A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

gut,
then squirmed at a succession of delicious thoughts. 'Gods,
you're a sight. I was moments from slipping away, straight
into Hood's hoary arms, but now, all at once—'
    'You have reason to live, yes, all that. It's tapu – I hope
you don't mind, but the only cuisine I know at all is Seven
Cities, and little enough of that.'
    'They've got you cooking now?'
    'Pays my room and board. At least,' she added as she set
the tray down on Blend's lap, 'no one's demanded I clear
my tab.'
    Blend looked down at the skewers of meat and vegetables
and fruit. The pungent aroma of greenspice made her eyes
water. 'Money can go piss itself,' she said.
    Scillara's eyes widened.
    Blend shrugged, reaching for the first skewer. 'We were
never in this to get rich, love. It was just . . . something to
do, a place to be. Besides, we're not going to hold our hands
out when it comes to you and Barathol, and Chaur. Gods
below, you dragging Duiker off on a date kept the old fool
alive. And Barathol and Chaur arrived like a mailed fist
– from what I hear, just in time, too. We may be idiots,
Scillara, but we're loyal idiots.'
    'I imagine,' Scillara said, pulling a chair close, 'the
Assassins' Guild is not thinking of you as idiots at the
moment. More like a hornet's nest they regret kicking.
Regret?' She snorted. 'That's too mild a word. If you think
you're reeling, consider the Guild Master right now.'
    'He'll recover,' Blend said. 'Us? I'm not so sure. Not this
time.'
    Scillara's heavy-lidded eyes settled on Blend for a long
moment, and then she said, 'Picker was badly shaken. Still
is, in fact. Time and again I see the colour drain from her
face, I see her knees go weak, and she reaches out to grab
hold of something. Middle of the night, she's up and pacing
the hallways – she acts like Hood's at her shoulder these
days—'
    'That's just it, though, isn't it? A few years ago and
she'd be strapping on the armour and counting quarrels
– we'd have to chain her down to keep her from charging
off—'
    'You don't get it, do you, Blend?'
    'What?'
    'Years ago, as you say, she was a soldier – so were you.
    A soldier lives with certain possibilities. Needs to keep in
mind what might happen at any time. But you're all retired
now. Time to put all that away. Time to finally relax.'
    'Fine. It takes a while to get it all back—'
    'Blend, Picker's the way she is right now because she
almost lost you.'
    In the silence that followed that statement, Blend's mind
was awhirl. 'Then . . .'
    'She can't bear to come in here and see you the way you
are. So pale. So weak.'
    'And that's what's keeping her from hunting the killers
down? That's ridiculous. Tell her, from me, Scillara, that
all this going soft shit is, um, unattractive. Tell her, if she's
not ready to start talking vengeance, then she can forget
about me. We've never run from anything in our lives, and
as soon as I'm back on my feet, I plan on a rat hunt the likes
of which the Guild has never seen.'
    'All right.'
    'Is this what all the arguing's about? Her and Antsy?'
    A nod.
    'Find me a High Denul healer, will you? I'll pay whatever
it takes.'
    'Fine. Now eat.'
    The corpse still smelled of fermented peaches. Laid out
on a long table in one of the back rooms, the Seguleh
might have been sleeping one off, and Picker expected the
ghastly warrior's serenely closed eyes to flicker open at any
moment. The thought sent shivers through her and she
glanced over once more at Duiker.
    'So, Historian, you've done some thinking on this, some
jawing with that bard and that alchemist friend of yours.
Tell us, what in Hood's name are all these pickled Seguleh
doing in the cellar?'
    Duiker frowned, rubbed at the back of his neck, and
would not meet Picker's hard stare. 'Baruk didn't take the
news well. He seemed . . . upset. How many casks have you
examined?'
    'There's twelve of the bastards, including this one. Three
are women.'
    Duiker nodded. 'They can choose. Warriors or not. If
not, they cannot be challenged. Seems to relate to infant
mortality.'
    Picker frowned. 'What does?'
    'Denul and midwifery. If most children generally survive,
then mothers don't need to birth eight or ten of them in
the hopes that one or two make it—'
'Well, that's the way it is everywhere.'
    'Of course,' Duiker continued as if he had not heard
her statement, 'some cultures have an overriding need to
increase their population base. And this can impose strictures
on women. There's a high attrition rate among the
Seguleh. A