The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (942 page)

Sudden rapid flutter of her heart.
What if he has someone following me?
The possibility was very real, but what could she do about it? And what might her husband do when he discovered that her most recent lover was not a player in his game? That he was, in fact, a stranger, someone clearly beyond his reach, his sense of control. Would he then realize that she too was now beyond his control?

Gorlas might panic. He might, in truth, become murderous.

‘Be careful now, Cro—Cutter. What we have begun is very dangerous.'

He said nothing in reply, and after a moment she pushed herself off him, and rose to stand beside the narrow bed. ‘He would kill you,' she continued, looking down on him, seeing once again how the years had hardened his body, sculpted muscles bearing the scars of past battles. His eyes, fixed on her own, regarded her with thoughts and feelings veiled, unknowable.

‘He's a duellist, isn't he?'

She nodded. ‘One of the best in the city.'

‘Duels,' he said, ‘don't frighten me.'

‘That would be a mistake, Cutter. In any case, given your…station, it's doubtful he'd bother with anything so formal. More like a half-dozen thugs hired to get rid of you. Or even an assassin.'

‘So,' he asked, ‘what should I do about it?'

She hesitated, and then turned away to find her clothes. ‘I don't know. I was but warning you, my love.'

‘I would imagine you'd be even more at risk.'

She shrugged. ‘I don't think so. Although,' she added, ‘a jealous man is an unpredictable man.' Turning, she studied him once more. ‘Are you jealous, Cutter?'

‘Of Gorlas Vidikas?' The question seemed to surprise him and she could see him thinking about it. ‘Title and wealth, yes, that would be nice. Being born into something doesn't mean it's deserved, of course, so maybe he hasn't earned all his privileges, but then, maybe he has – you'd know more of that than I would.'

‘That's not what I meant. When he takes me, when he makes love to me.'

‘Oh. Does he?'

‘Occasionally.'

‘Make love? Or just make use of you?'

‘That is a rather rude question.'

Years ago, he would have leapt to his feet, apologies tumbling from him in a rush. Now, he remained on the bed, observing her with those calm eyes. Challice felt a shiver of something in her, and thought it might be fear. She had assumed a certain…control. Over all of this. Over him. And now she wondered. ‘What,' he now asked, ‘do you want from me, Challice? Years and years of this? Meeting in dusty, abandoned bedrooms. Something you can own that Gorlas does not? It's not as if you'll ever leave him, is it?'

‘You once invited me to run away with you.'

‘If I did,' he said, ‘you clearly said no. What has changed?'

‘I have.'

His gaze sharpened on her. ‘So now…you would? Leave it all behind? The estate, the wealth?' He waved languidly at the room around them. ‘For a life of this? Challice, understand: the world of most people is a small world. It has more limitations than you might think—'

‘And you think it's that different among the nobleborn?'

He laughed.

Fury hissed through her, and to keep from lashing out she quickly began dressing. ‘It's typical,' she said, pleased at her calm tone. ‘I shouldn't have been surprised. The lowborn always think we have it so easy, that we can do anything, go anywhere. That our every whim is answered. They don't think—' she spun to face him, and watched his eyes widen as he comprehended her anger, ‘—
you
don't think that people like me can suffer.'

‘I never said that—'

‘You
laughed
.'

‘Where are you going now, Challice? You're going back to your home. Your estate, where your handmaids will rush to attend to you. Where another change of clothes and jewellery awaits. After a languid bath, of course.' He sat up, abruptly. ‘The ship's carpenter who stayed in this room here, well, he did so because he had nowhere else to go. This was
his
estate. Temporary, dependent on the
whim
of House Vidikas, and when his reason for being here was done out he went, to find somewhere else to live – if he was lucky.' He reached for his shirt. ‘And where will I go now? Oh, out on to the streets. Wearing the same clothes I arrived in, and that won't change any time soon. And tonight? Maybe I can wheedle another night in a room at the Phoenix Inn. And if I help in the kitchen I'll earn a meal and if Meese is in a good mood then maybe even a bath. Tomorrow, the same challenges of living, the same questions of “what next?”' He faced her and she saw amused irony in his expression, which slowly faded. ‘Challice, I'm not saying you're somehow immune to suffering. If you were, you wouldn't be here, would you? I spoke of limited worlds. They exist everywhere, but that doesn't mean they're all identical. Some are a damned sight more limited than others.'

‘You had choices, Cutter,' she said. ‘More choices than I ever had.'

‘You could have told Gorlas no when he sought your hand in marriage.'

‘Really? Now that reveals one thing in you that's not changed – your naïveté.'

He shrugged. ‘If you say so. What next, Challice?'

His sudden, seemingly effortless dismissal of the argument took her breath away.
It doesn't matter to him. None of it. Not how I feel, not how I see him.
‘I need to think,' she said, inwardly flailing.

He nodded as if unsurprised.

‘Tomorrow evening,' she said, ‘we should meet again.'

A half-grin as he asked, ‘To talk?'

‘Among other things.'

‘All right, Challice.'

 

Some thoughts, possessing a frightening kind of self-awareness, knew to hide deep beneath others, riding unseen the same currents, where they could grow unchallenged, unexposed by any horrified recognition. One could always sense them, of course, but that was not the same as slashing through all the obfuscation, revealing them bared to the harsh light and so seeing them wither into dust. The mind ran its own shell-game, ever amused at its own sleight of hand misdirection – in truth, this was how one tended to live, from moment to moment, with the endless exchange of denials and deference and quick winks in the mirror, even as inner proclamations and avowals thundered with false willpower and posturing conviction.

Does this lead one into unease?

Challice Vidikas hurried home, nevertheless taking a circuitous route as now and then whispers of paranoia rose in faint swells to the surface of her thoughts.

She was thinking of Cutter, this man who had once been Crokus. She was thinking of the significance in the new name, the new man she had found. She was thinking, also (there, beneath the surface), of what to do with him.

Gorlas would find out, sooner or later. He might confront her, he might not. She might discover that he knew only by arriving one afternoon at the loft in the annexe, and finding Cutter's hacked, lifeless corpse awaiting her on the bed.

She knew she was trapped – in ways a free man like Cutter could never comprehend. She knew, as well, that the ways out were limited, each one chained to sacrifices, losses, abandonments, and some…despicable. Yes, that was the only word for them.

Despicable.
She tasted the word anew, there in her mind. Contemplated whether she was in fact capable of living with such a penance.
But why would I? What would I need to see done, to make me see myself in that way?

How many lives am I willing to destroy, in order to be free?

The question itself was despicable, the stem to freedom's blessed flower – to grasp hold was to feel the stab of countless thorns.

Yet she held tight now, riding the pain, feeling the slick blood welling up, running down. She held tight, to feel, to taste, to know what was coming…if…
if I decide to accept this.

She could wait for Gorlas to act. Or she could strike first.

A corpse lying on the bed. A mangled rose lying on the floor.

Cutter was not Crokus – she could see that, yes, very clearly. Cutter was…
dangerous.
She recalled the scars, the old knife wounds, sword wounds even, perhaps. Others that might have been left by the punch of arrows or crossbolts. He had fought, he had taken lives – she was certain of it.

Not the boy he'd once been.
But this man he now is…can he be used? Would he even blink if I so asked?

Should I ask? Soon? Tomorrow?

Thus exposed, one must recoil indeed, but these were deep-run thoughts, nowhere near the surface. They were free to flow, free to swirl round unseen, as if detached from all reality. But they weren't, were they? Detached from all reality.

Oh, no, they were not.

Does this lead one into unease?

On a surge of immense satisfaction, Barathol Mekhar's rather large fist smashed into the man's face, sending him flying back through the doorway of the smithy. He stepped out after him, shaking the stinging pain from his hand. ‘I will be pleased to pay the Guild's annual fees, sir,' he said, ‘when the Guild decides to accept my membership. As for demanding coin while denying my right to run my business, well, you have just had my first instalment.'

A smashed nose, blood pouring forth, eyes staring up from a puffiness burgeoning to swallow up his features, the Guild agent managed a feeble nod.

‘You are welcome,' Barathol continued, ‘to come back next week for the next one, and by all means bring a few dozen of your associates – I expect I'll be in an even more generous mood by then.'

A crowd had gathered to watch, but the blacksmith was disinclined to pay them any attention. He rather wanted word to get out, in fact, although from what he'd gathered his particular feud was already a sizzling topic of conversation, and no doubt his words just spoken would be quoted and misquoted swift as a plague on the hot winds.

Turning about, he walked back into his shop.

Chaur stood near the back door, wearing his heavy apron with its spatter of burn holes revealing the thick weave of aesgir grass insulation beneath the leather – the only plant known that did not burn, even when flung into a raging fire. Oversized gloves of the same manufacture covered his hands and forearms, and he was holding tongs that gripped a fast-cooling curl of bronze. Chaur's eyes were bright and he was smiling.

‘Best get that back into the forge,' Barathol said.

As expected, business was slow. A campaign had begun, fomented by the Guild, that clearly involved the threat of a blacklist that could – and would – spread to other guilds in the city. Barathol's customers could find themselves unable to purchase things they needed from a host of other professions, and that of course would prove devastating. And as for Barathol's own material requirements, most doors had already begun closing in his face. He was forced to seek out alternatives in the black market, never a secure option.

As his friend Mallet had predicted, Malazans resident in the city had been indifferent to all such extortions and warnings against taking Barathol's custom. There was, evidently, something in their nature that resisted the notion of threats, and in fact being told they could not do something simply raised their hackles and set alight a stubborn fire in their eyes. That such a response could prove a curse had been driven home with the slaughter at K'rul's – and the grief that followed remained deeply embedded in Barathol, producing within him a dark, cold rage. Unfortunately for the latest agent from the Guild of Blacksmiths, something of that fury had transferred itself into Barathol's instinctive reaction to the man's demand for coin.

Even so, he had not come to Darujhistan to make enemies. Yet now he found himself in a war. Perhaps more than one at that. No wonder, then, his foul mood.

He made his way into the work yard, where the heat from the two stoked forges rolled over him in a savage wave. His battle axe needed a new edge, and it might do to fashion a new sword – something he could actually wear in public.

Barathol's new life in Darujhistan was proving anything but peaceful.

 

Bellam Nom was, in Murillio's estimation, the only student of the duelling school worthy of the role. Fifteen years of age, still struggling with the awkwardness of his most recent growth spurt, he approached his studies with surprising determination. Even more astonishing, the lad actually
wanted
to be here.

In the prolonged absence of Stonny Menackis's attention, it had fallen to Murillio to assume most of the school's responsibilities, and he was finding this very distant relation of Rallick (and Torvald) in every respect a Nom, which alone encouraged a level of instruction far beyond what he gave the others. The young man stood before him sheathed in sweat, as the last of the class hurried out through the compound gate, the echoes of their voices quickly fading, and Murillio sensed that Bellam was far from satisfied with the torturously slow pace of the day's session.