A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

nodded. 'Rooftops and wires, Mistress?'
    She smiled. 'You make me nostalgic. Please, take the
lead.'
    And yes, Torvald comprehended all the subtle layers
beneath those gentle words, and he was pleased. Leave it
to my cousin to find for himself the most dangerous woman
alive. Well, then again, maybe I found myself the second most,
especially if I forget to buy bread on my way home.
    Edging round the corner of the wall, an alley behind them,
a street before them, Scorch and Leff paused. No point in
being careless now, even though there'd be no attack from
any assassins any time soon, unless of course they did breed
fast as botflies, and Scorch wasn't sure if Leff had been
joking with that, not sure at all.
    The street was empty. No refugees, no guards, no murderous
killers all bundled in black.
    Most important of all: no Hounds.
    'Damn,' hissed Leff, 'where are them beasts? What, you
smell badder and worster than anyone else, Scorch? Is that
the problem here? Shit, I want me a necklace of fangs. And
maybe a paw to hang at my belt.'
    'A paw? More like a giant club making you walk tilted
over. Now, that'd be funny to see, all right. Worth getting
a knock or two taking one of 'em down, just to see that. A
Hound's paw, hah hah.'
    'You said you wanted a skull!'
    'Wasn't planning to wear it, though. To make me a boat,
just flip it upside down, right? I could paddle round the
lake.'
    'Skulls don't float. Well, maybe yours would, being
cork.'
    They set out on to the street.
    'I'd call it Seahound , what do you think?'
    'More like Sinkhound.'
    'You don't know anything you think you know, Leff.
That's your problem. Always has been, always will be.'
    'Wish there'd been twenty more of them assassins.'
    'There were, just not attacking us. We was the diversion,
that's what Tor said.'
    'We diverted 'em, all right.'
    At that moment a Hound of Shadow slunk into view,
not twenty paces away. Its sides were heaving, strips of flesh
hanging down trailing threads of blood. Its mouth was
crusted with red foam. It swung its head and eyed them.
    In unison, Scorch and Leff lifted their crossbows into
vertical positions, and spat on the barbed heads. Then
they slowly settled the weapons back down, trained on the
Hound.
    Nostrils flaring, the beast flinched back. A moment later
and it was gone.
    'Shit!'
    'I knew you smelled bad, damn you! We almost had it!'
    'Wasn't me!'
    'It's no fun wandering around with you, Scorch, no fun
at all. Every chance we get, you go and mess it all up.'
    'Not on purpose. I like doing fun stuff as much as you
do, I swear it!'
    'Next time,' muttered Leff. 'We shoot first and argue
later.'
    'Good idea. Next time. We'll do it right the next time.'
    Beneath a moon that haunted him with terrifying
memories, Cutter rode Coll's horse at a slow trot down the
centre of the street. In one hand he gripped the lance, but
it felt awkward, too heavy. Not a weapon he'd ever used,
and yet something made him reluctant to abandon it.
    He could hear the Hounds of Shadow, unleashed like
demons in his poor city, and this too stirred images from
the past, but these were bittersweet. For she was in them,
a presence dark, impossibly soft. He saw once more every
one of her smiles, rare as they had been, and they stung like
drops of acid on his soul.
    He had been so lost, from the very morning he awoke
in the monastery to find her gone. Oh, he'd delivered his
brave face, standing there beside a god and unwilling to see
the sympathy in Cotillion's dark eyes. He had told himself
that it was an act of courage to let her go, to give her the
final decision. Courage and sacrifice.
    He no longer believed that. There was no sacrifice
made in being abandoned. There was no courage in doing
nothing. Regardless of actual age, he had been so much
younger than her. Young in that careless, senseless way.
When thinking felt hard, unpleasant, until one learned
to simply shy away from the effort, even as blind emotions
raged, one conviction after another raised high on the
shining shield of truth. Or what passed for truth; and he
knew now that whatever it had been, truth it was not.
Blustery, belligerent stands, all those pious poses – they
seemed so childish now, so pathetic. I could have embraced
the purest truth. Still, nobody would listen. The older you get,
the thicker your walls. No wonder the young have grown so
cynical. No wonder at all.
    Oh, she stood there still, a dark figure in his memories,
the flash of eyes, the beginnings of a smile even as