A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

and her hands were soft as doves
held as gently as he could manage in his own blunted, clumsy
fingers. And soft and frail as her hands were, the Empress led,
tugging him back and forth so that he never quite regained his
balance.
    The White-Haired Empress was very real. She was in fact
a minor demon, conjured and chained into servitude in this
ancient tenement on the very edge of the Gadrobi District.
Her task, from the very first, had been singular, a geas set
upon her by the somewhat neurotic witch dead now these three
centuries.
    The White-Haired Empress was bound to the task of killing
cockroaches, in this one room. The manner in which she did
so had, over decades and decades, suffered a weakening of
strictures, leaving the now entirely loony demon the freedom
to improvise.
    This mortal had huge feet, his most attractive feature, and
when they danced he closed his eyes and silently wept, and she
could guide those feet on to every damned cockroach skittering
across the filthy floor. Step crunch step crunch – there! A big
one – get it! Crunch and smear, crunch and smear!
    In this lone room, barring the insects who lived in terror,
there was pure, unmitigated joy, delicious satisfaction, and the
sweetest love.
    It all collapsed at around the same time as the floor. Rotted
crossbeams, boards and thick plaster descended on to Widow
Lebbil and it was as much the shock as the weight of the
wreckage that killed her instantly.
    Poor Saborgan, losing his grip on the wailing Empress,
suffered the stunning implosion of a cane driven up his anus
– oh, even to recount is to wince! – which proved a most fatal
intrusion indeed. As for the Empress herself, well, after a
moment of horrific terror her geas shattered, releasing her at
last to return to her home, the realm of the Cockroach Kings
(oh, very well, the round man just made up that last bit.
Forgive?). Who knows where she went? The only thing for
certain is that she danced every step of the way.
    The vague boom of a collapsing floor in a squalid tenement
building somewhere overhead went unnoticed by Seba Krafar,
Master of the Assassins' Guild, as he staggered down the subterranean
corridor, seeking the refuge of his nest.
    Would the disasters never end? It had all started with that
damned Rallick Nom cult, and then, almost before the dust
settled on that, their first big contract ran up against the most
belligerent, vicious collection of innkeepers imaginable. And
the one that followed?
    He suspected he was the only survivor. He'd left his crossbowmen
to cover his retreat and not one of them had caught up
with him; and now, with gas storage caverns igniting one after
another, well, he found himself in an abandoned warren of
tunnels, rushing through raining dust, coughing, eyes stinging.
All ruined. Wrecked. He'd annihilated the entire damned
Guild.
    He would have to start over.
    All at once, the notion excited him. Yes, he could shape
it himself – nothing to inherit. A new structure. A new
philosophy, even.
    Such . . . possibilities.
    He staggered into his office, right up to the desk, which he
leaned on with both hands on its pitted surface. And then
frowned at the scattering of scrolls, and saw documents strewn
everywhere on the floor – what in Hood's name?
    'Master Krafar, is it?'
    The voice spun him round.
    A woman stood with her back resting against the wall beside
the doorway. A cocked crossbow was propped beside her left
boot, quarrel head resting on the packed earthen floor. Her
arms were crossed.
    Seba Krafar scowled. 'Who in Hound's name are you?'
    'You don't know me? Careless. My name is Blend. I'm one
of the owners of K'rul's.'
    'That contract's cancelled – we're done with you. No
more—'
    'I don't care. It's simple – I want the name. The one who
brought you the contract. Now, you can give it to me without
any fuss, and I will walk out of here and that's the last you'll
see of me, and all your worries will be at an end. The Guild
removed from the equation. Consider it a gift, but now it's time
for you to earn it.'
    He studied her, gauging his chances. She didn't look like
much. There was no way she'd reach that crossbow in time –
two quick strides and he'd be right in her face. With two knives
in her gut. And then he'd send a note to Humble Measure and
claim one more down – leaving what, two or three left? He'd
get paid well for that, and Hood knew he needed the coin if he
was going to start over.
    And so he attacked.
    He wasn't sure what