The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (951 page)

‘None other,' said Fisher, with the faintest of sighs.

‘Of course not.' The head tilted but the hair did not slide off. ‘Another idiot – this city's full of them! “None other.” What kind of thing to say is that? If some other, why, I'd not have leapt into his path, would I? Best keep this simple.' The head righted itself, spiders adjusting their perches to match. ‘I bring word from my brilliant not-all-there master.' A sudden whisper: ‘Brilliant, yes, a word used most advisedly; still, use it once and we're done with it for ever.' He then raised his voice once more. ‘When all this is done—'

‘Excuse me,' cut in Fisher. ‘When all what is done?'

‘This, of course! Foolish Iskaral – keep it simple! Simpler, even! Listen, dear middling bard, when all this is done, eke out the eel – no, wait – er, seek out the eel. Seal? Damn, I had the message memorized and everything! Peek at – eat an eel – seek and peek the bleak earl – perk the veal, deal the prick – oh, Hood's breath! What was it again? And I had the gall to call him brilliant! He should've sent Sordiko Qualm, yes, so I could've followed the glorious rocking ship of her sweet hips—' and he wagged his head side to side, side to side, eyes glazing, ‘slib-slab, slib-slab, oh!'

‘Thank you,' Fisher said as the man began muttering under his breath and pausing every now and then to lick his lips, ‘for, er, the message. I assure you, I understand.'

‘Of course you do – you're a man, aren't you? Gods, that a simple casual stride could so reduce one to gibbering worship – why, who needs gods and goddesses when we have arses like that?'

‘Indeed, who? Now, since you have successfully delivered your message from your master, may I proceed on my way?'

‘What? Naturally. Go away. You're a damned distraction, is what you are.'

A tilt of the head, and the bard was indeed on his way once more.

 

The mob outside the newly consecrated Temple of the Fallen One, or the Crippled God, or indeed the name by which most knew it – the Temple of Chains – was thick and strangely rank. More than natural sweat as might be squeezed out by the midmorning sun, this was the human rendering of desperation, made even sicklier with obsequious anticipation.

Yet the door to the narrow-fronted temple remained shut, evidently barred from within. Offerings were heaped up against it – copper and tin coins as well as links of chain and the odd clasp and cheap jewellery.

Bedek on his cart and Myrla standing before him, gripping the handles, found themselves in the midst of trembling alcoholics, the pock-scarred, the lame and the deformed. Milky eyes stared, as if cataracts were punishment for having seen too much – all other eyes were filled with beseeching need, the hunger for blessing, for even the passing brush of a twisted hand if it belonged to the Prophet. Misshapen faces lifted up, held fixedly upon that door. Within the press the stink became unbearable. The breath of rotting teeth and consumptive dissolution. From his low perch, Bedek could see nothing but shoulders and the backs of heads. Whimpering, he plucked at his wife's tunic.

‘Myrla.
Myrla!
'

The look she turned on him was both savage and…small, and with a shock Bedek suddenly saw her – and himself – as meaningless, insignificant, worthless. They were, he realized, no better than anyone else here. Each of them, seeking to be singled out, to be guided out, to be raised up from all the others. Each dreaming of coming into glorious focus in the eyes of a god – eyes brimming with pity and knowledge, eyes that understood injustice and the unfairness of existence. A god, yes, to make them right.
To make us all – each and every one of us – right. Whole.

But Bedek had held no such notions. They were not why he was here. He and Myrla were different. From all of these people. They, you see, had lost a child.

The door would remain locked, they learned, until at least midday. Sometimes even later. And even then, the Prophet might not emerge. If he was communing with his own pain, they were told, he might not be seen for days.

Yes, but did he
bless
people? Did he
help
people?

Oh, yes. Why, I saw a man in terrible pain, and the Prophet took it all away.

He healed the man?

No, he smothered him. Delivered his spirit – now at peace – into the hands of the Fallen One. If you are in pain, this is where you can end your life – only here, do you understand, can you be sure your soul will find a home. There, in the loving heart of the Fallen One. Don't you want to find your legs again? Other side of life, that's where you'll find them.

And so Bedek came to understand that, perhaps, this Crippled God could not help them. Not with finding Harllo. And all at once he wanted to go home.

But Myrla would have none of that. The yearning was unabated in her eyes, but it had been transformed, and what she sought now had nothing to do with Harllo. Bedek did not know what that new thing might be, but he was frightened down to the core of his soul.

 

Snell struggled to form a sling to take the runts, both of whom were lying senseless on the floor. He had checked to see they were both breathing, since he'd heard that making them black out could sometimes kill them – if he'd held them tight for too long – though he'd been careful. He was always careful when doing that, though if one of them did die, why, he would say it went to sleep and just never woke up and that happened, didn't it, with the little ones? And then he'd cry because that was expected.

Poor thing, but it'd always been weak, hadn't it? So many children were weak. Only the strong ones, the smart ones, survived. It's what the world was like, after all, and the world can't be changed, not one bit.

There was a man in the Daru High Market who always dressed well and had plenty of coin, and it was well known he'd take little ones. Ten, twenty silver councils, boy or girl, it didn't matter which. He knew people, rich people – he was just the middleman, but you dealt with him if you didn't want no one to find out anything, and if there were any small bodies left over, well, they never ever showed up to start people asking questions.

It would be a bit of a walk, especially with both Mew and Hinty, and that's why he needed to work out a sling of some sort, like the ones the Rhivi mothers used. Only, how did they do that?

The door opened behind him and Snell whirled in sudden terror.

The man standing on the threshold was familiar – he'd been with Stonny Menackis the last time she'd visited – and Snell could see at once that dear Snell was in trouble. Ice cold fear, a mouth impossibly dry, a pounding heart.

‘They're just sleeping!'

The man stared. ‘What have you done to them, Snell?'

‘Nothing! Go away. Da and Ma aren't here. They went to the Chains Temple. Come back later.'

Instead, the man stepped inside. One gloved hand casually flung Snell back, away from the motionless girls on the floor. The blow rocked Snell, and as if a stopper had been jarred loose fear poured through him. As the man knelt and drew off a glove to set a palm against Mew's forehead, Snell scrabbled to the back wall.

‘I'm gonna call the guards – I'm gonna scream—'

‘Shut your damned face or I'll do it for you.' A quick, heavy look. ‘I've not yet started with you, Snell. Everything comes back to you. On the day Harllo went missing, on that day, Snell…' He lifted his hand and straightened. ‘Are they drugged? Tell me how you did this.'

He meant to keep lying, but all at once he thought that maybe if he told the truth about this, the man might believe the lies he used afterwards, on the other stuff. ‘I just squeeze 'em, when they cry too much, that's all. It don't hurt them none, honest.'

The man had glanced at the stretch of burlap lying beside Mew. Maybe he was putting things together, but nothing could be proved, could it? It would be all right. It would be—

Two quick strides and those hands – one gloved and the other bare and scarred – snagged the front of Snell's tunic. He was lifted into the air until his eyes were level with the man's. And Snell saw in those deadly eyes something dark, a lifeless whisper that could flatten out at any moment, and all thoughts of lying whimpered away.

‘On that day,' the man said, ‘you came back with a load of sun-dried dung. Something you'd never done before, and have never done since. No, your mother said it was Harllo who did such things. Harllo, who at five fucking years old did more to help this family than you ever have. Who collected that dung, Snell?'

Snell had widened his eyes as wide as they could go. He made his chin tremble. ‘Harllo,' he whispered, ‘but I never hurt him – I swear it!'

Oh, he hadn't wanted to lie. It just came out.

‘Past Worrytown or Two-Ox Gate?'

‘The gate. Two-Ox.'

‘Did you go with him or did you follow him? What happened out there, Snell?'

And Snell's eyes betrayed him then, a flicker too instinctive to stop in time – down to where Mew and Hinty were lying.

The man's eyes flattened just as Snell had feared they might.

‘I never killed him! He was breathing when I left him! If you kill me they'll find out – they'll arrest you – you'll go to the gallows – you can't kill me – don't!'

‘You knocked him out and left him there, after stealing the dung he'd collected. The hills beyond Two-Ox Gate.'

‘And I went back, a couple of days – the day after – and he was gone! He's just run off, that's all—'

‘A five-year-old boy doing everything he could to help his family just ran off, did he? Or did you drive him off, Snell?'

‘I never did – he was just gone – and that's not my fault, is it? Someone maybe found him, maybe even adopted him.'

‘You are going to tell your parents everything, Snell,' the man said. ‘I will be back tonight, probably late, but I will be back. Don't even think of running—'

‘He won't,' said a voice from the door.

The man turned. ‘Bellam – what—'

‘Master Murillio, I'll stay here and keep an eye on the fucker. And when his parents show up, well, he'll spill it all out. Go on, Master, you don't need to worry about anything happening back here.'

The man – Murillio – was silent for a time, seeming to study the rangy boy who stood, arms folded, leaning against the doorway's frame.

And then he set Snell down and stepped back. ‘I won't forget this, Bellam.'

‘It'll be fine, Master. I won't beat the bones out of him, much as I'd like to, and much as he obviously deserves it. No, he's going to sit and play with his little sisters – soon as they come round—'

‘A splash of water should do it.'

‘After a splash, then. And not only is Snell going to play with them, but he's going to make a point of losing every game, every argument. If they want him to stand on his head while picking his arsehole, why, that's what Snell will do. Right, Snell?'

Snell had met older boys just like this one. They had calm eyes but that was just to fix you good when you weren't expecting nothing. He was more frightened of this Bellam than he'd been of Murillio. ‘You hurt me and I'll get my friends after you,' he hissed. ‘My street friends—'

‘And when they hear the name Bellam Nom they'll cut you loose faster than you can blink.'

Murillio had found a clay bowl into which he now poured some water.

‘Master,' said Bellam, ‘I can do that. You got what you needed from him – at least a trail, a place to start.'

‘Very well. Until tonight then, Bellam, and thank you.'

 

After he'd left, Bellam shut the door and advanced on Snell, who once more cringed against the back wall.

‘You said—'

‘We do that, don't we, when it comes to grown-ups.'

‘Don't touch me!'

‘No grown-ups anywhere close, Snell – what do
you
like to do when they're not around? Oh, yes, that's right. You like to torment everyone smaller than you. That sounds a fun game. I think I'll play, and look, you're smaller than me. Now, what torment shall we do first?'

In leaving them for the time being, all grim concern regarding anything unduly cruel can be thankfully dispensed with. Bellam Nom, being cleverer than most, knew that true terror belonged not to what did occur, but to what
might
occur. He was content to encourage Snell's own imagination into the myriad possibilities, which was a delicate and precise form of torture. Especially useful in that it left no bruises.

Bullies learn nothing when bullied in turn; there are no lessons, no about-face in their squalid natures. The principle of righteous justice is a peculiar domain where propriety and vengeance become confused, almost indistinguishable. The bullied bully is shown but the other side of the same fear he or she has lived with all his or her life. The about-face happens there, on the outside, not the inside. Inside, the bully and everything that haunts the bully's soul remains unchanged.

It is an abject truth, but conscience cannot be shoved down the throat.

If only it could.