A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

Dom's peculiar preferences. And lying motionless, unmindful even of a throat slowly filling with phlegm from the near-liquid smoke of the durhang, for as much time as was needed, before the subtle, tasteless drops she had added to his wine took effect.
    When she could hear his deep, slow breaths that told her he would not easily awaken, she rolled onto her side in a fit of coughing. When it had passed she paused again, just to be certain that the Napan still slept. Satisfied, she clambered to her feet and tottered to the tent flap.
    Fumbled with the ties until a gruff voice from just beyond said, 'Scillara, off to the latrines again?'
    And another voice softly laughed and added, 'It's a wonder there's any meat on her at all, the way she heaves night after night.'
    'It's the rust-leaf and the bitter berries crushed in with the durhang,' the other replied, as his hands took over the task of loosening the draws, and the flap was drawn aside.
    Scillara staggered out, bumping her way between the two guards.
    The hands that reached out to steady invariably found unusual places to rest, and squeeze.
    She would have enjoyed that, once, in a slightly
offended, irritated way that none the less tickled with pleasure. But now, it was nothing but clumsy lust to be endured.
    As everything else in this world had to be endured, while she waited for her final reward, the blissful new world beyond death. 'The left hand of life, holding all misery. And the right hand – yes, the one with the glittering blade, dear – the right hand of death, holding, as it does, the reward you would offer to others, and then take upon yourself. At your chosen moment.'
    Her master's words made sense, as they always did. Balance
    was the heart of all things, after all. And life – that time of pain
    and grief – was but one side of that balance. 'The harder, the more
    miserable, the more terrible and disgusting your life, child, the greater
    the reward beyond death . . .' Thus, as she knew, it all made sense.
    No need, then, to struggle. Acceptance was the only path to walk.
    Barring this one. She weaved her way between the tent rows. The Dogslayers' encampment was precise and ordered, in the Malazan fashion – a detail she knew well from her days as a child when her mother followed the train of the Ashok Regiment. Before that regiment went overseas, leaving hundreds destitute – lovers and their get, servants and scroungers. Her mother had then sickened and died. She had a father, of course, one of the soldiers. Who might be alive, or dead, but either way was thoroughly indifferent to the child he had left behind.
    Balance.
    Difficult with a head full of durhang, even inured to it as she had become.
    But there were the latrines, down this slope, and onto the wooden walkways spanning the trench. Smudge-pots smouldering to cover some of the stench and keep the flies away. Buckets beside the holed seats, filled with hand-sized bundles of grass. Larger open-topped casks with water, positioned out over the trench and fixed to the walkways.
    Hands held out to either side, Scillara navigated carefully across one of the narrow bridges.
    Long-term camp trenches such as this one held more than just human wastes. Garbage was regularly dumped in by soldiers and others – or what had passed for garbage with them. But for the orphans of this squalid city, some of that refuse was seen as treasure. To be cleaned, repaired and sold.
    And so, figures swarmed in the darkness below.
    She reached the other side, her bare feet sinking into the mud made by splashes that had reached the ridge. 'I remember the dark!' she sang out, voice throaty from years of durhang smoke.
    There was a scrabbling from the trench, and a small girl, sheathed in excrement, clambered up to her, teeth flashing white. 'Me too, sister.'
    Scillara drew out a small bag of coins from her sash. Their master frowned on such gestures, and indeed, they ran contrary to his teachings, but she could not help herself. She pressed it into the girl's hands. 'For food.'
    'He will be displeased, sister—'
    'And of the two of us, I alone will suffer a moment of torment. So be it. Now, I have words from this night, to be brought to our master . . .'
     
    He had always walked with a pitching gait, low to the ground, sufficient to have earned him a host of unflattering nicknames. Toad, crab-legs ... the names children gave each other, some of which were known to persist into adulthood. But Heboric had