A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

heard Bellam's shout, but Snell had a good head start
and besides, the stupid idiot wouldn't just leave the runts
behind, would he? No, Snell had made good his escape,
easy as that, because he was clever and jerks could threaten
him all the time but he won in the end, he always won
– proof of his cleverness.
    Up the street, into an alley, under the broken fence,
across the narrow yard – chickens scattering from his path
– and on to the stacked rabbit pens, over the next fence,
into Twisty Alley, twenty strides up and then left, into the
muddy track where a sewage pipe leaked. Nobody'd go
down this pinched passageway, what with the stench and
all, but he did, piss soaking through his worn moccasins,
and then he was out on to Purse Street, and freedom.
    Better if he'd stolen the runts to sell. Better still if he'd
still had his stash of coins. Now, he had nothing. But
nobody would catch him now. There were some older boys
with connections to the gang that worked Worrytown,
lifting what they could from the trader wagons that
crowded through. If Snell could get out there, he'd be
outside the city, wouldn't he? They could hunt for ever and
not find him.
    And he could make himself rich. He could rise in the
ranks and become a pack leader. People would be scared of
him, terrified even. Merchants would pay him just not to
rob them. And he'd buy an estate, and hire assassins to kill
Bellam Nom and Stonny Menackis and Murillio. He'd buy
up his parents' debts and make them pay him every month
– wouldn't that be something? It'd be perfect. And his
sisters he could pimp out and eventually he'd have enough
money to buy a title of some sort, get on the Council, and
proclaim himself King of Darujhistan, and he'd order
new gallows built and execute everyone who'd done him
wrong.
    He rushed through the crowds, his thoughts a world
away, a future far off but almost in reach.
    His feet were clipped out from under him and he fell
hard: numbing shock from one shoulder and his hip.
Bellam Nom stood over him, breathing hard but grinning.
    'Nice try,' he said.
    'Mew and Hinty! You left them—'
    'Locked up, yes. That's what slowed me down.' And he
reached down, grasped Snell's arm and yanked him to his
feet, twisting hard enough to make him yelp in pain.
    Bellam dragged Snell back the way he'd come.
    'I'm going to kill you one day,' Snell said, then winced as
Bellam's grip tightened on his arm.
    'It's what people like you rely on, isn't it?'
    'What?'
    'That none of us are as nasty as you. That we'll have
qualms about, say, skinning you alive. Or shattering your
kneecaps. Gouging out your eyes. You want to kill me?
Fine, just don't be surprised if I get to you first, Snell.'
    'You can't murder—'
    'Can't I? Why not? You seem to think you can, whenever
you like, whenever the chance arises. Well, I'm not Stonny
Menackis. I'm not Murillio, either. They're . . . civilized
folk. No, Snell, I'm more like you, only I'm older and better
at it.'
    'If you did anything to me, Murillio would have to go
after you. Like you say, he's not like us. Or Stonny. She'd
cut you to pieces. Yes, it'd be Stonny, once Da asked her to,
and he would.'
    'You're making a big assumption, Snell.'
    'What?'
    'That they'd ever figure out it was me.'
    'I'll warn them – as soon as they come back – I'll warn
them about you—'
    'Before or after you make your confession? About what
you did to poor Harllo?'
    'That was different! I didn't do nothing on purpose—'
    'You hurt him, probably killed him, and left his body
for the birds. You kept it all a secret, Snell. Hood knows,
if I asked nicely enough, your da might just hand you over
to me and good riddance to you.'
    Snell said nothing. There was true terror inside him
now. So much terror it filled him up, spilled out through
his pores, and out from between his legs. This Bellam was
a monster. He didn't feel anything for nobody. He just
wanted to hurt Snell. A monster. A vicious demon, yes,
a demon. Bellam was everything that was wrong with . . .
with . . . everything.
    'I'll be good,' Snell whimpered. 'You'll see. I'll make it
right, all of it.'
    But these were lies, and both of them knew it. Snell was
what he was, and no amount of cuddling and coddling
would change that. He stood, there in the mind, as if to
say: we are in your world. More of us than you imagine. If you
knew how many of us there are, you'd be very, very frightened.
We are here. Now, what are you going to do with us? Snell was
what he was, yes, and