A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

spices and nothing more. This
was, Kruppe understood, but a temporary solution. He
knew Coll well, understood the self-serving cycle of
self-pity that now loomed before the man, sauntering
in wearing that familiar smirk, like an old, deadly lover.
She would open wide her arms, now, to fold Coll in once
more – the days and nights ahead would be difficult
indeed.
    After a long moment Rallick joined them, and although
he remained standing he reached down for the goblet.
'Crokus should be here,' he said.
    'He was, but he has left.'
    Coll started. 'Left? Did Murillio mean so little to him
that he'd just walk away?'
    'He left,' said Kruppe, 'to find Gorlas Vidikas.'
    Coll swore and rose. 'The fool – Vidikas will slice him to
pieces! Rallick—'
    And the assassin was already setting the goblet back
down and turning away.
    'Wait!' snapped Kruppe in a tone that neither man had
ever heard before – not from Kruppe, at least. 'Both of you!
Take up that wine again, Rallick.' And now he too rose.
'There is the memory of a friend and we will drink to it.
Here, now. Rallick, you will not catch Crokus, you will
not make it in time. Listen well to Kruppe, both of you.
Vengeance need not be rushed—'
    'So Rallick should just let Vidikas kill yet another friend
of ours?'
    Kruppe faced the assassin. 'Do you lack faith as well,
Rallick Nom?'
    'That is not the point,' the man replied.
    'You cannot halt what has already happened. He has
already walked this path. You discovered that, did you not?
Outside this very inn.'
    Coll rubbed at his face, as if waiting to find the
numbness a bellyful of wine should have given him. 'Is
Crokus truly—'
    'He has a new name,' Rallick interrupted, finally
nodding. 'One he has clearly earned the hard way.'
    'Cutter, yes,' said Kruppe.
    Coll looked back and forth between the two of them,
and then thumped back down into his chair. All at once he
looked a century old, shoulders folding in as he reached for
the bottle and refilled his goblet. 'There will be repercussions.
Vidikas is . . . not alone. Hanut Orr, Shardan Lim.
Whatever happens is going to ripple outward – gods below,
this could get messy.'
    Rallick grunted. 'Hanut Orr and Shardan Lim. I can get
in their way when the time comes.'
    Coll's eyes flashed. 'You've got Cutter's back. Good. We
can take care of this – you can, I mean. I'm useless – I
always was.' He sank back, the chair creaking, and looked
away. 'What's with this wine? It's doing nothing.'
    'Murillio,' said Kruppe, 'would not be pleased at you
standing drunk when his body is carried into the crypt.
Honour him, Coll, now and from now on.'
    'Fuck off,' he replied.
    The back of Rallick Nom's gloved hand snapped hard
against Coll's face, rocking him back. He surged upright,
outraged, reaching for the ornate knife at his belt. The two
men stood glaring at each other.
    'Stop this!'
    A bottle smashed against the floor, the contents spraying
the feet of Coll and Rallick, and both turned as Meese
snarled, 'There you go, Coll, lap it up and choke to death!
In the meantime, how 'bout the rest of us pay our respects
and walk him to the crypt – the undertaker's cart's arrived.
It's time – not for any of you, but for him. For Murillio. You
chew up this day and it'll haunt you for ever. And Hood's
breath, so will I.'
    Coll ducked his head and spat blood, and then said,
'Let's get this done, then. For Murillio.'
    Rallick nodded.
    Behind the bar, Irilta was suddenly sick. The sounds of
her gagging and coughing silenced everyone else.
    Coll looked shamefaced.
    Kruppe rested a hand on the man's shoulder. And all at
once the councillor was weeping, so broken that to bear
witness was to break deep within oneself. Rallick turned
away then, both hands lifting to his face.
    Survivors do not mourn together. They each mourn
alone, even when in the same place. Grief is the most
solitary of all feelings. Grief isolates, and every ritual,
every gesture, every embrace, is a hopeless effort to break
through that isolation.
    None of it works. The forms crumble and dissolve.
    To face death is to stand alone.
    How far can a lost soul travel? Picker believed she had
begun in some distant frozen world, struggling thigh-deep
through drifts of snow, a bitter wind howling round her.
Again and again she fell, crusted ice scraping her flesh raw
– for she was naked, her fingers blackening from the tips
as they froze into solid, dead things. Her toes and then her
feet did the same, the skin splitting, the ankles