A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Thimble looked back at Quell with wide eyes.
    'Loss,' stammered the wizard, 'is a grievous thing.'
    'Well of course it is,' said Bedusk Agape, frowning.
    'Um, not always. If, for example, one loses one's, er,
virginity, or a favourite shiny stone, say . . .'
    The red-rimmed eyes stayed steady, unblinking.
    Quell wanted to squeeze his legs together – no, better,
fold one over the other – lest his snake start drooling or,
worse, spitting.
    Precious Thimble spoke in a strangely squeaky voice,
'Jaghut Anap, the curse afflicting this village's daughters—'
    'There have been twelve in all,' said Bedusk Agape.
    'Thus far.'
    'Oh. What happened to the other nine?'
    The Jaghut flicked his gaze over to her. 'You are not the
first trouble to arrive in the past few years. Of course,' he
added, after sipping his wine, 'all the young girls are now
sent to the next village along this coast – permanently,
alas, which does not bode well for the future of this town.'
    'I thought I saw women down in the tavern cellar,' said
Precious Thimble.
    'Bearing a child prevents the settling of the curse.
Mothers are immune. Therefore, if you or your fellow
female companions have at any time produced a child, you
need not worry.'
    'Um,' said Precious Thimble, 'I don't think any of us
qualify.'
    'How unfortunate,' said Bedusk.
    'So how is it you got elected Provost?' Quell asked. 'Just
curious, you see – I'm the nosy type, that's all. I didn't mean
anything—'
    'I believe it was a collective attempt to ameliorate my
grief, my solitude. None would deny, I now expect, that
such an invitation was ill-conceived.'
    'Oh? Why?'
    'Well, had I remained in my isolation, this terrible curse
would not exist, I am afraid.'
    'It's your curse, then?'
    'Yes.'
    A long moment of silence. From near the staircase,
Mappo slowly turned to face them.
    'Then you can end it,' said Quell.
    'I could, yes, but I shall not.'
    'Why?'
    'Because you are not that important.'
    Quell crossed his legs. 'May I ask, what happened to your
mate?'
    'We argued. I lost. I buried her.'
    There seemed to be, at least to the wizard's thinking,
something missing in that answer. But he was getting distracted
by his bladder. He couldn't think straight.
    'So,' said Precious Thimble in a thin voice, 'if you lose an
argument to someone, you then kill them?'
    'Oh, I didn't say she was dead.'
    Mappo spoke from where he still stood, 'She is now,
Jaghut.'
    Bedusk Agape sighed. 'That does seem likely, doesn't
it?'
    'How long,' the Trell asked, 'was she pinned down? Your
mate?'
    'Nine years or so.'
    'And the argument?'
    'I sense a certain belligerence in you, Trell.'
    'Belligerence, Jaghut?' Mappo bared his fangs in a cold
grin. 'Your senses have dulled with disuse, I think.'
    'I see. And you imagine you can best me?'
    'I was asking you about the argument.'
    'Something trivial. I have forgotten the details.'
    'But you found yourself alone, at least until the villagers
took pity on you and elected you their Provost. And then
. . . you fell in love?'
    Bedusk Agape winced.
    Precious Thimble gasped. 'Oh! I see now. Oh, it's like
that. She spurned you. You got mad, again, only this time
you couldn't very well bury the whole village—'
    'Actually, I considered it.'
    'Um, well, you decided not to, then. So, instead, you
worked up a curse, on her and all her young pretty friends,
since they laughed at you or whatever. You turned them all
into Tralka Vonan. Blood Feeders.'
    'You cannot hope to break my curse, Witch,' said Bedusk.
'Even with the wizard's help, you will fail.' The Jaghut then
faced Mappo. 'And you, Trell, even if you manage to kill
me, the curse will not die.' He refilled his goblet for the
third time. 'Your women will have a day or so before the
curse takes effect. In that time, I suppose, they could all
endeavour to become pregnant.'
    All at once Quell sat straighter.
    But when he saw Precious Thimble's expression, his delighted
smile turned somewhat sheepish.
    Down on the narrow strand of what had once been beach,
at the foot of the raw cliff, waves skirled foam-thick tendrils
through the chunks of clay and rock and black hairy roots,
gnawing deep channels and sucking back into the sea
milky, silt-laden water. The entire heap was in motion,
settling, dissolving, sections collapsing under the assault
of the waves.
    Farther down the beach the strand re-emerged, the
white sand seemingly studded with knuckles of rust, to
mark the thousands of ship nails and rivets that had been
scattered in