The Second Collected Tales of Bauchelain & Korbal Broach: Three Short Novels of the Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Hold!’ growled Steck Marynd, looming out of the gloom, crossbow held at rest but cocked across one forearm. ‘See how the colour has left the face of this woman? You draw too close, sir, and I like it not.’

  Mister Ambertroshin relit his pipe.

  ‘Lacks imagination,’ purred Nifty Gum. ‘Allow me, Lady Snippet. The village of her birth is a smallholding upon the rocky shores of a fjord. Beyond the pastures of her father the king, crowded forests rear up mountainsides, and in a deep fastness there sleeps a dragon, but most restlessly, for she had given birth to an egg, one of vast size, yet so hard was the shell that the child within managed no more than to break holes for its legs and arms, and with its snout it had rubbed thin the shell before its eyes, permitting it a misty regard of the world beyond. And, alas, the egg monster had escaped the cavern and now roved down between the black trees, frightened and lost and so most dangerous.

  ‘In its terrible hunger it has struck now in the longhouse of the king, rolling flat countless warriors as they slept ensorcelled by the child’s magic. Woe, bewails the king! Who can save them? Then came the night—’

  ‘What knight?’ Tulgord demanded.

  ‘No, night, as in the sun’s drowning in darkness—’

  ‘The knight drowned the sun?’

  ‘No, fair moon’s golden rise—’

  ‘He’s mooning the sun?’

  ‘Excuse me, what?’

  ‘What’s the knight doing, damn you? Cracking that egg in half, I wager!’

  ‘The sun went down – that kind of night!’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Tulgord Vise snorted.

  ‘And the monster set a deep magic upon the longhouse. Bursting down the stout door—’

  ‘He ran into the knight!’

  ‘No, instead, he fell in love with the princess, for as she was ugly on the inside, he was ugly on the outside—’

  ‘I’d suspect,’ Apto said, ‘he’d be pretty ugly on the inside, too. Dragon spawn, trapped in there. No hole for the tail? He’d be neck deep in shit and piss. Why—’

  Brash Phluster, working on his second supper, having lost the first one, pointed a finger bone at Nifty and, with a greasy smirk, said, ‘The Judge is right. You need to explain things like that. The details got to make sense, you know.’

  ‘Magic answers,’ snapped Nifty with a toss of his locks. ‘The monster walked into the main hall and saw her, the princess, and he fell in love. But knowing how she would view him with horror, he was forced to keep her in an enchanted sleep, through music piped out from the various holes in his shell—’

  ‘He farted her a magic song?’ Apto asked.

  ‘He piped her a magic song, which made her rise as would one sleep-walking, and so she followed him out from the hall.’

  ‘What’s that story got to do with Purse Snippet’s?’ Was that my question? It was.

  ‘I’m getting to that.’

  ‘You’re getting to the point where I vote we spit you on the morrow,’ said Tulgord Vise.

  Arpo Relent agreed. ‘What a stupid story, Nifty. An egg monster?’

  ‘There is mythical precedent for—’

  ‘Make your silence deep, poet,’ warned Steck Marynd. ‘My Lady Snippet, do you wish any of these pathetic excuses for poets to resume their take on your tale?’

  Purse Snippet frowned, and then nodded. ‘Flicker’s will suit me, I think. A river, the promise of salvation. Strangers all, and the hidden threat of the hunted – tell me, poet, are they closer to their quarry than any might imagine?’

  ‘Many are the stratagems of the hunted, My Lady, to confound their pursuers. So, who can say?’

  ‘Tell us more of this quest, then.’

  ‘A moment, please,’ said Steck Marynd, his voice grating as if climbing a stone wall with naught but fingernails and teeth. ‘I see that unease has taken hold of Mister Ambertroshin. He gnaws upon the stem and the glow waxes savage again and again.’ He shifted the crossbow, his weight fully on the one leg whose foot had not suffered the indignity of a quarrel through it only a short time earlier. ‘You, sir, what so afflicts you?’

  Mister Ambertroshin was long in replying. He withdrew his pipe and examined the chipped clay stem, and then the bowl, whereupon he drew out his leather pouch and pinched out a small amount of stringy rustleaf, which he deftly rolled between two fingers and a thumb before tamping it down into the pipe’s blackened bowl. He drew fiercely a half-dozen times, wreathing his lined face in swirling clouds. And then said, ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Ordig was something sour, wasn’t he?’ Brash Phluster opined, and then he laughed in the manner of a hyena down a hole, even as he wiped grease from his hands.

  Grunting, Steck Marynd limped away, and over one shoulder said, ‘It’s suspicious, that’s all. Suspicious strange, I mean. Diabolical minds and appalling arrogance, aye, that spells them sure. I need to think on this.’ And with that, off into the darkness he went.

  Tulgord Vise was frowning. ‘Addled wits. That’s what comes of living in the woods with the moles and pine beetles. Now then, Flicker, you have a burden to bear with your tale, for it must carry this Lady’s charge. Tell us more of the knights.’

  ‘They number five in all,’ did I respond, ‘though one was counted senior by virtue of skill and experience. Sworn were they to the execution of criminals, and criminality in this case was found in the committal of uncivil behaviour. More specifically, in behaviour that threatened the very foundations of civilization—’

  ‘Just so!’ said Arpo Relent, fist striking palm, an unfortunate gesture in that he was wearing gauntlets with studded knuckles but only kid leather upon the palms. His eyes widened in pain.

  ‘Tender pleasures this night for you,’ commented Apto Canavalian.

  Of course Arpo would not permit a single utterance of agony to escape him. So he sat, cringing, jaw muscles bulging, water starting in his eyes.

  ‘As it is known to all,’ I resumed, ‘civilization lies at the very heart of all good things. Wealth for the chosen, privilege for the wealthy, countless choices for the privileged. The promise of food and shelter for all the rest, provided they work hard for it. And so on. To threaten to destroy it is, accordingly, the gravest betrayal of all. For, without civilization there is barbarism, and what is barbarism? Absurd delusions of equality, generous distribution of wealth, and settlements where none can hide in anonymity their most sordid selves. It is, in short, a state sure to be deemed chaotic and terrible by the sentinels of civilization, said sentinels being, by virtue of their position, guardians of property more often than not their own. To display utter disdain for civilization, as surely must be the regard of the two mad sorcerers, can only be seen as an affront and a most insistent source of indignation.

  ‘Thus fired with zeal we see our brave knights, sworn one and all to destroy those who would threaten the society that has granted them title and privilege, and what could be more selfless than that?’

  Purse Snippet, I saw in aside, was smiling, even as both Tulgord and Arpo made solemn their nods, Arpo having recovered to some extent from his foray into the melodramatic. Apto Canavalian was smirking. Brash Phluster was dozing, as were Nifty Gum’s entourage of three, whilst their erstwhile paragon was hair-twirling (one of those habitual gestures that brings to mind the measured unravelling of intelligence or at least the appearance thereof) and, at the same time, seeking to catch the eye of Relish Chanter, the last Chanter still awake this night. There are, it must be said, men of the world who, for all their virility, will at times confuse the gender of their flirtations. For it is in my mind the woman who twirls (for how wonderfully attractive is vacuousness, assuming natural affinities to knee-high morals and such), and bats lashes with coy obviousness, not the man. Nifty Gum, alas, having no doubt witnessed endless displays of said behaviour directed at him, now seemed to believe it was courting’s own language; alas, in giving back what he so commonly received, he did little more than awaken Relish’
s sneer, Relish being a goodly woman and not inclined to mothering.

  ‘I could speak now of the pilgrims,’ said I, ‘but for the ease of narrative, let it be simply said that all who seek to catch the eyes of a god, are as empty vessels believing themselves incomplete unless filled, and that said fulfilment is, for some reason, deemed to be the gift given by some blessed hand not their own.’

  ‘Is there no more to it, then?’ so asked Mister Ambertroshin, who seemed to have recovered his momentary disquiet.

  My gesture was one of submission. ‘Who am I to say, in truth? Even I can see the lure of utter faith, the zest of happy servitude to an unknown but infinitely presumptuous cause.’

  ‘Presumptuous?’

  ‘Anyone can fill silence with voices, kind driver,’ I said in reply. ‘We are most eager inventors, are we not?’

  ‘Ah, I understand. You suggest that religious conviction consists of elaborate self-delusion, that those who hear the words of their god telling them to do this and that, are in fact inventing their certainty as they go.’

  ‘I would hazard it all begins,’ ventured I, ‘with someone else, a priest or priestess, or the written words of the same, telling them first. The mission needs direction, yes? One serves a purpose, and in the god’s silence, who is it that presumes to describe that purpose? If all are lost, the first to shout that he or she has found something will be as a lodestone to others, and their desperation will become the joy of relief. But who is to say that the one who shouted first was not lying? Or mad? Or possessing ambitions of a far more secular nature – to wit, how much can I bilk all these fools for?’

  Mister Ambertroshin puffed on his pipe. ‘You do indeed walk a wasteland, sir.’

  ‘And does yours look so different?’

  ‘We may agree on the rocks and stones, sir,’ he replied, ‘but not their purpose.’

  ‘Rocks?’ Tulgord said, eyes a little wild. ‘Stones and purpose? Aye, give me a rock, something for you to trip over, driver, but for me, something to bash in your head.’

  Mister Ambertroshin blinked. ‘Why, Mortal Sword, why ever would you do that?’

  ‘Because you’re confusing things, that’s why! Flicker’s telling a story, right? By all meets he must now give voice to the evil whispers seeking ill of our heroes.’

  ‘I think he just did,’ the pipe-puffing old man said.

  ‘The knights hold to honour and purpose and the two are one and the same,’ proclaimed Tulgord Vise. ‘While the pilgrims seek salvation. Now, who else travels with the worthy ones? Someone diabolical, no doubt. Speak on, poet, for your life!’

  ‘I hesitate, good knight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Without the Chanters, there can be no proper vote, can there? And by their collective snores one can presume only that they are insensate to the moment. Lady Snippet, does your need devour all patience?’

  She regarded me with some slyness. ‘Do you promise redemption, poet?’

  ‘I do.’

  Sudden doubt in her eyes, perhaps even a trembling vulnerability. ‘Do you?’ she asked again, this time in a whisper.

  I gave a gentle nod.

  ‘It would seem most honourable,’ suggested Apto, studying me grave and seriously, ‘that your fate, Flicker, now be made to depend solely upon Purse Snippet’s judgement. Should you achieve redemption of the woman in her tale, your life is secured. Should you fail, it is forfeit. This being said, and by all the nods I see it is a notion well-met, it would not do to string her along and so assure your survival. So I pose the following provision. Should she decide, at any time in your telling, that you are simply … shall we say, padding your narrative, why, one or both of the knights shall swing their swords.’

  ‘Wait!’ cried Calap Roud. ‘I am not nodding and this is not well-met – not by me anyway. Can we not all see that Lady Snippet is a woman of mercy? And not such a soul as would so cruelly condemn someone? This is Flicker’s devious mind at work here! He makes a promise he cannot keep, but only to win his life upon this terrible journey! Perhaps indeed they are in cahoots!’

  At that the dancer straightened in perfect haughtiness. ‘Bitter words from you, poet, dredged from a poor and squalid mind. I have performed before the most fickle tyrants, when it was my life that was at stake. Of harsh yet true adjudication, I have learned at the feet of masters. Do you think I would dissemble? Do you think I would not cast a most hardened eye upon this man who so boldly promises redemption? Be it understood to all, that Avas Didion Flicker chooses – if he dares – the deadliest of courses in the days ahead!’

  So stark and shocking this bridling that all were humbled, and as all eyes now fixed upon me, I knew the truth of this bargain. Did my courage quiver? Did my bowels loosen more than a stomach full of human meat warranted (and yes, Ordig was indeed most sour)? Shall I take this instant to weave the woeful lie? I shall not. Indeed, I make no comment whatsoever, and before that sharp wealth of regard, I tilted my head a fraction toward the venerable dancer and said, ‘I do accept.’

  And to that she could only gasp.

  Weariness soon landed on bat wings, ears twitching, flitting ghostly among us all, and this night was, by silent consensus, done. As I rose to walk watery into the darkness for a few moments of cold desert air and mocking stars, beyond all heat and light from the dying hearth, I drew close about me my threadbare cloak. It is the still moments in which doubts assail the soul. So I’m told.

  The notion was untested as soft arms closed about my waist and two full and generous breasts spread across my back. A breathy voice then murmured in my ear, ‘You’re a clever one, aren’t you?’

  Perhaps not so clever as I believed, as my right hand dropped and stole back to find the outside of her thigh. What is it with men, anyway? To see is as good as to touch when seeing is all we can manage; but to touch is as good as to explode in milky clouds in the spawning stream. ‘Oh,’ murmured I, ‘sweet Relish. Is this wise?’

  ‘My brothers snore, do you hear them?’

  ‘Alas, I do.’

  ‘When they’re snoring, you can drop rocks on their heads and still they won’t wake. I know. I’ve done it. Big rocks. And when they wake up with knobs and bruises, I just tell them they all knocked heads together last night, and so they get mad at each other and that’s that.’

  ‘It would seem that I am not the only clever one here.’

  ‘That’s right, but then, maybe you ain’t so smart after all. She’ll see you killed, that bitchy dancer, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘It is indeed quite possible.’

  ‘So this could be your last night left alive. Let’s make it a fun one.’

  ‘Who saw you leave the camp?’

  ‘No one. I made sure everyone was bedded down.’

  ‘I see. Well, then …’

  Shall we titter and wing gazes heavenward now? Shall we draw the veil of modesty upon these decorous delicacies? Is it enough to imagine and paint private scenes in the mind? A knowing smile, the flash of bared flesh, a subtle editing of grunts and pinches and shifts as elbows prod and jab? Dreamy our sighs, delicious our ponderings? What’s wrong with you?

  She straddled my face. The meaty flesh of her thighs closed like the jaws of a toothless leg monster, oozing with suffocating intentions. My tongue discovered places it had never known before, and partook of flavours I wish never to revisit. After some frenzied mashing of orifices that made the bones of my skull creak ominously, she lifted herself clear with an ear-crackling sucking sound, twisted round and descended once more.

  There are places in the human body where no man’s face belongs, and this fact found its moment of discovery for hapless Avas Didion Flicker at that precise instant. Well, once her fullest intentions were made evident, that is. The heave with which I freed myself was of sufficient vigour as to throw her over my feet and flat on her face upon the stony ground. Her grunt was most becoming. She endeavoured a vicious kick which I deftly dodged as I rolled up and onto her back, for
cing both knees up between her legs. Twisting, she flung a handful of sand and gravel into my eyes. Ignoring this ambiguous gesture I took hold of her meaty thighs and lifted them off the ground, and then impaled her most mightily.

  She clawed furrows in the hard ground as if swimming for shore, but the riptide of my lust held her fast. It was, assuredly, do or drown for Relish Chanter. Her gasps gusted clouds of dust round her face. She coughed, she hacked, she moaned in the manner of mothers behind the pantry door, and with her hips she bolted like a cow before the bull, only to lunge backward with small animal cries. I leaned forward and wrapped close my arms, hands finding her breasts. I took hold of full nipples and tried to twist them off, failing but not for want of trying to be sure.

  As all know, lovemaking is the most gentle art. Sweet sensations, tender strokes of desire, the sudden nearness of hovering lips, a brush of cheeks, the sharing of wine breaths and so on. Clothes peel off languorous and sultry, shadows tease and warmth invites and then drips, and about all the bedding closes to enfold soft and fresh.

  Lacking such amenities of the seductive, let the dogs howl. Beneath savagely cold stars, in beds of wiry stunted bushes, broken branches, rocks and buttons of cacti, this was the scrape and gouge of seed’s wild spill, a life’s banking in a dubious vessel of potential posterity, when said vessel is all there is on offer. Burgeon proud seed! Steal vigorous root in sweetest flesh! Bay with life’s triumph! I held her very nearly upside down as I unleashed my hungry stream, and if she didn’t weep white tears it is no small miracle.