‘Come on,’ Krute said, ‘let’s get inside. Top floor, of course, an alley corner-easy to the roof, dark as Hood’s armpit. You’ll love it.’
A short time later they sat in the larger of the two rooms, a scarred table between them on which sat a stubby candle with a badly smoking wick, and a clay jug of sour ale. The two assassins held tin cups, both of which leaked.
Since pouring the ale, Krute had said nothing, but now he grunted in amused surprise. ‘I just thought of something. You showing up, alive and hale, has just done what Krafar couldn’t do. We had a cult, Rallick Nom, worshipping the memory of you. Krafar outlawed it in the Guild, then tried to eradicate it-forced us deeper. Not deep enough for me-I’m under suspicion and they’ve gone and isolated me, like I was already dead. Old contacts… look right through me, Rallick. It’s been damned hard.’
‘Krafar?’
‘Seba, Talo’s brood. In the squabble over who was gonna take over after Vorcan, he’s the one got’through unscathed-still breathing, I mean. The Guild’s decimated, Rallick. Infighting, lots of good killers getting disgusted and just up and leaving. Down to Elingarth, mostly, with a few to Black Coral, if you can believe that. Even heard rumours that some went to Pale, to join the Malazan Claws.’
Rallick held up a red-stained hand. ‘A moment, damn you. What idiot decided on a cult?’
Krute shrugged. ‘Just sort of happened, Rallick. Not really worship-that was the wrong word. It’s more like a… a philosophy. A philosophy of assassination. No magic, for one. Poisons, lots of poisons. And otataral dust if we can get it. But Seba Krafar wants to take us back to all that magic, even though you made it obvious which way was the better one, the surer one. The man’s stubborn-it’s in the blood with them, eh?’ Krute slapped the table, momentarily knocking over the candle, which he hastened to right before the paltry flame went out. ‘Can’t wait to see Krafar’s face when you walk in-’
‘You will have to,’ Rallick replied. ‘Something else, friend. You don’t say a word, to anyone.’
Krute smiled knowingly. ‘You plan on an ambush, don’t you? You, stepping over Krafar’s body, to take mastery of the Guild. And you need to make plans-and I can help you there, tell you the ones sure to be loyal to you, sure to back you-’
‘Be quiet,’ Rallick said. ‘There’s something you need to know.’
‘What?’
‘The night I disappeared, recall it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Someone else vanished that night too.’
Krute blinked.’Well, yes-’
‘And now I am back,’
‘You are’
Rollick drank down a mouthful of ale. Then another.
Krute stared, then swore, ‘Her, too?’
‘Yes.’
Draining his cup, Krute quickly refilled it, then leaned back. ‘Gods below. Poor Krafar. You working with her on this, Rallick?’
‘No.’
‘Not that she’d need help-’
‘I don’t know where she is, Krute. I don’t know what she’s planning. If anything. I don’t know, and can’t guess, and neither can you.’
‘So, what do we do, Rallick?’
‘You change nothing, stay with your routine.’
Krute snorted. ‘What routine? Slow starvation?’
‘I have coin, enough for both of us. Hidden here and there.’ Rallick rose. ‘I assume the rooftops are quiet these nights.’
‘Except for thieves, coming out like mice with not an owl to be seen-like I said, the Guild’s on its knees.’
‘All right. I will return before dawn. For now, Krute, we do nothing.’
‘I’m good at that.’
Rallick grimaced, but said nothing as he turned to the window and unlocked the shutters.
He didn’t need to say anything, as far as Krute was concerned. True enough, Krute was good at doing nothing. But Rallick Nom wasn’t. He wasn’t good at that at all. Oh, this is going to be fun, isn’t itl
The murmurings chased him down the alley, guttural noises issuing from a score of fanged mouths, tongues wiggling, black lips lifting clear. The glimmer and flash of rolling eyes in the gloom. Looking back over one shoulder, Iskaral Pust, Magus and High Priest of Shadow, bhokaral god, made faces at his worshippers. He cursed them in twitters. He waggled his tongue. He bared his teeth and bulged his eyes.
And did this frighten them off? Why, no! The very opposite, if such madness could be believed. They scrabbled ever closer, still clutching their loot from hapless victims in the markets, their faces writhing in constipated anguish or something equally dire. Infuriating!
