A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

few
dozen of your associates – I expect I'll be in an even more
generous mood by then.'
    A crowd had gathered to watch, but the blacksmith was
disinclined to pay them any attention. He rather wanted
word to get out, in fact, although from what he'd gathered
his particular feud was already a sizzling topic of conversation,
and no doubt his words just spoken would be quoted
and misquoted swift as a plague on the hot winds.
    Turning about, he walked back into his shop.
    Chaur stood near the back door, wearing his heavy apron
with its spatter of burn holes revealing the thick weave of
aesgir grass insulation beneath the leather – the only plant
known that did not burn, even when flung into a raging
fire. Oversized gloves of the same manufacture covered his
hands and forearms, and he was holding tongs that gripped
a fast-cooling curl of bronze. Chaur's eyes were bright and
he was smiling.
    'Best get that back into the forge,' Barathol said.
    As expected, business was slow. A campaign had begun,
fomented by the Guild, that clearly involved the threat of a
blacklist that could – and would – spread to other guilds in
the city. Barathol's customers could find themselves unable
to purchase things they needed from a host of other professions,
and that of course would prove devastating. And as
for Barathol's own material requirements, most doors had
already begun closing in his face. He was forced to seek out
alternatives in the black market, never a secure option.
    As his friend Mallet had predicted, Malazans resident
in the city had been indifferent to all such extortions and
warnings against taking Barathol's custom. There was,
evidently, something in their nature that resisted the
notion of threats, and in fact being told they could not
do something simply raised their hackles and set alight
a stubborn fire in their eyes. That such a response could
prove a curse had been driven home with the slaughter
at K'rul's – and the grief that followed remained deeply
embedded in Barathol, producing within him a dark, cold
rage. Unfortunately for the latest agent from the Guild of
Blacksmiths, something of that fury had transferred itself
into Barathol's instinctive reaction to the man's demand
for coin.
    Even so, he had not come to Darujhistan to make enemies.
Yet now he found himself in a war. Perhaps more
than one at that. No wonder, then, his foul mood.
    He made his way into the work yard, where the heat from
the two stoked forges rolled over him in a savage wave. His
battle axe needed a new edge, and it might do to fashion a
new sword – something he could actually wear in public.
    Barathol's new life in Darujhistan was proving anything
but peaceful.
    Bellam Nom was, in Murillio's estimation, the only
student of the duelling school worthy of the role. Fifteen
years of age, still struggling with the awkwardness of his
most recent growth spurt, he approached his studies with
surprising determination. Even more astonishing, the lad
actually wanted to be here.
    In the prolonged absence of Stonny Menackis's attention,
it had fallen to Murillio to assume most of the school's
responsibilities, and he was finding this very distant
relation of Rallick (and Torvald) in every respect a Nom,
which alone encouraged a level of instruction far beyond
what he gave the others. The young man stood before
him sheathed in sweat, as the last of the class hurried out
through the compound gate, the echoes of their voices
quickly fading, and Murillio sensed that Bellam was far
from satisfied with the torturously slow pace of the day's
session.
    'Master,' he now said, 'I have heard of an exercise involving
suspended rings. To achieve the perfect lunge, piercing
the hole and making no contact with the ring itself—'
Murillio snorted. 'Yes. Useful if you happen to be in a
travelling fair or a circus. Oh, for certain, Bellam, point
control is essential in fencing with the rapier – I wouldn't
suggest otherwise. But as an exercise, I am afraid its value
is limited.'
    'Why?'
    Murillio eyed the young man for a moment, and
then sighed. 'Very well. The exercise requires too many
constraints, few of which ever occur in the course of a real
fight. You achieve point control – useful point control, I
mean – when it's made integral to other exercises. When
it's combined with footwork, distance, timing and the full
range of defence and offence demanded when facing a real,
living opponent. Spearing rings is all very impressive, but
the form of