Dismay, then, and worries, and mourning, but none of that would last long. Snell would become the precious one, the one still with them, the one they needed to take care of, protect and coddle. The way it used to be, the way it was supposed to be.
Smiling under the bright morning sun, with long-legged birds pecking mud on the flats out on the lake to his left, Snell ambled his way back home. A good day, a day of feeling so alive, so free. He had righted the world, the whole world.
The shepherd who found the small boy in the grasses of the summit overlooking the road into Maiten and the Two-Ox Gate was an old man with arthritic knees who knew his usefulness was coming to an end, and very soon indeed he would find himself out of work, the way the herdmaster watched him hobbling and leaning too much on his staff. Examining the boy, he was surprised to find him still alive, and this brought thoughts of what he might do with such an urchin in his care.
Worth the effort? He could bring his wife back here, with the cart, and together they could lift the body into the bed and wheel him back to their shack on the shore of the lake. Tend to him and see if he lived or died, feed him enough if it came to that, and then?
Well, he had thoughts, yes, plenty of thoughts on that. None of them pleasant, but then, whoever said the world was a pleasant place? Foundlings were fair game and that was a rule somewhere, he was sure of it, a rule, just like finding salvage on the beach. What you found you owned, and the money would do them good, besides.
He too concluded that it was a good day.
He remembered his childhood, running wild in the streets and alleys, clambering on to the rooftops at night to stare about in wonder at the infamous Thieves’ Road. So inviting this romance of adventure under the moon’s secret light, whilst slept all the dullards and might-be victims in the unlit rooms below.
Running wild, and for the child one road was as good as another, perhaps better so long as there was mystery and danger every step of the way. Even later, when that danger had become all too real, it had been for Cutter a life unfurling, revealing a heart saturated with wonder.
Romance was for fools, he now knew. No one valued the given heart, no one saw that sacrifice for the precious gift it was. No, just a thing to be grasped, twisted by uncaring hands, then wrung dry and discarded. Or a commodity and nothing more, never as desirable as the next one, the one in waiting, or the one held by someone else. Or, something far worse, a gift too precious to accept.
The nature of the rejection, he told himself, was irrelevant. Pain and grief arrived in singular flavours, bitter and lifeless, and too much of them rotted the soul. He could have taken other roads. Should have. Maybe walked Murillio’s path, a new love every night, the adoration of desperate women, elegant brunches on balconies and discreet rendezvous beneath whispering leaves in some private garden.
Or how about Kruppe? A most wily master to whom he could have apprenticed himself yet further than he already had, in the art of high thievery, in the disposition of stolen items, in the acquisition of valuable information available to whoever was willing to pay and pay well. In the proper appreciation of wines, pastries and inappropriate attire. A lifetime of cherubic delight, but was there really room in the world for more than one Kruppe?
Assuredly not!
Was it preferable, then, this path of daggers, this dance of shadows and the taking of lives for coin without even a soldier’s sanction (as if that mattered)? Rallick would not agree. And Murillio would shake his head, and Kruppe waggle his eyebrows, and Meese might grin and make another grab for his crotch, with Irilta looking on with motherly regard. And there’d be that glow in Sulty’s eyes, tinged now with the bitter truth that she was no longer enough for one such as him, that she could only dream, that somehow his being an assassin set him upon such a high station that her lowly existence as a serving wench was beneath all notice. Where even his efforts at friendship were perceived as pity and condescension, sufficient to pitch her into tears at the wrong word, the missed glance.
How the time for dreams of the future seemed to slip past unnoticed, until in reviving them a man realized, with a shock, that the privilege was no longer his to entertain, that it belonged to those younger faces he saw on all sides, laughing in the tavern and on the streets, running wild.
‘You have changed,’ Murillio said from the bed where he reclined, propped up on pillows, his hair hanging unbound and unwashed, ‘and I’m not sure it’s for the better.’
Cutter regarded his old friend for a moment, then asked, ‘What’s better?’
‘What’s better. You wouldn’t have asked that question, and certainly not in that way, the last time I saw you. Someone broke your heart, Crokus – not Challice D’Arle, I hope!’
Smiling, Cutter shook his head. ‘No, and what do you know, I’d almost forgotten her name. Her face, certainly…and the name is Cutter now, Murillio.’
‘If you say so.’
He just had, but clearly Murillio was worse for wear, not up to his usual standard of conversation. If he’d been making a point by saying that, well, maybe Crokus would’ve snatched the bait. It’s the darkness in my soul…no, never mind.
‘Seven Cities, was it? Took your time coming home.’
‘A long journey, for the ship I was on. The north route, along the island chains, stuck in a miserable hovel of a port for two whole seasons – first winter storms, which we’d expected, then a spring filled with treacherous ice rafts, which we didn’t – no one did, in fact.’
‘Should have booked passage on a Moranth trader.’
Cutter glanced away. ‘Didn’t have a choice, not for the ship, nor for the company on it.’
‘So you had a miserable time aboard?’
He sighed. ‘Not their fault, any of them. In fact, I made good friends—’
‘Where are they now, then?’
Cutter shrugged. ‘Scattered about, I imagine.’
‘Will we meet them?’ Murillio asked.
He wondered at this line of questioning, found himself strangely irritated by Murillio’s apparent interest in the people he had come back with. ‘A few, maybe. Some stepped ashore only to leave again, by whatever means possible – so, not any of those. The others…we’ll see.’
‘Ah, I was just curious.’
‘About what?’
‘Well, which of your groups of friends you considered more embarrassing, I suppose.’
‘Neither!’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend…Cutter. You’re just seeming somewhat…restless, as if you’d rather be elsewhere.’
It’s not that easy. ‘It all feels…different. That’s all. Bit of a shock, finding you nearly dead.’
‘I imagine besting Rallick in a knife fight was rather shocking, as well.’
Cutter didn’t much want to think about that. ‘I could never have imagined that you’d lose a duel, Murillio.’
‘Easy to do, when you’re drunk and wearing no breeches.’
‘Oh.’
‘Actually, neither of those is relevant to my present situation. I was careless. Why was I careless? Because I’m getting old. Because it’s all slowing down. I’m slowing down. Look at me, lying here, healed up but full of aches, old pains, and nothing but cold ashes in my soul. I’ve been granted a second chance and I intend to take it.’
‘Meaning?’
Murillio shot him a look. Seemed about to say something, then changed his mind and said something else. ‘I’m going to retire. True, I’ve not saved up much, but then, I should be able to live with more modest expectations, shouldn’t I? There’s a new duelling school in the Daru. I’ve heard it’s doing rather well, long lists of applicants and all that. I could help out, a couple of days a week.’
‘No more widows. No more clandestine trysts.’
‘Precisely.’
‘You’ll make a good instructor.’
‘Not likely,’ he replied with a grimace, ‘but I have no aspirations to be one, either. It’s work, that’s all. Footwork, form
s, balance and timing – the more serious stuff they can get from someone else.’
‘If you go in there talking like that,’ Cutter said, ‘you’ll never get hired.’
‘I’ve lost my ability to charm?’
Cutter sighed and rose from his chair. ‘I doubt it.’
‘What brought you back?’ Murillio asked.
The question stopped him. ‘A conceit, maybe.’
‘What kind of conceit?’
The city is in danger. It needs me. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning to the door, ‘the childish kind. Be well, Murillio – I think your idea is a good one, by the way. If Rallick drops by looking for me, tell him I’ll be back later.’
He took the back stairs, went through the dank, narrow kitchen, and out into the alley, where the chill of the night just past remained in the air. He did need to speak to Rallick Nom, but not right now. He felt slightly punch-drunk. The shock of his return, he supposed, the clash inside himself between who he had once been and who he was now. He needed to get settled, to get the confusion from his mind. If he could begin to see clearly again, he’d know what to do.
Out into the city, then, to wander. Not quite running wild, was it?
No, those days were long gone.
The wound had healed quickly, reminding him that there had been changes – the powder of otataral he had rubbed into his skin only a few days ago, or so it seemed. To begin a night of murder now years past. The other changes, however, were proving far more disconcerting. He had lost so much time. Vanished from the world, and the world just went on without him. As if Rallick Nom had been dead, yes – no different from that, only now he was back, which wasn’t how things should be. Pull a stick from the mud and the mud closes in to swallow up the hole, until no sign remains that the stick ever existed.
Was he still an assassin of the Guild? Not at the moment, and this truth opened to him so many possibilities that his mind reeled, staggered back to the simpler notion of descending into the catacombs, walking up to Seba Krafar and announcing his return; resuming, yes, his old life.
And if Seba was anything like old Talo, he would smile and say welcome back, Rallick Nom. From that moment the chances that Rallick would make it back out alive were virtually nonexistent. Seba would see at once the threat standing before him. Vorcan had favoured Rallick and that alone was sufficient justification for getting rid of him. Seba wanted no rivals – he’d had enough of those if Krute’s tale of the faction war was accurate.
He had another option when it came to the Guild. Rallick could walk in and kill Seba Krafar, then announce he was interim Master, awaiting Vorcan’s return. Or he could stay in hiding for as long as possible, waiting for Vorcan to make her own move. Then, with her ruling the nest once again, he could emerge out of the woodwork and those missing years would be as nothing, would be without meaning. That much he shared with Vorcan, and because of that she would trust no one but Rallick. He’d be second in command, and how could he not be satisfied with that?
Oh, this was an old crisis – years old now. His thought that Turban Orr would be the last person he killed had been as foolish then as it was now.
He sat on the edge of the bed in his room. From the taproom below he could hear Kruppe expounding on the glories of breakfast, punctuated by some muted no doubt savage commentary by Meese, and with those two it was indeed as if nothing had changed. The same could not be said for Murillio, alas. Nor for Crokus, who was now named Cutter – an assassin’s name for certain, all too well suited to the man Crokus had become. Now who taught him to fight with knives like that? Something of the Malazan style – the Claw, in fact.
Rallick had been expecting Cutter to visit, had been anticipating the launch of a siege of questions. He would want to explain, wouldn’t he? Try to justify his decisions to Rallick, even when there was no possible justification. He didn’t listen to me, did he? Ignored my warnings. Only fools think they can make a difference. So, where was he? With Murillio, I expect, holding off on the inevitable.
A brief knock at the door and Irilta entered – she’d been living hard of late, he could see, and such things seemed to catch up faster with women than with men – though when men went they went quickly. ‘Brought you breakfast,’ she said, carrying a tray over. ‘See? I remembered it all, right down to the honey-soaked figs.’
Honey-soaked figs? ‘Thank you, Irilta. Let Cro—er, Cutter know that I’d like to see him now.’
‘He went out.’
‘He did? When?’
She shrugged. ‘Not so long ago, according to Murillio.’ She paused for a hacking cough that reddened her broad face.
‘Find yourself a healer,’ Rallick said when she was done.
‘Listen,’ she said, opening the door behind her, ‘I ain’t got no regrets, Rallick. I ain’t expecting any god’s kiss on the other side, and ain’t nobody gonna say of Irilta she didn’t have no fun when she was alive, no sir.’
She added something else but since she was in the corridor and closing the door Rallick didn’t quite catch it. Might have been something like ‘try chewin’ on that lesson some…’, but then, she’d never been the edgy one, had she?
He looked down at the tray, frowned, then picked it up and rose.
Out into the corridor, balancing it one-handed while he lifted the latch of the next door along and walked into Murillio’s room.
‘This is yours,’ Rallick said. ‘Honey-soaked figs, your favourite.’
A grunt from Murillio on the bed. ‘Explains these strips of spiced jerky – you are what you eat, right?’
‘You’re not nearly as sweet as you think, then,’ Rallick said, setting the tray down. ‘Poor Irilta.’
‘Poor Irilta nothing – that woman’s crowded more into her years than all the rest of us combined, and so now she’s dying but won’t bother with any healer because, I think, she’s ready to leave.’ He shook his head as he reached for the first glazed fig. ‘If she knew you were pitying her, she’d probably kill you for real, Rallick.’
‘Missed me, did you?’
A pause, a searching glance, then Murillio bit into the fig.
Rallick went and sat down in one of the two chairs crowding the room along with the bed. ‘You spoke to Cutter?’
‘Somewhat.’
‘I thought he’d come to see me.’
‘Did you now?’
‘The fact that he didn’t shouldn’t make me think he got scared, should it?’
Murillio slowly shook his head.
Rallick sighed. Then he said, ‘Saw Coll last night – so our plan worked. He got his estate back, got his name back, his self-respect. You know, Murillio, I didn’t think anything could work out so well. So…perfectly. How in Hood’s name did we ever manage such a thing?’
‘That was a night for miracles all right.’
‘I feel…lost.’
‘Not surprising,’ Murillio replied, reaching for another fig. ‘Eat some of that jerky – the reek is making me nauseated.’
‘Better on my breath?’
‘Well, I don’t see us kissing any time soon.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Rallick said. ‘I was when I first woke up, I think, but that faded.’
‘Woke up – you slept all that time in the Finnest House? All tucked up in bed?’
‘On stone, just inside the door. With Vorcan lying right beside me, apparently. She wasn’t there when I came round. Just an undead Jaghut.’
Murillio seemed to think about that for a while, then said, ‘So, what now, Rallick Nom?’
‘Wish I knew.’
‘Baruk might need things done, like before.’
‘You mean, like guarding Cutter’s back? Keeping an eye on Coll? And how long before the Guild learns I’m back? How long before they take me down?’
‘Ah, the Guild. Well, I’d figured you’d just head straight in, toss a few dozen lifeless bodies around and resume your rightful place. With Vorcan back…well, it seems obvious to me what needs doing.’
> ‘That was never my style, Murillio.’
‘I know, but circumstances change.’
‘Don’t they just.’
‘He’ll be back,’ Murillio said. ‘When he’s ready to talk to you. Keep in mind, he’s gone and collected some new scars, deep ones. Some of them still bleeding, I think.’ He paused, then said, ‘If Mammot hadn’t died, well, who knows what might have happened. Instead, he went off with the Malazans, to return Apsalar to her home – oh, I see you have no idea what I’m talking about. All right, let me tell you the story of how that night ended – after you left. Just eat that damned jerky, please!’
‘You drive a damned hard bargain, friend.’
And for the first time that morning, he saw Murillio smile.
Her scent clung to the bedding, sweet enough to make him want to weep, and even some of her warmth remained, or maybe that was just the sun, the golden light streaming in from the window and carrying with it the vaguely disturbing sound of birds mating in the tree in the back yard. No need to be so frantic, little ones. There’s all the time in the world. Well, he would be feeling that right now, wouldn’t he?
She was working the wheel in the outer room, a sound that had once filled his life, only to vanish and now, at long last, return. As if there had been no sordid crimes of banditry and the slavery that came as reasonable punishment, as if there had been no rotting trench lying shackled alongside Teblor barbarians. No huge warrior hanging from a cross amidships, with Torvald trickling brackish water between the fool’s cracked lips. No sorcerous storms, no sharks, no twisted realms to crawl in and out of. No dreams of drowning – no, all that had been someone else’s life, a tale sung by a half-drunk bard, the audience so incredulous they were moments from rage, ready to tear the idiot to pieces at the recounting of just one more unlikely exploit. Yes, someone else’s life. The wheel was spinning, as it always did, and she was working clay and giving it form, symmetry, beauty. Of course, she never did her best work the day after a night of lovemaking, as if she’d used up something essential, whatever it was that fed creativity, and sometimes he felt bad about that. She’d laugh and shake her head, dismissing his concerns, spinning the wheel yet harder.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 727