A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

sir. It was revenge. It
was murder. Councillor Vidikas killed another man, then
this other one shows up. Then out flash those knives – so
fast you couldn't even see 'em, and Councillor Vidikas
topples over, stone dead, sir. Stone dead.'
    'This is all sounding familiar,' Shardan Lim said. 'Listen
to me, you three. One of you, ride to the Orr estate and
inform Councillor Hanut Orr. The other two, go on to
Eldra, as you will. I will inform Lady Challice. Then, the
three of you, find a decent inn for the night and tell the
proprietor to treat you well, and to bill House Lim. Go on,
now.'
    There was some discussion as to who would go where,
and which inn they'd rendezvous at when the tasks were
done, and then the three men rode off.
    Thunder to the south, getting closer. He could hear the
wind but it was yet to arrive. Shardan Lim walked up to the
gate, pulled on the braided chime in its elongated niche.
While he waited for the doorman to arrive, he thought
about how he would deliver this grim news. He would need
a grave countenance, something more fitting than the dark
grin he was even now fighting.
    She was a widow now. Vulnerable. There was no heir.
Cousins and half-relations might well creep out of the
woodwork, mediocre but grasping with sudden ambition.
Proclaiming ascendancy in the Vidikas bloodline and so
asserting their newly conceived rights to claim stewardship
over the entire House. Without strong allies at her side,
she'd be out before the week was done.
    Once Hanut Orr heard the report, and gleaned whatever
he could from the particular details, his mind would
fill with the desire for vengeance – and more than a little
fear along with it, Shardan was sure. And he would not
even think of Challice, not at first, and the opportunities
now present. The next day or two would be crucial, and
Shardan would have to move sure and fast to position himself
at her side and leave no room for Hanut Orr once the
man's own ambitions awakened.
    An eye-slot scraped to one side, then closed again
with a snap. The gate opened. 'House Vidikas welcomes
Councillor Lim,' said the doorman from his low bow, as if
addressing Shardan's boots. 'The Lady is being informed of
your arrival. If you will kindly follow me.'
    And in they went.
    She hesitated, facing the wardrobe, studying the array of
possible shifts to draw on over her mostly naked body. Most
were intended to cover other clothes, as befitted a modest
noblewoman engaged in entertaining guests, but the truth
was, she couldn't be bothered. She had been about to go to
sleep, or at least what passed for sleep of late, lying flat and
motionless on her bed.
    Alone whether her husband was there or not. Staring
upward in the grainy darkness. Where the only things that
could stir her upright included another goblet of wine, one
more pipe bowl or a ghostly walk in the silent garden.
    Those walks always seemed to involve searching for
something, an unknown thing, in fact, and she would
follow through on the desire even as she knew that what
she sought no garden could hold. Whatever it was did not
belong to the night, nor could it be found in the spinning
whirls of smoke, or the bite of strong drink on her numbed
tongue.
    She selected a flowing, diaphanous gown, lavender and
wispy as wreaths of incense smoke, pulling it about her
bare shoulder. A broad swath of the same material served
to gather it tight about her lower torso, beneath her breasts,
firm against her stomach and hips. The thin single layer
covering her breasts hid nothing.
    Shardan Lim was showing his impatience. His crassness.
He was even now in the sitting room, sweaty, his eyes
dilated with pathetic needs. He was nothing like what he
pretended to be, once the façade of sophisticated lechery
was plucked aside. The charm, the sly winks, the suave
lie.
    This entire damned world, she knew, consisted of
nothing but thin veneers. The illusion of beauty survived
not even a cursory second look. Cheap and squalid, this
was the truth of things. He could paint it up all he liked,
the stains on the sheets remained.
    Barefooted, she set out to meet him. Imagining the
whispers of the staff, the maids and servants, the guards
– never within range of her hearing, of course. That would
not do. Propriety must be maintained at all costs. They'd
wait for her to pass, until she was out of sight. It was their
right, after all, their reward for a lifetime of servitude, for
all that bowing and scraping, for all the gestures meant
to