A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

always did run in place.'
    Chalas grunted. 'It's been weeks since you last came down. Special occasion?'
    'I have a date with three women.'
    'Want my clout?'
    Tehol glanced down and studied the battered weapon. 'I wouldn't want to leave you defenceless.'
    'It's my face scares 'em away. Exceptin' those Nerek. Got past me, those ones did.'
    'Giving you trouble?'
    'No. The rat count's way down, in fact. But you know Bin.'
    'Better than he knows himself. Remind him of that, Chalas, if he starts thinking of giving them trouble.'
    'I will.'
    Tehol set out, winding through the seething press in the square. The Down Markets opened out onto it from three sides; a more decrepit collection of useless items for sale Tehol had yet to see. And the people bought in a frenzy, day after blessed day. Our civilization thrives on stupidity. And it only took a sliver of cleverness to tap that idiot vein and drink deep of the riches. Comforting, if slightly depressing. The way of most grim truths.
    He reached the other side, entered Red Lane. Thirty strides on and he came opposite the arched entrance to Huldo's. Down the shadowed walkway and back into the courtyard's sunlight. A half-dozen tables, all occupied. Repose for the blissfully ignorant or those without the coin to sample the pits in Huldo's inner sanctum, where various sordid activities were conducted day and night, said activities occasionally approaching the artistic expression of the absurd. One more example, Tehol reflected, of what people would pay for, given the chance.
    The three women at a table in the far corner stood out for not just the obvious detail – they were the only women present – but for a host of subtler distinctions. Handsome is ... just the right word. If they were sisters it was in sentiment only, and for the shared predilection for some form of martial vigour, given their brawn, and the bundled armour and covered weapons heaped beside the table.
    The one on the left was red-haired, the fiery tresses sun-bleached and hanging in reluctant ripples down onto her broad shoulders. She was drinking from a clay-wrapped bottle, disdaining or perhaps not understanding the function of the cup that had accompanied it. Her face belonged to a heroic statue lining a colonnade, strong and smooth and perfect, her blue eyes casting a stony regard with the serene indifference of all such statues. Next to her, and leaning with both forearms on the small tabletop, was a woman with a hint of Faraed blood in her, given the honeyed hue of her skin and the faint up-tilt of her dark eyes. Her hair was either dark brown or black, and had been tied back, leaving clear her heart-shaped face. The third woman sat slouched back in her chair, left leg tipped out to one side, the right incessantly jittering up and down – fine legs, Tehol observed, clad in tight rawhide, tanned very nearly white. Her head was shaved, the pale skin gleaming. Wide-set, light grey eyes lazily scanning the other patrons, finally coming to rest on Tehol where he stood at the courtyard's threshold.
    He smiled.
    She sneered.
    Urul, Huldo's chief server, edged out from a nearby shadow and beckoned Tehol over.
    He came as close as he dared. 'You're looking ... well, Urul. Is Huldo here?'
    The man's need for a bath was legendary. Patrons gave their orders with decisive brevity and rarely called Urul over for more wine until the meal was finished. He stood before Tehol now, brow gleaming with oily sweat, hands fidgeting over the wide sash of his belt. 'Huldo? No, Errant be praised. He's on the Low Walk at the Drownings. Tehol, those women – they've been here all morning! They frighten me, the way they scowl whenever I get close.'
    'Leave them to me, Urul,' Tehol said, risking a pat on the man's damp shoulder.
    'You?'
    'Why not?' With that, Tehol adjusted his skirt, checked his sleeves, and threaded his way between the tables. Halting before the three women, he glanced round for a chair. He found one and dragged it close, then settled with a sigh.
    'What do you want?' asked the bald one.
    'That was my question. My servant informs me that you visited my residence this morning. I am Tehol Beddict... the one who sleeps on his roof.'
    Three sets of eyes fixed on him.
    Enough to make a stalwart warlord wilt ... but me? Only slightly.
    'You?'
    Tehol scowled at the bald woman. 'Why does everyone keep asking that? Yes, me. Now, by your accent, I'd hazard you're from the islands. I don't know anyone in the islands.