A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

convince her and people like her that she was in fact
superior to them. The noble bloods, the rich merchants,
the famous families and all the rest.
    When the truth was, luck and mischance were the only
players in the game of success. Privilege of birth, a sudden
harmony of forces, a sudden inexplicable balance later seen
as a run of good fortune. Oh, they might strut about – we
all might – and proclaim that talent, skill and cunning were
the real players. But Challice held the belief that even the
poor, the destitute, the plague-scarred and the beleaguered
might possess talents and cunning, only to find their runs
of fortune non-existent, proper rewards for ever beyond
reach.
    Servants bowed, and that they needed to do so was proof
of just how flimsy the delusion of superiority was.
    She opened the door and walked with dignity into the
sitting room. 'Councillor Lim, have you been left here
alone? No one to provide you with refreshments? This is
unacceptable—'
    'I sent her away,' he cut in, and she saw that his expression
was strange, conflicted by something but in a most
peculiar way.
    'You have not even poured yourself some wine. Allow
me—'
    'No, thank you, Lady Challice. Although, perhaps, I
should pour you one. Yes.'
    And he went over to select a decanter and then a goblet.
She watched the amber wine slosh into the crystal, and
then flow over before he righted the decanter. He stared
down at the goblet for a moment, and then faced her. 'Lady
Challice, I have terrible news.'
    Then why do you struggle so not to smile? 'Ah. Speak on,
then, Councillor.'
    He stepped forward. 'Challice—'
    All at once, she sensed that something was deeply awry.
He was too excited with his news. He was hungry to see
its effect on her. He had no interest in using her body
this night. And here she had arrived dressed like a fancy
whore. 'Forgive me,' she said, stepping back and attempting
to draw the shift more modestly about her.
    He barely registered the gesture. 'Challice. Gorlas has
been murdered. Your husband is dead.'
    'Murdered? But he's still out at the mining camp. He's—'
and then she stopped, stunned at how disbelief could so
swiftly become certainty.
    'Assassinated, out at the camp,' Shardan Lim said. 'Was
it a contract? I can't imagine who would . . .' And then he
too fell silent, and the regard he fixed upon her now was
suddenly sharp, piercing.
    She could not face the question he looked ready to ask,
and so she went to collect the goblet, unmindful of the
wine spilling over her hand, and drank deep.
    He had moved to one side and still he said nothing as he
watched her.
    Challice felt light-headed, unbalanced. She was having
trouble thinking. Feelings and convictions, which arrived
first? Truths and dreads – she was finding it hard to
breathe.
    'Challice,' Shardan Lim whispered, suddenly standing
close. 'There were other ways. You could have come to me.
If this comes out, you will hang – do you understand me?
It will take your father down – the entire House D'Arle.
The whole Council will be rocked to its very foundations.
Hood's breath, Challice – if anyone discovers the truth—'
    She turned to him and her voice was flat as she said,
'What truth? What are you talking about, Councillor? My
husband has been murdered. I expect you and the Council
to conduct an investigation. The assassin must be found
and punished. Thank you for taking upon yourself the
difficult task of informing me. Now, please, leave me, sir.'
    He was studying her as if he had never truly seen her
before, and then he stepped away and shook his head. 'I'd
no idea, Challice. That you were this . . .'
    'That I was what, Councillor?'
    'It may be . . . ah, that is, you are within your rights to
claim the seat on the Council. Or arrange that someone of
your own choosing—'
    'Councillor Lim, such matters must wait. You are being
insensitive. Please, will you now leave?'
    'Of course, Lady Challice.'
    When he was gone, she stood unmoving, the goblet still
in one hand, the spilled wine sticky under her fingers.
    A formal investigation. And yes, it would be thorough.
Staff would be questioned. Improprieties revealed. Shardan
Lim himself . . . yes, it would be occurring to him about
now, as he walked the street, and he might well change his
destination – no longer back to his house, but to the Orr
estate. To arrange, with growing desperation, the covering
of his own tracks.
    But none of this affected her. Shardan Lim's fate was
meaningless.
    She had