A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

atop
oaken legs, no sweat streaming down to sting the eyes, no
gusts of scalding heat to singe the hairs on the forearms.
And so, in the face of a true blacksmith, the clerk gloried
in his power.
    That pleasure could be seen in his small pursed lips
turned well down at each end, could be caught in his
watery eyes that rested everywhere and nowhere; in his
pale hands holding a wooden stylus like an assassin's
dagger, the tip stained blue by ink and wax. He sat on
his stool behind the broad counter that divided the front
room as if guarding the world's wealth and every promise of
paradise that membership in this most noble Guild offered
its hallowed, upright members (and the fat man winks).
    So he sat, and so Barathol Mekhar wanted to reach over
the counter, pluck the clerk into the air, and break him in
half. Over and over again, until little more than a pile of
brittle tailings remained heaped on the scarred counter,
with the stylus thrust into it like a warrior's sword stabbing
a barrow.
    Dark was the amusement in Barathol's thoughts as the
clerk shook his head yet again.
    'It is simple – even for you, I'm sure. The Guild demands
credentials, specifically the sponsorship of an accredited
Guild member. Without this, your coin is so much dross.'
And he smiled at this clever pun voiced to a smith.
    'I am new to Darujhistan,' Barathol said, again, 'and so
such sponsorship is impossible.'
    'Yes it is.'
    'As for apprenticeship—'
    'Also impossible. You say you have been a blacksmith
for many years now and I do not doubt such a claim – the
evidence is plain before me. This of course makes you overqualified
as an apprentice and too old besides.'
    'If I cannot be apprenticed how can I get a sponsor?'
    A smile of the lips and shake of the head. A holding up
of the palms. 'I don't make the rules, you understand.'
    'Can I speak to anyone who might have been involved in
devising these rules?'
    'A blacksmith? No, alas, they are all off doing smithy
things, as befits their profession.'
    'I can visit one at his or her place of work, then. Can you
direct me to the nearest one?'
    'Absolutely not. They have entrusted me with the responsibilities
of operating the administration of the Guild.
If I were to do something like that I would be disciplined
for dereliction of duty, and I am sure you do not want that
on your conscience, do you?'
    'Actually,' said Barathol, 'that is a guilt I can live with.'
    The expression hardened. 'Honourable character is
an essential prerequisite to becoming a member of the
Guild.'
    'More than sponsorship?'
    'They are balanced virtues, sir. Now, I am very busy
today—'
    'You were sleeping when I stepped in.'
    'It may have appeared that way.'
    'It appeared that way because it was that way.'
    'I have no time to argue with you over what you may
or may not have perceived when you stepped into my
office—'
    'You were asleep.'
    'You might have concluded such a thing.'
    'I did conclude it, because that is what you were. I suppose
that too might result in disciplinary measures, once it
becomes known to the members.'
    'Your word against mine, and clearly you possess an
agenda, one that reflects poorly on your sense of honour—'
'Since when does honesty reflect poorly on one's sense
of honour?'
    The clerk blinked. 'Why, when it is vindictive, of
course.'
    Now it was Barathol's turn to pause. And attempt a new
tack. 'I can pay an advance on my dues – a year's worth or
more, if necessary.'
    'Without sponsorship such payment would be construed
as a donation. There is legal precedent to back that interpretation.'
    'You'd take my coin and give me nothing in return?'
    'That is the essence of a charitable donation, is it not?'
    'I don't think it is, but never mind that. What you are
telling me is that I cannot become a member of the Guild
of Blacksmiths.'
    'Membership is open to all blacksmiths wishing to work
in the city, I assure you. Once you have been sponsored.'
    'Which makes it a closed shop.'
    'A what?'
    'The Malazan Empire encountered closed shops in
Seven Cities. They broke them wide open. I think even
some blood was spilled. The Emperor was not one to cringe
before professional monopolies of any sort.'
    'Well,' the clerk said, licking his slivery lips, 'thank all
the gods the Malazans never conquered Darujhistan!'
    Barathol stepped outside and saw Mallet waiting across
the street, eating some kind of flavoured ice in a broad-leaf
cone. The morning's heat was fast melting the confection,
and purple water