Toll the Hounds

CHAPTER SEVEN

As fast as his small feet could carry him, the small boy rushed through Two-Ox Gate and out on to the raised cobble road that, if he elected to simply hurry on, and on, would take him to the very edge of the world, where he could stand on the shore staring out upon a trackless ocean, so vast it swallowed the sun every night. Alas, he wasn’t going that far. Out to the hills just past the shanty town to collect dung, a bag full, as much as he could carry balanced on his head.

It is said by wise and sentimental poets that a child’s eyes see farther than an adult’s, and who would — with even less than a moment’s thought — claim otherwise? Beyond the ridge awaits a vista crowded with possibilities, each one deemed more improbable than the last by teeth-grinding codgers eager to assert a litany of personal failures should anyone care to hear, but no one does and if that isn’t proof the world’s gone to ruin then what is? But improbabilities is a word few children know, and even if they did, why, they would dismiss the notion with a single hand fluttering overhead as they danced to the horizon. Because it will not do to creep timorously into the future, no, one should leap, sail singing through the air, and who can say where one’s feet will finally set down on this solid, unknown land?

The boy hurried on, tracked by the dull eyes of the lepers in front of their hovels, squatting forlorn and forgotten each in a nest of flies when flies with singular poignancy expound the proof of cold-legged indifference. And the scrawny half-wild dogs crept out to follow him for a time, gauging with animal hunger if this one might be weakened, a thing to be taken down. But the boy collected rocks and when a dog drew too close he let fly. Ducked tails and startled yelps and now the dogs vanished like ghosts beneath stilted shacks and down narrow, twisting lanes off the main road.

Overhead, the sun regarded all with its unblinking omnipotence, and went on stealing moisture from every surface to feed its unquenchable thirst. And there were long-legged birds prancing on the sewage flats just past Brownrun Bay, beaks darting down to snatch up fleas and whatnot, while lizard-ducks nested on float shy;ing shit islands further out, calling to one another their hissing announcement of each bell in perfect cadence with the city’s water clocks and those sonorous chimes drifting out over the lake, although why lizard-ducks were obsessed with such artificial segmentation of time was a question as yet unanswered even after centuries of scholarly pursuit — not that the foul-smelling creatures gave a whit for the careers they had spawned, more concerned as they were with enticing up from the soupy water eels that would swallow their eggs, only to find the shells impervious to all forms of digestion, whilst the scaled monstrosities within pre shy;pared to peck their way free and then feed on eel insides unto gluttony.

What significance, then, such details of the natural world, when the boy sim shy;ply walked on, his long hair bleached by the sun and stirred like a mane by the freshening breeze? Why, none other than the value of indifference, beneath which a child may pass unnoticed, may pass by free as a fluffed seed on the warm cur shy;rents of summer air. With only a faint memory of his dream the night before (and yes, the one before that, too, and so on) of that face so vicious and the eyes so caustic as to burn him with their dark intentions, the face that might pursue him through each day with the very opposite of indifference, and see how deadly that forgetfulness might be for the child who hurried on, now on a dirt track winding its way up into the modest hills where baleful goats gathered beneath the occa shy;sional tree.

For the blessing of indifference might be spun on end, momentarily offering the grim option of curse, because one child’s gift can well be another’s hurt. Spare then a moment for the frightened beast named Snell, and all the cruel urges driv shy;ing him to lash out, to torment the brother he never wanted. He too thrives on in shy;difference, this squat, round-shouldered, swaggering tyrant before whom the wild dogs in the shanty town cowered in instinctive recognition that he was one of their own, and the meanest of the lot besides; while the boy, chest swelled with, power, continued on, trailing his intended victim with something in his soul that went far beyond a simple beating this time, oh, yes. The thing inside, it spread black, hairy legs like a Spider, his hands transformed there at the end of his wrists, oh, spiders, yes, hook-taloned and fanged and onyx-eyed, and they could close into bony fists if they so desired, or they could stab with venom — why not both?

He carried rocks as well. To wing at the lepers he passed, to laugh as they flinched or cried out in pain, and he rode their ineffectual curses all the way up the road.

While, all along the hillside, the sun had done its work, and the boy filled his bag with tinder-dry dung for this night’s hearthfire. Bent over like an old man, he roved this way and that. This bounty would please the woman-who-was-not-his-mother, who mothered him as a mother should — although, it must be said, lacking something essential, some maternal instinct to awaken cogent realization that her adopted son lived in grave danger — and as the sack bulked in his grip, he thought to pause and rest for a time, there, up on the summit of the hill. So that he could look out over the lake, watch the beautiful sails of the feluccas and fisher boats.

Set free his mind to wander oh, memories are made of moments such as this one.

And, alas, of the one soon to come.

But give him these moments of freedom, so precious for their rarity. Begrudge not this gift of indifference.

It could, after all, very well be his last day of such freedom.

Down on the track at the base of the hill, Snell has spied his quarry. The spiders at the ends of his wrists opened and closed their terrible black legs. And like a monster that wrings goats’ necks for the pleasure of it, he clambers upward, eyes fixed on that small back and tousled head there at the edge of the ridge.

In a temple slowly drowning there sat a Trell entirely covered in drying, blackening blood, and in his soul there was enough compassion to encompass an entire world, yet he sat with eyes of stone. When it is all one can do to simply hold on, then to suffer is to weather a deluge no god can ease.

Beneath the blood, faint traceries of spider’s web tattooing etched his dark brown hide. These stung like hot wires wrapped about his body, his limbs; wrapped everywhere and seeming to tighten incrementally with every shiver that took him,

Three times now he had been painted in the blood of Burn, the Sleeping God shy;dess. The web was proving a skein of resistance, a net trapping him on the inside, and keeping out the blessed gift of the goddess.

He would pass through Burn’s Gate, into the molten fires of the underworld, and the priests had prepared for that, yet now it seemed they would fail in fashioning a means of protecting his mortal flesh. What then could he do?

Well, he could walk away from this place and its huddled, doleful priests. Find another way to cross a continent, and then an ocean. He could perhaps try an shy;other temple, try to bargain with another god or goddess. He could-

‘We have failed you, Mappo Runt.’

He glanced over to meet the anguished eyes of the High Priest.

‘I am sorry,’ the old man went on. ‘The web that once healed you is proving most. . selfish. Claiming you for its own — Ardatha never yields her prizes. She has snarled you, for purposes unknown to any but her. She is most hateful, I think.’

‘Then I will wash this off,’ Mappo said, climbing to his feet, feeling the blood crack, pluck hairs from his skin. The web sang agony through him. ‘The one who healed me in Ardatha’s name is here in the city — I think I had better seek her out. Perhaps I can glean from her the spider goddess’s intent — what it is she would have me do.’

‘I would not recommend that,’ the High Priest said. ‘In fact, Mappo, I would run away. Soon as you can. For now, at least, Ardatha’s web does not seek to hold you back from the path you have chosen. Why risk a confrontation with her? No, you must find another way, and quickly.’

Mappo considered this advice for a time, then grunted and said, ‘I see the wis shy;dom in your words; thank you. Have you any suggestions?’

The expression drooped. ‘Unfortunately, I have.’ He gestured and three young acolytes crept forward. ‘These ones will assist in scrubbing the blood from you. In the meantime, I will send a runner and, perchance, an arrangement can be fashioned. Tell me, Mappo Runt, are you rich?’

Sweetest Sufferance, who had been so named by a mother either resigned to the rigours of motherhood or, conversely, poisoned by irony, blinked rapidly as she was wont to do when returning to reality. She looked round bemusedly, saw her fellow survivors seated with her, the table in their midst a chaotic clutter of cups, tankards, plates, utensils and the remnants of at least three meals. Her soft brown eyes flicked from one item to the next, then slowly lifted, out past the blank-eyed faces of her companions, and took in the taproom of Quip’s Bar.

Quip Younger was barely visible on the counter, sprawled across it with his upper body and head resting on one forearm. He slept with his mouth hanging open and slick with drool. Almost within reach of the man there squatted a rat on the counter, one front paw lifting every now and then as it seemed to study the face opposite and especially the gaping dark hole of Quip Younger’s mouth.

A drunk was lying just inside the door, passed out or dead, the only other pa shy;tron present this early in the morning (excepting the rat).

When she finally brought her attention back to her companions, she saw Faint studying her, one brow lifting.

Sweetest Sufferance rubbed at her round face, her cheeks reminding her, oddly enough, of the dough her mother used to knead just before the harvest festival, those big round cakes all glittering with painted honey that used to trap ants and it was her task to pick them off but that was all right because they tasted won shy;derful.

‘Hungry again, aren’t ya?’

‘You can always tell,’ Sweetest Sufferance replied.

‘When you rub your cheeks, there’s a look comes into your eyes, Sweetie.’

Faint watched as Master Quell hissed awake with a sound no different from the noise an alligator might make when one stepped too close. And glared round a moment before relaxing into a relieved slump. ‘I was dreaming-’

‘Yah,’ cut in Faint, ‘you’re always dreaming, and when you ain’t dreaming, you’d doing, and now if only those two things were any different from each other, why, you’d actually get some rest, Master. Which we’d like to see, wouldn’t we just.’

‘Got you through, didn’t I?’

‘Losing five shareholders in the process.’

‘That’s the risks y’take,’ Quell said, grimacing. ‘Hey, who’s paying for all this?’

‘You might’ve asked that once before. You are, of course.’

‘How long we been here? Gods, my bladder feels like I’m about to pass a pa shy;paya.’ And with that he reeled — wincing — upright, and tottered for the closet behind the bar.

The rat watched him pass with suspicions eyes, then crept a few waddles closer to Quip Younger’s mouth.

Glanno Tarp jerked alive in his chair. ‘No more bargains!’ he snarled. ‘Oh,’ he then said, slouching back down. ‘Somebody stopped bringing beer — can they do that? Sweetest, darling, I dreamt we was making love-’

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Only it wasn’t a dream.’

Glanno’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’

‘No, it was a nightmare. If you want another round, you’ll have t’wake up Quip Younger.’

Glanno squinted over. ‘He’ll wake up when he can’t breathe, soon as the rat goes for it. A silver council says he swallows instead of spitting out.’

At the voicing of a wager Reccanto Ilk’s watery grey eyes sharpened and he said, ‘I’ll take that one. Only what if he does both? Swallows then chokes and spits out? When you say “swallows” you got to mean he chews if he has to.’

‘Now that’s quibblering again and when you never done that, Ilk? It’s pointless you saying you want to wager when you keep rectivifying things.’

‘The point is you’re always too vague, Glanno, with these bets of yours. Y’need precision-’

‘What I need is. . well, I don’t know what I need, but whatever it is you ain’t got it,’

‘I got it but I ain’t giving it,’ said Sweetest Sufferance. ‘Not to none of you, any shy;how, There’s a man out there, oh, yes, and I’ll find him one day and I’ll put him in shackles and lock him in my room and I’ll reduce him to a pathetic wreck. Then we’ll get married.’

‘The marriage prediceeds the wrecking,’ Glanno said. ‘So I might dream of you, darling, but that’s as far as it’ll ever go. That’s called self-prevarication.’

‘Are you sure?’ Faint asked him, then, as the front door squealed open, she turned in her chair. An adolescent boy in a voluminous brown robe edged in warily, eyes like freshly laid turtle eggs. Lifting the robe he stepped gingerly over the drunk and padded across to their table and if he had a tail, why, Faint told herself, it’d be half wagging half slipping down between his legs.

‘Mmm. Mmmm.’

‘Would that be “Master”?’ Faint asked.

The youth nodded, drew a deep breath, and tried again. ‘Negotiation, for a delivery, yes?’

‘Master Quell is peremptorily predispossessed,’ Glanno Tarp said.

‘Predisposed, he means,’ Faint explained. ‘What needs delivering, and where?’

‘Not what. Who. Don’t know where.’

‘Tell you what,’ Faint said, ‘go get the who and bring him or her here and we’ll take it from there, all right? There now, watch your step on your way out.’

Bobbing head, hurried departure.

‘Since when you did the negotiating?’ Reccanto asked her, squinting.

‘You know,’ Faint observed, ‘any half-decent Denul healer could fix your bad eyes, Ilk.’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘What it is to me is you nearly lopped my head off, you damned blind idiot — do I look like a snarling corpse?’

‘Sometimes. Anyway, I figured it out at the last moment-’

‘After I ducked and kicked you between the legs.’

‘Right, corpses ain’t that smart, so now that’s settled. I was asking you a question.’

‘He was,’ chimed in Glanno Tarp. ‘Look at us, we’re short maybe six, seven — we can’t be going nowhere any time soon.’

‘Maybe not, but maybe it’ll be a quick, easy one.’

The others all stared at her.

Faint relented. ‘Fine. Besides, I was just standing in for Quell, who might never leave that closet.’

‘Could be he’s dead,’ Sweetest Sufferance suggested.

‘Internally explodicated,’ said Glanno Tarp, ‘and don’t think I’m going in for a look.’

‘There goes the rat!’ hissed Reccanto Ilk.

They looked, watched, breathless.

A pause, nose twitching, then a scurry of small steps. Close now, close enough to flinch back at the reeking breath.

‘Two councils it falls over dead.’

‘Be more precise — it’s gonna fall over dead some day, ain’t it?’

‘Gods below!’

The rat held its ground, edged a mite closer. Then gathered itself, stretched out its neck, and began drinking from the pool of slime with tiny, flickering laps of its slivery tongue.

‘That’s what I was thinking it was gonna do,’ said Sweetest Sufferance.

‘Liar.’

‘So now he ain’t never going to wake up,’ said Reccanto, ‘and I’m going to die here of thirst.’

The closet door creaked open and out staggered Master Quell, not looking at all refreshed. He hobbled over. ‘That papaya’s stuck — I need a healer-’

‘Or a fruit seller,’ Faint said. ‘Listen, could be we got us a new contract.’

Quell’s eyes bugged slightly, then he spun round and staggered back into the closet.

‘Now see what you did!’ snapped Reccanto.

‘It’s not my papaya, is it?’

So early in the morning, the streets of Darujhistan, barring those of markets, were ghostly, strewn with rubbish and yet somehow magical. The sun’s golden light stroked every surface with a gentle artist’s hand. The faint mists that had drifted in from the lake during the night now retreated once more, leaving the air crisp. In the poorer quarters, shutters opened on upper storeys and moments later the contents of chamber pots sailed out, splashing the alleys and any hapless denizen still lying drunk to the world, and moments later rats and such crept out to sample the fresh offerings.

The dolorous High Priest led Mappo Runt away from the temple quarter and down into the Lakefront District, skirting Second Tier Wall before cutting across towards the Gadrohi District — in essence taking the Trell back the way he had come the night before. As they walked, the city awoke around them, rubbed sleep from its eyes, then gawked at the shambling priest and his enormous, barbaric companion.

They eventually arrived upon a narrow, sloped street in which sat a massive, ornate carriage of a sort that Mappo had seen before, though he could not for the moment recall where. Six horses stood in their traces, looking bored. Someone had dumped feed all round them, and there was enough fresh dung scattered about to suggest that the animals had been left there a while.

The priest directed Mappo towards a nearby tavern. ‘In there,’ he said. ‘The Trygalle Trade Guild has made a specialty of journeys such as the one you require. Of course, they are expensive, but that is hardly surprising, is it?’

‘And one simply seeks out one such caravan, wherever one might find them? That sounds to be an ineffective business plan.’

‘No, they have offices. Somewhere — not a detail I possess, I’m afraid. I only knew of this carriage because its arrival destroyed the front of my cousin’s shop.’ And, pointing to a nearby ruin, he smiled like a man who had forgotten what real smiling signified. Then he shrugged. ‘All these twists of fate. Blessed by serendip shy;ity and all that. If you fail here, Mappo Runt, you will have a long, tedious walk ahead of you. So do not fail.’ He then bowed, turned and walked away.

Mappo eyed the front of the tavern. And recalled when he had last seen that sort of carriage.

Tremorlor.

Shareholder Faint had just stood, stretching out all the alarming kinks in her back, when the tavern door opened and a monstrous figure pushed its way in, shoulders squeezing through the frame, head ducking. A misshapen sack slung over one shoulder, a wicked knife tucked in its belt. A damned Trell.

‘Glanno,’ she said, ‘better get Master Quell.’

Scowling, the last driver left alive in their troupe rose and limped away.

She watched as the huge barbarian stepped over the drunk and made his way to the bar. The rat looked up and hastily retreated down the length of the counter. The Trell nudged Quip Younger’s head. The barkeep coughed and slowly straightened, wiping at his mouth, blinking myopically as he lifted his gaze to take in the figure looming over him.

With a bleat he reeled back a step.

‘Never mind him,’ Faint called out. ‘You want us, over here.’

‘What I want,’ the Trell replied in passable Daru, ‘is breakfast.’

Head bobbing, Quip bolted for the kitchen, where he was met by a screeching woman, the piercing tirade dimming as soon as the door closed behind him.

Faint dragged a bench from the nearby wall no chair in this dump would survive — and waved to it with a glance over to the barbarian. ‘Come over, then. Sit, but just so you know, we’re avoiding Seven Cities. There was a terrible plague there; no telling if it’s run its course.’

‘No,’ the Trell rumbled as he approached, ‘I have no desire to return to Seven Cities, or Nemil.’

The bench groaned as he settled on to it.

Sweetest Sufferance was eyeing the newcomer with a strangely avid intensity. Reccanto Ilk simply stared, mouth open, odd twitches of his scalp shifting his hairline up and down.

Faint said to the Trell, ‘The truth of it is, we’re really in no shape for any shy;thing. . ambitious. Master Quell needs to put out a call for more shareholders, and that could hold us back for days, maybe a week.’

‘Oh, that is unfortunate. It is said your Guild has an office here in Darujhistan-’

‘It does, but I happen to know we’re the only carriage available, for the next while. Where were you hoping to go, and how quickly?’

‘Where is your Master, or are you the one who does the negotiating?’

At that moment Glanno finally succeeded in dragging Quell out from the wa shy;ter closet. The Master was pale, and shiny with sweat, and it seemed his legs weren’t working very well. Faint met his slightly wild gaze. ‘Better?’ she asked.

‘Better,’ he replied in a gasp, as Glanno more or less carried him over to his chair. ‘It was a damned kidney stone, it was. Size of a knuckle — I never thought. . well, never mind. Gods, who is this?’

The Trell half rose to bow. ‘Apologies. My name is Mappo Runt.’ And he sat back down.

Faint saw Quell lick dry lips, and with a trembling hand reach for a tankard. He scowled to find it empty and set it back down. ‘The most infamous Trell of them all. You lost him, didn’t you?’

The barbarian’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Ah, I see.’

‘Where?’ Quell’s voice sounded half strangled.

‘I need to get to a continent named Lether. To an empire ruled by Tiste Edur, and a cursed emperor. And yes, I can pay you for the trouble.’

Faint had never seen her master so rattled. It was fascinating. Clearly, Quell had recognized the Trell’s name, which signified. . well, something.

‘And, er, did he face that emperor, Mappo? In ritual combat?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘Why?’

‘I believe I would have. . sensed such a thing-’

‘The end of the world, you mean.’

‘Perhaps. No, something else happened. I cannot say what, Master Quell. I need to know, will you take me there?’

‘We’re under-crewed,’ Quell said, ‘but I can drop by the office see if there’s a list of waiting prospects. A quick interview process. Say by this time tomorrow, I can have an answer.’

The huge warrior sighed. He glanced round. ‘I have nowhere else to go, so I will stay here until then.’

‘Sounds wise,’ Quell said. ‘Faint, you’re with me. The rest of you, get cleaned up, see to the horses, carriage and all that. Then stay close by, keep Mappo company — he might have nasty tusks but he don’t bite.’

‘But I do,’ said Sweetest Sufferance, offering the Trell an inviting smile.

Mappo stared at her a moment, then, rubbing at his face, he rose. ‘Where’s that breakfast, anyway?’

‘Let’s go, Faint,’ said Quell, pushing himself upright with another wince.

‘Can you make it?’ she asked him.

A nod. ‘Haradas is handling the office these days — she can heal me quick enough.’

‘Good point. Hands on?’

There is, as a legion of morose poets well know, nothing inconsequential about love. Nor all those peculiarities of related appetites often confused for love, for example lust, possession, amorous worship, appalling notions of abject surrender where one’s own will is bled out in sacrifice, obsessions of the fetishistic sort that might include earlobes or toenails or regurgitated foodstuffs, and indeed that ado shy;lescent competitiveness which in adults — adults who should of course know bet shy;ter but don’t — is manifested as insane jealousy.

Such lack of restraint has launched and no doubt sunk an equal number of ships, if one took the long view of such matters, which in retrospect is not only advisable but, for all the sighs of worldly wind, probably the most essential sur shy;vival trait of them all — but pray, let not this rounded self wallow unthinkingly into recounting a host of lurid tales of woe, loss and the like, nor bemoan his pres shy;ent solitude as anything other than a voluntary state of being!

Cast attention, then (with audible relief), upon these three for whom love heaves each moment like a volcano about to erupt, amidst the groan of conti shy;nents, the convulsion of valleys and the furrowing of furrows — but no, honesty demands a certain revision to what steams and churns beneath the surface. Only two of the three thrash and writhe in the delicious agony of that-which-might-be-love, and the subject of their fixed attention is none other than the third in their quaint trio, who, being of feminine nature, is yet to decide and, now that she basks in extraordinary attention, may indeed never decide. And should the two ever vying for her heart both immolate themselves at some future point, ah well, there are plenty of eels in the muck, aren’t there?

And these three, then, bound together in war and bound yet tighter in the calamity of desire long after the war was done with, now find themselves in the fair city of Darujhistan, two pursuing one and where the one goes so too will they, but she wonders, yes, just how far she can take them and let’s see, shall we?

Being illiterate, she has scrawled her name on to a list, assuming her name can be pictographically rendered into something like a chicken heart’s spasm the mo shy;ment before death, and lo, did not her two suitors follow suit, competing even here in their expressions of illiterate extravagance, with the first devising a most elaborate sigil of self that might lend one to imagine his name’s being Smear of Snail in Ecstasy, whilst the other, upon seeing this, set to with brush, scrivener’s dust and fingernails to fashion a scrawl reminiscent of a serpent trying to cross a dance floor whilst a tribe importuned the fickle gods of rain. Both men then stood, beaming with pride in between mutual baring of teeth, while their love sauntered off to find a nearby stall where an old woman wearing seaweed on her head was cooking stuffed voles over a brazier of coals.

The two men hastened after her, both desperate to pay for her breakfast, or beat the old woman senseless, whichever their darling preferred.

Thus it was that High Marshal Jula Bole and High Marshal Amby Bole, along with the swamp witch named Precious Thimble, all late of the Mott Irregulars, were close at hand and, indeed, ready and willing newfound shareholders when Master Quell and Faint arrived at the office of the Trygalle Trade Guild. And while three was not quite the number Quell sought by way of replacements, they would just have to do, given Mappo Runt’s terrible need.

So they would not have to wait until the morrow after all. Most consequential indeed.

Happy days!

Conspiracies are the way of the civilized world, both those real and those imag shy;ined, and in all the perambulations of move and countermove, why, the veracity of such schemes are irrelevant. In a subterranean, most private chamber in the estate of Councilman Gorlas Vidikas sat fellow Council members Shardan Lim and Hanut Orr in the company of their worthy host, and the wine had flowed like the fount of the Queen of Dreams — or if not dreams then at least irresponsible aspirations — throughout the course of the night just past.

Still somewhat inebriated and perhaps exhausted unto satiation by self-satisfaction, they were comfortably silent, each feeling wiser than their years, each feeling that wellspring of power against which reason was helpless. In their half-lidded eyes something was swollen and nothing in the world was unattain shy;able. Not for these three.

‘Coll will be a problem,’ Hanut said.

‘Nothing new there,’ Shardan muttered, and the other two granted him soft, muted laughter. ‘Although,’ he added as he played with a silver candle snuffer, ‘unless we give him cause for suspicion, there is no real objection he can legiti shy;mately make. Our nominee is well enough respected, not to mention harmless, at least physically.’

‘It’s just that,’ Hanut said, shaking his head, ‘by virtue of us as nominators, Coll will be made suspicious.’

‘We play it as we discussed, then,’ Shardan responded, taunting with death the nearest candle’s flame. ‘Bright-eyed and full of ourselves and brazenly awkward, eager to express our newly acquired privilege to propose new Council members. We’d hardly be the first to be so clumsy and silly, would we?’

Gorlas Vidikas found his attention wandering — they’d gone through all this be shy;fore, he seemed to recall. Again and again, in fact, through the course of the night, and now a new day had come, and still they chewed the same tasteless grist. Oh, these two companions of his liked the sound of their own voices all too well. Con shy;verting dialogue into an argument even when both were in agreement, and all that distinguished the two was the word choices concocted in each reiteration.

Well, they had their uses none the less. And this thing he had fashioned here was proof enough of that.

And now, of course, Hanut once more fixed eyes upon him and asked yet again the same question, ‘Is this fool of yours worth it, Gorlas? Why him? It’s not as if we aren’t approached almost every week by some new prospect wanting to buy our votes on to the Council. Naturally, it serves us better to string the fools along, gaining favour upon favour, and maybe one day deciding we own so much of them that it will be worth our while to bring them forward. In the meantime, of course, we just get richer and more influential outside the Council. The gods know, we can get pretty damned rich with this one.’

‘He is not the type who will play the whore to our pimp, Hanut.’

A frown of distaste. ‘Hardly a suitable analogy, Gorlas. You forget that you are the junior among us here.’

The one who happens to own the woman you both want in your beds. Don’t chide me about whores and pimps, when you know what you’ll pay for her. Such thoughts remained well hidden behind his momentarily chastened expression. ‘He’ll not play the game, then. He wants to attain the Council, and in return we shall be guaranteed his support when we make our move to shove aside the elder statesmen and their fossilized ways, and take the real power.’

Shardan grunted. ‘Seems a reasonable arrangement, Hanut. I’m tired, I need some sleep.’ And he doused the candle before him as he rose. ‘Hanut, I know a new place for breakfast.’ He smiled at Gorlas. ‘I am not being rude in not inviting you, friend. Rather, I imagine your wife will wish to greet you this morning, with a breakfast you can share. The Council does not meet until mid-afternoon, after all. Take your leisure, Gorlas, when you can.’

‘I will walk you both out,’ he replied, a smile fixed upon his face.

Most of the magic Lady Challice Vidikas was familiar with was of the useless sort. As a child she had heard tales of great and terrible sorcery, of course, and had she not seen for herself Moon’s Spawn? On the night when it sank so low its raw underside very nearby brushed the highest rooftops, and there had been dragons in the sky then, and a storm to the east that was said to have been fierce magic born of some demonic war out in the Gadrobi Hills, and then the confused mad shy;ness behind Lady Simtal’s estate. But none of this had actually affected her di shy;rectly. Her life had slipped through the world so far as most people’s did, rarely touched by anything beyond the occasional ministrations of a healer. All she had in her possession was a scattering of ensorcelled items intended to do little more than entrance and amuse.

One such object was before her now, on her dresser, a hemisphere of near perfect glass in which floated a semblance of the moon, shining as bright as it would in the night sky. The details on its face were exact, at least from the time when the real moon’s visage had been visible, instead of blurred and uncertain as it was now.

A wedding gift, she recalled, although she’d forgotten from whom it had come. One of the less obnoxious guests, she suspected, someone with an eye to romance in the old-fashioned sense, perhaps. A dreamer, a genuine well-wisher. At night, if she desired darkness in the room, the half-globe needed covering, for its reful shy;gent glow was bright enough to read by. Despite this inconvenience, Challice kept the gift, and indeed kept it close.

Was it because Gorlas despised it? Was it because, while it had once seemed to offer her a kind of promise, it had, over time, transformed into a symbol of some shy;thing entirely different? A tiny moon, yes, shining ever so bright, yet there it re shy;mained, trapped with nowhere to go. Blazing its beacon like a cry for help, with an optimism that never waned, a hope that never died.

Now, when she looked upon the object, she found herself feeling claustropho shy;bic, as if she was somehow sharing its fate. But she could not shine for ever, could she? No, her glow would fade, was fading even now. And so, although she pos shy;sessed this symbol of what might be, her sense of it had grown into a kind of fas shy;cinated resentment, and even to look upon it, as she was doing now, was to feel its burning touch, searing her mind with a pain that was almost delicious.

All because it had begun feeding a desire, and perhaps this was a far more pow shy;erful sorcery than she had first imagined; indeed, an enchantment tottering on the edge of a curse. The burnished light breathed into her, filled her mind with strange thoughts and hungers growing ever more desperate for appeasement. She was being enticed into a darker world, a place of hedonistic indulgences, a place unmindful of the future and dismissive of the past.

It beckoned to her, promising the bliss of the ever-present moment, and it was to be found, she knew, somewhere out there.

She could hear her husband on the stairs, finally deigning to honour her with his company, although after a night’s worth of drinking and all the manly mutual rais shy;ing of hackles, verbal strutting and preening, he would be unbearable. She had not slept well and was, truth be told, in no mood for him (but then, she realized, she had been in no mood for him for some time, now — shock!), so she swiftly rose and went to her private changing room. A journey out into the city would suit her rest shy;lessness. Yes, to walk without purpose and gaze upon the detritus of the night’s fes shy;tivities, to be amused by the bleary eyes and unshaven faces and the last snarl of exhausted arguments.

And she would take her breakfast upon a terrace balcony in one of the more el shy;egant restaurants, perhaps Kathada’s or the Oblong Pearl, permitting her a view of the square and Borthen Park where servants walked watchdogs and nannies pushed two-wheeled prams in which huddled a new generation of the privileged, tucked inside nests of fine cotton and silk.

There, with fresh fruits and a carafe of delicate white wine, and perhaps even a pipe bowl, she would observe all the life meandering below, sparing a thought just once and then done with for the dogs she didn’t want and the children she didn’t have and probably would never have, given Corlas’s predilections. To think, for a time, in a musing way, of his parents and their dislike of her — convinced that she was barren, no doubt, but no woman ever got pregnant from that place, did she? And of her own father, now a widower, with his sad eyes and the smile he struggled to fashion every time he looked upon her. To contemplate, yet again, the notion of pulling her father aside and warning him — about what? Well, her hus shy;band, for one, and Hanut Orr and Shardan Lim for that matter. Dreaming of a great triumvirate of tyranny and undoubtedly scheming to bring it about. But then, he would laugh, wouldn’t he? And say how the young Council members were all the same, blazing with ambition and conviction, and that their ascension was but a matter of time, as unstoppable as an ocean tide, and soon they would come to re shy;alize that and cease their endless plans of usurpation. Patience, he would tell her, is the last virtue learned. Yes, but often too late to be of any value, dear Father. Look at you, a lifetime spent with a woman you never liked, and now, free at last, you find yourself grey, a fresh stoop to your shoulders, and you sleep ten bells every night-

Such thoughts and others whilst she refreshed herself and began selecting her attire for the day. And in the bedroom beyond she heard Gorlas sit on the bed, no doubt unlacing his boots, knowing well that she was here in the tiny chamber and clearly not caring.

And what then would Darujhistan offer up to her this bright day? Well, she would see, wouldn’t she?

She turned from watching her students in the compound and, eyes alighting upon him, she scowled. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘This is the new crop, then? Apsalar’s sweet kiss, Stonny.’

Her scowl turned wry and she walked past him into the shade of the colon shy;nade, where she sat down on the bench beside the archway, stretching out her legs. ‘I won’t deny it, Gruntle. But it’s something I’ve been noticing — the noble-born children are all arriving lazy, overweight and uninterested. Sword skill is something their fathers want for them, as obnoxious to them as lyre lessons or learning numbers. Most of them can’t even hold up the practice swords for longer than fifty heartbeats, and here it’s expected I can work them into something worth more than snot in eight months. Apsalar’s sweet kiss? Yes, I’ll accept that. It is theft, all right.’

‘And you’re doing well by it, I see.’

She ran one gloved hand along her right thigh. ‘The new leggings? Gorgeous, aren’t they?’

‘Stunning.’

‘Black velvet doesn’t work on any old legs, you know.’

‘Not mine, anyway.’

‘What do you want, Gruntle? I see the barbs have faded, at least. News was you were positively glowing when you came back.’

‘A disaster. I need a new line of work.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, It’s the only thing you’re remotely good at. Oafs like you need to be out there, chopping through the thick skulls of bandits and whatnot. Once you start staying put this city is doomed and it just so happens that I like living here, so the sooner you’re back out on the trails the better.’

‘I missed you too, Stonny.’

She snorted.

‘Bedek and Myrla are well, by the way.’

‘Stop right there.’

He sighed, rubbed at his face.

‘I mean it, Gruntle.’

‘Look, an occasional visit is all I’m asking-’

‘I send money.’

‘You do? That’s the first I’ve heard of that. Not a mention from Bedek and from how they’re doing, well, you can’t be sending much, or very often.’

She glared at him. ‘Snell meets me outside the door and the coins go right into his hands — I make sure, Gruntle. Anyway, how dare you? I made the adoption legal and so I don’t owe them anything, damn you.’

‘Snell. Well, that probably explains it. Next time try Myrla or Bedek, anyone but Snell.’

‘You’re saying the little shit is stealing it?’

‘Stonny, they’re barely scraping by, and, thinking on it, well, I know you well enough to know that, adoption or no, you won’t see them starve — any of them, especially not your son.’

‘Don’t call him that.’

‘Stonny-’

‘The spawn of rape — I can see his face, right there in Harllo’s own, looking up at me. I can see it clear, Gruntle.’ And she shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes, and her legs had drawn up, tightly clenched, and all the bravado was gone as she clasped her arms tight about herself, and Gruntle felt his heart breaking yet again and there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to make it any bet shy;ter, only worse.

‘You’d better go,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘Come back when the world dies, Gruntle.’

‘I was thinking about the Trygalle Trade Guild.’

Her head snapped round. ‘Are you mad? Got a damned death wish?’

‘Maybe I do.’

‘Get out of my sight, then. Go on, run off and get yourself killed.’

‘Your students look ready to keel over,’ Gruntle observed. ‘Repeated lunges aren’t easy for anyone — I doubt any of them will be able to walk come the mor shy;row.’

‘Never mind them. If you’re really thinking of signing on with the Trygalle, say it plain.’

‘I thought you might talk me out of it.’

‘Why would I bother? You got your life just like I got mine. We aren’t married. We aren’t even lovers-’

‘Had any success in that area, Stonny? Someone might-’

‘Stop this. Stop all of it. You’re like this every time you come back from a bad one. All full of pity and damn near dripping with sanctimony while you try and try to convince me.’

‘Convince you of what?’

‘Being human, but I’m done with that. Stonny Menackis died years ago. What you’re seeing now is a thief running a school teaching nothing to imps with piss in their veins. I’m just here to suck fools dry of their coin. I’m just here to lie to them about how their son or daughter is a champion duelist in the making.’

‘So you won’t be talking me out of signing with the Trygalle, then.’ Gruntle turned to the archway. ‘I see I do nothing good here. I’m sorry.’

But she reached out and grasped his forearm as he was about to leave. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

‘Don’t what?’

‘Take it from me, Gruntle, there’s nothing good in a death wish.’

‘Fine,’ he said, then left.

Well, he’d messed it all up again. Nothing new in that, alas. Should hunt down Snell, give him a shake or two. At the very least, scare the crap out of him. Get him to spill where he’s been burying his hoard. No wonder he likes sitting on the threshold. Keeping an eye out, I suppose.

Still, Gruntle kept coming back to all these unpleasant truths, the life he was busy wasting, the pointlessness of all the things he chose to care about — well, not entirely true. There was the boy, but then, the role of an occasional uncle could hardly be worth much, could it? What wisdom could he impart? Very little, if he looked back on the ruin of his life so far. Companions dead or lost, followers all rotting in the ground, the ash-heaps of past battles and decades spent risking his life to protect the possessions of someone else, someone who got rich without chancing anything worthwhile. Oh, Gruntle might charge for his services, he might even bleed his employers on occasion, and why not?

Which was why, come to think on it, the whole thing with the Trygalle Trade Guild was starting to make sense to him. A shareholder was just that, someone with a stake in the venture, profiting by their own efforts with no fat fool in the wings waiting with sweaty hands.

Was this a death wish? Hardly. Plenty of shareholders survived, and the smart ones made sure they got out before it was too late, got out with enough wealth to buy an estate, to retire into a life of blissful luxury. Oh, that was just for him, wasn’t it? Well, when you’re only good at one thing, then you stop doing it, what’s left but doing nothing?

With some snivelling acolyte of Treach scratching at his door every night. ‘The Tiger of Summer would roar, Chosen One. Yet here you lie indolent in silk bed shy;ding. What of battle? What of blood and the cries of the dying? What of chaos and the reek of spilled wastes, the curling up round mortal wounds in the slime and mud? What of the terrible strife from which you emerge feeling so impossibly alive?’

Yes, what of it? Let me lie here, rumbling this deep, satisfied purr. Until war finds me, and if it never does, well, that’s fine by me.

Bah, he was fooling nobody, especially not himself. He was no soldier, true enough, but it seemed mayhem found him none the less. The tiger’s curse, that even when it is minding its own business a mob of beady-eyed fools come chanting into the jungle, beating the ground. Was that true? Probably not, since there was no reason for hunting tigers, was there? He must have invented the scene, or caught a glimpse of Treach’s own dreaming. Then again, did not hunters beard beasts of all sorts in their dens and caves and burrows? After some fatuous excuse about perils to livestock or whatever, off the mob went, eager for blood.

Beard me, will you? Oh, please do — and all at once, he found his mood changed, mercurial and suddenly seething with rage.

He was walking along a street, close now to his abode, yet the passers-by had all lost their faces, had become nothing more than mobile pieces of meat, and he wanted to kill them all.

A glance down at his hands and he saw the black slashes of the tiger’s barbs deep as dusty jet, and he knew then that his eyes blazed, that his teeth were bared, the canines glistening, and he knew, too, why the amorphous shapes he passed were shrinking from his path. If only one would come close, he could lash out, open a throat and taste the salty chalk of blood on his tongue. Instead, the fools were rushing off, cringing in doorways or bolting down alleys.

Unimpressed, disappointed, he found himself at his door.

She didn’t understand, or maybe she did all too well. Either way, she’d been right in saying he did not belong in this city, or any other. They were all cages, and the trick he’d never learned was how to be at peace living in a cage.

In any case, peace was overrated — look at Stonny, after all. I take my share, my fortune, and I buy them a new life — a life with servants and such, a house with an enclosed garden where he can be carried out and sit in the sun. The chil shy;dren properly schooled; yes, some vicious tutor to take Snell by the throat and teach him some respect. Or if not respect, then healthy terror. And for Harllo, a chance at a future.

One should be all I need, and I can survive one, can’t I? It’s the least I can do for them. In the meantime, Stonny will take care of things — making sure the coin reaches Myrla.

Where did I see that damned carriage anyway?

He was at his door again, this time facing the street. Loaded with travel gear, with weapons and his fur-lined rain-cloak — the new one that smelled like sheep — and so it was clear that some time had passed, but the sort that was inconsequen shy;tial, that did nothing but what needed doing, with no wasted thought. Nothing like hesitation, or the stolid weighing of possibilities, or the moaning back-and-forth that some might call wise deliberation.

Walking now, this too of little significance. Why, nothing had significance, un shy;til the moment when the claws are unsheathed, and the smell of blood gives bite to the air. And that moment waited somewhere ahead and he drew closer, step by step, because when a tiger decides it’s time to hunt, it is time to hunt.

Snell came up behind his quarry, delighted by his own skill at stealth, at stalking the creature who sat in the high grasses all unknowing, proving that Harllo wasn’t fit for the real world, the world where everything was a threat and needed taking care of lest it take care of you. It was the right kind of lesson for Snell to deliver, out here in the wilds.

He held in one hand a sack filled with the silver councils Aunt Stonny had brought, two linings of burlap and the neck well knotted so he could grip it tight. The sound the coins made when they struck the side of Harllo’s head was most satisfying, sending a shock of thrill through Snell. And the way that hateful head snapped to one side, the small body pitching to the ground, well, that was a sight he would cherish.

He kicked at the unconscious form for a while, but without the grunts and whimpers it wasn’t as much fun, so he left off. Then, collecting the hefty sack of dung, he set out for home. His mother would be pleased at the haul, and she’d plant a kiss on his forehead and he could bask for a time, and when someone won shy;dered where Harllo had got to, why, he’d tell them he’d seen him down at the docks, talking with some sailor. When the boy didn’t come home tonight, Myrla might send for Gruntle to go down and check the waterfront, where he’d find out that two ships had sailed that day, or three, and was there a new cabin boy on one of them? Maybe so, maybe not, who paid attention to such things?

Dismay, then, and worries, and mourning, but none of that would last long. Snell would become the precious one, the one still with them, the one they needed to take care of, protect and coddle. The way it used to be, the way it was supposed to be.

Smiling under the bright morning sun, with long-legged birds pecking mud on the flats out on the lake to his left, Snell ambled his way back home. A good day, a day of feeling so alive, so free. He had righted the world, the whole world.

The shepherd who found the small boy in the grasses of the summit overlooking the road into Maiten and then Two-Ox Gate was an old man with arthritic knees who knew his usefulness was coming to an end, and very soon indeed he would find himself out of work, the way the herdmaster watched him hobbling and leaning too much on his staff. Examining the boy, he was surprised to find him still alive, and this brought thoughts of what he might do with such an urchin in his care.

Worth the effort? He could bring his wife back here, with the cart, and together they could lift the body into the bed and wheel him back to their shack on the shore of the lake. Tend to him and see if he lived or died, feed him enough if it came to that, and then?

Well, he had thoughts, yes, plenty of thoughts on that. None of them pleasant, but then, whoever said the world was a pleasant place? Foundlings were fair game and that was a rule somewhere, he was sure of it, a rule, just like finding salvage on the beach. What you found you owned, and the money would do them good, besides.

He too concluded that it was a good day.

He remembered his childhood, running wild in the streets and alleys, clambering on to the rooftops at night to stare about in wonder at the infamous Thieves’ Road. So inviting this romance of adventure under the moon’s secret light, whilst slept all the dullards and might-be victims in the unlit rooms below.

Running wild, and for the child one road was as good as another, perhaps bet shy;ter so long as there was mystery and danger every step of the way. Even later, when that danger had become all too real, it had been for Cutter a life unfurling, revealing a heart saturated with wonder.

Romance was for fools, he now knew. No one valued the given heart, no one saw that sacrifice for the precious gift it was. No, just a thing to be grasped, twisted by uncaring hands, then wrung dry and discarded. Or a commodity and nothing more, never as desirable as the next one, the one in waiting, or the one held by someone else. Or, something far worse, a gift too precious to accept.

The nature of the rejection, he told himself, was irrelevant. Pain and grief ar shy;rived in singular flavours, bitter and lifeless, and too much of them rotted the soul. He could have taken other roads. Should have. Maybe walked Murillio’s path, a new love every night, the adoration of desperate women, elegant brunches on balconies and discreet rendezvous beneath whispering leaves in some private garden.

Or how about Kruppe? A most wily master to whom he could have appren shy;ticed himself yet further than he already had, in the art of high thievery, in the disposition of stolen items, in the acquisition of valuable information available to whoever was willing to pay and pay well. In the proper appreciation of wines, pas shy;tries and inappropriate attire. A lifetime of cherubic delight, but was there really room in the world for more than one Kruppe?

Assuredly not!

Was it preferable, then, this path of daggers, this dance of shadows and the tak shy;ing of lives for coin without even a soldier’s sanction (as if that mattered)? Rallick would not agree. And Murillio would shake his head, and Kruppe waggle his eyebrows, and Meese might grin and make another grab for his crotch, with Irilta looking on with motherly regard. And there’d be that glow in Sulty’s eyes, tinged now with the bitter truth that she was no longer enough for one such as him, that she could only dream, that somehow his being an assassin set him upon such a high station that her lowly existence as a serving wench was beneath all notice. Where even his efforts at friendship were perceived as pity and condescension, sufficient to pitch her into tears at the wrong word, the missed glance.

How the time for dreams of the future seemed to slip past unnoticed, until in reviving them a man realized, with a shock, that the privilege was no longer his to entertain, that it belonged to those younger faces he saw on all sides, laughing in the tavern and on the streets, running wild.

‘You have changed,’ Murillio said from the bed where he reclined, propped up on pillows, his hair hanging unbound and unwashed, ‘and I’m not sure it’s for the better.’

Cutter regarded his old friend for a moment, then asked, ‘What’s better?’

‘What’s better. You wouldn’t have asked that question, and certainly not in that way, the last time I saw you: Someone broke your heart, Crokus — not Challice D’Arle, I hope!’

Smiling, Cutter shook his head. ‘No, and what do you know, I’d almost forgot shy;ten her name. Her face, certainly. . and the name is Cutter now, Murillio.’

‘If you say so.’

He just had, but clearly Murillio was worse for wear, not up to his usual standard of conversation. If he’d been making a point by saying that, well, maybe Crokus would’ve snatched the bait. It’s the darkness in my soul. . no, never mind.

‘Seven Cities, was it? Took your time coming home.’

‘A long journey, for the ship I was on. The north route, along the island chains, stuck in a miserable hovel of a port for two whole seasons — first winter storms, which we’d expected, then a spring filled with treacherous ice rafts, which we didn’t — no one did, in fact.’

‘Should have booked passage on a Moranth trader.’

Cutter glanced away. ‘Didn’t have a choice, not for the ship, nor for the company on it.’

‘So you had a miserable time aboard?’

He sighed. ‘Not their fault, any of them. In fact, I made good friends-’

‘Where are they now, then?’

Cutter shrugged. ‘Scattered about, I imagine.’

‘Will we meet them?’ Murillio asked.

He wondered at this line of questioning, found himself strangely irritated by Murillio’s apparent interest in the people he had come back with. ‘A few, maybe. Some stepped ashore only to leave again, by whatever means possible — so, not any of those. The others. . we’ll see.’

‘Ah, I was just curious.’

‘About what?’

‘Well, which of your groups of friends you considered more embarrassing, I suppose.’

‘Neither!’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. . Cutter. You’re just seeming somewhat. . restless, as if you’d rather be elsewhere.’

It’s not that easy. ‘It all feels. . different. That’s all. Bit of a shock, finding you nearly dead.’

‘I imagine besting Rallick in a knife fight was rather shocking, as well.’

Cutter didn’t much want to think about that. ‘I could never have imagined that you’d lose a duel, Murillio.’

‘Easy to do, when you’re drunk and wearing no breeches.’

‘Oh.’

‘Actually, neither of those is relevant to my present situation. I was careless. Why was I careless? Because I’m getting old. Because it’s all slowing down. I’m slowing down. Look at me, lying here, healed up but full of aches, old pains, and nothing but cold ashes in my soul. I’ve been granted a second chance and I intend to take it.’

‘Meaning?’

Murillio shot him a look. Seemed about to say something, then changed his mind and said something else. ‘I’m going to retire. True, I’ve not saved up much, but then, I should be able to live with more modest expectations, shouldn’t I? There’s a new duelling school in the Daru. I’ve heard it’s doing rather well, long lists of applicants and all that. I could help out, a couple of days a week.’

‘No more widows. No more clandestine trysts.’

‘Precisely.’

‘You’ll make a good instructor.’

‘Not likely,’ he replied with a grimace, ‘but I have no aspirations to be one, ei shy;ther. It’s work, that’s all. Footwork, forms, balance and timing — the more serious stuff they can get from someone else.’

‘If you go in there talking like that,’ Cutter said, ‘you’ll never get hired.’

‘I’ve lost my ability to charm?’

Cutter sighed and rose from his chair. ‘I doubt it.’

‘What brought you back?’ Murillio asked.

The question stopped him. ‘A conceit, maybe.’

‘What kind of conceit?’

The city is in danger. It needs me. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning to the door, ‘the child shy;ish kind. Be well, Murillio — I think your idea is a good one, by the way. If Rallick drops by looking for me, tell him I’ll be back later.’

He took the back stairs, went through the dank, narrow kitchen, and out into the alley, where the chill of the night just past remained in the air. He did need to speak to Rallick Nom, but not right now. He felt slightly punch drunk. The shock of his return, he supposed, the clash inside himself between who he had once been and who he was now. He needed to get settled, to get the confusion from his mind. If he could begin to see clearly again, he’d know what to do.

Out into the city, then, to wander. Not quite running wild, was it?

No, those days were long gone.

The wound had healed quickly, reminding him that there had been changes — the powder of otataral he had rubbed into his skin only a few days ago, or so it seemed. To begin a night of murder now years past. The other changes, however, were proving far more disconcerting. He had lost so much time. Vanished from the world, and the world just went on without him. As if Rallick Nom had been dead, yes — no different from that, only now he was back, which wasn’t how things should be. Pull a stick from the mud and the mud closes in to swallow up the hole, until no sign remains that the stick ever existed.

Was he still an assassin of the Guild? Not at the moment, and this truth opened to him so many possibilities that his mind reeled, staggered back to the simpler no shy;tion of descending into the catacombs, walking up to Seba Krafar and announcing his return, resuming, yes, his old life.

And if Seba was anything like old Talo, he would smile and say welcome back, Rallick Nom. From that moment the chances that Rallick would make it back out alive were virtually nonexistent. Seba would see at once the threat standing before him. Vorcan had favoured Rallick and that alone was sufficient justifica shy;tion for getting rid of him. Seba wanted no rivals — he’d had enough of those if Krute’s tale of the faction war was accurate.

He had another option when it came to the Guild. Rallick could walk in and kill Seba Krafar, then announce he was interim Master, awaiting Vorcan’s return. Or he could stay in hiding for as long as possible, waiting for Vorcan to make her own move. Then, with her ruling the nest once again, he could emerge out of the woodwork and those missing years would be as nothing, would be without mean shy;ing. That much he shared with Vorcan, and because of that she would trust no one but Rallick. He’d be second in command, and how could he not be satisfied with that?

Oh, this was an old crisis — years old now. His thought that Turban Orr would be the last person he killed had been as foolish then as it was now.

He sat on the edge of the bed in his room. From the taproom below he could hear Kruppe expounding on the glories of breakfast, punctuated by some muted no doubt savage commentary by Meese, and with those two it was indeed as if nothing had changed. The same could not be said for Murillio, alas. Nor for Crokus, who was now named Cutter — an assassin’s name for certain, all too well suited to the man Crokus had become. Now who taught him to fight with knives like that? Something of the Malazan style — the Claw, in fact.

Rallick had been expecting Cutter to visit, had been anticipating the launch of a siege of questions. He would want to explain, wouldn’t he? Try to justify his de shy;cisions to Rallick, even when there was no possible justification. He didn’t listen to me, did he? Ignored my warnings. Only fools think they can make a differ shy;ence. So, where was he? With Murillio, I expect, holding off on the inevitable.

A brief knock at the door and Irilta entered — she’d been living hard of late, he could see, and such things seemed to catch up faster with women than with men — though when men went they went quickly. ‘Brought you breakfast,’ she said, carrying a tray over. ‘See? I remembered it all, right down to the honey-soaked figs.’

Honey-soaked figs? ‘Thank you, Irilta. Let Cro- er, Cutter know that I’d like to see him now.’

‘He went out.’

‘He did? When?’

She shrugged. ‘Not so long ago, according to Murillio.’ She paused for a hack shy;ing cough that reddened her broad face.

‘Find yourself a healer,’ Rallick said when she was done.

‘Listen,’ she said, opening the door behind her, ‘I ain’t got no regrets, Rallick. I ain’t expecting any god’s kiss on the other aide, and ain’t nobody gonna say of Irilta she didn’t have no fun when she was alive, no sir,’

She added something else but since she was in the corridor and closing the door Rallick didn’t quite catch it. Might have been something like ‘try chewin on that lesson some. .’, but then, she’d never been the edgy one, had she?

He looked down at the tray, frowned, then picked it up and rose.

Out into the corridor, balancing it one-handed while he lifted the latch of the next door along and walked into Murillio’s room.

‘This is yours,’ Rallick said. ‘Honey-soaked figs, your favourite.’

A grunt from Murillio on the bed. ‘Explains these strips of spiced jerky — you are what you eat, right?’

‘You’re not nearly as sweet as you think, then,’ Rallick said, setting the tray down. ‘Poor Irilta.’

‘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. No need to be so frantic, little ones. There’s all the time in the world. Well, he would be feeling that right now, wouldn’t he?

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.

‘Maybe he’s visiting his mother,’ Torvald mumbled.

He sat up, swung his legs round and settled feet on the woven mat covering the floor. Noticed that flat pillows had been sewn on to the mat, stuffed with lavent shy;der that crackled under his feet. ‘No wonder her feet smell nice.’ Anyway, he didn’t mind what she’d been up to all that time. Didn’t even mind if she was still up to a few things now, though those things might make things a little crowded. ‘Things, right.’

The day had begun, and all he needed to do was settle up certain matters and then he could resume his life as a citizen of Darujhistan. Maybe visit a few old friends, some members of his estranged family (the ones who’d talk to him, any shy;way), see the sites that’d make him the most nostalgic, and give some thought to what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

But first things first. Pulling on his foreign-cut clothes (the clean set, that had dried in a rather wrinkled state, alas), Torvald Nom made his way to the outer room. Her back was to him as she hunched over the wheel, legs pumping the pedals. He saw the large bowl of clean water where it always was, went over and splashed his face. Was reminded that he needed a shave — but now he could actu shy;ally pay someone else to do such things. To the opportunistic shall come rewards. Someone had said that, once, he was sure.

‘My sweetness!’

She half turned and grinned at him. ‘Look how bad this is, Tor. See what you’ve done?’

‘It’s the temper, of course-’

‘It’s tired thighs,’ she said.

‘A common complaint?’ he asked, walking alongside the shelves and leaning in to study a stack of misaligned plates.

‘Pretty rare, actually. What you think you’re seeing up there, husband, isn’t. It’s the new style everyone wants these days. Symmetry is dead, long live the clumsy and crooked. Every noble lady wants a poor cousin in the country, some aunt or great-aunt with stubby fingers who makes crockery for her kin, in be shy;tween wringing chicken necks and husking gourds.’

‘That’s a complicated lie.’

‘Oh, it’s never actually stated, Tor, only implied.’

‘I was never good at inferring what’s implied. Unless it’s implicitly inferred.’

‘I’ve had precisely two lovers, Tor, and neither one lasted more than a few months. Want their names?’

‘Do I know them?’

When she didn’t reply he glanced over and found her looking at him. ‘Ah,’ he said wisely.

‘Well, so long as you don’t start squinting at everyone who comes in here or says hello to me on the street — if that’s going to be the case, then I’d better tell you-’

‘No, no, darling. In fact, the mystery is. . intriguing. But that won’t survive my actually knowing.’

‘That’s true. Which is why I won’t be asking you about anything. Where you’ve been, what you’ve done.’

‘But that’s different!’

Her brows rose,

‘No, really,’ Torvald said, walking over. ‘What I told you last night, I wasn’t exaggerating.’

‘If you say so.’

He could see that she didn’t believe him. ‘I am stung. Crushed.’

‘You’d better get going,’ Tiserra said, returning once more to the lump of clay on the wheel. ‘You’ve got a debt to clear.’

‘The loot’s not sticky?’

‘It’s all clean as can be, I made sure. Unless Gareb’s scratched secret sigils on every coin he owned he won’t know either way. He might suspect, though.’

‘I’ve got a good tale to explain all that, if necessary,’ Torvald said. ‘Foreign investments, unexpected wealth, a triumphant return.’

‘Well, I’d tone down the new version, Tor.’

He regarded her, noting her amusement, and said nothing. What was the point? That giant whose life I saved more than once, his name was Karsa Orlong. Do you think I could make up a name like that, Tis? And what about these shackle scars? Oh, it’s the new style among the highborn, enforced humility and all that.

Oh, it didn’t matter anyway. ‘I don’t plan on meeting Gareb in person,’ he said as he walked to the front door. ‘I’ll work through Scorch and Leff.’

The lump of wet clay slid off the wheel and splatted on the wall, where it clung for a moment, then oozed down to glom on to the floor.

Surprised, Torvald turned to his wife and saw the expression that he hadn’t seen in. . in. . well, in quite a while. ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘That partnership is over with, I swear it! Darling, they’re just acting as my go-between, that’s all-’

‘You start scheming with those two again, Torvald Nom, and I’ll take out a contract on you myself.’

‘They always liked you, you know.’

‘Torvald-’

‘I know, my love, I know. Don’t worry. No more scheming with Scorch and Leff. That’s a promise. We’re rich now, remember?’

‘The problem with lists,’ Scorch said, ‘is all the names on ’em.’

Leff nodded. ‘That’s the problem, all right. You got it dead on there, Scorch. All them names. They must’ve had some kind of meeting, don’t you think? All the loansharks in some crowded, smoky room, lounging about with nubile women dropping grapes in their mouths, and some scribe with stained lips scratching away. Names, people down on their luck, people so stupid they’d sign anything, grab the coin no matter how insane the interest. Names, you got it, Scorch, a list of fools. Poor, dumb, desperate fools.’

‘And then,’ Scorch said, ‘when the list is gone, out it goes, for some other poor, dumb, desperate fools to take on.’

‘Hey now, we ain’t poor.’

‘Yes we are. We been poor ever since Torvald Nom vanished on us. He was the brains — admit it, Leff. Now, you tried being the brains ever since and look where it’s got us, with a damned list and all those names.’

Leff raised a finger. ‘We got Kruppe, though, and he’s already given us six of ’em.’

‘Which we passed on and you know what that means? It means thugs kicking in the door in the middle of the night, delivering threats and maybe worse. People got hurt ’cause of us, Leff. Bad hurt.’

‘They got hurt because they couldn’t pay up. Unless you decide to run, and I do mean run, as in out of the city, as in hundreds of leagues away to some town or city with no connections to here, but people don’t do that and why not? Because they’re all caught up, tangled in the nets, and they can’t see their way clear be shy;cause they got husbands and wives and children and maybe it’s hard but at least it’s familiar, you know what I mean?’

‘No.’

Leff blinked. ‘I was just saying-’

‘What did they think they were doing, to get caught up in nets — swimmin’ the lake? Besides, not all of it’s loans, is it? There’s blackmail, too, which gives me a thought or two-’

‘No way, Scorch. I don’t want in on anything like that.’

‘I’m just suggesting we talk to Tor about it, that’s all. See what he conjures up in the way of plans and such.’

‘Assuming Tor ever shows up.’

‘He will, you’ll see, Leff. He was our partner, wasn’t he? And he’s back.’

The conversation ended abruptly, for no reason obvious to either of them, and they stood looking at each other for a dozen heartbeats. They were opposite the entrance to the Phoenix Inn. It was morning, when they did their best thinking, but that had a way of dying quick, so that by late afternoon they would find them shy;selves sitting somewhere, sluggish as tortoises in a hailstorm, arguing about nothing in particular with monosyllabic brevity and getting angrier by the mo shy;ment.

Without another word they both set out for the Phoenix Inn.

Clumped inside, looking round — just to be sure — then heading over to where sat Kruppe, plump hands upraised and hovering like hooded snakes, then striking down to one of dozens of pastries heaped on numerous platters in front of him. Fingertip fangs spearing hapless sweets right and left, each one moving in a blur up to his mouth, gobbled up in a shower of crumbs one after another.

Mere moments later and half the offerings were gone. Kruppe’s cheeks bulged, his jam-smeared lips struggling to close as he chewed and frantically swallowed, pausing to breathe loudly through his nose. Seeing Scorch and Leff approaching, he waved mutely, gesturing them into their seats.

‘You’re going to explode one day, Kruppe,’ said Leff.

Scorch stared with his usual expression of rapt disbelief.

Kruppe finally managed to swallow everything down, and he raised his hands once more, left them to hover whilst he eyed his two guests. ‘Blessed partners, is this not a wondrous morning?’

‘We ain’t decided yet,’ Leff said, ‘We’re still waiting for Torvald — he had a runner find us down at the docks and said he’d meet us here. He’s already changing things all round, like maybe he don’t trust us. It’s a blow, I tell you, Kruppe. A real blow.’

‘Conflagration of suspicions climbing high into yon blue sky is quite unnecessary, shifty-eyed friends of wise Kruppe. Why, infamous and almost familiar offspring of House Nom is true to his word, and Kruppe asserts — with vast confidence — that the first name is about to be struck from dire list!’

‘First? What about the six-’

‘You’ve not heard? Oh, my. Each had flown, only moments before the cruel night-beaters closed in. Most extraordinary ill-luck.’

Scorch clawed at his face. ‘Gods, we’re back where we began!’

‘That’s impossible, Kruppe! Someone must’ve tipped ’em off!’

Kruppe’s gnarled brows lifted, then waggled. ‘Veracity of your discoveries is not in doubt, you will be pleased to hear. Thusly, you have succeeded in your task with said six, whilst they who compiled the list have, alas, not quite matched your rate of success. And so, how many remain? Twelve, yes? Not counting sleep-addled Torvald Nom, that is.’

‘He ain’t no sleep-addered or whatever,’ Scorch said. ‘In fact, he looked just fine yesterday.’

‘Perhaps glorious reunion has sapped all verve, then. Kruppe assumed sleep-addered indeed, given the man’s hapless and ineffectual perusal of this taproom — ah, at last he sees us!’

And both Scorch and Leff twisted round in their chairs to see Torvald Nom sauntering up and, noting the man’s broad smile, they were instantly relieved and then, just as quickly, nervous.

‘My apologies for being late,’ Torvald said, dragging up another chair. ‘I got a shave and the old woman threw in the buffing of my nails for free — said I was sur shy;prisingly handsome under all those whiskers and if that’s not a good start to a day then what is? True, she was about a thousand years old, but hey, compliments don’t have to be pretty, do they? And you’re Kruppe. You must be — who else in this city tries to eat with his nose when his mouth is filled? I’m Torvald Nom.’

‘Sit, newfound friend. Kruppe is generous enough this morning to disregard du shy;bious observation regarding his eating habits and the habits of his orifices. Kruppe further observes that you, while once a poor destitute man, have suddenly acquired impressive wealth, so finely attired and groomed are you, and that with great relief friends Scorch and Leff are soon to pay a most propitious visit to one Gareb the Lender. And on this of all days, one suspects Gareb to be most gracious at repayment of said debt, yes?’

Torvald stared at Kruppe, evidently speechless with admiration.

Kruppe’s left hand darted down, captured a puff pastry that indeed might have been trying to escape, and pushed it whole into his mouth. Beaming, he chewed.

‘You got the money?’ Leff asked Torvald.

‘What? Oh. Here,’ and he drew out a pouch, ‘In full. Kruppe, you are witness to this, so don’t try anything, Leff. Not you either, Scorch. Walk it straight over to Gareb’s. Get the chit saying I’m cleared, too. Then come straight back here and I’ll buy you all lunch.’

Scorch was looking back and forth between Torvald and Kruppe, and finally of the latter he asked, ‘What was that you said about Gareb?’

Kruppe swallowed, licked his lips, and said, ‘Why, only that a dastardly thief broke into his estate last night and stole his entire hoard. The poor man! And ’tis said the thief stole much more than that — why, the wife’s dignity, too, or at least her innocence in so far as nonmarital intercourse is concerned.’

‘Hold on,’ Leff said. ‘The thief slept with Gareb’s wife? Where was Gareb?’

‘At a moneylenders meeting, Kruppe understands, discussing important matters and, no doubt, eating his fill of grapes and whatnot.’

‘Well then,’ Torvald Nom said, ‘won’t he be happy I’ve returned to repay my debt.’

‘Won’t he just!’ said Kruppe, beaming once more.

Leff took the bag of coins and peered inside. ‘All there?’

‘All there,’ Torvald replied.’

Leff rose and said, ‘Let’s get this done with, Scorch.’

When the two were gone, Torvald Nom sat back in his chair and smiled at Kruppe.

Who smiled back.

And when that was done with, Kruppe collected another pastry and held it be shy;fore his mouth, in order to more closely observe its delight, and perhaps torture it a moment before his mouth opened like a bear’s jagged maw. Poised thus, he paused to glance over at Torvald Nom. ‘Upstairs, dear sir, you shall find, if you so desire, a cousin of renown. Like you, suddenly returned to fair Darujhistan. None other than Rallick, among the Noms of House Nom one might presume a sheep blacker than you. Indeed, the very black of nadir, the Abyss, whilst you might re shy;veal a lesser black, such as charcoal. Two sheep, then, in this very inn, of a very dark hue — why, could Kruppe but witness such a meeting!’ And time now to lift an admonishing finger. ‘But listen, dear friend Torvald Nom, most clandestine is Rallick’s return, yes? Seal thy lips, I beg you!’

‘He’s in hiding? Who from?’

A flutter of pudgy fingers, like worms in a reef-bed. ‘Quick, then, lest he depart on some fell errand. Kruppe will save your seat here against your return — he so looks forward to the sumptuous lunch for which Torvald will pay and pay hap shy;pily!’

Torvald was suddenly sweating, and he fidgeted in the chair. ‘The reunion can, er, wait. Really, why would I want to bother him right now? No, honest, Kruppe, and as for secret, well, I’ll keep it just fine, provided you, er, do the same. Say nothing to Rallick, I mean. Let me. . surprise him!’

‘Rallick has little love for surprises, Torvald Nom, as you must surely know. Why, just last night he-’

‘Just don’t say anything, all right?’

‘Oh, aren’t conspiracies delicious? Kruppe will say nothing to no one, none to worry no matter what. This is a most solemn promise most solemnly promised! Now, old friend, be so good as to accost yon Meese o’er there — some wine to loosen the throats prior to vast meal, yes? Kruppe’s mouth salivates and, perhaps, so too sniffles his nose — all in anticipation, yes?’

‘If this is what I want, then I don’t want it.’

‘Oh, now that makes sense, Antsy. And if you happen to be a short bow-legged red-faced crab of a man, well, you’d rather be a short bow-legged red-faced crab of a-’

‘You’re an idiot, Bluepearl, and that don’t change no matter what you want. What I’m saying is simple, right? Even you should grasp the meaning. A soldier retires, right? And looks to a life all simple and peaceful, but is it?’

‘Is it which?’

‘What?’

‘Is it simple or is it peaceful?’

‘It isn’t and that’s my point!’

‘That wasn’t your point. Your point was you don’t want it and if that’s the case, then head on over to the Malazan Embassy and throw yourself on the mercy of whoever and if they don’t hang you they’ll sign you up all over again.’

‘The point was, I’d like being retired if I only could be!’

‘I’m going to the cellar to check on stock.’

Antsy watched him leave, then snorted and shook his head. ‘That man needs help.’

‘So go help him,’ Blend said from the next table over.

Antsy jumped in his seat, then glared at her. ‘Stop doing that! Anyway, I didn’t mean that kind of help. Oh, gods, my head aches.’

‘Sometimes,’ Blend said, ‘I try to make myself as quiet as possible because that way the military marching band in my skull maybe won’t find me.’

‘Huh,’ said Antsy, brows knitting. ‘Never knew you played an instrument, Blend. Which one?’

‘Pipes, drums, flute, rattle, horn, waxstring.’

‘Really? All at once?’

‘Of course. You know, I think I’d be annoyed if I headed upstairs and found Picker creeping out of Scillara’s room right about now.’

‘So stay sitting right there.’

‘Well, it’s only my imagination inventing the scene.’

‘You sure?’

She lasted four or five heartbeats before swearing under her breath and rising.

Antsy watched her leave, then smiled. ‘It’s better,’ he said to no one, ‘when you don’t have an imagination. Like me.’ He paused, scowled. ‘Mind, could be I could use one right about now, so I could figure out how and when them assassins are gonna try again. Poison. Magic. Knives. Crossbow quarrels in the night, through the window, right through the shutters, a perfect shot. Thump to the floor goes Antsy, the Hero of Mott Wood. A spear up through that floor just to finish him off, since they been tunnelling for weeks and was waiting, knowing he’d fall right there right then, aye.’

He sat, eyes wide, red moustache twitching.

Sitting in the shadows in the far corner, back resting against the wall, Duiker watched with wry amusement. Extraordinary, how some people survived and others didn’t. The soldier’s face was always the same once the mask fell away — a look of bemusement, the faint bewildered surprise to find oneself still alive, knowing all too well there was no good reason for it, nothing at all but the nudge of luck, the emptiness of chance and circumstance. And all the unfairness of the world made a bitter pool of the eyes.

A commotion from the back room and a moment later the narrow door opened and out walked the bard, grey hair tousled by sleep, eyes red even at this distance. A glance over at Antsy. ‘There’s lice in the mattress,’ he said.

‘I doubt they mind the company,’ the ex-sergeant replied, levering himself up shy;right and making for the stairs.

The bard stared after him for a moment, then headed over to the bar, where he poured himself a tankard of pungent, dark Rhivi beer. And came over to where Duiker sat.

‘Historians and bards both,’ he said, sitting down.

Duiker nodded, understanding well enough.

‘But what you observe and what I observe, well, that can turn out quite differ shy;ently. Then again, maybe the distinction is merely superficial. The older I get, the more I suspect just that. You describe events, seeing the great sweep of things. I look at the faces, rushing by so fast they might be no more than a blur if I don’t take care. To see them true, to remember them all.’

‘Where are you from?’ Duiker asked.

The bard drank down a mouthful and set the tankard carefully before him. ‘Ko shy;rel, originally. But that was a long time ago.’

‘Malazan invasion?’

An odd smile as the man studied the tankard on the table before him. His hands, however, remained in his lap, ‘If you mean Greymane, then yes.’

‘So which of the countless contradictory tales are true? About him, I mean.’

The bard shrugged. ‘Never ask that of a bard. I sing them all. Lies, truths, the words make no distinction in what they tell, nor even the order they come in. We do as we please with them.’

‘I’ve been listening to you these past few nights,’ said Duiker.

‘Ah, an audience of one. Thank you.’

‘You’ve sung verses of Anomandaris I’ve never heard before.’

‘The unfinished ones?’ The bard nodded and reached for the tankard. ‘“Black Coral, where stand the Tiste Andii. .”’ He drank another mouthful.

‘Have you come from there, then?’

‘Did you know that there is no god or goddess in all the pantheon that claims to be the patron — or matron — of bards? It’s as if we’ve been forgotten, left to our own devices, That used to bother me, for some reason, but now I see it for the true honour it represents. We have been unique, in our freedom, in our re shy;sponsibility, is there a patron of historians?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Does this mean I’m free, too?’

‘It’s said you told the tale of the Chain of Dogs once, here in this very room.’

‘Once.’

‘And that you have been trying to write it down ever since.’

‘And failing. What of it?’

‘It may be that expositional prose isn’t right for the telling of that story, Duiker.’

‘Oh?’

The bard set the tankard to one side and slowly leaned forward, fixing the his shy;torian with grey eyes. ‘Because, sir, you see their faces.’

Anguish welled up inside Duiker and he looked away, hiding his suddenly suddenly trembling hands. ‘You don’t know me well enough for such matters,’ he said in a rasp.

‘Rubbish. This isn’t a personal theme here, historian. It’s two professionals discussing their craft. It’s me, a humble bard, offering my skills to unlock your soul and all it contains — everything that’s killing it, moment by moment. You can’t find your voice for this. Use mine.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ Duiker asked. ‘Like some vulture eager to lap up my tears?’

Brows lifted. ‘You are an accident. My reasons for being here lie. . elsewhere. Even if I could explain more, I would not. I cannot. In the meantime, Duiker, let us fashion an epic to crush the hearts of a thousand generations.’

And now, yes, tears rolled down the lined tracks of the historian’s face. And it took all the courage he still possessed to then nod.

The bard leaned back, retrieving his tankard. ‘It begins with you,’ he said. ‘And it ends with you. Your eyes to witness, your thoughts alone. Tell me of no one’s mind, presume nothing of their workings. You and I, we tell nothing, we but show.’

‘Yes.’ Duiker looked up, back into those eyes that seemed to contain — and hold sure — the grief of the world. ‘What’s your name, bard?’

‘Call me Fisher.’

Chaur was curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring, twitching like a dreaming dog. Picker observed him for a moment before settling back on the mattress. How had she got here? Was that raw tenderness between her legs what she thought it was and if so then did Barathol remember as little of it as she did? Oh, too com shy;plicated to work out. She wasn’t ready to be thinking of all those things, she wasn’t ready to be thinking at all.

She heard someone moving down the hall. Then a muted conversation, punc shy;tuated by a throaty laugh that did not belong to Blend or anyone else Picker knew, meaning it was probably that woman, Scillara. Picker gasped slightly at a sudden recollection of holding the woman’s breasts in her hands and hearing that laugh but up close and a lot more triumphant.

Gods, did I sleep with them all? Damn that Quorl Milk!

A wheeze from Chaur and she started guiltily — but no, she’d not do any such thing to an innocent like him. There were limits — there had to be limits.

A muffled knock on the door.

‘Oh, come in, Blend.’

And in she came, light-footed as a cat, and her expression seemed filled up with something, on the verge of bursting.

No, not tears, please. ‘I don’t remember nothing, Blend, so don’t start on me.’

Blend held back a moment longer, then erupted.

In howling laughter, bending over in convulsions.

Chaur sat up on the floor, blinking and smiling, then he too was laughing.

Picker glared at Blend, wanting to kill her. ‘What’s so damned funny?’

Blend managed to regain control over herself. ‘They pretty much carried us all the way back. But then we woke up and we all had one thing and one thing only on our minds. They didn’t stand a chance!’

‘Gods below.’ Then she stiffened. ‘Not Chaur-’

‘No, Scillara got him in here first.’

Chaur was still laughing, tears rolling down his face. He seemed to be losing control and all at once Picker felt alarmed. ‘Stop now, Chaur! Stop!’

The wide empty eyes fixed on her, and all mirth vanished.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s all right. Go down to the kitchen and get something to eat, Chaur, there’s a lad.’

He rose, stretched, scratched himself, then left the room. He barked one last laugh somewhere near the stairs.

Picker rubbed at her face. ‘Not Antsy, too. Don’t tell me. .’

Blend shrugged. ‘Lust is blind, I suppose. And let’s hope all memory of it stays that way. I fear all his fantasies came true last night. . only he can’t remember any of it!’

‘I feel sick.’

‘Oh, relax, it’s what all those parts are made for, after all.’

‘Where is Barathol?’

‘Went out early. With Mallet for company. Looking for the Blacksmiths’ Guild. You must remember his big, er, hands.’

‘My kitten remembers, all right.’

Another snort from Blend. ‘Meow.’

The grey gloom of the cellar seemed to defy the lantern’s light, but Bluepearl was used to that, and he was only marginally surprised when the ghost shuffled out from the wall at the far end where rested a half-dozen casks still sealed by the monks’ sigil. Sunk to his hips in the floor, the ghost paused and looked round, fi shy;nally spying the Malazan standing near the steep stone steps.

The ghost waded closer. ‘Is that you, Fellurkanath?’

‘Fella what? You’re dead, monk, and you’ve been dead for some time, I’d wager — who wears tricornered hats these days?’

‘Oh,’ the ghost moaned, clutching his face, ‘K’rul has coughed me out. Why? Why now? I’ve nothing useful to tell, especially not to any foreigner. But he’s stir shy;ring below, isn’t he? Is that why? Am I to be the voice of dire warning? What do you care? It’s already too late anyway.’

‘Someone’s trying to murder us.’

‘Of course they are. You’re squatting and they don’t want company. You should broach a cask, one of these. That will tell you everything you need to know.’

‘Oh, really now. Go away.’

‘Who raised the floor and why? And look at this.’ The ghost pushed his head back to reveal that his throat had been sliced open, all the way back to his spine. Gory, bloodless flesh and slashed veins and arteries vaguely silver in the dim light. ‘Was this the ultimate sacrifice? Little do you know.’

‘Do I need to get a necromancer down here?’ Bluepearl demanded. ‘Go away!’

‘The living never heed the dead,’ muttered the ghost, lowering his head and turning round to walk back towards the far wall. ‘And that’s just it. If we didn’t know better, why, we’d be still alive. Think about that, if you dare.’

Vanishing into the heavy stones, and gone.

Bluepearl sighed, looked round until he found the bottle he was looking for. ‘Hah, I knew we had one. Quorl Milk. Why should they get all the fun?’

The two men trundled just behind the woman, so eager they trod on her heels as they fought for some imagined dominant position. Faint had never seen anything so pathetic, and the way the witch played all innocent, even when she worked her two men just to keep trouble stirred up — all of it seemingly accidental, of course, but it wasn’t accidental because Precious Thimble knew precisely what she was up to and as far as Faint was concerned that was cruel beyond all reason.

It didn’t help, either, that the two men — evidently brothers — looked so much alike. With the same way of walking, the same facial expressions, the same tone of voice. If they were no different from each other, then why not just choose one and be done with it?

Well, she didn’t expect any of them to last very long in any case. For most shareholders, the first trip was the deadliest one. It came with not knowing what to expect, with not reacting fast enough or just the right way. The first journey into the warrens killed over half first-timers. Which meant that Precious Thim shy;ble (who struck Faint as a survivor) might well have her choice taken from her, when either Jula or Amby Bole went down somewhere on the trail.

As they rounded the corner and came within sight of the carriage, Faint saw that Glanno Tarp was already seated up top. Various rituals had been triggered to effect repairs to the huge contrivance; the horses looked restless and eager to be away — as mad as the rest of them, they were. Off to one side and now watching Faint, Quell and their new shareholders approaching, stood Reccanto Ilk and Sweetest Sufferance, and a third man — huge, round-shouldered, and tattooed in a pattern of-

‘Uh oh,’ said Master Quell.

That’s the one, isn’t it! The caravan guard, the one who survived the Siege of Capustan. What was his name again?

‘This is not for you, Gruntle,’ Master Quell said.

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve got some damned good reasons for saying no to you, and if you just give me a moment I’ll come up with them.’

The man’s feral smile revealed elongated canines.

‘The Trell is inside,’ Reccanto said. ‘Want me to get him, Quell? We should get going, right?’

‘Gruntle-’

‘I’d like to sign on,’ the caravan guard said, ‘as a shareholder. Just like those re shy;cruits there behind you. Same stakes. Same rules.’

‘When did you last take an order, Gruntle? You’ve been commanding guards for years now. You really think I want arguments with everything I say?’

‘No arguments. I’m not interested in second-guessing you. As a shareholder, just another shareholder.’

The tavern door opened then and out walked Mappo Runt.

His glance slipped past Gruntle then swung back, eyes narrowing. Then he faced Master Quell. ‘Is this one accompanying us? Good.’

‘Well-’

The Trell moved up to the wagon and clambered up its side in a racket of squealing springs to take position behind Glanno Tarp. He looked back down. ‘We’ll probably need someone like him.’

‘Like what?’ asked the witch, Precious Thimble.

‘Soletaken,’ Mappo replied, shrugging.

‘It’s not quite like that,’ Gruntle said quietly as he moved to join Mappo atop the carriage.

Master Quell stared after him, then, shaking himself, said, ‘Everyone get aboard, then. You two Boles, you’re facing astern. Witch, inside with me, where we can have ourselves a conversation. And you too, Mappo. We don’t put passengers up top. Too risky.’

Faint swung herself up to sit beside Glanno Tarp.

Brakes were released. Glanno glanced back to scan the crowd clinging to vari shy;ous handholds on the roof behind him. Grinned, then snapped the reins.

The horses screamed, lunged.

The world exploded around them.

Blaze down, blessed sun, on this city of wonders where all is of consequence. Cast your fiery eye on the crowds, the multitudes moving to and fro on their ways of life. Flow warmth into the rising miasma of dreams, hopes, fears and loves that ever seethe skyward, rising in the breaths expelled, the sighs released, reflected from restive glances and sidelong regard, echoing eternal from voices in clamour.

See then this street where walks a man who had been young the last time he walked this street. He is young no longer, oh, no. And there in the next street, wandering a line of market stalls crowded with icons, figurines and fetishes from a thousand cults — most of them long extinct — walks a woman whose path had, years ago now, crossed that of the man. She too no longer feels young, and if de shy;sire possessed tendrils that could pass through stone and brick, that could wend through mobs of senseless people, why, might they then meet in some fateful place and there intertwine, weaving something new and precious as a deadly flower?

In another quarter of the city strides a foreigner, an impressive creature, tall and prominently muscled, very nearly sculpted, aye, with skin the perfect hue of polished onyx and eyes in which glittered flecks of hazel and gold, and many were the glances sliding over him as he passed. But he was not mindful of such things, for he was looking for a new life and might well find it here in this glorious, ex shy;otic city.

In a poor stretch of the Gadrobi District a withered, weathered woman, tall and thin, knelt in her narrow strip of garden and began placing flatstones into a pattern in the dark earth. So much of what the soil could give must first be pre shy;pared, and these ways were most arcane and mysterious, and she worked as if in a dream, while in the small house behind her still slept her husband, a knuckled monster filled with fear and hate, and his dreams were dark indeed for the sun could not reach the places in his soul.

A woman lounged on the deck of a moored ship in the harbour. Sensing fell kin somewhere in the city and, annoyed, giving much thought to what she would do about it. If anything, anything at all. Something was coming, however, and was she not cursed with curiosity?

An ironmonger held a conversation with his latest investor, who was none other than a noble Councillor and reputedly the finest duellist in all Darujhistan, and therein it was decided that young and most ambitious Gorlas Vidikas would take charge of the iron mines six leagues to the west of the city.

A rickety wagon rocked along the road well past Maiten yet still skirting the lake, and in its bed amidst filthy blankets was the small battered form of a child, still unconscious but judged, rightly so, that he would live. The poor thing.

This track, you see, led to but one place, one fate. The old shepherd had done well and had already buried his cache of coins beneath the stoop behind the shack where he lived with his sickly wife, who had been worn out by seven failed pregnancies, and if there was bitter spite in the eyes she fixed upon the world is it any wonder? But he would do good by her in these last tired years, yes, he would, and he set to one side one copper coin that he would fling to the lake spirits at dusk — an ancient, black-stained coin bearing the head of a man the shepherd didn’t recognize — not that he would, for that face belonged to the last Tyrant of Darujhistan..

The wagon rolled on, on its way to the mines.

Harllo, who so loved the sun, was destined to wake in darkness, and mayhap he was never again to see the day’s blessed light,

Out on the lake the water glittered with golden tears.

As if the sun might relinquish its hard glare and, for just this one moment, weep for the fate of a child.