A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

off-continent. I,
however, am not involved in any of that.'
    'Were you cast out?'
    'No, nothing so, er, extreme. It was more a question of
. . . interests.'
    'You lack ambition.'
    'Precisely.'
    'That is a fine manicure, Torvald Nom.'
    'Er, thank you. I could recommend . . .' but that notion
dwindled into a painful silence and Torvald tried hard not
to glance down at the castellan's bandaged fingers.
    At this moment Leff appeared from round the other
side of the main house. His lips and his eyes were bright
orange.
    Scorch grunted. 'Hey, Leff. Remember that cat you sat
on in that bar once?'
    'What of it?'
    'Nothing. Was just reminded, the way its eyes went all
bulgy and crazed.'
    'What's that supposed to mean?'
    'Nothing. Was just reminded, is all. Look, I brought
Tor.'
    'I see that,' snarled Leff. 'I can see just fine, thank you.'
    'What's wrong with your eyes?' Torvald Nom asked.
    'Tincture,' said Leff. 'I got me a case of Greva worms.'
    Torvald Nom frowned. 'Humans can't get Greva worms.
Fish get Greva worms, from eating infected conch.'
    Leff's bulging orange eyes bulged even more. Then he
spun to face the castellan.
    Who shrugged and said, 'Jurben worms?'
    Torvald Nom snorted. 'The ones that live in the caverns
below? In pockets of green gas? They're as long as a man's
leg and nearly as thick.'
    The castellan sighed. 'The spectre of misdiagnosis
haunts us all. I do apologize, Leff. Perhaps your ailments
are due to some other malady. No matter, the drops will
wash out in a month or two.'
    'I'm gonna have squished cat eyes for another month?'
    'Preferable to Greva worms, I should think. Now, gentlemen,
let us find the house clothier. Something black and
brocaded in gold thread, I should imagine. House colours
and all that. And then, a brief summary of your duties,
shifts, days off and the like.'
    'Would that summary include wages?' Torvald Nom
asked.
    'Naturally. As captain you will be paid twenty silver
councils per week, Torvald Nom. Scorch and Leff, as
guards, at fifteen. Acceptable?'
    All three quickly nodded.
    He felt slightly shaky on his feet, but Murillio knew that
had nothing to do with any residue of weakness left by his
wound. This weakness belonged to his spirit. As if age had
sprung on to his back with claws digging into every joint
and now hung there, growing heavier by the moment. He
walked hunched at the shoulders and this seemed to have
arrived like a new habit, or perhaps it was always there and
only now, in his extremity, had he become aware of it.
    That drunken pup's sword thrust had pierced something
vital indeed, and no Malazan healer or any other kind of
healer could mend it.
    He tried forcing confidence into his stride as he made his
way down the crowded street, but it was not an easy task. Half drunk. Breeches at my ankles. Worthwhile excuses for
what happened that night. The widow Sepharla spitting venom
once she sobered up enough to realize what had happened, and
spitting it still, it seems. What had happened, yes. With her
daughter. Oh, not rape – too much triumph in the girl's eyes for
that, though her face glowed with delight at her escort's charge
to defend her honour. Once the shock wore off. I should never
have gone back to explain—
    But that was yesterday's nightmare, all those sparks raining
down on the domestic scene with its airs of concern,
every cagey word painting over the cracks in savage, short
jabs of the brush. What had he expected? What had he
gone there to find? Reassurance?
    Maybe. I guess I arrived with my own brush.
    Years ago, he would have smoothed everything over,
almost effortlessly. A murmur here, a meeting of gazes
there. Soft touch with one hand, the barest hint of pressure.
Then again, years ago, it would never have happened in the
first place. That drunken fool!
    Oh, he'd growled those three words often in his head.
But did they refer to the young man with the sword, or to
himself?
    Arriving at the large duelling school, he made his way
through the open gate and emerged into the bright sunlight
of the training ground. A score of young, sweating,
overweight students scraped about in the dust, wooden
weapons clattering. Most, he saw at once, lacked the necessary
aggression, the killer's instinct. They danced to avoid,
prodding the stick points forward with lack of any commitment.
Their footwork, he saw, was abysmal.
    The class instructor was standing in the shade of a
column in the colonnaded corridor just beyond. She was
not even observing the mayhem in