A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4
Let us hope he never wandered close to that
foul, treacherous den of thieves, murderers and worse—'
'Never been there,' Torvald Nom said, hastily, licking
his lips. 'But the tales of the, er, the ones hired to oust the
Malazan Fist . . . and, er, what happened afterwards—'
'Outrageous lies,' said Lazan Door in his breathy, wispy
voice, 'such as are invariably perpetrated by those with a
vested interest in the illusion of righteousness. All lies,
Captain. Foul, despicable, ruinous lies. I assure you we
completed our task, even unto pursuing the Fist and his
cadre into the very heart of a mountain—'
'You and Madrun Badrun, you mean. Studious Lock, on
the other hand, was . . .' And only then did Torvald Nom
decide that he probably shouldn't be speaking, probably
shouldn't be revealing quite the extent of his knowledge.
'The tale I heard,' he added, 'was garbled, second and
maybe even third hand, a jumble of details and who can
separate truth from fancy in such things?'
'Who indeed,' said the castellan with another wave of
one hand. 'Captain, we must trust that the subject of our
past misadventures will not arise again, in any company
and in particular that of our two intrepid gate guards.'
'The subject is now and for ever more closed,' affirmed
Torvald Nom. 'Well, I'd best get to my office. To work on,
um, shift scheduling – it seems we now have our night shift
pretty much filled. As for the daytime—'
'As stated earlier,' cut in the castellan, 'the necessity for
armed vigilance during the day is simply non-existent. Risk
assessment and so forth. No, Captain, we have no need for
more guards. Four will suffice.'
'Good, that will make scheduling easier. Now, it was a
pleasure meeting you, Lazan Door, Madrun Badrun.' And,
with disciplined march, Torvald Nom crossed the compound,
making for his tiny office in the barracks annexe.
Where he shut the flimsy door and sat down in the chair
behind the desk which, in order to reach it, demanded that
he climb over the desk itself. Slumping down, hands holding
up his head, he sat. Sweating.
Was Lady Varada aware of any of this . . . this
background, back there where the ground still steamed
with blood and worse? Well, she'd hired Studlock, hadn't
she? But that didn't mean anything, did it? He'd crunched
down his name, and even that name wasn't his real name,
just something the idiots in One Eye Cat gave him, same as
Madrun Badrun. As for Lazan Door, well, that one might
be real, original even. And only one of them was wearing
a mask and that mask was some local make, generic,
not painted with any relevant sigils or whatever. So, she
might not know a thing! She might be completely blind,
unsuspecting, unaware, unprepared, uneverything!
He climbed back over his desk, straightened and
smoothed out his clothing as best he could. It shouldn't be
so hard, the captain seeking audience with the Mistress.
Perfectly reasonable. Except that the official route was
through the castellan, and that wouldn't do. No, he needed
to be cleverer than that. In fact, he needed to . . . break in .
More sweat, sudden, chilling him as he stood between
the desk and the office door, a span barely wide enough to
turn round in.
So, Lazan Door and Madrun Badrun would be patrolling
the compound. And Studious Lock the Landless, well,
he'd be in his own office, there on the main floor. Or even
in his private chambers, sitting there slowly unravelling or
undressing or whatever one wanted to call it.
There was a window on the back wall of the annexe.
Plain shutters and simple inside latch. From there he could
clamber on to the roof, which was close enough to the side
wall of the main building to enable him to leap across and
maybe find a handhold or two, and then he could scramble
up to the next and final level, where dwelt the Lady. It was
still early so she wouldn't be asleep or in any particular
state of undress.
Still, how would she react to her captain's intruding so
on her privacy? Well, he could explain he was testing the
innermost security of the estate (and, in finding it so lacking,
why, he could press for hiring yet more guards. Normal,
reasonable, sane guards this time. No mass murderers. No
sadists. No one whose humanness was questionable and
open to interpretation. He could, then, provide a subtle
counterbalance to the guards they already had).
It all sounded very reasonable, and diligent, as befitted
a captain.
He worked his way round and opened the office door.
Leaned out to
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