A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

cold, could see the purple tracks through the
pallid white skin of her arms as her blood flowed turgidly
on. She needed to walk in sunlight, to feel the heat, and
know that people would look upon her as she passed – on
her fine cape of ermine with its borders of black silk sewn
with silvered thread; on the bracelets on her wrists and
down at her ankles – too much jewellery invited the
thief's snatching hand, after all, and was crass besides.
And her long hair would glisten with its scented oils, and
there would be a certain look in her eyes, lazy, satiated,
seductively sealed away so that it seemed she took notice
of nothing and no one, and this was, she well knew, a most
enticing look in what were still beautiful eyes—
    She found herself looking into them, there in the mirror,
still clear even after half a carafe of wine at breakfast and
then the pipe of rustleaf afterwards, and she had a sudden
sense that the next time she stood thus, the face staring
back at her would belong to someone else, another woman
wearing her skin, her face. A stranger far more knowing,
far wiser in the world's dismal ways than this one before
her now.
    Was she looking forward to making her acquaintance?
    It was possible.
    The day beckoned and she turned away – before she saw
too much of the woman she was leaving behind – and set
about dressing for the city.
    'So, you're the historian who survived the Chain of Dogs.'
    The old man sitting at the table looked up and frowned.
'Actually, I didn't.'
    'Oh,' said Scillara, settling down into the chair opposite
him – her body felt strange today, as if even fat could be
weightless. Granted, she wasn't getting any heavier, but her
bones were wearing plenty and there was a sense of fullness,
of roundness, and for some reason all of this was making
her feel sexually charged, very nearly brimming over with a
slow, sultry indolence. She drew out her pipe and eyed the
Malazan opposite. 'Well, I'm sorry to hear that.'
    'It's a long story,' he said.
    'Which you're relating to that ponytailed bard.'
    He grunted. 'So much for privacy.'
    'Sounds to be a good thing, getting it all out. When he
found out I was in Sha'ik's camp in Raraku, he thought to
cajole details out of me. But I was barely conscious most of
that time, so I wasn't much help. I told him about Heboric,
though.'
    And Duiker slowly straightened, a sudden glint in his eyes
burning away all the sadness, all the weariness. 'Heboric?'
    Scillara smiled. 'Fisher said you might be interested in
that.'
    'I am. Or,' he hesitated, 'I think I am.'
    'He died, I'm afraid. But I will tell you of it, if you'd like.
From the night we fled Sha'ik.'
    The light had dimmed in Duiker's eyes and he looked
away. 'Hood seems determined to leave me the last one
standing. All my friends . . .'
    'Old friends, maybe,' she said, pulling flame into the
bowl. 'Plenty of room for new ones.'
    'That's a bitter consolation.'
    'We need to walk, I think.'
    'I'm not in the mood—'
'But I am and Barathol is gone and your partners are
upstairs chewing on conspiracies. Chaur is in the kitchen
eating everything in sight and Blend's fallen in love with
me and sure, that's amusing and even enjoyable for a time,
but for me it's not the real thing. Only she's not listening.
    Anyway, I want an escort and you're elected.'
    'Really, Scillara—'
    'Being old doesn't mean you can be rude. I want you to
take me to the Phoenix Inn.'
    He stared at her for a long moment.
    She drew hard on her pipe, swelled her lungs to thrust
her ample breasts out and saw how his gaze dropped a
fraction or two. 'I'm looking to embarrass a friend, you see,'
she said, then released the lungful of smoke towards the
black-stained rafters.
    'Well,' he sourly drawled, 'in that case . . .'
    'Rallick's furious,' Cutter said as he sat down, reaching for
the brick of cheese to break off a sizeable chunk which he
held in his left hand, an apple in his right. A bite from the
apple was quickly followed by one from the cheese.
    'Kruppe commiserates. Tragedy of destiny, when destiny
is that which one chooses given what one is given. Dear
Cutter might have retained original name had he elected
a life in, say, Murillio's shadow. Alas, Cutter in name is
cutter in deed.'
    Cutter swallowed and said, 'Hold on. I wasn't making a
point of walking in Rallick's shadow. Not anybody's shadow
– in fact, the whole idea of "shadow" makes me sick. If one
god out there has truly cursed me, it's Shadowthrone.'
    'Shifty Shadowthrone,