A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

plunking some
airy, despondent melody that few of the twenty or so
patrons listened to with anything approaching attention.
A stranger from Pale had taken a corner room on the
northeast corner and had retired early after a meagre meal
and a single pint of Gredfallan ale.
    Picker could see Blend at her station beside the front
door, sunk in shadows as she sat, legs outstretched, her
hands cradling a mug of hot cider – bizarre tastes, that
woman, since it was sultry and steamy this night. People
entering rarely even noticed her, marching right past without
a glance down. Blend's talent, aye, and who could say if
it was natural or something else.
    Antsy was yelling in the kitchen. He'd gone in there to
calm down the two cooks – who despised each other – and
it turned out as it usually did, with Antsy at war with everyone,
including the scullions and the rats cowering beneath
the counter. In a short while utensils would start flying and
Picker would have to drag herself down there.
    Bluepearl was . . . somewhere. It was his habit to wander
off, exploring the darker crooks and crannies of the old
temple.
    A night, then, no different from any other.
    Bluepearl found himself in the cellar. Funny how often that
happened. He had dragged out the fourth dusty cask from
the crawlspace behind the wooden shelves. The first three
he had sampled earlier in the week. Two had been vinegar,
from which he could manage only a few swallows at a time.
The other had been something thick and tarry, smelling
of cedar or perhaps pine sap – in any case, he'd done little
more than dip a finger in, finding the taste even fouler
than the smell.
    This time, however, he felt lucky. Broaching the cask, he
bent close and tried a few tentative sniffs. Ale? Beer? But
of course, neither lasted, did they? Yet this cask bore the
sigil of the temple on the thick red wax coating the lid. He
sniffed again. Definitely yeasty, but fresh, which meant . . .
sorcery. He sniffed a third time.
    He'd danced with all kinds of magic as a squad mage in
the Bridgeburners. Aye, he had so many stories that even
that sour-faced bard upstairs would gape in wonder just to
hear half of them. Why, he'd ducked and rolled under the
nastiest kinds, the sorceries that ripped flesh from bones,
that boiled the blood, that made a man's balls swell up big
as melons – oh, that time had been before he'd joined,
hadn't it? Yah, the witch and the witch's daughter – never
mind. What he was was an old hand.
    And this stuff – Bluepearl dipped a finger in and then
poked it into his mouth – oh, it was magic indeed. Something
elder, hinting of blood (aye, he'd tasted the like before).
    'Is that you, Brother Cuven?'
    He twisted round and scowled at the ghost whose head
and shoulders lifted into view through the floor. 'Do I look
like Brother Cuven? You're dead, long dead. It's all gone,
you hear? So why don't you go and do the same?'
    'I smelled the blade,' murmured the ghost, beginning to
sink back down. 'I smelled it . . .'
    No, Bluepearl decided, it probably wasn't a good thing
to be drinking this stuff. Not before some kind of analysis
was made. Could be Mallet might help on that. Now, had
he messed it up by opening the cask? Probably it would go
bad now. So, he'd better take it upstairs.
    Sighing, Bluepearl replaced the wooden stopper and
picked up the cask.
    In the corner room on the second level, the stranger who'd
booked the room for this night finished digging out the
last of the bars on the window. He then doused the lantern
and moved across to the hallway door, where he crouched
down, listening.
    From the window behind him the first of the assassins
climbed in.
    Blend, her eyes half closed, watched as five men came in,
moving in a half-drunken clump and arguing loudly about
the latest jump in the price of bread, slurred statements
punctuated by shoves and buffets, and wasn't it a wonder,
Blend reflected as they staggered into the taproom, how
people could complain about very nearly anything as if
their lives depended on it.
    These ones she didn't know, meaning they'd probably
spied the torchlit sign on their way back from some other
place, deciding that this drunk wasn't drunk enough,
and she noted that they were better dressed than most
– nobles, most likely, with all the usual bluster and airs of
invincibility and all that. Well, they'd be spending coin
here and that was what counted.
    She took another sip of cider.
    *
    Antsy had his shortsword out as he crept