There'd been another sharper, from upstairs, and the crashing of furniture, but little else now. Moving in a crouch, sword ready, lid held like a shield, he worked his way round the near end of the bar.

There was Picker, on her knees directly ahead, reaching out for a quarrel on the floor and quickly loading her marine-issue weapon. Blend was lying motionless near the bar entrance.

Antsy hissed.

Picker looked up, met his eyes. She signalled with one hand, six gestures, and he nodded, answering with two.

Dripping ale and blood, a few soft groans here and there.

Soft footfalls on the landing at the top of the stairs.

Antsy set down his sword, drew out a sharper and showed it to Picker, who nodded and then quietly moved round, using the wreckage of the table for cover, and trained her crossbow on the stairs.

When he saw she was ready, Antsy lifted his makeshift shield to cover shoulder and head, then quickly stepped round to the foot of the stairs. And threw the grenado upward.

Two quarrels clanged off the cauldron lid, with enough force to knock it from his hand. At the same moment an a.s.sa.s.sin, having launched herself from halfway down the stairs, sailed down towards him.

Picker's quarrel caught the attacker somewhere in the midsection, convulsing her in mid-flight. She crashed down just as the sharper detonated near the landing.

And then Antsy, sword in hand once more, was rushing up those steps. Picker raced into his wake, drawing out her own sword. 'Get outa the way with that pigsticker!' she snarled. 'Cover me in close!' She pulled him back and round by one shoulder and pushed past.

Limbs twitching from a heap of bodies on the landing, and splashed blood on the walls and movement beyond, somewhere in the corridor.

She scrambled over the dead and dying on the landing, pitched into the corridor and, seeing three a.s.sa.s.sins slowly picking themselves up from the floor, charged forward.

Short work cutting down the stunned attackers, with Antsy guarding her back.

Blend opened her eyes and wondered why she was lying on the floor. She attempted to lift her left arm and gasped as pain blossomed red and hot, leaving her half blind in its aftermath. Oh, now she remembered. With a low moan, she rolled on to her good side and worked herself into a sitting position, blinking sweat and worse from her eyes.

The bar door was open, one of the hinges broken.

In the street beyond, she saw at least a half-dozen cloaked figures, gathered and creeping closer.

s.h.i.t.

Desperate, she looked round for the nearest discarded weapon. Knowing she wouldn't have time, knowing they were going to cut her down once and for all. Still she saw a knife and reached out for it.

The six a.s.sa.s.sins came at a sprint.

Someone slammed into them from one side, loosing a bellowing bawl like a wounded bull, and Blend stared as the huge man Chaur Chaur swung his enormous fists. Heads snapped back on broken necks, faces crumpled in sprays of blood- swung his enormous fists. Heads snapped back on broken necks, faces crumpled in sprays of blood- And then Barathol was there, with nothing more than a knife, slashing into the reeling a.s.sa.s.sins, and Blend could see the fear in the blacksmith's eyes fear for Chaur, dread for what might happen if the a.s.sa.s.sins recovered- As they were now doing.

Blend pushed herself to her feet, collecting the dagger from the floor as she staggered forward- And was shoved aside by Antsy. Hacking at the nearest a.s.sa.s.sin with his shortsword, a dented cauldron lid shielding his left side.

Chaur, his forearms slashed by desperate daggers, picked up an a.s.sa.s.sin and threw him down on to the cobbles. Bones snapped. Still bawling, he picked the broken form up by an ankle and swung him into the air, round, then loose to collide with another a.s.sa.s.sin, and both went down. Barathol was suddenly above the first man, driving his boot heel down on his temple. Limbs spasmed.

Antsy pulled his sword from an a.s.sa.s.sin's chest and readied himself for his next target, then slowly straightened.

Leaning against the doorframe, Blend spat and said, 'All down, Sergeant.'

Barathol wrapped Chaur in a hug to calm the man down. Tears streaked Chaur's broad cheeks, and his fists were still closed, like ma.s.sive b.l.o.o.d.y mauls at the ends of his arms. He had wet himself.

Blend and Antsy watched as the blacksmith hugged his friend tightly, with need and with raw relief, so exposed that both Malazans had to look away.

Picker came up behind Blend. 'You gonna live?' she asked.

'Good as new, as soon as Mallet-' 'No. Not Mallet, love.'

Blend squeezed shut her eyes. 'They caught us, Pick,' she said. 'They caught us good.'

'Aye.'

She glanced over. 'You got 'em all in the taproom? d.a.m.ned impressive-'

'No, I didn't, but they're all down. Four of 'em, right at the foot of the stage. Looked like they rushed it.'

Rushed it? But who was up there . . . 'We lose our bard, then?' 'We lose our bard, then?'

'Don't know,' Picker said. 'Didn't see him.'

Rushed the stage . . .

'We lost Bluepearl, too.'

Blend slowly closed her eyes a second time. Oh, she was hurting, and a lot of that hurt couldn't get sewn up. They caught us. They caught us. 'Picker.' 'Picker.'

'They slaughtered everyone, Blend. People with nothing but bad luck being here tonight. Skevos. Hedry, Larmas, little Boothal. All to take us down.'

From up the street came a squad of City Guard, lanterns swinging.

For a scene such as Blend was looking out on right now, there should be a crowd of onlookers, the ones hungry to see injured, dying people, the ones who fed on such things. But there was no one.

Because this was Guild work.

'Some of us are still breathing,' Blend said. 'It's not good to do that. Leave some marines still breathing.'

'No, it's not good at all.'

Blend knew that tone. Still, she wondered. Are we enough? Is there enough in us to do this? Do we still have what's needed? Are we enough? Is there enough in us to do this? Do we still have what's needed? They'd lost a healer and a mage this night. They'd lost a healer and a mage this night.

They'd lost the best of them. Because we were careless. Because we were careless.

Antsy joined them as the guards closed in round Barathol and Chaur. 'Pick, Blend,' he said, 'I don't know about you two, but right now, G.o.ds below, I'm feeling old.'

A sergeant of the guard approached. 'How bad is it inside?'

No one seemed eager to reply.

Six streets away, a world away, Cutter stood in the front yard of a store selling headstones and crypt facades. An array of stylized deities, none of them temple-sanctioned as yet, beseeching blessings upon the future dead. Beru and Burn, Soliel and Nerruse, Treach and the Fallen One, Hood and Fanderay, Hound and tiger, boar and worm. The shop was closed and he looked upon stones still uncarved, awaiting names of loved ones. Against one of the low yard walls stood a row of marble sarcophagi, and against the wall opposite there were tall urns with their flared mouths, narrow necks and swollen bellies, reminding him of pregnant women . . . birth into death, wombs to hold all that remained of mortal flesh, homes to those who would answer the final question, the last question: what lies beyond? What awaits us all? What shape the gate before me? what lies beyond? What awaits us all? What shape the gate before me? There were plenty of ways of asking it, but they all meant the same thing, and all sought the one answer. There were plenty of ways of asking it, but they all meant the same thing, and all sought the one answer.

One spoke of death often. The death of a friendship. The death of love. Each echoed with the finality that waited at the very end, but they were faint echoes, ghostly, acting out scenes in puppet shows swallowed in flickering shadows. Kill a love. What lies beyond? Emptiness, cold, drifting ashes, yet does it not prove fertile? A place where a new seed is planted, finding life, growing into itself? Is this how true death is, as well? Kill a love. What lies beyond? Emptiness, cold, drifting ashes, yet does it not prove fertile? A place where a new seed is planted, finding life, growing into itself? Is this how true death is, as well?

From the dust, a new seed . . .

A pleasing thought. A comforting thought.

The street behind him was modestly crowded, the last of the late night shoppers reluctant to close out this day. Maybe they had nothing to go home to. Maybe they hungered for one more purchase, in the forlorn hope that it would fill whatever emptiness gnawed deep inside.

None wandered into this yard, none wanted the reminder of what waited for them all. Why, then, had he found himself here? Was he seeking some kind of comfort, some reminder that for each and every person, no matter where, the same conclusion was on its way? One could walk, one could crawl, one could run headlong, but one could never turn round and head the other way, could never escape. Even with the truism that all grief belonged to the living, the ones left behind facing empty s.p.a.ces where someone once stood there could be found a kind of calm repose. We walk the same path, some farther along, some farther back, but still and for ever more the same path. We walk the same path, some farther along, some farther back, but still and for ever more the same path.

There was, then, the death of love.

And there was, alas, its murder.

'Crokus Younghand.'

He slowly turned round. A woman stood before him, exquisitely dressed, a cloak of ermine about her shoulders. A heart-shaped face, languid eyes, painted lips, and yes, he knew this face. Had known it, a younger version, a child's version, perhaps, but now there was nothing of that child not in the eyes, not even in the sad smile on those full lips. 'Challice D'Arle.'

Later, he would look back on this moment, on the dark warning contained in the fact that, when he spoke her name of old, she did not correct him.

Would such percipience have changed things? All that was to come?

Death and murder, seeds in the ashes, one does as one does. Sarcophagi gaped. Urns echoed hollow and dark. Stone faces awaited names, grief crouching at the gate.

Such was this night in the city of Darujhistan.

Such is this night, everywhere everywhere.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Where will I stand When the walls come down East to the sun's rise North to winter's face South to where stars are born West to the road of death

Where will I stand When the winds wage war Fleeing the dawn Howling the breath of ice Blistered with desert's smile Dusty from crypts

Where will I stand When the world crashes down And on all sides I am left exposed To weapons illimitable From the vented host

Will I stand at all Against such forces unbarred Reeling to every blow Blinded by storms of pain As all is taken from me So cruelly taken away

Let us not talk of courage Nor steel fort.i.tude The gifts of wisdom Burn too hot to touch The hunger for peace Breaks the heart

Where will I stand In the dust of a done life Face bared to regrets That flail the known visage Until none but strangers Watch my fall None but Strangers Fisher kel Tath

The stately trees with their black trunks and midnight leaves formed a rough ring encircling Suruth Common. From the centre of the vast clearing, one could, upon facing north, see the towers of the Citadel, their slim lines echoing these sacred trees. Autumn had arrived, and the air was filled with the drifting filaments from the blackwood.

The great forges to the west lit crimson the foul clouds hanging over them, so that it seemed that one side of Kharkanas was ablaze. An eternal rain of ash plagued the ma.s.sive, sprawling factories, nothing as sweet as the curled filaments to mark the coming of the cold season.

Within the refuge of Suruth Common, the blasted realm of the factories seemed worlds away. Thick beds of moss cloaked the pavestones of the clearing, muting Endest Silann's boots as he walked to the concave altar stone at the very heart. He could see no one else about this was not the season for festivity. This was not a time for celebration of any sort. He wondered if the trees sensed him, if they were capable of focusing some kind of attention upon him, made aware by the eddies of air, the exudation of heat and breath.

He had read once a scholar's treatise describing the chemical relationship between plants and animals. The language had been clinical in the fashion of such academic efforts, and yet Endest recalled closing the book and sitting back in his chair. The notion that he could walk up to a plant, a tree, even a blackwood, and bless it with his own breath a gift of lung-soured air that could enliven that tree, that could in truth deliver health and vigour, deliver life itself . . . ah, but that was a wonder indeed, one that, for a time, calmed the churning maelstrom that was a young man's soul.

So long ago, now, and he felt, at times, that he was done with giving gifts.

He stood alone in front of the ancient altar. The past night's modest rain had formed a shallow pool in the cup of the basalt. It was said the Andii came from the forests and their natural clearings, born to give breath to the sacred wood, and that the first fall of his people occurred the moment they walked out, to set down the first shaped stone of this city.

How many failings had there been since? Suruth Common was the last fragment of the old forest left in all Kharkanas. Blackwood itself had fed the great forges.

He had no desire to look westward. More than the fiery glow disturbed him. The frenzy in those factories they were making weapons. Armour. They were readying for war.

He had been sent here by the High Priestess. 'Witness 'Witness,' she had said. And so he would. The eyes of the Temple, the priesthood, must remain open, aware, missing nothing in these fraught times. That she had chosen him over others or even herself was not a measure of respect. His presence was political, his modest rank a deliberate expression of the Temple's contempt.

'Witness, Endest Silann. But remain silent. You are a presence, presence, do you understand?' do you understand?'

He did.

They appeared almost simultaneously, one from the north, one from the east and one from the south. Three brothers. Three sons. This was to be a meeting of blood and yes, they would resent him, for he did not belong. Indeed, the Temple did not belong. Would they send him away?

The trees wept their promise of a new season of life a season that would never come, for there was nowhere left for the filaments to take root not for scores of leagues in any direction. The river would take millions, but even those fine black threads could not float on its waters, and so what the river took the river kept, buried in the dead silts of Dorssan Ryl. Our breath was meant to give life, not take it away. Our breath was a gift, and in that gift the blackwood found betrayal. Our breath was meant to give life, not take it away. Our breath was a gift, and in that gift the blackwood found betrayal.

This was and is our crime, and it was and remains unforgivable.