‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Why not? That’s his name.’

‘The castellan is bundled like a corpse and you don’t find that somewhat un-usual?’

‘Could be afraid of the sun or something. No reason to be suspicious. You never met any strange people in your day, Tor?’

And Torvald Nom glanced across at Scorch, and found he had no reply to that at all.

‘I see you have found another candidate,’ Studlock said. ‘Excellent. And yes, he will do nicely. Perhaps as the Captain of the House Guard?’

Torvald started. ‘I haven’t said a word yet and already I’m promoted?’

‘Comparative exercise yields confidence in this assessment. Your name is?’

‘Torvald Nom.’

‘Of House Nom. Might this not prove a conflict of interest?’

‘Might it? Why?’

‘The Mistress is about to assume the vacant seat on the Council.’

‘Oh. Well, I have virtually no standing in the affairs of House Nom. There are scores of us in the city, of course, with ties stretching everywhere, including off-continent. I, however, am not involved in any of that.’

‘Were you cast out?’

‘No, nothing so, er, extreme. It was more a question of… interests.’

‘You lack ambition.’

‘Precisely.’

‘That is a fine manicure, Torvald Nom.’

‘Er, thank you. I could recommend…’ but that notion dwindled into a painful silence and Torvald tried hard to not glance down at the castellan’s bandaged fingers.

At this moment Leff appeared from round the other side of the main house

His lips and his eyes were bright orange,

Scorch grunted. ‘Hey, Leff. Remember that cat you sat on in that bar once?’

‘What of it?’

‘Nothing. Was just reminded, the way its eyes went all bulgy and crazed,’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing. Was just reminded, is all. Look, I brought Tor.’

‘I see that,’ snarled Leff. ‘I can see just fine, thank you.’

‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’ Torvald Nom asked. ‘Tincture,’ said Leff. ‘I got me a case of Greva worms.’

Torvald Nom frowned. ‘Humans can’t get Greva worms. Fish get Greva worms, from eating infected conch.’

Leff’s bulging orange eyes bulged even more. Then he spun to face the castellan.

Who shrugged and said, ‘Jurben worms?’

Torvald Nom snorted. ‘The ones that live in the caverns below? In pockets of green gas? They’re as long as a man’s leg and nearly as thick.’

The castellan sighed. ‘The spectre of misdiagnosis haunts us all. I do apologize, Leff. Perhaps your ailments are due to some other malady. No matter, the drops will wash out in a month or two.’

‘I’m gonna have squished cat eyes for another month?’

‘Preferable to Greva worms, I should think. Now, gentlemen, let us find the house clothier. Something black and brocaded in gold thread, I should imagine. House colours and all that. And then, a brief summary of your duties, shifts, days off and the like.’

‘Would that summary include wages?’ Torvald Nom asked.

‘Naturally. As captain you will be paid twenty silver councils per week, Tor-vald Nom. Scorch and Leff, as guards, at fifteen. Acceptable?’

All three quickly nodded.

He felt slightly shaky on his feet, but Murillio knew that had nothing to do with any residue of weakness left by his wound. This weakness belonged to his spirit. As if age had sprung on to his back with claws digging into every joint and now hung there, growing heavier by the moment. He walked hunched at the shoulders and this seemed to have arrived like a new habit, or perhaps it was always there and only now, in his extremity, had he become aware of it.

That drunken pup’s sword thrust had pierced something vital indeed, and no Malazan healer or any other kind of healer could mend it.

He tried forcing confidence into his stride as he made his way down the crowded street, but it was not an easy task. Half drunk. Breeches at my ankles. Worthwhile excuses for what happened that night. The widow Sepharla spitting venom once she sobered up enough to realize what had happened, and spitting it still, it seems. What had happened, yes. With her daughter. Oh, not rape-too much triumph in the girl’s eves for that, though her face glowed with delight at her escort’s charge to defend her honour. Once the shock wore off. I should never have gone back to explain-

But that was yesterday’s nightmare, all those sparks raining down on the do-mestic scene with its airs of concern, every cagey word painting over the cracks in savage, short jabs of the brush. What had he expected? What had he gone there to find? Reassurance?

Maybe. I guess I arrived with my own brush.

Years ago, he would have smoothed everything over, almost effortlessly. A murmur here, a meeting of gazes there. Soft touch with one hand, the barest hint of pressure. Then again, years ago, it would never have happened in the first place. That drunken fool!

Oh, he’d growled those three words often in his head. But did they refer to the young man with the sword, or to himself?

Arriving at the large duelling school, he made his way through the open gate and emerged into the bright sunlight of the training ground. A score of young, sweating, overweight students scraped about in the dust, wooden weapons clattering. Most, he saw at once, lacked the necessary aggression, the killer’s instinct. They danced to avoid, prodding the stick points forward with a desultory lack of commitment. Their footwork, he saw, was abysmal.

The class instructor was standing in the shade of a column in the colonnaded corridor just beyond. She was not even observing the mayhem in the compound, intent, it seemed, on some loose stitching or tear in one of her leather gauntlets.

Making his way along one side of the mob getting lost in clouds of white dust, Murillio approached the instructor. She noted him briefly then returned her attention to the gauntlet.

‘Excuse me,’ Murillio said as he arrived. ‘Are you the duelling mistress?’

‘I am.’ She nodded without looking at the students, where a couple, of fights had started for real. ‘How am I doing so far?’

Murillio glanced over and studied the fracas for a moment. ‘That depends,’ he said.

She grunted. ‘Good answer. What can I do for you? Do you have some grandson or daughter you want thrown in there? Your clothes were expensive… once. As it looks, I doubt you can afford this school, unless of course you’re one of those stink-ing rich who make a point of dressing all threadbare. Old money and all that.’

‘Quite a sales pitch,’ Murillio observed. ‘Does it actually work?’

‘Classes are full. There’s a waiting list.’

‘I was wondering if you need help. With basic instruction.’

‘What school trained you then?’

‘Carpala.’

She snorted. ‘He took one student every three years.’

‘Yes.’

And now she looked at him with an intensity he’d not seen before. ‘Last I heard, there were seven students of his left in the city.’

‘Five, actually. Fedel tumbled down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. He was drunk. Santbala-’

‘Was stabbed through the heart by Gorlas Vidikas-the brat’s first serious victory.’

Murillio grimaced. ‘Not much of a duel. Santbala had gone mostly blind bul was too proud to admit it. A cut on the wrist would have given Gorlas his triumph.’

‘The young ones prefer killing to wounding.’

‘It’s what duelling has come to, yes. Fortunately, most of your students here are more likely to stab themselves than any opponent they might one day face, and such wounds are rarely fatal.’

‘Your name?’

‘Murillio.’

She nodded as if she’d already guessed. ‘And you’re here because you want to teach. If you’d taken up teaching when Carpala was still alive-’

‘He would have hunted me down and killed me, yes. He despised schools, in fact, he despised duelling. He once said teaching the rapier was like putting a poisonous snake into a child’s hand. He drew no pleasure from instruction and was not at all surprised when very nearly every one of his prize students either got themselves killed or wasted away as drunkards or worse.’