A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

the side chamber.
'No it isn't. Your obsession is with propriety. Your version of
it, to which everyone else must bend a knee. Only, Scillara's
not impressed. She's too smart to be impressed.'
    Entering the room, Barathol grasped Nulliss by the scruff
of her tunic. 'You,' he said in a growl, 'and the rest of you,
get out.' He guided the spitting, cursing Semk woman out
through the doorway, then stood to one side watching the
others crowd up in their eagerness to escape.
    A moment later, Barathol and Scillara were alone. The
blacksmith faced her. 'How is the wound?'
    She scowled. 'The one that's turned my arm into a
withered stick or the one that'll make me walk like a crab
for the rest of my life?'
    'The shoulder. I doubt the crab-walk is permanent.'
    'And how would you know?'
    He shrugged. 'Every woman in this hamlet has dropped a
babe or three, and they walk just fine.'
    She eyed him with suspicion. 'You're the one called
Barathol. The blacksmith.'
    'Yes.'
    'The mayor of this pit you call a hamlet.'
    'Mayor? I don't think we warrant a mayor. No, I'm just
the biggest and meanest man living here, which to most
minds counts for far too much.'
    'L'oric says you betrayed Aren. That you're responsible
for the death of thousands, when the T'lan Imass came to
crush the rebellion.'
    'We all have our bad days, Scillara.'
    She laughed. A rather nasty laugh. 'Well, thank you for
driving those fools away. Unless you plan on picking up
where they left off.'
    He shook his head. 'I have some questions about your
friends, the ones you were travelling with. The T'lan Imass
ambushed you with the aim, it seems, of stealing the young
woman named Felisin Younger.'
    'L'oric said as much,' Scillara replied, sitting up straighter
in the bed and wincing with the effort. 'She wasn't important
to anybody. It doesn't make sense. I think they
came to kill Heboric more than steal her.'
    'She was the adopted daughter of Sha'ik.'
    The woman shrugged, winced again. 'A lot of foundlings
in Raraku were.'
    'The one named Cutter, where is he from again?'
    'Darujhistan.'
    'Is that where all of you were headed?'
    Scillara closed her eyes. 'It doesn't matter now, does it?
Tell me, have you buried Heboric?'
    'Yes, he was Malazan, wasn't he? Besides, out here we've
a problem with wild dogs, wolves and the like.'
    'Might as well dig him up, Barathol. I don't think Cutter
will settle for leaving him here.'
    'Why not?'
    Her only answer was a shake of her head.
    Barathol turned back to the doorway. 'Sleep well,
Scillara. Like it or not, you're the only one here who can
feed your little girl. Unless we can convince Jessa last house
on the east road. At all events, she'll be hungry soon
enough.'
    'Hungry,' the woman muttered behind him. 'Like a cat
with worms.'
    In the main room the High Mage had taken the babe
from Chaur's arms. The huge simpleton sat with tears
streaming down his pocked face, this detail unnoticed by
L'oric as he paced with the fidgeting infant in his arms.
    'A question,' Barathol said to L'oric, 'how old do they
have to get before you lose all sympathy for them?'
    The High Mage frowned. 'What do you mean?'
    Ignoring him, the blacksmith walked over to Chaur. 'You
and me,' he said, 'we have a corpse to dig up. More
shovelling, Chaur, you like that.'
    Chaur nodded and managed a half-smile through his
tears and runny nose.
    Outside, Barathol led the man to the smithy where they
collected a pick and a shovel, then they set off for the stony
plain west of the hamlet. There'd been an unseasonal
spatter of rain the night before, but little evidence of that
remained after a morning of fiercely hot sunlight. The
grave was beside a half-filled pit containing the remnants of
the horses after Urdan had finished butchering them. He
had been told to burn those remains but had clearly forgotten.
Wolves, coyotes and vultures had all found the
bones and viscera, and the pit now swarmed with flies and
maggots. Twenty paces further west, the now bloated,
shapeless carcass of the toad demon lay untouched by any
scavenger.
    As Chaur bent to the task of disinterring Heboric's
wrapped corpse, Barathol stared across at that demon's misshapen
body. The now-stretched hide was creased with
white lines, as if it had begun cracking. From this distance
Barathol could not be certain, but it seemed there was a
black stain ringing the ground beneath the carcass, as if
something had leaked out.
    'I'll be right back, Chaur.'
    The man smiled.
    As the blacksmith drew closer, his