A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

unleash
a gush of foamy seawater, and then out stumbled the
occupants, beginning with a gigantic tattooed ogre.
    The tavern's patrons, one and all, really had nothing to
say.
    Standing in the highest room of the tower, an exceedingly
tall, bluish-skinned man with massive, protruding tusks,
curved like the horns of a ram to frame his bony face, slowly
turned away from the window, and, taking no notice of the
dozen servants staring fixedly at him – not one of whom
was remotely human – he sighed and said, 'Not again.'
    The servants, reptilian eyes widening with comprehension,
then began a wailing chorus, and this quavering
dirge reached down through the tower, past chamber after
chamber, spiralling down the spiral staircase and into the
crypt that was the tower's hollowed-out root. Wherein
three women, lying motionless on stone slabs, each opened
their eyes. And as they did so, a crypt that had been in
darkness was dark no longer.
    From the women's broad, painted mouths there came a
chittering sound, as of chelae clashing behind the full lips.
A conversation, perhaps, about hunger. And need. And
dreadful impatience.
    Then the women began shrieking.
    High above, in the topmost chamber of the tower, the
man winced upon hearing those shrieks, which grew ever
louder, until even the fading fury of the storm was pushed
down, down under the sea's waves, there to drown in
shame.
    In the tavern in the town on the coast called the Reach of
Woe, Gruntle sat with the others, silent at their table, as
miserable as death yet consumed with shaky relief. Solid
ground beneath them, dry roof overhead. A pitcher of
mulled wine midway between.
    At the table beside them, Jula and Amby Bole sat with
Precious Thimble – although she was there in flesh only,
since everything else had been battered senseless – and the
two Bole brothers were talking.
    'The storm's got a new voice. You hear that, Jula?'
    'I hear that and I hear you, Amby. I hear that in this ear
and I hear you in that ear, and they come together in the
middle and make my head ache, so if you shut up then one
ear's open so the sound from the other can go right through
and sink into that wall over there and that wall can have
it, 'cause I don't.'
    'You don't – hey, where'd everyone go?'
    'Down into that cellar – you ever see such a solid cellar
door, Amby? Why, it's as thick as the ones we use on the
pits we put wizards in, you know, the ones nobody can
open.'
    'It was you that scared 'em, Jula, but look, now we can
drink even more and pay nothing.'
    'Until they all come back out. And then you'll be looking
at paying a whole lot.'
    'I'm not paying. This is a business expense.'
    'Is it?'
    'I bet. We have to ask Master Quell when he wakes up.'
    'He's awake, I think.'
    'He don't look awake.'
    'Nobody does, exceptin' us.'
    'Wonder what everyone's doing in the cellar. Maybe
there's a party or something.'
    'That storm sounds like angry women.'
    'Like Mother, only more than one.'
    'That would be bad.'
    'Ten times bad. You break something?'
    'Never did. You did.'
    'Someone broke something, and those mothers are on
the way. Sounds like.'
    'Sounds like, yes.'
    'Coming fast.'
    'Whatever you broke, you better fix it.'
    'No way. I'll just say you did it.'
    'I'll say I did it first – no, you did it. I'll say you did it
first.'
    'I didn't do—'
    But now the shrieking storm was too loud for any further
conversation, and to Gruntle's half-deadened ears it did
indeed sound like voices. Terrible, inhuman voices, filled
with rage and hunger. He'd thought the storm was waning;
in fact, he'd been certain of it. But then everyone had fled
into the cellar—
    Gruntle lifted his head.
    At precisely the same time that Mappo did.
    Their eyes met. And yes, both understood. That's not a
storm.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    My finest student? A young man, physically perfect. To
look upon him was to see a duellist by any known measure.
His discipline was a source of awe; his form was elegance
personified. He could snuff a dozen candles in successive
lunges, each lunge identical to the one preceding it. He
could spear a buzzing fly. Within two years I could do
nothing more for him for he had passed my own skill.
    I was, alas, not there to witness his first duel, but it was
described to me in detail. For all his talent, his perfection of
form, for all his precision, his muscle memory, he revealed
one and only one flaw.
    He was incapable of fighting a real person. A foe of
middling skill can be profoundly