A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

off to wherever and
whatever it is you have to do. You can leave, and get as far
away from here as possible. I'll wait for Cutter to wake up.
I like him. I think I'll go where he goes. This grand quest is
done. So go away.'
    'Not until I am satisfied that you will not surrender your
child to an unknown future, Scillara.'
    'It's not unknown. Or at least, no more unknown than
any future. There are two women here both named Jessa
and they'll take care of it. They'll raise it well enough, since
they seem to like that sort of thing. Good for them, I say.
Besides, I'm being generous here – I'm not selling it, am I?
No, like a damned fool, I'm giving the thing away.'
    'The longer and the more often you hold that girl,' L'oric
said, 'the less likely it is that you will do what you presently
plan to do. Motherhood is a spiritual state – you will come
to that realization before too long.'
    'That's good, so why are you still here? Clearly, I'm already
doomed to enslavement, no matter how much I rail.'
    'Spiritual epiphany is not enslavement.'
    'Shows how much you know, High Mage.'
    'I feel obliged to tell you, your words have crushed
Greyfrog.'
    'He'll survive it – he seems able to survive everything
else. Well, I'm about to switch tits here, you two eager to
watch?'
    L'oric spun on his heel and left.
    Greyfrog's large eyes blinked translucently up at Scillara. 'I am not crushed. Brother of mine misapprehends. Broods climb
free and must fend, each runtling holds to its own life.
Recollection. Many dangers. Transitional thought. Sorrow. I
must now accompany my poor brother, for he is well and truly
distressed by many things in this world. Warmth. I shall harbour
well my adoration of you, for it is a pure thing by virtue of being
ever unattainable, the consummation thereof. Which would,
you must admit, be awkward indeed.'
    'Awkward isn't the first word that comes to my mind,
Greyfrog. But thank you for the sentiment, as sick and
twisted as it happens to be. Listen, try and teach L'oric, will
you? Just a few things, like, maybe, humility. And all that
terrible certainty – beat it down, beat it out of him. It's
making him obnoxious.'
    'Paternal legacy, alas. L'oric's own parents ... ah, never
mind. Farewell, Scillara. Delicious fantasies, slow and
exquisitely unveiled in the dark swampy waters of my imaginanon.
All that need sustain me in fecund spirit.'
    The demon waddled out.
    Hard gums clamped onto her right nipple. Pain and
pleasure, gods what a miserable, confusing alliance. Well, at
least all the lopsidedness would go away – Nulliss had been
planting the babe on her left ever since it had come out.
She felt like a badly packed mule.
    More voices in the outer room, but she didn't bother
listening.
    They'd taken Felisin Younger. That was the cruellest
thing of all. For Heboric, at least, there was now some
peace, an end to whatever had tormented him, and besides,
he'd been an old man. Enough had been asked of him. But
Felisin...
    Scillara stared down at the creature on her chest, its tiny
grasping hands, then she settled her head against the back
wall and began repacking her pipe.
     
    Something formless filling his mind, what had been
timeless and only in the last instants, in the drawing of a
few breaths, did awareness arrive, carrying him from one
moment to the next. Whereupon Cutter opened his eyes.
Old grey tree-trunks spanned the ceiling overhead, the
joins thick with cobwebs snarled around the carcasses of
moths and flies. Two lanterns hung from hooks, their wicks
low. He struggled to recall how he had ended up here, in
this unfamiliar room.
    Darujhistan ... a bouncing coin. Assassins ...
    No, that was long ago. Tremorlor, the Azath House, and
Moby ... that god-possessed girl – Apsalar, oh, my love ... Hard words exchanged with Cotillion, the god who had,
once, looked through her eyes. He was in Seven Cities; he
had been travelling with Heboric Ghost Hands, and Felisin
Younger, Scillara, and the demon Greyfrog. He had become
a man with knives, a killer, given the chance.
    Flies ...
    Cutter groaned, one hand reaching tentatively for his
belly beneath the ragged blankets. The slash was naught
but a thin seam. He had seen ... his insides spilling out.
Had felt the sudden absence of weight, the tug that pulled
him down to the ground. Cold, so very cold.
    The others were dead. They had to be. Then again,
Cutter realized, he too should be dead. They'd cut him wide
open. He slowly turned his head, studying the