The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (876 page)

He could have chanted for ever, but he had left no one alive. Oh, a dozen horses that he gave away to a caravan some days later, a gift for taking in the half-dead warrior, for treating his raging fever, for cleaning his wounds and burning out infection. They would accept no payment for their efforts – they could do nothing for the bleak anguish in his soul, they explained, and so to ask for anything would be dishonourable. Now a gift, well, that was different.

In the desert nothing disguised time's cruel face. Its skin was stretched to the bone. Its lone eye burned the sky and its gaping mouth was cold and airless as a mountain peak. The traders understood this. They were as much a tribe of the desert as anyone, after all. They gave him bladders of water – enough to take him to the nearest garrison outpost – ‘
Aye, give the Mezla that – they know how to build waystations and equip them well. They turn no one away, friend.
'

They gave him the strongest of the raiders' horses, a fine saddle, jerked meat and dried fruit. They gave him feed for the mount to last four days and, finally, they showed him the track he would take, the path that cheated death and yes, it was the only one.

Death stalked him, they said. Waited, for now, out beyond the glare of the dung-fires, but when Barathol finally rode out the reaper with the long legs would set out after him, singing of time, singing of the hunger that never ended, never slowed, never did anything but devour all in its path.

‘
When longing comes to you, friend, step not into its snare, for longing is the fatal bait – find yourself in its snare and you will be dragged, dragged through all the time allotted you, Barathol Mekhar, and nothing you grasp will remain, all torn from your fingers. All that you see will race past in a blur. All that you taste will be less than a droplet, quickly stripped away. Longing will drag you into the stalker's bony arms, and you will have but a single, last look back, on to your life – a moment of clarity that can only be some unknown god's most bitter gift – and you will understand, all at once, all that you have wasted, all that you let escape, all that you might have had.

‘
Now ride, friend. And 'ware the traps of your mind
.'

Too late. Those two words haunted him, would perhaps for ever haunt him. The cruel chant had filled his head when he'd looked down upon Chaur's drowned face.
Too late!

But he'd spat into that gleeful cry. That time, yes, he had. He had said
no
and he had won.

Such victories were without measure.

Enough to hold a man up for a while longer. Enough to give him the courage to meet a woman's eyes, to meet unflinching what he saw there…

In cavorting, clashing light, faces smeared past as they walked through the crowd. Rollicking songs in the local tongue, jars and flasks thrust at them in drunken generosity. Shouted greetings, strangers in clutches by walls, hands groping beneath disordered clothing. The smell of sex everywhere – Barathol slowed and half turned.

Scillara was laughing. ‘You lead us into most unusual places, Barathol. This street called out to you, did it?'

Chaur was staring at the nearest pair, mouth hanging open as his head unconsciously began bobbing in time with their rhythmic thrusts.

‘Gods below,' Barathol muttered. ‘I wasn't paying much attention.'

‘So you say. Of course, you were on that boat for a long time, pretty much alone, I'd wager – unless Spite decided—'

‘No,' he cut in firmly. ‘Spite decided nothing of the sort.'

‘Well then, the city beckons with all its carnal delights! This very street, in fact—'

‘Enough of that, please.'

‘You can't think I'll ease up on you, Barathol?'

Grimacing, he squinted at Chaur. ‘This is disturbing him—'

‘It is not! It's exciting him, and why wouldn't it?'

‘Scillara, he may have a man's body, but his is a child's mind.'

Her smile went away and she nodded thoughtfully. ‘I know. Awkward.'

‘Best we leave this,' Barathol said.

‘Right. Let us find somewhere to eat supper – we can make plans there. But the issue won't go away, I suspect – he's caught the scent, after all.'

Moving to either side of Chaur, they turned him about and began guiding him away. He resisted briefly, but then fell in step, joining in with a nearby chorus of singers with loud, wordless sounds not quite matching their somewhat better efforts.

‘We really are the lost ones, aren't we?' Scillara said. ‘We need to find ourselves a purpose…in life. Aye, let's grasp our biggest, most glaring flaw, shall we? Never mind what to do tomorrow or the day after. What to do with the rest of our lives, now there's a worthy question.'

He groaned.

‘Seriously. If you could have anything, anything at all, Barathol, what would it be?'

A second chance.
‘There's no point in that question, Scillara. I'll settle for a smithy and a good day's work, each and every day. I'll settle for an honest life.'

‘Then that's where we'll start. A list of necessary tasks. Equipment, location, Guild fees and all that.'

She was trying hard, he could see. Trying hard to keep her own feelings away from this moment, and each moment to come, for as long as she could.

I accept no payment, Scillara, but I will take your gift. And give you one in turn.
‘Very well. I can certainly use your help in all that.'

‘Good. Look, there's a crowded courtyard with tables and I see food and people eating. We can stand over a table until the poor fool sitting at it leaves. Shouldn't take long.'

 

Blend withdrew her bared foot from Picker's crotch and slowly sat straight. ‘Be subtle,' she murmured, ‘but take a look at the trio that just showed up.'

Picker scowled. ‘Do you always have to make me uncomfortable in public, Blend?'

‘Don't be silly. You're positively glowing—'

‘With embarrassment, yes! And look at Antsy – his face is like a sun-baked crabshell.'

‘It's always like that,' Blend said.

‘I don't mind,' Antsy said, licking his lips. ‘I don't mind at all what you two get up to, in public or in that favourite room you use, the one with the thin walls and creaking floor and ill-fitting door—'

‘A door you were supposed to fix,' snapped Picker, only now half turning to take in the newcomers. She flinched, then huddled down over the table. ‘Gods below. Now, don't that grizzled one look familiar.'

‘I been trying to fix it, honest. I work on it all the time—'

‘You work all right, with one eye pressed to the crack,' Blend said. ‘You think we don't know you're there, sweating and grunting as you—'

‘Be quiet!' Picker hissed. ‘Didn't you two hear me? I said—'

‘He looks just like Kalam Mekhar, aye,' Antsy said, poking with his knife at the chicken carcass on the platter in the centre of the table. ‘But he's not Kalam, is he? Too tall, too big, too friendly-looking.' He frowned and tugged at his moustache. ‘Who was it said we should eat here tonight?'

‘That bard,' said Picker.

‘Our bard?'

‘For the rest of the week, aye.'

‘He recommended it?'

‘He said we should eat here tonight, is what he said. Is that a recommendation? Might be. But maybe not. He's an odd one. Anyway, he said it would be open till dawn.'

‘The chicken was too scrawny. And I don't know who they got to pluck the damned thing, but I'm still chewing on feathers.'

‘You were supposed to avoid the feet, Antsy,' said Blend. ‘They didn't even wash those.'

‘Of course they did!' Antsy protested. ‘That was sauce—'

‘The sauce was red. The stuff on the feet was dark brown. Want something to get embarrassed about, Picker, just drag Antsy along to supper.'

‘The feet was the best part,' the Falari said.

‘He's Seven Cities for sure,' Picker noted. ‘All three of them, I'd wager.'

‘The fat one likes her rustleaf.'

‘If she's fat, Antsy, then so am I.'

Antsy looked away.

Picker cuffed him on the side of the head.

‘Ow, what was that for?'

‘I wear armour and quilted underpadding, remember?'

‘Well, she's not, is she?'

‘She's delicious,' Blend observed. ‘And I bet she don't get embarrassed by anything much.'

Picker offered her a sweet smile. ‘Why not go stick your foot in and see?'

‘Ooh, jealous.'

Antsy sat up, suddenly excited. ‘If your legs was long enough, Blend, you could do both! And I could—'

Two knives slammed point first into the table in front of the ex-sergeant. His bushy brows shot upward, eyes bulging. ‘Just an idea,' he muttered. ‘No reason to get all uppity, you two.'

‘Could be he's another Kalam,' Picker said. ‘A Claw.'

Antsy choked on something, coughed, hacked, then managed a breath. He leaned forward until he was very nearly lying on the table from the chest up. He chewed on his moustache for a moment, eyes darting between Picker and Blend. ‘Listen, if he is, then we should kill him.'

‘Why?'

‘Could be he's hunting us, Picker. Could be he's come to finish off the Bridgeburners once and for all.'

‘Why would any of them care?' Picker asked.

‘Maybe the bard set us up, did you think of that?'

Blend sighed and rose. ‘How about I just go up and ask him?'

‘You want to take a grab at a tit,' Picker said, smiling again. ‘So, go ahead, Blend. Go on. See if she blows you a kiss.'

Shrugging, Blend set out to where the three newcomers had just acquired a table.

Antsy choked again, plucked at Picker's sleeve and gasped, ‘She's heading straight over!'

Picker licked her lips. ‘I didn't really mean—'

‘She's almost there – they seen her – don't turn round!'

 

Barathol saw the Malazan threading her way to where they now sat. By hue of skin, by cast of features, by any obvious measure one might find, there was nothing that differentiated the woman from any local Daru or Genabarii; yet he knew, instantly. A Malazan, and a veteran. A damned
marine
.

Scillara noted his attention and half turned in her chair. ‘Good taste, Barathol – and it seems she likes—'

‘Quiet,' Barathol muttered.

The slim woman came up, soft brown eyes fixed on Barathol. And in Malazan, she said, ‘I knew Kalam.'

He snorted. ‘Yes, he's a popular man.'

‘Cousin?'

He shrugged. ‘That will do. Are you with the embassy?'

‘No. Are you?'

Barathol's eyes narrowed. Then he shook his head. ‘We arrived today. I never directly served in your empire.'

She seemed to think about that. Then she nodded. ‘We're retired. Causing no trouble to anyone.'

‘Sounds retired indeed.'

‘We run a bar. K'rul's, in the Estates District, near Worry Gate.'

‘And how does it fare?'

‘Slow to start, but we're settled in now. Getting by.'

‘That's good.'

‘Come by, I'll set you the first round.'

‘We just might.'

She glanced down at Scillara then, and winked. Then turned away and walked back to her table.

‘What just happened?' Scillara asked after a moment.

Barathol smiled. ‘Do you mean the wink or all the rest?'

‘I figured out the wink, thank you. The rest.'

‘They're deserters, I'd wager. Worried that we might be imperial. That I might be a Claw, come to deliver a message from the Empress – the usual message to deserters. They knew Kalam Mekhar, a relation of mine, who was once a Claw, and then a Bridgeburner.'

‘A Bridgeburner. I've heard about them. The nastiest company ever. Started in Seven Cities and then left with Dujek.'

‘The same.'

‘So they thought you were here to kill them.'

‘Yes.'

‘So one of them just decided to walk up and talk to you. That seems either incredibly brave or profoundly stupid.'

‘The former,' said Barathol. ‘About what you'd expect from a Bridgeburner, deserter or otherwise.'

Scillara twisted round, quite deliberately, to study the two women and the red-bearded man at the table on the other side of the plaza. And did not flinch from the steady regard they then fixed on her.

Amused, Barathol waited until Scillara slowly swung back and reached for her jar of wine, before saying, ‘Speaking of brave…'

‘Oh, I just don't go for that kowtowing stuff.'

‘I know.'

‘So do they, now.'

‘Right. Shall we join them, then?'

Scillara suddenly grinned. ‘Tell you what, let's buy them a pitcher, then watch and see if they drink from it.'

‘Gods, woman, you play sharp games.'

‘Nah, it's just flirting.'

‘With what?'

Her smile broadened, and she gestured over a nearby server.

 

‘Now what?' Antsy demanded.

‘Guess they're thirsty,' Picker said.

‘It's that quiet one who worries me,' Antsy continued. ‘He's got that blank look, like the worst kinda killer.'

‘He's a simpleton, Antsy,' said Blend.

‘Worst kinda killer there is.'

‘Oh, really. He's addled, a child's brain – look how he looks round at everything. Look at that silly grin.'

‘It's probably an act, Blend. Tell her, Pick, it's an act. That's your Claw, right there, the one that's gonna kill us starting with me, since I ain't never had no luck, except the pushin' kind. My skin's all clammy already, like I was practising being a corpse. It's no fun, being a corpse – take it from me.'