A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

was trickling down the healer's pudgy
hand. His lips were similarly stained.
    Mallet's thin brows rose as the blacksmith approached.
'Are you now a proud if somewhat poorer member of the
Guild?'
    'No. They refused me.'
    'But why? Can you not take some kind of exam—'
    'No.'
    'Oh . . . so now what, Barathol?'
    'What? Oh, I'll open up a smithy anyway. Independent.'
    'Are you mad? They'll burn you out. Smash up your
equipment. Descend on you in a mob and beat you to
death. And that's just on opening day.'
    Barathol smiled. He liked Malazans. Despite everything,
despite the countless mistakes the Empire had made, all
the blood spilled, he liked the bastards. Hood knew, they
weren't nearly as fickle as the natives of his homeland. Or,
he added wryly, the citizens of Darujhistan. To Mallet's predictions
he said, 'I've handled worse. Don't worry about me.
I plan on working here as a blacksmith, whether the Guild
likes it or not. And eventually they will have to accept me
as a member.'
    'That won't feel very triumphant if you're dead.'
    'I won't be. Dead, that is.'
    'They'll try to stop anyone doing business with you.'
    'I am very familiar with Malazan weapons and armour,
Mallet. My work meets military standards in your old
empire, and as you know, those are set high.' He glanced
across at the healer. 'Will the Guild scare you off? Your
friends?'
    'Of course not. But remember, we're retired.'
    'And being hunted by assassins.'
    'Ah, I'd forgotten about that. You have a point. Even so,
Barathol, I doubt us few Malazans can keep you in business
for very long.'
    'The new embassy has a company of guards.'
    'True.'
    'And there are other Malazans living here. Deserters
from the campaigns up north—'
'That's true, too, though they tend to hide from us – not
that we care. In fact, we'd rather get their business at the
bar. What's the point in grudges?'
    'Those that come to me will be told just that, then, and
so we can help each other.'
    Mallet tossed the sodden cone away and wiped his hands
on his leggings. 'They tasted better when I was a young
brat – although they were more expensive since a witch was
needed to make the ice in the first place. Here, of course,
it's to do with some of the gases in the caverns below.'
    Barathol thought about that for a moment as he looked
upon the healer with his purple lips and saw, for the briefest
moment, how this man had been when he was a child, and
then he smiled once more. 'I need to find a suitable location
for my smithy. Will you walk with me, Mallet?'
    'Glad to,' the healer replied. 'Now, I know the city – what
precisely are you looking for?'
    And so Barathol told him.
    And oh how Mallet laughed and off they went into the
city's dark chambers of the heart, where blood flowed in
a roar and all manner of deviousness was possible. If the
mind was so inclined. A mind such as Barathol Mekhar's
when down – down! – was thrown the ghastly gauntlet!
    The ox, the selfsame ox, swung its head back and forth as
it pulled the cartload of masonry into the arched gateway,
into blessed shade for a few clumping strides, and then out
into the bright heat once more – delicate blond lashes
fluttering – to find itself in a courtyard and somewhere
close was sweet cool water, the sound as it trickled an
invitation, the smell soft as a kiss upon the broad glistening
nose with its even more delicate blond hairs, and up rose
the beast's massive head and would not the man with the
switch have pity on this weary, thirsty ox?
    He would not. The cart needed unloading first and so
the ox must stand, silently yearning, jaws working the cud
of breakfast with loud, thick sounds of suction and wetly
clunking molars, and the flies were maddening but what
could be done about flies? Nothing at all, not until the
chill of night sent them away and so left the ox to sleep,
upright in bovine majesty beneath stars (if one was lucky)
which, perhaps, was where the flies slept.
    Of course, to know the mind of an ox is to waste
inordinate amounts of time before recognizing the placid
civility of a herbivore's sensibilities. Lift gaze, then, to the
two vaguely shifty characters edging in through the gate
– not workers struggling to and fro in the midst of the old
estate's refurbishment; not clerks nor servants; not masons
nor engineers nor inspectors nor weight-gaugers nor
measurers. To all appearances malingerers, skulkers, but in
truth even worse than that—
    Twelve names on the list. One happily struck off.