room right about now.’
‘So stay sitting right there.’
‘Well, it’s only my imagination inventing the scene.’
‘You sure?’
She lasted four or five heartbeats before swearing under her breath and rising.
Antsy watched her leave, then smiled. ‘It’s better,’ he said to no one, ‘when you don’t have an imagination. Like me.’ He paused, scowled. ‘Mind, could be I could use one right about now, so I could figure out how and when them assassins are gonna try again. Poison. Magic. Knives. Crossbow quarrels in the night, through the window, right through the shutters, a perfect shot, Thump to the floor goes Antsy, the Hero of Mott Wood. A spear up through that floor just to finish him off, since they been tunnelling for weeks and was waiting, knowing he’d fall right there right then, aye.’
He sat, eyes wide, red moustache twitching.
Sitting in the shadows in the far corner, back resting against the wall, Duiker watched with wry amusement. Extraordinary, how some people survived and others didn’t. The soldier’s face was always the same once the mask fell away-a look of bemusement, the faint bewildered surprise to find oneself still alive, knowing all too well there was no good reason for it, nothing at all but the nudge of luck, the emptiness of chance and circumstance. And all the unfairness of the world made a bitter pool of the eyes.
A commotion from the back room and a moment later the narrow door opened and out walked the bard, grey hair tousled by sleep, eyes red even at this distance. A glance over at Antsy. ‘There’s lice in the mattress,’ he said.
‘I doubt they mind the company,’ the ex-sergeant replied, levering himself up-right and making for the stairs.
The bard stared after him for a moment, then headed over to the bar, where he poured himself a tankard of pungent, dark Rhivi beer. And came over to where Duiker sat.
‘Historians and bards both,’ he said, sitting down.
Duiker nodded, understanding well enough.
‘But what you observe and what I observe, well, that can turn out quite differ-ently. Then again, maybe the distinction is merely superficial. The older I get, the more I suspect just that. You describe events, seeing the great sweep of things. I look at the faces, rushing by so fast they might be no more than a blur if I don’t take care. To see them true, to remember them all.’
‘Where are you from?’ Duiker asked.
The bard drank down a mouthful and set the tankard carefully before him. ‘Ko-rel, originally. But that was a long time ago.’
‘Malazan invasion?’
An odd smile as the man studied the tankard on the table before him. His hands, however, remained in his lap, ‘If you mean Greymane, then yes.’
‘So which of the countless contradictory tales are true? About him, I mean.’
The bard shrugged. ‘Never ask that of a bard. I sing them all. Lies, truths, the words make no distinction in what they tell, nor even the order they come in. We do as we please with them.’
‘I’ve been listening to you these past few nights,’ said Duiker.
‘Ah, an audience of one. Thank you.’
‘You’ve sung verses of
‘The unfinished ones?’ The bard nodded and reached for the tankard. ‘“Black’ Coral, where stand the Tiste Andii…” He drank another mouthful.
‘Have you come from there, then?’
‘Did you know that there is no god or goddess in all the pantheon that claims to be the patron-or matron-of bards? It’s as if we’ve been forgotten, left to our own devices, That used to bother me, for some reason, but now I see it for the true honour it represents. We have been unique, in our freedom, in our re-uponiiihility, is there a patron of historians?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Does this mean I’m free, too?’
‘It’s said you told the tale of the Chain of Dogs once, here in this very room.’
‘Once,’.
‘And that you have been trying to write it down ever since.’
‘And failing. What of it?’
‘It may be that expositional prose isn’t right for the telling of that story, Duiker.’
‘Oh?’
The bard set the tankard to one side and slowly leaned forward, fixing the his-torian with grey eyes. ‘Because, sir, you see their faces.’
Anguish welled up inside Duiker and he looked away, hiding his suddenly suddenly trembling hands. ‘You don’t know me well enough for such matters,’ he said in a rasp.
‘Rubbish. This isn’t a personal theme here, historian. It’s two professionals discussing their craft. It’s me, a humble bard, offering my skills to unlock your soul and all it contains-everything that’s killing it, moment by moment. You can’t find your voice for this. Use mine.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ Duiker asked. ‘Like some vulture eager to lap up my tears?’
Brows lifted. ‘You are an accident. My reasons for being here lie… elsewhere. Even if I could explain more, I would not. I cannot. In the meantime, Duiker, let us fashion an epic to crush the hearts of a thousand generations.’
And now, yes, tears rolled down the lined tracks of the historian’s face. And it took all the courage he still possessed to then nod.
The bard leaned back, retrieving his tankard. ‘It begins with you,’ he said. ‘And it ends with you. Your eyes to witness, your thoughts alone. Tell me of no one’s mind, presume nothing of their workings. You and I, we tell nothing, we but
‘Yes.’ Duiker looked up, back into those eyes that seemed to contain-and hold sure-the grief of the world. ‘What’s your name, bard?’
‘Call me Fisher.’
Chaur was curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring, twitching like a dreaming dog. Picker observed him for a moment before settling back on the mattress. How had she got here? Was that raw tenderness between her legs what she thought it was and if so then did Barathol remember as little of it as she did? Oh, too com-plicated to work out. She wasn’t ready to be thinking of all those things, she wasn’t ready to be thinking at all.
She heard someone moving down the hall. Then a muted conversation, punc-tuated by a throaty laugh that did not belong to Blend or anyone else Picker knew, meaning it was probably that woman, Scillara. Picker gasped slightly at a sudden recollection of holding the woman’s breasts in her hands and hearing that laugh but up close and a lot more triumphant.
A wheeze from Chaur and she started guiltily-but no, she’d not do any such thing to an innocent like him. There were limits-there had to be limits.
A muffled knock on the door.
‘Oh, come in, Blend.’
And in she came, light-footed as a cat, and her expression seemed filled up with something, on the verge of bursting.
Blend held back a moment longer, then erupted.
In howling laughter, bending over in convulsions.
Chaur sat up on the floor, blinking and smiling, then he too was laughing.
Picker glared at Blend, wanting to kill her. ‘What’s so damned funny?’
Blend managed to regain control over herself. ‘They pretty much carried us all the way back. But then we woke up and we all had one thing and one thing only on our minds. They didn’t stand a chance!’
‘Gods.below.’ Then she stiffened. ‘Not Chaur-’
‘No, Scillara got him in here first.’
