"By default. I was a soldier, Mappo. A Red Blade."
"Even so, to work iron is a worthy profession. Perhaps you were a soldier, once, but to set down your weapons and find another profession is not surrender. Yet if it feels so to you, well, this city is no doubt crowded with estates, many of which would welcome a guard of your experience. And there will be merchants, operating caravans. Indeed, the city must have its own garrison – no warrior ever tears unemployment, for their skills are ever in demand."
"A sad admission, Mappo."
The Trell shrugged again. "I would think, now, Barathol, that if anyone needs his back guarded, it is Cutter."
Barathol sighed in frustration. "He says little of what he plans to do. In any case, this is his city. He will find those who know enough to protect him. Besides, I must admit having seen Cutter practise with those knives of his, well, perhaps it is Darujhistan that must fear his return."
"I trust Scillara to rein him in."
"Barathol, let us now make our farewells. I intend to depart soon."
"And had I not followed you down here?"
"I do poorly saying goodbye." His gaze shied away.
"Then I will convey such to the others, on your behalf. Cutter will be . . . upset. For he has known you the longest among us all."
"I know, and I am sorry – in so many ways I am a coward."
But Barathol well understood. This was not cowardice. It was some sort of shame, twisted past any possible reason, any conceivable justification. The loss of Icarium was a wound so raw, so irreconcilable, that its spreading stain swept all from its path. Friends, loyalties, lives and histories. And Mappo could not fight against that onrushing tide and the fate he sought at its very end. There would be grief at that conclusion, Barathol suspected, of incalculable measure.
Toll the Hounds, by Steven Erikson (Malazan Book of the Fallen #8)
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