A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

dangerous, in that
clumsiness can surprise, ill-preparation can confound
brilliant skills of defence. The very unpredictability of a
real opponent in a life and death struggle served my finest
student with a final lesson.
    It is said the duel lasted a dozen heartbeats. From that day
forward, my philosophy of instruction changed. Form is all
very well, repetition ever essential, but actual blood-touch
practice must begin within the first week of instruction. To
be a duellist, one must duel. The hardest thing to teach is
how to survive.
    Trevan Ault
2nd century, Darujhistan
    Gather close, and let us speak of nasty little shits.
Oh, come now, we are no strangers to the vicious
demons in placid disguises, innocent eyes so
wide, hidden minds so dark. Does evil exist? Is it a force,
some deadly possession that slips into the unwary? Is it a
thing separate and thus subject to accusation and blame,
distinct from the one it has used? Does it flit from soul
to soul, weaving its diabolical scheme in all the unseen
places, snarling into knots tremulous fears and appalling
opportunity, stark terrors and brutal self-interest?
    Or is the dread word nothing more than a quaint and
oh so convenient encapsulation of all those traits distinctly
lacking moral context, a sweeping generalization embracing
all things depraved and breathtakingly cruel, a word to
define that peculiar glint in the eye – the voyeur to one's
own delivery of horror, of pain and anguish and impossible
grief?
    Give the demon crimson scales, slashing talons.
Tentacles and dripping poison. Three eyes and six
slithering tongues. As it crouches there in the soul, its
latest abode in an eternal succession of abodes, may every
god kneel in prayer.
    But really. Evil is nothing but a word, an objectification
where no objectification is necessary. Cast aside this notion
of some external agency as the source of inconceivable
inhumanity – the sad truth is our possession of an innate
proclivity towards indifference, towards deliberate denial
of mercy, towards disengaging all that is moral within us.
    But if that is too dire, let's call it evil. And paint it with
fire and venom.
    There are extremities of behaviour that seem, at the
time, perfectly natural, indeed reasonable. They are
arrived at suddenly, or so it might seem, but if one looks
the progression reveals itself, step by step, and that is a
most sad truth.
    Murillio walked from the duelling school, rapier at his
hip, gloves tucked into his belt. Had he passed anyone who
knew him they might be forgiven for not at first recognizing
him, given his expression. The lines of his face were
drawn deep, his frown a clench, as if the mind behind it
was in torment, sick of itself. He looked older, harder. He
looked to be a man in dread of his own thoughts, a man
haunted by an unexpected reflection in a lead window, a
silvered mirror, flinching back from his own face, the eyes
that met themselves with defiance.
    Only a fool would have stepped directly into this man's
path.
    In his wake, a young student hesitated. He had been
about to call out a greeting to his instructor; but he had
seen Murillio's expression, and, though young, the student
was no fool. Instead, he set out after the man.
    Bellam Nom would not sit in any god's lap. Mark him,
mark him well.
    There had been fervent, breathless discussion. Crippled
Da was like a man reborn, finding unexpected reserves of
strength to lift himself into the rickety cart, with Myrla,
her eyes bright, fussing over him until even he slapped her
hands away.
    Mew and Hinty stared wide-eyed, brainless as toddlers
were, faces like sponges sucking in everything and
understanding none of it. As for Snell, oh, it was ridiculous,
all this excitement. His ma and da were, he well knew,
complete idiots. Too stupid to succeed in life, too thick to
realize it.
    They had tortured themselves and each other over the
loss of Harllo, their mutual failure, their hand-in-hand incompetence
that made them hated even as they wallowed
in endless self-pity. Ridiculous. Pathetic. The sooner Snell
was rid of them the better, and at that thought he eyed his
siblings once again. If Ma and Da just vanished, why, he
could sell them both and make good coin. They weren't fit
for much else. Let someone else wipe their stinking backsides
and shove food into their mouths – damned things
choked half the time and spat it out the other half, and
burst into tears at the lightest poke.
    But his disgust was proving a thin