A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

least die trying. 'Listen to me, friend. We may be out of the city's jurisdiction, but if Darujhistan's mages were in truth so thoroughly alarmed – and given that Vorcan's guild might still have an interest – issues of jurisdiction are meaningless. We could send word back – assuming you're right and you've proof of your certainty, Buke – and in the meantime you just keep your eye on the man. Nothing else. He's a sorcerer – mark my words. You won't stand a chance. Leave the execution to the assassins and mages.'
    Buke glanced up at the arrival of Harllo and Stonny Menackis. The two had come up quietly, each wrapped in blankets, with their clothing washed and bundled in their arms. Their troubled expressions told Gruntle they'd heard at the very least his last statement.
    'Thought you'd be halfway back to Darujhistan,' Harllo said.
    Buke studied the guard over the rim of the mug. 'You are so clean I barely recognize you, friend.'
    'Ha ha.'
    'I have found myself a new contract, to answer you, Harllo.'
    'You idiot,' Stonny snapped. 'When are you going to get some sense back into your head, Buke? It's been years and years since you last cracked a smile or let any light into your eyes. How many bear traps are you going to stick your head in, man?'
    'Until one snaps,' Buke said, meeting Stonny's dark, angry eyes. He rose, tossing to one side the dregs from the mug. 'Thank you for the tea ... and advice, friend Gruntle.' With a nod to Harllo, then Stonny, he headed back to Bauchelain's carriage.
    Gruntle stared up at Stonny. 'Impressive tact, my dear.'
    She hissed. 'The man's a fool. He needs a woman's hand on his sword-grip, if you ask me. Needs it bad.'
    Harllo grunted. 'You volunteering?'
    Stonny Menackis shrugged. 'It's not his appearance that one balks at, it's his attitude. The very opposite of you, ape.'
    'Sweet on my personality, are you?' Harllo grinned over at Gruntle. 'Hey, you could break my nose again – then we could straighten it and I'd be good as new. What say you, Stonny? Would the iron petals of your heart unfold for me?'
    She sneered. 'Everyone knows that two-handed sword of yours is nothing but a pathetic attempt at compensation, Harllo.'
    'He's a nice turn at the poetic, though,' Gruntle pointed out. 'Iron petals – you couldn't get more precise than that.'
    'There's no such thing as iron petals,' Stonny snorted. 'You don't get iron flowers. And hearts aren't flowers, they're big red, messy things in your chest. What's poetic about not making sense? You're as big an idiot as Buke and Harllo, Gruntle. I'm surrounded by thick-skulled witless fools.'
    'It's your lot in life, alas,' Gruntle said. 'Here, have some tea – you could do with ... the warmth.'
    She accepted the mug, while Gruntle and Harllo avoided meeting each other's eyes.
    After a few moments, Stonny cleared her throat. 'What was all that about leaving the execution to assassins, Gruntle? What kind of mess has Buke got himself into now?'
    Oh, Mowri, she truly cares for the man. He frowned into the fire and tossed in a few more lumps of dung before replying, 'He has some ... suspicions. We were, uh, speaking hypothetically—'
    'Togg's tongue you were, ox-face. Out with it.'
    'Buke chose to speak with me, not you, Stonny,' Gruntle growled, irritated. 'If you've questions, ask them of him and leave me out of it.'
    'I will, damn you.'
    'I doubt you'll get anywhere,' Harllo threw in, somewhat unwisely, 'even if you do bat your eyes and pout those rosy lips of yours—'
    'Those are the last things you'll see when I push my knife through that tin tuber in your chest. Oh, and I'll blow a kiss, too.'
    Harllo's bushy brows rose. 'Tin tuber! Stonny, my dear – did I hear you right?'
    'Shut up, I'm not in the mood.'
    'You're never in the mood, Stonny!'
    She answered him with a contemptuous smile.
    'Don't bother saying it, dear,' Gruntle sighed.
     
    The shack leaned drunkenly against the city of Pale's inner wall, a confused collection of wooden planks, stretched hides and wicker, its yard a threshold of white dust, gourd husks, bits of broken crockery and wood shavings. Fragments of lacquered wooden cards hung from twine above the narrow door, slowly twisting in the humid heat.
    Quick Ben paused, glanced up and down the littered alleyway, then stepped into the yard. A cackle sounded from within. The wizard rolled his eyes and, muttering under his breath, reached for the leather loop nailed to the door.
    'Don't push!' a voice shrieked