A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

an operation
out of the city, and I must visit the workings. Thereafter,
I must take ship to Gredfallan Annexe to finalize a
contract.'
    'Very well, husband.'
    'There was no advance notice of any of this,' Gorlas
added, 'and, alas, I had extended invitations to both
Shardan and Hanut to dine with us this evening.' He
paused to smile at her. 'I leave them in your capable hands
– please do extend my apologies.'
    She was staring down at him in a somewhat disconcerting
way. 'You wish me to host your two friends tonight?'
    'Of course.'
    'I see.'
    And perhaps she did at that – yet was she railing at him?
No. And was there perhaps the flush of excitement on her
cheeks now? But she was turning away so he could not be
sure. And walking, hips swaying in that admirable way of
hers, right out of the room.
    And there, what was done . . . was done.
    He rose and gestured to his manservant. 'Make ready the
carriage, I am leaving immediately.'
    Head bobbing, the man hurried off.
    Someone was needed to groom the horses, to check the
tack, to keep the carriage clean and the brakes in working
order. Someone was needed to ensure he had all he required
in the travel trunks. And, as it happened, someone
was needed for other things besides. Like spreading the legs
as a reward for past favours, and as a future debt when it
was time to turn everything round.
    They could take his wife. He would take them, one
day – everything they owned, everything they dreamed
of owning. After tonight, he would own one of them or
both of them – both for certain in the weeks to come.
Which one would produce Gorlas's heir? He didn't care
– Challice's getting pregnant would get his parents off his
back at the very least, and might well add the reward of
satisfying her – and so wiping that faint misery from her
face and bringing an end to all those irritating sighs and
longing faraway looks out of the windows.
    Besides, she worshipped money too. Hood knew she
spent enough of it, on precious trinkets and useless indulgences.
Give her a child and then three or four more and
she'd be no further trouble and content besides.
    Sacrifices needed to be made. So make it, wife, and who
knows you might even be smiling when it's done with.
    A bell and a half later the Vidikas carriage was finally
clearing Two-Ox Gate and the horses picked up their
pace as the road opened out, cutting through the misery
of Maiten (and where else should the lost and the hopeless
go but outside the city walls?) which Gorlas suffered with
closed shutters and a scent ball held to his nose.
    When he ruled he'd order a massive pit dug out on
the Dwelling Plain and they would drag all these wasted
creatures out there and bury the lot of them. It was simple
enough – can't pay for a healer and that's just too bad, but
look, we won't charge for the burial.
    Luxuriating in such thoughts, and other civic improvements,
Gorlas dozed as the carriage rumbled onward.
    Challice stood alone in her private chambers, staring
at the hemisphere of glass with its trapped moon. What
would she lose? Her reputation. Or, rather, that reputation
would change. Hanut grinning, Shardan strutting in that
knowing way of his, making sure his secret oozed from
every pore so that it was anything but a secret. Other
men would come to her, expecting pretty much the same.
And maybe, by then, there would be no stopping her.
And maybe, before too long, she'd find one man who
decided that what he felt was love, and she would then
begin to unveil her plan – the only plan she had and it
certainly made sense. Eminently logical, even reasonable.
Justifiable.
    Sometimes the beast on its chain turns on its master.
Sometimes it goes for his throat, and sometimes it gets
there.
    But it would take time. Neither Shardan Lim nor Hanut
Orr would do – both needed Gorlas even though their
triumvirate was a partnership of convenience. Any one of
them would turn on the other if the situation presented
itself – but not yet, not for a long while, she suspected.
    Could she do this?
    What is my life? Here, look around – what is it? She had
no answer to that question. She was like a jeweller blind to
the notion of value. Shiny or dull, it didn't matter. Rare or
abundant, the only difference lay in desire and how could
one weigh that, when the need behind it was the same?
The same, yes, in all its sordid hunger.
    She could reduce all her needs to but one. She could do
that. She would have to, to stomach what was to come.
    She felt