The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Barathol thought about that for a moment as he looked upon the healer with his purple lips and saw, for the briefest moment, how this man had been when he was a child, and then he smiled once more. ‘I need to find a suitable location for my smithy. Will you walk with me, Mallet?’

  ‘Glad to,’ the healer replied. ‘Now, I know the city – what precisely are you looking for?’

  And so Barathol told him.

  And oh how Mallet laughed and off they went into the city’s dark chambers of the heart, where blood flowed in a roar and all manner of deviousness was possible. If the mind was so inclined. A mind such as Barathol Mekhar’s when down – down! – was thrown the ghastly gauntlet!

  The ox, the selfsame ox, swung its head back and forth as it pulled the cartload of masonry into the arched gateway, into blessed shade for a few clumping strides, and then out into the bright heat once more – delicate blond lashes fluttering – to find itself in a courtyard and somewhere close was sweet cool water, the sound as it trickled an invitation, the smell soft as a kiss upon the broad glistening nose with its even more delicate blond hairs, and up rose the beast’s massive head and would not the man with the switch have pity on this weary, thirsty ox?

  He would not. The cart needed unloading first and so the ox must stand, silently yearning, jaws working the cud of breakfast with loud, thick sounds of suction and wetly clunking molars, and the flies were maddening but what could be done about flies? Nothing at all, not until the chill of night sent them away and so left the ox to sleep, upright in bovine majesty beneath stars (if one was lucky) which, perhaps, was where the flies slept.

  Of course, to know the mind of an ox is to waste inordinate amounts of time before recognizing the placid civility of a herbivore’s sensibilities. Lift gaze, then, to the two vaguely shifty characters edging in through the gate – not workers struggling to and fro in the midst of the old estate’s refurbishment; not clerks nor servants; not masons nor engineers nor inspectors nor weight-gaugers nor measurers. To all appearances malingerers, skulkers, but in truth even worse than that—

  Twelve names on the list. One happily struck off. Eleven others found and then escaped like the slippery eels they no doubt were, being hunted by debt, ill luck and the vagaries of a clearly malicious universe intent on delivering misery and whatnot. But no matter such failure among the thugs sent out to enforce collection or deliver punishment – not the problem of these men, now, was it?

  Bereft of all burdens, blessed with exquisite freedom, Scorch and Leff were here, in this soon-to-be-opulent estate that was even now rising from the dust of neglect and decay to enshroud like a cloak of jewels the mysterious arrival of a nobleborn – a woman, it was rumoured, all veiled, but see the eyes! Eyes of such beauty! Why, imagine them widening as I reach down—

  Scorch and Leff, edging in nervously, barely emerging from the shadow of the arched gate. Peering round, as if lost, as if moments from running off with stolen chunks of masonry or an armload of bricks or even a bag of iron wedges—

  ‘Ho – you two! What do you want here?’

  Starting guiltily. Scorch staring wide-eyed at the grizzled foreman walking up to them – a Gadrobi so bowlegged he looked to be wading hip-deep through mud. Leff ducking his head as if instinctively dodging an axe – which said a lot about his life thus far, didn’t it – and then stepping one small pace forward and attempting a smile that fared so poorly it could not even be described as a grimace.

  ‘Is there a castellan we could talk to?’ Leff asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Gate guards,’ Leff said. ‘We got lots of qualifications.’

  ‘Oh. Any of them relevant?’

  ‘What?’

  Leff looked at Scorch and saw the panic spreading like a wildfire on his friend’s face. A match to his own growing dismay – madness, thinking they could just step up another rung on the ladder. Madness! ‘We…we could walk her dogs, I mean?’

  ‘You could? I suppose you could, if the Mistress had any.’

  ‘Does she?’ Leff asked.

  ‘Does she what?’

  ‘Have any. Dogs we could walk.’

  ‘Not even ones you can’t walk.’

  ‘We can guard the gate!’ Scorch shouted. ‘That’s what we’re here for! To get hired on, you see, as estate guards. And if you don’t think we can swing a sword or use a crossbow, why, you don’t know us at all, do you?’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ the foreman replied. ‘I don’t.’

  Leff scowled. ‘You don’t what?’

  ‘Stay here,’ the old man said, turning away, ‘while I get Castellan Studlock.’

  As the foreman waded away through the dust – watched with longing by the ox beside the rubble heap – Leff turned on Scorch. ‘Studlock?’

  Scorch shrugged helplessly. ‘I ain’t never heard of him. Why, have you?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I’d have remembered.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Are you a Hood-damned idiot?’

  ‘What are we doing here, Leff?’

  ‘Torvald said no, remember? To everything. He’s too good for us now. So we’ll show him. We’ll get hired on this fancy estate. As guards. With uniforms and polished buckles and those braided peace-straps for our swords. And so he’ll curse himself that he didn’t want us no more, as partners or anything. It’s his wife, I bet – she never liked us at all, especially you, Scorch, so that’s what you’ve done to us and I won’t forget any time soon neither so don’t even think otherwise.’

  He shut his mouth then and stood at attention since the foreman was returning and at his side pitter-pattered a figure so wrapped up in swaddles of cotton it took three steps for every pendulum pitch forward from the foreman. The feet beneath the ragged hem were small enough to be cloven hoofs. A hood covered the castellan’s head and in the shadow of the hood’s broad mouth there was something that might have been a mask. Gloved hands were drawn up in a way that reminded Leff – and, a moment later, Scorch – of a praying mantis, and if this was the estate castellan then someone had knocked the world askew in ways unimaginable to either Leff or Scorch.

  The foreman said, ‘Here they are, sir.’

  Were there eyes in the holes of that smooth mask? Who could tell? But the head shifted and something told both men – like spider legs dancing up their spines – that they were under scrutiny.

  ‘So true,’ Castellan Studlock said in a voice that made Leff think of gravel under the fingernails while Scorch thought about the way there was always one gull that bullied all the rest and if the others just ganged up, why, equality and freedom would belong to everyone! ‘So true,’ said the swaddled, masked man (or woman, but then the foreman had said ‘sir’, hadn’t he), ‘there is need for estate guards. The Mistress will be arriving today, in fact, from the out-country. Proper presentation is desired.’ The castellan paused and then leaned forward from the waist and Leff saw the red glint of unhuman eyes in the holes of the mask. ‘You, what is your name?’

  ‘Leff Bahan, sir, is my name.’

  ‘You have been eating raw lake conch?’

  ‘What? Er, not recently.’

  A wrapped finger darted upward and wagged slowly back and forth. ‘Risky. Please, open your mouth and stick out your tongue.’

  ‘What? Er, like this?’

  ‘That is fine, very fine, yes. So.’ The castellan leaned back. ‘Greva worms. You are infected. Pustules on your tongue. Dripping sinuses, yes? Itchy eyelids – the eggs do that, and when they hatch, why, the worms will crawl out from the corners of your eyes. Raw lake conch, tsk tsk.’

  Leff clawed at his face. ‘Gods, I need a healer! I gotta go—’

  ‘No need. I will happily see your ailment treated – you must be presentable to the Mistress, yes, each standing at attention on either side of the gate. Well attired, hale of complexion and parasite-free. A small barracks is being readied. It will be necessary to hire at least three more to complete the requirements – do you
have reliable friends capable of such work?’

  ‘Er,’ said Scorch when it was obvious that Leff had momentarily lost his facility for speech, ‘we might. I could go and see…’

  ‘Excellent, and your name is?’

  ‘Scorch. Er, we got references—’

  ‘No need. I am confident in my ability to judge character, and I have concluded that you two, while not to be considered vast of intellect, are nevertheless inclined to loyalty. This here will mark an advancement in your careers, I am sure, and so you will be diligent as befits your secret suspicion that you have exceeded your competence. All this is well. Also, I am pleased to note that you do not possess any parasites of a debilitating, unsightly sort. So, Scorch, go yonder and find us one, two or three additional guards. In the meantime, I will attend to Leff Bahan.’

  ‘Right. Yes sir, I will do just that!’

  The foreman was standing nearby, smirking. Neither Scorch nor a stunned Leff noticed this detail, and yes, they should have.

  ‘A woman needs her secrets,’ said Tiserra, lifting up an eggshell-thin porcelain cup and holding it in front of the bright sunlight. ‘This one is good, darling. No flaws.’ And the hag in the stall grinned, head bobbing.

  Torvald Nom nodded happily, then licked his lips. ‘Isn’t this fun?’ he said. ‘Fine crockery to go into our new kitchen and the fancy oven on its four legs and all. Real drapes. Plush furniture, colourful rugs. We can get the storage shed rebuilt, too. Bigger, solid—’

  Tiserra set the cup down and moved directly in front of him. ‘Husband.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re trying too hard.’

  ‘I am? Well, it’s like a dream, you see, being able to come back home. Do all these things for you, for us. It still doesn’t feel real.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not the problem,’ she said. ‘You are already getting bored, Torvald Nom. You need more than just tagging along at my side. And the coin won’t last for ever – Beru knows I don’t make enough for the both of us.’

  ‘You’re saying I need to get a job.’

  ‘I will tell you a secret – just one, and keep in mind what I said earlier: we women have many secrets. I’m feeling generous today, so listen well. A woman is well pleased with a mate. He is her island, if you will, solid, secure. But sometimes she likes to swim offshore, out a way, floating facing the sun if you will. And she might even dive from sight, down to collect pretty shells and the like. And when she’s done, why, she’ll swim back to the island. The point is, husband, she doesn’t want her mate’s company when swimming. She needs only to know the island waits there.’

  Torvald blinked, then frowned. ‘You’re telling me to get lost.’

  ‘Leave me my traipsing through the market, darling. No doubt you have manly tasks to pursue, perhaps at a nearby tavern. I’ll see you at home this evening.’

  ‘If that’s how you want it, then of course I will leave you to it, sweetness – and yes, I could do with a wander. A man has secrets, too!’

  ‘Indeed.’ And she smiled. ‘Provided they’re not the kind that, if I find out, I will have to hunt you down and kill you.’

  He blanched. ‘No, of course not! Nothing like that!’

  ‘Good. See you later, then.’

  And, being a brave man, a contented man (more or less), Torvald Nom happily fled his wife, as brave, contented men are wont to do the world over. Need to plough that field behind the windbreak, love. Going to head out now and drop the nets. Better sand down that tabletop. Time to go out and rob somebody, sweetness. Yes, men did as they did, just as women did as they did – mysterious and inexplicable as those doings might be.

  And, so thinking, it was not long before Torvald Nom found himself walking into the Phoenix Inn. A man looking for work in all the wrong places.

  Scorch arrived a short time later, pride and panic warring in his face, and my, how that pride blazed as he strutted up to where Torvald Nom was sitting.

  Back at the estate Castellan Studlock brought Leff into an annexe to one side of the main building, where after some rummaging in crates stuffed with straw the muffled figure found a small glass bottle and presented it to Leff.

  ‘Two drops into each eye. Two more on to the tongue. Repeat two more times today and three times a day until the bottle is empty.’

  ‘That will kill them worms in my head?’

  ‘The Greva worms, yes. I cannot vouch for any others.’

  ‘I got more worms in my head?’

  ‘Who can say? Do your thoughts squirm?’

  ‘Sometimes! Gods below!’

  ‘Two possibilities,’ Studlock said. ‘Suspicion worms or guilt worms.’

  Leff scowled. ‘You saying it’s worms cause those things? Guilt and suspicion? I ain’t never heard anything like that.’

  ‘Are you sometimes gnawed with doubt? Do notions take root in your mind? Do strange ideas slither into your head? Are you unaccountably frightened at the sight of a fisher’s barbed hook?’

  ‘Are you some kind of healer?’

  ‘I am what one needs me to be. Now, let us find you a uniform.’

  Torvald Nom was rehearsing what he would tell his wife. Carefully weighing each word, trying out in his mind the necessary nonchalance required to deftly avoid certain details of his newfound employment.

  ‘It’s great that we’re all working together again,’ Scorch said, ambling happily at his side. ‘As estate guards, no less! No more strong-arm work for smelly criminals. No more hunting down losers to please some vicious piranha. No more—’

  ‘Did this castellan mention the wages?’

  ‘Huh? No, but it’s bound to be good. Must be. It’s demanding work—’

  ‘Scorch, it may be lots of things, but “demanding” isn’t one of them. We’re there to keep thieves out. And since all three of us have been thieves ourselves at one time or another, we should be pretty damned good at it. We’d better be, or we’ll get fired.’

  ‘We need two more people. He wanted three more and all I got was you. So, two more. Can you think of anybody?’

  ‘No. What family?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This Mistress – what House does she belong to?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘She’s from the countryside?’

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘Well, has any noble died recently that might have pulled her in? Inheritance, I mean?’

  ‘How should I know? You think I bother keeping track of who’s dead in that crowd? They ain’t nothing to me, is my point.’

  ‘We should’ve asked Kruppe – he’d know.’

  ‘Well we didn’t and it don’t matter at all. We got us legitimate work, the three of us. We’re on our way to being, well, legitimate. So just stop questioning everything, Tor! You’re going to ruin it!’

  ‘How can a few reasonable questions ruin anything?’

  ‘It just makes me nervous,’ Scorch replied. ‘Oh, by the way, you can’t see the castellan.’

  ‘Why? Who else would I talk to about getting hired?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean. I mean you can’t see him. All wrapped up in rags. With a hood, and gloves, and a mask. That’s what I mean. His name is Studlock.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Why not? That’s his name.’

  ‘The castellan is bundled like a corpse and you don’t find that somewhat unusual?’

  ‘Could be afraid of the sun or something. No reason to be suspicious. You never met any strange people in your day, Tor?’

  And Torvald Nom glanced across at Scorch, and found he had no reply to that at all.

  ‘I see you have found another candidate,’ Studlock said. ‘Excellent. And yes, he will do nicely. Perhaps as the Captain of the House Guard?’

  Torvald started. ‘I haven’t said a word yet and already I’m promoted?’

  ‘Comparative exercise yields confidence in this ass
essment. Your name is?’

  ‘Torvald Nom.’

  ‘Of House Nom. Might this not prove a conflict of interest?’

  ‘Might it? Why?’

  ‘The Mistress is about to assume the vacant seat on the Council.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I have virtually no standing in the affairs of House Nom. There are scores of us in the city, of course, with ties stretching everywhere, including off-continent. I, however, am not involved in any of that.’

  ‘Were you cast out?’

  ‘No, nothing so, er, extreme. It was more a question of…interests.’

  ‘You lack ambition.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘That is a fine manicure, Torvald Nom.’

  ‘Er, thank you. I could recommend…’ but that notion dwindled into a painful silence and Torvald tried hard not to glance down at the castellan’s bandaged fingers.

  At this moment Leff appeared from round the other side of the main house. His lips and his eyes were bright orange.

  Scorch grunted. ‘Hey, Leff. Remember that cat you sat on in that bar once?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Nothing. Was just reminded, the way its eyes went all bulgy and crazed.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Was just reminded, is all. Look, I brought Tor.’

  ‘I see that,’ snarled Leff. ‘I can see just fine, thank you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’ Torvald Nom asked.

  ‘Tincture,’ said Leff. ‘I got me a case of Greva worms.’

  Torvald Nom frowned. ‘Humans can’t get Greva worms. Fish get Greva worms, from eating infected conch.’

  Leff’s bulging orange eyes bulged even more. Then he spun to face the castellan.

  Who shrugged and said, ‘Jurben worms?’

  Torvald Nom snorted. ‘The ones that live in the caverns below? In pockets of green gas? They’re as long as a man’s leg and nearly as thick.’

  The castellan sighed. ‘The spectre of misdiagnosis haunts us all. I do apologize, Leff. Perhaps your ailments are due to some other malady. No matter, the drops will wash out in a month or two.’