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

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Sudden compassion?’ said Tulgord Vise with a snort.

  ‘The torment must end,’ Steck replied. ‘If I am the only one here capable of possessing guilt, then so be it.’ And off he went, boots crunching in the gravel.

  Guilt. Such an unpleasant word, no doubt invented by some pious meddler with snout pricked to the air. Probably a virgin, too, and not by choice. A man (I assert it must have been a man, since no woman was ever so mad as to invent such a concept, and to this day for most women the whole notion of guilt is as alien to them as flicking droplets after a piss, then shivering), a man, then, likely looking on in outrage and horror (at a woman, I warrant, and given his virginal status she was either his sister or his mother), and bursting into his thoughts like flames from a brimstone, all indignation was transformed into that maelstrom of flagellation, spite, envy, malice and harsh judgement that we have come to call guilt. Of course, the accusation, once uttered, is also a declaration of sides. The accuser is a creature of impeccable virtue, a paragon of decency, honour, integrity and intransigence, unsullied and unstained since the moment of birth. Why, flames of purest white blaze from that quivering head, and some force of elevation has indeed lifted the accuser from the ground, feet alight on the air, and somewhere monstrous musicians pound drums of impending retribution. In accusing, the accuser seeks to crush the accused, who in turn has been conditioned to cringe and squirm, to holler and rage, or some frenzied cavort between the two, and misery must result. Abject self-immolation, depression, the wearing of ugliness itself. Whilst the accuser stands, observing, triumphant and quivering in the ecstasy of the righteous. It’s as good as sex (but then, what does the virgin know about sex?).

  What follows? Why, not much. Usually, nothing. He dozes. She starts chopping dirty carrots or heads out and beats stained garments against a rock (said gestures having no symbolic significance whatsoever). The baby looks on, eating the cat’s tail and the cat, knowing nothing of guilt, stares with bemused regard upon the wretched family it has adopted, before realizing that once again the horrid urchin is stuffing it into its mouth, and once again it’s time to use the runt as a bed-post. The mind is a dark realm and shadows lurk and creep behind the throne of reason, and none of us sit that throne for long in any case, so let them lurk and creep, what do we care?

  ‘As night came to the Imass camp,’ said I, ‘she led the Fenn warrior towards an empty hut which he was free to use as his own until such time that he chose to depart. In the chill darkness she carried a small oil lamp to guide their way, and the flame flickered in the bitter wind, and he strode behind her, his footfalls making no sound. Yet she did not need to turn around to be certain he followed, for she felt the heat of him, like a kiln at her back. He was close, closer than he need be.

  ‘When she ducked through the entrance and then straightened, his arms crept round her. She gasped at his touch and arched her back, head against his lowest rib, as his huge hands reached to find her breasts. He was rough in his need, burning with haste, and they descended to the heap of furs unmindful of the cold and damp, the musty smell of the old rushes.’

  ‘That nastiness obsesses you!’ said Arpo Relent.

  ‘Nastiness, sir?’

  ‘Between a man and a woman, the Unspoken, the Unrevealed, the—’

  ‘Sex, you mean?’

  Arpo glared. ‘Such tales are unseemly. They twist and poison the minds of listeners.’ He made a fist with one gauntleted hand. ‘See how Calap Roud died. All it took was a hint of something—’

  ‘I believe I was rather more direct,’ I said, ‘although in no way specific, as I had no chance—’

  ‘So you’ll do it now! Your mind is a filthy, rotted tumour of lasciviousness! Why, in the city of Quaint your skin would be stripped from your flesh, your weak parts chopped off—’

  ‘Weak parts?’

  Arpo gestured between his legs. ‘That which Whispers Evil Temptation, sir. Chopped off and sealed in a jar. Your tongue would be cut into strips and the Royal Tongs would come out—’

  ‘A little late for those,’ Apto said, ‘since you already chopped off the—’

  ‘There is a Worm of Corruption, sir, that resides deep in the body, and if it is not removed before the poor victim dies, it will ride his soul into the Deathly Realm. Of course, the Worm knows when it is being hunted, and it is a master of disguise. The Search often takes days and days—’

  ‘Because the poor man talked about fornication?’

  At Apto’s query the Well Knight flinched. ‘I knew you were full of worms, all of you. I’m not surprised. Truly, this is a fallen company.’

  ‘Are all poets filled with such corrupting worms?’ Apto pressed.

  ‘Of course they are and proof awaits all who succumb to their temptations! The Holy Union resides in a realm beyond words, beyond images, beyond everything!’ He gestured in my direction. ‘These … these sullied creatures, they but revel in degraded versions, fallen mockeries. Her hand grasping his this, his finger up her that. Slavering and dripping and heaving and grunting – these are the bestial escapades of pigs and goats and dogs. And woe to the wretched fool who stirs in the midst of such breathless descriptions, for the Lady of Beneficence shall surely turn her back upon They of Rotten Thoughts—’

  ‘Is it a pretty one?’ Apto asked.

  Arpo frowned. ‘Is what pretty?’

  ‘The Lady’s back, sir. Curvaceous? Sweetly rounded and inviting—’

  With a terrible bellow the Well Knight launched himself at Apto Canavalian. Murder was an onerous mask upon his face, his hair suddenly awry and the gold of his fittings shining with a lurid crimson sheen. Gauntleted fingers hooked as they lashed out to clutch Apto’s rather scrawny neck.

  Of course, critics are notoriously difficult to snare, even with their own words. They slip and sidle, prance and dither. So elusive are they that one suspects that they are in fact incorporeal, fey conjurations gathered up like accretions of lint and twigs, ready to burst apart at the first hint of danger. But who, pray tell, would be mad enough to create such snarky homunculi? Why, none other than artists themselves, for in the manner of grubby savages in the deep woods, we slap together our gods from whatever is at hand (mostly fluff) only to eagerly grovel at its misshapen feet (or hoofs), slavering our adoration to hide our true thoughts, which are generally venal.

  Sailing over the fire, then, uttering animal roars, Arpo Relent found himself clutching thin air. His hands were still grasping and flaying when his face made contact with the boulder Apto had been leaning against. With noises that would make a potter cringe at the kiln, the Well Knight’s steely visage crumpled like sheet tin. Blood sprayed out to form a delicate crescent upon the sun-bleached stone, a glittering halo until his head slid away.

  Apto Canavalian had vanished into the darkness.

  We who remained sat unmoving. Arpo Relent’s fine boots were nicely settled in the fire, suggesting to us that he was unconscious, dead or careless. When the man’s leggings caught flame our venerable host leapt forward to drag the limbs clear, grunting as he did so, and then hastily snuffed out the smouldering cloth.

  Tiny Chanter snorted and Flea and Midge did the same. From somewhere in the darkness Sellup giggled, and then coughed something up.

  Sighing, Tulgord Vise rose, stepped over and crouched beside the Unwell Knight. After a moment’s examination, he said, ‘Alive but senseless.’

  ‘Essentially unchanged, then,’ said Apto, reappearing from the night’s inky well. ‘Made a mess of my rock, though.’

  ‘Jest now,’ Tulgord said. ‘When he comes to, you’re a dead man.’

  ‘Who says he’ll come to at all?’ the critic retorted. ‘Look how flat his forehead is.’

  ‘It was that way before he hit the rock,’ the Mortal Sword replied.

  ‘Was it leaking snot, too? I think we’d have noticed. He’s in a coma and will probably die sometime in the night.’

  ‘Pray hard it’s so,’ Tulgord said, looking up with bar
ed teeth.

  Apto shrugged, but sweaty beads danced on his upper lip like happy bottle flies.

  ‘You, Flicker,’ said Tiny Chanter, ‘you was telling that story. Was finally starting to get interesting.’

  ‘Sore stretched indeed,’ said I, ‘and maiden no longer—’

  ‘Hold on,’ Tiny objected, all the flickering flames of the hearth mirrored in his ursine mien. ‘You can’t just skip past all that, unless you don’t want to survive the night. Disappointment’s a fatal complaint as far as I’m concerned. Disappoint me and I swear I’ll kill you, poet.’

  ‘I’ll kill you, too,’ said Midge.

  ‘And me,’ said Flea.

  ‘What pathetic things you Chanters are,’ said Purse Snippet.

  Shocked visages numbering three.

  Starting and blinking, Relish squinted at her siblings. ‘What? Someone say something?’

  ‘I called your brothers pathetic,’ explained the Lady.

  ‘Oh.’ Relish subsided once more.

  Tiny jabbed a blunt finger at Purse Snippet. ‘You. Watch it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Flea. ‘Watch it.’

  ‘You,’ said Midge. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The most enticing lure to the imagination,’ said Purse, ‘is that which suggests without revealing. This is the true art of the dance, after all. When I perform, I seduce, but that doesn’t mean I want to ruffle your sack, unless it’s the kind that jingles.’

  ‘Making you a tease!’ Tulgord growled. ‘And worse. Tell me, woman, how many murders have you left in your wake? How many broken hearts? Men surrendering to drink after years of abstinence. Imagined rivals knifing each other. How many loving families have you sundered with all that you promise only to then deny? We should never have excluded you from anything – you’re the worst of the lot.’

  Purse Snippet had paled at the Mortal Sword’s words.

  I did speak then, as proper comportment demanded. ‘A coward’s ambush – shame on you, sir.’

  The knight stiffened. ‘Tread softly now, poet. Explain yourself, if you please.’

  ‘The tragedies whereof you speak cannot be laid at this lady’s delicate feet. They are one and all failures of the men involved, for each has crossed the fatal line between audience and performer. Art is not exclusive in its delivery, but its magic lies in creating the illusion that it has done just that. Speaking only to you. That is art’s gift, do you understand, Knight? As such it is to be revered, not sullied. The instant the observer, in appalling self-delusion, seeks to claim for himself that which in truth belongs to everyone, he has committed the greatest crime, one of selfish arrogance, one of unrighteous possession. Before Lady Snippet’s performance, this man makes the foulest presumption. Well now, how dare he? Against such a crime it falls to the rest of her adoring audience to place themselves between that man and Lady Snippet.’

  ‘As you are doing right now,’ observed Apto Canavalian (wise in his ways this honourable, highly intelligent and oh-so-observant critic).

  Modest the tilt of my head.

  Visibly flustered, Tulgord Vise grunted and looked away, chewing at his beard and biting his lip, shifting in discomfort and shuffling his feet and then suddenly finding a kink in the chain of his left vambrace which he set to, humming softly to himself, all of which led me to conclude, with great acuity, that his flusterment was indeed visible.

  ‘I still want details,’ said Tiny Chanter, glaring at me in canid challenge.

  ‘As a sweet maiden, she was of course unversed in the stanzas of amorous endeavour—’

  ‘What?’ asked Midge.

  ‘She didn’t know anything about sex,’ I re-phrased.

  ‘Why do you do that anyway?’ Apto enquired.

  I took a moment to observe the miserable, vulpine excuse for humanity, and then said, ‘Do what?’

  ‘Complicate things.’

  ‘Perhaps because I am a complicated sort of man.’

  ‘But if it makes people frown or blink or otherwise stumble in confusion, what’s the point?’

  ‘Dear me,’ said I, ‘here you are, elected as Judge, yet you seem entirely unaware of the magical properties of language. Simplicity, I do assert, is woefully overestimated in value. Of course there are times when bluntness suits, but the value of these instances is found in the surprise they deliver, and such surprise cannot occur if they are surrounded in similitude—’

  ‘For Hood’s sake,’ rumbled Tiny, ‘get back to the other similitudes. The maiden knew nothing so it fell to the Fenn warrior to teach her, and that’s what I want to hear about. The world in its proper course through the heavens and whatnot.’ And he shot Apto a wordless but entirely unambiguous look of warning, that in its mute bluntness succeeded in reaching the critic’s murky awareness, sufficient to spark self-preservation. In other words, the look scared him witless.

  I resumed. ‘We shall backtrack, then, to the moment when they stood, now facing one another. He was well-versed—’

  ‘Now it’s back to the verses again,’ whined Midge.

  ‘And though heated with desire,’ I continued, ‘he displayed consummate skill—’

  ‘Consummate, yeah!’ and Tiny grinned his tiny grin.

  From the gloom close to the wagon came Mister Must’s gravel-laden voice, ‘And that’s a significant detail, I’ll warrant.’

  So did I twist round then to observe his ghostly visage in its ghostly cloud of rustleaf smoke, catching the knowing twinkle that might have been an eye or a tooth. Ah, thinks me, a sharp one here. Be careful now, Flicker.

  ‘Peeling away her clothing, unmindful of the damp chilly air in the guest hut, he laid her bare, his rough fingertips so lightly brushing the pricked awakening of her skin so that she shivered again and again. Her breaths were a rush of quick waves upon a rasping beach, the tremulous water sobbing back as she gasped to his touch where it travelled in eddying swirl about her nipples.

  ‘Her head tilted back, all will abandoned to his sure embrace, the deep and steady breaths that made his chest swell and ease against her. Then his hands edged downward, tracking the lines of her hips, to cup her downy-soft behind, and effortlessly he lifted her—’

  ‘Ha!’ barked Tiny Chanter. ‘Now comes the Golden Ram! The Knob-Headed Dhenrabi rising from the Deep! The Mushroom in the Mulch!’

  Everyone stared for a moment at Tiny with his flushed face and puny but bright eyes. Even Midge and Flea. He looked about, meeting stare after stare, a little wildly, before scowling and gesturing to me. ‘Go on, Flicker.’

  ‘She cried out as if ripped asunder, and blood started, announcing the death of her childhood, but he held her in his strong hands to keep her safe from true injury—’

  ‘How tall was she again?’ Flea asked.

  ‘About knee-high,’ Apto answered.

  ‘Oh. Makes sense then.’

  Relish laughed, ill-timed indeed as her brothers suddenly glared at her.

  ‘You shouldn’t be listening to this,’ Tiny said. ‘Losing maidenhood ain’t like that. It’s all agony and aches and filth and slow oozing of deadly saps, and shouldn’t be undertaken without supervision—’

  ‘What, you think you’re gonna watch?’ Relish demanded, flaring up like the seed-head of a thistle in a brush fire. ‘If I’d known brothers were like this, I would have killed you all long ago!’

  ‘It’s our responsibility!’ snarled Tiny, that finger back up and jabbing. ‘We promised Da—’

  ‘Da!’ Relish shrieked. ‘Till his dying day he never figured out the connection between babies and what he and Ma did twice a year!’ She waved her arms like a child sitting on a bee hive. ‘Look at us! Even I don’t know how many brothers I got! You were dropping like apples! Everywhere!’

  ‘Watch what you’re saying about Da!’

  ‘Yeah, watch it!’

  ‘Yeah! Da!’

  Relish suddenly crossed her arms and smirked. ‘Responsible, that’s a joke. If you knew anything, well, ha ha. Ha!’

  I
cleared my throat most delicately. ‘He left her exhausted, curled up in his arms, stung senseless with love. And much of the night passed unwitnessed for our lovely woman for whom innocence was already a fading memory.’

  ‘That is the way of it,’ Tulgord Vise said with solemn nod. ‘When they lose that innocence to some grinning bastard from the next village, suddenly they can’t get enough of it, can they? That … that other stuff. Rutting everything in sight, that’s what happens, and that boy who loved her since they were mere whelplings, why, all he can do is look on, knowing he’ll never get to touch her ever again, because there’s a fierce fire in her eyes now, and a swagger to her walk, a looseness to her hips, and she’s not interested anymore in playing hide and seek down by the river, and if she turned up all slack-faced and drowned down on the bank, well, whose fault was that? After all, she wasn’t innocent no more, was she? No, she was the opposite of that, yes, assuredly she was. The Sisters smile at whores, did you know that? They are soft that way. Innocent, no, she wasn’t that. The opposite.’ He looked up. ‘And what’s the opposite of innocence?’

  And into the grim silence, in voice cool and low did I venture: ‘Guilt?’

  Some tales die with a wheezy sigh. Some are stabbed through the heart. At least for a time. It was late and for some, dreadfully too late. In solitude and in times broken and husked and well rooted in contemplation, we find the necessity to regard our deeds, and see for ourselves all that which ever abides, this garden of scents both sweet and vaguely rotting. Some lives die with a sated sigh. Some are drowned in a river.

  Others get eaten by the righteous.

  At certain passages in the night the darkness grows vapid, a desultory, pensive state that laps energy like a bat’s flicking tongue a cow’s pricked ankle. Somnolent the wandering steps, brooding the regard, drowsy this disinterest. Until in the murk one discerns a tapestry scene of the like to adorn a torturer’s bedroom.