This month's crowd was above average and Possum had no doubt the extra numbers were lured by the star prisoner scheduled to meet his excruciating and bloody end this day: Janul of Gris Province. Mage, once High Fist, who, during the recent times of unrest had named himself Tyrant of Delanss and was only brought to heel by a rather expensive diversion of resources. For this Janul rightly earned the Empress's ire and thus this very public venue for his expiration. Yet it could also be that all these citizens crammed into Reacher's Square — and, Possum could admit, himself as well — wondered that perhaps another reason lay behind this particular execution: that long ago Janul had been of the emperor's select cadre. He was Old Guard.
As Possum slipped behind the backs of men and women, someone addressed him. This alone was not unusual as he had through the Warren of Mockra altered his appearance only slightly while dressing as a common labourer. In the jostling crowd all around him people gossipped, yelled their wares and made bets on the fates of the condemned. This voice, however, had spoken from Hood's Paths. Possum straightened, turned and peered about. No one seemed to be paying him any particular attention.
‘Up,’ the voice urged. ‘Up here’
Possum looked up. The enclosing wall rose featureless, constructed of close-fitted stone blocks mottled by mould and lichen. There, at the very top nearly four man-lengths above, rested small balls resembling some joker of Oponn's idea of battlements: a row of spiked human heads.
He turned away, glanced about — could it be?
‘Yes. Up here.’
Possum leaned against the wall, his face to the rear of the crowd. ‘You can hear me?’ he whispered low.
‘I have ears.’
That's about all.’
Possum sensed exasperation glowing from the other side of Hood's Paths. ‘Fine. Let's have them — get them all over with.’
‘What?’
‘The head jokes. I can tell you re just aching to try one. Like, ended up ahead, didn't you?’
Possum snorted. A few men and women glanced his way. He coughed, hawked up phlegm and spat. The faces turned away.
‘Hood forefend! I would never be so insensitive.’
‘Sure. Like I was spiked yesterday.’
‘Why are we talking then? Poor company up there? Cat got their tongues?’
‘I have a message for you.’
Despite his control, Possum stiffened. Such a message could only be from one source. ‘Yes,’ he managed, his voice even fainter.
‘They are returning.’
‘Who are?’
‘The death-cheaters. The defiers. All the withholders and arrogators.’
‘Who?’
‘Ah — here comes one now.’
Possum lurched forward into a ready crouch, weapons slipping into his palms. He scanned the nearest backs. Who? What was this spirit on about? A woman stepped out from the crowd. Short, athletic with dishevelled tightly cropped grey-shot hair, dressed as a servant in a plain shirt and frayed linen trousers, her feet bare and dirty.
His superior, Empress Laseen.
Possum straightened. ‘I didn't think you'd come.’
Laseen regarded him through half-lidded eyes. ‘Who were you speaking with just now?’
‘No one. I was talking to myself.’
‘How very boring for you.’
Rage flashed hot across Possum's vision. He exhaled, unclenched his shoulders. In time. In due time.
Laseen continued her lazy regard. Always judging, it seemed to Possum. How far could she push? How much does he fear me?
She laughed then, suddenly. ‘Poor Urdren. How transparent you are.’
Possum stared, uncertain. Urdren? How could she know his first name? He'd left it behind — along with the corpse of his father.
Laseen turned away. ‘She's here. I'm sure of it. Keep an eye out. I'll circulate.’
Possum almost bowed but caught himself in time. Laseen disappeared into the crowd. He returned to leaning against the wall.
‘He told me you wouldn't tell her.’
‘Who told you?’
A sigh from the other side. ‘Think about it.’
‘What do you mean, “death-cheaters”?’
‘How do I know? I'm just the messenger boy.’
‘What do you-’
‘Here he is. The main attraction.’
A sussurant wave of anticipation swept through the crowd, surged to a deafening roar. Possum, at the very rear, could see nothing of the stage. ‘Have a good view, do you?’
‘Best seat in the house.’
In many ways Possum was indifferent to the show; it wasn't why he was here. While he scanned the backs of heads, watching for movement or the blooming of Warren magics, he asked, ‘So, what's happening?’
‘Janul's been led out. Looks like he's been worked over already. His hands are tied behind his back, his clothes are torn. Might be doped. We used to do that in the old days before the emperor. But then, I don't recall a Talent ever being up there. How does one manage that anyway?’
‘Otataral dust.’
‘Ah. 1 see.’
‘What about you? You're obviously a Talent. Weren't you executed?’
‘We up here along this wall are all that's left of the last ruling council of Unta.’
Possum was impressed. That was long before his time.
‘When Kellanved's fleet took the harbour I fled inland with half the city's treasury. The horses panicked and the blasted carriage toppled over. Broke my neck.’
The crowd roared, shouting all at once. Fists shook in the air. ‘What is it?’
‘They're reading out the charges. A brazier's been set up. Knives are being sharpened. Looks like they're going to cook his entrails right in front of him while keeping him alive as long as possible. Never seen it work:
‘It will this time.’
‘How so?’
‘A Denul healer will sustain him.’
‘But the Otataral?’
‘Precious little is used. The strain of the opposing forces of the magic-deadening Otataral and the healing magics would kill him, of course — if he lived long enough.’
‘I see. He is being restrained, standing, head forced down to watch. His shirts have been torn away. A cut is being made side to side across his lower abdomen. Another cut, this one vertical down his front. The brazier's being moved closer. Now they're-‘
The crowd thundered a roar that to Possum sounded of commingled disgust, fear, awe and fascination. Yet the mass pressed even closer to the stage, confirming for Possum his opinion of human nature.
‘They've set his viscera on to the hot coals in front of him — he's still standing! — though I cannot say for certain that he is conscious. What is this? A large axe?’
‘They will dismember him now, starting at the hands, cauterizing each cut.’
‘I'll give you this — you Malazans put on better shows than we ever did. A hand is gone. He must be unconscious, supported by the executioner's assistants. No, I see his mouth moving. Here comes another of the defters.’
Startled, Possum flinched from the wall, crouching, scanning the backs of the crowd before him. A woman edged into view, faced him. Not a slim athletic figure such as the Empress but a stocky older woman, grey-haired, mouth wrinkled tight and frowning her displeasure. Their target this night: Janul's sister and partner, Janelle.
‘You,’ she spat. ‘The lap-dog. I'd hoped for the lap itself.’
Possum smiled. ‘I like to think of myself as a lap-guard-dog.’