‘Poor Irilta nothing — that woman’s crowded more into her years than all the rest of us combined, and so now she’s dying but won’t bother with any healer be shy;cause, I think, she’s ready to leave.’ He shook his head as he reached for the first glazed fig. ‘If she knew you were pitying her, she’d probably kill you for real, Ral shy;lick.’
‘Missed me, did you?’
A pause, a searching glance, then Murillio bit into the fig.
Rallick went and sat down in one of the two chairs crowding the room along with the bed. ‘You spoke to Cutter?’
‘Somewhat.’
‘I thought he’d come to see me.’
‘Did you now?’
‘The fact that he didn’t shouldn’t make me think he got scared, should it?’
Murillio slowly shook his head.
Rallick sighed. Then he said, ‘Saw Coll last night — so our plan worked. He got his estate back, got his name back, his self-respect. You know, Murillio, I didn’t think anything could work out so well. So. . perfectly. How in Hood’s name did we ever manage such a thing?’
‘That was a night for miracles all right.’
‘I feel. . lost.’
‘Not surprising,’ Murillio replied, reaching for another fig. ‘Eat some of that jerky — the reek is making me nauseated.’
‘Better on my breath?’
‘Well, I don’t see us kissing any time soon.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Rallick said. ‘I was when I first woke up, I think, but that faded.’
‘Woke up — you slept all that time in the Finnest House? All tucked up in bed?’
‘On stone, just inside the door. With Vorcan lying right beside me, apparently. She wasn’t there when I came round. Just an undead Jaghut.’
Murillio seemed to think about that for a while, then said, ‘So, what now, Rallick Nom?’
‘Wish I knew.’
Baruk might need things done, like before.’
‘You mean like guarding Cutter’s back? Keeping an eye on Coll? And how long before the Guild learns I’m back? How long before they take me down?’
‘Ah, the Guild. Well, I’d figured you’d just head straight in, toss a few dozen lifeless bodies around and resume your rightful place. With Vorcan back. . well, it seems obvious to me what needs doing.’
‘That was never my style, Murillio.’
‘I know, but circumstances change.’
‘Don’t they just.’
‘He’ll be back,’ Murillio said. ‘When he’s ready to talk to you. Keep in mind, he’s gone and collected some new scars, deep ones. Some of them still bleeding, I think.’ He paused, then said, ‘If Mammot hadn’t died, well, who knows what might have happened. Instead, he went off with the Malazans, to return Apsalar to her home — oh, I see you have no idea what I’m talking about. All right, let me tell you the story of how that night ended — after you left. Just eat that damned jerky, please!’
‘You drive a damned hard bargain, friend.’
And for the first time that morning, he saw Murillio smile.
Her scent clung to the bedding, sweet enough to make him want to weep, and even some of her warmth remained, or maybe that was just the sun, the golden light streaming in from the window and carrying with it the vaguely disturbing sound of birds mating in the tree in the back yard.
She was working the wheel in the outer room, a sound that had once filled his life, only to vanish and now, at long last, return. As if there had been no sordid crimes of banditry and the slavery that came as reasonable punishment, as if there had been no rotting trench lying shackled alongside Teblor barbarians. No huge warrior hanging from a cross amidships, with Torvald trickling brackish wa shy;ter between the fool’s cracked lips. No sorcerous storms, no sharks, no twisted realms to crawl in and out of. No dreams of drowning — no, all that had been someone else’s life, a tale sung by a half-drunk bard, the audience so incredulous they were moments from rage, ready to tear the idiot to pieces at the recounting of just one more unlikely exploit. Yes, someone else’s life. The wheel was spin shy;ning, as it always did, and she was working clay and giving it form, symmetry, beauty. Of course, she never did her best work the day after a night of lovemaking, as if she’d used up something essential, whatever it was that fed creativity, and sometimes he felt bad about that. She’d laugh and shake her head, dismissing his concerns, spinning the wheel yet harder.
He’d seen, on the shelves of the outer room, scores of mediocre pots. Should this fact bother him? It might have, once, but no longer. He had vanished from her life — no reason, however, for her to waste away in some lonely vigil or pro shy;longed period of mourning. People got on with things, and so they should. Of course she’d taken lovers. Might still have them, in fact, and it had been some shy;thing of a miracle that she’d been alone when he showed up — he’d half expected some over-muscled godling with tousled golden locks and the kind of jaw that just begged to be punched to answer the door.
