A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

constellation known as the Dagger. End of a three-quarter moon. But that's impossible.
    'Ten weevils a handful,' the captain went on. 'As good as a hisser in gauging passage. You'd have ten in close on a fortnight, unless the flour was foul from the start, only the cook swears otherwise—'
    'Just as he'd swear he'd cooked us dinner here tonight,' Salk Elan said with a smile, 'though our bellies groan that what we've just eaten was anything but food. In any case, thank you for dispelling the confusion.'
    'Well, sir, you've a point there, sharp enough to prick skin, though mine's thicker than most and I ain't anything if not stubborn.'
    'For which I cannot help but admire you, Captain.'
    What in Hood's name are these two talking about, or, rather, not talking about?
    'A man gets so he can't even trust the beat of his own heart – mind you, I can't count past fourteen in any case, so's I could not help but lose track and tracking's what we're talking about here if I'm not mistaken.'
    'Captain,' the treasurer said, 'you cause me great distress with your words.'
    Salk Elan commented, 'You're not alone in that.'
    'Do I offend you, sir?' The captain's face had reddened as he glared at the treasurer.
    'Offend? No. Baffle. I dare say I am led to conclude that you have lost the grip on your own mind. Thus, to ensure the safety of this ship, I have no choice—'
    'No choice?' the captain erupted, rising from his seat. 'Words and grips like sand. What slips through your fingers can knock you over! I'll show you safety, you sweaty stream of lard!'
    Kalam leaned back clear of the table as the captain went to the cabin door and began struggling with his cloak. Salk Elan had not moved from his seat, watching with a tight smile.
    A moment later the captain flung open the cabin door and barrelled into the passageway, bellowing a call for his First Mate. His boots thumped like fists hammering a wall as he made for the galley.
    The cabin's door creaked back and forth on its hinges.
    The treasurer's mouth opened and closed, then opened again. 'What choice?' he whispered to no-one in particular.
    'Not yours to make,' Elan drawled.
    The noble swung to him. 'Not mine? And who else, if not the man entrusted with the Aren treasury—'
    'Is that what it's officially called, then? How about Pormqual's ill-gotten loot? Those seals on the crates below have the High Fist's sigil on them, not the Imperial sceptre—'
    And so you have been in the hold, Salk Elan? Interesting.
    'To lay hands upon those crates is punishable by death,' the treasurer hissed.
    Elan sneered his disgust. 'You're doing the dirty work of a thief, so what does that make you?'
    The noble went white. In silence he rose and, using his hands to steady himself as the ship pitched, made his way across the small room, then out into the passageway.
    Salk Elan glanced at Kalam. 'So, my reluctant friend, what do you make of this captain of ours?'
    'Nothing I'd share with you,' Kalam rumbled.
    'Your constant efforts to avoid me have been childish.'
    'Well, it's either that or I kill you outright.'
    'How unpleasant of you, Kalam, after all the efforts I have made on your behalf.'
    The assassin rose. 'Rest assured I'll repay the debt, Salk Elan.'
    'You could do that with your company alone – intelligent conversation aboard this ship is proving hard to come by.'
    'I'll spare a thought in sympathy,' Kalam said, heading to the cabin door.
    'You wrong me, Kalam. I am not your enemy. Indeed, we two are much alike.'
    The assassin paused in the portalway. 'If you're seeking friendship between us, Salk Elan, you've just taken a long step back with that observation.' He stepped out into the passage and made his way forward.
    He emerged onto the main deck and found himself in the midst of furious activity. Gear was being battened down, sailors checking the rigging and others taking in sail. It was past the tenth bell and the night sky was solid clouds, not a star showing.
    The captain reeled down to Kalam's side. 'What did I tell you? Lost its polish!'
    A squall was coming – the assassin could feel it in the wind that now swirled as if the air had nowhere to go.
    'From the south,' the captain laughed, clapping Kalam on the shoulder. 'We'll turn on the hunters, aye, won't we just! Storm-jibbed and marines crowding the forecastle, we'll ram 'em down their throats! Hood take these smirking stalkers – we'll see how long their grins last with a short sword jabbing 'em in the face, hey?' He