A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

I am speaking more of our,
shall we say, level of comfort.'
    Anger flared within Baruk then. 'Comfort? What value
that when we have ceased to be free?'
    She snorted. 'Freedom is ever the loudest postulation
among the indolent. And let's face it, Baruk, we are indolent.
And now, suddenly, we face the end to that. Tragedy!' Her
gaze hardened. 'I mean to remain in my privileged state—'
    'As Mistress of the Assassins' Guild? Vorcan, there will
be no need for such a Guild, no room for it.'
    'Never mind the Guild. I am not interested in the Guild.
It served a function of the city, a bureaucratic mechanism.
Its days are fast dwindling in number.'
    'Is that why you sent your daughter away?'
    A flicker of true annoyance in her eyes, and she looked
away. 'My reasons are not of your concern in that matter,
High Alchemist.' Her tone added, And it's none of your business,
old man.
    'What role, then,' Baruk asked, 'do you envision for
yourself in this new Darujhistan?'
    'A quiet one,' she replied.
    Yes, quiet as a viper in the grass. 'Until such time, I imagine,
as you see an opportunity.'
    She drained her wine and set down the goblet. 'We are
understood, then.'
    'Yes,' he said, 'I suppose we are.'
    'Do inform Derudan.'
    'I shall.'
    And she left.
    The recollection left a sour taste in Baruk's mouth.
Was she aware of the other convergences fast closing on
Darujhistan? Did she even care? Well, she wasn't the only
one who could be coy. One thing he had gleaned from that
night of murder years ago: Vorcan had, somehow, guessed
what was on its way. Even back then, she had begun her
preparations . . . all to ensure her level of comfort. Sending
her daughter away, extricating herself from the Guild. And
visiting her version of mercy upon the others in the Cabal. And
if she'd got her way, she would now be the only one left alive.
    Think hard on that, Baruk, in the light of her professed intentions.
Her desire to position herself.
    Might she try again?
    He realized he was no longer sure she wouldn't.
    This is the moment for mirrors, and surely that must be
understood by now. Polished, with the barest of ripples to
twist the reflection, to make what one faces both familiar
and subtly altered. Eyes locked, recognition unfolding,
quiet horrors flowering. What looks upon you here, now,
does not mock, denies the cogent wink, and would lead
you by a dry and cool hand across the cold clay floor of
the soul.
    People will grieve. For the dead, for the living. For the
loss of innocence and for the surrender of innocence,
which are two entirely different things. We will grieve, for
choices made and not made, for the mistakes of the heart
which can never be undone, for the severed nerve-endings
of old scars and those to come.
    A grey-haired man walks through the Estate District. No
more detailed description is necessary. The blood on his
hands is only a memory, but some memories leave stains
difficult to wash away. By nature, he observes. The world, its
multitude of faces, its tide-tugged swirling sea of emotions.
He is a caster of nets, a trailer of hooks. He speaks in the
rhythm of poetry, in the lilt of song. He understands that
there are wounds in the soul that must not be touched; but
there are others that warm to the caress. He understands,
in other words, the necessity of the tragic theme. The soul,
he knows, will, on occasion, offer no resistance to the tale
that draws blood.
    Prise loose those old scars. They remind one what it is to
grieve. They remind one what it is to live.
    A moment for mirrors, a moment for masks. The two
ever conspire to play out the tale. Again and again, my
friends.
    Here, take my hand.
    He walks to an estate. The afternoon has waned, dusk
creeps closer through the day's settling dust. Each day, there
is a moment when the world has just passed by, leaving a
sultry wake that hovers, suspended, not yet stirred by the
awakening of night. The Tiste Edur worship this instant.
The Tiste Andii are still, motionless as they wait for darkness.
The Tiste Liosan have bowed their heads and turned
away to grieve the sun's passing. In the homes of humans,
hearthfires are stirred awake. People draw into their places
of shelter and think of the night to come.
    Before one's eyes, solidity seems poised, moments from
crumbling into dissolution. Uncertainty becomes a law,
rising supreme above all others. For a bard, this time is a
minor key, a stretch of frailty, a pensive interlude. Sadness
drifts in the air, and his thoughts are