A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

grow weary of this place.
Send us somewhere, Queen, but first tell us what services
you require.'
    She finally looked up, studied the desert warrior in
silence for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, 'For now, I
require from you ... nothing.'
    There was silence then, and Cutter eventually realized
that the two mortals were not moving. Not even the rise
and fall of breath was visible. Frozen in place ... just like me.
    The Queen of Dreams slowly turned her head, met
Cutter's eyes, and smiled.
    Sudden, spinning retreat – he awoke with a start,
beneath threadbare blankets and a cross-beamed ceiling
layered in the carcasses of sucked-dry insects. Yet that smile
lingered, racing like scalded blood through him. She had
known, of course she had known, had brought him there,
to that moment, to witness. But why? Leoman of the Flails
... the renegade commander from Sha'ik's army, the one
who had been pursued by the Adjunct Tavore's army. Clearly he found a way to escape, but at a price. Maybe that
was the lesson – never bargain with gods.
    A faint sound reached him. The wail of a babe, insistent,
demanding.
    Then a closer noise, scuffling, and Cutter twisted his
head round to see the curtain covering the doorway drawn
back and a young, unfamiliar face staring in at him. The
face quickly withdrew. Voices, heavy footsteps, then
the curtain was thrown aside. A huge, midnight-skinned
man strode in.
    Cutter stared at him. He looked ... familiar, yet he knew
he'd never before met this man.
    'Scillara is asking after you,' the stranger said.
    'That child I'm hearing – hers?'
    'Yes, for the moment. How do you feel?'
    'Weak, but not as weak as before. Hungry, thirsty. Who
are you?'
    'The local blacksmith. Barathol Mekhar.'
    Mekhar? 'Kalam ...'
    A grimace. 'Cousin, distant. Mekhar refers to the tribe –
it's gone now, slaughtered by Falah'd Enezgura of Aren,
during one of his westward conquests. Most of us survivors
scattered far and wide.' He shrugged, eyeing Cutter. 'I'll get
you food and drink. If a Semk witch comes in here and tries
to enlist you in her cause, tell her to get out.'
    'Cause? What cause?'
    'Your friend Scillara wants to leave the child here.'
    'Oh.'
    'Does that surprise you?'
    He considered. 'No, not really. She wasn't herself back
then, from what I understood. Back in Raraku. I expect she
wants to leave all reminders far behind her.'
    Barathol snorted and turned back to the doorway. 'What
is it with all these refugees from Raraku, anyway? I'll be
back shortly, Cutter.'
    Mekhar. The Daru managed a smile. This one here
looked big enough to pick up Kalam and fling him across a
room. And, if Cutter had read the man's expression aright,
in that single unguarded moment when he'd said Kalam's
name, this Barathol was likely inclined to do just that,
given the chance.
    Thank the gods I have no brothers or sisters ... or cousins,
for that matter.
    His smile suddenly faded. The blacksmith had
mentioned Scillara, but no-one else. Cutter suspected it
hadn't been an oversight. Barathol didn't seem the type
who was careless with his words. Bern fend ...
     
    L'oric stepped outside. His gaze worked its way down the
squalid street, building to building, the decrepit remnants
of what had once been a thriving community. Intent on its
own destruction, even then, though no doubt few thought
that way at the time. The forest must have seemed endless,
or at least immortal, and so they had harvested with
frenzied abandon. But now the trees were gone, and all
those hoarded coins of profit had slipped away, leaving
hands filled with nothing but sand. Most of the looters
would have moved on, sought out some other stand of
ancient trees, to persist in the addiction of momentary
gain. Making one desert after another ... until the deserts
meet.
    He rubbed at his face, felt the grit of his stay here, raw as
crushed glass on his cheeks. There were some rewards, at
least, he told himself. A child was born. Greyfrog was at his
side once more, and he had succeeded in saving Cutter's
life. And Barathol Mekhar, a name riding ten thousand curses
... well, Barathol was nothing like L'oric had imagined him
to be, given his crimes. Men like Korbolo Dom better fit his
notions of a betrayer, or the twisted madness of someone
like Bidithal. And yet Barathol, an officer in the Red
Blades, had murdered the Fist of Aren. He'd been arrested
and gaoled, stripped of his rank and beaten without mercy
by his fellow Red Blades – the first and deepest stain