A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

you,' Torvald Nom said, 'but they
actually possess a nasty streak. And considerable
experience. They have been caravan guards, enforcers,
Guild thugs and bounty hunters. It's the formality of this
present job that has them so . . . awkward. They will adjust
in time.'
    'Not too well, I hope.'
    All right, Torvald Nom decided, she was talking about
something and he had no idea what that something was.
'Mistress, regarding Studlock, Lazan and Madrun—'
    'Captain, I understand you are estranged from House
Nom. That is unfortunate. I always advise that such past
errors be mended whenever possible. Reconciliation is
essential to well-being.'
    'I will give that some thought, Mistress.'
    'Do so. Now, please make your way out using the stairs.
Inform the castellan that I wish to speak to him – no, there
will be no repercussions regarding your seeking a private
conversation with me. In fact, I am heartened by your
concern. Loyalty was ever the foremost trait of the family
Nom. Oh, now, do finish your wine, Captain.'
    He did, rather quickly. Then walked over and locked
the balcony doors. A bow to Lady Varada, and then out
into the corridor, closing the door behind him. A moment
to figure out where the stairs were, and, feeling slightly
numbed – was it the wine? No, it wasn't the wine – he
descended to the ground floor and out through the formal
entrance, striding across the compound to where stood the
castellan and his two friends.
    'Castellan Studlock,' Torvald Nom called out, pleased to
see how all three looked up guiltily from their game. 'The
Mistress wishes to see you immediately.'
    'Oh? Of course. Thank you, Captain.'
    Torvald watched him flit away, and then turned to
Lazan Door and Madrun. 'Interesting technique you have
here. I feel the need to describe your duties, since it appears
the castellan forgot to. You are to patrol the compound,
preferably at random intervals, employing a variety of
routes to ensure that you avoid predictability. Be especially
mindful of unlit areas, although I do not recommend you
carry torches or lanterns. Any questions?'
    Madrun was smiling. He bowed. 'Sound instruction,
Captain, thank you. We shall commence our duties immediately.
Lazan, collect up your scrying dice. We must attend
to the necessary formalities of diligent patrol.'
    Scrying dice? Gods below. 'Is it wise,' he asked, 'to rely
upon the hoary gods to determine the night's flavour?'
    Lazan Door cleared his throat then bared his metal
fangs. 'As you say, Captain. Divination is ever an imprecise
science. We shall be sure to avoid relying overmuch on
such things.'
    'Er, right. Good, well, I'll be in my office, then.'
    'Again,' Madrun said, his smile broadening.
    There was, Torvald decided as he walked away, nothing
pleasant about that smile. About either of their smiles, in
fact. Or anything else about those two. Or Studious Lock,
for that matter – Blood Drinker, Bile Spitter, Poisoner, oh,
they had so many names for that one. How soon before he
earns a few more? And Madrun Badrun? And Lazan Door?
What is Lady Varada up to?
    Never mind, never mind. He had an office, after all.
And once he crawled over the desk and settled down in
the chair, why, he felt almost important.
    The sensation lasted a few heartbeats, which was actually
something of an achievement. Any few precious moments,
yes, of not thinking about those three. Any at all.
    Make new masks – now why should they do that? Renegade
Seguleh are renegade – they can't ever go back. Supposedly, but
then, what do any of us really know about the Seguleh? Make
new masks, he said to them. Why?
    What's wrong with normal advice? Wash that robe, Lazan
Door, before the spiders start laying eggs. Choose no more than
two colours, Madrun, and not ones that clash. Please. And
what's with those moccasins?
    Masks? Never mind the masks.
    His stomach gurgled and he felt another rise of bilious
gas. 'Always chew your food, Tor, why such a hurry? There's
plenty of daylight left to play. Chew, Tor, chew! Nice and
slow, like a cow, yes. This way nothing will disagree with you.
Nothing disagrees with cows, after all.'
    So true, at least until the axe swings down.
    He sat in his office, squeezed in behind the desk, in a
most disagreeable state.
    'She's poisoning him, is my guess.'
    Scorch stared, as if amazed at such a suggestion. 'Why
would she do that?'
    'Because of you,' said Leff. 'She hates you, Scorch, because
of the way you always got Tor into trouble, and now
she thinks you're