Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

The Cabalhii monk standing now in the threshold of the doorway was no higher than Twilight’s shoulder, slight of build, bald, his round face painted into a comical mask with thick, solid pigments, bright and garish, exaggerating an expression of hilarity perfectly reflected in the glitter of the man’s eyes. Yan Tovis had not known what to expect, but certainly nothing like… this.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see him,’ she now said. ‘I understand that you possess talent as a healer.’

The monk seemed moments from bursting into laughter at her every word, and Twilight felt a flash of irritation.

‘Can you understand me?’ she demanded.

Beneath the face paint the features were flat, unresponsive, as he said in fluid Letherii, ‘I understand your every word. By the lilt of your accent, you come from the empire’s north, on the coast. You have also learned the necessary intonation that is part of the military’s own lexicon, which does not entirely amend the residue of your low birth, yet is of sufficient mediation to leave most of your comrades uncertain of your familial station.’ The eyes, a soft brown, were brimming with silent mirth with each statement. ‘This of course does not refer to the temporary taint that has come from long proximity among sailors, as well as the Tiste Edur. Which, you may be relieved to hear, is fast diminishing.’

Yan Tovis glanced at the guard standing behind the monk. A gesture sent her away.

‘If that was your idea of a joke,’ she said to the Cabalhii after the woman had left, ‘then even the paint does not help.’

The eyes flashed. ‘I assure you, no humour was intended. Now, I am told your own healers have had no success. Is this correct?’

Yes.’

‘And the Tiste Edur?’

‘They are… uninterested in Varat Taun’s fate.’

A nod, then the monk, drawing his loose silks closer, walked noiselessly towards the figure in the far corner.

Varat Taun squealed and began clawing at the walls.

The monk halted, cocking his head, then turned about and approached Yan Tovis. ‘Do you wish to hear my assessment?’

‘Go on.’

‘He is mad.’

She stared down into those dancing eyes, and felt a sudden desire to throttle this Cabalhii. ‘Is that all?’ Her question came out in a rasping tone, rough with threat.

‘All? It is considerable. Madness. Myriad causes, some the result of physical damage to the brain, others due to dysfunctioning organs which can be ascribed to traits of parentage-an inherited flaw, as it were. Other sources include an imbalance of the Ten Thousand Secretions of the flesh, a tainting of select fluids, the fever kiss of delusion. Such imbalances can be the result of aforementioned damage or dysfunction.’

‘Can you heal him?’

The monk blinked. ‘Is it necessary?’

‘Well, that is why I sent for you-excuse me, but what is your name?’

‘My name was discarded upon attaining my present rank within the Unified Sects of Cabal.’

‘I see, and what rank is that?’

‘Senior Assessor.’

Assessing what?’

The expression did not change. ‘All matters requiring assessment. Is more explanation required?’

Yan Tovis scowled. ‘I’m not sure,’ she muttered. ‘I think we are wasting our time.’

Another wild cavort in the monk’s eyes. ‘The appearance of a foreign fleet among our islands required assessment. The empire that despatched it required assessment. The demands of this Emperor require assessment. And now, as we see, the condition of this young soldier requires assessment. So I have assessed it.’

‘So where, precisely, does your talent for healing come in?’

‘Healing must needs precede assessing success or failure of the treatment.’

‘What treatment?’

‘These things follow a progression of requirements, each of which must be fully met before one is able to proceed to the next. Thus. I have assessed this soldier’s present condition. He is mad-I then, for your benefit, described the various conditions of madness and their possible causes. Thereafter we negotiated the issue of personal nomenclature-an aside with little relevance, as it turns out-and now I am ready to resume the task at hand.’

‘Forgive my interruption, then.’

‘There is no need. Now, to continue. This soldier has suffered a trauma sufficient to disrupt the normal balance of the Ten Thousand Secretions. Various organs within his brain are now trapped in a cycle of dysfunction beyond any measures of self-repair. The trauma has left a residue in the form of an infection of chaos-it is, I might add, never wise to sip the deadly waters between the warrens. Furthermore, this chaos is tainted with the presence of a false god.’