A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

the solemn shackles were
slipped on. A most extraordinary invitation indeed. 'Where
are my servants?'
    'Away for the rest of the night, Lady Vidikas.'
    'Just like Hanut Orr. Does he sit in some tavern right
now, telling everyone—'
    'I arranged nothing with that bastard. And you must
realize, he will talk whether anything happens or not. To
wound you. Your reputation.'
    'My husband will then hear of it, even though nothing
has happened.'
    'And should you stand before Gorlas and deny the
rumours, will he believe you, Challice?'
    No. He wouldn't want to. 'He will not accept being
cuckolded.'
    'He will smile because he doesn't care. Until it serves
him to challenge one of us, me or Hanut, to a duel. On a
point of honour. He is a fine duellist. A cruel one at that.
He disregards all rules, all propriety. Victory is all that
matters and if that means flinging sand into his opponent's
eyes he will do just that. A very dangerous man, Challice. I
would not want to face him with rapiers bared. But I will if
I have to.' Then he shook his head. 'But it won't be me.'
    'No?'
    'It will be Hanut Orr. That is the man he wants for you.
He's given you to Hanut Orr – another reason he stormed
off, since he finally understood that I would not permit it.'
    'So in Gorlas's stead this night you have defended my
honour.'
    'And failed, because Hanut is skewering your reputation
even as we speak. When I said you can make use of me,
Challice, I meant it. Even now, here, you can tell me to
seek out Hanut – yes, I can guess where he is right now
– and call him out. I can kill him for you.'
    'My reputation . . .'
    'Is already ruined, Lady Vidikas, and I am truly sorry for
that. Tell me what you would have me do. Please.'
    She was silent. It was getting difficult to think clearly.
Consequences were crashing down like an avalanche and
she was buried, all air driven from her lungs. Buried, yes,
in what had not even happened.
    Yet.
    'I will try this freedom of yours, Shardan Lim.'
    He rose, one hand settling on the grip of his rapier.
'Milady.'
    Oh, how noble. Snorting, she rose. 'You've taken hold of
the wrong weapon.'
    His eyes widened. Was the surprise real or feigned? Was
there a glimmer of triumph in those blue, blue eyes? She
couldn't find it at all.
    And that frightened her.
    'Shardan . . .'
    'Milady?'
    'Make no wishes for a future. Do you understand me?'
    'I do.'
    'I will not free my heart only to chain it anew.'
    'Of course you won't. That would be madness.'
    She studied him a moment longer, and received nothing
new for that effort. 'I am glad I am not drunk,' she said.
    And he bowed.
    Making, in that one gesture, this night of adultery so
very . . . noble.
    *
    Night seeps into Darujhistan, a thick blinding fog in
which people stumble or hide as they walk the alleys and
streets. Some are drawn like moths to the lit areas and the
welcoming eternal hiss of gas from the wrought iron poles.
Others seek to move as one with the darkness, at least
until some damned piece of crockery snaps underfoot, or a
pebble is sent skittering. And everywhere can be seen the
small glitter of rodent eyes, or heard the slither of tails.
    Light glows through shutters and bubbled glass windows,
but never mind the light and all peaceful slumber and
discourse and all the rest such illumination might reveal!
Dull and witless the expectations so quickly and predictably
surrendered!
    A woman in whose soul burned freedom black and
blazing arches her back as only the second man in her life
slides deep into her and something ignites in her mind
– Gorlas ever used his fingers in this place, after all, and
fingers cannot match – gods below!
    But leave that now – truly, imagination suffices to make
eloquent all the clumsy shifting about and strange sounds
and the fumbling for this and that, and then that – no
more! Out into the true darkness, yes, to the fingerless man
stalking his next victim.
    To a new estate and Captain Torvald Nom of the
House Guard, moments from leaving for the night with
all security in the so-capable hands of Scorch and Leff
(yes, he worked hard on that), who pauses to watch a black
two-person carriage trundle into the courtyard, and whose
eyes thin to very-most slits of suspicion and curiosity and
a niggling feeling of . . . something, as a cloaked, hooded
figure steps into view and slides like a bad thought up the
stairs and into the main house. Who . . . ponder no longer,
Torvald Nom! On your way, yes, back home to your loving
and