A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

strangers.
    Hetan's eyes focused on the man, studied the extraordinary scars crisscrossing his flesh. 'We greet you, strangers!' she called out.
    Both turned, clearly surprised that they had company.
    Hetan now looked upon the man's face. That the woman beside him was his sister could be no more obvious.
    Good. 'You!' she called to the man, 'what is your name?'
    The man's smile made her heart catch. 'Onos Toolan.'
    Hetan strode closer, offering a wink to the dark-haired woman, then settling her eyes once more on the man called Onos Toolan. 'I see more than you imagine,' she said in a low voice.
    The young warrior cocked his head. 'You do?'
    'Aye, and what I see tells me you've not bedded a woman in a long time.'
    The man's eyes widened – oh, such lovely eyes, a lover's eyes – 'Indeed,' he said, his smile broadening.
    Oh yes, my lover's eyes . . .

EPILOGUE
    Paran shoved the door open. Shouldering his heavy, gold-filled pack, he stepped into the antechamber beyond.
    'Raest! Where are you?'
    The armour-clad Jaghut emerged from somewhere to halt before Paran, said nothing.
    'That's right,' Paran muttered, 'I've decided to take up residence here.'
    Raest's voice was a cold rasp, 'You have.'
    'Aye. Three weeks in that damned inn was enough, believe me. So, here I am, courage worked up, ready to settle into the dreaded, infamous Finnest House – and I see your skills as housekeeper leave much to be desired.'
    'These two bodies on the threshold – what will you do with them?'
    Paran shrugged. 'I haven't decided yet. Something, I suppose. But, for now, I want to drop this gold off – so I can sleep easy for a change. They're opening the place up tonight, you know . . .'
    The giant warrior replied, 'No, Master of the Deck, I do not.'
    'Never mind. I said I'd go. Hood knows, I doubt anybody else in this city will, except maybe Kruppe, Coll and Murillio.'
    'Go where, Master of the Deck?'
    'Ganoes, please. Or Paran. Where, you ask? Picker's new tavern, that's where.'
    'I know nothing of—'
    'I know you don't, that's why I'm telling—'
    '—nor do I care, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck.'
    'Well, your loss, Raest. As I was saying, Picker's new tavern. Her and her partner's, that is. They've spent half their pay on this insane project.'
    'Insane?'
    'Yes – you don't know the meaning of insane?'
    'I know it all too well, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck.'
    Paran was brought up short by that. He studied the helmed face, seeing only shadows behind the visor's slots. A faint shiver ran through the Malazan. 'Uh, yes. In any case, they purchased the K'rul Temple, belfry and all. Made it into a—'
    'A tavern.'
    'A temple everyone in the city calls haunted.'
    'I imagine,' Raest said, turning away, 'it came cheap, all things considered . . .'
    Paran stared after the armoured Jaghut. 'See you later,' he called.
    Faintly came the reply, 'If you insist...'
     
    Emerging from the battered gateway onto the street, Paran almost stumbled over a decrepit, hooded figure sitting awkwardly on the edge of the gutter. A grimy hand lifted from the rags towards the Malazan.
    'Kind sir! A coin, please! A single coin!'
    'Luckily for you, I can spare more than one, old man.' Paran reached for the leather purse tucked into his belt. He drew out a handful of silvers.
    The beggar grunted, dragged himself closer, his legs trailing like dead weights. 'A man of wealth! Listen to me. I have need of a partner, generous sir! I have gold. Councils! Hidden in a cache on the slopes of the Tahlyn Hills! A fortune, sir! We must needs only mount an expedition – it's not far.'
    Paran dropped the coins into the old man's hands. 'Buried treasure, friend? No doubt.'
    'Sir, the sum is vast, and I would gladly part with half of it – the repayment to your investment will be ten times at the very least.'
    'I've no need for more riches.' Paran smiled. He stepped away from the beggar, then paused and added, 'By the way, you probably shouldn't linger overlong at this particular gate. The House does not welcome strangers.'
    The old man seemed to shrink in on himself. His head twisted to one side. 'No,' he muttered from beneath his ragged hood, 'not this House.' Then he softly cackled. 'But I know one that does ...'
    Shrugging at the beggar's obscure words, Paran turned once more and set off.
    Behind him, the beggar broke into a wretched cough.
     
    Picker could not pull her eyes from the man. He sat hunched over, on a chair that had yet to find a table, still