A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

the cooing on
all sides.
    'I'll have that bastard's head one day,' said Hanut Orr.
    'On a spike outside my gate.'
    'You were careless,' said Shardan Lim, doing little to
disguise his contempt.
    Stung, Orr's gloved hand crept to the grip of his rapier.
'I've had about enough of you, old friend. It's clear you
inherited every mewling weakness of your predecessor. I
admit I'd hoped for something better.'
    'Listen to you two,' said Gorlas Vidikas. 'Bitten by
a big dog so here you are snapping at each other, and
why? Because the big dog's too big. If he could see you
now.'
    Hanut Orr snorted. 'So speaks the man who can't keep
his wife on a tight enough leash.'
    Was the perfect extension of the metaphor deliberate?
Who can say? In any case, to the astonishment of both
Orr and Lim, Gorlas Vidikas simply smiled, as if appreciative
of the riposte. He made a show of brushing dust from
his cuffs. 'Well then, I will leave you to . . . whatever, as I
have business that will take me out of the city for the rest
of the day.'
    'That Ironmonger will never get on the Council,
Vidikas,' Shardan Lim said. 'There's no available seat and
that situation's not likely to change any time soon. This
partnership of yours will take you nowhere and earn you
nothing.'
    'On the contrary, Shardan. I am getting wealthy. Do
you have any idea how essential iron is to this city? Ah, I
see that such matters are beneath you both. So be it. As a
bonus, I am about to acquire a new property in the city as
well. It has been and will continue to be a most rewarding
partnership. Good day to you, sirs.'
    There was no denying Seba Krafar's natural air of brutality.
He was a large, bearish man, and though virtually none of
the people he pushed past while crossing the market's round
knew him for the Master of the Assassins' Guild, they none
the less quickly retreated from any confrontation; and if
any might, in their own natural belligerence, consider
a bold challenge to this rude oaf, why, a second, more
searching glance disavowed them of any such notions.
    He passed through the press like a heated knife through
pig fat, a simile most suited to his opinion of humanity
and his place within it. One of the consequences of this
attitude, however, was that his derisive regard led to a kind
of arrogant carelessness. He took no notice whatsoever of
the nondescript figure who fell into his wake.
    The nearest cellar leading down into the tunnels was at
the end of a narrow, straight alley that led to a dead end. The
steps to the cellar ran along the back of the last building on
the left. The cellar had once served as a storage repository
for coal, in the days before the harnessing of gas – back
when the notion of poisoning one's own air in the name
of brainless convenience seemed reasonable (at least to
people displaying their lazy stupidity with smug pride).
Now, the low-ceilinged chamber squatted empty and
sagging beneath three levels of half-rotted tenement rooms
in symbolic celebration of modernity.
    From the shutterless windows babies cried to the accompaniment
of clanking cookware and slurred arguments,
sounds as familiar to Seba Krafar as the rank air of the
alley itself. His thoughts were busy enough to justify his
abstracted state. Fear warred with greed in a mutual,
ongoing exchange of masks which were in fact virtually
identical, but never mind that; the game was ubiquitous
enough, after all. Before too long, in any case, the two
combatants would end up supine with exhaustion. Greed
usually won, but carried fear on its back.
    So much for Seba Krafar's preoccupations. Even without
them, it was unlikely he would have heard the one on
his trail, since that one possessed unusual talents, of such
measure that he was able to move up directly behind the
Master Assassin, and reach out with ill intent.
    A hand closed on Seba's neck, fingers like contracting
claws of iron pressing nerves that obliterated all motor
control, yet before the assassin could collapse (as his body
wanted to do) he was flung halfway round and thrown up
against a grimy stone wall. And held there, moccasined
feet dangling.
    He felt a breath along one cheek, and then heard
whispered words.
    'Pull your watchers off K'rul's Bar. When I leave here,
you will find a small sack at your feet. Five councils. The
contract is now concluded – I am buying it out.' The tip of a
knife settled beneath Seba's right eye. 'I trust five councils
is sufficient. Unless you object.'
    'No, not at all,' gasped Seba.