Toll the Hounds

CHAPTER THREE

On this morning, so fair and fresh with the warm breeze coming down off the lake, there were arrivals. Was a city a living thing? Did it possess eyes? Could its senses be lit awake by the touch of footsteps? Did Darujhistan, on that fine morning, look in turn upon those who set their gazes upon it? Arrivals, grand and modest, footsteps less than a whisper, whilst others trembled to the very bones of the Sleeping Goddess. Were such things the beat of the city’s heart?

But no, cities did not possess eyes, or any other senses. Cut stone and hardened plaster, wood beams and corniced facades, walled gardens and quiescent pools beneath trickling fountains, all was insensate to the weathering traffic of its denizens. A city could know no hunger, could not rise from sleep, nor even twist uneasy in its grave.

Leave such things, then, to a short rotund man, seated at a table at the back of the Phoenix Inn, in the midst of an expansive breakfast, to pause with a mouth crammed full of pastry and spiced apple, to suddenly choke. Eyes bulging, face flushing scarlet, then launching a spray of pie across the table, into the face of a regretfully hungover Meese, who, now wearing the very pie she had baked the day before, simply lifted her bleary gaze and settled a basilisk regard upon the hack shy;ing, wheezing man opposite her.

If words were necessary, then, she would have used them.

The man coughed on, tears streaming from his eyes.

Sulty arrived with a cloth and began wiping, gently, the mess from a motionless, almost statuesque Meese.

On the narrow, sloped street to the right of the entrance to Quip’s Bar, the detritus of last night’s revelry skirled into the air on a rush of wild wind. Where a moment before there had been no traffic of any sort on the cobbled track, now there were screaming, froth-streaked horses, hoofs cracking like iron mallets on the uneven stone. Horses — two, four, six — and behind them, in a half-sideways rattling skid, an enormous carriage, its back end crashing into the face of a building in a shattering explosion of plaster, awning and window casement. Figures flew from the careering monstrosity as it tilted, almost tipping, then righted itself with the sound of a house falling over. Bodies were thumping on to the street, rolling desperately to avoid the man-high wheels.

The horses plunged on, dragging the contraption some further distance down the slope, trailing broken pieces, plaster fragments and other more unsightly things, before the animals managed to slow, then halt, the momentum, aided in no small part by a sudden clenching of wooden brakes upon all six wheels.

Perched atop the carriage, the driver was thrown forward, sailing through the air well above the tossing heads of the horses, landing in a rubbish cart almost buried in the fete’s leavings. This refuse probably saved his life, although, as all grew still once more, only the soles of his boots were visible, temporarily motionless as befitted an unconscious man.

Strewn in the carriage’s wake, amidst mundane detritus, were human remains in various stages of decay; some plump with rotting flesh, others mere skin stretched over bone. A few of these still twitched or groped aimlessly on the cobbles, like the plucked limbs of insects. Jammed into the partly crushed wall of the shop the conveyance’s rear right-side corner had clipped was a corpse’s head, driven so deep as to leave visible but one eye, a cheek and one side of the jaw. The eye rolled ponderously. The mouth twitched, as if words were struggling to escape, then curled in an odd smile.

Those more complete figures, who had been thrown in all directions, were now slowly picking themselves up, or, in the case of two of them, not moving at all — and by the twist of limbs and neck it was clear that never again would their unfortunate owners move of their own accord, not even to draw breath.

From a window on the second level of a tenement, an old woman leaned out for a brief glance down on the carnage below, then retreated, hands snapping closed the wooden shutters.

Clattering sounds came from within the partly ruined shop, then a muted shriek that was not repeated within the range of human hearing, although in the next street over a dog began howling.

The carriage door squealed open, swung once on its hinges, then fell off, landing with a rattle on the cobbles.

On her hands and knees fifteen paces away, Shareholder Faint lifted her aching head and gingerly turned it towards the carriage, in time to see Master Quell lunge into view, tumbling like a Rhivi doll on to the street. Smoke drifted out in his wake.

Closer to hand, Reccanto Ilk stood, reeling, blinking stupidly around before his eyes lit on the battered sign above the door to Quip’s Bar. He staggered in that direction.

Faint pushed herself upright, brushed dust from her meat-spattered clothes, and scowled as scales of armour clinked down like coins on to the stones. From one such breach in her hauberk she prised loose a taloned finger, which she peered at for a moment, then tossed aside as she set out after Reccanto.

Before she reached the door she was joined by Sweetest Sufferance, the short, plump woman waddling but determined none the less as both her small hands reached out for the taproom’s door.

From the rubbish cart, Glanno Tarp was digging himself free.

Master Quell, on his hands and knees, looked up, then said, ‘This isn’t our street.’

Ducking into the gloom of Quip’s Bar, Faint paused briefly until she heard a commotion at the far end, where Reccanto had collapsed into a chair, one arm sweeping someone’s leavings from the table. Sweetest Sufferance dragged up another chair and thumped down on it.

The three drunks who were the other customers watched Faint walk across the room, each of them earning a scowl from her.

Quip Younger — whose father had opened this place in a fit of ambition and optimism that had lasted about a week — was shambling over from the bar the same way his old man used to, and reached the table the same time as Faint.

No one spoke.

The keep frowned, then turned round and made his way back to the bar.

Master Quell arrived, along with Glanno Tarp, still stinking of refuse.

Moments later, the four shareholders and one High Mage navigator of the Trygalle Trade Guild sat round the table. No exchange of glances. No words.

Quip Younger — who had once loved Faint, long before anyone ever heard of the Trygalle Trade Guild and long before she hooked up with this mad lot — delivered five tankards and the first pitcher of ale.

Five trembling hands reached for those tankards, gripping them tight.

Quip hesitated; then, rolling his eyes, he lifted the pitcher and began pouring out the sour, cheap brew.

Kruppe took a mouthful of the dark magenta wine — a council a bottle, no less — and swirled it in his mouth until all the various bits of pie were dislodged from the innumerable crevasses between his teeth, whereupon he leaned to one side and spat on to the floor. ‘Ah.’ He smiled across at Meese. ‘Much better, yes?’

‘I’ll take payment for that bottle right now,’ she said. ‘That way I can leave before I have to witness one more abuse of such an exquisite vintage.’

‘Why, has Kruppe’s credit so swiftly vanished? Decided entirely upon an untoward breaking of fast this particular morning?’

‘It’s the insults, you fat pig, piled one on another until it feels I’m drowning in offal.’ She bared her teeth. ‘Offal in a red waistcoat.’

‘Aaii, vicious jab. Kruppe is struck to the heart. . and,’ he added, reaching once more for the dusty bottle, ‘has no choice but to loosen said constricture of the soul with yet another tender mouthful.’

Meese leaned forward. ‘If you spit that one out, Kruppe, I will wring your neck.’

He hastily swallowed, then gasped. ‘Kruppe very nearly choked once more. Such a morning! Portents and pastry, wails and wine!’

Heavy steps descending from the upper floor.

‘Ah, here comes yon Malazan saviour. Mallet, dear friend of Kruppe, will Murillio — sweet Prince of Disenchantment — recover to his fullest self? Come, join me in this passing ferment. Meese, sweet lass, will you not find Mallet a goblet?’

Her eyes narrowed into thin slits. ‘How about one for yourself, Kruppe?’

‘Delightful suggestion.’ Kruppe wiped at the bottle’s mouth with one grimy sleeve, then beamed across at her.

She rose, stalked off.

The Malazan healer sat down with a heavy sigh, closed his eyes and rubbed vigorously at his round, pallid face, then looked round the bar. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Your companion of the night just past Kruppe has sent home, with the assurance that your self is safe from all harm. ’Tis dawn, friend, or rather morning’s fresh stumping on dawn’s gilt heels. Ships draw in alongside berths, gangplanks clatter and thump to form momentous bridges from one world to the next. Roads take sudden turns and out trundle macabre mechanisms scattering bits of flesh like dark seeds of doom! Hooded eyes scan strangers, shrikes cry out above the lake’s steaming flats, dogs scratch vigorously behind the ears — ah, Meese has brought us her finest goblets! A moment, whilst Kruppe sweeps out cobwebs, insect husks and other assorted proofs of said goblets’ treasured value — there, now, let us sit back and watch, with pleased eyes, as Meese fills our cups to brimming glory. Why-’

‘For Hood’s sake,’ Mallet cut in, ‘it’s too early for your company, Kruppe. Let me drink this wine and then escape with my sanity, I beg you.’

‘Why, friend Mallet, we await your assessment of Murillio’s physical state.’

‘He’ll live. But no dancing for a week or two.’ He hesitated, frowning down into his goblet, as if surprised to find it suddenly empty once more. ‘Assuming he comes out of his funk, that is. A mired mind can slow the body’s recovery. Can reverse it, in fact.’

‘Fret not over Murillio’s small but precise mind, friend,’ Kruppe said. ‘Such matters ever find solution through Kruppe’s wise ministrations. Does Coll remain at bedside?’

Mallet nodded, set the goblet down and rose. ‘I’m going home.’ He glowered across at Kruppe. ‘And with Oponn’s pull, I might even get there.’

‘Nefarious nuisances thrive best in night’s noisome chaos, dear healer. Kruppe confidently assures you a most uneventful return to your atypical abode.’

Mallet grunted, then said, ‘And how do you plan on assuring that?’

‘Why, with worthy escort, of course!’ He poured himself the last of the wine and smiled up at the Malazan. ‘See yon door and illimitable Irilta positioned before it? Dastardly contracts seeking your sad deaths cannot indeed be permitted. Kruppe extends his formidable resources to guarantee your lives!’

The healer continued staring down at him. ‘Kruppe, do you know who offered this contract?’

‘Ringing revelations are imminent, treasured friend. Kruppe promises.’

Another grunt, then Mallet wheeled and walked towards the door and his escort, who stood smiling with brawny arms crossed.

Kruppe watched them leave and weren’t they just quite the pair.

Meese slouched down in the chair Mallet had vacated. ‘Guild contract,’ she muttered. ‘Could simply be some imperial cleaning up, you know. New embassy’s now up and running after all. Could be somebody in it caught word of Malazan deserters running a damned bar. Desertion’s a death sentence, ain’t it?’

‘Too great a risk, sweet Meese,’ Kruppe replied, drawing out his silk handkerchief and blotting at his brow. ‘The Malazan Empire, alas, but its own assassins, of which two are present in said embassy. Yet, by all accounts, ’twas a Hand of Krafar’s Guild that made the Attempt last night,’ He raised a pudgy finger. ‘A mys shy;tery, this one who so seeks the death of inoffensive Malazan deserters, but not a mystery for long, oh no! Kruppe will discover all that needs discovering!’

‘Fine,’ Meese said, ‘now discover that council, Kruppe, for the bottle.’

Sighing, Kruppe reached into the small purse strapped to his belt, probed within the leather pouch, then, brows lifted in sudden dismay: ‘Dearest Meese, yet another discovery. .’

Grainy-eyed, Scorch scowled at the teeming quayside. ‘It’s the morning fisher boats,’ he said, ‘comin’ in right now. Ain’t no point in hangin’ round, Leff.’

‘People on the run will be coming here early,’ Leff pointed out, scooping out with his knife the freshwater conch he had purchased a moment ago. He slithered down a mouthful of white, gleaming meat. ‘T’be waitin’ for the first ships in from Gredfallan. Midmorning, right? The new locks at Dhavran have made it all regular, predictable, I mean. A day through with a final scoot to Gredfallan, overnight there, then on with the dawn to here. Desperate folk line up first, Scorch, ’cause they’re desperate.’

‘I hate sitting anywhere my feet have to dangle,’ Scorch complained, shifting uncomfortably on the stack of crates.

‘Decent line of sight,’ Leff said. ‘I’ll join ya up there anon.’

‘Don’t know how you can eat that. Meat should have blood in it. Any meat without blood in it ain’t meat.’

‘Aye, it’s conch.’

‘It’s a thing with eyes on the ends of its tentacles, watching as you cut its body apart — see how the stalks swivel, following up to your mouth, tracking every swallow? It’s watching you eat it!’

‘So what?’

Gulls shrieked in swarming clouds over the low jetties where the fishers were heaving baskets of sliverfish on to the slimy stone, children scurrying about in the hopes of being hired to slip the wriggling fish on to monger-strings in time for the morning market. Grey-backed Gadrobi cats, feral now for a thousand generations, leapt out in ambush to kill gulls. Frenzied battles ensued, feathers skirling, tufts of cat hair drifting on the breeze like thistle heads.

Below the inside docks old women wandered in the gloom between pylons, using long, thin, barbed pokers to collect up the small, hand’s-length sliverfish that managed to slip through the baskets and fall in gleaming rain as the catch was carried ashore. When the harvest was small, the old hags were wont to use those toothed pokers on each other.

Scorch could see them from where he was perched, muffled forms moving this way and that, pokers darting in the perpetual shadows. ‘I swore to never again eat anything this lake gave up,’ he muttered. ‘Gran above,’ he added in a hoarse whisper, ‘y’see I remember them cuts an’ holes in your scrawny, I remember ’em, Gran, an’ so I swore.’

‘What’s that?’ Leff asked from below.

‘Nothing, only we’re wasting our time-’

‘Patience, Scorch. We got us a list. We got us trouble. Didn’t we hear that Brokul might be making a run?’

‘The place is a damned mob, Leff.’

‘We just need to concentrate on the lines forming up.’

‘Ain’t no lines, Leff.’

Leff tossed the shell over the end of the lake wall, where it clattered down below on to ten thousand others. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Soon.’

Just past the fork at Urs, the battered remnants of the caravan headed up towards South Worrytown. Herders and quarry workers on their way out to the Ravens edged to the sides of the road, then stopped and stared at the four charred and smoke-streaked trader-wagons rocking past. A single horse struggled in a makeshift yoke before each wain.

Of the usual assortment of guards that might be expected, even for a caravan as small as this one seemed to be, only one was visible, slouched down in a Gadrobi saddle and almost entirely hidden beneath a dusty, hooded cloak. From seamed slits in the faded brown cape, just above the man’s shoulder blades, jutted the worn grips and pommels of twin cutlasses. The leather gauntlets covering his hands where they rested on the high saddle horn were stained and mostly in shreds, revealing to those close enough to see skin tattooed to very nearly solid black.

From the shadow of the hood, strangely feline eyes held fixed on the road ahead. The first decrepit shanties of South Worrytown emerged from the morning mist like the dishevelled nests of some oversized carrion bird, lining the dirt track to either side. From cracks and holes in the leaning walls, liquid eyes peered out as the guard led his clattering train past.

Before long, they were well and truly within the maze and its crowds of life’s refugees, rising like ghosts from the shadows, raising faint voices to beg for coin and food. Few caravans coming up from the south chose this route into Darujhis shy;tan, since the track through the city’s shabby outskirts was both narrow and twisting. And those that proved insufficiently defended could become victims of the raw, desperate need drawing ever closer on all sides.

A hundred paces still south of the main road known as Jatem’s Worry, it seemed that such a fate would befall this hapless caravan and its guardian of one.

As grasping, grimy hands reached out to close round spokes in wagon wheels, and others snatched at the traces of the horses, the hooded man glanced back at the growing boldness and reined in. As he did so he seemed to suddenly fill out as he straightened in his saddle.

Eyes fixed on him, furtive and wary and with fading diffidence. One rag clad man swung up beside the first wagon’s driver who, like the guard, was hooded yanked him round, the hood fell back.

Revealing a dead man’s withered face. The mostly hairless head turned, hol shy;low sockets settling on the man crouched on the bench.

Even as the the Worrier shrieked, twisting to fling himself from the wagon, the lone caravan guard drew his cutlasses, revealing broad iron blades stained in a pattern of flaring barbs of black and pale orange. The hood dropped back to unveil a broad face tattooed in an identical fashion, the mouth opening to reveal long canines as the guard smiled. There was no humour in that smile, just the promise of mayhem.

That was enough for the crowd. Screaming, flinching back, they fled.

Moments later, the four wagons and their lone guard resumed their journey.

On to Jatem’s Worry, edging into the traffic slowly working towards the city gate, where the lone, tattooed guard resheathed his weapons.

The unhooded corpse guiding the lead wagon seemed disinclined to readjust its head covering, and before too long the lifeless driver acquired a flapping, squawking escort of three crows, each fighting to find purchase on the grey, tattered pate. By the time the caravan reached the gate, the driver sported one crow on its head and one on each shoulder, all busy tearing strips of desiccated meat from its face.

A gate-watcher stepped out to squint up at the barbed, bestial guard as he drew rein beneath the arch.

‘Gruntle, ain’t it? You been in a fight, man. Is this Sirik’s caravan — gods below!’ This last cry announced the watcher’s discovery of the first wagon driver.

‘Best just let us past,’ Gruntle said in a low, rasping voice. ‘I’m in no mood for more than one conversation, and that one belongs to Sirik. I take it he’s done his move into his new estate?’

The man nodded, his face pale and his eyes a little wild. Stepping back, he waved Gruntle on.

The journey to Sirik’s estate was blessedly brief. Past Despot’s Barbican, then left, skirting High Gallows Hill before reaching the freshly plastered wall and broad, high-arched gate leading into the merchant’s compound.

Word must have gone in advance for Sirik himself stood waiting, shaded from the morning sun by a servant with a parasol. A half-dozen armoured men from his private bodyguard were clustered round him. The merchant’s expression descended in swift collapse upon seeing a mere four wagons roll into the compound. Curses rode the dusty air from the guards when they spied the first driver, whose centre crow at that moment decided to half spread its wings to regain balance as the withered hands twitched the traces, halting the wagon.

Gruntle reined in and slowly dismounted.

Sirik waved his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘But — but-’

Drawing off his cloak revealed the damage on Gruntle’s chain hauberk, the slashes through the black iron links, the gouges and punctures, the crusted blood. ‘Dwell raiders,’ he said in a rumble, grinning once more.

‘But-’

‘We gave good account,’ Gruntle resumed, squinting at the guards behind the merchant. ‘And if you’d let loose a few more of your precious preeners there, we might ha’done better still. The raiding party was a big one, a hundred shrieking savages. The fools torched the other wagons even as they looted ’em.’

One of the bodyguard, Sirik’s sear-faced captain, stepped forward, scowling at the wagons. ‘A hundred, was it? Against what, eight guards under your command, Gruntle? Do you take us for idiots? A hundred Dwell and you’d not be here.’

‘No, Kest, you’re not an idiot,’ Gruntle allowed. ‘Thick-skulled and a bully, but not an idiot.’

As the captain and his men bridled, Sirik held up a trembling hand. ‘Gruntle, Gisp sits that wagon but he’s dead.’

‘He is. So are the other three.’

‘But — but how?’

Gruntle’s shrug was an ominous roll of his massive shoulders. ‘Not sure,’ he admitted, ‘but they took my orders anyway — granted, I was desperate and yelling things I normally wouldn’t, but by then I was the last one left, and with four surviving wagons and as many horses. .’ He shrugged again, then said, ‘I’ll take my pay now, Sirik. You’ve got half the Bastion kelyk you wanted and that’s better than none.’

‘And what am I to do with four undead drivers?’ Sirik shrieked.

Gruntle turned, glared up at Gisp. ‘Go to Hood, you four. Now.’

The drivers promptly slumped, sliding or tottering from their perches. The three crows picking at Gisp’s shredded face set up an indignant squall, then flapped down to resume their meal once the body settled on the dust of the compound.

Sirik had recovered enough to show irritation. ‘As for payment-’

‘In full,’ Gruntle cut in. ‘I warned you we didn’t have enough. Kest may not be an idiot, but you are, Sirik. And sixteen people died for it, not to mention a hundred Dwell. I’m about to visit the Guild, as required. I get my pay in full and I’ll keep my opinions to myself. Otherwise. .’ Gruntle shook his head, ‘you won’t be hiring any more caravan guards. Ever again.’

Sirik’s sweat-sheathed face worked for a time, until his eyes found a look of resignation. ‘Captain Kist, pay the man.’

A short time later, Gruntle stepped out on to the street. Pausing, he glanced up at the morning sky, then set out for home. Despite the heat, he donned his cloak and drew up the hood once more. The damned markings on his skin rose flush with battle, and took weeks to fade back into a ghostly tint. In the meantime, the less conspicuous he could make himself the better. He suspected that the hovel he called home was already barricaded by a murder of acolytes awaiting his return. The tiger-skinned woman who proclaimed herself High Priestess of the local temple would have heard the fierce battle cry of Trake’s Mortal Sword, even at a distance of thirty or so leagues out on the Dwelling Plain. And she would be in a frenzy. . again, desperate as ever for his attention.

But Gruntle didn’t give a damn about her and the mangy losers she’d gathered to her temple. Killing those raiders had not been a task he had welcomed. No pleasure in spilling blond, no delight in his own savage rage. He’d lost friends that day, including the last pair who had been with him ever since Capustan. Such wounds were far deeper than those his flesh still carried, and they would take much longer to heal.

Mood foul despite the bulging purse of councils at his belt, he was disinclined to suffer the normal jostling necessary to navigate the city’s major avenues and streets one push or snarl too many and he’d be likely to draw blades and set about carving a path through the crowds, and then he’d have no choice but to flee Darujhistan or risk dangling from High Gallows Hill — and so once through the Estates Gate just south of Borthen Park, and down the ramp into Lakefront District, Gruntle took a roundabout route, along narrow, twisting alleys and rubbish-filled wends between buildings.

The few figures he met as he walked were quick to edge aside, as if struck meek by some instinct of self-preservation.

He turned on to one slightly wider track only to find it blocked by a tall carriage that looked as if it had been through a riot — reminding Gruntle that the fete was still on — although, as he drew closer and found himself stepping over with shy;ered, dismembered limbs and streaks of slowly drying blood, and when he saw the gaping hole in the carriage where a door should have been, with the dark interior still and grey with motionless haze, and the horses standing with hides crusted in dried sweat and froth — the entire mess unattended and seemingly im shy;mune to looting — he recognized that this was one of those damned Trygalle Guild carriages, well and truly infamous for sudden, inexplicable and invariably violent arrivals.

Just as irritating, the Trygalle was a clear rival to the city’s own Caravanserai Guild, with its unprecedented shareholding system. Something the Caravanserai should have thought of long ago, although if what Gruntle had heard was anywhere near the truth, then the attrition rate among the Trygalle’s shareholders was appallingly high — higher than any sane guard would accept.

Then again, he reconsidered, here he was, the lone survivor of Sirik’s caravan, and despite the councils he now carried his financial return was virtually nothing compared to the profits Sirik would harvest from the kelyk, especially now that he didn’t have to pay his drivers. Of course, he’d need to purchase new wagons and repair the ones Gruntle had delivered, but there was insurance to offset some of that.

As he edged round the carriage in the street, he was afforded a closer look, concluding, sourly, that the Trygalle built the bastards to weather just about anything. Scorched, gouged as if by the talons of plains bears, bitten and chopped at, gaudy paint peeled away as if splashed with acid. As battered as a war wagon.

He walked past the horses. Then, five strides onward, Gruntle turned about in surprise. That close and the beasts should have panicked — they always panicked. Even ones he had broken to his scent shivered uncontrollably beneath him until sheer nervous exhaustion dulled their fright. But here. . he scowled, meeting the eyes of one of the leaders and seeing naught but jaded disinterest.

Shaking his head, Gruntle resumed his journey.

Damned curious. Then again, he could do with a horse like one of those.

Better yet, how about a dead one? Dead as Gisp?

The thought brought him back to certain unpleasantries he didn’t much want to think about at the moment. Like my being able to command the dead.

He was, he considered, too old to be discovering new talents.

The walrus-skin coracle bobbed perilously in the chop between two trader barges, at risk of being crushed between them before a frantic scull by the lone occupant squirted the craft through, to draw up moments later alongside a mud-smeared landing crowded with crayfish traps. The man who clambered up from the coracle was soaked from the hips down, and the knapsack he slung on to one shoulder sloshed, then began to drain incontinently as he worked his way up the dock to the worn stone steps that climbed to the quayside.

He was unkempt, his beard two or three days old, and the leathers he wore seemed a strange mix of those normally worn beneath armour and those a Nathii fisher might wear in a squall. The floppy sealskin hat covering his head was misshapen, sun-faded and salt-rimed. In addition to his knapsack he carried an odd-looking scimitar in a split scabbard bound together by frayed strips of leather. The serpent-head pommel revealed empty sockets where gems had once resided for eyes, fangs and collar. Tall, wiry, he moved with a vaguely furtive haste once he reached the quay, cutting through the crowds towards one of the feeder alleys on the other side of Front Street.

From the landing down on the water, someone was yelling, demanding to know who had left a half-awash coracle beside his cages.

Reaching the alley mouth, the man walked in a few paces, then paused in the shadow between the high-walled warehouses. He drew off his floppy hat and wiped the grime from his brow. His black hair, while thinning from the front, hung in a long ponytail that had been tucked up beneath the hat but now fell to the small of his back. His forehead and face were seamed in scars, and most of his left ear was missing, slashed away some time past. Scratching a moment at his beard, he settled the hat back on, and headed off down the alley.

He was set upon less than ten paces later, as two figures closed on him from alcoves, one to either side. The one on his left jammed the point of a dagger against his ribs, while the other waved a short sword in front of his eyes, using it to direct the man against a grimy wall.

Mute, the man complied. In the gloom he squinted at the one with the sword, then scowled. ‘Leff.’

A stained grin. ‘Hey, old partner, fancy you showing up.’

The one with the knife snorted. ‘Thought we’d never spy you out wi’ that stupid hat, did you?’

‘Scorch! Why, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you both. Gods below, I would’ve thought you two would have met grisly ends long ago. But this is a great discovery, friends! Had I any coin — any at all — why, I’d buy you both a drink-’

‘Enough of that,’ Leff said in a growl, still waving the sword in front of the man’s face. ‘You’re on our list, Torvald Nom. Aye, way down on it since most people figured you were long gone and almost as long dead. But you ran out on a debt — a big one and bigger now, aye — not to mention running out on me and Scorch-’

‘Hardly! I seem to recall we formally absolved our partnership, after that night when-’

Scorch hissed, ‘Quiet, damn you! Nobody knows nothing about none of that!’

‘My point was,’ Torvald hastily explained, ‘I never ran out on you two.’

‘Don’t matter,’ Leff said, ‘since that ain’t why you’re on the list now, is it?’

‘You two must be desperate, to take on one of those-’

‘Maybe we are,’ said Scorch, ‘and maybe we ain’t. Now, you saying you’re broke is bad news, Torvald. For you more’n us, since we now got to deliver you. And my, won’t Lender Gareb be pleased.’

‘Wait! I can get that money — I can clear that debt. But I need time-’

‘No time to give ya,’ Leff said, shaking his head. ‘Sorry, old friend.’

‘One night, that’s all I’m asking.’

‘One night, for you to run as far as you can.’

‘No, I swear it. Gods, I’ve just returned! Here to honour all my debts!’

‘Really, and how are you planning to do that?’

‘Best leave the details to me, Scorch, just to keep you and Leff innocent. Now, I’m way down on that list — I’d have to be, since it’s been years. That means nobody’s expecting you to come up with me, right? Give me a night, just one, that’s all I’m asking. We can meet again right here, this time tomorrow. I won’t run out on you two, I promise.’

‘You must think we’re idiots,’ Leff said.

‘Listen, once I’ve cleared Gareb’s debt, I can help you. With that list. Who’s better than me at that kind of stuff?’

Scorch’s disbelieving expression stretched his face until it seemed his eyes would fall out of their sockets. He licked his lips, shot Leff a glance.

Torvald Nom saw all this and nodded. ‘Aye, you two are in trouble, all right. Those lists chew up whoever takes ’em on. I must tell you, I’m amazed and, well, deeply disappointed to find that you two have sunk that far since I left. Gods, if I’d known, well, I might’ve considered staying-’

Leff snorted. ‘Now that’s a damned lie.’

‘All right, perhaps an exaggeration. So — what is Gareb saying I’m owing him now?’

‘A thousand silver councils.’

Torvald Nom gaped, the colour leaving his face. ‘For Hood’s sake, he just bought me a supper and a pitcher or two! And even then, I figured he was simply being generous. Wanted me to do some work for him or something. I was insulted when he sent me a bill for that night-’

‘Interest, Torvald,’ said Leff. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Besides,’ added Scorch, ‘you just up and ran. Where ya been all this time?’

‘You’d never believe me.’

‘Is that shackle scars on your wrists?’

‘Aye, and worse. Nathii slave pens. Malazan slavers — all the way to Seven Cities. Beru fend, my friends, none of it was pretty. And as for the long journey back, why, if I was a bard I’d make a fortune spinning that tale!’

The sword hovering in front of his face had wavered, dipped, and now finally fell away, while the knife point jabbing his ribs eased back. Torvald looked quickly into both faces before him, and said, ‘One night, old friends, and all this will be cleared up. And I can start helping you with that list.’

‘We already got us help,’ Leff said, although he didn’t seem pleased by that admission.

‘Oh? Who?’

‘Kruppe. Remember him?’

‘That oily, fat fence always hanging out at the Phoenix Inn? Are you two mad?’

Scorch said, ‘It’s our new taproom, Torvald, ever since Bormen threw us out for-’

‘Don’t tell him stuff like that, Scorch!’

‘One night,’ Torvald said, nodding. ‘Agreed? Good, you won’t regret it.’

Stepping back, Leff sheathed his short sword. ‘I already do. Listen, Torvald. You run and we’ll chase you, no matter where you go. You can jump straight back into the Nathii slave pens and we’ll be there right beside you. You understanding me?’

Torvald frowned at the man for a moment, then nodded. ‘That I do, Leff. But I’m back, now, and I’m not going anywhere, not ever again.’

‘One night.’

‘Aye. Now, you two better head back to watching the quay — who knows who might be readying to flee on the next outbound ship.’

Both men suddenly looked nervous. Leff gave Torvald a push as he worked past, Scorch on his heels. Torvald watched them scurry to the alley mouth, then plunge into the crowd on Front Street.

‘How is it,’ he asked under his breath, of no one, ‘that complete idiots just live on, and on? And on?’

He adjusted his Moranth raincape, making certain that none of the items secreted in the underside pockets had been jostled loose or, gods forbid, broken. Nothing dripping. No burning sensations, no slithering presence of. . whatever. Good. Tugging down his floppy hat, he set off once more.

This thing with Gareb was damned irritating. Well, he’d just have to do something about it, wouldn’t he? One night. Fine. So be it. The rest can wait.

I hope.

Born in the city of One Eye Cat twenty-seven years ago, Humble Measure was of mixed blood. A Rhivi woman, sold to a local merchant in exchange for a dozen bars of quenched iron, gave birth to a bastard son a year later. Adopted into his father’s household eight years on, the boy was apprenticed in the profession of iron shy;mongery and would have inherited the enterprise if not for one terrible night when his sheltered, stable world ended.

A foreign army had arrived, investing the city in a siege. Days and nights of high excitement from the young man, then, with the streets aflame with rumours of the glory promised by the city’s membership in the great, rich Malazan Empire — if only the fools in the palace would capitulate. His father’s eyes had glowed with that imagined promise, and no doubt it was on the rising tide of such visions that the elderly trader conspired with agents of the Empire to open the city gates one night — an attempt that ended in catastrophic failure, with the merchant suffering arrest and then execution, and his estate invaded by city garrison soldiers with swords drawn.

That assault had left nightmare memories that would never leave Humble Measure. Witnessing his mother’s rape and murder, and that of his half-sisters. Screams, smoke and blood, everywhere blood, like the bitter gift of some dark god — oh, he would remember that blood. Beaten and in chains, he had been dragged into the street and would have suffered the same fate as the others if not for the presence of a mercenary company allied with the city. Its commander, a tall, fierce warrior named Jorrick Sharplance, had taken command of the handful of surviving prisoners.

That company was subsequently driven from One Eye Cat by the city’s paranoid rulers, sailing out on ships across Old King Lake, shortly before yet another act of treachery proved more successful than the first attempt. Another night of slaughter, this time at the bloodied hands of Claw assassins, and One Eye Cat fell to the Malazan Empire.

Jorrick Sharplance had taken his prisoners with him, setting them free on the wild south shore of the lake, at the very feet of One Eye Range, with sufficient supplies to take them through the mountain passes on to the Old King Plateau. From there, Humble Measure had led his household’s survivors, slaves and free citizens alike, down the trader tracks to the city of Bear. A brief stay there, then southward to Patch and on to the Rhivi Trail.

A short stay in Pale, until, fleeing yet another Malazan siege, down to Darujhistan in the midst of a decrepit column of refugees.

Whereupon Humble Measure had settled in the last surviving office of his father’s business, there to begin a long, careful rebuilding process that honed his tactical skills and, indeed, his fortitude.

Such a long, fraught journey had ensured the loyalty of his staff. The slaves were rewarded with emancipation, and not one refused his offer of employment. His trade in iron burgeoned. For a time, it seemed that the curse that was the Malazan Empire might well track him down once more, but there had been a gift, a gift of blood that he well understood now, and the city’s life had been spared.

For how long? Humble Measure was well acquainted with how the Empire got things done. Infiltration, clever acts of destabilization, assassinations, the fomenting of panic and the dissolution of order. That they now had an embassy in the city was no more than a means of bringing their deadly agents into Darujhis shy;tan. Well, he was done running.

His father’s ancestors had traded in iron for twelve generations. Here in the office in the Gadrobi District of Darujhistan, in the vaults far below street level, he had found written records reaching back almost six hundred years. And among the most ancient of those vellum scrolls, Humble Measure had made a discovery.

Darujhistan would not fall to the Malazan Empire — he had found the means to ensure that. To ensure, indeed, that no foreign power could ever again threaten the city he now called home, ever again endanger his family, his loved ones.

To achieve this, Humble Measure well understood that he would need all his acumen in bringing complicated plans to fruition. He would need vast sums of coin, which he now had at his disposal. And, alas, he would need to be ruthless.

Unpleasant, yes, but a necessary sacrifice.

The central office of Eldra Iron Mongers was a sprawling collection of buildings, warehouses and work yards just north of Two-Ox Gate. The entire complex was walled and virtually self-contained. Three sets of forges fronted an elongated, single-storey foundry resting against the west wall. Beneath it ran a subterranean stream that provided outflow into the Maiten River, the effluent and wastes issuing from that stream giving the bay beyond its name of Brownrun, and most days the stain spread out far on to Lake Azure, an unfortunate consequence of working iron, as he said often to city officials when the complaints of the Gadrobi fishers grew too strident to ignore. Offers of recompense usually sufficed to silence such objections, and as for the faintly bitter irony Humble Measure felt when paying out these sums — an irony founded on the cold fact that iron was needed by all, the demand unending, from fishhooks to gaffs to armour and swords — well, he wisely kept that to himself.

The administration building rose against the south wall of the compound, both office and residence. Staff quarters dominated the wing nearest the south end of the foundry. The central block housed the records and clerical chambers. The final wing was the oldest part of the structure, its foundations dating back to an age when bronze was the primary metal, and civilization was still a raw promise. Far beneath the ground level of this wing, ancient stairs wound down through layers of limestone, opening out on to a succession of rough-hewn vaults that had been used as storage rooms for generations. Long before such mundane usage, Humble Measure suspected, these crypts had held a darker purpose.

He had recently converted one such chamber into a secret office, wherein he could work alone, protected by a skein of long-dormant wards, and here he would remain for most of each night, strangely tireless, as if the very nobility of his cause blessed him with inhuman reserves — further proof to his mind that his efforts had begun to yield gifts, a recognition of sorts, from powers few even suspected still existed.

His thoughts were on such matters even during the day, and this day in particular, when his most loyal servant — the only man who knew of the secret crypts and, indeed, of Humble Measure’s master plan — entered his office and placed a small wax book on his desk, then departed.

A sudden quickening of anticipation, quickly crushed once he opened the book and read the message scribed into the wax.

Most unfortunate. Four assassins, all failing. The Guild assured him that such failure would not be repeated.

So, the targets had proved themselves to be truly as dangerous as Humble Measure had suspected, Sour consoltation, alas. He set the book down and reached for the roller on its heated plate. Carfully melted away the message.

The Guild would have to do better. Lest he lose faith and seek. . other means.

In the yards beyond, bars of iron clanged as they were rolled from pallets on to the rail-beds leading to the warehouse, like the sudden clash of armies on a field of battle. The sound made Humble Measure wince.

Whatever was necessary. Whatever was necessary.

In a very short time the foreign ship edging ever closer to the Lowstone Pier cap shy;tured the attention of the crowds on the quayside, sufficient to dampen the constant roar of the hawkers, stevedores, fortunetellers, prostitutes, carters, and fisherfolk. Eyes widened. Conversations died as lungs snatched air and held it taut in numbed shock. A sudden laugh yelped, swiftly followed by others.

Standing at the bow of the low-slung ship, one pale, perfect hand resting on the carved neck of the horse-head prow, was a woman. If not for her stunning, ethereal beauty, her poise was so regal, so haughty, that it would have verged on caricature. She was swathed in a diaphanous blouse of emerald green that glowed like water in a glacial stream. She wore a broad black leather belt in which were thrust three naked-bladed daggers, and beneath that, tight-fitting, tanned leather breeches down to rawhide leggings. Behind her, on the deck and in the rigging, swarmed a score of bhokarala, while three more fought over the steering oar.

All harbours the world over possessed tales of outrageously strange arrivals, but none matched this, or so it would be claimed by the witnesses in homes and bars for years to come. As the ship glided closer to the pier, disaster seemed imminent. Bhokarala were mere apes, after all, perhaps as smart as the average dog. Crewing a ship? Ridiculous. Drawing into berth with deft precision? Impossible. Yet, at the last moment, the three creatures struggling for control of the steering oar miraculously heeled the ship over. The straw bumpers barely squeezed between hull and stone as the craft nudged the pier. Lines sailed out in chaotic profusion, only a few within reach of the dockside handlers — but enough to make the ship fast. High on the main mast, the topsail luffed and snapped, then the yard loosened and the canvas folded as it dropped down, temporarily trapping a bhokaral within it, where the creature squawked and struggled mightily to free itself.

Down on the main deck, bhokarala rushed from all directions to fight over the gangplank, and all on the quayside watched as the grey, warped board jutted and jerked on its way down to clatter on the pier’s stones, a task that resulted in three or four of the black, winged beasts falling into the water with piteous squeals.

A dozen paces away stood a clerk of the harbour master’s office, hesitating overlong on his approach to demand moorage fees. The dunked bhokarala clambered back on to the deck, one with a large fish in its mouth, causing others to rush in to fight over the prize.

The woman had stepped back from her perch alongside the prow, but instead of crossing the main deck to disembark, she instead vanished down through the cabin hatch.

The clerk edged forward then quickly retreated as a half-dozen bhokarala crowding the rail near the gangplank bared their fangs at him.

Common among all crowds, fascination at novelty was short-lived, and before too long, as nothing else of note occurred beyond the futile attempts by the clerk to extract moorage fees from a score of winged apes that did little more than snarl and make faces at him — one going so far as to pelt him with a fresh fishhead — fixed regard wavered and drifted away, back to whatever tasks and whatever demands had required attention before the ship’s appearance. Word of the glorious woman and her absurd crew raced outward to infest the city, swift as starlings swirling from street to street, as the afternoon stretched on.

In the captain’s cabin aboard the ship, Scillara watched as Sister Spite, a faint smile on her full lips, poured out goblets of wine and set them down before her guests seated round the map-table. That smile collapsed into a sad frown — only slightly exaggerated — when Cutter twisted in his chair, too frustrated to accept the peaceable gesture.

‘Oh, really,’ Spite said, ‘some maturity from you would be a relief right now. Our journey has been long, yes, but I do reiterate that delaying our disembarkation until dusk remains the wisest course.’

‘I have no enemies here,’ Cutter said in a belligerent growl. ‘Only friends.’

‘Perhaps that is true,’ Spite conceded, ‘but I assure you, young assassin, Darujhistan is not the city you left behind years past. Fraught, poised on the very edge of great danger-’

‘I know that! I feel it — I felt it before I ever came aboard your cursed ship! Why do you think just sitting here, doing nothing, strikes me as the worst decision possible? I need to see people, I need to warn-’

‘Oh dear,’ Spite cut in, ‘do you truly believe that you alone are aware of the danger? That all hangs in the balance right there at your fingertips? The arrogance of youth!’

Scillara filled her pipe with rustleaf and spent a moment sparking it alight. Heavy, brooding emotions filled the cabin. Nothing new in that, of course. This entire journey had been chaotic and contrary from the moment she, Cutter, Barathol and Chaur had been fished from the seas even as the sky flung giant goblets of fire down on all sides. Worshipful bhokarala, a miserable mule, an old hag who collapsed into a heap of spiders if one so much as looked askance in her direction. A scrawny, entirely mad High Priest of Shadow, and a brokenhearted Trell. And while Spite comported herself with all the airs of a coddled princess, she was in truth a Soletaken sorceress, dreadfully powerful and dangerously fey as some Elder Goddess. No, a more motley shipload of passengers and crew Scillara could not imagine.

And now here we are. Poor Darujhistan! ‘Won’t be long now,’ she said to Cutter. ‘We’re better off trying to stay as far beneath notice as possible.’

Iskaral Pust, seated on his chair with his legs drawn up so that his toadlike face was between his knees, seemed to choke on that comment; then, reddening and even bulging, he scowled at the table. ‘We have a crew of mad apes!’ His head tilted and he stared agog at Scillara. ‘We could smoke dried fish with her — just hang ’em in her hair! Of course, the fish’d end up poisoning us all, which might be her plan all along! Keep her away from food and drink — oh yes, I have figured her out. No High Priest of Shadow can be fooled so easily! Oh, no. Now, where was I?’ His brows knitted, then suddenly rose threateningly as he glared at her. ‘Beneath notice! Why not just sneak out in that cloud of yours, woman?’

She blew him a smoky kiss.

Spite set her goblet down. ‘The dispositions facing us now are probably worth discussing, don’t you think?’

This question, addressed to everyone, yielded only blank stares.

Spite sighed. ‘Mappo Runt, the one you seek is not on this continent. Even so, I would advise you cross overland here, perhaps as far as Lamatath, where you should be able to procure passage to the fell empire of Lether.’

The Trell studied her from beneath his heavy brows. ‘Then I shall not linger.’

‘Oh, he mustn’t linger,’ Iskaral Pust whispered. ‘No no no. Too much rage, too much grief. The giant oaf cannot linger, or worse malinger. Malingering would be terrible, and probably against the law anyway. Yes, perhaps I could get him arrested. Locked up, forgotten in some nefarious dungeon. Oh, I must cogitate on this possibility, all the while smiling benignly!’ And he smiled.

Mogora snorted. ‘Husband,’ she said sweetly, ‘I have divined your fate. In Darujhistan you shall find your nemesis, a catastrophic clash. Devastation, misery for all, the unleashing of horrible curses and ferocious powers. Ruin, such ruin that I dream each night of blessed peace, assured that the universe is in balance once more.’

‘I can hardly imagine,’ Spite said, ‘Shadow imposing balance of any sort. This husband of yours serves a diabolical god, a most unpleasant god. As for your divination, Mogora, I happen to know that you possess no such talents-’

‘But I can hope, can’t I?’

‘This is not the world for wishful thinking, dear.’

‘Don’t you “dear” me! You’re the worst kind of witch, a good looking one! Proof that charm is naught but a glamour-’

‘Oh, wife,’ Iskaral Pust crooned, ‘would that you could glamour yourself. Why, an end to my nausea-’

With a snarl Mogora veered into a seething mass of spiders, spilling down over the chair and on to the plank floor, then scattering in all directions.

Iskaral Pust snickered at the others. ‘That’s why I sit like this, you fools. She’ll bite you all, at every chance!’ He jabbed a gnarled finger at Scillara, ‘Except you, of course, because you make her sick!’

‘Good,’ she replied, then glanced across at Barathol. The huge black-skinned man was half smiling as he observed the others. Behind him stood Chaur, his foolish grin unwavering even as he tried stamping on spiders. ‘And what of you, blacksmith? Eager to explore this grand city of blue fire?’

Barathol shrugged. ‘I believe I am, although it has been some time since I last found myself among crowds. I imagine I might even enjoy the anonymity.’ He seemed to take note of his hands where they rested on the table before him, and saw something in their skein of scars that made him frown, then slowly withdraw them from view. His dark eyes shifted from hers, almost shyly.

Not one for grand confessions, Scillara well knew. A single regret could crush a thousand proud deeds, and Barathol Mekhar had more regrets than most mortals could stomach. Nor was he young enough to brazen his way through them, assuming, of course, that youth was indeed a time of bold fearlessness, that precious disregard for the future that permitted, well, almost anything, so long as it served an immediate need.

‘I admit,’ said Spite, ‘to a certain melancholy when visiting vibrant cities, as is this Darujhistan. A long life teaches one just how ephemeral is such thriving glory. Why, I have come again upon cities I knew well in the age of their greatness, only to find crumbled walls, dust and desolation.’

Cutter bared his teeth and said, ‘Darujhistan has stood for two thousand years and it will stand for another two thousand — even longer.’

Spite nodded. ’Precisely.’

‘Well, we hardly have the leisure of living for millennia, Spite-’

‘You clearly weren’t listening,’ she cut in. ‘Leisure is not a relevant notion. Consider the weariness that often afflicts your kind, late in their lives. Then multiply that countless times. This is the burden of being long-lived.’

‘A moment, then, while I weep for you,’ Cutter said.

‘Such ingratitude! Very well, young man, please do leave us now, and if this be the last I see of you then I will indeed know the reward of leisurely comportment!’

Cutter rubbed at his face and seemed but moments from pulling at his own hair. He drew a deep breath, slowly released it. ‘I’ll wait,’ he muttered.

‘Really?’ Spite’s thin, perfect brows rose. ‘Then perhaps an apology is forthcoming?’

‘Sorry,’ Cutter said in a mumble. ‘It’s just that, with what I fear is about to happen to my city, then wasting time — any time at all — well, it’s not easy.’ He shrugged.

‘Apologies with caveats are worthless, you know,’ Spite said, rising. ‘Is it dusk yet? Can’t you all crawl off to your bunks for a time? Or wander the hold or something? For all that rude Cutter frets over things he cannot control, I myself sense the presence of. . personages, residing in Darujhistan, of a nature to alarm even me. Accordingly, I must think for a time. . preferably alone.’

Scillara rose. ‘Let’s go, Cutter,’ she said, taking his arm.

Trailed by Chaur, Barathol followed the Trell warrior down into tbe hold. There were no berths aboard large enough to accommodate Mappo, so he had fashioned an abode of sorts amidst bales of supplies. Barathol saw that the Trell had already packed his kit, hammock, armour and weapons all stuffed into a lone sack knotted at the mouth by a rawhide cord, and now he sat on a crate, glancing up to regard the blacksmith.

‘You wish to speak of something, Barathol?’

‘Spite tells me that the Trell were driven from this continent long ago.’

‘My people have been assailed for thousands of years.’ He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Perhaps we are so ugly to others that our very existence is unaccept shy;able.’

‘You have a long journey ahead,’ Barathol said. ‘My thought is-’

But Mappo raised a hand. ‘No, my friend. I must do this alone.’

‘To cross an entire continent, in the face of hostility — possibly on all sides — Mappo, someone must guard your back.’

The Trell’s dark, deep-set eyes studied him for a half-dozen heartbeats. ‘Barathol Mekhar, we have come to know each other well on this journey. I could not imagine anyone better to guard my back than you.’ He shook his head. ‘I do not intend to cross the continent. There are. . other paths. Perhaps indeed more perilous, but I assure you I am not easy to kill. The failure was mine and to make it right, well, the responsibility is mine and mine alone. I will not — I cannot — accept that others risk their lives on my behalf. Not you, friend. Not blessed Chaur. Please, leave me to this.’

Barathol sighed. ‘You force upon me an even more terrible choice, then.’

‘Oh?’

A wry grin. ‘Aye. What to do with my life.’

Mappo grunted a laugh. ‘I would not call that terrible, at least from my own point of view.’

‘I understand what it is to be driven,’ Barathol said. ‘I think that is all that I understand. Back in Seven Cities, well, I’d almost convinced myself that what I’d found was all I needed, but I was lying to myself. Some people, I now believe, cannot just. . retire. It feels too much like surrender.’

‘You were a blacksmith-’

‘By default. I was a soldier, Mappo. A Red Blade.’

‘Even so, to work iron is a worthy profession. Perhaps you were a soldier, once, but to set down your weapons and find another profession is not surrender. Yet if it feels so to you, well, this city is no doubt crowded with estates, many of which would welcome a guard of your experience. And there will be merchants, operating caravans. Indeed, the city must have its own garrison — no warrior ever fears unemployment, for their skills are ever in demand.’

‘A sad admission, Mappo.’

The Trell shrugged again. ‘I would think, now, Barathol, that if anyone needs his back guarded, it is Cutter.’

Barathol sighed in frustration. ‘He says little of what he plans to do. In any case, this is his city. He will find those who know enough to protect him. Besides, I must admit, having seen Cutter practise with those knives of his, well, perhaps it is Darujhistan that must fear his return.’

‘He is too precipitous.’

‘I trust Scillara to rein him in.’

‘Barathol, let us now make our farewells. I intend to depart soon.’

‘And had I not followed you down here?’

‘I do poorly saying goodbye.’ His gaze shied away.

‘Then I will convey such to the others, on your behalf. Cutter will be. . upset. For he has known you the longest among us all.’

‘I know, and I am sorry — in so many ways I am a coward.’

But Barathol well understood. This was not cowardice. It was some sort of shame, twisted past any possible reason, any conceivable justification. The loss of Icarium was a wound so raw, so irreconcilable, that its spreading stain swept all from its path. Friends, loyalties, lives and histories. And Mappo could not fight against that onrushing tide and the fate he sought at its very end. There would be grief at that conclusion, Barathol suspected, of incalculable measure.

If Icarium Lifestealer was not yet unleashed, he would be soon. Mappo would be too late to prevent that. It was difficult, then, to leave the Trell to all that awaited him, to simply turn away, yet what else could he do, when Mappo’s own desires were so clear? ‘I will leave you to your. . paths, then, Mappo. And I wish you the best; a peaceful journey, its satisfactory conclusion.’

‘Thank you, my friend. I hope you will find Darujhistan a worthy home.’ He rose to clasp the blacksmith’s hand, then moved past to embrace Chaur, who laughed in delight and tried to begin a dance with the Trell. Grimacing, Mappo stepped back. ‘Goodbye, Chaur. Take care of Barathol here.’

When Chaur finally understood that he would not see Mappo again, there would be tears. There was a simple beauty to such open, child-like responses. Perhaps, Barathol considered, Chaur alone walked the truest path in life.

Settling a hand on Chaur’s muscled shoulder, he smiled at Mappo. ‘He is a gift I do not deserve.’

The Trell nodded. ‘A gift this world does not deserve. Now, I would be alone, in these final moments.’

Barathol bowed, then guided Chaur back to the ladder leading up to the hatch.

Iskaral Pust clambered on to his bunk, the middle of three stacked against the curving hull. He scraped his head against the underside of the top one and cursed under his breath, then cursed some more as he had to fish out a handful of disgusting offerings left beneath his pillow by the bhokarala. Rotting fish-heads, clumps of scaly faeces, baubles stolen from Spite and a cracked kaolin pipe filched from Scillara. Flung off, they clumped and clattered on the two-plank-wide walkway at the very hoofs of his mule, which had taken to standing beside his berth at random intervals — each one proving succinctly inconvenient, as befitted a thoroughly brainless but quaintly loyal animal.

From the bunk above came a ratting snort. ‘The hatch is too small, you know,’ said Mogora, ‘You make it too obvious, husband.’

‘Maybe obvious is my middle name, did you think that? No, of course not. She never thinks at all. She had ten thousand eyes and not one of them can see past her nose hairs. Listen well, woman. Everyone knows mules are superior to horses in every way. Including the navigation of hatches. Why, my blessed servant here prefers using outhouses over just plopping any which where along the roadside. She possesses decorum, which can hardly be said for you now, can it?’

‘Shouldn’t you be picking your nose or something? Your worshippers are praying for a sign, you know.’

‘At least I have worshippers. You just scare ’em. You scare everybody.’

‘Even you?’

‘Of course not. Gods below, she terrifies me! Better not let her know, though. That would be bad. I need to do something soon. Twist off her legs, maybe! Yes, that would do it. Leave her lying on her back scratching at the air and making pathetic mewling sounds. Oh, the imagination is a wonderful thing, is it not?’

‘When it’s all you have.’

‘When what’s all I have? What idiocy are you blabbering about now? That was uncanny. Almost as if she can read my mind. Good thing she can’t, though.’

‘Hold on,’ hissed Mogora. ‘That mule was male! I’d swear it!’

‘Checking him out, were you?’

‘One more step on that track, husband, and I will kill you with my own hands.’

‘Hee hee. What a terrible, disgusting mind you have, wife.’

‘No, you won’t distract me this time. Your mule has just changed sex and knowing you I might be looking at a rival, but you know what? She can have you. With my blessing she can, oh yes!’

‘Popularity is a curse,’ Iskaral said, stretching out with his hands behind his head and staring up at the taut ropes of the mattress above him. ‘Not that she’d know anything about that. I’d better visit the local temple, assert my tyrannical dominance over all the local acolytes and fakir priests and priestesses. Priestesses! Might be a pretty one or two. As High Priest, I could have my pick as is my right. Make offerings in the shadow between her legs, yes-’

‘I’d know, Iskaral Pust,’ Mogora snapped, moving about on the bed above. ‘I’d just know, and then I’d take my knife, one night when you’re sleeping, and I’d snick snick and you’d be singing like a child and squatting t’piss and what woman or mule would want you then?’

‘Get out of my head, woman!’

‘It’s not hard to know what you’re thinking.’

‘That’s what you think! She’s getting more dangerous, we need a divorce. But isn’t it why most mates break up? When the woman gets too dangerous? Must be. I’m sure of it. Well, I’d be free then, wouldn’t I? Free!’

The mule brayed.

Mogora laughed so hard she wet herself, if the rank dribbles from above were any indication.

Scillara and Cutter had taken the berths closest to the stern in an effort to achieve some sort of privacy, and had rigged a section of spare canvas across the walkway, Despite this, Mogora’s half-mad laughter reached through, triggering yet another scowl from Cutter.

‘If those two just realized how perfect they are for each other, we’d finally get some peace.’

Scillara smiled. ‘I’m sure they do. Most marriages involve mutual thoughts of murder on occasion.’

He glanced over at her. ‘You’ve some strange ideas, Scillara. About all sorts of things.’

‘I was wondering, when you head out tonight, will you want my company? Or would you rather go on your own?’

He could not hold her gaze and made a show of stretching his back before reclining on his bunk. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You’ll like the Phoenix Inn. Meese, Irilta, Murillio, Coll and Kruppe. Well, maybe not Kruppe, who rubs some people the wrong way, but he’s harmless enough. . I suppose.’ He rummaged in the pouch at his belt for a moment, then drew out a single coin. A Blue Moranth silver sceptre, which he began deftly working through his fingers. ‘Won’t they be surprised to see me.’

She managed a smile. ‘Cutter’s belated return.’

‘Well, “Cutter” isn’t the name they know me by. I was Crokus Younghand back then.’

‘And where is he now? This Crokus Younghand.’

He spent a moment squinting at the coin before replying, ‘Dead. Long dead.’

‘And what will your friends make of that?’

He sat up, suddenly restless and still unwilling to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t know. They won’t be happy.’

‘I think I will leave you to it, Cutter,’ Scillara said. ‘I’ll join Barathol and Chaur wandering the night markets and such — there’s a fete going on, yes? That sounds inviting. As for my meeting your friends, best it wait a day or two.’

He glanced at her. ‘Are you sure? You don’t-’

‘I’m sure,’ she cut in. ‘You need this night to yourself. You’ll have enough questions to answer without my presence confusing things even more.’

‘All right,’ and despite his efforts his relief was palpable. ‘But come tomorrow — everyone knows where the Phoenix is, so all you need do is ask.’

‘Of course,’ she replied, rising from where she sat on the edge of her own berth. ‘I’d best hunt Barathol down, so he doesn’t leave without me.’

‘Must be nearing dusk.’

‘So it is, Cutter. Lady’s pull on you this night.’

‘Thanks.’ But it was a distracted response.

As she made her way forward, forced to shoving the damned mule to one side, Scillara told herself that the hurt she was feeling was unwarranted. He’d found comfort in her arms, because there was no one else. No love was involved. Not once mentioned, not even whispered nor murmured in the thick, sleepy moments after lovemaking. Little more than mutual satisfaction, comfort and convenience. And now, well, that time had passed. Reunion with friends beckoned Cutter — that old world in which he had known his place. Difficult enough that he might no longer fit — explaining the overweight, pipe-sucking ex-whore at his side would only embarrass him.

He had changed her, she realised, pausing just inside the hatch. As if she’d absorbed some essence of his uncertainty, his lack of confidence. She no longer felt her usual brazen, bridling self. No longer ready with a sneer, no longer armoured against the vagaries of this damned world. Here, a dozen strides from the largest eity she had ever seen, was neither the time nor the place for such weakness.

Well, Barathol’s solid presence could answer her need. For a time, anyway.

Emerging on to the main deck, she found herself in the midst of a growing storm. The bhokarala crowded the dockside rail and scampered back and forth along its length, while at the other end of the gangplank stood an agent of the harbour master along with a half-dozen city guards even now drawing their batons, readying to assault the ship.

Barathol and Chaur had just climbed up from the hold and the blacksmith began pushing his way through the screeching, spitting apes.

She well understood his desire to prevent an escalation of the situation. Spite was not the most evenly tempered woman Scillara had known. An argument gone awry could well result in an enraged dragon’s devastating the quayside and half the city beyond. All for a misunderstanding on moorage fees.

So much for a quiet arrival.

Scillara hurried forward, kicking aside bhokarala and pulling loose her coin-pouch.

A blow to the side of his head and he rolled, suddenly awake, both knives coming Into his hands and blades scraping across the gritty flagstoned floor beneath him. His shoulder struck a wall and he blinked in the gloom.

A tall figure stood over him, black leather and banded iron in tatters, the dull gleam of snapped ribs showing through torn, green skin. A face in shadows, pitted eye-sockets, a broad slash of mouth hinting at up-thrust tusks.

Rallick Nom studied the apparition, the knives feeling useless in his gloved hands. The side of his head still rang. His gaze dropped to the stiffened leather toes of the demon’s half-rotted moccasins. ‘You kicked me.’

‘Yes,’ came the rasping reply.

‘Why?’

The demon hesitated, then said, ‘It seemed the thing to do.’

They were in a narrow corridor. A solid door of black wood and bronze fittings was to Rallick’s left. To his right, just beyond the demon, there was a T-intersection and double doors facing on to the conjunction. The light cast by the lantern the creature held in one withered, long-fingered hand seemed both pale and cold, casting diffused, indifferent shadows against the stone walls. Overhead, the ceiling was roughly arched, the stones thinner and smaller towards the peak, seemingly fitted without mortar. The air smelled of dust and decay, lifeless and dry.

‘It seems. . I remember nothing,’ Rallick said.

‘In time.’

Every joint was stiff; even sitting up with his back against the wall left Rallick’s muscles trembling. His head ached with more than just the echoes of that damned kick. ‘I’m thirsty — if you’re not going to beat me to death, demon, then find me something to drink.’

‘I am not a demon.’

‘Such things are never easy to tell,’ Rallick replied in a growl.

‘I am Jaghut. Raest, once a tyrant, now a prisoner. “He who rises shall fall. He who falls shall be forgotten.” So said Gothos, although, alas, it seems we must all wait for ever before his name fades into oblivion.’

Some strength was returning to his limbs. ‘I recall something. . a night of blood, the Gedderone Fete. Malazans in the city. .’

‘Portentous events as bereft of meaning now as they were then. You have slept, assassin, for some time. Even the poison on your weapons has lost all potency. Although the otataral within your veins courses unabated by time — few would have done as you did, which is, I suppose, just as well.’

Rallick sheathed his knives and slowly pushed himself upright. The scene spun sickeningly and he closed his eyes until the vertigo passed.

Raest continued, ‘I wander in this house. . rarely. Perhaps some time had passed before I realized that she was missing.’

Rallick squinted at the tall, hunched Jaghut. ‘She? Who?’

‘A demon in truth. Vorcan is her name now, I believe. You lay beside her, immune to the passage of time. But now she has awakened. She has, indeed, escaped. One might consider this. . perturbing. If one cared, that is.’

Vorcan, Mistress of the Assassins’ Guild, yes, now he remembered. She was wounded, dying, and he struggled to carry her, not knowing why, not knowing what he sought. To the house, the house that had grown from the very earth. The house the Malazans called an Azath. Born of the tyrant’s Finnest — Rallick frowned at Raest. ‘The house,’ he said, ‘it is your prison, too.’

A desiccated shrug that made bones squeak. ‘The stresses of owning property.’

‘So you have been here since then. Alone, not even wandering about. With two near-corpses cluttering your hallway. How long, Raest?’

‘I am not the one to ask. Does the sun lift into the sky outside then collapse once more? Do bells sound to proclaim a control where none truly exists? Do mortal fools still measure the increments leading to their deaths, wagering pleas shy;ures against costs, persisting in the delusion that deeds have value, that the world and all the gods sit in judgement over every decision made or not made? Do-’

‘Enough,’ interrupted Rallick, straightening with only one hand against the wall. ‘I asked “how long?” not “why?” or “what point?” If you don’t know the answer just say so.’

‘I don’t know the answer. But I should correct one of your assumptions. I did not dwell in here alone, although I do so now, excepting you, of course, but your company I do not expect to last. That legion of headlong fools you call your people no doubt pine for your return. Blood awaits your daggers, your pouch thirsts for the coins that will fill it with every life you steal. And so on.’

‘If you weren’t alone before, Raest. .’

‘Ah, yes, I distracted myself with notions of human futility. The Master of the Deck of Dragons was, in the common language, a squatter here in the house, for a time.’

‘And then?’

‘He left.’

‘Not a prisoner, then, this Master.’

‘No. Like you, indifferent to my miserable fate. Will you now exploit your privilege, assassin?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Will you now leave, never to return? Abandoning me to eternal solitude, with naught but cobwebs in my bed and bare cupboards in the kitchen, with mocking draughts and the occasional faint clatter of dead branches against shutters? And the odd scream or two as something unpleasant is devoured by earth and root in the yard. Will you simply leave me to this world, assassin?’

Rallick Nom stared at the Jaghut. ‘I had no idea my unconscious presence so eased your loneliness, Raest.’

‘Such insensitivity on your part should not surprise me.’

‘My answer is yes, I will indeed leave you to your world.’

‘You lack gratitude.’

Rallick drew his cloak round his shoulders and checked his gear. There was old blood but it simply flaked off like black snow. ‘Forgive me. Thank you, Raest, for the kick in the head.’

‘You are welcome. Now leave — I grow bored.’

The door opened with a loud, groaning creak. Beyond was night, yet darkness was driven back, pushed skyward, by the defiant blue fires of Darujhistan. Somewhere out of sight from where he stood at the landing, streets seethed and churned with drunken revelry. Another fete, another half-mindless celebration of survival.

The thought stirred some anticipation in Rallick Nom’s soul, blowing aside the last dust of what he suspected had been a long, long sleep. Before the door behind him was closed he turned about and could just make out Raest’s elongated form, still standing in the corridor. ‘Why did you wake me?’ he asked.

In answer, the Jaghut stepped forward and shut the door with a thunderous slam that woke birds to panic and sent them bolting into the night.

Rallick turned back to the path, saw roots writhing like serpents in the mulch to either side.

Checking his knives once more, he drew yet tighter his cloak, then set out to rediscover his city.

And so the denizens of Darujhistan grew raucous, enough to give the city itself a kind of life. Headlong indeed, with nary a thought for the future, be that the next moment or a year hence. Gas hissed into blue flame, acrobats and mummers whirled through crowds, a hundred thousand musical instruments waged war on the plains of song, and if it was said by some scholars that sound itself was undy shy;ing, that it rode unending currents that struck no fatal shore, neither in space nor through time, then life itself could be measured by its cry. In the times of free, blue clarity, and in the times of gathering clouds, in the chorus of pronouncements that sang out. . arrivals, worlds lived on, as immortal as a dream.

On the rooftop of a bastion tower, on this night, there stood a woman all in black. Eyes cold as a raptor’s looked down upon the sprawl of rooftops, spark-lit chimneys in the distant slums of the Gadrobi District, and, drifting silent over all, this woman thought long and thought hard of the future.

On a street close to Coll’s estate, a cloaked man paused, stood rooted like a stone whilst the fete swirled round him, and even as he concluded that a public return, such as had first occurred to him, might prove unwise, so walked another man — younger but with the same look in his hardened eyes — on his way to the Phoenix Inn.

Far in this one’s wake, down at the quayside, a blacksmith, his halfwit servant, and a woman whose generous curves drew admiring glances from all sides, ambled their way towards the night markets of the Gadrobi, seeing all with the wonder and pleasure only foreigners could achieve when coming for the first time upon one of the greatest cities in the world.

Closer to the ship from which they had disembarked, a High Priest of Shadow scurried for the nearest shadows, pursued mostly unseen by spiders drifting on the lake breeze, and on the trail of both scampered a score of bhokarala — many burdened with new offerings and whatever baubles they claimed as rightful possessions — a fang-bearing squall that flowed through crowds accompanied by shouts of surprise, terror and curses (as their collection of possessions burgeoned with every pouch, purse and jewel within reach of their clawed hands).

Aboard the ship itself, the captain remained. Now she was wearing loose, flowing robes of black and crimson silks, her face white as moonlight as she frowned at the city before her. A scent on the air, some lingering perfume redolent with memories. . oh, of all places, but was this truly an accident? Spite did not believe in accidents.

And so she hesitated, knowing what her first step on to solid stone would reveal — perhaps, she decided, it would do to wait for a time.

Not long.

Just long enough.

In another part of Darujhistan, a merchant of iron dispatched yet another message to the Master of the Assassins’ Guild, then retired to his secret library to pore once more over ancient, fraught literature. Whilst not too far away sat a merchant guard with fading barbed tattoos, frowning down at a cup of spiced, hot wine in his huge, scarred hands; and from the next room came a child’s laughter, and this sound made him wince.

Down among the new estates of certain once-criminal moneylenders who had since purchased respectability, a destitute Torvald Nom stealthily approached the high, spike-topped wall of one such estate. Debts, was it? Well, fine, easily solved. Had he lost any of his skills? Of course not. If anything. . such talents had been honed by the rigours of a legendary journey across half the damned world. His glorius return to Darujhistan still awaited him. Come the morning, aye, come the morning. .

At this moment, in a small chamber above the taproom of the Phoenix Inn, a man was lying on his back on a bed, still weak from blood loss, and in his thoughts he walked the cemetery of his past, fingers brushing the tops of weathered tombstones and grave markers, seeing the knots of tangled grass climbing the sides of dusty urns, while stretching away in his wake was the shadow of his youth — fainter, longer, fraying now at the very edges. He would not lift his hand yet to feel his own face, to feel the wrinkles and creases that wrote out in tired glyphs his age, his waning life.

Oh, flesh could be healed, yes. .

Below, amidst a mob of bellowing, reeling drunks and screeching whores of both sexes, a small round man, seated as ever at his private table, paused with his mouth stuffed full of honeyed bread, and, upon hearing the tenth bell sound through the city, cocked his head and settled his tiny, beady eyes upon the door to Phoenix Inn.

Arrivals.

Glory and portent, delightful reunion and terrible imminence, winged this and winged that and escapes and releases and pending clashes and nefarious demands for recompense over a single mouthful of spat wine, such a night!

Such a night!