Memories of Ice (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #3)

Memories of Ice (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #3) Page 279

'If you don't mind my saying so, master,' Emancipor said as he rose from before the hearth and wiped soot from his hands, 'if we've unwelcome company shouldn't we be doing something about it?'

'Much as I dislike losing my demons, dear servant, I do not assume that all visitors are malign. Dismissing my Sirinth was no doubt the only option available, and even then it must have been a risk-laden endeavour. The chain is but half of the geas, of course; the commands within the collar cannot so easily be defeated. Thus, some patience, now, until our guest decides to make formal his or her visit.'

Talamandas's acorn head touched Quick Ben's ear. 'Leave me here when you step through, Wizard. Treachery from this man is not just a likelihood, it's a damned certainty.'

Quick Ben shrugged. The sticksnare's weight left his shoulder.

Smiling, the wizard stepped from the warren, began brushing gritty dust from his tunic and rain-cape.

The seated man slowly closed his book without looking up. 'Some wine, Emancipor, for me and my guest.'

The servant spun to face Quick Ben. 'Hood's breath! Where did he come from?'

'The walls have ears, eyes and all the rest. Be on with your task, Emancipor.' The man finally lifted his head and met the wizard's gaze.

Now that's a lizard's regard. Well, I've never quailed from the like before, so why should I now? 'Wine would be wonderful,' Quick Ben said, matching the seated man's Daru.

'Something … flowery,' the necromancer added as the servant strode towards a side door.

The crow on the mantel had ceased its pacing and now studied the wizard with cocked head. After a moment, it resumed its back and forth ambling.

'Please, be seated. My name is Bauchelain.'

'Quick Ben.' The wizard walked to the plush chair opposite the necromancer and settled into it. He sighed.

'An interesting name. Aptly chosen, if I may so presume. To have dodged the Sirinth's attack — I assume it attacked once you'd released it?'

'Clever,' Quick Ben conceded, 'locking a hold-over spell in that collar, one last command to kill whomever frees it. I assume that doesn't include you, its summoner.'

'I never free my demons,' Bauchelain said.

'Never?'

'Every exception to a magical geas weakens it. I allow none.'

'Poor demons!'

Bauchelain shrugged. 'I hold no sympathy for mere tools. Do you weep for your dagger when it breaks in someone's back?'

'That depends on whether it killed the bastard or just made him mad.'

'Ah, but then you weep for yourself.'

'I was making a joke.'

Bauchelain raised a single, thin eyebrow.

The subsequent silence was broken by Emancipor's return, bearing a tray on which sat a dusty bottle and two crystal goblets.

'Not a glass for yourself?' the necromancer asked. 'Am I so unegalitarian, Emancipor?'

'Uh, I took a swig below, master.'

'You did?'

'T'see if it was flowery.'

'And was it?'

'Not sure. Maybe. What's flowery?'

'Hmm, we must resume your education, I think, of such finer things. Flowery is the opposite of … woody. Not bitter memory of sap, in other words, but something sweet, as of narcissus or skullcrown-'

'Those flowers are poisonous,' Quick Ben noted in faint alarm.

'But pretty and sweet in appearance, yes? I doubt any of us are in the habit of eating flowers, thus in analogy I sought visual cues for dear Emancipor.'

'Ah, I see.'

'Before you pour from that bottle, then, Emancipor. Was the aftertaste bitter or sweet?'

'Uh, it was kind of thick, master. Like iron.'

Bauchelain rose and grasped the bottle. He held it close, then sniffed the mouth. 'You idiot, this is blood from Korbal Broach's collection. Not that row, the one opposite. Take this back to the cellar.'

Emancipor's lined face had gone parchment-white. 'Blood? Whose?'

'Does it matter?'

As Emancipor gaped, Quick Ben cleared his throat and said, 'To your servant, I think the answer would be "yes, it does".'

The crow cackled from the mantelpiece, head bobbing.

The servant sagged on watery knees, the goblets on the tray clinking together.

Frowning, Bauchelain collected the bottle again and sniffed once more. 'Well,' he said, returning it to the tray, 'I'm not the one to ask, of course, but I think it's virgin's blood.'

Quick Ben had no choice but to enquire, 'How can you tell?'