A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

towards the back
of the smallest of the three storerooms. That damned two-headed
rat was back. Sure, nobody else believed him except
maybe the cooks now since they'd both seen the horrid
thing, but the only way to prove it to the others was to kill
the bugger and then show it to everyone.
    They could then pickle it in a giant jar and make of it
a curio for the bar. It would be sure to pull 'em in. Twoheaded
rat caught in the kitchen of K'rul's Bar! Come
see!
    Oh, hold on . . . was that the best kind of advertising?
He'd have to ask Picker about that.
    First, of course, he needed to kill the thing.
    He crept closer, eyes fixed on the dark gap behind the
last crate to the left.
    Kill the thing, aye. Just don't chop either head off.
    Eleven figures crowded the corner room on the upper
floor. Three held daggers, including the man crouched
at the door. Four cradled crossbows, quarrels set. The last
four – big men all – wielded swords and bucklers, and
beneath their loose shirts there was fine chain.
    The one at the door could now hear the argument in
the taproom downstairs, accusations regarding the price
of bread – a ridiculous subject, the man thought yet
again, given how these ones were dressed like second and
third-born nobles – but clearly no one had taken note of
the peculiarity. Loud voices, especially drunk-sounding
ones, had a way of filling the heads of people around them.
Filling them with the wrong things.
    So now everyone's attention was on the loud, obnoxious
newcomers, and at least some of the targets were likely to
be converging, having it in mind to maybe toss the fools
out or at least ask them to tone it down and all that.
    Almost time then . . .
    *
    Sitting on the stool on the dais, the bard let his fingers trail
away from the last notes he had played, and slowly leaned
back as the nobles now argued over which table to take.
There were plenty to choose from so the issue was hardly
worth all that energy.
    He watched them for a long moment, and then set his
instrument down and went over to the pitcher and tankard
waiting to one side of the modest stage. He poured himself
some ale, and then leaned against the wall, taking sips.
    Picker rose from her chair as the door opened behind her.
She turned. 'Mallet, that bunch of idiots who just came
in.'
    The healer nodded. 'There'll be trouble with them.
Have you seen Barathol or Chaur? They were supposed to
be coming back here – the Guild's probably caught wind
of what he's up to by now. I'm thinking of maybe heading
over, in case—'
    Picker held up her hand, two quick signals that silenced
Mallet. 'Listen to them,' she said, frowning. 'It's not sounding
right.'
    After a moment, Mallet nodded. 'We'd better head down.'
    Picker turned and leaned on the sill, squinting at the
shadows where sat Blend – and she saw those outstretched
legs slowly draw back. 'Shit.'
    It was an act. That conclusion arrived sudden and cold as
a winter wind. Alarmed, Blend rose from her chair, hands
slipping beneath her raincape.
    As the outside door opened once more.
    That damned rat had slipped beneath the door leading
to the cellar – Antsy saw its slithery tail wriggle out of
sight and swore under his breath. He could catch it on the
stairs—
    The cellar door swung open and there stood Bluepearl,
carrying a dusty cask as if it was a newborn child.
    'Did you see it?' Antsy demanded.
    'See what?'
    'The two-headed rat! It just went under the door!'
    'Gods below, Antsy. Please, no more. There's no twoheaded
rat. Move aside, will you? This thing's heavy.'
    And he shouldered past Antsy, out into the kitchen.
    Three cloaked figures stepped in from outside K'rul's Bar,
crossbows at the ready. The bolts snapped out. Behind the
bar, Skevos, who was handling the shift this night, was
driven back as a quarrel thudded into his chest, shattering
his sternum. A second quarrel shot up towards the office
window where Picker was leaning out and she lunged
back, either struck or dodging there was no way to tell. The
third quarrel caught Hedry, a serving girl of fifteen years of
age, and spun her round, her tray of mugs tumbling over.
    From closer to the dais, the five drunks drew knives and
swords from beneath their cloaks and fanned out, hacking
at everyone within reach.
    Shrieks filled the air.
    Stepping out from her table, Blend slid like smoke into
the midst of the three figures at the doorway. Her knives
flickered, slashed, opening the throat of the man directly
in front of her,