A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

utterly broken that it is itself
unaware of its own massive, stunning dysfunction. In
such a world, life goes on, and madness thrives. Stupidity
repeats. Behaviours destroy and destroy again, and again,
yet remain impervious to enlightenment. Crimes against
humanity abound, and not one victimizer can even
comprehend one day becoming victim; not a single cruel
soul understands that cruelty delivered yields cruelty
repaid tenfold. It is enough to eat today and let tomorrow's
children starve. Wealth ever promises protection against
the strictures of an unkind, avaricious world, and yet
fails to deliver on that promise every single time, be the
slayer disease, betrayal or the ravaging mobs of revolution.
Wealth cannot comprehend that the very avarice it fears is
its own creation, the toxic waste product of its own glorious
exaltation. Imagine such a world, then – oh, don't bother.
Better to pity poor, dumb Chaur.
    Who, without warning, exploded into motion. Placid
thoughts in guardian skulls shattered into oblivion as
fists smashed, sending each man flying out to the side.
As dulled senses of something awry shot the first spurt
of chemical alarm through the nearest of the remaining
guards, Chaur reached him, picked him up by belt and
neck, and threw him against a happily immobile stone wall
on the right. The officer and the last guard both began
their whirl to confront the still mostly unknown threat,
and Chaur, smiling, was there to meet them. He had in his
left hand – gripped by one ear – a heavy amphora, which
he had collected from a stall to his left, and he brought
this object round to crash into the officer. Clay shards,
a shower of pellet grain, and in their midst a crumpling
body. The last guard, one hand tugging at his sword, mouth
open to begin a shout of alarm, saw in his last conscious
moment Chaur and his broad smile, as the simpleton, with
a roundhouse swing, drove his fist into the side of the
man's head, collapsing the helm on that side and sending
the headpiece flying. In a welter of blood from ear and
temple, the guard fell to the ground, alive but temporarily
unwilling to acknowledge the fact.
    And Chaur stood now facing Barathol, with such
pleased, excited eyes that the blacksmith could only stare
back, speechless, aghast.
    Gorlas Vidikas stepped out from the carriage and paused
to adjust his leggings, noting with faint displeasure the discordant
creases sitting in that sweaty carriage had left him
with, and then glanced up as the sickly foreman wheezed
his way over.
    'Noble sir,' he gasped, 'about the interest payments – I've
been ill, as you know—'
    'You're dying, you fool,' Gorlas snapped. 'I am not here
to discuss your problems. We both know what will happen
should you default on the loan, and we both know – I
should trust – that you are not long for this world, which
makes the whole issue irrelevant. The only question is
whether you will die in your bed or end up getting tossed
out on your backside.' After a moment, he stepped closer
and slapped the man on his back, triggering a cloud of dust.
'You've always got your shack here at camp, yes? Come now,
it's time to discuss other matters.'
    The foreman blinked up at him, with all that pathetic
piteousness perfected by every loser the world over. Better,
of course, than the dark gleam of malice – the stupid ones
were quick to hate, once they'd got a sense of how they'd
been duped – no, best keep this one making all those
mewling help-me faces.
    Gorlas smiled. 'You can stay in your lovely new home,
friend. I will forgo the interest payments so you can leave
this world in peace and comfort.' And oh, wasn't this such
extraordinary favour? This concession, this grave sacrifice,
why, it would not be remiss if this idiot fell to his knees in
abject gratitude, but never mind that. A second thump on
the back, this one triggering a coughing fit from the old
man.
    Gorlas walked to the edge of the vast pit and surveyed
the bustling hive of activity below. 'All is well?'
    The foreman, after hacking out a palmful of yellow
phlegm, hobbled up to stand hunched beside him, wiping
a hand on a caked trouser leg. 'Well enough, sir, yes, well
enough indeed.'
    See how his mood has improved? No doubt eaten up
with worry all morning, the poor useless bastard. Well,
the world needed such creatures, didn't it? To do all the
dirty, hard work, and then thank people like Gorlas for
the privilege. You're so very welcome, you stupid fool, and see
this? It's my