A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

sight more limited than others.'
    'You had choices, Cutter,' she said. 'More choices than
I ever had.'
    'You could have told Gorlas no when he sought your
hand in marriage.'
    'Really? Now that reveals one thing in you that's not
changed – your naïveté.'
    He shrugged. 'If you say so. What next, Challice?'
    His sudden, seemingly effortless dismissal of the argument
took her breath away. It doesn't matter to him. None
of it. Not how I feel, not how I see him. 'I need to think,' she
said, inwardly flailing.
    He nodded as if unsurprised.
    'Tomorrow evening,' she said, 'we should meet again.'
    A half-grin as he asked, 'To talk?'
    'Among other things.'
    'All right, Challice.'
    Some thoughts, possessing a frightening kind of self-awareness,
knew to hide deep beneath others, riding unseen
the same currents, where they could grow unchallenged,
unexposed by any horrified recognition. One could always
sense them, of course, but that was not the same as slashing
through all the obfuscation, revealing them bared to the
harsh light and so seeing them wither into dust. The mind
ran its own shell-game, ever amused at its own sleight of
hand misdirection – in truth, this was how one tended to
live, from moment to moment, with the endless exchange
of denials and deference and quick winks in the mirror,
even as inner proclamations and avowals thundered with
false willpower and posturing conviction.
    Does this lead one into unease?
    Challice Vidikas hurried home, nevertheless taking a
circuitous route as now and then whispers of paranoia rose
in faint swells to the surface of her thoughts.
    She was thinking of Cutter, this man who had once
been Crokus. She was thinking of the significance in the
new name, the new man she had found. She was thinking,
also (there, beneath the surface), of what to do with him.
    Gorlas would find out, sooner or later. He might confront
her, he might not. She might discover that he knew
only by arriving one afternoon at the loft in the annexe,
and finding Cutter's hacked, lifeless corpse awaiting her on
the bed.
    She knew she was trapped – in ways a free man like
Cutter could never comprehend. She knew, as well, that
the ways out were limited, each one chained to sacrifices,
losses, abandonments, and some . . . despicable. Yes, that
was the only word for them.
    Despicable. She tasted the word anew, there in her mind.
Contemplated whether she was in fact capable of living
with such a penance. But why would I? What would I need
to see done, to make me see myself in that way?
    How many lives am I willing to destroy, in order to be free?
    The question itself was despicable, the stem to freedom's
blessed flower – to grasp hold was to feel the stab of countless
thorns.
    Yet she held tight now, riding the pain, feeling the slick
blood welling up, running down. She held tight, to feel,
to taste, to know what was coming . . . if . . . if I decide to
accept this.
    She could wait for Gorlas to act. Or she could strike
first.
    A corpse lying on the bed. A mangled rose lying on the
floor.
    Cutter was not Crokus – she could see that, yes, very
clearly. Cutter was . . . dangerous. She recalled the scars,
the old knife wounds, sword wounds even, perhaps.
Others that might have been left by the punch of arrows
or crossbolts. He had fought, he had taken lives – she was
certain of it.
    Not the boy he'd once been. But this man he now is . . .
can he be used? Would he even blink if I so asked?
    Should I ask? Soon? Tomorrow?
    Thus exposed, one must recoil indeed, but these were
deep-run thoughts, nowhere near the surface. They were
free to flow, free to swirl round unseen, as if detached from
all reality. But they weren't, were they? Detached from all
reality.
    Oh, no, they were not.
    Does this lead one into unease?
    *
    On a surge of immense satisfaction, Barathol Mekhar's
rather large fist smashed into the man's face, sending him
flying back through the doorway of the smithy. He stepped
out after him, shaking the stinging pain from his hand. 'I
will be pleased to pay the Guild's annual fees, sir,' he said,
'when the Guild decides to accept my membership. As for
demanding coin while denying my right to run my business,
well, you have just had my first instalment.'
    A smashed nose, blood pouring forth, eyes staring up
from a puffiness burgeoning to swallow up his features, the
Guild agent managed a feeble nod.
    'You are welcome,' Barathol continued, 'to come back
next week for the next one, and by all means bring a