A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

that can never be filled. Before
too long, rising like jagged rocks from the flood, there was
anger.
    The carter was made to explain again about the visit to
a mining camp, the duel over some boy, and the victor's
instructions that the body be returned to the Phoenix Inn.
That was all he knew, he swore it, and for the moment
none but Kruppe – wise Kruppe, clever Kruppe – comprehended
who that boy must have been.
    Must he now visit a certain duelling school? Possibly.
    The ordeal of the burden, the dread weight of terrible
news – the witnessing of another crushed spirit, oh, this
was a fell day indeed. A most sad, fell day.
    And on this night, widows will weep, and so shall we.
    Two men are converging on the Phoenix Inn. Which
one arrives first changes everything. If the redressing of
balance truly existed beyond nature – in the realm of
humanity, that is – then Rallick Nom would have been
the first to hear of his friend's death; and he would have
set out, hard-eyed, to take upon himself a new burden, for
although vengeance salved certain spiritual needs, cold
murder delivered terrible damage to the soul. Of course, he
had done this once before, in the name of another friend,
and so in his mind he felt he could be no more lost than
he already was.
    Alas, that particular flavour of redress was not to be.
    Troubled by a host of thoughts, Cutter approached the
entrance to the Phoenix Inn. He noted an old carter
leading an ox away, but had no reason to give it any
further consideration. As soon as he walked inside, he
sensed that something was wrong. Irilta was behind the
bar with a bottle in her hand – not, he saw, to pour drinks
for customers, but to lift it to her mouth, tilt it back and
take punishing mouthfuls. Her eyes were red, startling in
a pallid face.
    Few people were speaking, and those who were did so in
muted tones.
    Meese was nowhere to be seen, but Cutter noticed
Kruppe, sitting at his table with his back to the room
– something he had never before seen him do. A dusty
bottle of expensive wine was before him, four goblets set
out. Kruppe was slowly filling the one opposite the chair
on his right.
    His unease deepening, Cutter walked over. He pulled
out that chair and sat down.
    There was no sign of Kruppe's usual affability in his
visage. Grave, colourless, bleak. In his eyes, raw anguish.
'Drink, my young friend,' he said.
    Cutter saw that the remaining two goblets were empty.
He reached out. 'This is the expensive stuff, isn't it? What's
happened, Kruppe?'
    'Honourable Murillio is dead.'
    The statement felt like a body blow, punching the breath
from Cutter's chest. He could not move. Pain surged up
through the numbness, sank down again only to return
once more. Over and over again.
    'A duel,' said Kruppe. 'He went to retrieve a lost child.
The Eldra Mines west of the city.'
    Something jerked inside Cutter, but he could make no
sense of it. A recognition? Of what? 'I thought – I thought
he'd given all that up.'
    'Given what up, my friend? The desire to do right?'
    Cutter shook his head. 'Duelling. I meant . . . duelling.'
    'To effect the release of young Harllo. The mine's owner
was there, or one of them at least. History comes round, as
it is known to do.' Kruppe sighed. 'He was too old for such
things.'
    And now came the question, and it was asked in a dull
tone, a voice emptied of everything. 'Who killed him,
Kruppe?'
    And the round man flinched, and hesitated.
    'Kruppe.'
    'This will not do—'
    'Kruppe!'
    'Ah, can such forces be resisted? Gorlas Vidikas.'
    And that was that. He'd known, yes, Cutter had known.
    The mine . . . Eldra . . . the history. He knows about me. He
wanted to punish me. He killed Murillio to hurt me. He killed a
fine . . . a fine and noble man. This – this must stop.
    'Sit down, Cutter.'
    I mean to stop this. Now. It's what she wants, anyway.
    'Coll is coming,' Kruppe said. 'And Rallick Nom
– Crokus, leave this to Rallick—'
    But he was already moving, eyes on the door. Irilta stood
watching and something in her face caught his attention.
There was dark hunger in her eyes – as if she knew where
he was going, as if she knew – 'Cutter,' she said in a rasp,
'get the bastard. Get him.'
    And then he was outside. The day's brilliance was like a
slap, rocking his head. He gasped, but breathing still wasn't
easy. Pressures assailed him, and rage rose in his mind, a
nightmare leviathan with gaping mouth, and its howl filled
his skull.
    Deafening Cutter to the