A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

practice of sympathy, empathy,
compassion and healing – all passed by in our rush to
arrive at a place of glory and beauty, a place we did not
earn, and most certainly do not deserve.
    The Apocryphal Teachings of Tanno Spiritwalker Kimloc
The Decade in Ehrlitan
     
    C haur held out the baby as if to begin bouncing it on
one knee, but Barathol reached out to rest a hand
on the huge man's wrist. The blacksmith shook his
head. 'Not old enough for that yet. Hold her close, Chaur,
so as not to break anything.'
    The man answered with a broad smile and resumed
cuddling and rocking the swaddled infant.
    Barathol Mekhar leaned back in his chair, stretching out
his legs, and briefly closed his eyes, making a point of not
listening to the argument in the side room where the
woman, Scillara, resisted the combined efforts of L'oric,
Nulliss, Filiad and Urdan, all of whom insisted she accept
the baby, as was a mother's responsibility, a mother's duty
and a host of other guilt-laden terms they flung at her like
stones. Barathol could not recall the last time the villagers
in question had displayed such vehement zeal over anything.
Of course, in this instance, their virtue came easy, for
it cost them nothing.
    The blacksmith admitted to a certain admiration for the
woman. Children were indeed burdensome, and as this one
was clearly not the creation of love, Scillara's lack of
attachment seemed wholly reasonable. On the opposite
side, the ferocity of his fellow townsfolk was leaving him
disgusted and vaguely nauseous.
    Hayrith appeared in the main room, moments earlier a
silent witness to the tirade in the side chamber where
they'd set Scillara's cot. The old woman shook her head.
'Idiots. Pompous, prattling twits! Just listen to all that piety,
Barathol! You'd think this babe was the Emperor reborn!'
    'Gods forbid,' the blacksmith muttered.
    'Jessa last house on the east road, she's got that year-old
runt with the withered legs that ain't gonna make it. She'd
not refuse the gift, and everyone here knows it.'
    Barathol nodded, somewhat haphazardly, his mind on
other matters.
    'There's even Jessa second floor of the old factor house,
though she ain't had any milk t'give in fifteen years. Still,
she'd be a good mother and this village could use a wailing
child to help drown out all the wailing grown-ups. Get the
Jessas together on this and it'll be fine.'
    'It's L'oric,' Barathol said.
    'What's that?'
    'L'oric. He's so proper he burns to the touch. Or, rather,
he burns everything he touches.'
    'Well, it ain't his business, is it?'
    'People like him make everything their business,
Hayrith.'
    The woman dragged a chair close and sat down across
from the blacksmith. She studied him with narrowed eyes.
'How long you going to wait?' she asked.
    'As soon as the lad, Cutter, is able to travel,' Barathol
said. He rubbed at his face. 'Thank the gods all that rum's
drunk. I'd forgotten what it does to a man's gut.'
    'It was L'oric, wasn't it?'
    He raised his brows.
    'Him showing up here didn't just burn you – it left you
scorched, Barathol. Seems you did some bad things in the
past' – she snorted – 'as if that makes you different from all
the rest of us. But you figured you could hide out here for
ever, and now you know that ain't going to be. Unless, of
course,' her eyes narrowed to slits, 'you kill L'oric'
    The blacksmith glanced over at Chaur, who was making
faces and cooing sounds down at the baby, while it in turn
seemed to be blowing bubbles, as yet blissfully unaware of
the sheer ugliness of the monstrous face hovering over it.
Barathol sighed. 'I'm not interested in killing anyone,
Hayrith.'
    'So you're going with these people here?'
    'As far as the coast, yes.'
    'Once L'oric gets word out, they'll start hunting you
again. You reach the coast, Barathol, you find the first ship
off this damned continent, is what you do. 'Course, I'll miss
you – the only man with more than half a brain in this
whole town. But Hood knows, nothing ever lasts.'
    They both looked over as L'oric appeared. The High
Mage's colour was up, his expression one of baffled disbelief.
'I just don't understand it,' he said.
    Barathol grunted. 'It's not for you to understand.'
    'This is what civilization has come to,' the man said,
crossing his arms and glaring at the blacksmith.
    'You got that right.' Barathol drew his legs in and stood.
'I don't recall Scillara inviting you into her life.'
    'My concern is with the child.'
    The blacksmith began walking towards