Chillbais thumped his wings as hard as he could, an obese demon in the dark¬ness above the blue, blue city.
Zechan Throw and Giddyn the Quick had found the perfect place for the ambush. Twenty paces down a narrow street two recessed doorways faced each other. Four drunks had staggered past a few moments earlier, and none had seen the assassins standing motionless in the inky darkness. And now that they were past and the way was clear… a simple step forward and blood would flow.
The two targets approached. Both carried clay jugs and were weaving slightly. They seemed to be arguing, but not in a language Zechan understood. Malazan, likely. A quick glance to the left. The four drunks were just leaving the far end, plunging into a motley crowd of revellers.
Zechan and Giddyn had followed the two out from K’rul’s Bar, watching on as they found a wine merchant, haggled over what the woman demanded for the jugs of wine, settled on a price, then set out on their return leg of the journey.
Somewhere along the way they must have pulled the stoppers on the jugs, for now they were loud in their argument, the slightly taller one, who walked pigeon-toed and was blue-skinned-Zechan could just make him out from where he stood-pausing to lean against a wall as if moments from losing his supper.
He soon righted himself, and it seemed the argument was suddenly over. Straightening, the taller one joined the other and, from the sounds of their boots in the rubbish, set out by his side.
Simply perfect.
Nothing messy, nothing at all messy. Zechan lived for nights like this.
Dester moved quickly, his moccasins noiseless on the cobbles, rushing for the woman striding oblivious ahead of him. Twelve paces, eight, four-
She spun, cloak whirling out.
A blurred sliver of blued steel, flickering a slashing arc. Dester skidded, seek¬ing to pull back from the path of that weapon-a longsword, Beru fend!-and something clipped his throat. He twisted and ducked down to his left, both dag¬gers thrust out to damn her should she seek to close.
A longsword!
Heat was spilling down his neck, down his chest beneath his deerhide shirt. The alley seemed to waver before his eyes, darkness curling in. Dester Thrin staggered, flailing with his daggers. A boot or mailed fist slammed into the side of his head and there was more splashing on to the cobbles. He could no longer grip the daggers. He heard them skitter on stone.
Blind, stunned, lying on the hard ground. It was cold.
A strange lassitude filled his thoughts, spreding out, rising up, taking him away,
Picker stood over the corpse, The red smear on the tip of her sword glistened, drawing her gaze, and she was reminded, oddly enough, of poppies after a rain. She grunted. The bastard had been quick, almost quick enough to evade her slash. Had he done so, she might have had some work to do. Still, unless the fool was skilled in throwing those puny daggers, she would have cut him down eventually.
Pushing through Gadrobi crowds risked little more than cutpurses. As a people they were singularly gentle. In any case, it made such things as picking up someone trailing her that much easier-when that someone wasn’t Gadrobi, of course.
The man dead at her feet was Daru. Might as well have worn a lantern on his hooded head, the way it bobbed above the crowd in her wake.
Even so… she frowned down at him. You wasn’t no thug. Not with daggers like those.
Hound’s Breath.
Sheathing her sword and pulling her cloak about her once more, ensuring that it well hid the scabbarded weapon which, if discovered by a Watch, would see her in a cell with a damned huge fine to pay, Picker pushed the wrapped stack of flat-bread tighter under her left arm, then set out once more.
Blend, she decided, was in a lot of trouble.
Zechan and Giddyn, in perfect unison, launched themselves out from the alcoves, daggers raised then thrusting down.
A yelp from the taller one as Giddyn’s blades plunged deep. The Malazan’s knees buckled and vomit sprayed from his mouth as he sank down, the jug crash¬ing to a rush of wine.
Zechan’s own weapons punched through leather, edges grating along ribs. One for each lung. Tearing the daggers loose, the assassin stepped back to watch the red-haired one fall.
A short sword plunged into the side of Zechan’s neck.
He was dead before he hit the cobbles.
Giddyn, looming over the kneeling Malazan, looked up.
Two hands closed round his head. One clamped tight over his mouth, and all at once his lungs were full of water. He was drowning. The hand tightened, fingers pinching his nostrils shut. Darkness rose within him, and the world slowly went away.
Antsy snorted as he tugged his weapon free, then added a kick to the assassin’s face to punctuate its frozen expression of surprise.
Bluepearl grinned across at him. ‘See the way I made the puke spray out? If that ain’t genius I don’t know what-’
‘Shut up,’ Antsy snapped. ‘These weren’t muggers looking for a iree drink, In case you hadn’t noticed.’
Frowning, Bluepearl looked down at the body before him with the water leaking from its mouth and nose. The Napan ran a hand over his shaved pate. ‘Aye. But they was amateurs anyway. Hood, we saw those breath plumes from halfway down the street. Which stopped when those drunks crossed, telling us they wasn’t the target. Meaning-’
‘We were. Aye, and that’s my point.’
‘Let’s get back,’ Bluepearl said, suddenly nervous.
Antsy tugged at his moustache, then nodded. ‘Work up that illusion again, Bluepearl. Us ten paces ahead.’
‘Easy, Sergeant-’
‘I ain’t no sergeant no more.’
‘Yeah? Then why you still barking orders?’
By the time Picker arrived within sight of the front entrance to K’rul’s Bar, her rage was incandescent. She paused, scanned the area. Spotted someone leaning in shadows across from the bar’s door. Hood drawn up, hands hidden.
Picker set off towards the figure.
She was noticed with ten paces between them, and she saw the man straighten, saw the growing unease betrayed by a shift of those covered arms, the cloak rip¬pling. A half-dozen celebrants careened between them, and as they passed, Picker took the last stride needed to reach the man.
Whatever he had been expecting-perhaps her accosting him with some loud accusation-it was clear that he was unprepared for the savage kick she delivered between his legs. As he was going down she stepped closer and slapped her right hand against the back of his head, adding momentum to the man’s collapse. When his forehead cracked against the cobbles there was a sickly crunch. The body began to spasm where it lay.
A passerby paused, peered down at the twitching body.
‘You!’ Picker snarled. ‘What’s your damned problem?’
Surprise, then a shrug. ‘Nothing, sweetie. Served ’im right, standin’ there like that. Say, would you marry me?’
‘Go away.’
As the stranger ambled on, bemoaning his failure at love, Picker looked around, waiting to see if there was someone else… bolting from some hidden place nearby. If it had already happened, then she had missed it. More likely, the unseen eyes watching all of this were peering down from a rooftop somewhere.
The man on the ground had stopped twitching.
Spinning round, she headed for the entrance to K’rul’s Bar.
‘Pick!’
Two strides from the battered door, she turned, and saw Antsy and Bluepearl-lugging jugs of Saltoan wine- hurrying up to join her. Antsy’s expression was fierce. Bluepearl lagged half a step behind, eyes on the motionless body on the other side of the street, where a Gadrobi urchin was now busy stealing whatever she could find.
