A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

up.
    'I'm sure Seba Krafar agrees with you this morning.
They struck, in what they must have imagined was overwhelming
force, only to get mauled. If this keeps up Seba
will be Master in a Guild of one.'
    'You sound foul of mood, Krute. Why does it matter to
you that Seba is making mistakes?'
    'Because I gave my life to the Guild, Rallick.' Krute
stood with a turnip in one hand. After a moment he flung
it into the basket beside the cask of fresh water. 'He's single-handedly
destroying it. True, he'll be gone soon enough,
but what will be left by then?'
    Rallick rubbed at his face. 'Everyone's mood is sour these
days, it seems.'
    'What are we waiting for?'
    Krute could not long hold Rallick's gaze when the
assassin finally looked at him. There was something so
. . . remorseless in those cold eyes, in that hard face that
seemed carved to refute for ever the notion of a smile. A
face that could not soften, could not relax into anything
human. No wonder he'd been Vorcan's favourite.
    Krute fidgeted with the food he'd purchased. 'You
hungry?' he asked.
    'What did you have in mind?'
    'Fish stew.'
    'In a few bells it'll be hot enough outside to melt lead.'
    'That's what I'm cooking, Rallick.'
    Sighing, the assassin rose and stretched. 'Think I'll take
a walk instead.'
    'As you like.'
    At the door Rallick paused and glanced over, his expression
suddenly wry. 'It wears off, doesn't it?'
    Krute frowned. 'What does?'
    Rallick did not reply, and moments later he was gone,
the door closing behind him.
    'What does?' Did I have any reason there to be so obtuse?
Must have, though I can't think of one right now. Maybe
just . . . instinctive. Yes, Rallick Nom, it wears off. Fast.
    Things were easier before – should have recognized that back
then. Should have liked things just fine. Should have stopped
gnawing.
    On her hands and knees, Thordy rubbed the ashes into
the spaces between the set stones, into every crack and
fissure, every groove scoring the vaguely flat surfaces. Tiny
bits of bone rolled under her fingertips. No ash was perfect
unless it came from nothing but wood, and this ash was
made of more things than just wood. The dry season had,
she hoped, finally arrived. Otherwise she might have to do
this all over again, to keep the glyphs hidden, the pleasant,
beautiful glyphs with all the promises they whispered to
her.
    She heard the back door swing open on its leather hinges
and knew Gaz was standing on the threshold, eyes hooded,
watching her. His fingerless hands twitching at the ends
of his arms, the ridge of knuckles marred and bright red,
teeth-cut and bone-gouged.
    He killed people every night, she knew, to keep from
killing her. She was, she knew, the cause of their deaths.
Every one of them a substitute for what Gaz really wanted
to do.
    She heard him step outside.
    Straightening, wiping the ash from her hands on her
apron, she turned.
    'Breakfast leavings,' he muttered.
    'What?'
    'The house is full of flies,' he said, standing there as if
struck rooted by the sunlight. Red-shot eyes wandered
about the yard as if wanting to crawl out from his head and
find shelter. Beneath that rock, or the bleached plank of
grey wood, or under the pile of kitchen scraps.
    'You need a shave,' she said. 'Want me to heat the
water?'
    The haunted eyes flicked towards her – but there was
nowhere to hide in that direction, so he looked away once
more. 'No, don't touch me.'
    She thought of holding the razor in her hand, settling its
edge against his throat. Seeing the runnels winding down
through the lathered soap, the throb of his pulse. 'Well,'
she said, 'the beard hides how thin you've become. In the
face, anyway.'
    His smile was a threat. 'And you prefer that, wife?'
    'It's just different, Gaz.'
    'You can't prefer anything when you don't care, right?'
    'I didn't say that.'
    'You didn't have to. Why'd you make that stone thing
– right there on the best dirt?'
    'I just felt like it,' she replied. 'A place to sit and rest.
Where I can keep an eye on all the vegetables.'
    'In case they run away?'
    'No. I just like looking at them, that's all.' They don't ask
questions. They don't ask for much of anything at all. A few
dribbles of water, maybe. A clear path to the sun, free of any
weeds.
    They don't get suspicious. They don't think about murdering
me.
    'Have supper ready for dusk,' Gaz said, lurching into
motion.
    She watched him leave. Gritty ash made black crescents
of her fingernails, as if she had been rooting through the
remnants