were hunters, not soldiers. He drew a deep breath and held it for a moment, then nodded to himself.
Karsa made no move-any shift of weight would be heard, he well knew. Twisting his head slowly, he glanced back at the attic’s hatch. It was closed-he’d no recollection of doing so, so probably it was the trapdoor’s own weight that had dropped it back into place. But how long ago? His gaze flicked to the child’s corpse. The blood dripping from his gaping wounds was thick and slow. Some time had passed, then.
He heard someone speak, and it was a moment before he realized that he could understand the language. ‘A bell, sir, maybe more.’
‘So where,’ another asked, ‘is Merchant Balantis? Here’s his wife, their two children… four servants-did he own more?’
There was more movement.
‘Check the lofts-’
‘Where the servants slept? I doubt fat old Balantis could have climbed that ladder.’
‘Here!’ another voice cried from further in. ‘The attic stairs are down!’
‘All right, so the merchant’s terror gave him wings. Go up and confirm the grim details, Astabb, and be quick. We need to check the next house.’
‘Hood’s breath, Borrug, I nearly lost my breakfast in the last place. It’s all quiet up there, can’t we just leave it at that? Who knows, the bastard might be chopping up the next family right now.’
There was silence, then: ‘All right, let’s go. This time, I think Silgar’s plain wrong. That Uryd’s path of slaughter is straight for the west gate, and I’d lay a year’s column he’s heading for T’lan Pass right now.’
‘Then the Malazans will run him down.’
‘Aye, they will. Come on.’
Karsa listened as the hunters converged on the front door then headed back outside. The Teblor remained motionless for another dozen heartbeats. Silgar’s men would find no further scenes of slaughter westward along the street. This fact alone would bring them back. He padded across to the trapdoor, lifted it clear, and made his way down the blood-spattered wooden steps. There were corpses strewn along the length of the hallway, the air foul with the reek of death.
He quickly moved to the back door. The yard outside was churned mud and puddles, a heap of pavestones off to one side awaiting the arrival of labourers. Beyond it was a newly built low stone wall, an arched gate in its centre. The sky overhead was broken with clouds carried on a swift wind. Shadows and patches of sunlight crawled steadily over the scene. There was no-one in sight.
Karsa crossed the yard at a sprint. He crouched down at the arched gate. Opposite him ran a rutted, narrow track, parallel to the main street, and beyond it a row of irregular heaps of cut brush amidst tall yellow grasses. The back walls of houses reared behind the heaps.
He was on the western side of the town, and here there were hunters. It followed, then, that he would be safer on the eastern side. At the same time, the Malazan soldiers appeared to be quartered there, though he’d watched at least thirty of them ride out through the west gate. Leaving how many?
Karsa had proclaimed the Malazans his enemy.
The warrior slipped out onto the track and headed east. Hunched low, he ran hard, his eyes scanning the way ahead, seeking cover, expecting at any moment the shout that would announce his discovery.
He moved into the shadows of a large house that leaned slightly over the alley. In another five strides he would come to the wide street that led down to the lakeshore. Crossing it undetected was likely to prove a challenge. Silgar’s hunters remained in the town, as did an unknown number of Malazans. Enough to cause him trouble? There was no telling.
Five cautious strides, and he was at the edge of the street. There was a small crowd at the far end, lakeside. Wrapped bodies were being carried out of a house, whilst two men struggled with a young, naked, blood-splashed woman. She was hissing and trying to claw at their eyes. It was a moment before Karsa recollected her. The blood-oil still burned within her, and the crowd had drawn back in obvious alarm, their attention one and all fixed on her writhing form.
A glance to the right. No-one.
Karsa bolted across the street. He was but a single stride from the alley opposite when he heard a hoarse shout, then a chorus of cries. Skidding through sluicing mud, the warrior raised his sword and snapped his gaze towards the distant crowd.
To see only their backs, as they fled like panicked deer, leaving the wrapped corpses strewn in their wake. The young woman, suddenly released, fell to the mud shrieking, one hand snapping out to clamp on the ankle of one of her captors. She was dragged through the mud for a body length before she managed to foul the man’s stride and send him sprawling. She clambered atop him with a snarl.
Karsa padded into the alley.
A bell started a wild clanging.
He continued on, eastward, parallel to the main street. The far end, thirty or more paces distant, seemed to face onto a long, stone-walled, single level building, the windows visible bearing heavy shutters. As he raced towards it, he saw three Malazan soldiers dart across his field of vision-all were helmed, visors lowered, and none turned their heads.
Karsa slowed his pace as he neared the alley’s end. He could see more of the building ahead now. It looked somehow different from all the others in the town, its style more severe, pragmatic-a style the Teblor could admire.
He halted at the alley mouth. A glance to his right revealed that the building before him fronted onto the main street, beyond which was a clearing to match that of the west gate, the edge of the town wall visible just beyond. To his left, and closer to hand, the building came to an end, with a wooden corral flanked by stables and outbuildings. Karsa returned his attention to his right and leaned out slightly further.
The three Malazan soldiers were nowhere to be seen.
The bell was still pealing somewhere behind him, yet the town seemed strangely deserted.
Karsa jogged towards the corral. He arrived with no alarms raised, stepped over the railing, and made his way along the building’s wall towards the doorway.
It had been left open. The antechamber within held hooks, racks and shelves for weapons, but all such weapons had been removed. The close dusty air held the memory of fear. Karsa slowly entered. Another door stood opposite, this one shut.
A single kick sent it crashing inward.
Beyond, a large room with a row of cots on either side. Empty.
The echoes of the shattered door fading, Karsa ducked through the doorway and straightened, looking around, sniffing the air. The chamber reeked of tension. He felt something like a presence, still there, yet somehow managing to remain unseen. The warrior cautiously stepped forward. He listened for breathing, heard nothing, took another step.
The noose dropped down from above, over his head and down onto his shoulders. Then a wild shout, and it snapped tight around his neck.
As Karsa raised his sword to slice through the hemp rope, four figures descended behind him, and the rope gave a savage yank, lifting the Teblor off his feet.
There was a sudden splintering from above, followed by a desultory curse, then the crossbeam snapped, the rope slackening though the noose remained taut around Karsa’s throat. Unable to draw breath, he spun, sword cleaving in a horizontal slash-that passed through empty air. The Malazan soldiers, he saw, had already dropped to the floor and rolled away.
Karsa dragged the rope free of his neck, then advanced on the nearest scrambling soldier.
Sorcery hammered him from behind, a frenzied wave that engulfed the Teblor. He staggered, then, with a roar, shook it off.
He swung his sword. The Malazan before him leapt backward, but the blade’s tip connected with his right knee, shattering the bone. The man shrieked as he toppled.
A net of fire descended on Karsa, an impossibly heavy web of pain that drove him to his knees. He sought to slash at it, but his weapon was fouled by the flickering strands. It began constricting as if it possessed a life of its
