A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

own cleverness who – it would appear – surpassed Tehol himself in viciousness – it was Finadd Gerun Eberict, possessor of the King's Leave.
    And he'd been sniffing around, twisting arms. Safer, then, to assume Gerun knew that Tehol was not as destitute as most would believe. Nor entirely ... inactive.
    Thus, a new fold to consider in this rumpled, tangled tapestry.
    Gerun was immune. But not without enemies. Granted, deadly with a sword, and known to have a dozen sworn, blood-bound bodyguards to protect him when he slept. His estate was rumoured to be impregnable, and possessed of its own armoury, apothecary with resident alchemist well versed in poisons and their antidotes, voluminous storehouses, and independent source of water. All in all, Gerun had planned for virtually every contingency.
    Barring the singular focus of the mind of one Tehol Beddict.
    Sometimes the only solution was also the simplest, most obvious. See a weed between the cobbles ... putt it out.
    'Bugg!'
    A faint voice from below. 'What?'
    'Who was holding Gerun's tiles on that bet this afternoon?'
    His servant's grizzled head appeared in the hatch. 'You already know, since you own the bastard. Turble. Assuming he's not dead of a heart attack ... or suicide.'
    'Turble? Not a chance. My guess is, the man's packing. A sudden trip to the Outer Isles.'
    'He'll never make it to the city gates.'
    'Meaning Gerun is on the poor bastard.'
    'Wouldn't you be? With that payoff?'
    Tehol frowned. 'Suicide, I'm now thinking, might well be Turble's conclusion to his sorry state of affairs. Unexpected, true, and all the more shocking for it. He's got no kin, as I recall. So the debt dies with him.'
    'And Gerun is out eight hundred docks.'
    'He might wince at that, but not so much as you'd notice. The man's worth a peak, maybe more.'
    'You don't know?'
    'All right, so I was generalizing. Of course I know, down to the last dock. Nay, the last stripling. In any case, I was saying, or, rather, suggesting, that the loss of eight hundred docks is not what would make Gerun sting. It's the escape. The one trail even Gerun can't doggedly follow – not willingly, anyway. Thus, Turble has to commit suicide.'
    'I doubt he'll agree to it.'
    'No, probably not. But set it in motion, Bugg. Down to the Eddies. Find us a suitable corpse. Fresh, and not yet drained. Get a bottle or two of Turble's blood from him in exchange—'
    'What'll it be? Fire? Who commits suicide using fire?'
    'The fire will be an unfortunate consequence of an unattended oil lamp. Unattended because of the suicide. Burnt beyond recognition, alas, but the scrivers will swear by the blood's owner. That's how they work, isn't it?'
    'A man's veins never lie.'
    'Right. Only, they can.'
    'Right, if you're insane enough to drain a corpse and pump new blood into it.'
    'A ghastly exercise, Bugg. Glad you're up to it.'
    The wizened face at the hatch was scowling. 'And Turble?'
    'We smuggle him out the usual way. He's always wanted to take up fishing. Put someone in the tunnel, in case he bolts sooner than we expect. Gerun's watchers will be our finest witnesses. Oh, and won't the Finadd spit.'
    'Is this wise?' Bugg asked.
    'No choice. He's the only man who can stop me. So I'm getting him first.'
    'If he catches a whiff that it's you—'
    'Then I'm a dead man.'
    'And I'm out of work.'
    'Nonsense. The lasses will carry on. Besides, you are my beneficiary – unofficially, of course.'
    'Should you have told me that?'
    'Why not? I'm lying.'
    Bugg's head sank back down.
    Tehol settled back onto the bed. Now, I need to find me a thief. A good one.
    Ah! I know the very one. Poor lass ...
    'Bugg!'
    Shurq Elalle's fate had taken a turn for the worse. Nothing to do with her profession, for her skills in the art of thievery were legendary among the lawless class. An argument with her landlord, sadly escalating to attempted murder on his part, to which she of course – in all legality – responded by flinging him out the window. The hapless man's fall had, unfortunately, been broken by a waddling merchant on the street below. The landlord's neck broke. So did the merchant's.
    Careless self-defence leading to the death of an innocent had been the charge. Four hundred docks, halved. Normally, Shurq could have paid the fine and that would have been that. Alas, her argument with the landlord had been over a certain hoard of gold that had inexplicably vanished from Shurq's cache. Without a dock to her name, she had been