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

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Master, I’m afraid I might scream.’

  ‘Presumably, you would only be incited to such indelicacy following the demon’s appearance, at which point the crucial moment of my concentration will have passed, leaving you free to scream. If you must.’

  ‘I think, maybe, Master, I must.’

  Bauchelain sighed. Adding nothing more, he moved to one side and faced the pentagram, raising both arms. Eyes narrowing to slits, he began muttering and mumbling an incantation.

  This went on for some time. Restless, Emancipor shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then scratched at his behind, which had become unaccountably itchy for some reason. Also, he needed to empty his bladder. All that wine, he supposed. Now his nose itched. He rubbed and pushed at it. Something tickled the back of his throat and he cleared it, which only made it worse, so he barked a cough—

  ‘Mister Reese! If you please!’

  ‘Sorry, Master. I’m trying!’

  ‘Just … be still!’

  Nodding, Emancipor settled. Or tried to. Instead, that itch in his bunghole intensified. Grimacing, he pushed his hand inside his breeches. Pushed with one finger this way and then that way. Now his left ear tingled. He reached up to push the same finger into that ear—

  A deafening thunderclap made him jump.

  Within the circle, so massive it filled the entire space, a demon twice Emancipor’s height had suddenly appeared, standing in a strange crouch as if a moment earlier it had been sitting at a table. Knees momentarily buckling, it almost toppled backward, and then righted itself. Smoke pouring from its hairless blue hide, sparks raining down from its enormous iron torcs on its upper arms, in one hand it held a haunch of dripping meat and in the other a giant gold goblet now sloshing out burgundy wine.

  Turning its blunt, broad, hairless head, its eyes flared bright emerald, fixing on Emancipor. ‘You little shit—’

  At which point, Bauchelain delicately cleared his throat.

  The demon twisted round. ‘Blast you to the Seven Fires of Kellanved’s Maze! Again? And right at dinner … again! With the delicious High Concubine Allgiva sitting opposite me. Again! Scented candles, sweet wine, a priest of Dessembrae turning on the spit! Again! Damn you Bauchelain and damn you again! Aaargh!’

  ‘Now now, Prince Flail Their Limbs, how am I to know your circumstances in the moment of summoning? You do me a disservice.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll disservice you, Conjurer. One of these nights—’

  ‘Your threats are so tiresome, Prince Flail.’

  The demon flung down the haunch of priest thigh, where it bounced, rolled and then spat and sizzled as it struck the invisible barrier of the pentagram. The demon then drained the last of his wine and crushed the goblet into a mangled ruin in his huge, taloned hand. ‘This had better be good, and I don’t mean hunting any fucking mice!’

  Bauchelain smiled in seeming recollection. ‘A mere lesson in whom between us has command of the situation, one that, I am sure, need not be repeated.’

  ‘Fuck you, Bauchelain. And don’t leave me anywhere near that creepy companion of yours—’

  ‘I won’t, although you may come across a few of his charges in the crypts below.’

  ‘Fucking undead. How will I know them?’

  ‘No heads.’

  The demon subsided slightly, ‘Well, that’ll help.’

  ‘Prince Flail Their Limbs, the Indifferent God haunts the levels beneath this palace. He has escaped his latest mortal prison and now seeks a new vessel.’

  The demon grunted. ‘Let him try me. I’ll eat the bastard starting with his left little toe and finish him with the right little toe. I’ll chew him into pulp so soft a newborn would think it sweet mother’s milk. I’ll peel his skin—’

  ‘Yes yes, all that and more, I’m sure,’ cut in Bauchelain. ‘In the meantime, permit me to assemble for you a small army of minions—’

  ‘But none of those ankle-high little shits you like to paint.’

  ‘No, somewhat more impressive servants, I assure you.’

  ‘They got under my clothes,’ the Demon Prince continued in a low grumble. ‘One of them tried climbing up my butt-hole, for fuck’s sake.’

  Flinching, Emancipor straightened, and then quickly reached back under his breeches.

  Royal Torturer Binfun Son of Binfun played with his food on the plate before him, using the tip of his knife to prod the overcooked slab of meat this way and that. He poked it with the two-pronged fork, leaning closer to see if any juices bubbled up from the small punctures. Seeing nothing, he sighed and settled back. ‘This is very disappointing,’ he said to the desiccated head hanging from a hook opposite him. ‘Cook does it deliberately, of course. She’s singled me out, has it in for me for some reason. Women are a mystery. They hate for no reason, no reason at all.’ Well, of course that was not true. She had a reason. Still, in the greater scheme of things, was he not entirely blameless?

  He prodded the meat again. ‘Nerve endings, Sire, are the source of all pleasure. This is simple fact. Dead flesh knows no joy, no delight, no sultry tickle of attention. It just … lies there. And where pleasure is not possible, why, neither is pain. And yet, does not history reveal a most sordid truth? That generation upon generation, we strive for insensitivity, the muffled simulation of death, benumbed, displaced, inured.’

  The severed head of the old king said nothing, but then, he wouldn’t, would he? He was dead. Indeed, grimly symbolic was the old king, reminding Binfun that death marked a failure of the torturer’s art. Not that he’d had any opportunity to torture the old king. The Usurper’s sword was very sharp and the cut beneath the old king’s head was the cleanest Binfun had ever examined. A single slice – how he wished he’d seen it!

  He stabbed the fork into the slab and left it standing there. ‘I am losing weight. Unacceptable. Cook should pay me a visit, an invitation innocuous, beneath suspicion. An offering of wine, suitably drugged in her cup. Then, when she awakens gagged and trussed and utterly helpless … no no, I mustn’t think such thoughts. Bad thoughts, bad imaginings. Fasting is good for me, so say the Purgists in the Herbmongers’ Round. The stomach shrinks, impurities gush and spurt – one can tell they’re impurities, given the wretched stench wafting up. And the lightheadedness that follows, why, such luminous clarity!’

  He saw the reflected flicker of lamp-light in the old king’s dull staring eyes, and twisted round in his chair in time to see Shartorial Infelance stride into the chamber carrying an ornately jewelled oil-lamp. He rose quickly. ‘Seneschal, good evening!’

  ‘Sir Binfun, how are you this evening?’

  The Royal Torturer bowed before responding. ‘Milady, I suffer as it seems I must.’

  The tall regal woman glanced down at the small table with its pewter plate and its lone slab of grey meat, and then set down the lamp. ‘Ah, the Cook again, is it? Remind me to have another word with her.’

  Binfun shrugged. ‘I fear it will do no good, Milady, but I do appreciate the effort.’

  ‘Well, I see now that I was not stern enough in reproaching her the last time. This vindictiveness is surely beneath her. Perhaps if I suggest that, should matters not improve, I may have a word with the king …’

  ‘Oh, please, Milady, do not do that!’

  Shartorial’s delicate brows arched. ‘An empty threat I assure you. It would be madness to invite the attentions of our liege in such matters. If Cook has any wits, however, the mere hint will set her aright.’

  Binfun walked over to the severed head and gave it a light push to set it swinging gently back and forth. ‘It’s all down to a favourite actor of hers,’ he admitted, ‘that I had the pleasure of torturing. Or so I assume, since matters turned unpleasant immediately thereafter. But what was I to do? I am the Royal Torturer, and I obey my liege’s commands!’ The confession seemed to lighten his spirits and he luxuriated in the sensation of unadulterated relief.

  ‘Indeed. Which actor was that?’

  �
�Sorponce Egol, he of the Perfect Profile. Well, it was less than perfect when I was done with it, of course. And making him eat his own nose was perhaps excessive, I do admit.’

  ‘Hmm, how long did he last?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing, most curious. Not by a single instrument or exercise on my part did he give up living. Now, knowing how he used to preen, I set up a full-length mirror, exquisitely polished, so that he could regard himself day and night in the bright light of the dozen lanterns I kept lit. I believe that this broke his will to live. Fatal vanity!’

  ‘I suspect you are correct, Binfun, and that was a most insidious torture, by the way.’

  Binfun brightened. ‘Yes it was, wasn’t it? Thank you, Milady! Your observation has blessed me!’ He interlaced his hands before him and smiled. ‘Now, I imagine you wish to visit, once more, the one who most fascinates you.’

  She shot him a look. ‘You’ve not touched his face?’

  ‘Not once, Milady. Indeed, apart from the rack, he is unmarred, as per your wishes.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Shall I lead you to the secret spy-hole now?’

  ‘In a moment.’

  He smiled. ‘Of course. Anticipation is the sweetest nectar, is it not?’

  ‘When are you due your report to the king?’ she asked him.

  His face fell slightly. ‘Ah, I have delayed too long as it is, to be honest, in deference to your desires. Alas, Milady, your visits must soon come to an end, and this is truly tragic for all concerned. I must break the lot, in sessions most foul, and see to it that death delivers its soft kiss of release for each and every one of them. So the king commands.’

  Shartorial stepped near the table. She picked up his dinner knife where he’d set it down beside the plate, and idly played with it.

  Watching her fondling the knife, Binfun felt his loins stir. ‘I will grieve,’ he said huskily, ‘the end of your visits down here, Milady.’

  ‘Binfun, you say the kindest things. I am flattered.’

  ‘I do regret what awaits the one who fascinates you,’ he said. ‘And I shall keep him until the last, and be uncommonly quick in taking his life. For you I do this, Milady, and not even the king’s command will sway me in this.’

  ‘Very sweet of you,’ she said, turning about and plunging the dinner knife into his chest.

  He staggered back, reaching futilely at the horn handle jutting from his chest, and then fell into his chair, making the wood creak. He gaped up at her and then frowned. ‘Wrong side, Milady,’ he gasped. ‘This will take some time. Under the … cough … under the heart … would have been better …’

  She looked down at him. ‘Quick? I think not. Damn Cook and her petty vindictiveness! What use poison if you don’t eat the damned shit?’

  ‘I … uh, cough, nibbled.’

  ‘You are drowning in your own blood.’

  He nodded. ‘Subtle … after a fashion. Cough cough! Unable to shout in alarm. Cough cough cough! Guards hear nothing and never cough come down besides. Cough cough cough cough! Clever, Milady. But, alas, not enough pain.’

  ‘I take little pleasure in this.’

  ‘Oh. Too bad.’

  He wheezed, shuddered, and then sagged in the chair, head dipping until his chin rested on his sternum. Red bubbles slid down from his mouth for a few moments, and then the flow ceased.

  Shartorial stepped closer and pushed a spiked heel down upon his left foot.

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘Fuck, just get it over with!’

  ‘T-tell Cook …’

  ‘What? Tell her what?’

  ‘Tell her … cough, gasp! Next time … medium rare.’

  ‘I can’t help it if every woman finds me desirable,’ Apto Canavalian was saying. ‘There’s something impish about me, or so I’m told. They fling themselves at me, to be honest. I have to beat them off. Personally, I think it’s down to me being a critic, an arbiter of taste, if you will. Such talent demands a high intellect and that becomes pretty obvious, I suppose, even after the briefest of conversations—’

  ‘Gods below,’ moaned Brash Phluster, writhing feebly on the rack, ‘somebody kill him. Please.’

  ‘I’m just explaining why I got invited to all the soirées and fêtes, and how all those lovely women ended up dangling on my arm. You know, all things considered, it was almost worth it.’

  ‘Tiny will put him on the rack,’ said Tiny Chanter. ‘Notch him up until he’s dangling from everywhere.’

  ‘I’ve saved up my biggest bribe,’ said Apto, smiling across at Tiny. ‘Next time the Royal Torturer comes, I’m offering him my villa. To just let me slip away. The rest of you are dead anyway, so it’s not like anyone will know, and I’ll hightail it out of Farrog that very night. I hear there’s a festival looking for judges down the coast, in Prylap.’

  ‘Tiny’s got a better bribe,’ said Tiny, his small eyes glinting in the gloom. ‘Tiny promises not to tear the torturer’s head off. Beats a villa, doesn’t it, Midge?’

  ‘Beats it clean.’

  ‘Flea?’

  ‘No head tear beats a villa every time,’ said Flea.

  ‘You’re in magicked chains, Tiny,’ Apto pointed out. ‘No shapeshifting crap from you. Your nemesis necromancer’s got you all figured out.’

  ‘Torturer has to unchain Tiny to get him on the rack.’

  ‘I’ll warn him this time. Besides, he puts that collar on you first, and it’s magicked, too.’

  ‘Tiny will bite out his throat when he gets close.’

  ‘Right,’ snapped Apto, ‘and then you’ll threaten not to tear his head off, right?’

  ‘Exactly. Tiny’s got it figured out.’

  Apto looked over to Midge and then Flea. ‘And you let this brainless dolt stay in charge? No wonder you’re all in chains and about to die. Your sister had it right – run off with the Assassin and fuck you all.’

  Tiny strained at his chains, glaring at Apto. ‘We don’t talk about her!’

  ‘Well, I am! Listen! Relish Chanter is the smartest Chanter of them all! Smart enough to lose all you dead-weight brothers! Relish Relish Relish! She slept with me, you know? Jumped me right here in Farrog, before running off with Flicker. She was wild, an animal of lust! I needed a healer after she was done with me!’

  ‘Lies!’ roared Tiny Chanter. ‘Lies and lies and more lies!’

  Midge was crying, Flea glowering in deadly silence. A sudden shiver took Apto Canavalian and he decided he’d said enough. Maybe too much. He waved a hand, weakly as the shackles were heavy. ‘I’m kidding. I was lying. Just teasing you. She never jumped me, and for all I know, the Assassin kidnapped her—’

  ‘Of course he did!’ Tiny bellowed.

  ‘Besides,’ added Apto, ‘I was thinking, a whole damned villa should be enough to get us all out of here.’

  At that, Tulgord Vise straightened in his chains. ‘That had better not be a tease, Critic,’ he said in a growl.

  ‘It’s not,’ Apto promised. ‘I mean, think on it. We all survived the journey here. We even survived the Assassin’s treachery. Like it or not, a bond has formed among us all. It’s always that way with survivors. We’re inextricably linked because of what we all shared and in case you’ve forgotten, that journey was one long nightmare.’

  ‘It wasn’t so bad,’ grumbled Tiny.

  ‘Well, for those of us under threat of getting eaten—’

  Brash Phluster lifted his head. ‘But that wasn’t you, was it, Apto the Corrupt Critic from the Squalid Pits of Evil Betrayal? No! It was us artists! Us ones with, with talent! No, not you! You cheated your way out of that, too, like the cheater you are!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Apto, ‘but then, we had to suffer your singing, Phluster. And let’s face it, even this Royal Torturer’s got nothing on that.’

  Tiny laughed. ‘Hah hah hah!’ and then glared at his brothers, who then laughed, too.

  ‘Hahah!’

  ‘Hah! Hah!’

  And now sudden lam
p-light lit the corridor beyond the barred door.

  Apto straightened. ‘All right, friends,’ he whispered. ‘It seems he’s early but no matter. This is the moment. Wish me the Lady’s Pull of Luck, wish it for all our sakes!’

  The light brightened, and then suddenly dimmed as a hooded face appeared in the door’s barred window.

  Not the Royal Torturer after all. Some instinct told Apto that this was a woman, a beautiful woman who now watched them from the impenetrable shadows of the hood. He managed a bow. ‘Milady,’ he said in a soft murmur.

  ‘I have been watching you all,’ came the sibilant reply.

  ‘Ah,’ smiled Apto. ‘I admit, on occasion, that I sensed hidden eyes, a certain fixation of attention, vision’s lingering caress—’

  ‘I looked upon the one with the broken leg.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  Keys ground in the lock and then the door squealed open.

  Steck Marynd had sat up straighter at the back of the cell, an expression of curiosity upon his craggy and singularly unattractive features. Apto looked at the backwoods simpleton and felt a flood of acidic venom.

  Dressed in opulent silks, the woman seemed to whisper into the chamber, floating like a dream. She crossed straight over to stand before Steck Marynd. ‘Your leg, has it healed, sir?’

  ‘I tend to think so,’ he replied, ‘until I’m on the rack.’

  ‘Yes, that was most cruel. But no more will the Royal Torturer have his way with you. Indeed, even now his corpse grows cold. I am here, sir, to free you.’

  Struggling, Steck regained his feet. ‘Milady, that is most kind. Perhaps you could start with the poor man on the rack.’

  She seemed to tilt her head. ‘I said “you”, sir, and I meant just that.’

  Steck frowned, and then crossed his arms. ‘I’m afraid I must decline your invitation, Milady. These are my companions, after all. Should you unlock my shackles, nothing can prevent me from doing the same to theirs.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, why should I be surprised? I could see your innate nobility, and the bright virtue that is your loyalty. Still, your fellow prisoners spoke derisively of you, sir, without pause.’