A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

street level, Gruntle leaning heavily on his gaunt companion whilst the blood roared in his head and waves of nausea clenched his empty stomach.
    His previous memories of the city had fragmented, and stained as they were by shock, then pint after pint of ale, he looked around in momentary bewilderment. 'Which district is this?' he asked.
    'Backside of Old Daru, Temple District,' Buke said. 'One street north and you hit opulence and gardened temples. You found the quarter's only rotten alley and its only foul tenement, Gruntle.'
    'Been there before, I guess,' he muttered, squinting at the nearby buildings. 'Some other excuse back then, can't remember what.'
    'Excuses are easy enough to come by. I well recall that.'
    'Aye, they are and no doubt you do.' He glanced down at the sorry state of his clothes. 'I need a bath – where are my weapons?'
    'Stonny took care of them. And most of your coin as well. You're paid up – no debts – so you can put your back to all that.'
    'And walk.'
    'And walk. I'll join you, to the barracks, at least—'
    'In case I get lost,' Gruntle said wryly.
    Buke nodded.
    'Well, it's a few bells yet before the shakes.'
    'Aye. The Destriant might help with that, if you ask kindly.'
    They turned south, skirting the battered tenement block, and approached the wide avenues between the high-walled, circular Camps. Few citizens were in the streets, and those that were moved furtively, as if skating a thin patina of panic. A city surrounded, awaiting the first drawing of blood.
    Gruntle spat into a gutter. 'What are your masters up to, Buke?'
    'They have taken possession of a recently abandoned estate. Settled in.'
    The sudden tension in Buke's voice raised the hairs on Gruntle's neck. 'Go on.'
    'That's why I ... went to you. Partly. A Gidrath Watch found the first body last night, not a hundred paces from our estate. Disembowelled. Organs... missing.'
    'Inform the prince, Buke. Make no hesitation – a cancer at the heart of a besieged city ...'
    'I cannot.' He stopped and gripped Gruntle's arm. 'We must not. You haven't seen what they can do when their backs are against a wall—'
    'They need to be driven out, Buke. Let the Pannions embrace their company, with pleasure. Just cut yourself loose, first. And maybe that old manservant, Reese, too.'
    'We can't.'
    'Yes you can—'
    Buke's grip tightened painfully. 'No,' he hissed, 'we can't!'
    Scowling, Gruntle glanced up the avenue, trying to think.
    'They'll start knocking down walls, Gruntle. Outer walls. They'll wipe out hundreds of soldiers – unleash demons, raise the corpses and fling them back in our faces. They'll level Capustan for the Pannions. But there's more to it than all that. Consider another possibility. If it's the Pannions who get them annoyed . . .'
    'They'll let loose on them,' Gruntle sighed, nodding. 'Aye. In the meantime, however, the murder victims start piling up. Look around, Buke, these people are close enough to panic. What do you think it will take to push 'em over the edge? How many more victims? The Camps are kin-bound communities – every neighbourhood is knit together by blood and marriage. This is a fine line to walk...'
    'I can't do it alone,' Buke said.
    'Do what?'
    'Shadow Korbal Broach. When he goes out at night. If I can foul his hunting . . . yet remain unseen, undiscovered—'
    'You've lost your mind!' Gruntle hissed. 'He's a Hood' damned sorcerer, old man! He'll sniff you out the first time!'
    'If I'm working alone, you're right...'
    Gruntle studied the man at his side, searched the worn, lean face, the hard eyes above the grey, tangled beard. Old burn scars painted Buke's forearms, from when he clawed through coals and embers the morning after the fire in some frenzied, insane faith that he would find them... find his family alive somewhere in the rubble.
    Buke's gaze dropped beneath that steady examination. 'I've no cunning, friend,' the old man said, releasing Gruntle's arm. 'I need someone to think of a way to do this. I need someone with the brains to outwit Korbal Broach—'
    'Not Broach. Bauchelain.'
    'Aye, only he's not the one going out at night. Bauchelain tolerates Korbal's ... peculiar interests. Broach has the mind of a child – an unfettered, malign child. I know them, now, Gruntle. I know them.'
    'How many other fools have tried to outwit Bauchelain, I wonder?'
    'Cemeteries full, I'd guess.'
    Gruntle slowly nodded. 'All to achieve what? Save a few lives ... so that they can get slaughtered and