Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1)

Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) Page 136

Pushing herself from the wall, Sorry crossed the street and approached the Phoenix Inn. Overhead, the afternoon had waned into a thick, heavy dusk, the smell of rain in the air. As she neared the front steps, the thug's attention focused on her. The man grinned. “Following Kruppe around, eh?” He wagged his head. “Girls shouldn't carry swords anyway. Hope you're not planning to go inside. With a sword? Uh, uh. Not unescorted, Sorry stepped back. She glanced up and down the street. The nearest pedestrian was over a street away, heading in the opposite direction. She closed her hands around the edges of her half-cloak and drew it around her waist. “Let me pass,” she said quietly. How had that fat man spotted her?

The man leaned on the railing. “All this is just begging for some kind of conversation, friendly-like,” he said. “So how about you and me go back to the alley. You lay down your sword and I'll be gentle. Otherwise, things could get rough, and what would be the fun of —

Sorry's left hand darted out. A dagger flashed between them. The blade entered the man's right eye and then his brain. He jerked back over the rail and fell, landing with a heavy thud beside the steps. Sorry walked up to him and retrieved her dagger. She paused, adjusting the belt that carried her duelling sword, then checked the street. Seeing no one close enough to have noticed anything awry in the deepening gloom, she climbed the steps and entered the inn.

She was stopped before she'd taken her second step, coming face-to-face with a moaning boy hanging upside down. Two rough-looking women were taking turns to swing him back and forth. Every time he tried to reach up to the rope tied to his feet he earned a knock on the head. One of the women grinned at Sorry.

“Hey, now!” the woman said, grasping Sorry's arm as she walked by.

Sorry turned a cold eye on the woman. “What?”

The woman leaned close, her breath a mist of beer as she whispered, “You get in trouble, you just call for Irilta and Meese. That's us, right?”

“Thank you.”

Sorry resumed her walk. She'd already seen the fat little man-what had the thug called him? Kruppe. He'd seated himself at a table near the far wall, beneath the gallery. Through the crowded room Sorry saw a space open at the bar, where she might take position and observe. She pushed forward.

Since Kruppe evidently knew of her, she decided to make no effort in hiding her attention. Often, that was exactly the kind of pressure that cracked a man's will. In a war of patience, Sorry smiled inwardly, the mortal is ever at a disadvantage.

Crokus turned the corner and approached the Phoenix Inn. The course Mammot had set for him was intimidating, the education extending, far beyond books, to the etiquette of court manners, the functions of various officials, blood-lines and particular quirks among certain dignitaries-but he'd vowed to himself he'd follow it through. His goal was one day to stand before that D'Arle maiden, awaiting a formal introduction.

Something in him mocked the image. There stands Crokus, the scholar, the sophisticated young promise, the thief. It was all too absurd.

Yet it dogged him, steeled his resolve. He'd come to it one day soon.

Until then, however, there were other matters to attend to, things that needed redressing.

As he came up to the inn's steps he saw a huddled shadow beneath the railing. Cautiously Crokus moved closer.

As Sorry reached the bar the door slammed open on the other side of the room. She turned with everyone else to see a young, black-haired man standing there.

“Someone's murdered Chert!” the man shouted. “He's been knifed!”

Half a dozen patrons surged to the door, pushing past the young man and disappearing outside.

Sorry faced the bar again. Catching the barman's eye she said, “Gredfalan ale, please, in a pewter tankard.”

The woman Irilta had called Meese appeared beside her, thumping two broad forearms on the bar as she leaned forward. “Attend the lady, Scurve,” Meese growled. “She got taste.”

Meese dipped her head close to Sorry's. “Good taste all round. Chert was a pig.” Sorry stiffened. Her hands slipped down beneath her cloak.

“Easy, girl,” Meese said, in a low tone. “We ain't wagging tongues. Around here, y” take care of yourselves first, and I don't want no knife in my eye. We said we'd take care of you, didn't we?”

The ale arrived, as ordered. Sorry raised a hand and closed it on the tankard's handle. “You don't want to take care of me, Meese,” she said quietly.

Another person arrived on Meese's other side. Glancing at him, Sorry saw that it was the black-haired youth, his face pale. “Dammit, Meese,” he hissed, “I'm having a really bad day.”