‘Rubbish. This isn’t a personal theme here, historian. It’s two professionals discussing their craft. It’s me, a humble bard, offering my skills to unlock your soul and all it contains — everything that’s killing it, moment by moment. You can’t find your voice for this. Use mine.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ Duiker asked. ‘Like some vulture eager to lap up my tears?’
Brows lifted. ‘You are an accident. My reasons for being here lie. . elsewhere. Even if I could explain more, I would not. I cannot. In the meantime, Duiker, let us fashion an epic to crush the hearts of a thousand generations.’
And now, yes, tears rolled down the lined tracks of the historian’s face. And it took all the courage he still possessed to then nod.
The bard leaned back, retrieving his tankard. ‘It begins with you,’ he said. ‘And it ends with you. Your eyes to witness, your thoughts alone. Tell me of no one’s mind, presume nothing of their workings. You and I, we tell nothing, we but show.’
‘Yes.’ Duiker looked up, back into those eyes that seemed to contain — and hold sure — the grief of the world. ‘What’s your name, bard?’
‘Call me Fisher.’
Chaur was curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring, twitching like a dreaming dog. Picker observed him for a moment before settling back on the mattress. How had she got here? Was that raw tenderness between her legs what she thought it was and if so then did Barathol remember as little of it as she did? Oh, too com shy;plicated to work out. She wasn’t ready to be thinking of all those things, she wasn’t ready to be thinking at all.
She heard someone moving down the hall. Then a muted conversation, punc shy;tuated by a throaty laugh that did not belong to Blend or anyone else Picker knew, meaning it was probably that woman, Scillara. Picker gasped slightly at a sudden recollection of holding the woman’s breasts in her hands and hearing that laugh but up close and a lot more triumphant.
Gods, did I sleep with them all? Damn that Quorl Milk!
A wheeze from Chaur and she started guiltily — but no, she’d not do any such thing to an innocent like him. There were limits — there had to be limits.
A muffled knock on the door.
‘Oh, come in, Blend.’
And in she came, light-footed as a cat, and her expression seemed filled up with something, on the verge of bursting.
No, not tears, please. ‘I don’t remember nothing, Blend, so don’t start on me.’
Blend held back a moment longer, then erupted.
In howling laughter, bending over in convulsions.
Chaur sat up on the floor, blinking and smiling, then he too was laughing.
Picker glared at Blend, wanting to kill her. ‘What’s so damned funny?’
Blend managed to regain control over herself. ‘They pretty much carried us all the way back. But then we woke up and we all had one thing and one thing only on our minds. They didn’t stand a chance!’
‘Gods below.’ Then she stiffened. ‘Not Chaur-’
‘No, Scillara got him in here first.’
Chaur was still laughing, tears rolling down his face. He seemed to be losing control and all at once Picker felt alarmed. ‘Stop now, Chaur! Stop!’
The wide empty eyes fixed on her, and all mirth vanished.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s all right. Go down to the kitchen and get something to eat, Chaur, there’s a lad.’
He rose, stretched, scratched himself, then left the room. He barked one last laugh somewhere near the stairs.
Picker rubbed at her face. ‘Not Antsy, too. Don’t tell me. .’
Blend shrugged. ‘Lust is blind, I suppose. And let’s hope all memory of it stays that way. I fear all his fantasies came true last night. . only he can’t remember any of it!’
‘I feel sick.’
‘Oh, relax, it’s what all those parts are made for, after all.’
‘Where is Barathol?’
‘Went out early. With Mallet for company. Looking for the Blacksmiths’ Guild. You must remember his big, er, hands.’
‘My kitten remembers, all right.’
Another snort from Blend. ‘Meow.’
The grey gloom of the cellar seemed to defy the lantern’s light, but Bluepearl was used to that, and he was only marginally surprised when the ghost shuffled out from the wall at the far end where rested a half-dozen casks still sealed by the monks’ sigil. Sunk to his hips in the floor, the ghost paused and looked round, fi shy;nally spying the Malazan standing near the steep stone steps.
The ghost waded closer. ‘Is that you, Fellurkanath?’
‘Fella what? You’re dead, monk, and you’ve been dead for some time, I’d wager — who wears tricornered hats these days?’
‘Oh,’ the ghost moaned, clutching his face, ‘K’rul has coughed me out. Why? Why now? I’ve nothing useful to tell, especially not to any foreigner. But he’s stir shy;ring below, isn’t he? Is that why? Am I to be the voice of dire warning? What do you care? It’s already too late anyway.’
‘Someone’s trying to murder us.’
‘Of course they are. You’re squatting and they don’t want company. You should broach a cask, one of these. That will tell you everything you need to know.’
‘Oh, really now. Go away.’
‘Who raised the floor and why? And look at this.’ The ghost pushed his head back to reveal that his throat had been sliced open, all the way back to his spine. Gory, bloodless flesh and slashed veins and arteries vaguely silver in the dim light. ‘Was this the ultimate sacrifice? Little do you know.’
‘Do I need to get a necromancer down here?’ Bluepearl demanded. ‘Go away!’
‘The living never heed the dead,’ muttered the ghost, lowering his head and turning round to walk back towards the far wall. ‘And that’s just it. If we didn’t know better, why, we’d be still alive. Think about that, if you dare.’
Vanishing into the heavy stones, and gone.
Bluepearl sighed, looked round until he found the bottle he was looking for. ‘Hah, I knew we had one. Quorl Milk. Why should they get all the fun?’
The two men trundled just behind the woman, so eager they trod on her heels as they fought for some imagined dominant position. Faint had never seen anything so pathetic, and the way the witch played all innocent, even when she worked her two men just to keep trouble stirred up — all of it seemingly accidental, of course, but it wasn’t accidental because Precious Thimble knew precisely what she was up to and as far as Faint was concerned that was cruel beyond all reason.
It didn’t help, either, that the two men — evidently brothers — looked so much alike. With the same way of walking, the same facial expressions, the same tone of voice. If they were no different from each other, then why not just choose one and be done with it?
Well, she didn’t expect any of them to last very long in any case. For most shareholders, the first trip was the deadliest one. It came with not knowing what to expect, with not reacting fast enough or just the right way. The first journey into the warrens killed over half first-timers. Which meant that Precious Thim shy;ble (who struck Faint as a survivor) might well have her choice taken from her, when either Jula or Amby Bole went down somewhere on the trail.
As they rounded the corner and came within sight of the carriage, Faint saw that Glanno Tarp was already seated up top. Various rituals had been triggered to effect repairs to the huge contrivance; the horses looked restless and eager to be away — as mad as the rest of them, they were. Off to one side and now watching Faint, Quell and their new shareholders approaching, stood Reccanto Ilk and Sweetest Sufferance, and a third man — huge, round-shouldered, and tattooed in a pattern of-
‘Uh oh,’ said Master Quell.
That’s the one, isn’t it! The caravan guard, the one who survived the Siege of Capustan. What was his name again?
‘This is not for you, Gruntle,’ Master Quell said.