A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

of will, as the rider
on its back ceased all efforts at guiding its pace. The beast
dropped from a canter to a trot, then a walk, and then it
came to rest and stood at the edge of the road, head lowering
to snag a tuft of grass.
    Cutter stared down at his hands, watched as the reins
slithered free. And then he began to weep. For Murillio,
for a boy he had never met. But most of all, he wept for
himself.
    Come to me, my love. Come to me now.
    A short time later, three messengers thundered past
– paying him no heed at all. The drum of horse hoofs was
slow to fade, and the clouds of dust left in their wake hung
suspended, lit only by starlight.
    Venaz the hero, Venaz who followed orders, and if those
meant something vicious, even murderous, then that was
how it would be. No questions, no qualms. He had returned
up top in grim triumph. Another escape thwarted,
the message sweetly delivered. Even so, he liked being
thorough. In fact, he'd wanted to make sure.
    And so, in keeping with his new privileges as head of the
moles, when he collected a knotted climbing rope and set
off back into the tunnels, he was not accosted. He could
do as he liked now, couldn't he? And when he returned,
carrying whatever proof he could find of the deaths of
Bainisk and Harllo, then Gorlas Vidikas would see just
how valuable he was, and Venaz would find a new life for
himself.
    Good work led to good rewards. A simple enough truth.
    Whatever flood had filled part of the passage deep in
the Settle had mostly drained away, easing his trek to the
crevasse. When he reached it he crouched at the edge,
listening carefully – to make certain that no one was still
alive, maybe scuffling about in the pitch blackness down
below. Satisfied, he worked Bainisk's rope off the knob of
stone and replaced it with his own, then sent the rest of the
coil tumbling over the edge.
    Venaz set his lantern to its lowest setting and tied half
a body-length of twine to the handle, and the other end
to one ankle. He let the lantern down, and then followed
with his legs. He brought both feet together, the rope in
between, and edged further over until they rested on a
knot. Now, so long as the twine didn't get fouled with the
rope, he'd be fine.
    Moving with great caution, he began his descent.
    Broken, bleeding bodies somewhere below, killed by
rocks – not by Venaz, since he'd not even cut the rope.
Bainisk had done that, the fool. Still, Venaz could take the
credit – nothing wrong with that.
    Even with the knots, the slow going was making his
arms and shoulders ache. He didn't really have to do this.
But maybe it would be the one deed that made all the
difference in the eyes of Gorlas Vidikas. Nobles looked
for certain things, mysterious things. They were born with
skills and talents. He needed to show the man as much as
he could of his own talents and all that.
    The lantern clunked below him and he looked down
to see the faint blush of dull light playing across dry,
jagged stones. A few moments later he was standing,
somewhat uneasily as the rocks shifted about beneath
him. He untied the lantern and put away the twine, and
then twisted the wick up a couple of notches. The circle
of light widened.
    He saw Bainisk's feet, the worn soles of the moccasins,
the black-spattered shins, both of which were snapped and
showing the split ends of bones. But there was no flowing
blood. Bainisk was dead as dead come.
    He worked his way closer and stared down at the
smashed face, slightly startled by the way it seemed fixed
in a smile.
    Venaz crouched. He would collect Bainisk's belt-pouch,
where he kept all his valuables – the small ivory-handled
knife that Venaz so coveted; the half-dozen coppers earned
as rewards for special tasks; the one silver coin that Bainisk
had cherished the most, as it showed on one face a city skyline
beneath a rainbow or some sort of huge moon filling
the sky – a coin, someone had said, from Darujhistan, but
long ago, in the time of the Tyrants. Treasures now belonging
to Venaz.
    But he could not find the pouch. He rolled the body
over, scanned the blood-smeared rocks beneath and to all
sides. No pouch. Not even fragments of string.
    He must have given it to Harllo. Or maybe he'd lost it
somewhere back up the passage – if Venaz didn't find it
down here he could make a careful search on his way back
up top.
    Now, time to find the other boy, the one he'd hated
almost from the first. Always acted like he was smarter
than everyone else. It was