Snell didn’t believe anything would come of that. But then, he couldn’t be sure, could he? And that was what was scaring him. What if the Crippled God knew about what Snell had done? What if the Prophet prayed to it and was told the truth, and then told Da and Ma?
Snell might have to run away. But he’d take Hinty and Mew with him, selling them off to get some coin, which he’d need and need bad. Let someone else wipe their stinking. .
Yes, Ma, I’ll take care of them. You two go, see what you can find out.
Just look at them, so filled with hope, so stupid with the idea that something else will solve all their problems, swipe away their miseries. The Crippled God: how good can a god be if it’s crippled? If it can’t even heal itself? That Prophet was getting big crowds. Plenty of useless people in the world, so that was no surprise. And they all wanted sympathy. Well, Snell’s family deserved sympathy, and maybe some coin, too. And a new house, all the food they could eat and all the beer they could drink. In fact, they deserved maids and servants, and people who would think for them, and do everything that needed doing.
Snell stepped outside to watch Ma wheeling Da off down the alley, clickety-click.
Behind him Hinty was snuffling, probably getting ready to start bawling since Ma was out of sight and that didn’t happen often. Well, he’d just have to shut the brat up. A good squeeze to the chest and she’d just pass out and things would get quiet again. Maybe do that to both of them. Make it easier wrapping them up in some kind of sling, easier to carry in case he decided to run.
Hinty started crying.
Snell spun round and the runt looked at him and her crying turned into shrieks.
‘Yes, Hinty,’ Snell said, grinning, ‘I’m coming for ya. I’m coming for ya.’
And so he did.
Bellam Nom had known that something was wrong, terribly so. The atmosphere in the school was sour, almost toxic. Hardly conducive to learning about duelling, about everything one needed to know about staying alive in a contest of blades.
On a personal, purely selfish level, all this was frustrating, but one would have to be an insensitive bastard to get caught up in that kind of thinking. The problem was, something had broken Stonny Menackis. Broken her utterly. And that in turn had left Murillio shattered, because he loved her — no doubt about that, since he wouldn’t have hung around if he didn’t, not with the way she was treating him and everyone else, but especially him.
It hadn’t been easy working out what was wrong, since nobody was talking much, but he’d made a point of lingering, standing in shadows as if doing little more than cooling himself off after a bell’s worth of footwork in the sunlight. And Bellam Nom had sharp ears. He also had a natural talent, one it seemed he had always possessed: he could read lips. This had proved useful, of course. People had a hard time keeping secrets from Bellam.
Master Murillio had reached some sort of decision, and walked as one driven now, and Bellam quickly realized that he did not need to employ any stealth while trailing him — an entire legion of Crimson Guard could be marching on the man’s heels and he wouldn’t know it.
Bellam was not certain what role he might be able to play in whatever was coming. The only thing that mattered to him was that he be there when the time came.
Mark him well. These are the thoughts of courage, unquestioning and uncompromising, and this is how heroes come to be. Small ones. Big ones. All kinds. When drama arrives, they are there. Look about. See for yourself.
He seemed such an innocuous man, so aptly named, and there was nothing in this modest office that might betray Humble Measure’s ambitions, nor his blood-thirsty eagerness in making use of Seba Krafar and his Guild of Assassins.
Harmless, then, and yet Seba found himself sweating beneath his nondescript clothes. True, he disliked appearing in public, particularly in the light of day, but that unease barely registered when in the presence of the Master Ironmonger.
It’s simple. I don’t like the man. And is that surprising? Despite the fact that he’s provided the biggest contract I’ve seen, at least as head of the Guild. Probably the Malazan offer Vorcan took on was bigger, but only because achieving it was impossible, even for that uncanny bitch.
Seba’s dislike was perhaps suspect, even to his own mind, since it was caught up in the grisly disaster of Humble Measure’s contract. Hard to separate this man from the scores of assassins butchered in the effort (still unsuccessful) to kill those damned Malazans. And this particular subject was one that would not quite depart, despite Humble Measure’s casual, dismissive wave of one soft hand.
‘The failing is of course temporary,’ Seba Krafar said. ‘Hadn’t we best complete it, to our mutual satisfaction, before taking on this new contract of yours?’
‘I have reconsidered the K’rul Temple issue, at least for the moment,’ said Humble Measure. ‘Do not fear, I am happy to add to the original deposit commensurate with the removal of two of the subjects, and should the others each fall in turn, you will of course be immediately rewarded. As the central focus, however, I would be pleased if you concentrated on the new one.’
Seba Krafar was never able to meet anyone’s gaze for very long. He knew that most would see that as a weakness, or as proof that Seba could not be trusted, but he always made a point of ensuring that what he had to say was never evasive. This blunt honesty, combined with the shying eyes, clearly unbalanced people, and that was fine with Seba. Now, if only it worked on this man. ‘This new one,’ he ventured, ‘is political.’
‘Your specialty, I gather,’ said Humble Measure.
‘Yes, but one that grows increasingly problematic. The noble class has learned to protect itself. Assassinations are not as easy as they once were.’
The Ironmonger’s brows lifted. ‘Are you asking for more money?’
‘Actually, no. It’s this: the Guild is wounded. I’ve had to promote a dozen snipes months ahead of their time. They’re not ready — oh, they can kill as efficiently as anyone, but most of them are little more than ambitious thugs. Normally, I would cull them, ruthlessly, but at the moment I can’t afford to.’
‘This will require, I assume, certain modifications to your normal tactics.’
‘It already has. Fifteen of my dead from K’rul’s Bar were my latest promotions. That’s left the rest of them rattled. An assassin without confidence is next to useless.’
Humble Measure nodded. ‘Plan well and execute with precision, Master Krafar, and that confidence will return.’
‘Even that won’t be enough, unless we succeed.’
‘Agreed.’
Seba was silent for a moment, still sweating, still uneasy. ‘Before I accept this latest contract,’ he said, ‘I should offer you a way out. There are other, less bloody ways of getting elected to the Council. It seems money is not a problem, and given that-’ He stopped when the man lifted a hand.
Suddenly, there was something new in Humble Measure’s eyes, something Seba had not seen before, and it left him chilled. ‘If it was my desire to buy my way on to the Council, Master Krafar, I would not have summoned you here. That should be obvious.’
‘Yes, I suppose-’
‘But I have summoned you, yes? Therefore, it is reasonable to assume my desires are rather more complicated than simply gaining a seat on the Council.’
‘You want this particular councillor dead.’
Humble Measure acknowledged this with a brief closing of his eyes that somehow conveyed a nod without his having to move his head. ‘We are not negotiating my reasons, since they are none of your business and have no rele shy;vance to the task itself. Now, you will assault this particular estate, and you will kill the councillor and everyone else, down to the scullery maid and the terrier employed to kill rats.’