A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Maybe we can do something about that, too. That fiver water is three years old.'
    'I'm curious. How do you manage to speak without breath?'
    'I don't know. I can draw air into my throat. It starts drying out after a while.'
    'I've noticed. All right, some of those things can be achieved easily enough, although we'll have to be circumspect. Others, for example the reawakening of pleasure, will obviously be more problematic. But I'm sure something can be managed—'
    'It won't be cheap.'
    'I'm sure Gerun Eberict will be happy to pay for it.'
    'What if it takes all he has?'
    Tehol shrugged. 'My dear, the money is not the point of the exercise. I was planning on dumping it in the river.'
    She studied him in silence for a moment longer, then said, 'I could take it with me.'
    'Don't make me laugh, Shurq. Seriously.'
    'Why?'
    'Because it's a very infectious laugh.'
    'Ah. Point taken.'
    'And the retainer?' Tehol asked.
    'Taken, as well. Presumably, you don't want me hanging around you.'
    'Midnight meetings like this one should suffice. Come by tomorrow night, and we'll make of you a new woman.'
    'So long as I smell new.'
    'Don't worry. I know just the people for the task at hand.'
    The thief left by climbing down the outside wall of the building. Tehol stood at the roof's edge and watched her progress, then, when she had reached the alley below, he permitted himself a roll of the eyes. He turned away and approached his bed.
    Only to hear voices down below. Surprised tones from Bugg, but not alarm. And loud enough to warn Tehol in case Shurq had lingered.
    Tehol sighed. Life had been better – simpler – only a few weeks ago. When he'd been without plans, schemes, goals. Without, in short, purpose. A modest stir, and now everyone wanted to see him.
    Creaks from the ladder, then a dark figure climbed into view.
    It was a moment before Tehol recognized him, and his brows rose a moment before he stepped forward. 'Well, this is unexpected.'
    'Your manservant seemed sure that you'd be awake. Why is that?'
    'Dear brother, Bugg's talents are veritably preternatural.'
    Brys walked over to the bed and studied it for a moment. 'What happens when it rains?'
    'Alas, I am forced to retire to the room below. There to suffer Bugg's incessant snoring.'
    'Is that what's driven you to sleeping on the roof?'
    Tehol smiled, then realized it was not likely Brys could see that smile in the darkness. Then decided it was all for the best. 'King's Champion. I have been remiss in congratulating you. Thus, congratulations.'
    Brys was motionless. 'How often do you visit the crypt? Or do you ever visit?'
    Crossing his arms, Tehol swung his gaze to the canal below. A smeared gleam of reflected stars, crawling through the city. 'It's been years, Brys.'
    'Since you last visited?'
    'Since they died. We all have different ways of honouring their memory. The family crypt?' He shrugged. 'A stone-walled sunken room containing nothing of consequence.'
    'I see. I'm curious, Tehol, how precisely do you honour their memory these days?'
    'You have no idea.'
    'No, I don't.'
    Tehol rubbed at his eyes, only now realizing how tired he was. Thinking was proving a voracious feeder on his energies, leading him to admit he'd been out of practice. Not just thinking, of course. The brain did other things, as well, even more exhausting. The revisiting of siblings, of long-estranged relationships, saw old, burnished armour donned once more, weapons reached for, old stances once believed abandoned proving to have simply been lying dormant. 'Is this a festive holiday, Brys? Have I missed something? Had we cousins, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces, we could gather to walk the familiar ruts. Round and round the empty chairs where our mother and father once sat. And we could make our language unspoken in a manner to mimic another truth – that the dead speak in silences and so never leave us in peace—'
    'I need your help, Tehol.'
    He glanced up, but could make nothing of his brother's expression in the gloom.
    'It's Hull,' Brys went on. 'He's going to get himself killed.'
    'Tell me,' Tehol said, 'have you ever wondered why not one of us has found a wife?'
    'I was talking about—'
    'It's simple, really. Blame our mother, Brys. She was too smart. Errant take us, what an understatement. It wasn't Father who managed the investments.'
    'And you are her son, Tehol. More than me and Hull, by far. Every time I look at you, every time I listen to you, struggle to follow your lines