A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

wasn't
looking for someone to charge in as if Cutter's been kidnapped
or something. I'm here because I wanted to see you.
I'm lonely – oh, I don't mean anybody'll do, either, when I
say that. I just wanted to see you, that's all.'
    After a moment, he shrugged and held out his hands.
'Here I am.'
    'You won't make it easy, will you?'
    'Scillara, look at me. Please, look. Carefully. You're too
fast for me. Cutter, that historian, even that Bridgeburner,
you leave them all spinning in your wake. Given my
choice, I'd rather go through the rest of my life beneath the
notice of everyone. I'm not interested in drama, or even
excitement.'
    She stretched out her legs. 'And you think I am?'
    'It's life that you're full of.' Barathol frowned and then
shook his head. 'I'm not very good at saying what I mean,
am I?'
    'Keep trying.'
    'You can be . . . overwhelming.'
    'Typical, put on a little fat and suddenly I'm too much
for him.'
    'You're not fat and you know it. You have,' he hesitated,
'shape.'
    She thought to laugh, decided that it might come out
too obviously hurt, which would make him feel even worse.
Besides, her comment had been little more than desperate
misdirection – she'd lost most of the weight she'd put on
during her pregnancy. 'Barathol, has it not occurred to you
that maybe I am as I am because behind it all there's not
much else?'
    His frown deepened.
    Chaur dropped down from the crate and came over. He
patted her on the head with a sticky hand and then hurried
off into the yard.
    'But you've lived through so much.'
    'And you haven't? Gods below, you were an officer in the
Red Blades. What you did in Aren—'
    'Was just me avoiding a mess, Scillara. As usual.'
    'What are we talking about here?'
    His eyes shied away. 'I'm not sure. I suppose, now that
Cutter's left you . . .'
    'And Duiker's too old and Picker's a woman and that's
fun but not serious – for me, at least – I've found myself in
need of another man. Chaur's a child, in his head, that is.
Leaving . . . you.'
    The harsh sarcasm of her voice stung him and he almost
stepped back. 'From where I'm standing,' he said.
    'Well,' she said, sighing, 'it's probably what I deserve,
actually. I have been a bit . . . loose. Wayward. Looking,
trying, not finding, trying again. And again. From where
you're standing, yes, I can see that.'
    'None of that would matter to me,' Barathol then said.
'Except, well, I don't want to be just another man left in
your wake.'
    'No wonder you've devoted your life to making weapons
and armour. Problem is, you're doing that for everyone
else.'
    He said nothing. He simply watched her, as, she realized,
he had been doing for some time now. All at once, Scillara
felt uncomfortable. She drew hard on her pipe. 'Barathol,
you need some armour of your own.'
    And he nodded. 'I see.'
    'I'm not going to make promises I can't keep. Still, it may
be that my waywardness is coming to an end. People like
us, who spend all our time looking, well, even when we find it we usually don't realize – until it's too late.'
    'Cutter.'
    She squinted up at him. 'He had no room left in his
heart, Barathol. Not for me, not for anyone.'
    'So he's just hiding right now?'
    'In more ways than one, I suspect.'
    'But he's broken your heart, Scillara.'
    'Has he?' She considered. 'Maybe he has. Maybe I'm the
one needing armour.' She snorted. 'Puts me in my place,
doesn't it.' And she rose.
    Barathol started. 'Where are you going?'
    'What? I don't know. Somewhere. Nowhere. Does it
matter?'
    'Wait.' He stepped closer. 'Listen to me, Scillara.' And
then he was silent, on his face a war of feelings trying to
find words. After a moment, his scowl deepened. 'Yesterday,
if Cutter had just walked in here to say hello, I'd have
taken him by the throat. Hood, I'd have probably beaten
him unconscious and tied him up in that chair. Where he'd
stay – until you dropped by.'
    'Yesterday.'
    'When I thought I had no chance.'
    She was having her own trouble finding words. 'And
now?'
    'I think . . . I've just thrown on some armour.'
    'The soldier . . . un-retires.'
    'Well, I'm a man, and a man never learns.'
    She grinned. 'That's true enough.'
    And then she leaned close, and as he slowly raised his
arms to take her into an embrace she almost shut her eyes
– all that relief, all that anticipation of pleasure, even joy
– and the hands instead grasped her upper arms and she
was pushed suddenly to one side. Startled, she turned to see
a squad of City Guard crowding the