A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

any more. You can
stop treating me like I was a damned apprentice and you my
master.'
    Gnarled brows rose. 'Why, Fiddler, I wasn't doing
nothing of the sort. You feel that way, it's because of what's
been stirred awake inside that knobby skull of yours. Old
habits and all that. I meant what I said. Better it than you.
Even so, how many is it now?'
    'Never mind,' the sergeant growled, finding a chair and
dragging it over. He slumped down into it. 'Like I said,
you've done well, Tak. So how come you never got that hip
fixed?'
    'I gauge it this way,' the old man said, 'the limp earns
sympathy, near five per cent. Better still, since I don't say
nothing about nothing they all think I'm some kind of
veteran. For my soldiering customers, that's another five
per cent. Then there's the domestic. Wives are happier
since they all know I can't catch them—'
    'Wives. Why did you agree to that in the first place?'
    'Well, four women get together and decide they want to
marry you, it's kinda hard to say no, right? Sure, wasn't my
manly looks, wasn't even that crooked baby-maker
between my legs. It was this new shop, and all that
mysterious coin that helped me set up again. It was the
house here in the Centre District. You think I was the only
one who ended up losing everything in the Mouse?'
    'All right, if it makes you happy. So, you kept the limp.
And you kept the promise. Well?'
    Tak smiled, then reached under the table, released two
latches and Fiddler heard the clunk of a hidden drawer
dropping down onto its rails. Pushing the throne back, the
old man slid open the large drawer, then carefully removed
a cloth-wrapped object. He set it down on the table and
pulled the cloth away. 'A few improvements,' he purred.
'Better range for one.'
    His eyes on the extraordinary crossbow between them,
Fiddler asked, 'How much better?'
    'Add fifty paces, I figure. Never tested that, though. But
look at the ribs. That's ten strips of iron folded together.
Inside band has the most spring, grading less and less as you
go out. The cable's four hundred strands into twenty, then
wound in bhederin-gut and soaked in dhenrabi oil. Your
old one was two hundred strands into ten. Now, look at the
cradle – I only had clay mock-ups of cussers and sharpers
and burners, weighted as close as I could figure—'
    'Sharpers and burners?'
    An eager nod. 'Why just cussers, I asked? Well, because
that's what was wanted and that's how we did the cradle,
right? But the mock-ups gave me an idea.' He reached back
into the drawer and lifted free a clay cusser-sized grenado.
'So, I made cradles inside this, to fit five sharpers or three
burners – the weight's close on all three configurations, by
the way – the Moranth were always precise on these sort of
things, you know.' As he was speaking, he took the clay
object, one hand on top, the other beneath, and pushed in
opposite directions until there was a grating click, then he
was holding two halves of the hollow mock-up. 'Like I said,
improvements. You can load up how you like, without ever
having to change the bow's cradle. I got ten of these made.
Empty, they're nice and light and you won't fly through
Hood's Gate if one of 'em breaks by accident in your satchel.'
    'You are a genius, Tak.'
    'Tell me something I don't know.'
    'How much do you want for all of this?'
    A frown. 'Don't be an idiot, Fiddler. You saved my life,
you and Dujek got me out of the Mouse with only a crushed
hip. You gave me money—'
    'Tak, we wanted you to make crossbows, like that old
jeweller did before you. But he was dead and you weren't.'
    'That don't matter. Call it a replacement guarantee, for
life.'
    Fiddler shook his head, then he reached into his pack
and withdrew a real cusser. 'Let's see how it fits, shall we?'
    Tak's eyes glittered. 'Oh yes, do that! Then heft the
weapon, check the balance – see that over-shoulder clamp
there? It's a brace for steadying aim and evening out the
weight. Your arms won't get tired holding and aiming.' He
rose. 'I will be right back.'
    Distracted, Fiddler nodded. He set the cusser down into
the weapon's cradle and clamped in place the open-ended,
padded basket. That motion in turn raised from the forward
base of the cradle a denticulate bar to prevent the cusser
slipping out when the weapon was held point-down. That
bar was in turn linked to the release trigger, dropping it
flush with the cradle in time for the projectile to fly clear.
    'Oh,' the sapper murmured, 'very clever, Tak.' With