The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 778
But his disgust was proving a thin crust, cracking as terror seethed beneath, the terror born of remote possibilities. Da and Ma were going to a temple, a new temple, one devoted to a god as broken and useless as Bedek himself. The High Priest, who called himself a prophet, was even more crippled. Nothing worked below his arms, and half his face sagged and the eye on that side had just dried up since the lids couldn’t close and now it looked like a rotten crab apple – Snell had seen it for himself, when he’d stood at the side of the street watching as the Prophet was being carried by his diseased followers to the next square, where he’d croak out yet another sermon predicting the end of the world and how only the sick and the stupid would survive.
No wonder Da was so eager. He’d found his god at last, one in his own image, and that was usually the way, wasn’t it? People don’t change to suit their god; they change their god to suit them.
Da and Ma were on their way to the Temple of the Crippled God, where they hoped to speak to the Prophet himself. Where they hoped to ask the god’s blessing. Where they hoped to discover what had happened to Harllo.
Snell didn’t believe anything would come of that. But then, he couldn’t be sure, could he? And that was what was scaring him. What if the Crippled God knew about what Snell had done? What if the Prophet prayed to it and was told the truth, and then told Da and Ma?
Snell might have to run away. But he’d take Hinty and Mew with him, selling them off to get some coin, which he’d need and need bad. Let someone else wipe their stinking…
Yes, Ma, I’ll take care of them. You two go, see what you can find out.
Just look at them, so filled with hope, so stupid with the idea that something else will solve all their problems, swipe away their miseries. The Crippled God: how good can a god be if it’s crippled? If it can’t even heal itself? That Prophet was getting big crowds. Plenty of useless people in the world, so that was no surprise. And they all wanted sympathy. Well, Snell’s family deserved sympathy, and maybe some coin, too. And a new house, all the food they could eat and all the beer they could drink. In fact, they deserved maids and servants, and people who would think for them, and do everything that needed doing.
Snell stepped outside to watch Ma wheeling Da off down the alley, clickety-click.
Behind him Hinty was snuffling, probably getting ready to start bawling since Ma was out of sight and that didn’t happen often. Well, he’d just have to shut the brat up. A good squeeze to the chest and she’d just pass out and things would get quiet again. Maybe do that to both of them. Make it easier wrapping them up in some kind of sling, easier to carry in case he decided to run.
Hinty started crying.
Snell spun round and the runt looked at him and her crying turned into shrieks.
‘Yes, Hinty,’ Snell said, grinning, ‘I’m coming for ya. I’m coming for ya.’
And so he did.
Bellam Nom had known that something was wrong, terribly so. The atmosphere in the school was sour, almost toxic. Hardly conducive to learning about duelling, about everything one needed to know about staying alive in a contest of blades.
On a personal, purely selfish level, all this was frustrating, but one would have to be an insensitive bastard to get caught up in that kind of thinking. The problem was, something had broken Stonny Menackis. Broken her utterly. And that in turn had left Murillio shattered, because he loved her – no doubt about that, since he wouldn’t have hung around if he didn’t, not with the way she was treating him and everyone else, but especially him.
It hadn’t been easy working out what was wrong, since nobody was talking much, but he’d made a point of lingering, standing in shadows as if doing little more than cooling himself off after a bell’s worth of footwork in the sunlight. And Bellam Nom had sharp ears. He also had a natural talent, one it seemed he had always possessed: he could read lips. This had proved useful, of course. People had a hard time keeping secrets from Bellam.
Master Murillio had reached some sort of decision, and walked as one driven now, and Bellam quickly realized that he did not need to employ any stealth while trailing him – an entire legion of Crimson Guard could be marching on the man’s heels and he wouldn’t know it.
Bellam was not certain what role he might be able to play in whatever was coming. The only thing that mattered to him was that he be there when the time came.
Mark him well. These are the thoughts of courage, unquestioning and uncompromising, and this is how heroes come to be. Small ones. Big ones. All kinds. When drama arrives, they are there. Look about. See for yourself.
He seemed such an innocuous man, so aptly named, and there was nothing in this modest office that might betray Humble Measure’s ambitions, nor his bloodthirsty eagerness in making use of Seba Krafar and his Guild of Assassins.
Harmless, then, and yet Seba found himself sweating beneath his nondescript clothes. True, he disliked appearing in public, particularly in the light of day, but that unease barely registered when in the presence of the Master Ironmonger.
It’s simple. I don’t like the man. And is that surprising? Despite the fact that he’s provided the biggest contract I’ve seen, at least as head of the Guild. Probably the Malazan offer Vorcan took on was bigger, but only because achieving it was impossible, even for that uncanny bitch.
Seba’s dislike was perhaps suspect, even to his own mind, since it was caught up in the grisly disaster of Humble Measure’s contract. Hard to separate this man from the scores of assassins butchered in the effort (still unsuccessful) to kill those damned Malazans. And this particular subject was one that would not quite depart, despite Humble Measure’s casual, dismissive wave of one soft hand.
‘The failing is of course temporary,’ Seba Krafar said. ‘Hadn’t we best complete it, to our mutual satisfaction, before taking on this new contract of yours?’
‘I have reconsidered the K’rul Temple issue, at least for the moment,’ said Humble Measure. ‘Do not fear, I am happy to add to the original deposit commensurate with the removal of two of the subjects, and should the others each fall in turn, you will of course be immediately rewarded. As the central focus, however, I would be pleased if you concentrated on the new one.’
Seba Krafar was never able to meet anyone’s gaze for very long. He knew that most would see that as a weakness, or as proof that Seba could not be trusted, but he always made a point of ensuring that what he had to say was never evasive. This blunt honesty, combined with the shying eyes, clearly unbalanced people, and that was fine with Seba. Now, if only it worked on this man. ‘This new one,’ he ventured, ‘is political.’
‘Your specialty, I gather,’ said Humble Measure.
‘Yes, but one that grows increasingly problematic. The noble class has learned to protect itself. Assassinations are not as easy as they once were.’
The Ironmonger’s brows lifted. ‘Are you asking for more money?’
‘Actually, no. It’s this: the Guild is wounded. I’ve had to promote a dozen snipes months ahead of their time. They’re not ready – oh, they can kill as efficiently as anyone, but most of them are little more than ambitious thugs. Normally, I would cull them, ruthlessly, but at the moment I can’t afford to.’
‘This will require, I assume, certain modifications to your normal tactics.’
‘It already has. Fifteen of my dead from K’rul’s Bar were my latest promotions. That’s left the rest of them rattled. An assassin without confidence is next to useless.’
Humble Measure nodded. ‘Plan well and execute with precision, Master Krafar, and that confidence will return.’
‘Even that won’t be enough, unless we succeed.’
‘Agreed.’
Seba was silent for a moment, still sweating, still uneasy. ‘Before I accept this latest contract,’ he said, ‘I should offer you a way out. There are other, less bloody ways of getting elected to the Council. It seems money is not a problem, and given that—’ He stopped when the man lifted a hand.
Suddenly, there was something new in Humble Measure’s eyes, something Seba had not seen before, and it left him chilled. ‘If it was my desire to buy my way on to the Council, Master Krafar, I would not have summoned you here. That should be obvious.’
‘Yes, I suppose—’
‘But I have summoned you, yes? Therefore, it is reasonable to assume my desires are rather more complicated than simply gaining a seat on the Council.’
‘You want this particular councillor dead.’
Humble Measure acknowledged this with a brief closing of his eyes that somehow conveyed a nod without his having to move his head. ‘We are not negotiating my reasons, since they are none of your business and have no relevance to the task itself. Now, you will assault this particular estate, and you will kill the councillor and everyone else, down to the scullery maid and the terrier employed to kill rats.’
Seba Krafar looked away (but then, he’d been doing that on and off ever since he’d sat down). ‘As you say. Should be simple, but then, these things never are.’
‘Are you saying that you are not up to this?’
‘No, I’m saying that I have learned to accept that nothing is simple, and the simpler it looks the more complicated it probably is. Therefore, this will need careful planning. I trust you are not under any pressure to get on to the Council in a hurry? There’re all kinds of steps needed in any case, sponsorships or bloodline claims, assessment of finances and so on…’ He fell silent after, in a brief glance, he noted the man’s level look. Seba cleared his throat, and then said, ‘Ten days at the minimum. Acceptable?’
‘Acceptable.’
‘Then we’re done here.’
‘We are.’
‘The deposition provided us by the Malazan embassy is unacceptable.’
Councillor Coll fixed a steady regard on Hanut Orr’s smooth-shaven face, and saw nothing in it but what he had always seen. Fear, contempt, misdirection and outright deceit, the gathered forces of hatred and spite. ‘So you stated,’ he replied. ‘But as you can see, the meeting has finished. I do my best to leave matters of the Council in the chamber. Politicking is a habit that can fast run away with you, Councillor.’
‘I do not recall seeking your advice.’
‘No, just my allegiance. Of the two, you elected the wrong one, Councillor.’
‘I think not, since it is the only relevant one.’
‘Yes,’ Coll smiled, ‘I understood you well enough. Now, if you will excuse me—’
‘Their explanation for why they needed to expand the embassy is flimsy – are you so easily duped, Councillor Coll? Or is it just a matter of filling your purse to buy your vote?’
‘Either you are offering to bribe me, Councillor Orr, or you are suggesting that I have been bribed. The former seems most unlikely. Thus, it must be the latter, and since we happen to be standing in the corridor, with others nearby – close enough to hear you – you leave me no choice but to seek censure.’
Hanut Orr sneered. ‘Censure? Is that the coward’s way of avoiding an actual duel?’
‘I accept that it is such a rare occurrence that you probably know little about it. Very well, for the benefit of your defence, allow me to explain.’
A dozen or more councillors had now gathered and were listening, expressions appropriately grave.
Coll continued, ‘I hereby accept your accusation as a formal charge. The procedure now is the engagement of an independent committee that will begin investigating. Of course, said investigation is most thorough, and will involve the detailed auditing of both of our financial affairs – yes, accuser and accused. Such examination inevitably…propagates, so that all manner of personal information comes to light. Once all pertinent information is assembled, my own advocates will review your file, to determine whether a countercharge is appropriate. At this point, the Council Judiciary takes over proceedings.’
Hanut Orr had gone somewhat pale.
Coll observed him with raised brows. ‘Shall I now seek censure, Councillor?’
‘I was not suggesting you were taking bribes, Councillor Coll. And I apologize if my carelessness led to such an interpretation.’
‘I see. Were you then offering me one?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then, is our politicking done here?’
Hanut Orr managed a stiff bow, and then whirled off, trailed after a moment by Shardan Lim and then, with studied casualness, young Gorlas Vidikas.
Coll watched them depart.
Estraysian D’Arle moved to his side and, taking him by the arm, led him towards a private alcove – the ones designed precisely for extra-chamber politicking. Two servants delivered chilled white wine and then quickly departed.
‘That was close,’ Estraysian murmured.
‘He’s young. And stupid. A family trait? Possibly.’
‘There was no bribe, was there?’
Coll frowned. ‘Not as such. The official reasons given are just as Orr claimed. Flimsy.’
‘Yes. And he was not privy to the unofficial ones.’
‘No. Wrong committee.’
‘Hardly an accident. That ambitious trio’s been given places on every meaningless committee we can think of – but that’s not keeping them busy enough, it seems. They still find time to get in our way.’
‘One day,’ said Coll, ‘they will indeed be as dangerous as they think they are.’
Outside the building, standing in the bright sun, the three ambitious young councillors formed a sort of island in a sea of milling pigeons. None took note of the cooing on all sides.
‘I’ll have that bastard’s head one day,’ said Hanut Orr. ‘On a spike outside my gate.’
‘You were careless,’ said Shardan Lim, doing little to disguise his contempt.
Stung, Orr’s gloved hand crept to the grip of his rapier. ‘I’ve had about enough of you, old friend. It’s clear you inherited every mewling weakness of your predecessor. I admit I’d hoped for something better.’
‘Listen to you two,’ said Gorlas Vidikas. ‘Bitten by a big dog so here you are snapping at each other, and why? Because the big dog’s too big. If he could see you now.’
Hanut Orr snorted. ‘So speaks the man who can’t keep his wife on a tight enough leash.’
Was the perfect extension of the metaphor deliberate? Who can say? In any case, to the astonishment of both Orr and Lim, Gorlas Vidikas simply smiled, as if appreciative of the riposte. He made a show of brushing dust from his cuffs. ‘Well then, I will leave you to…whatever, as I have business that will take me out of the city for the rest of the day.’
‘That Ironmonger will never get on the Council, Vidikas,’ Shardan Lim said. ‘There’s no available seat and that situation’s not likely to change any time soon. This partnership of yours will take you nowhere and earn you nothing.’
‘On the contrary, Shardan. I am getting wealthy. Do you have any idea how essential iron is to this city? Ah, I see that such matters are beneath you both. So be it. As a bonus, I am about to acquire a new property in the city as well. It has been and will continue to be a most rewarding partnership. Good day to you, sirs.’
There was no denying Seba Krafar’s natural air of brutality. He was a large, bearish man, and though virtually none of the people he pushed past while crossing the market’s round knew him for the Master of the Assassins’ Guild, they none the less quickly retreated from any confrontation; and if any might, in their own natural belligerence, consider a bold challenge to this rude oaf, why, a second, more searching glance disavowed them of any such notions.
He passed through the press like a heated knife through pig fat, a simile most suited to his opinion of humanity and his place within it. One of the consequences of this attitude, however, was that his derisive regard led to a kind of arrogant carelessness. He took no notice whatsoever of the nondescript figure who fell into his wake.
The nearest cellar leading down into the tunnels was at the end of a narrow, straight alley that led to a dead end. The steps to the cellar ran along the back of the last building on the left. The cellar had once served as a storage repository for coal, in the days before the harnessing of gas – back when the notion of poisoning one’s own air in the name of brainless convenience seemed reasonable (at least to people displaying their lazy stupidity with smug pride). Now, the low-ceilinged chamber squatted empty and sagging beneath three levels of half-rotted tenement rooms in symbolic celebration of modernity.
From the shutterless windows babies cried to the accompaniment of clanking cookware and slurred arguments, sounds as familiar to Seba Krafar as the rank air of the alley itself. His thoughts were busy enough to justify his abstracted state. Fear warred with greed in a mutual, ongoing exchange of masks which were in fact virtually identical, but never mind that; the game was ubiquitous enough, after all. Before too long, in any case, the two combatants would end up supine with exhaustion. Greed usually won, but carried fear on its back.
So much for Seba Krafar’s preoccupations. Even without them, it was unlikely he would have heard the one on his trail, since that one possessed unusual talents, of such measure that he was able to move up directly behind the Master Assassin, and reach out with ill intent.
A hand closed on Seba’s neck, fingers like contracting claws of iron pressing nerves that obliterated all motor control, yet before the assassin could collapse (as his body wanted to do) he was flung halfway round and thrown up against a grimy stone wall. And held there, moccasined feet dangling.
He felt a breath along one cheek, and then heard whispered words.
‘Pull your watchers off K’rul’s Bar. When I leave here, you will find a small sack at your feet. Five councils. The contract is now concluded – I am buying it out.’ The tip of a knife settled beneath Seba’s right eye. ‘I trust five councils is sufficient. Unless you object.’
‘No, not at all,’ gasped Seba. ‘The Malazans are safe – at least from the Guild. Of course, that just means the client will seek, er, other means.’
