A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

and cupped it over the stallion's left eye to shield it from flying stones and grit. For being out here, the assassin owed him that much.
    They continued on for another ten minutes, seeing nothing through the cloak of flying sand. Then the stallion snorted, rearing. Snapping and crunching sounds rose from beneath them. Kalam squinted down. Bones, on all sides. The storm had blown out a graveyard – a common enough occurrence. The assassin regained control of his mount, then tried to pierce the ochre gloom. Ladro Landing was nearby, but he could see nothing. He nudged the stallion forward, the animal stepping daintly around the skeletal clumps.
    The coastal road appeared ahead, along with guardhouses flanking what had to be the bridge. The village must be on his right – if the damned thing hasn't blown away. Beyond the bridge, then, he would find Ladro Keep.
    The single-person guardhouses both gaped empty, like sockets in a massive geometric skull.
     
    His horse stabled, Kalam crossed the compound, leaning against the wind and wincing at the ache in his legs as he approached the keep's gatehouse entrance. Ducking within the alcove, he found himself beyond the storm's howl for the first time in hours. Drifts of fine sand filled the gatehouse's corners, but the dusty air was calm. No guardsman held the post: the lone stone bench was vacant.
    Kalam raised the heavy iron ring on the wood door, slamming it down hard. He waited. Eventually he heard the bars being drawn on the other side. The door swung back with a grating sound. An old kitchen servant regarded him with his one good eye.
    'Inside, then,' he grumbled. 'Join the others.'
    Kalam edged past the old man and found himself in a large common room. Faces had turned with his entrance. At the far end of the main table, which ran the length of the rectangular chamber, sat four of the keep's guardsmen, Malazans, looking foul-tempered. Three jugs squatted in puddles of wine on the tabletop. To one side, next along the table, was a wiry, sunken-eyed woman, her face painted in a style best left to young maidens. At her side was an Ehrlii merchant, probably the woman's husband.
    Kalam bowed to the group, then approached the table. Another servant, this one younger than the doorman by only a few years, appeared with a fresh jug and a goblet, hesitating until the assassin settled on where he would sit – opposite the merchant couple. He set the goblet down and poured Kalam a half-measure, then backed away.
    The merchant showed durhang-stained teeth in a welcoming smile. 'Down from the north, then?'
    The wine was some kind of herbal concoction, too sweet and cloying for the climate. Kalam set the goblet down, scowling. 'No beer in this hold?'
    The merchant's head bobbed. 'Aye, and chilled at that. Alas, only the wine is free, courtesy of our host.'
    'Not surprised it's free,' the assassin muttered. He gestured to the servant. 'A tankard of beer, if you please.'
    'Costs a sliver,' the servant said.
    'Highway robbery, but my thirst is master.' He found a clipped Jakata and set it on the table.
    'Has the village fallen into the sea, then?' the merchant asked. 'On your way down from Ehrlitan, how stands the bridge?'
    Kalam saw a small velvet bag on the tabletop in front of the merchant's wife. Glancing up, he met her pitted eyes. She gave him a ghastly wink.
    'He'll not add to your gossip, Berkru darling. A stranger come in from the storm, is all you'll learn from this one.'
    One of the guardsmen raised his head. 'Got something to hide, have ya? Not guarding a caravan, just riding alone? Deserting the Ehrlitan Guard, or maybe spreading the word of Dryjhna, or both. Now here ya come, expecting the hospitality of the Master – Malazan born and bred.'
    Kalam eyed the men. Four belligerent faces. Any denial of the sergeant's accusations would not be believed. The guards had decided he belonged in the dungeon for the night at least, something to break the boredom. Yet the assassin was not interested in shedding blood. He laid his hands flat on the table, slowly rose. 'A word with you, Sergeant,' he said. 'In private.'
    The man's dark face turned ugly. 'So you can slit my throat?'
    'You believe me capable of that?' Kalam asked in surprise. 'You wear chain, you've a sword at your belt. You've three companions who no doubt will stay close – if only to eavesdrop on the words we exchange between us.'
    The sergeant rose. 'I can handle you well enough on my own,' he growled. He strode