The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (974 page)

Yet, for all the tumultuous, seething forces of will within these arrayed strangers, none among them is the cause of the night's thick, palpable silence.

Less than a league north of the three strangers, seven Hounds are arrayed along a ridge, baleful eyes fixed upon the glow of the city.

The beasts possess the capacity to detect a rabbit's rapid heartbeat half a league away, so they hear well the tolling of the twelfth bell, announcing the arrival of midnight in the city of Darujhistan.

And as one, the seven Hounds lift their massive heads, and give voice to a howl.

 

The stars are struck into blazing sparks overhead. The High King halts in mid-stride, and the ancient, stubborn blood in his veins and arteries suddenly floods cold as ice. For the first time in this journey, Kallor knows a moment of fear.

 

Havok's long head snaps up and the beast skitters to one side. Astride the animal, Samar Dev makes a desperate grab for Karsa, lest she be thrown to the ground, and she can feel the sudden tautness of every muscle in the huge warrior.

Ahead of them, Traveller pauses, his shoulders hunching as if those all too close howls even now lash at his back. Then he shakes himself, and marches on.

 

Atop a cornice of a gate facing the south plain, a squat toad-like demon lifts its head, pointed ears suddenly alert.

Then, as the howls slowly fade, the demon settles once more.

Although now, at last, it can feel, rising up from the very earth, rising up to shiver along its bones, the rumble of heavy paws on distant ground.

Drawing closer, ever closer.

In the city behind Chillbais, the twelfth bell clangs its sonorous note. Another season's grand fête is almost gone. One more day in the name of Gedderone. One more night to close the riot of senseless celebration.

Dance, and dance on.

Because, as everyone knows, all that you see about you will last, well…for ever!

Voluminous in wonder, but, be assured, terse in grief. Consider the woodsman standing facing the forest, axe in hand. In a moment he will stride forward. Consider now the first line of trees, rooted, helpless against what comes.

The seep of trickling water round roots does not quicken. The sweet warmth of sunlight on leaves does not blaze into urgent flame. The world and its pace cannot change. What is to be done? Why, there is nothing to be done. The woodsman swings his axe with blinding speed and splendid indifference, and he hears not the chorus of cries.

Is this fancy worthless? For some, perhaps many, it must be. But know this, empathy is no game.

Twist back time. Dusk still gathers, but it is early yet and so it is a weak gathering. A lone rider draws up on a ridge overlooking a mining camp. Up here the sun's light remains. Dust streams gold and nothing wants to settle. In the shadowy pit below figures seethe back and forth.

He is finally seen. An old man works his way up the path. A runner hurries to the main building squatting atop a levelled heap of tailings.

It begins.

 

‘Another guest? Come for the boy? What's so damned special about that boy?' But Gorlas Vidikas wasn't much interested in any answers to those questions, especially since this runner was in no position to explain much of anything, having been sent direct from the foreman. He rose and pulled on his cloak, then collected up his fine deerskin gloves, and set out. Would he have the pleasure of killing yet another fool? He dearly hoped so.

Was it that pompous old bastard, Coll? That would be ideal, and who could say, maybe the ghost of Lady Simtal would stir awake at the man's last gasp, to howl her delight at this most perfect vengeance, this long-awaited conclusion to the vile treachery of her last fête. Of course, that was mostly Hanut Orr's business, and maybe Shardan Lim's as well, but Gorlas welcomed the sudden unexpected currency he would reap in reward for killing at least two of the old conspirators.

Coll's death would also leave open a seat on the Council. Gorlas smiled at the thought as he climbed the slatted wooden steps up towards the ridge where it wound behind and above the main building. Humble Measure would offer up his own reward for such a thing, no doubt one that would make the gratitude of Hanut and Shardan seem like a pauper's grudging gift. He had a sudden, odd image then of a half-dozen such paupers – beggars and worse – gathered in some abandoned building, squatting on damp earth as they passed round a pathetic slab of grainy bread and a mouldy lump of cheese. And, as he looked on like some unseen ghost, he had the sense that the circle was somehow…incomplete.

Someone is missing. Who's missing?

He shook himself then, dispelling the scene, and found that he had halted just below the landing, one hand on the rail at his side. At that last moment, as the image burst apart, he thought he had caught a glimpse of something – a corpse twisting beneath a thick branch, the face swinging round to meet his own – then gone.

Gorlas found his mouth unaccountably dry. Had some god or spirit sent him a vision? Well, if something or someone had, it was a poor one, for he could make no sense of it, none at all.

He tugged on his gloves and resumed the climb, emerging out into the blessed sunlight where everything was painted gold. Yes, the wealth of the world was within reach. He'd never understood poor people, their stupidity, their lack of ambition, their laziness. So much within reach – couldn't they see that? And then how dare they bitch and complain and cast him dark looks, when he went and took all that he could? Let them fall to the wayside, let them tumble underfoot. He was going where he wanted to be and if that meant pushing them out of the way, or crushing them down, so be it.

Why, he could have been born in the damned gutter, and he'd still be where he was today. It was his nature to succeed, to win. The fools could keep their resentment and envy. Hard work, discipline, and the courage to grasp opportunity when it presented itself – these were all the things most people lacked. What they didn't lack, not in the least, was the boundless energy to complain. Bitterness was a waste of energy, and, like acid, it ate the vessel that held it.

As he came round the curve of the ridge he saw at once that the man awaiting him was not Coll. Nor, Gorlas realized, was he a stranger.
Gods below, can this be? Oponn, is it you so blessing me now? Pull me forward, Lady. Shove him closer, Lord.

The young man (well, they were of the same age, but not in Gorlas's eyes) saw him approach and slowly dismounted, stepping round the horse and positioning himself in the centre of the path facing Gorlas.

‘She was not foolish enough to send you here, was she?'

‘You know me, then.'

Gorlas smiled. ‘I watched you once, only a few days back, from across a street. You looked guilty, did you know that? You looked like a coward – what is your name? I want to know your name, so I can be precise when I tell her what I've done to you…and your corpse.'

The man stood unmoving, arms at his sides. ‘I am not here for Challice,' he said.

‘If you want to think it was all your idea, fine. But I should tell you, I know her well – far better than you. She's been working on you, filling your head – she's pretty much led you here by the hand, even if you're too thick to realize it. Of course, she probably didn't want anyone too smart, since a clever man would have seen through her deadly scheming. A clever man would have walked away. Or run.'

The man tilted his head slightly. ‘What is the value of all this, Gorlas Vidikas?'

Gorlas sighed, glanced back at the foreman, who stood watching and listening – yes, something would have to be done about that – and then faced the man once more. ‘Since you're too much the coward to actually tell me your name, I will just have to slice off your face, to take back to her as proof. Look at you, you're not even wearing a sword. Foreman! Do we still have Murillio's rapier? I forget, did that go back with him?'

‘Not sure, sir – want me to go and look?'

‘Well, find the waif a sword. Anything will do – it's not as if he knows how to use it in any case. And hurry, before we lose the light and the mob down there gets bored waiting.' He smiled at the man. ‘They've got bloodthirsty of late – my fault, that—'

‘Yes, about Murillio…'

‘Ah, is that why you've come? The duel was fairly fought. He simply could not match my skill.'

‘Where is the boy?'

‘So he's the reason you're here? This is getting difficult to believe. The child's not some orphaned prince or something, is he? Rather,
was
he?'

‘Was?'

‘Yes. He's dead, I'm afraid.'

‘I see.'

‘So, still interested?' Gorlas asked. ‘Of course, that's not really relevant any more, because I want you to stay. I suppose you can try to run, but I assure you, you'll be cut down before you get astride that fine horse – a horse I will welcome in my stables. Tell me, are you a better duellist than Murillio was? You'll have to be. Much better.'

The foreman had gone halfway down the trail before yelling instructions, and now a youth was scurrying up cradling a sword – not Murillio's, but something found in one of the workings from the look of it. Thin, tapered to a point that was slightly bent. Iron, at least, but the patina was a thick crust over the blade's spine, and both edges were severely notched. The handle, Gorlas saw as the foreman – breath wheezing – delivered it, wasn't even wrapped.

‘Sorry about the lack of grip,' Gorlas said. ‘But really, you should have come prepared.'

‘How did it feel,' the man asked, ‘killing an old man?'

‘The duel was fair—'

‘Agreed to the death? I doubt that, Vidikas.'

‘I dislike the lack of respect in using my last name like that – especially when you won't even tell me your name.'

‘Well, your wife calls you Useless, so if you'd prefer that…'

Gorlas flung the weapon at the man's feet, where it skidded in a puff of golden dust. ‘On guard,' he ordered in a rasp. ‘To the death.'

The man made no move to pick up the weapon. He stood as he had before, head tipped a fraction to one side.

‘You are a coward in truth,' Gorlas said, drawing his rapier. ‘Cowards do not deserve to be treated with honour, so let us dispense with convention—'

‘I was waiting for you to say that.'

 

The foreman, standing off to one side, still struggling with the ache in his chest from a labouring heart, was in the process of licking his gritty lips. Before he had finished that instinctive flicker, the scene before him irrevocably changed.

And Gorlas Vidikas was falling forward, landing hard. His rapier rolled from his hand to catch up in the grass lining the track. Dust puffed up, then slowly settled.

The stranger – had he even moved? the foreman was unsure – now turned to him and said, ‘You heard him dispense with the rules of the duel, correct?'

The foreman nodded.

‘And, think back now, good sir, did you even once hear me voice a formal challenge?'

‘Well, I was part of the way down the trail for a moment—'

‘But not beyond range of hearing, I'm sure.'

‘Ah, no, unless you did whisper something—'

‘Think back. Gorlas was babbling on and on – could I have said anything even if I'd wanted to?'

‘True enough, thinking on it.'

‘Then are we satisfied here?'

‘Ain't for me to say that either way,' the foreman replied. ‘It's the man this one was working for.'

‘Who, being absent, will have to rely solely upon your report.'

‘Er, I suppose so.'

The man shrugged. ‘Do as you see fit, then.' He glanced down into the pit. ‘You get the feeling they're about to start cheering,' he said.

‘They ain't decided.'

‘No?'

‘They ain't decided if whoever replaces Vidikas is gonna be any better, you see?'

‘Because, in their experience, they're all the same.'

The foreman nodded. ‘Didn't think you was nobleborn.'

‘No, I'm not.'

‘No, you're pretty much like them below. Like me, even.'

‘I suppose so.' The man walked to the body of Gorlas Vidikas, bent down to roll it on to its back, and the foreman saw the two knife handles, blades buried to the hilts, jutting from Gorlas's chest.

He decided to lick his lips again, and somehow the dust suddenly tasted sweeter. ‘Know anything 'bout property law, by any chance?'

‘Sorry, what?'

‘Like, if I was paying on a loan to this man—'

‘No, no idea. Though I imagine if you just sit tight, maybe wait to see if anybody ever shows up to collect, well, that would hardly be considered illegal. Would it now?'

‘No, seems proper enough to me,' the foreman agreed.

The man worked the knives back out, wiped the blood off on the stained, rumpled cloak. ‘Did he tell true about Harllo?'

‘What? Oh. He did. The lad tried to escape, and was killed.'

The man sighed, and then straightened. ‘Ah, shit, Murillio,' he muttered. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Wait – this Harllo – was he that important? I mean—' and the foreman gestured, to encompass not only the corpse lying on the road, but the one that had been there the day before as well, ‘all this killing. Who
was
Harllo?'

The man walked to his horse and swung himself into the saddle. He collected the reins. ‘I'm not sure,' he said after a moment's consideration. ‘The way it started, well, it seemed…' he hesitated, and then said, ‘he was a boy nobody loved.'

Bitter and scarred as he was, even the foreman winced at that. ‘Most of 'em are, as end up here. Most of 'em are.'

The man studied him from the saddle.

The foreman wondered – he didn't see much in the way of triumph or satisfaction in that face looking down at him. He wasn't sure what he was seeing, in fact. Whatever it was, it didn't fit.

The stranger drew the horse round and set off up the road. Heading back to the city.

The foreman coughed up a throatful of rank phlegm, then stepped forward and spat down, quite precisely, on to the upturned face of Gorlas Vidikas. Then he turned round. ‘I want three guards and the fastest horses we got!'

He watched the runner scramble.

From the pit below rose the occasional snatch of harsh laughter. The foreman understood that well enough, and so he nodded. ‘Damn and below, I'll give 'em all an extra flagon of ale anyway.'

 

Cutter rode for a time as dusk surrendered to darkness. The horse was the first to sense a loss of will, as the rider on its back ceased all efforts at guiding its pace. The beast dropped from a canter to a trot, then a walk, and then it came to rest and stood at the edge of the road, head lowering to snag a tuft of grass.