A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

point
had driven in between her eyes, straight in, so far that
he should be able to see it coming back out from somewhere
beneath the back of her skull – but it wasn't there.
Meaning—
    'She broke it!' he raged, clambering on to his feet. 'She
broke my damned rapier!'
    The demonic woman was on her knees, head thrust forward,
mouth still stretched open, the weight of her upper
body resting on the knocked-over chair that had served as
pathetic barricade. The other two, headless, still thrashed
on the floor as green goo flowed. Gruntle was studying that
ichor where it slathered the broad blades of his cutlasses.
    Mappo, the Boles and Faint were slowly regaining their
feet.
    Sweetest Sufferance, clutching a clay bottle, staggered
up to lean against Reccanto. 'Too bad about your rapier,'
she said, 'but damn me, Ilk, that was the neatest flèche I
ever did see.'
    Reccanto squinted, wiped blood from his streaming nose
and lacerated lips, and then grinned. 'It was, wasn't it. The
timing of a master—'
    'I mean, how could you have guessed she'd trip on one of
them rolling heads and go down on her knees skidding like
that, straight into your thrust?'
    Tripped? Skidded? 'Yes, well, like I said, I'm a master
duellist.'
    'I could kiss you,' she continued, her breath rank with
sour wine, 'except you went and pissed yourself and there's
limits t'decency, if you know what I mean.'
    'That ain't piss – we're all still sopping wet!'
    'But we don't quite smell the way you do, Ilk.'
    Snarling, he lurched away. Damned overly sensitive
woman! 'My rapier,' he moaned.
    'Shattered inside her skull, I'd wager,' said Gruntle,
'which couldn't have done her brain any good. Nicely
done, Reccanto.'
    Ilk decided it was time to strut a little.
    Whilst Reccanto Ilk walked round like a rooster, Precious
Thimble glanced over worriedly at the Boles, and was
relieved to see them both apparently unharmed. They hadn't
been paying her enough attention lately and they weren't
paying her any now either. She felt a tremor of unease.
    Master Quell was thumping on the cellar door. 'I know
you can hear me,' he called. 'You, hiding in there. We got
three of 'em – is there more? Three of 'em killed. Is there
more?'
    Faint was checking her weapons. 'We got to go and find
Glanno,' she said. 'Any volunteers?'
    Gruntle walked over, pausing to peer out of the doorway.
'The rain's letting off – looks as if the storm's spent. I'll go
with you, Faint.'
    'I was asking for volunteers – I wasn't volunteering
myself.'
    'I'll go!' said Amby.
    'I'll go!' said Jula.
    And then they glared at each other, and then grinned
as if at some private joke, and a moment later both burst
out laughing.
    'What's so funny?' Precious Thimble demanded, truly
bewildered this time. Have they lost their minds? Assuming
they have minds, I mean.
    Her harsh query sobered them and both ducked, avoiding
her stare.
    The cellar door creaked open, drawing everyone's
attention, and a bewhiskered face poked out, eyes wide and
rolling. 'Three, ya said? Ya said three?'
    The dialect was Genabackan, the accent south islander.
    'Ya got ah three? Deed?'
    Quell nodded. 'Any more lurking about, host?'
    A quick shake of the head, and the tavern keep edged
out, flinching when he saw the slaughtered bodies. 'Oh,
darlings,' he whispered, 'ahm so soory. So soory!'
    'You know them?' Quell asked. 'You know what they
were?'
    More figures crowded behind the keep, pale faces,
frightened eyes. To Quell's questions the whiskered man
flinched. 'Coarsed,' he said in a rasp. 'Our daughters . . .
coarsed.'
    'Cursed? When they come of age, right?'
    A jerky nod, and then the man's eyes widened on the
wizard. 'You know it? You know the coarse?'
    'How long have you had it, host? Here, in this village
– how long have you had the curse?'
    'Foor yars now. Foor yars.' And the man edged out. 'Aai,
their heeds! Ya cart erf their heeds!' Behind him the others
set up a wailing.
    Precious Thimble met Quell's eyes and they exchanged a
nod. 'Still about, I'd say,' Precious said under her breath.
    'Agreed. Should we go hunting?'
    She looked round once more. Mappo was dragging the
first naked, headless corpse out through the doorway. The
green blood had blackened on the floor and left tarry
streaks trailing the body. 'Let's take that Trell with us, I
think.'
    'Good idea.' Quell walked up to the tavern keep. 'Is there
a constable in this village? Who rules the land – where in
Hood's name are we anyway?'
    Owlish blinks of the eyes.