‘And if it was you?’ snarled Brash in sudden courage (or madness).
‘I wouldn’t waste my time in poetry, you fool. Words – why, anyone can put them together, in any order they please. It’s not like what you’re doing is hard, is it? The rest of us just don’t bother. We got better things to do with our time.’
‘I take it,’ ventured Apto, ‘as a king you are not much of a patron to the arts.’
‘Midge?’
‘He arrested the lot,’ said Midge.
‘Flea?’
‘And then boiled them alive, in a giant iron pot.’
‘The stink,’ said Midge.
‘For days,’ said Flea.
‘Days,’ said Midge.
‘Now, poet. Sing!’ And Tiny smiled.
Brash whimpered, clawed at his greasy mane of hair. ‘Gotho’s Folly, the Lullaby Version, then.’
‘The what?’
‘I’m not talking to you! Now, here it is and no interruptions please.
‘Lie sweet in your cot, precious onnne
The dead are risin from every graaave
The dead are risin, I say, from every graaa-yev!
Bright your little eyes, precious onnne
Bright as beacons atop that barrowww
‘Stop your screamin, precious onnne
The dead ain’t deaf they can hear you fine
Oh the dead ain’t deaf I say, they hear you fiii-yen!
Stop your climbin, precious onnne
Sweet it’s gonna taste your oozin marrowww
Oh we never wanted you anywayyy—’
‘Enough!’ roared Tulgord Vise, wheeling his horse round as he unsheathed his sword.
Tiny giggled. ‘Here it comes!’
‘Be quiet you damned necromancer! You—’ Tulgord pointed his sword at Brash, whose poor visage was pallid as, well, Sellup’s (above her mouth, that is). ‘You are sick – do you hear me? Sick!’
‘Artists don’t really view that as a flaw,’ observed Apto Canavalian.
The sword trembled. ‘No more,’ rasped Tulgord. ‘No more, do you hear me?’
Brash’s head was bobbing like a turd in a whirlpool.
Done at last readying the horse I gave its dusty rump a pat and turned to Arpo Relent. ‘Your charger awaits you, sir.’
‘Excellent. Now what?’
‘Well, you mount up.’
‘Good. Let’s do that, then.’
‘Mounting up involves you walking over here, good knight.’
‘Right.’
‘Foot into the stirrup – no, the other – oh, never mind, that one will do. Now, grasp the back of the saddle, right, just so. And pull yourself up, swing that leg, yes, perfect, set your foot in the other – got it. Well done, sir.’
‘Where’s its head?’
‘Behind you. Guarding your back, sir, just the way you like it.’
‘I do, do I? Of course I do. Excellent.’
‘Now, we just tie these reins to this mule’s harness here – do you mind, Mister Must?’
‘Not in the least, Flicker.’
‘Good … there! You’re set, sir.’
‘Most kind of you. Bless you, and take my blessing with solemn gratitude, mortal, it’s been a thousand years since my last one.’
‘Then I shall, sir.’
‘For that,’ Tulgord said to me, ‘it’s all down to you for the rest of the day, Flicker.’
‘Oh Mortal Sword, it is that indeed.’
I would at this moment assert, humbly, that I am not particularly evil. In fact, if I was as evil as you perhaps think, why, I would have killed the critic long ago. We must bow, in either case, to the events as they truly transpired, though it might well paint me in modestly unpleasant hues. But the artist’s eye must remain sharp and unforgiving, and every scene’s noted detail must purport a burden of significance (something the least capable of critics never quite get into their chamber-potted brains, ah, piss on them I say!). The timing of this notification is, of course, entirely random and no doubt bred and born of my inherent clumsiness.
Leapt past that passage? Good for you. (And I do so look forward to your collected letters of erudition, posteritally.)
‘Just like the dog, tally ho!’ shouted Arpo Relent as the journey resumed, and then arose a milked joccling sound followed by an audible shudder and visible moan from the Very Well Knight.
We set out, in the scuff of worn boots, the clop of hoofs and the rackle of carriage wheels, leaving in our wake Nifty Gum’s corpse and Sellup who was now gnawing beneath the dead man’s chin, in the works a love-bite of appalling proportions.
Shall I list we who remained? Why not. In the lead Steck Marynd, behind him Tulgord Vise and then the Chanters, followed by the host and Purse Snippet, then myself flanked by Apto upon my right and Brash upon my left, and behind us of course Mister Must and the carriage of the Dantoc Calmpositis, with Arpo Relent riding his mount off to one side at the trail’s very edge.
Pilgrims one and all, and the day was bright, the vultures cooing and the bees writhing in the dust as the sun lit the landscape on fire and sweat ran in dirty streams to sting eyes and consciences both. Brash was gibbering under his breath, his gaze focused ten thousand paces ahead. Apto’s mouth was also moving, perhaps taking mental notes or setting Brash’s latest song to memory. Relish punched one of her brothers every now and then, with no obvious cause. Usually in the side of the head. Which the brothers endured with impressive indulgence, she being their little sister. Purse walked in a drugged daze which would not ebb until mid-morning, and bearing this in mind I pondered which of two tales would prove most timely at the moment, and, a decision having been reached with modest effort, I began to speak.
‘The Imass woman, maiden no longer, awoke in the depths of night, in the time of the watch, which stretches cold and forlorn before the first touch of false dawn mocks the eastern sky. Shivering, she saw that her furs had been pulled aside, and of her lover no sign remained. Drawing the skins close, she drank the bitter air and with each deep breath her sleepiness grew more distant, and around her the hut breathed in its own dark pace, sighing its soot to settle upon her open eyes.
‘She felt filled up, her skin tight as if someone had stuffed her as one would a carcass, to better stretch the curing hide. Her body was not quite entirely her own. She could feel the truth of this. Its privacy now a temporary condition, quick to surrender to his next touch. She was content with that, as only a young woman can be, for they are at their most generous at tender age, and it is only in the later years that the expanse contracts and borders are jealously guarded – trails carelessly trampled are by this time thoroughly mapped in her memory, after all.
‘But now, this night, she is young still, and all of the world beyond this silent and unlit hut is blanketed in untouched snow, plush as a brold’s virgin fur. The time of night known as the watch is a sacred time for many, and one of great and solemn responsibility. Malign spirits are known to stir in the breaths of the sleeping, seeking a way in, and so one of the tribe must be awake in vigil, whispering wards against the swollen darkness and its many-eyed hungers.
‘She could hear nothing past her steady breathing, except perhaps something in the distance, out across the bold sweep of snow and frozen ground – the soft crackle from among trees, as frost tinkled down beneath black branches. There was no wind, and somehow she could feel the pressure of the stars, as if their glittering spears could reach through the layered hides of the hut’s banked roof. And she told herself that the ancestors were protecting her with their unwavering regard, and with this thought she closed her eyes once more—’
I paused a moment, and then continued. ‘But then she heard a sound. A faint scrape, the patter of droplets. She gasped. “Beloved?” she whispered and spirits fled in the gloom. The hut’s flap was drawn to one side, and the Fenn, crouched low to clear the doorway, edged inside. His eyes glistened as he paused.
‘“Yes,” said he, “It is I,” and then he
made a soft sound, something like a laugh, she thought, though she could not be certain for it left a bitter trail. “I have brought meat.” And at that she sat up. “You hunted for us?” And in answer he drew closer and now she could smell charred flesh and she saw the thick strip bridging his hands. “A gift,” he said, “for the warmth you gave me, when I needed it most. I shall not forget you, not ever.” He presented her with the slab and she gasped again when it settled into her hands, for it was still hot, edges crisped by fire, and the fat streamed down between her fingers. Even so, something in what he had said troubled her and she felt a tightness in her throat as she said, “Why would you forget me, beloved? I am here and so are you, and with this food we shall all bless you and beg that you remain with us, and then we—”
‘“Hush,” said he. “It cannot be. I must leave with the dawn. I must hold to the belief that among the tribes of the Fenn, those beyond the passes, I will find for myself a new home.”
‘And now there were tears in her eyes and this he must have seen for he then said, “Please, eat, gain strength. I beg you.” And she found the strength to ask, “Will you sit with me when I eat? For this long at least? Will you—”’
‘That’s it?’ demanded Relish. ‘She gave up that easily? I don’t believe it.’
‘Her words were brave,’ I replied, ‘even as anguish tore at her heart.’
‘Well, how was I to know that?’
‘By crawling into her skin, Relish,’ I said most gently. ‘Such is the secret covenant of all stories, and songs and poems too, for that matter. With our words we wear ten thousand skins, and with our words we invite you to do the same. We do not ask for your calculation, nor your cynicism. We do not ask you how well we are doing. You choose whether to be with us, word by word, in and out of each and every scene, to breathe as we breathe, to walk as we walk, but above all, Relish, we invite that you feel as we feel.’
‘Unless you secretly feel nothing,’ Purse Snippet said, glancing back at me and I saw dreadful accusation in her eyes – her numbness had been burnt away, making my time short indeed.
‘Is this what you fear? That my invitation is a deceit? The suspicion alone belongs to a cynic, to be sure—’
‘Belongs to the wounded and the scarred, I should think,’ said Apto Canavalian. ‘Or the one whose own faith is dead.’
‘In such,’ said I, ‘no covenant is possible. Perhaps some artists do not feel what they ask others to feel, sir, but I do not count myself among those shameful and shameless wretches.’
‘I see that well enough,’ Apto said, nodding.
‘Get back to the tale,’ demanded Tiny Chanter. ‘She asks him to stay while she eats. Does he?’
‘He does,’ I replied, my eyes on Lady Snippet’s back as she strode ahead of me. ‘The darkness of the hut was such that she could see little more than the glint of his eyes as he watched her, and in those twin flickers she imagined all manner of things. His love for her. His grief for all that he had lost. His pride in the food he had provided, his pleasure in her own as she bit into and savoured the delicious meat. She believed she saw amusement as well, and she smiled in return, but slowly her smile faded, for the glitter now seemed too cold for humour, or perhaps it was something she was not meant to see.
‘When she had at last finished and was licking the grease from her fingers, he reached out and settled a hand upon her belly. “Two gifts,” murmured he, “as you shall discover. Two.”’
‘How did he know?’ demanded Relish.
‘Know what?’ asked Brash Phluster.
‘That she was pregnant, Relish? He knew and so too did she, for there was a new voice inside her, deep and soft, the tinkle of frost in a windless night.’
‘What then?’ demanded Tiny.
‘A moment, if you please. Purse Snippet, may I spin you a few lines of my tale for you?’
She looked back at me, frowning. ‘Now?’
‘Yes, Lady, now.’
She nodded.
‘The brothers were very quick to act, and before a breath was let loose from their glowing sister, why, the man she had loved the night before was lying dead. In her soul a ragged wind whipped up a swirl of ashes and cinders, and she almost stumbled, and the tiny voice inside her – so precious, so new – now wailed piteously for the father it had lost so cruelly—’
Tiny bellowed and spun to Relish, who shrank back.
‘Hold!’ I cried, and an array of sibling faces swung snarling my way. ‘Beneath that tiny cry she found a sudden fury rising within her. And she vowed that when her child was born she would tell it the truth. She would again and again jab a sharp-nailed finger at her passing brothers and say to her sweet wide-eyed boy or girl: “There! There is one of the men who murdered your father! Your vile, despicable, treacherous uncles! Do you see them! They sought to protect me – so they said, but they failed, and what did they then do, my child? They killed your father!” No, there would be no smiling uncles for that lone child, no tossing upon the saddle of a thigh, no squeals, no indulgent spoiling, no afternoons at the fishing hole, or wrestling bears or spitting boars with sticks. That child would know only hatred for those uncles, and a vow would find shape deep within it, a kin-slaying vow, a family-destroying vow. Blood in the future. Blood!’
All had halted. All were staring at me.
‘She would,’ I continued with a voice of gravel and sharp stones. ‘She … could. If they would not leave her be. If they dogged her day after day. Her virginity was now gone. They had nothing left in her to protect. Unless, perhaps … an innocent child. But even then – she would decide when and how much. She was now in charge, not them. She was, and this was the sudden, blinding truth that seared through her mind at that instant: she was free.’
And then I fell silent.
Tiny gaped, at me and then at Relish. ‘But you said Calap—’
‘I lied,’ replied Relish, crossing her arms and happily proving that she was not as witless as I had first imagined.
‘But then you’re not—’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘And you’re—’
‘I am.’
‘The voice—’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ll tell it—’
‘If you leave me to live my life? Nothing.’
‘But—’
Her eyes flashed and she advanced on him. ‘Everything. The truth! Hate’s seed – to become a mighty tree of death! Your death, Tiny! And yours, Midge! And yours, Flea!’
Tiny stepped back.
Midge stepped back.
Flea stepped back.
‘Are we understood?’ demanded Relish.
Three mute nods.
She whirled then and shot me a look of eternal gratitude or eternal resentment – I couldn’t tell which, and really, did it matter?
Did I then catch a wondering smile from Purse Snippet? I cannot be certain, for she quickly turned away.
As we resumed our journey Apto snorted under his breath. ‘Flick goes the first knife this day. Well done, oh, very well done.’
The first. Yes, but only the first.
A voice from back down the trail made us turn. ‘Look everybody! I brought Nifty’s head!’
There is a deftness that comes of desperation, but having never experienced desperation, I know nothing of it. The same woeful ignorance on my part can be said for the savage wall that rises like a curse between an artist and inspiration, or the torture of sudden doubt that can see scrolls heaped on the fire. The arrow of my intent is well trued. It sings unerringly to its target, even when that target lies beyond the horizon’s swollen-breasted curve. You do not believe me? Too bad.
I imagine such flaws in my character are unusual, perhaps even rare enough to warrant a ponder or two, but to be honest, I can’t be bothered, and if I must shoulder through jostling crowds of scepticism, suspicion and outright disbelief, then ’ware my spiked armour, for my path is ever sure and I will not be turned aside. Even when it takes me o
ff the cliff’s edge, I shall spare you all one last knowing nod. As is only fair.
Is this to also claim that I have lived a life without error? Ah, but recall the beginning of this tale, and find therein my answer to that. Errors salt the earth and patched, sodden and tangled is my garden, dear friends, riotous in mischance at every crook and bend. This being said, I find my confidence unsullied nonetheless, and indeed so replete my aplomb that one cannot help but see in the wild swirling cloak of my wake the sparkle and shock of my assured stride. Nary a tremulous step, do you see?
Not yet? Then bear witness, if you will, to the harrowed closing of this most truthful tale.
‘I can’t see where we’re going. Someone make this horse walk backwards. A new decree, where are the priests? Those purplelipped perverts fiddling under their robes – oh, damn me! Now I know what they were up to!’
Once more we walked Cracked Pot Trail, and somewhere in the distance awaited the Great Descent to the river and its ferry landing. By day’s close, or so our increasingly agitated host had proclaimed. An end to this nightmare – the fevered hope was bright in Brash Phluster’s eyes, and even Apto Canavalian’s stride was a stitch quicker.
Still the heat tormented. Our water was almost gone, the pieces of Calap Roud bubbling in our bellies, and our dastardly deeds clung to our shoulders with talon and fang. It did not help that Sellup was scooping out handfuls of Nifty’s brain and making yummy sounds as she slopped the goo into her mouth.
Tulgord Vise, glancing back and taking note of this detail, twisted round to glare at Tiny Chanter. ‘By the Blessed Mounds, do something about her or I will.’
‘No. She’s growing on me, isn’t she, Flea?’
The Second Collected Tales of Bauchelain & Korbal Broach: Three Short Novels of the Malazan Empire Page 28
