Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8)

Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8) Page 206

This time, however, he felt lucky. Broaching the cask, he bent close and tried a few tentative sniffs. Ale? Beer? But of course, neither lasted, did they? Yet this cask bore the sigil of the temple on the thick red wax coating the lid. He sniffed again. Definitely yeasty, but fresh, which meant… sorcery. He sniffed a third time.

He’d danced with all kinds of magic as a squad mage in the Bridgeburners. Aye, he had so many stories that even that sour-faced bard upstairs would gape in wonder just to hear half of them. Why, he’d ducked and rolled under the nastiest kinds, the sorceries that ripped flesh from bones, that boiled the blood, that made a man’s balls swell up big as melons-oh, that time had been before he’d joined, hadn’t it? Yah, the witch and the witch’s daughter-never mind. What he was was an old hand.

And this stuff-Bluepearl dipped a finger in and then poked it into his mouth-oh, it was magic indeed. Something elder, hinting of blood (aye, he’d tasted the like before),

‘Is that you, Brother Cuven?’

He twisted round and scowled at the ghost whose head and shoulders lifted into view through the floor. ‘Do I look like Brother Cuven? You’re dead, long dead. It’s all gone, you hear? So why don’t you go and do the same?’

‘I smelled the blade,’ murmured the ghost, beginning to sink back down. ‘I smelled it…’

No, Bluepearl decided, it probably wasn’t a good thing to be drinking this stuff. Not before some kind of analysis was made. Could be Mallet might help on that. Now, had he messed it up by opening the cask? Probably it would go bad now. So, he’d better take it upstairs.

Sighing, Bluepearl replaced the wooden stopper and picked up the cask.

In the corner room on the second level, the stranger who’d booked the room for this night finished digging out the last of the bars on the window. He then doused the lantern and moved across to the hallway door, where he crouched down, listening.

From the window behind him the first of the assassins climbed in.

Blend, her eyes half closed, watched as five men came in, moving in a half-drunken clump and arguing loudly about the latest jump in the price of bread, slurred statements punctuated by shoves and buffets, and wasn’t it a wonder, Blend reflected as they staggered into the taproom, how people could complain about very nearly anything as if their lives depended on it.

These ones she didn’t know, meaning they’d probably spied the torchlit sign on their way back from some other place, deciding that this drunk wasn’t drunk enough, and she noted that they were better dressed than most-nobles, most likely, with all the usual bluster and airs of invincibility and all that. Well, they’d be spending coin here and that was what counted.

She took another sip of cider.

Antsy had his short sword out as he crept towards the back of the smallest of the three storerooms. That damned two-headed rat was back. Sure, nobody else believed him except maybe the cooks now since they’d both seen the horrid thing, but the only way to prove it to the others was to kill the bugger and then show it to everyone.

They could then pickle it in a giant jar and make of it a curio for the bar. It would be sure to pull ’em in. Two-headed rat caught in the kitchen of K’rul’s Bar! Come see!

Oh, hold on… was that the best kind of advertising? He’d have to ask Picker about that. First, of course, he needed to kill the thing.

He crept closer, eyes fixed on the dark gap behind the last crate to the left, Kill the thing, aye. fust don’t chop either head off.

Eleven figures crowded the corner room on the upper floor. Three held daggers, including the man crouched at the door. Four cradled crossbows, quarrels set. The last four-big men all-wielded swords and bucklers, and beneath their loose shirts there was fine chain.

The one at the door could now hear the argument in the taproom downstairs, accusations regarding the price of bread-a ridiculous subject, the man thought yet again, given how these ones were dressed like second and thirdborn nobles-but clearly no one had taken note of the peculiarity. Loud voices, especially drunk-sounding ones, had a way of filling the heads of people around them. Filling them with the wrong things.

So now everyone’s attention was on the loud, obnoxious newcomers, and at least some of the targets were likely to be converging, having it in mind to maybe toss the fools out or at least ask them to tone it down and all that.

Almost time then…

Sitting on the stool on the dais, the bard let his fingers trail away from the last notes he had played, and slowly leaned back as the nobles now argued over which table to take. There were plenty to choose from so the issue was hardly worth all that energy.