this night brought darkness down, darkness and cold, down upon the raging fires. Who somehow crushed the life from a growing conflagration of destruction. Saving the lives of everyone. It was said he single-handedly banished the demon Hounds. It was said, upon the instant of his death, the heart of the moon broke. And proof of that still lingered in the sky.
Who killed him? No one was sure. Rumours of Vorcan’s return fuelled specula-tion of some vicious betrayal. A Malazan contract. A god’s blind rage. But clearly it was fated, that death, for did not the worshippers of Dessembrae emerge from their temple last night? Was that not a time for the Lord of Tragedy? Oh, but it was, yes, it surely was.
And so, unbidden, people came out on to the streets. They lined the route taken by Caladan Brood to await his passing, the warrior, the ox, the cart. And when he did, he was watched in silence; and when the procession had passed, the people fell into his wake, becoming a river of humanity.
On this morning, Darujhistan was like no other city. No hawkers called out their wares. Market stalls remained shut. No fisher boats slipped their moorings and set out on the mirror waters of the lake. Looms stayed motionless, spindles un-spun. And, from every temple, bells began their toll. Discordant, sonorous, building like a broken echo, as if the city itself had found a voice, and that voice, so filled with the chaos of grief, would now speak for every citizen, for the priests and priestesses, for the very gods in their temples.
Amidst the clanging bells, Great Ravens rose into the smoky sky, wheeling above rooftops, forming a caterwauling, grisly escort. At first there were but hun dreds, and then there were thousands. Swirling in a mass, as if drawn to deliver darkness to Darujhistan, as if to shroud the body below.
And, just beyond Worrytown, ascending the first of the Gadrobi Hills, a lone swordsman paused and half turned a ravaged face to the fretful music of those bells, those birds, and whatever might have been there, in his eyes, well, there was no one to witness it.
And so he set his back to Darujhistan and resumed his journey. That he had nowhere to go, at least for the moment, was without relevance. Solitude finds its own path, for the one who will not share burdens. And loneliness is no fit com-panion for the eternally lost, but it is the only one they know.
At this moment, another lone figure, clad in chain, sat in a tavern in Worry-town. The notion of witnessing the procession in the city was proving too… unpalatable. Kallor despised funerals. Celebrations of failure. Wallowing in pathos. Every living soul standing there forced to stare into mortality’s grinning face-no, that was not for Kallor.
He preferred kicking that piss-grinning, shit-reeking bastard face, right between the fucking eyes.
The tavern was empty, since it seemed no one else shared his sentiments, and that was fine with him. It had always been fine with him.
Or so he told himself, as he stared down into his stolen tankard of bad ale, and listened to those infernal bells and those oversized vultures. And that chorus was hauntingly familiar. Death, ruin, grief. ‘Hear that?’ he said to his tankard. ‘They’re playing our song.’
Blend walked into K’rul’s Bar and found it empty, save for the hunched figure of the historian, who sat at his chosen table, staring at the stained, pitted wood. She walked over and looked down at him. ‘Who died?’
Duiker did not look up. ‘Not
She hesitated. ‘Have you checked on Picker?’
‘She walked out of here a quarter-bell ago.’
‘Said she’d be back.’
‘That’s it? That’s all she said?’
‘Something else. Something about “them damned tores”.’ He finally glanced up, his eyes bleak as ever. ‘Sit down, Blend. Please. I don’t like being alone, not right now. She’ll be back.’
At that moment a bell began ringing overhead and both Malazans ducked at the deafening clangour.
‘Clods below!’ swore Blend. ‘Who’s up in the belfry?’
Duiker was frowning. ‘The only other person here is Scillara. I suppose…’ and then he fell silent, and the wasted misery in his eyes deepened.
Blend sat down. ‘She’d better get tired soon, or I’ll have to go up there.’
They sat, weathering the clanging. Blend studied Duiker, wondering at his ever-deepening despondency. And then a realization struck her. ‘I thought we un-shipped that bell.’
‘We did, Blend. It’s in the cellar.’
‘Oh.’
No wonder he looked so wretched.
‘Plan on cutting off its head?’ Samar Dev asked.
Karsa Orlong was standing over the Hound he had killed. At her question he grunted. ‘I could use a kitchen knife to finish the job. See how my blade cut through that spine? Like chopping down a tree.’
She found she was trembling, decided it was exhaustion. ‘They’re your daugh-ters, aren’t they?’
Karsa glanced over at the two Toblakai girls, who stood watching, silent, ex-pectant. ‘I raped a mother and a daughter.’
‘Ah, well, isn’t that nice.’
‘It was my right.’
‘Funny, that.’
‘What?’
‘That idea of “rights”. The way that claiming a right so often results in someone else losing theirs. At which point it all comes down to who’s holding the biggest sword.’
‘I won that right when I killed their men. This was tribal war, Witch.’ He paused. ‘And I was young.’
‘Gods below, you’re actually telling me you have regrets?’
The Toblakai turned away from the dead Hound and faced his daughters. ‘I have many,’ he answered. ‘But, not these two.’
‘And if they feel differently about it, Karsa?’
‘Why should they? I gave them life.’
‘I think,’ Samar Dev said, ‘that I shall never understand you.’ She eyed the girls. ‘Do they know what we’re saying? Of course not, they couldn’t have learned any Seven Cities language. I’ve not seen you speak to them, Karsa. What are you waiting for?’
‘I am waiting,’ he replied, ‘for when I can think of something to say.’
At that moment another woman emerged from an alley mouth and, gaze fixed on Karsa Orlong, walked over. ‘Toblakai,’ she said, ‘I have a message to deliver to you.’ She was speaking Malazan.
‘I don’t know you,’ Karsa said to her in the same language.
‘The feeling’s mutual,’ she snapped, ‘but let’s not let that get in the way.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you want this message private, or maybe I should just shout it so everybody can hear.’
Karsa shot Samar Dev an amused look. ‘Did I ever tell you, Witch, that I liked Malazans?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, sighing.
‘You need not shout, Malazan. Nor will we hide in some corner. So, tell me this mysterious message, but first, tell me who it is from.’
‘All right. It’s from Hood, I think.’
Samar Dev snorted. ‘Let me guess. “Keep up the good work, yours truly.”‘
The Malazan woman regarded her. ‘Well now, after all this is done, permit me to buy you a drink.’
Samar Dev’s brows rose.
‘The message,’ Karsa growled.
‘Right. It’s this. You must not leave Darujhistan.’
‘And if I do?’
‘Then you will have lost your one opportunity to fulfil a vow you once made.’
‘I have made many vows.’
‘I’m shocked to hear that.’
Karsa was smiling, but something deadly had awakened in it. ‘Will you tell me more?’
The woman hesitated again. ‘I’m reconsidering. This really needs to be private-no offence, Witch-he called you
