The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  She drew a deep breath, and her senses narrowed to the task at hand. The fat little man was dangerous. The how and why of this remained to be answered, but every power hissed in alarm each time she caught a glimpse of him amid the crowds. And all that is dangerous, she told herself, must die.

  Beneath the Second Tier Wall in the Lakefront, the market along Salt Walk was at its usual frenzied peak. The sour heat, building all day in the cluttered avenues and alleys, was at its height. Sweating, exhausted merchants screamed curses at competitors over the heads of customers. Fights broke out every few minutes in one or another area, the turgid jostle of the crowds pulling the contestants apart long before the arrival of ill-tempered guards.

  Squatting on their grass mats, local Rhivi plainsmen called out in their nasal singsong endless descriptions of fine horseflesh. At intersections, Gadrobi herders stood at tethering poles surrounded by braying goats and sheep, while others pushed wooden carts burdened with cheeses and clay jugs filled with fermented milk. Daru fishermen walked with spears of smoked fish bobbing above their heads streaming with buzzing flies. Catlin weavers sat behind waist-high fortresses comprised of bolts of brightly dyed cloth. Gredfalan farmers stood in their wagons selling the season’s bitter fruits and sweet tubers. Woodsellers forced their ox-drawn wagons through the crowds, their children clinging to the stacked bundles of wood like monkeys. Dark-robed men and women from Callows sang out the clashing claims of their Thousand Sects of D’rek, each holding aloft their sect’s particular icon.

  Kruppe strode down the market street with a jaunty step, his arms waving about seemingly of their own accord. Such movement, however, was no mere affectation: it disguised the gesturing required for casting spells. As a thief, it appeared that Kruppe’s tastes did not demand much. He stole food—fruit and sweets, mostly—and it was to such desires of the palate that he had honed his skills of magic.

  As he walked, the chaotic dance of his arms was timed to catch apples flying from baskets, pastries leaping from trays, chocolate-covered cherries plucked from pans, all moving so swiftly as to be no more than blurs dodging bodies in their path. Inside the wide, flopping sleeves of his coat, pockets had been sewn, some large, some tiny. All that entered Kruppe’s hands disappeared up his sleeves, tucked into appropriately sized pockets. He strode on, a connoisseur of edible delicacies of a hundred cultures, an expression of sated contentment on his round face.

  Eventually, after a long, circuitous route, Kruppe arrived at the Phoenix Inn. He paused on the steps and chatted with a lone thug standing there, removing from a sleeve a glazed honeyball. Then, taking a bite from the sweetmeat, he pushed open the door and disappeared inside.

  Half a block down the street, Sorry propped herself against the pitted wall of a tenement and crossed her arms. The fat little man was a wonder. She’d seen enough of his exquisite ballet to recognize him as an Adept. Yet she felt confused, for the mind behind the man’s façade hinted at capacities far greater than those he’d shown. Confirmation that here indeed was a dangerous creature.

  From where she stood she studied the inn. The man on the steps seemed to be screening everyone entering, but she couldn’t detect any gesture that might indicate a thieves’ cant. The conversations were brief, usually of mutual recognition. Nevertheless she intended to enter the inn. It was the kind of place Whiskeyjack had sent Kalam and Quick Ben to find—a haunt of thieves, strongarms, and assassins. Why the sergeant wanted to find such a place was a detail that hadn’t been shared with her. The wizard and Kalam had suspicions about her, and she sensed that their arguments were swaying Whiskeyjack. If they could, they’d keep her out of everything, but she didn’t intend that to happen.

  Pushing herself from the wall, Sorry crossed the street and approached the Phoenix Inn. Overhead, the afternoon had waned into a thick, heavy dusk, the smell of rain in the air. As she neared the front steps, the thug’s attention focused on her. The man grinned. “Following Kruppe around, eh?” He wagged his head. “Girls shouldn’t carry swords anyway. Hope you’re not planning to go inside. With a sword? Uh, uh. Not unescorted, anyway.”

  Sorry stepped back. She glanced up and down the street. The nearest pedestrian was over a street away, heading in the opposite direction. She closed her hands around the edges of her half-cloak and drew it around her waist. “Let me pass,” she said quietly. How had that fat man spotted her?

  The man leaned on the railing. “All this is just begging for some kind of conversation, friendly-like,” he said. “So how about you and me go back to the alley. You lay down your sword and I’ll be gentle. Otherwise, things could get rough, and what would be the fun of—?”

  Sorry’s left hand darted out. A dagger flashed between them. The blade entered the man’s right eye and then his brain. He jerked back over the rail and fell, landing with a heavy thud beside the steps. Sorry walked up to him and retrieved her dagger. She paused, adjusting the belt that carried her duelling sword, then checked the street. Seeing no one close enough to have noticed anything awry in the deepening gloom, she climbed the steps and entered the inn.

  She was stopped before she’d taken her second step, coming face-to-face with a moaning boy hanging upside down. Two rough-looking women were taking turns to swing him back and forth. Every time he tried to reach up to the rope tied to his feet he earned a knock on the head. One of the women grinned at Sorry.

  “Hey, now!” the woman said, grasping Sorry’s arm as she walked by.

  Sorry turned a cold eye on the woman. “What?”

  The woman leaned close, her breath a mist of beer as she whispered, “You get in trouble, you just call for Irilta and Meese. That’s us, right?”

  “Thank you.”

  Sorry resumed her walk. She’d already seen the fat little man—what had the thug called him? Kruppe. He’d seated himself at a table near the far wall, beneath the gallery. Through the crowded room Sorry saw a space open at the bar, where she might take position and observe. She pushed forward.

  Since Kruppe evidently knew of her, she decided to make no effort in hiding her attention. Often, that was exactly the kind of pressure that cracked a man’s will. In a war of patience, Sorry smiled inwardly, the mortal is ever at a disadvantage.

  Crokus turned the corner and approached the Phoenix Inn. The course Mammot had set for him was intimidating, the education extending far beyond books, to the etiquette of court manners, the functions of various officials, bloodlines and particular quirks among certain dignitaries—but he’d vowed to himself he’d follow it through. His goal was one day to stand before that D’Arle maiden, awaiting a formal introduction.

  Something in him mocked the image. There stands Crokus, the scholar, the sophisticated young promise, the thief. It was all too absurd. Yet it dogged him, steeled his resolve. He’d come to it one day soon. Until then, however, there were other matters to attend to, things that needed redressing.

  As he came up to the inn’s steps he saw a huddled shadow beneath the railing. Cautiously Crokus moved closer.

  As Sorry reached the bar the door slammed open on the other side of the room. She turned with everyone else to see a young, black-haired man standing there.

  “Someone’s murdered Chert!” the man shouted. “He’s been knifed!”

  Half a dozen patrons surged to the door, pushing past the young man and disappearing outside.

  Sorry faced the bar again. Catching the barman’s eye she said, “Gredfalan ale, please, in a pewter tankard.”

  The woman Irilta had called Meese appeared beside her, thumping two broad forearms on the bar as she leaned forward. “Attend the lady, Scurve,” Meese growled. “She got taste.”

  Meese dipped her head close to Sorry’s. “Good taste all round. Chert was a pig.”

  Sorry stiffened. Her hands slipped down beneath her cloak.

  “Easy, girl,” Meese said, in a low tone. “We ain’t wagging tongues. Around here, y’ take care of yourselves first, and I don’t want no knife in my eye. We sai
d we’d take care of you, didn’t we?”

  The ale arrived, as ordered. Sorry raised a hand and closed it on the tankard’s handle. “You don’t want to take care of me, Meese,” she said quietly.

  Another person arrived on Meese’s other side. Glancing at him, Sorry saw that it was the black-haired youth, his face pale. “Dammit, Meese,” he hissed, “I’m having a really bad day.”

  Meese chuckled and draped an arm over his shoulders. “Scurve, serve us up a couple of them Gredfalan ales. Crokus here’s earned Darujhistan’s best.” Meese turned her head and bent close to Sorry again. “Next time,” she whispered, “you don’t want to show that kind of breeding. Not around here, anyway.”

  Sorry frowned down at her drink. She’d been careless, ordering the city’s best. Then she took a mouthful. “That’s fine,” she said. “Fine indeed.”

  Meese grinned, nudging Crokus. “The lady likes it just fine.”

  Crokus leaned forward, offering Sorry a weary but warm smile. From outside came the klaxon of the Guard.

  Scurve served up the two ales.

  Sorry watched Crokus’s gaze move down her body, then stop. The youth’s smile tightened, his face whitening even more than before. As the tankard was set before him, Crokus averted his eyes and reached for it.

  “Pay up before you drink that, Crokus,” Scurve muttered. “You’re getting to be just as bad as Kruppe.”

  Crokus reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. As he tried to count them some slipped between his fingers and bounced on the bar. Of the three that fell, two clattered briefly then stopped. The third coin spun, and continued spinning. Sorry’s eyes swung to it, as did Scurve’s and Meese’s. Crokus reached for it, then hesitated. The coin was still spinning, its momentum unchanged.

  Sorry stared at the coin, feeling echoes of power slam into her skull like ocean waves. From within, all at once, came an answering surge. Scurve shouted as the coin skidded across the bar, bounced once high into the air, then clattered to a stop directly in front of Crokus.

  No one spoke. Beyond their small ring no one else had witnessed the event.

  Crokus thrust his hand forward and collected the coin. “Not this one,” he grated.

  “Fine,” Scurve answered, in a similar, hoarse voice. He reached shaking hands to gather in the other coins Crokus had laid on the bar.

  Beneath the counter, Sorry brushed her hand against her dagger’s hilt and scabbard. It came away wet. So, Crokus had seen the blood. She would have to kill him. Only, her frown deepened, she knew she wouldn’t.

  “Crokus, my boy!” came a shout from under the gallery.

  Meese sneered in that direction. “The flopping fish himself,” she muttered. “Kruppe calls, lad.”

  Crokus snorted, having returned the coin to his pocket. He picked up his tankard. “Later, Meese.”

  So, she’d found Oponn’s man—as easily as that. And he was connected to Kruppe, somehow. This was almost too simple. It made her suspicious.

  “A likely lad,” Meese said. “Me and Irilta, we look out for him, right?”

  Sorry leaned against the bar, her eyes on the tankard in her hand. She’d have to play this very carefully. That burst of Shadow sorcery, responding to the Coin’s influence, had been entirely instinctive. “Right, Meese,” she said. “No worries on that count. OK?”

  Meese sighed. “OK. Let’s try for the cheap stuff now. Scurve? Daru beer, if you please. Earthenware, if you have it.”

  Crouched against the Second Tier Wall on the Lakefront side was Quip’s Bar, a common haunt of shipmen and fisher-hands. The bar’s walls were cut sandstone, and over time the whole edifice had developed a backward lean, as if withdrawing from the front street. Quip’s now sagged against the Second Tier Wall, as did the adjoining squatter shacks constructed mostly of driftwood and hull planks washed ashore from the occasional wreck out on Mole’s Reef.

  Dusk brought a light rain to Darujhistan, the mists crawling in from the water and onto the shore. Far out over the lake lightning flashed, but too distant for thunder to be heard.

  Kalam emerged from Quip’s Bar just as a local Grayface brought his burning pitch-stick to a nearby gaslight, having moments earlier opened the copper valves. The lamp ignited in a flash of blue flame that quickly evened out. Kalam paused outside the bar to watch the odd, gray-robed man continue on down the street. He squinted skyward, then moved up the street. He came to the last squatter shack, this one abutting a peculiar jag in the tier wall, and entered.

  Quick Ben looked up from his cross-legged position in the center of the dirt floor. “Any luck?”

  “No,” Kalam said. “The Guild’s gone to ground—why, I’ve no idea.” He went to the far wall and sat down on his bedroll. He leaned back against the ancient, pitted stone and eyed his comrade. “You think maybe the City Council’s moved to take out the local assassins?”

  Quick Ben’s gaze glittered in the gloom. “You mean, anticipating we’d try to make contact?”

  Kalam looked away. “I doubt they’re idiots. They must know it’s the Malazan way. Offer the Guild a contract it can’t refuse, then sit back and watch the rulers drop like headless flies. Whiskeyjack suggested the plan. Dujek OK’d it. Those two were talking the old Emperor’s language there, Quick. The old man must be laughing in the Abyss right now.”

  The wizard shivered. “An unpleasant image.”

  Shrugging, Kalam continued, “It’s all academic, anyway, if we can’t find a local assassin. Wherever they are, it’s not in Lakefront District, I’d swear to that. The only name I picked up that’s got mystery around it is someone named the Eel. Not an assassin, though. Something else.”

  “Where next, then?” Quick Ben asked. “Gadrobi District?”

  “No. Just a bunch of farmers and herders there. Hood knows, the smell alone coming from that place is enough to cross it off the list. We’ll try Daru, starting tomorrow.” Kalam hesitated. “What about your side of things?”

  Quick Ben bowed his head. When he answered it was a faint whisper. “Almost ready.”

  “Whiskeyjack nearly choked when he heard your proposal. So did I. You’ll be walking into the viper’s den, Quick. You sure it’s necessary?”

  “No.” Quick Ben looked up. “Personally, I’d rather we just dropped everything and ran—away from it all, from the Empire, from Darujhistan, from war. But try convincing the sergeant to do that. He’s loyal to an idea, and that’s the hardest kind to turn.”

  Kalam nodded. “Honor, integrity, all that expensive crap.”

  “Right. So we do it this way because it’s the only way left to us. Hairlock’s insanity has become a liability, but we can use him still, one last time. Power draws power, and with luck Hairlock’s demise will do just that. The more Ascendants we can lure into the fray the better.”

  “I always thought that was something to avoid, Quick.”

  The wizard’s smile was strained. “Tell me about it. But right now the more confusion and chaos the better.”

  “And if Tayschrenn catches wind?”

  Quick Ben’s smile broadened. “Then we’re dead all that much sooner. So it goes.”

  Kalam barked a short, humorless laugh. “So it goes.”

  The wizard cocked his head. “The sun’s past the horizon. Time to start.”

  “You want me out of here?” Kalam asked.

  Quick Ben shook his head. “No, I want you right where you are for this one. If I don’t come back, take my body and burn it down to ash. Scatter the ash to the four winds, and curse my name with all your heart.”

  Kalam was silent. Then he asked, in a growl, “How long do I wait?”

  “Dawn,” Quick Ben replied. “You understand I would only ask this of my closest friend.”

  “I understand. Now, get on with it, dammit.”

  Quick Ben gestured. A ring of fire sprang from the earth, surrounding the wizard. He closed his eyes.

  To Kalam, his friend seemed to deflate slightly, as if somethi
ng essential to life had disappeared. Quick Ben’s neck creaked as his chin sank down to his chest, his shoulders slumped, and a long breath escaped with a slow hiss. The ring of fire flared, then dimmed to a lapping glimmer on the earth.

  Kalam shifted position, stretching out his legs and crossing his arms. In the gathering silence, he waited.

  A pale Murillio returned to the table and sat down. “Someone’s disposing of the body,” he said, then shook his head. “Whoever killed Chert was a professional with a real nasty streak. Right through the eye—”

  “Enough!” Kruppe cried out, raising his hands. “Kruppe happens to be eating, dear Murillio, and Kruppe also happens to have a delicate stomach.”

  “Chert was a fool,” Murillio continued, ignoring Kruppe, “but hardly the type to attract such viciousness.”

  Crokus said nothing. He’d seen the blood on that dark-haired woman’s dagger.

  “Who can say?” Kruppe waggled his eyebrows. “Perhaps he was witness to some horrific horror. Perhaps he was stamped out as a man crushes a cute mouse underfoot.”

  Crokus glanced around. His eyes returned to the woman standing with Meese at the bar. Dressed in leather armor with a plain dueling sword strapped to her hip, she reminded him of the time he’d watched, as a young boy, a troop of mercenaries ride through the city. They had been the Crimson Guard, he recalled: five hundred men and women without a shiny buckle among them.

  His gaze remained on the woman. Like a mercenary, a killer for whom killing had long since lost its horror. What had Chert done to earn a knife in the eye?

  Crokus looked away, in time to see Rallick Nom enter the bar. The assassin approached the table, seemingly unconscious of the locals moving from his path.

  Coll intercepted him before he reached the table. The burly man slapped Rallick’s back and leaned drunkenly against him. “Nom, you old bastard!”