‘Good. Look, there’s a crowded courtyard with tables and I see food and people eating. We can stand over a table until the poor fool sitting at it leaves. Shouldn’t take long.’
Blend withdrew her bared foot from Picker’s crotch and slowly sat straight. ‘Be subtle,’ she murmured, ‘but take a look at the trio that just showed up.’
Picker scowled. ‘Do you always have to make me uncomfortable in public, Blend?’
‘Don’t be silly. You’re positively glowing-’
‘With embarrassment, yes! And look at Antsy — his face is like a sun-baked crabshell.’
‘It’s always like that,’ Blend said.
‘I don’t mind,’ Antsy said, licking his lips. ‘I don’t mind at all what you two get up to, in public or in that favourite room you use, the one with the thin walls and creaking floor and ill-fitting door-’
‘A door you were supposed to fix,’ snapped Picker, only now half turning to take in the newcomers. She flinched, then huddled down over the table. ‘Gods below. Now, don’t that grizzed one look familiar’.’
‘I been trying to fix it, honest. I work on it all the time-’
‘You work all right, with one eye pressed to the crack,’ Blend said. ‘You think we don’t know you’re there, sweating and grunting as you-’
‘Be quiet!’ Picker hissed. ‘Didn’t you two hear me? I said-’
‘He looks just like Kalam Mekhar, aye,’ Antsy said, poking with his knife at the chicken carcass on the platter in the centre of the table. ‘But he’s not Kalam, is he? Too tall, too big, too friendly-looking.’ He frowned and tugged at his moustache. ‘Who was it said we should eat here tonight?’
‘That bard,’ said Picker.
‘Our bard?’
‘For the rest of the week, aye.’
‘He recommended it?’
‘He said we should eat here tonight, is what he said. Is that a recommendation? Might be. But maybe not. He’s an odd one. Anyway, he said it would be open till dawn.’
‘The chicken was too scrawny. And I don’t know who they got to pluck the damned thing, but I’m still chewing on feathers.’
‘You were supposed to avoid the feet, Antsy. They didn’t even wash those.’
‘Of course they did!’ Antsy protested. ‘That was sauce-’
‘The sauce was red. The stuff on the feet was dark brown. Want something to get embarrassed about, Picker, just drag Antsy along to supper.’
‘The feet was the best part,’ the Falari said.
‘He’s Seven Cities for sure,’ Picker noted. ‘All three of them, I’d wager.’
‘The fat one likes her rustleaf.’
‘If she’s fat, Antsy, then so am I.’
Antsy looked away.
Picker cuffed him on the side of the head.
‘Ow, what was that for?’
‘I wear armour and quilted underpadding, remember?’
‘Well, she’s not, is she?’
‘She’s delicious,’ Blend observed. ‘And I bet she don’t get embarrassed by anything much.’
Picker offered her a sweet smile. ‘Why not go stick your foot in and see?’
‘Ooh, jealous.’
Antsy sat up, suddenly excited. ‘If your legs was long enough, Blend, you could do both! And I could-’
Two knives slammed point first into the table in front of the ex-sergeant. His bushy brows shot upward, eyes bulging. ‘Just an idea,’ he muttered. ‘No reason to get all uppity, you two.’
‘Could be he’s another Kalam,’ Picker said. ‘A Claw.’
Antsy choked on something, coughed, hacked, then managed a breath. He leaned forward until he was very nearly lying on the table from the chest up. He chewed on his moustache for a moment, eyes darting between Picker and Blend. ‘Listen, if he is, then we should kill him.’
‘Why?’
‘Could be he’s hunting us, Picker. Could be he’s come to finish off the Bridgeburners once and for all.’
‘Why would any of them care?’ Picker asked.
‘Maybe the bard set us up, did you think of that?’
Blend sighed and rose. ‘How about I just go up and ask him?’
‘You want to take a grab at a tit,’ Picker said, smiling again. ‘So, go ahead, Blend. Go on. See if she blows you a kiss.’
Shrugging, Blend set out to where the three newcomers had just acquired a table.
Antsy choked again, plucked at Picker’s sleeve and gasped, ‘She’s heading straight over!’
Picker licked her lips. ‘I didn’t really mean-’
‘She’s almost there — they seen her — don’t turn round!’
Barathol saw the Malazan threading her way to where they now sat. By hue of skin, by cast of features, by any obvious measure one might find, there was nothing that differentiated the woman from any local Daru or Genabarii; yet he knew, instantly. A Malazan, and a veteran. A damned
Scillara noted his attention and half turned in her chair. ‘Good taste, Barathol — and it seems she likes-’
‘Quiet,’ Barathol muttered.
The slim woman came up, soft brown eyes fixed on Barathol. And in Malazan, she said, ‘I knew Kalam.’
He snorted. ‘Yes, he’s a popular man.’
‘Cousin?’
He shrugged. ‘That will do. Are you with the embassy?’
‘No. Are you?’
Barathol’s eyes narrowed. Then he shook his head. ‘We arrived today. I never directly served in your empire.’
