A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

probably wanted
to tell Hinter to go away and never come back. Like bad
fathers did. Because maybe Harllo's father wasn't dead at
all, since one time his real mother had said something
about 'putting the bastard away' , and though Harllo didn't
know the precise meaning of 'bastard' he'd heard it often
enough to guess it was a word used for people no one liked
having around.
    But thinking about Gruntle made him sad, so instead he
reached for the jug of water again and drank deep.
    Bainisk watched him, and then rose. 'There's a new
chute that's been cleared. I was thinking maybe you could
climb it, if you was rested up enough.'
    'Sure, Bainisk. I'm ready.'
    They set out in silence. But this time the silence wasn't
uncomfortable, and Harllo felt such a wave of relief when
he realized this that his eyes welled up for a moment. Silly,
really, and dangerous besides. When he had a moment
when Bainisk wasn't looking, he quickly wiped his grimy
cheeks and then dried the backs of his hands on his
tunic.
    Even had he been turned towards Harllo, Bainisk
probably would not have noticed. His mind was stepping
stealthily on to the worn stones of the path leading to
Hinter's Tower, so that he could see the ghost for himself.
What a thing that would be! To see with his own eyes
something that he had never seen before!
    There in that amazing city so far away. Where all
manner of wonders jostled with the crowds on all the
bright streets. Where ghosts argued with landlords over
rent. Where people had so much food they got fat and had
to be carried around. And people didn't hurt other people
for no good reason, and people like Venaz got exactly what
they deserved.
    Oh yes, he did love that city, that place where he had
never been.
    Don't be absurd. The modestly pudgy man in the red
waistcoat is not so crass as to fish for weeping multitudes in
the rendition of this moment, nor so awkward with purple
intent. Give Kruppe some credit, you who are so quick to
cast aspersions like hooks into a crowded pool (caught
something, did you? No, dear friend, do not crow your
prowess, 'twas only this carp desperate to get out).
    The water's reflection is not so smooth; oh, no, not so
smooth.
    Is Bainisk's city quaint, possibly even cute and heartwarming,
in a softly tragic way? Not the point!
    Some of us, you see (or don't), still dream of that city.
Where none of us has ever been.
    That, dear ones, is the point.
    Second guessing is murder. Or, depending on one's point
of view, suicide. Blend had found plenty of opportunity
to consider such matters while lying bleeding on the
floor of K'rul's Bar. It had been close, and without Mallet
around the prospects of a thorough healing of her wounds
was something she would just have to live without. The
Councilman, Coll, had sent over a local cutter with
passing skills in common Denul, and he had managed to
half knit the ruptured flesh and stem the flow of blood,
and then had taken needle and gut to suture the wounds.
All of which left Blend propped up on her bed, barely able
to move.
    K'rul's Bar remained closed. What had once been a
temple was now a crypt. From what Picker had told her,
there wasn't a patch of raw earth in the cellars below that
wasn't soft and queasy underfoot. The Elder God never had
it so good.
    Bluepearl and Mallet, both dead. The very idea of that
left gaping holes that opened out beneath every thought,
every feeling that leaked through her grim control. The
bastards had survived decades of war, battle after battle,
only to get cut down in their retirement by a mob of assassins.
    The shock lingered, there in the echoes of empty rooms,
the silences from all the wrong places, the bitter arguments
that erupted between Antsy and Picker in the office or in
the corridors. If Duiker remained resident – if he hadn't
fled – he was silent, witnessing, as any historian would,
every opinion strapped down into immobility. And, it
seemed, thoroughly uninterested in whether she – or any
of them – lived or died.
    The sunlight creeping through the shutters told her it
was day, possibly late afternoon, and she was hungry and
maybe, just maybe, they'd all forgotten her. She'd heard
the occasional thump from the main floor below, a few
murmured conversations, and was contemplating finding
something to pound on the floor when she heard steps
approaching along the corridor. A moment later her door
opened and in strode Scillara, bearing a tray.
    Something sweet and avid curled up deep in Blend's