Picker held up her hand, two quick signals that silenced Mallet. ‘Listen to them,’ she said, frowning. ‘It’s not sounding right.’
After a moment, Mallet nodded. ‘We’d better head down.’
Picker turned and leaned on the sill, squinting at the shadows where Blend sat — and she saw those outstretched legs slowly draw back. ‘Shit.’
It was an act. That conclusion arrived sudden and cold as a winter wind. Alarmed, Blend rose from her chair, hands slipping beneath her raincape.
As the outside door opened once more.
That damned rat had slipped beneath the door leading to the cellar — Antsy saw its slithery tail wriggle out of sight and swore under his breath. He could catch it on the stairs-
The cellar door swung open and there stood Bluepearl, carrying a dusty cask as if it was a newborn child.
‘Did you see it?’ Antsy demanded.
‘See what?’
‘The two-headed rat! It just went under the door!’
‘Gods below, Antsy. Please, no more. There’s no two-headed rat. Move aside, will you? This thing’s heavy.’
And he shouldered past Antsy, out into the kitchen.
Three cloaked figures stepped in from outside K’rul’s Bar, crossbows at the ready. The bolts snapped out. Behind the bar, Skevos, who was handling the shift this night, was driven back as a quarrel thudded into his chest, shattering his sternum. A second quarrel shot up towards the office window where Picker was lean shy;ing out and she lunged back, either struck or dodging there was no way to tell. The third quarrel caught Hedry, a serving girl of fifteen years of age, and spun her round, her tray of mugs tumbling over.
From closer to the dais, the five drunks drew knives and swords from beneath their cloaks and fanned out, hacking at everyone within reach.
Shrieks filled the air.
Stepping out from her table, Blend slid like smoke into the midst of the three figures at the doorway. Her knives flickered, slashed, opening the throat of the man directly in front of her, severing the tendons of the nearest arm of the man to her left. Ducking beneath the first man as he toppled forward, she thrust one of her daggers into the chest of the third assassin. The point punched through chain and the blade snapped. She brought the other one forward in an upper cut, stabbing between the man’s legs. As he went down, Blend tore the knife free and spun to slash at the face of the second assassin. Throwing his head back to avoid the blade drove it into a low rafter. There was a heavy crunch and the man sagged on watery knees. Blend stabbed him through an eye.
She heard a fourth crossbow release and something punched her left shoulder, flinging her round. The arm below that shoulder seemed to have vanished — she could feel nothing — and she heard the knife clunk on the floor, even as the assassin, who had held back in the doorway, now rushed towards her, crossbow discarded and daggers drawn.
Mallet had opened the door at the moment that Picker — leaning out of the window — gave a startled yelp. A quarrel slammed into the wall not an arm’s reach from the healer’s head. Ducking, he threw himself out into the corridor.
As he half straightened, he saw figures pouring from round the corner to his left. Cords thrummed. One bolt punched into his stomach. The other ripped through his throat. He fell backward in a wash of blood and pain.
Lying on his back, hearing footfalls fast approach, Mallet reached up to his neck — he couldn’t breathe — blood gushed down into his lungs, hot and numbing. Frantic, he summoned High Denul-
A shadow descended over him and he looked up into a passive young face, the eyes blank as a dagger lifted into view.
Mallet watched the point flash down.
A sting in his right eye, and then darkness.
Mallet’s killer straightened, withdrawing the dagger, and he wondered, briefly, at the odd smile on the dead man’s face.
Emerging from the kitchen, ducking beneath the low crossbeam of the doorway leading into the taproom, Bluepearl heard crossbows loose, heard screams, and then the hiss of swords whipped free of scabbards. He looked up.
A flung dagger pinned his right hand to the cask. Shouting at the fiery agony, he staggered back as two assassins rushed towards him. One with a knife, the other with a long, thin-bladed sword.
The attacker with the knife was in the lead; his weapon raised.
Bluepearl spat at him.
That pearlescent globule transmogrified in the air, expanding into a writhing ball of serpents. A dozen fanged jaws struck the assassin in the face. He screamed in horror, slashing at his own face with his knife.
Bluepearl sought to drop the cask, only to have its weight tug his arm downward — his hand still pinned — and he shrieked at the burst of agony.
He had time to look up and see the sword as it was thrust into his face. Into the side of his nose, the point punching deeper, upward, driving into his forebrain.
