A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

duelling society by its very nature cuts down
the survival rate once adulthood is reached. Young warriors
in their prime – probably as deadly as a war, only this is a
war that never ends. Still, there must be periods – cycles,
perhaps – when young women are freed up to choose their
own path.'
    Picker's eyes settled on the corpse on the table while
Duiker spoke. She tried to imagine such a society, wherein
like bhederin cows all the women stood moaning as their
tails were pushed to one side almost as soon as the latest
calf had dropped out bleating on to the ground. It was madness.
It was unfair. 'Good thing even Seguleh women wear
masks,' she muttered.
    'Sorry, what?'
    She scowled across at the historian. 'Hides all the
rage.'
    'Oh, well, I don't know that the non-warrior women do
– it never occurred to me to ask. But I see your point.'
    'But is that enough?' she asked. 'Do so many warriors
kill each other that it's necessary to demand that of the
women?'
    Duiker glanced at her, then away again.
    The bastard's hiding some suspicions.
    'I don't know, Picker. Could be. Their savagery is
infamous.'
    'How long do you think these ones have been down
there? In the cellar, I mean, in those casks?'
    'The seals are templar. Baruk suggests that the cult
persisted, in some residual form, long after its presumed
extinction.'
    'Decades? Centuries?'
    He shrugged.
    'But what are they doing here in Darujhistan anyway?
Those islands are right off the south end of the damned
continent. Nearly a thousand leagues between them and
this city.'
    'I don't know.'
    Yeah, right. Sighing, she turned away. 'Seen Antsy?'
    'At the bar.'
    'Typical. Depleting our stock.'
    'Your indecision has left him despondent.'
    'Stuff that, Duiker,' she snapped, walking from the room,
leaving him there with that damned corpse. It was a contest
which of them was the least forthcoming, in any case,
and she was tired of the duck and dodge. Yet, something in
all of that had lodged in her the suspicion that the Guild
contract out on them was connected, somehow, with this
old temple and all its grisly secrets. Find the connection, and
maybe find the piece of shit who put the chop on us. Find him,
or her, so I can shove a cusser up inside nice and deep.
    Antsy was leaning on the bar, glowering at nothing in
particular, at least until he found a perfect victim in Picker
as she walked up. 'Careful, woman,' he growled, 'I ain't in
the mood.'
    'Ain't in the mood for what?'
    'For anything.'
    'Except one thing.'
    'Anything you might try on me, is what I meant. As for
the other thing, well, I've already decided to go it alone if
I have to.'
    'So,' she leaned on the bar beside him, 'what are you
waiting for, then?'
    'Blend. Once she's back on her feet, Pick, she'll be
hungry enough to take the fight to 'em.' He tugged on his
moustache, then scowled at her. 'It's you I can't figure.'
    'Antsy,' Picker said, sighing, 'much as I'd love to murder
every damned assassin in this city, and the Guild Master,
too, they're not the source of the problem. Someone
hired them, only we don't know who, and we don't know
why. We've been through this before. We're back right
where we started, in fact, only this time we're down two.'
She found she was trembling, and was unable to meet
Antsy's stare. 'You know, I find myself wishing Ganoes
Paran was here – if anybody could work out what's going
on, it's the Captain.'
    Antsy grunted. 'Master of the Deck, aye.' He drank
down the last of his drink and straightened. 'Fine, let's go
to the Finnest House, then – maybe he's in there, maybe
he's not. Either way, it's doing something.'
    'And leave Blend here on her own?'
    'She's not alone. There's Duiker and Scillara. Not to
mention that bard. There ain't nobody coming back to
finish us, not in the daytime at least. We can be back
before dusk, Pick.'
    Still she hesitated.
    Antsy stepped close. 'Listen, I ain't so stupid, I know
what's goin' on in your head. But us just sitting here is
us waiting for their next move. You know the marine
doctrine, Corporal. It ain't our job to react – it's our job to
hit first and make them do the reacting. Twice now they hit
us – they do it again and we're finished.'
    Despite the alcoholic fumes drifting off the man, his blue
eyes were hard and clear, and Picker knew he was right, and
yet . . . she was afraid. And she knew he could see it, was
struggling with it – badly – since fear was not something
he'd expect from her. Not ever. Gods, you've become an