A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

sprung to brow. 'Why, rumours—'
    'Not a chance.'
    'Then, er, a dying confession—'
    'We're about to hear one of those, yes.'
    Kruppe hastily mopped some more. 'Source escapes me
at the moment, Kruppe swears! Why, are not the Moranth
in a flux—'
    'They're always in a damned flux, Kruppe!'
    'Indeed. Then, yes, perturbations among the Black, upon
gleaning hints of said catechism, or was it investiture?
Something religious, in any case—'
    'It was a blessing, Kruppe.'
    'Precisely, and who among all humans more deserved
such a thing from the Moranth? Why, none, of course,
which is what made it singular in the first place, thus arching
the exoskeletal eyebrows of the Black, and no doubt the
Red and Gold and Silver and Green and Pink – are there
Pink Moranth? Kruppe is unsure. So many colours, so few
empty slots in Kruppe's brain! Oh, spin the wheel and
let's see explosive mauve flash into brilliant expostulation
and why not? Yes, 'twas the Mauve Moranth so verbose
and carelessly so, although not so carelessly as to reveal
anything to anyone but Kruppe and Kruppe alone, Kruppe
assures you. In fact, so precise their purple penchant for
verbosity that even Kruppe's recollection of the specific
moment is lost – to them and to Kruppe himself. Violate a
Violet if you dare, but they're not telling. Nor is Kruppe!'
And he squeezed out a stream of sweat from his handkerchief,
off to one side, of course, which unfortunately coincided
with Sulty's arrival with a plate of supper.
    Thus did Kruppe discover the virtue of perspiratory
reintegration, although his subsequent observation that
the supper was a tad salty was not well received, not well
received at all.
    Astoundingly, Torvald quickly lost all appetite for his
ale, deciding to leave (rudely so) in the midst of Kruppe's
meal.
    Proof that manners were not as they once were. But
then, they never were, were they?
    Hasty departure to echo Torvald Nom's flight back into
the arms of his wife, out into the dusk when all paths
are unobstructed, when nothing of reality intrudes with
insurmountable obstacles and possibly deadly repercussions.
    In a merchant house annexe down at the docks, in the
second floor loft above a dusty storeroom with sawdust on
the floor, a wellborn young woman straddles a once-thief
on the lone narrow cot with its thin, straggly mattress, and
in her eyes darkness unfolds, is revealed to the man savage
and naked – raw enough to startle in him a moment of
fear.
    Indeed. Fear. At the moment, Cutter could not reach
past that ephemeral chill, could not find anything specific
– what Challice's eyes revealed was all-consuming, frighteningly desperate, perhaps depthless and insatiable in its
need.
    She was unmindful of him – he could see that. In this
instant he had become a weapon on which she impaled
herself, ecstatic with the forbidden, alive with betrayal. She
stabbed herself again and again, transformed into something
private, for ever beyond his reach, and, yes, without
doubt these were self-inflicted wounds, hinting of an inwardly
directed contempt, perhaps even disgust.
    He did not know what to think, but there was something
alluring in being faceless, in being that weapon – and this
truth shivered through him as dark as all that he saw in
her eyes.
    Apsalar, is this what you feared? If it is, then I understand. I
understand why you fled. You did it for both of us.
    With this thought he arched, groaning, and spilled into
Challice Vidikas. She gasped, lowered herself on to him.
Sweat on sweat, waves of heat embracing them.
    Neither spoke.
    From outside, gulls cried to the dying sun. Shouts and
laughter muted by walls, the faint slap of waves on the
broken crockery-cluttered shore, the creak of pulleys as
ships were loaded and off-loaded. From outside, the world
as it always was.
    Cutter was now thinking of Scillara, of how this was a
kind of betrayal – no different from Challice's own. True,
Scillara had said often enough that theirs was a love of convenience,
unbound by expectations. She'd insisted on that
distance, and if there had been moments of uncontrolled
passion in their lovemaking, it was the selfish kind, quickly
plucked apart once they were both spent. He also suspected
that he had hurt her – with their landing in his city, some
part of him had sought to sever what they had had aboard
the ship, as if by closing one chapter every thread was cut
and the tale began anew.
    But that wasn't possible. All breaks in the narrative of
living