A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

succeeded. She had achieved precisely what she
wanted, the very thing she had begged him to do. For her.
For them. But no, for her.
    He had killed her husband. Because she had asked him
to. And it was now almost certain that he would hang
for it. Shardan would talk, pointing the finger so that all
eyes shifted away from him, and his accusation would be
all fire, blazing with deadly details. And as for her, why,
she'd be painted as a foolish young woman. Playing with
lowborn but astoundingly ignorant of just how vicious such
creatures could be, when something or someone stood in
their way. When obsessive love was involved, especially.
Oh, she'd been playing, but that nasty young lowborn thug
had seen it differently. And now she would have to live
with the fact that her idle game had led to her husband's
murder. Poor child.
    Her father would arrive, because he was the sort of father
to do just that. He would raise impenetrable walls around
her, and personally defend every portico, every bastion.
Aim the knife of innuendo towards her and he would step
into its path. He would retaliate, ferociously, and the sly
sceptics would quickly learn to keep their mouths shut, if
they valued their heads.
    She would be the eye of the storm, and feel not even a
single drop of rain, nor sigh of wind.
    Challice set the goblet down. She walked out into
the corridor and proceeded without haste back to her
bedroom, where she collected the glass globe with its imprisoned
moon. And then left once more, this time to the
square tower, with its rooms crowded with antique Gadrobi
furniture slowly rotting to dust, with its musty draughts
sliding up and down the stairs.
    I have killed him. I have killed him.
    I have killed him.
    Hanut Orr adjusted his sword-belt and checked his rapier
yet again. He had come close to beating the hapless mine
guard to glean every last detail of the events surrounding
the assassination of Gorlas Vidikas, and he now believed
he had a fair idea of the grisly story behind it. The echoes
tasted sour, personal. Once he learned where the first
man's body had been delivered, he knew where this night
would take him.
    He assembled his four most capable guards and they set
out into the city.
    Two knives to the chest. Yes, the past never quite went
away, did it? Well, finally, he would be able to deliver his
long-delayed vengeance. And when he was done there, he
would find the one man who was at the centre of all of this.
Councillor Coll would not see the dawn.
    He dispatched two of his men to Coll's estate. Watch.
Any strangers show up, they don't reach the damned gate. We
are at war tonight. Be ready to kill, am I understood?
    Of course he was. These hard men were no fools.
    He knew that damned mob in the Phoenix Inn. He
knew every one of Coll's decrepit, lowborn friends, and he
intended to kill them all.
    Down from the Estates District and into the Daru
District. Not far.
    Two streets from the Phoenix Inn he halted his two
remaining men. 'You'll watch the front entrance, Havet.
Kust, I want you to walk in and make a show – it won't
have to be much, they'll smell you out fast enough. I have
the alley, for when somebody bolts. Both of you, keep an
eye out for a short, fat man in a red waistcoat. If you get
a chance, Havet, cut him down – that shouldn't be hard.
There're two tough-looking women who run the place
– they're fair targets as well if they head outside. I'm not
sure who else will be in that foul nest – we'll find out soon
enough. Now, go.'
    They went one way. He went another.
    Torvald Nom grunted and gasped as he pulled himself on
to the estate roof. Sitting at his desk had been driving him
mad. He needed to be out, roving round, keeping an eye
on everything. On everything. This was a terrible night and
nothing had happened yet. He missed his wife. He wished
he was back home, and with the coming storm he'd be
drenched by the time he stumbled into that blessed, warm
abode. Assuming he ever made it.
    He worked his way along the edge so that he could see
down into the forecourt. And there they were, Madrun
and Lazan Door, throwing knuckles against the wall to the
left of the main gate. He heard the door of the house open
directly beneath him and saw the carpet of light unfold
on the steps and pavestones, and the silhouette of the
man standing in the doorway was instantly recognizable.
Studlock, Studious Lock. Not moving at all, just watching,
but watching what?
    Knuckles pattered, bounced on stone, then