a few subjects were brushed, dusted off here and there in the gentle and, admittedly, cautious making of acquaintances. But even without that most intriguing night, it should by now be well understood that the true poet can never leave a tale’s threads woefully unknotted. Knotting the tale’s end is a necessity, to be sure, isn’t it? Or, rather if not entirely knotted, then at least seared, with finger tips set to wet mouth. To cut the sting.

So, with dawn nudging the drowsing birds in this lush garden, the wives stirring from their nests and the moths dipping under leaf, permit me to wing us back to that time, and to one last tale, mercifully brief, I do assure you.

Thus.

“It is a true measure of civilization’s suicidal haste,” said Bauchelain, “that even a paltry delay of, what? A day? Two? Even that, Mister Reese, proves so unpalatable to its hapless slaves, that death itself is preferable.” And he gestured with gloved hand towards all that the passing of the dust cloud now revealed upon that distant shore.

Emancipor Reese puffed for a time on his pipe, and then he shook his head. “Couldn’t they see, Master? That is what I can’t get. Here we were, and it’s not like that old ferryman there was gonna turn us round, is it? They missed the ride and that’s that. It baffles me, sir, that it does.”

Bauchelain stroked his beard. “And still you wonder at my haunting need to, shall we say, adjust the vicissitudes of civilization as befits its more reasonable members? Just so.” He was quiet for a time until he cleared his throat and said, “Korbal Broach tells me that the city we shall see on the morn groans beneath the weight of an indifferent god, and I do admit we have given that some thought.”

“Oh? Well, Master,” said Emancipor, leaning on the rail, “better an indifferent one than the opposite, wouldn’t you say?”

“I disagree. A god that chooses indifference in the face of its worshippers has, to my mind, Mister Reese, reneged on the most precious covenant of all. Accordingly, Korbal and I have concluded that its life is forfeit.”

Emancipor coughed out a lungful of smoke.

“Mister Reese?”

“Sorry!” gasped the manservant, “but I thought you just said you mean to kill a god!”

“Indeed I did, Mister Reese. Heavens forbid, it’s not like there’s a shortage of the damned things, is there? Now then, best get you some rest. The city awaits our footfalls upon the coming dawn and not even an unmindful god can change that now.”

And we can all forgive their not hearing the muttering that came from the ferryman’s dark hood as he hunched over the tiller, one hand fighting the currents, and the other beneath his breeches. “That’s what you think.”