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‘For Hood’s sake,’ Mallet cut in, ‘it’s too early for your company, Kruppe. Let me drink this wine and then escape with my sanity, I beg you.’

‘Why, friend Mallet, we await your assessment of Murillio’s physical state:’Advertisement

‘He’ll live. But no dancing for a week or two.’ He hesitated, frowning down into his goblet, as if surprised to find it suddenly empty once more. ‘Assuming he comes out of his funk, that is. A mired mind can slow the body’s recovery. Can reverse it, in fact.’

‘Fret not over Murillio’s small but precise mind, friend,’ Kruppe said. ‘Such matters ever find solution through Kruppe’s wise ministrations. Does Coll remain at bedside?’

Mallet nodded, set the goblet down and rose. ‘I’m going home.’ He glowered across at Kruppe. ‘And with Oponn’s pull, I might even get there.’

‘Nefarious nuisances thrive best in night’s noisome chaos, dear healer. Kruppe confidently assures you a most uneventful return to your atypical abode.’

Mallet grunted, then said, ‘And how do you plan on assuring that?’

‘Why, with worthy escort, of course!’ He poured himself the last of the wine and smiled up at the Malazan. ‘See yon door and illimitable Irilta positioned before it? Dastardly contracts seeking your sad deaths cannot indeed be permitted. Kruppe extends his formidable resources to guarantee your lives!’

The healer continued staring down at him. ‘Kruppe, do you know who offered this contract?’

‘Ringing revelations are imminent, treasured friend. Kruppe promises.’

Another grunt, then Mallet wheeled and walked towards the door and his escort, who stood smiling with brawny arms crossed.

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Kruppe watched them leave and weren’t they just quite the pair.

Meese slouched down in the chair Mallet had vacated. ‘Guild contract,’ she muttered. ‘Could simply be some imperial cleaning up, you know. New embassy’s now up and running after all. Could be somebody in it caught word of Malazan deserters running a damned bar. Desertion’s a death sentence, ain’t it?’

‘Too great it risk, sweet Meese,’ Kruppe, drawing out his silk handkerchief and blotting at his brow. ‘The Malaz Empire, alas, but its own assassins, of which two are present in said embassy, Yet, by all accounts, ’twas a Hand of Krafar’s Guild that made the Attempt last night,’ He raised a pudgy finger. ‘A mys-tery, this one who so seeks the death of inoffensive Malazan deserters, but not a mystery for long, oh no! Kruppe will discover all that needs discovering!’

‘Fine,’ Meese said, ‘now discover that council, Kruppe, for the bottle.’

Sighing, Kruppe reached into the small purse strapped to his belt, probed within the leather pouch, then, brows lifted in sudden dismay: ‘Dearest Meese, yet another discovery…’

Grainy-eyed, Scorch scowled at the teeming quayside. ‘It’s the morning fisher bouts,’ he said, ‘comin’ in right now. Ain’t no point in hangin’ round, Leff.’

‘People on the run will be coming here early,’ Leff pointed out, scooping out with his knife the freshwater conch he had purchased a moment ago. He slithered down a mouthful of white, gleaming meat. ‘I’be waitin’ for the first ships in from Gredfallan. Midmorning, right? The new locks at Dhavran have made it all regular, predictable, I mean. A day through with a final scoot to Gredfallart, overnight there, then on with the dawn to here. Desperate folk line up first, Scorch, cause they’re desperate.’

‘I hate sitting anywhere my feet have to dangle,’ Scorch complained, shifting uncomfortably on the stack of crates.

‘Decent line of sight,’ Leff said. ‘I’ll join ya up there anon.’

‘Don’t know how you can eat that. Meat should have blood in it. Any meat without blood in it ain’t meat.’

‘Aye, it’s conch.’

‘It’s a thing with eyes on the ends of its tentacles, watching as you cut its body apart-see how the stalks swivel, following up to your mouth, tracking every swallow? It’s watching you eat it!’

‘So what?’

Seagulls shrieked in swarming clouds over the low jetties where the fishers were heaving baskets of sliverfish on to the slimy stone, children scurrying about in the hopes of being hired to slip the wriggling fish on to monger-strings in time for the morning market. Grey-backed Gadrobi cats, feral now for a thousand generations, leapt out in ambush to kill gulls. Frenzied battles ensued, feathers skirling, tufts of cat hair drifting on the breeze like thistle heads. pqdm.com