‘Quiet,’ Barathol muttered.
The slim woman came up, soft brown eyes fixed on Barathol. And in Malazan, she said, ‘I knew Kalam.’
He snorted. ‘Yes, he’s a popular man.’
‘Cousin?’
He shrugged. ‘That will do. Are you with the embassy?’
‘No. Are you?’
Barathol’s eyes narrowed. Then he shook his head. ‘We arrived today. I never directly served in your empire.’
She seemed to think about that. Then she nodded. ‘We’re retired. Causing no trouble to anyone.’
‘Sounds retired indeed.’
‘We run a bar. K’rul’s, in the Estates District, near Worry Gate.’
‘And how does it fare?’
‘Slow to start, but we’re settled in now. Getting by.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Come by, I’ll set you the first round.’
‘We just might.’
She glanced down at Scillara then, and winked. Then turned away and walked back to her table.
‘What just happened?’ Scillara asked after a moment.
Barathol smiled. ‘Do you mean the wink or all the rest?’
‘I figured out the wink, thank you. The rest.’
‘They’re deserters, I’d wager. Worried that we might be imperial. That I might be a Claw, come to deliver a message from the Empress – the usual message to deserters. They knew Kalam Mekhar, a relation of mine, who was once a Claw, and then a Bridgeburner.’
‘A Bridgeburner. I’ve heard about them. The nastiest company ever. Started in Seven Cities and then left with Dujek.’
‘The same.’
‘So they thought you were here to kill them.’
‘Yes.’
‘So one of them just decided to walk up and talk to you. That seems either incredibly brave or profoundly stupid.’
‘The former,’ said Barathol. ‘About what you’d expect from a Bridgeburner, deserter or otherwise.’
Scillara twisted round, quite deliberately, to study the two women and the red-bearded man at the table on the other side of the plaza. And did not flinch from the steady regard they then fixed on her.
Amused, Barathol waited until Scillara slowly swung back and reached for her jar of wine, before saying, ‘Speaking of brave . . .’
‘Oh, I just don’t go for that kowtowing stuff.’
‘I know.’
‘So do they, now.’
‘Right. Shall we join them, then?’
Scillara suddenly grinned. ‘Tell you what, let’s buy them a pitcher, then watch and see if they drink from it.’
‘Gods, woman, you play sharp games.’
‘Nah, it’s just flirting.’
‘With what?’
Her smile broadened, and she gestured over a nearby server.
‘Now what?’ Antsy demanded.
‘Guess they’re thirsty,’ Picker said.
‘It’s that quiet one who worries me,’ Antsy continued.
‘He’s got that blank look, like the worst kinda killer.’
‘He’s a simpleton, Antsy,’ said Blend.
‘Worst kinda killer there is.’
‘Oh, really. He’s addled, a child’s brain – look how he looks round at everything. Look at that silly grin.’
‘It’s probably an act, Blend. Tell her, Pick, it’s an act. That’s your Claw, right there, the one that’s gonna kill us starting with me, since I ain’t never had no luck, except the pushin’ kind. My skin’s all clammy already, like I was practising being a corpse. It’s no fun, being a corpse – take it from me.’
‘That explains the fingernails,’ Blend said.
Antsy frowned at her.
The server who had just been at the other table now arrived, delivering a large clay jar. ‘Wine,’ she said. ‘Compliments of them three o’er there.’
Picker snorted. ‘Oh, that’s cute. And now they want to see if we drink from it. Get that wench back here, Blend. Buy them a bottle of white apricot nectar. Returning the favour, like.’
Blend rolled her eyes. ‘This could get expensive,’ she said as she rose.
‘I ain’t drinkin’ from nothing I didn’t buy myself,’ Antsy said. ‘We shoulda brought Bluepearl, he could’ve sniffed out whatever. Or Mallet. They got poisons so secret here there’s no taste, no smell, the one drop that kills ya don’t even feel wet. Why, all you need to do is look in its direction!’
‘What in Hood’s name are you going on about, Antsy?’
‘You heard me, Pick—’
‘Pour me some of this wine, then. Let’s see if they got good taste.’
‘I ain’t touching that jar, could be powdered with something—’
‘Only if the wench was in on it. If she wasn’t and there was, she’d be dead, right?’
‘She don’t look too healthy to me.’
‘You’d look pretty rough too with all the cysts she’s got on her head and neck.’
‘Some Daru poisons show up as knobby lumps—’
‘Gods below, Antsy!’ Picker reached across and collected the jar, filled her goblet. Drank down a mouthful of the amber liquid. ‘There. Not half bad. We got better in our cellar, I’m pleased to say.’
Antsy was studying her with slightly bulging eyes.
Blend returned, sank into a slouch in her chair. ‘On its way,’ she said. ‘How was the wine, Pick?’
‘Passing. Want some?’
‘All this trudging back and forth has worked up a fierce thirst, so fill it up, darling.’
‘You’re both suicidal,’ Antsy said.
‘We’re not the ones feeling clammy, are we?’
‘There are some poisons,’ Picker said, ‘that kill the person next to the one who took it.’
The ex-sergeant lurched back in his chair. ‘Damn you – I heard of those – you killed me!’
‘Calm down,’ Blend interjected. ‘She was teasing you, Antsy. Honest. Right, Picker?’
‘Well . . .’
‘If you don’t want his knife in your throat, Pick, tell him quick.’
‘Aye, a jibe. A jest. Teasing, nothing more. Besides, if you’re naturally clammy, you’re immune.’
‘You must think me an idiot, Pick. Both of you!’ When neither objected to that assertion the Falari snarled and took the jar from Blend, raised it defiantly to his mouth and downed the rest of the contents in a cascade of gulps, his oversized apple bobbing as if he was trying to swallow a cork.
‘A fearless idiot,’ Blend said, shaking her head.
Antsy sucked on his moustache ends for a moment, then thumped the empty jar on to the tabletop. He belched.
They watched as the wench delivered the bottle of white apricot nectar. A brief conversation with the woman ensued, whereupon she flounced off with a toss of her knobby head. The pleasantly plump woman and the Mekhar both poured a healthy measure of the liquor. With a bold toast in the Malazans’ direction, they sipped.
‘Look at that,’ Blend said, smiling, ‘such handsome shades of green.’
And the woman was on her feet, was marching over.
Antsy set a hand on the grip of his shortsword.
In Malazan tainted with the accent of Seven Cities, the woman – with a hard frown – said, ‘You trying to kill us or something? That was awful!’
‘It gets better,’ Blend said with an innocent blink.
‘Really? And when would that be?’
‘Well, embalmers swear by it.’
The woman snorted. ‘Damned Mezla. This is war, you know.’ And she spun about and walked, a little unsteadily, back to her table.
The server was simply waiting in the wings, it turned out, as she arrived at the table moments after the Seven Cities woman sank down into her chair. More conversation. Another toss of the head, and off she trundled.
The bottle she showed up with was of exquisite multihued glass, shaped like some giant insect.
‘This is for you!’ the server snapped. ‘And I ain’t pla
ying no more no matter how much you tip me. Think I can’t work this out? Two women and a man here, one woman and two men o’er there! You are all disgusting and when I tell the manager, well, banning the likes of you won’t hurt us none, will it?’ A whirl, nose in the air, and a most impressive stalk to the restaurant’s nether regions or wherever it was managers squatted in the nervous gloom common to their kind.
The three Malazans said nothing for a long time, each with eyes fixed upon that misshapen bottle.
Then Picker, licking dry lips, asked, ‘Male or female?’
‘Female,’ Antsy said in a thin, grating voice, as if being squeezed from below. ‘Should smell . . . sweet.’
Clearing her throat, Blend said, ‘They just won the war, didn’t they?’
Picker looked at her. ‘A damned slaughter, too.’
Antsy moaned. ‘We got to drink it, don’t we?’
The two women nodded.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I once plunged straight into a squad of Crimson Guard—’
‘You fell out of the tree—’
‘—and made it out alive. And I once stood down a charging wild boar—’
‘Wasn’t wild, Antsy. It was Trotts’s pet, and you made a grunt that sounded just like a sow.’
‘—and at the last moment I jumped right over it—’
‘It threw you into a wall.’
‘—so if anyone here’s got the guts to start, it’s me.’ And with that he reached for the bottle of Quorl Milk. Paused to study the sigil on the stopper. ‘Green Moranth. The cheap brand. Figures.’
The normal dosage was a thimbleful. Sold exclusively to women who wanted to get pregnant. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t. Maybe all it did was shock the body into pregnancy – anything to avoid another taste of that stuff.
Picker drew out a pale handkerchief and waved it over her head. They’d have to offer them rooms now, at least a week’s stay, she judged. Us Mezla just got trounced. Gods, it’s about time we met folk worth meeting.
Makes it almost worth drinking Quorl Milk.
Antsy drank down a mouthful then set the bottle down. And promptly passed out. Crumpling like a man without bones, except for his head which crunched audibly on the cobbles.
Almost worth it. Sighing, she reached for the bottle. To Blend she said, ‘Good thing your foot’s been neutered, love.’
‘Don’t you mean sterile?’
‘I ain’t that delusional,’ Picker replied. ‘Be sure they promise to hire us all a carriage, before you drink, Blend.’
‘I will. See you tomorrow, sweetie.’
‘Aye.’
Crone circled the edge, fixing one eye then the other on the strange apparition swirling above the enchanted dais. The power of the High Alchemist’s sorcery was as sweet and intoxicating as the pollen of d’bayang poppies, but that which came from the demon was foul, alien – yet, the Great Raven knew, not quite as alien as it should be. Not to her and her kind, that is.
‘You are bold,’ she said to Baruk, who stood facing the dais with hands folded. ‘And the reach of your power, and will, is most impressive.’
‘Thank you,’ replied the High Alchemist, squinting at the demon he had conjured and then trapped. ‘Our conversations have been . . . most enlightening. Of course, what we see here is not a true physical manifestation. A soul, I believe, disconnected from its corporeal self.’
‘With eyes of jade,’ Crone noted, beak opening in silent laughter. She hesitated, then asked, ‘What has it told you?’
Baruk smiled.
From the mantel above the fireplace Chillbais wheezed derisively and made insulting gestures with its stubby hands.
‘You should spike that thing to a wall,’ Crone hissed. ‘At the very least send it back up the chimney and thus out of my sight.’
Baruk spoke as if he had not heard Crone’s complaining: ‘Its body is very far away indeed. I was granted an image of the flesh – a human, as far as I could tell, which is in itself rather extraordinary. I was able to capture the soul due to its heightened meditative state, one in which the detachment is very nearly absolute. I doubt the original body draws breath ten times a bell. A most spiritual individual, Crone.’
The Great Raven returned her attention to the apparition. Studied its jade eyes, its jagged traceries of crackling filaments, pulsing like a slowed heart. ‘And you know, then,’ she said.
‘Yes. The demon is from the realm of the Fallen One. His birthplace.’
‘Meditating, you say. Seeking its god?’
‘That seems likely,’ Baruk murmured. ‘Reaching, touching . . . recoiling.’
‘From the agony, from the ferocious fires of pain.’
‘I will send it home, soon.’
Crone half spread her wings and hopped down on to the tiles. Cocking her head, she fixed an eye upon the High Alchemist. ‘This is not simple curiosity.’
Baruk blinked, then turned away. ‘I had a guest, not so long ago.’
‘In truth?’
The High Alchemist paused, then shook his head. ‘Halftruth.’
‘Did he sit in a chair?’
‘Well now, that would hardly be appropriate, Crone.’
She laughed. ‘Shadowthrone.’
‘Please, do not act surprised,’ Baruk said. ‘Your master is well aware of such matters. Tell me, where are the rest of them?’
‘Them?’
‘The gods and goddesses. The ones cringing every time the Crippled God clears his throat. So eager for this war, as long as someone else does the fighting. None of this should be set at your Lord’s feet. I don’t know what Shadowthrone has offered Anomander Rake, but you would do well to warn your master, Crone. With Shadow, nothing is as it seems. Nothing.’
The Great Raven cackled, then said, ‘So true, so true.’ And now it was his turn, she noted, to regard her with growing suspicion. ‘Oh, Baruk, people raise standing stones, one after another, only to topple them down one by one. Is it not always the way? They dig holes only to fill them in again. As for us Great Ravens, why, we build nests only to tear them apart next season, all because the mad lizard in our skulls demands it. See your demon on the dais. It pays nothing to be spiritual, when it is the flesh that ever clamours for attention. So send him back, yes, that he can begin to repair all the severed tendons – whilst his comrades witness the distance of his gaze, and wonder, and yearn to find the same otherworldliness for themselves, fools that they all are.
‘Have you exhorted him to pray all the harder, Baruk? I thought as much, but it’s no use, I tell you, and who better to make such judgement? And consider this: my master is not blind. He has never been blind. He stands before a towering stone, yes, and would see it toppled. So, old friend, be sure to stay a safe distance.’
‘How can I?’ the High Alchemist retorted.
‘Send the soul home,’ Crone said again. ‘Look to the threat that even now creeps closer in the night, that is but moments from plucking the strands of your highest wards – to announce her arrival, yes, to evince her . . . desperation.’
She hopped towards the nearest window sill. ‘For myself, I must now depart, yes, winging away most quickly.’
‘A moment. You have lingered, Crone, in search of something. And it seems you have found it.’
‘I have,’ she replied, cackling again.
‘Well?’
‘Only confirmation, to ease my master’s mind.’
‘Confirmation? Ah, that Shadowthrone spoke true.’
A third cackle from the sill – as threes were ever preferable to pairs, not that Crone was superstitious of course – but if only two, then a third would sound somewhere, and might that one not be at her own expense? Not to be, oh no, not to be! ‘Farewell, Baruk!’
Moments after he closed the window in the wake of that oily black-tarred hen, Chillbais lifted his head and cried out: ‘She comes! She comes!’
‘Yes,’ Baruk sighed.
‘Deadly woman!’
‘Not this time, lit
tle one. Fly to Derudan, and quickly.
Tell her, from me, that the one who once hunted us has returned. To discuss matters. Further, Chillbais, invite Derudan to join us as soon as she is able. She will understand, I am sure, the need.’
Chillbais flapped (well, mostly fell) to the floor in front of the fireplace, then scrambled into the embers and vanished up the chimney.
Baruk frowned at the conjured demon spinning above the dais; then, with a single gesture, he released the spirit, watching as the swirling energy dwindled, then winked out. Go home, lost one. With my blessing. And then he stood, facing the wall she would come through.
Stood, awaiting Vorcan.
No longer afraid of her.
No, the terror he was feeling belonged instead to her reason for coming. As for the Mistress of Assassins herself, damn but he had harsh words awaiting her.
You killed the others, woman. All but myself and Derudan. Yes, only the three of us left. Only three.
To stop, if we can, the return of the Tyrant.
Oh, Vorcan, you toppled far too many stones that night.
Should he have asked Anomander Rake for help? Gods below, it had been as close to offered him as it could have been, if he understood Crone and he was sure that he did – at least in that matter. And if he chose to accept that offer, should he tell Derudan and Vorcan? How could he not?
Neither would be pleased, he was sure. Especially Vorcan. And their fragile (and yes, it would be most fragile) alliance might die in the very moments of its birth.
Oh, Baruk, be open, be honest with them both. Ask them. Simple as that.
Yet, even as he saw the wall before him blurring, seeming to melt, a figure slowly, cautiously stepping through, he knew he would not. Could not.
There were but three of them left, now. Not enough to stop the Tyrant’s return. Even with Rake’s help . . . not enough.
Which means one of us will choose to betray the others. Currying favour for when He returns. Favour, well. Bargaining to stay alive would be more accurate.
One of us will betray the others.
Maybe Derudan. Maybe this one here.
Gods, maybe me.
He stood thirty paces up the street. Beneath the hood his eyes held unwavering on the ill-lit entrance to the Phoenix Inn. On the old steps, on the tattered sign still hanging misaligned above the inset door. For a hundred heartbeats he had watched, as figures entered, others left – no one as yet familiar to him, as if in his absence all that he had known had vanished, melted away, and now strangers sat where he had once sat. Held tankards he had once held. Smiled at the servers and flung out over-familiar suggestions as they swayed past.