his moustache. ‘Who was it said we should eat here tonight?’
‘That bard,’ said Picker.
‘Our bard?’
‘For the rest of the week, aye.’
‘He recommended it?’
‘He said we should eat here tonight, is what he said. Is that a recommendation? Might be. But maybe not. He’s an odd one. Anyway, he said it would be open till dawn.’
‘The chicken was too scrawny. And I don’t know who they got to pluck the damned thing, but I’m still chewing on feathers.’
‘You were supposed to avoid the feet, Antsy. They didn’t even wash those.’
‘Of course they did!’ Antsy protested. ‘That was sauce-’
‘The sauce was red. The stuff on the feet was dark brown. Want something to get embarrassed about, Picker, just drag Antsy along to supper.’
‘The feet was the best part,’ the Falari said.
‘He’s Seven Cities for sure,’ Picker noted. ‘All three of them, I’d wager.’
‘The fat one likes her rustleaf.’
‘If she’s fat, Antsy, then so am I.’
Antsy looked away.
Picker cuffed him on the side of the head.
’Ow, what was that for?’
‘I wear armour and quilted underpadding, remember?’
‘Well, she’s not, is she?’
‘She’s delicious,’ Blend observed. ‘And I bet she don’t get embarrassed by anything much.’
Picker offered her a sweet smile. ‘Why not go stick your foot in and see?’
‘Ooh, jealous.’
Antsy sat up, suddenly excited. ‘If your legs was long enough, Blend, you could do both! And I could-’
Two knives slammed point first into the table in front of the ex-sergeant. His bushy brows shot upward, eyes bulging. ‘Just an idea,’ he muttered. ‘No reason to get all uppity, you two.’
‘Could be he’s another Kalam,’ Picker said. ‘A Claw.’
Antsy choked on something, coughed, hacked, then managed a breath. He leaned forward until he was very nearly lying on the table from the chest up. He chewed on his moustache for a moment, eyes darting between Picker and Blend. ‘Listen, if he is, then we should kill him.’
‘Why?’
‘Could be he’s hunting us, Picker. Could be he’s come to finish off the Bridgeburners once and for all.’
‘Why would any of them care?’ Picker asked.
‘Maybe the bard set us up, did you think of that?’
Blend sighed and rose. ‘How about I just go up and ask him?’
‘You want to take a grab at a tit,’ Picker said, smiling again. ‘So, go ahead, Blend. Go on. See if she blows you a kiss.’
Shrugging, Blend set out to where the three newcomers had just acquired a table.
Antsy choked again, plucked at Picker’s sleeve and gasped, ‘She’s heading straight over!’
Picker licked her lips. ‘I didn’t really mean-’
‘She’s almost there-they seen her-don’t turn round!’
Barathol saw the Malazan threading her way to where they now sat. By hue of skin, by cast of features, by any obvious measure one might find, there was nothing that differentiated the woman from any local Daru or Genabarii; yet he knew, instantly. A Malazan, and a veteran. A damned marine.
Scillara noted his attention and half turned in her chair. ‘Good taste, Barathol-and it seems she likes-’
‘Quiet,’ Barathol muttered.
The slim woman came up, soft brown eyes fixed on Barathol. And in Malazan, she said, ‘I knew Kalam.’
He snorted. ‘Yes, he’s a popular man.’
‘Cousin?’
He shrugged. ‘That will do. Are you with the embassy?’
‘No. Are you?’
Barathol’s eyes narrowed. Then he shook his head. ‘We arrived today. I never directly served in your empire.’
She seemed to think about that. Then she nodded. ‘We’re retired. Causing no trouble to anyone.’
‘Sounds retired indeed.’
‘We run a bar. K’rul’s, in the Estates District, near Worry Gate.’
‘And how does it fare?’
‘Slow to start, but we’re settled in now. Getting by.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Come by, I’ll set you the first round.’
‘We just might.’
She glanced down at Scillara then, and winked. Then turned away and walked back to her table.
‘What just happened?’ Scillara asked after a moment.
Barathol smiled. ‘Do you mean the wink or all the rest?’
‘I figured out the wink, thank you… The rest.’
‘They’re deserters, I’d wager. Worried that we might be imperial. That I might be a Claw, come to deliver a message from the Empress-the usual message to deserters. They knew Kalam Mekhar, a relation of mine, who was once a Claw, and then a Bridgeburner.’
‘A Bridgeburner. I’ve heard about them. The nastiest company ever. Started in Seven Cities and then left with Dujek.’
‘The same.’
‘So they thought you were here to kill them.’
‘Yes.’
‘So one of them just decided to walk up and talk to you. That seems either incredibly brave or profoundly stupid.’
‘The former,’ said Barathol. ‘About what you’d expect from a Bridgeburner, deserter or otherwise.’
Scillara twisted round, quite deliberately, to study the two women and the red-bearded man at the table on the other side of the plaza. And did not flinch from the steady regard they then fixed on her.
Amused, Barathol waited until Scillara slowly swung back and reached for her jar of wine, before saying, ‘Speaking of brave…’
‘
‘Oh, I just don’t go for that kowtowing stuff.’
‘I know.’
‘So do they, now.’
‘Right. Shall we join them, then?’
Scillara suddenly grinned. ‘Tell you what, let’s buy them a pitcher, then watch and see if they drink from it.’
‘Gods, woman, you play sharp games.’
‘Nah, it’s just flirting.’
‘With what?’
Her smile broadened, and she gestured over a nearby server.
‘Now what?’ Antsy demanded.
‘Guess they’re thirsty,’ Picker said.
‘It’s that quiet one who worries me,’ Antsy continued. ‘He’s got that blank look, like the worst kinda killer.’
‘He’s a simpleton, Antsy,’ said Blend.
‘Worst kinda killer there is.’
‘Oh, really. He’s addled, a child’s brain-look how he looks round at everything. Look at that silly grin.’
