A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

bruising of dismay, and so the buildings to
each side crowded, leaned in upon him, until he felt he
was squirting – like an especially foul lump of excrement
– through a sewer pipe. Terrible indeed, a wife's disappointment
and, mayhap, disgust.
    The princely wages were without relevance. The flexible
shifts could barely earn a begrudging nod. The sheer
impressive legality of the thing yielded little more than a
sour grunt. And even the fact that Torvald Nom now held
the title of Captain of the House Guard, while Scorch and
Leff were but underlings among a menagerie of underlings
(yes, he had exaggerated somewhat), had but granted him
a temporary abeyance of the shrill fury he clearly deserved
– and it waited, oh, it waited. He knew it. She knew it. And
he knew she was holding on to it, like a giant axe, poised
above his acorn of a head.
    Yes, he'd given up slavery for this.
    Such was the power of love, the lure of domestic tranquillity
and the fending off of lonely solitude. Would he
have it any other way?
    Ask him later.
    Onward, and there before him the estate's modest but
suitably maintained wall, and the formal gate entranceway,
its twin torches flaring and flickering, enough to make the
two shapes of his redoubtable underlings look almost . . .
attentive.
    Not that either of them was watching the street. Instead,
it seemed they were arguing.
    'Stay sharp there, you two!' Torvald Nom said in his
most stentorian voice, undermined by the punctuation of
a loud, gassy belch.
    'Gods, Tor's drunk!'
    'I wish. Supper didn't agree with me. Now, what's your
problem? I heard you two snapping and snarling from the
other side of the street.'
    'We got two new compound guards,' said Leff.
    'Compound guards? Oh, you mean guarding the compound—'
    'That's what I said. What else do compound guards
guard if not compounds? Captains should know that kind
of stuff, Tor.'
    'And I do. It's just the title confused me. Compound
needs guarding, yes, since the likelihood of someone
getting past you two is so . . . likely. Well. So, you've met
them? What are they like?'
    'They're friends of Studlock – who they call Studious,'
said Scorch, his eyes widening briefly before he looked
away and squinted. 'Old friends, from under some mountain.'
    'Oh,' said Torvald Nom.
    'That collapsed,' Scorch added.
    'The friendship? Oh, the mountain, you mean. It collapsed.'
    Leff stepped closer and sniffed. 'You sure you're not
drunk, Tor?'
    'Of course I'm not drunk! Scorch is talking a lot of rubbish,
that's all.'
    'Rubble, not rubbish.'
    'Like that, yes! Oh, look, Leff, just open the damned
gate, will you? So I can meet the new compound guards.'
    'Look for them in the compound,' Scorch advised.
    Oh, maybe his wife was right, after all. Maybe? Of
course she was. These two were idiots and they were also
his friends and what did that say about Torvald Nom?
No, don't think about that. Besides, she's already done the
necessary thinking about that, hasn't she?
    Torvald hastened through the gateway. Two strides into
the compound and he halted. Studious? Studious Lock? The
Landless? Studious Lock the Landless, of One Eye Cat?
    'Ah, Captain, well timed. Permit me to introduce our
two new estate guards.'
    Torvald flinched as Studlock drifted towards him. Hood,
mask, eerie eyes, all bound up in rags to cover up what had
been done to him back in his adopted city – yes, but then,
infamy never stayed hidden for long, did it? 'Ah, good
evening, Castellan.' This modest, civil greeting was barely
managed, croaking out from an all too dry mouth. And he
saw, with growing trepidation, the two figures trailing in
Studlock's wake.
    'Captain Torvald Nom, this gaily clad gentleman is
Madrun, and his ephemerally garbed companion is Lazan
Door. Both hail from the north and so have no local
interests that might conflict with their loyalties – a most
important requirement, as you have been made aware, for
Lady Varada of House Varada. Now, I have seen to their
kit and assigned quarters. Captain, is something wrong?'
    Torvald Nom shook his head. Then, before he could
think – before his finely honed sense of propriety could
kick in – he blurted out: 'But where are their masks?'
    The shaggy haired giant frowned. 'Oh,' he said, 'that
is most unfortunate. Reassure me once more, Studious,
please.'
    The castellan's pause was long, and then one rag-tied
hand fluttered. 'Reputations, alas, are what they are,
Madrun. Evidently, our captain here has travelled some.
One Eye Cat?