A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

was
en route. A plains design, intended for portability – Rhivi,
he had been informed – it was not quite the size he wanted
or needed, but it would suffice for now. Various tongs and
other tools came from the scrap markets on the west side
of the city, including a very fine hammer of Aren steel (no
doubt stolen from a Malazan army's weaponsmith).
    On the morrow he would put in his first orders for wood,
coke, coal, and raw copper, tin and iron.
    It was getting late. Barathol straightened from his
examination of the ovens and said to Chaur, 'Leave off
now, my friend. We're grimy, true, but perhaps an outside
restaurant would accommodate us, once we show our coin.
I don't know about you, but some chilled beer would sit well
right now.'
    Looking up, Chaur's smeared and smudged face split into
a wide smile.
    The front door was kicked open and both turned as
a half-dozen disreputable men pushed in, spreading out.
Clubs and mallets in their hands, they began eyeing the
equipment. A moment later and a finely dressed woman
strode through the milling press, eyes settling on Barathol,
upon which she smiled.
    'Dear sir, you are engaged in an illegal activity—'
    'Illegal? That is a reach, I'm sure. Now, before you send
your thugs on a rampage of destruction, might I point out
that the valves are not only open but the threads have
been cut. In other words, for now, the flow of gas from the
chambers beneath this structure cannot be stopped. Any
sort of damage will result in, well, a ball of fire, probably of
sufficient size to incinerate a sizeable area of the district.'
He paused, then added, 'Such wilful destruction on your
part will be viewed by most as, um, illegal. Now, you won't
face any charges since you will be dead, but the Guild that
hired you will face dire retribution. The fines alone will
bankrupt it.'
    The woman's smile was long gone by now. 'Oh, aren't
you the clever one. Since we cannot discourage you by dismantling
your shop, we have no choice then but to focus
our attention on yourselves.'
    Barathol walked to the kneading counter and reached
into a leather satchel, withdrawing a large round ball of
fired clay. He faced the woman and her mob, saw a few expressions
drain of blood, and was pleased. 'Yes, a Moranth
grenado. Cusser, the Malazans call this one. Threaten me
or my companion here, and I will be delighted to commit
suicide – after all, what have we to lose that you would not
happily take from us, given the chance?'
    'You have lost your mind.'
    'You are welcome to that opinion. Now, the question is,
have you?'
    She hesitated, then snarled and spun on her heel.
Waving her crew to follow her, out she went.
    Sighing, Barathol returned the cusser to the satchel. 'In
every thirteenth crate of twelve cussers each ,' Mallet had told
him, 'there is a thirteenth cusser. Empty. Why? Who knows?
The Moranth are strange folk.'
    'It worked this time,' he said to Chaur, 'but I doubt it will
last. So, the first order of business is to outfit you. Armour,
weapons.'
    Chaur stared at him as if uncomprehending.
    'Remember the smell of blood, Chaur? Corpses, the dead
and dismembered?'
    Sudden brightening of expression, and Chaur nodded
vigorously.
    Sighing again, Barathol said, 'Let's climb out over the
back wall and find us that beer.'
    He took the satchel with him.
    Elsewhere in the city, as the tenth bell of the night
sounded, a fingerless man set out for a new tavern, murder
on his mind. His wife went out to her garden to kneel on
stone, which she polished using oiled sand and a thick pad
of leather.
    A buxom, curvaceous woman – who drew admiring
regard along with curdling spite depending on gender and
gender preference – walked with one rounded arm hooked
in the rather thinner seamed arm of a Malazan historian,
who bore an expression wavering between disbelief and
dismay. They strolled as lovers would, and since they were
not lovers, the historian's bemusement only grew.
    In the High Markets of the Estates District, south of
the gallows, sauntered Lady Challice. Bored, stung with
longing and possibly despoiled (in her own mind) beyond
all hope of redemption, she perused the host of objects and
items, none of which were truly needed, and watched as
women just like her (though most were trailed by servants
who carried whatever was purchased) picked through the
expensive and often finely made rubbish eager as jackdaws
(and as mindless? Ah, beware cruel assumptions!), and she
saw herself as so very different from