A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

travellers,
hailing from places Banaschar could not even find
on any temple map. Nemil, Perish, Shal-Morzinn,
Elingarth, Torment, Jacuruku and Stratem. Yet this man,
whom he now approached, weaving and pushing through
the afternoon crowd of sailors and the local murder of
veterans, this man had an accent unlike any Banaschar had
ever heard.
    Yet the truth of things was never as interesting as the
mystery preceding the revelation, and Banaschar had come
to appreciate his own ignorance. In other matters, after all,
he knew far too much – and what had that availed him?
    Sliding onto the greasy bench opposite the huge
foreigner, the ex-priest released the clasp on his tattered
cloak and shrugged free from its folds – once, long ago it
seemed now, such lack of consideration for the unsightly
creases that would result would have horrified him – but he
had done his share since of sleeping in that cloak, senseless
on a vomit-spattered floor and, twice, on the cobbles of an
alley – correct comportment, alas, had ceased being a moral
necessity.
    He leaned back now, the rough cloth bunching behind
him, as one of Coop's serving wenches arrived with a
tankard of Coop's own Leech Swill, a weak, gassy ale that
had acquired its name in an appropriately literal fashion.
Warranting the now customary affectation of a one-eyed
squint into the brass-hued brew before the first mouthful.
    The foreigner had glanced up once, upon Banaschar's
arrival, punctuating the gesture with a sardonic half-grin
before returning his attention to the fired-clay mug of wine
in his hands.
    'Oh, Jakatakan grapes are all very well,' the ex-priest
said, 'it's the local water that turns that wine you like so
much into snake's piss.'
    'Aye, bad hangovers,' Foreigner said.
    'And that is desirable?'
    'Aye, it is. Wakes me up again and again through the
night, almost every bell, with a pounding skull and a
bladder ready to explode – but if I didn't wake up
that bladder would explode. See?'
    Banaschar nodded, glanced round. 'More heads than
usual for an afternoon.'
    'You only think that because you ain't been here roun'
this time lately. Three transports and an escort come in
three nights past, from Korel.'
    The ex-priest studied the other customers a little more
carefully this time. 'They talking much?'
    'Sounds it to me.'
    'About the campaign down there?'
    Foreigner shrugged. 'Go ask 'em if you like.'
    'No. Too much effort. The bad thing about asking questions—'
    'Is gettin' answers, aye – you've said that before.'
    'That is another bad thing – the way we all end up saying
the same things over and over again.'
    'That's you, not me. And, you're gettin' worse.'
    Banaschar swallowed two mouthfuls, then wiped his lips
with the back of his hand. 'Worse. Yes indeed.'
    'Never good,' Foreigner observed, 'seeing a man in a
hurry.'
    'It's a race,' Banaschar said. 'Do I reach the edge and
plunge over or does my salvation arrive in time? Lay down
a few coins on the outcome – I'd suggest the former but
that's just between you and me.'
    The huge man – who rarely met anyone's eyes while talking,
and whose massive hands and wrists were scarred and
puckered with weals – shook his head and said, 'If that
salvation's a woman, only a fool would wager agin me.'
    Banaschar grimaced and lifted his tankard. 'A fine idea.
Let's toast all the lost loves in the world, friend. What
happened to yours or is that too personal a question for this
dubious relationship of ours?'
    'You jumped on the wrong stone,' the man said. 'My love
ain't lost, an' maybe some days I'd think of swapping places
wi' you, but not today. Not yesterday neither, nor the day
afore that. Come to think of it—'
    'No need to continue. My salvation is not a woman, or if
she was, it wouldn't be because she's a woman, if you understand
me.'
    'So, we just had one of them hypothetical
conversations?'
    'Learned Malazan from an educated sailor, did you? In
any case, hypothetical is the wrong word for what you
mean, I think. More like, metaphorical.'
    'You sure of that?'
    'Of course not, but that's not the point, is it? The
woman's a broken heart, or maybe just a mud slide you ride
until it buries you, until it buries all of us.' Banaschar
finished his ale, waved the tankard in the air for a moment,
then settled back with a belch. 'Heard about a Napan
sailor, drank a keg's worth of Leech Swill, then,
standing too close to a lit wick, went and blew off most of
his backside. How does that illuminate matters, I