A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

rumours,' interjected the one Scorch rightly
assumed was named Lazan Door, 'whilst no doubt
egregiously exaggerated and so potentially entertaining,
can wait, yes? Dear Studious, who dreamed of never again
seeing our pretty faces, you have a new Mistress, and she
is in need of compound guards. And, as we are presently
under-employed, why, destinies can prove seamless on
occasion, can't they?'
    'So they can, Lazan. Yes, compound guards. You see, we
have gate guards already. And a captain as well, who is
presently elsewhere. Now, if you two will follow me, we can
meet the Mistress.'
    'Excellent,' said Madrun.
    Scorch and Leff moved well aside as the trio filed
in through the gate. Leff then locked it and turned to
Scorch.
    'We never got no audience with the Mistress!'
    'We been snubbed!'
    Leff collected his crossbow again. 'It's because we're on
the lowest rung, that's why. The lowest . . . again! And here
we thought we were climbing! Sure, Tor did some climbing,
captain and all. But look at us – not even compound guards
and we got here first!'
    'Well,' said Scorch, 'if we'd a known there was a
difference – gate and compound – we would've pushed for
that, right? We was ill-informed – look at you, after all.'
    'What's that supposed to mean?'
    'You got orange eyes, Leff!'
    'That was a different kind of ill-informed.'
    'That's what you think.'
    'If you're so smart, Scorch, you coulda asked about being
compound guards!'
    'If it was just me, I would have!'
    'If it was just you, Studlock never would've hired you at
all, except maybe to clean out the latrines!'
    'At least then I'd be inside the gate!'
    Well, he had a point there. Leff sighed, stared out on the
street. 'Look, there's the lantern crew.'
    'Let's shoot 'em!'
    'Sure, if you want us to get fired, Scorch, is that what
you want?'
    'I was only joking, Leff.'
    There were looks that killed, and then there were looks
that conducted torture. Excoriating skin with incremental,
exquisite slices that left blood welling to the surface. That
plucked eyeballs and pulled until all the tendons stretched,
upon which those long wet ligaments were knotted together
so that both eyes sat on the bridge of the nose. Torture, yes,
delivered in cold pleasure, in clinical regard.
    It was hardly surprising, then, that Torvald Nom devoured
his supper in haste, forgetting to chew, and so was
now afflicted with terrible indigestion, struggling to keep
from groaning as he helped Tiserra clean the plates and
whatnot; and the ominous silence stretched on, even as she
cast sidelong looks of blood-curdling excision all unconvincingly
dressed up as companionable, loving glances.
    It was time to return to the estate for the evening. These
precious deadly moments of domestic tranquillity – fraught
as all such moments were with all that was left unspoken,
the topics unbidden yet ever lurking, the hidden pitfalls
and explosive nuances or even more explosive lack thereof
– why, they had to come, alas, to an end, as considerations
of career and professional responsibility returned once
more to the fore.
    'My sweet, I must leave you now.'
    'Oh, must you?'
    'Yes. Until midnight, but don't feel the need to wait up.'
    'I've had a busy day. Two new orders. I doubt I'll be awake
when you return, darling.'
    'I'll try to be quiet.'
    'Of course you will.'
    Perfunctory kiss.
    Just so, the pleasant exchanges to conclude the repast
just past, but of course such words were the flourishes of
feint and cunning sleight of hand. Beneath the innocence,
Torvald well understood, there was this: 'My sweet, I will
run not walk back to the estate now.'
    'Oh, your stomach is upset? Let's hope you heave all over
your two gate guards when you get there.'
    'Yes. And suddenly it'll be midnight and like a doomed
man I will count the steps to the gallows awaiting me at
home. Pray to Beru and every other ascendant the world
over that you're asleep when I get here, or at least feigning
sleep.'
    'I've had a busy day, husband, just thinking of all the
things I'd like to do to you for breaking that promise. And
when you get home, why, I'll be dreaming dreadful scenes,
each one adding to that pleasant smile on my slumbering
visage.'
    'I shall attempt to sleep on no more than a hand's span of
bed, stiff as a planed board, not making a sound.'
    'Yes, you will. Darling.'
    And the perfunctory kiss, smooch smooch.
    Blue light painted the streets through which Torvald
Nom now hurried along, blue light and black thoughts,
a veritable