A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Udinaas. Don't you dream the same for yourself?'
    'Some debts can't be paid off with gold, Irim. My dreams are not of wealth.'
    'No.' Irim's grin returned. 'You just want the heart of a lass so far above you, you've not the Errant's hope of owning it. Poor Udinaas, we all shake our heads at the sadness of it.'
    'Less sadness than pity, I suspect,' Udinaas said, shrugging. 'Close enough. You can go.'
    'The stench lingers even now,' Hulad said. 'How can you stand it, Udinaas?'
    'Inform Uruth that I have begun.'
    * * *
    It was not the time to be alone, yet Trull Sengar found himself just that. The realization was sudden, and he blinked, slowly making sense of his surroundings. He was in the longhouse, the place of his birth, standing before the centre post with its jutting sword-blade. The heat from the hearth seemed incapable of reaching through to his bones. His clothes were sodden.
    He'd left the others outside, locked in their quiet clash of wills. The Warlock King and his need against Tomad and Uruth and their insistence on proper observance of a dead blooded warrior, a warrior who was their son. With this conflict, Hannan Mosag could lose his authority among the Tiste Edur.
    The Warlock King should have shown constraint. This could have been dealt with quietly, unknown to anyone else. How hard can it be to wrest a sword loose from a dead man's hands? And if sorcery was involved – and it certainly seemed to be – then Hannan Mosag was in his element. He had his K'risnan as well. They could have done something. And if not... then cut his fingers off. A corpse no longer housed the spirit. Death had severed the binding. Trull could feel nothing for the cold flesh beneath the ice. It was not Rhulad any more, not any longer.
    But now there could be no chance of secrecy. The quarrel had been witnessed, and, in accordance with tradition, so too must be the resolution.
    And ... does any of it matter?
    I did not trust Rhulad Sengar. Long before his failure on night watch. That is the truth of it. I knew ... doubts.
    His thoughts could take him no further. Anguish rose in a flood, burning like acid. As if he had raised his own demon, hulking and hungry, and could only watch as it fed on his soul. Gnawing regret and avid guilt, remorse an unending feast.
    We are doomed, now, to give answer to his death, again and again. Countless answers, to crowd the solitary question of his life. Is it our fate, then, to suffer beneath the siege of all that can never be known?
    There had been strangers witnessing the scene. The realization was sudden, shocking. A merchant and his Acquitor. Letherii visitors. Advance spies of the treaty delegation.
    Hannan Mosag's confrontation was a dreadful error in so many ways. Trull's high regard for the Warlock King had been damaged, sullied, and he longed for the world of a month past. Before the revelation of flaws and frailties.
    Padding through the forest, mind filled with the urgency of dire news. A spear left in his wake, iron point buried deep in the chest of a Letherii. Leaden legs taking him through shadows, moccasins thudding on the dappled trail. The sense of having just missed something, an omen unwitnessed. Like entering a chamber someone else has just walked from, although in his case the chamber had been a forest cathedral, Hiroth sanctified land, and he had seen no signs of passage to give substance to his suspicion.
    And it was this sense that had returned to him. They had passed through fraught events, all unmindful of significance, of hidden truths. The exigencies of survival had forced upon them a kind of carelessness.
    A gelid wave of conviction rose within Trull Sengar, and he knew, solid as a knife in his heart, that something terrible was about to happen.
    He stood, alone in the longhouse.
    Facing the centre post and its crooked sword.
    And he could not move.
    Rhulad Sengar's body was frozen. A pallid grey, stiff-limbed figure lying on the stone platform. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth stretched long as if striving for a breath never found. The warrior's hands were closed about the grip of a strange, mottled, straight-bladed sword, frost-rimed and black-flecked with dried blood.
    Udinaas had filled the nose and ear holes with wax.
    He held the pincers, waiting for the first gold coin to reach optimum heat on the iron plate suspended above the coals. He had placed one on the sheet, then, twenty heartbeats later, another. The order of placement for noble-born