A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

within
reach. He'd never understood poor people, their stupidity,
their lack of ambition, their laziness. So much within reach
– couldn't they see that? And then how dare they bitch and
complain and cast him dark looks, when he went and took
all that he could? Let them fall to the wayside, let them
tumble underfoot. He was going where he wanted to be
and if that meant pushing them out of the way, or crushing
them down, so be it.
    Why, he could have been born in the damned gutter,
and he'd still be where he was today. It was his nature to
succeed, to win. The fools could keep their resentment
and envy. Hard work, discipline, and the courage to grasp
opportunity when it presented itself – these were all the
things most people lacked. What they didn't lack, not in
the least, was the boundless energy to complain. Bitterness
was a waste of energy, and, like acid, it ate the vessel that
held it.
    As he came round the curve of the ridge he saw at once
that the man awaiting him was not Coll. Nor, Gorlas
realized, was he a stranger. Gods below, can this be? Oponn,
is it you so blessing me now? Pull me forward, Lady. Shove him
closer, Lord.
    The young man (well, they were of the same age, but not
in Gorlas's eyes) saw him approach and slowly dismounted,
stepping round the horse and positioning himself in the
centre of the path facing Gorlas.
    'She was not foolish enough to send you here, was she?'
    'You know me, then.'
    Gorlas smiled. 'I watched you once, only a few days back,
from across a street. You looked guilty, did you know that?
You looked like a coward – what is your name? I want to
know your name, so I can be precise when I tell her what
I've done to you . . . and your corpse.'
    The man stood unmoving, arms at his sides. 'I am not
here for Challice,' he said.
    'If you want to think it was all your idea, fine. But I
should tell you, I know her well – far better than you. She's
been working on you, filling your head – she's pretty much
led you here by the hand, even if you're too thick to realize
it. Of course, she probably didn't want anyone too smart,
since a clever man would have seen through her deadly
scheming. A clever man would have walked away. Or run.'
    The man tilted his head slightly. 'What is the value of all
this, Gorlas Vidikas?'
    Gorlas sighed, glanced back at the foreman, who stood
watching and listening – yes, something would have to
be done about that – and then faced the man once more.
'Since you're too much the coward to actually tell me your
name, I will just have to slice off your face, to take back to
her as proof. Look at you, you're not even wearing a sword.
Foreman! Do we still have Murillio's rapier? I forget, did
that go back with him?'
    'Not sure, sir – want me to go and look?'
    'Well, find the waif a sword. Anything will do – it's not
as if he knows how to use it in any case. And hurry, before
we lose the light and the mob down there gets bored waiting.'
He smiled at the man. 'They've got bloodthirsty of late
– my fault, that—'
    'Yes, about Murillio . . .'
    'Ah, is that why you've come? The duel was fairly fought.
He simply could not match my skill.'
    'Where is the boy?'
    'So he's the reason you're here? This is getting difficult
to believe. The child's not some orphaned prince or something,
is he? Rather, was he?'
    'Was?'
    'Yes. He's dead, I'm afraid.'
    'I see.'
    'So, still interested?' Gorlas asked. 'Of course, that's
not really relevant any more, because I want you to stay. I
suppose you can try to run, but I assure you, you'll be cut
down before you get astride that fine horse – a horse I will
welcome in my stables. Tell me, are you a better duellist
than Murillio was? You'll have to be. Much better.'
    The foreman had gone halfway down the trail before
yelling instructions, and now a youth was scurrying up
cradling a sword – not Murillio's, but something found in
one of the workings from the look of it. Thin, tapered to a
point that was slightly bent. Iron, at least, but the patina
was a thick crust over the blade's spine, and both edges were
severely notched. The handle, Gorlas saw as the foreman
– breath wheezing – delivered it, wasn't even wrapped.
    'Sorry about the lack of grip,' Gorlas said. 'But really, you
should have come prepared.'
    'How did it feel,' the man asked, 'killing an old man?'
    'The duel was fair—'
    'Agreed to the death? I doubt that, Vidikas.'
    'I dislike the lack of respect in using my last name like
that – especially when you