A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

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 said 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