A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

won't even tell me your name.'
    'Well, your wife calls you Useless, so if you'd prefer
that . . .'
    Gorlas flung the weapon at the man's feet, where it
skidded in a puff of golden dust. 'On guard,' he ordered in
a rasp. 'To the death.'
    The man made no move to pick up the weapon. He
stood as he had before, head tipped a fraction to one side.
    'You are a coward in truth,' Gorlas said, drawing his
rapier. 'Cowards do not deserve to be treated with honour,
so let us dispense with convention—'
    'I was waiting for you to say that.'
    The foreman, standing off to one side, still struggling with
the ache in his chest from a labouring heart, was in the
process of licking his gritty lips. Before he had finished
that instinctive flicker, the scene before him irrevocably
changed.
    And Gorlas Vidikas was falling forward, landing hard.
His rapier rolled from his hand to catch up in the grass
lining the track. Dust puffed up, then slowly settled.
    The stranger – had he even moved? the foreman was
unsure – now turned to him and said, 'You heard him dispense
with the rules of the duel, correct?'
    The foreman nodded.
    'And, think back now, good sir, did you even once hear
me voice a formal challenge?'
    'Well, I was part of the way down the trail for a
moment—'
    'But not beyond range of hearing, I'm sure.'
    'Ah, no, unless you did whisper something—'
    'Think back. Gorlas was babbling on and on – could I
have said anything even if I'd wanted to?'
    'True enough, thinking on it.'
    'Then are we satisfied here?'
    'Ain't for me to say that either way,' the foreman replied.
'It's the man this one was working for.'
    'Who, being absent, will have to rely solely upon your
report.'
    'Er, I suppose so.'
    The man shrugged. 'Do as you see fit, then.' He glanced
down into the pit. 'You get the feeling they're about to start
cheering,' he said.
    'They ain't decided.'
    'No?'
    'They ain't decided if whoever replaces Vidikas is gonna
be any better, you see?'
    'Because, in their experience, they're all the same.'
    The foreman nodded. 'Didn't think you was nobleborn.'
    'No, I'm not.'
    'No, you're pretty much like them below. Like me, even.'
    'I suppose so.' The man walked to the body of Gorlas
Vidikas, bent down to roll it on to its back, and the foreman
saw the two knife handles, blades buried to the hilts,
jutting from Gorlas's chest.
    He decided to lick his lips again, and somehow the dust
suddenly tasted sweeter. 'Know anything 'bout property
law, by any chance?'
    'Sorry, what?'
    'Like, if I was paying on a loan to this man—'
    'No, no idea. Though I imagine if you just sit tight,
maybe wait to see if anybody ever shows up to collect, well,
that would hardly be considered illegal. Would it now?'
    'No, seems proper enough to me,' the foreman agreed.
    The man worked the knives back out, wiped the blood
off on the stained, rumpled cloak. 'Did he tell true about
Harllo?'
    'What? Oh. He did. The lad tried to escape, and was
killed.'
    The man sighed, and then straightened. 'Ah, shit,
Murillio,' he muttered. 'I'm sorry.'
    'Wait – this Harllo – was he that important? I mean—'
and the foreman gestured, to encompass not only the
corpse lying on the road, but the one that had been there
the day before as well, 'all this killing. Who was Harllo?'
    The man walked to his horse and swung himself into
the saddle. He collected the reins. 'I'm not sure,' he said
after a moment's consideration. 'The way it started, well,
it seemed . . .' he hesitated, and then said, 'he was a boy
nobody loved.'
    Bitter and scarred as he was, even the foreman winced at
that. 'Most of 'em are, as end up here. Most of 'em are.'
    The man studied him from the saddle.
    The foreman wondered – he didn't see much in the way
of triumph or satisfaction in that face looking down at him.
He wasn't sure what he was seeing, in fact. Whatever it
was, it didn't fit.
    The stranger drew the horse round and set off up the
road. Heading back to the city.
    The foreman coughed up a throatful of rank phlegm,
then stepped forward and spat down, quite precisely, on
to the upturned face of Gorlas Vidikas. Then he turned
round. 'I want three guards and the fastest horses we got!'
He watched the runner scramble.
    From the pit below rose the occasional snatch of harsh
laughter. The foreman understood that well enough, and
so he nodded. 'Damn and below, I'll give 'em all an extra
flagon of ale anyway.'
    Cutter rode for a time as dusk surrendered to darkness.
The horse was the first to sense a loss