How many lives am I willing to destroy, in order to be free? The question itself was despicable, the stem to freedom’s blessed flower-to grasp hold was to feel the stab of countless thorns.
Yet she held tight now, riding the pain, feeling the slick blood welling up, running down. She held tight, to feel, to taste, to know what was coming… if… if / decide to accept this.
She could wait for Gorlas to act. Or she could strike first.
A corpse lying on the bed. A mangled rose lying on the floor.
Cutter was not Crokus-she could see that, yes, very clearly. Cutter was… dangerous. She recalled the scars, the old knife wounds, sword wounds even, perhaps. Others that might have been left by the punch of arrows or crossbolts. He had fought, he had taken lives-she was certain of it.
Not the boy he’d once been. But this man he now is… can he be used? Would he even blink if I so asked!
Should I ask? Soon? Tomorrow?
Thus exposed, one must recoil indeed, but these were deep-run thoughts, nowhere near the surface. They were free to flow, free to swirl round unseen, if as detached from all reality. But they weren’t, were they? Detached from all reality.
Oh, no, they were not.
Does this lead one into unease?
On a surge of immense satisfaction, Barathol Mekhar’s rather large fist smashed into the man’s face, sending him flying back through the doorway of the smithy. He stepped out after him, shaking the stinging pain from his hand. ‘I will be pleased to pay the Guild’s annual fees, sir,’ he said, ‘when the Guild decides to accept my membership. As for demanding coin while denying my right to run my business, well, you have just had my first instalment.’
A smashed nose, blood pouring forth, eyes staring up from a puffiness burgeoning to swallow up his features, the Guild agent managed a feeble nod.
‘You are welcome,’ Barathol continued, ‘to come back next week for the next one, and by all means bring a few dozen of your associates-I expect I’ll be in an even more generous mood by then.’
A crowd had gathered to watch, but the blacksmith was disinclined to pay them any attention. He rather wanted word to get out, in fact, although from what he’d gathered his particular feud was already a sizzling topic of conversation, and no doubt his words just spoken would be quoted and misquoted swift as a plague on the hot winds.
Turning about, he walked back into his shop.
Chaur stood near the back door, wearing his heavy apron with its spatter of burn holes revealing the thick weave of aesgir grass insulation beneath the leather-the only plant known that did not burn, even when flung into a raging fire. Oversized gloves of the same manufacture covered his hands and forearms, and he was holding tongs that gripped a fast-cooling curl of bronze. Chaur’s eyes were bright and he was smiling.
‘Best get that back into the forge,’ Barathol said. As expected, business was slow. A campaign had begun, fomented by the Guild, that clearly involved the threat of a blacklist that could-and would spread to other guilds in the city. Barathol’s customers could find themselves unable to pur-chase tilings they needed from a host of other professions, and that of course would prove devastating. And as for Barathol’s own material requirements, most doors had already begun closing in his face. He was forced to seek out alternatives in the black market, never a secure option.
As his friend Mallet had predicted, Malazans resident in the city had been in-different to all such extortions and warnings against taking Barathol’s custom. There was, evidently, something in their nature that resisted the notion of threats, and in fact being told they could not do something simply raised their hackles and set alight a stubborn fire in their eyes. That such a response could prove a curse had been driven home with the slaughter at K’rul’s-and the grief that followed remained deeply embedded in Barathol, producing within him a dark, cold rage. Unfortunately for the latest agent from the Guild of Blacksmiths, something of that fury had transferred itself into Barathol’s instinctive reaction to the man’s demand for coin.
Even so, he had not come to Darujhistan to make enemies. Yet now he found hmself in a war. Perhaps more than one at that. No wonder, then, his foul mood.
He made his way into the work yard, where the heat from the two stoked forges rolled over him in a savage wave. His battle axe needed a new edge, and it might do to fashion a new sword-something he could actually wear in public.
Barathol’s new life in Darujhistan was proving anything but peaceful.
Bellam Nom was, in Murillio’s estimation, the only student of the duelling school worthy of the role. Fifteen years of age, still struggling with the awkwardness of his most recent growth spurt, he approached his studies with surprising determination. Even more astonishing, the lad actually wanted to be here.
In the prolonged absence of Stonny Menackis’s attention, it had fallen to Muril-lio to assume most of the school’s responsibilities, and he was finding this very distant relation of Rallick (and Torvald) in every respect a Nom, which alone encouraged a level of instruction far beyond what he gave the others. The young man stood before him sheathed in sweat, as the last of class hurried out through the compound gate, the echoes of their voices quickly fading, and Murillio sensed that Bellam was far from satisfied with the torturously slow pace of the day’s session.
‘Master,’ he now said, ‘I have heard of an exercise, involving suspended rings. To achieve the perfect lunge, piercing the hole and making no contact with the ring itself-’
Murillio snorted. ‘Yes. Useful if you happen to be in a travelling fair or a circus. Oh, for certain, Bellam, point control is essential in fencing with the rapier-I wouldn’t suggest otherwise. But as an exercise, I am afraid its value is limited.’
‘Why?’
Murillio eyed the young man for a moment, and then sighed. ‘Very well. The exercise requires too many constraints, few of which ever occur in the course of areal fight. You achieve point control-useful point control, I mean-when it’s made integral to other exercises. When it’s combined with footwork, distance, timing and the full range of defence and offence demanded when facing a real, living opponent. Spearing rings is all very impressive, but the form of concentration it demands is fundamentally different from the concentration necessary in a duel. In any case, you can spend the next two months mastering the art of spearing a ring, or two months mastering the art of staying alive against a skilled enemy, and not just staying alive, but presenting a true threat to that enemy, in turn.’ He shrugged. ‘Your choice, of course.’
Bellam Nom grinned suddenly and Murillio saw at once how much he looked like his oh-so-distant cousin. ‘I still might try it-in my own time, of course.’
‘Tell you what,’ Murillio said. ‘Master spearing a suspended ring at the close of a mistimed lunge, an off-balance recovery to your unarmed side, two desperate parries, a toe-stab to your opponent’s lead foot to keep him or her from closing, and a frantic stop-thrust in the midst of a back-pedalling retreat. Do that, and I will give you my second best rapier.’
‘How long do I have?’
‘As long as you like, Bellam.’
‘Extra time with an instructor,’ said a voice from the shaded colonnade to one side, ’is not free.’
Murillio turned and bowed to Stonny Menackis. ‘Mistress, we were but con-versing-’
‘You were giving advice,’ she cut in, ‘and presenting this student with a challenge. The first point qualifies as instruction. The second is an implicit agreement to extracurricular efforts on your part at some time in the future.’
Bellam’s grin had broadened. ‘My father, Mistress, will not hesitate to meet any extra expense, I assure you.’