‘Yes? To what end?’
The Claw laughed his derision. ‘You stupid child! Can't you see you'll end up exactly like her? You say you hate Laseen yet to succeed in the path you have chosen you must pick up the tools of power – the very tools you pretend to scorn!’
Amaron cleared his throat. ‘That's enough, I think. M'Lady…?’
‘Yes.’ Ghelel pulled a hand across her face. Yes, more than enough. She turned and left the cell. The Claw did not call after her. Amaron locked the cell and followed. At the stairs, she stopped and stood waiting, hugging herself. He stopped as well and studied her with what she thought a dispassionate evaluative gaze.
‘Why did you allow that? Why not have him killed?’
A slow thoughtful shrug. ‘You would have heard this accusation eventually. Better directly now than whisperings later when you might wonder if I had tried to cover it up. This way there is a chance – a small chance – that you might come to trust me.’
Right now she could hardly trust herself to speak. ‘You play a dangerous game, Amaron,’ she managed, her voice dry and hoarse. He was a solid shape in the darkness, silent for a time.
‘That is the only kind worth playing.’
Ghelel studied the man, his aged, lined dark face that had seen, what, a century of service? Yes, she could see how the old ogre must've liked this one. ‘No killings in my name, Amaron. That I will not allow.’ He frowned, considering.
‘Hard to guarantee. But I will promise this – I'll ask first.’
Ghelel hugged herself even more tightly, as if afraid of what might happen should she let go. ‘Yes. You can ask. But I swear. Not the way it used to be. It will not be like that.’
Amaron nodded. And as Ghelel climbed the stairs, still hugging herself, it seemed to her that in the man's slow assent she read the surety on his part that, eventually, things would slide that way – if only through their own accumulating weight. Please Burn and Fanderay preserve her from that! Please preserve her!
The night of the meeting, Hurl watched Storo push himself from his seat in the Rod and Sceptre after the gongs of the wandering street watch rang the half-night call. The squad had all cleared out long before then. No sense hanging around exactly where anyone watching would want you to be. She and Sunny had a corner across the way, eyeing the Cap'n as he wandered – well, swayed, really – drunk as a Dal Hon trader up the street. They followed far back.
Sunny and me, we're army sappers, she reflected. What in Hood's name do we know about following people and bein’ sneaky ‘n’ all? Truth is – nothing. Zilch. But then we're not supposed to be successful. We're the stalking horse. Leastways, that was how Silk explained it once. We're here because the people watching expect someone to be here, and so here we are. Simple. Ha. Truth is, she wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for the fact that Sunny was the meanest saboteur in a fight any of them knew and she's the only one he'll listen to.
Sunny tapped Hurl on the arm, motioned ahead; the Captain was heading west around the main curve of the Outer Round to the Idryn River. They slowed their pace to keep the distance. The Round wasn't nearly as quiet or deserted as Hurl imagined it would be at this hour. This section of the way was a run-down night market. Torches burned at stalls and at the open doors of inns and taverns. Benches and stools spilled out across the cobbles holding the most resilient drunks while she and Sunny stepped over the less hardy. Whores called from fires at tall iron braziers. Their ages looked to Hurl to vary directly with their distance from the light. Some shops appeared to never close: a blacksmith hammered on into the night. The lonesome ringing reminded Hurl of her youth in Cawn, her own father downstairs hunched over, tapping at his smithing. A sound that ached of sadness and waste to her. A lifetime of sweat and scrimping wiped away by a noble who refused his debts, leaving her family imprisoned. Joining up or whoring had been the only two legal choices left for her – that was, if she didn't want to starve.
They passed a Seti horse-minder standing watch with his sons over his charges all roped together while a pack of the mongrel Seti dogs roamed the Round snarling at everyone. In the chaos it seemed a miracle to Hurl that they didn't lose the Captain, but the man was making no effort to hide.
All around them in the dark she imagined a constant dance of positions and vantages. Silk was out there in the night, maybe overhead on the domed rooftops these Heng architects seemed to favour. Jalor and Rell were also following, but on a far lower profile – Jalor because that son of the Seven Cities could move like a cat, while Rell, well, that guy was just amazing – none of the squad could figure out why he was wasting his time with them. Storo had tried to promote him more times than Hurl could recall but he wasn't having it. The young fellow would just look away all shamefaced whenever the subject of promotion or commendation came up. As for Shaky, Hurl suspected the bastard had just plain slunk off on everyone like he always did.
Now, Hurl knew the Captain was on his way to meet a crew he'd warned them was the ruthless gang of pirates he'd started out with long ago. A gang he said was outlawed by the Empress. Were they watching to see whether Storo had reported the contact to Fist Rheena? Hurl's back itched trying this alley-work. This was Silk's trade, not hers.
‘They're gonna try to turn him,’ she whispered to Sunny as the Captain angled on to the main way to the riverfront warehouses. Sunny grunted his assent. ‘Will he, do you think?’
‘Will he what?’ Sunny growled.
‘Turn.’
Sunny pulled Hurl to a plaster wall. Tut it this way,’ he said, smiling his toothy leer, and he opened the cloak he wore over his armour. Pockets and bags held sharpers, cussors, smokers, crackers and burners – their entire treasure hoard, piled up over the years.
She gaped. ‘Dammitall! When did you dig them up?’
‘Right after you turned your back.’ He closed the cloak. ‘That's your problem, Hurl. You're too trusting.’ He grinned again. ‘Need me to take care of you.’
Hurl thought of her own two measly sharpers. ‘Well, hand some over!’
He pushed himself from the wall. ‘Cap'n's gettin’ too far ahead…’
Clamping down hard on her urge to cuff the bastard, she followed with hands tight and hot on the grip of the crossbow she carried flat under her cloak. Grisan scum! How dare he! Then she slowed, thinking, He'd taken all of it? Truthfully? What a hole that would make. Maybe take out an entire fortress…
Ahead, the Captain yanked open a slim door to a gable-roofed warehouse and disappeared inside. A faint glow of lantern-light shone from its barred windows. Sunny edged his way down a side alley. Hurl followed, her back itching worse than ever: wouldn't whoever was waiting inside have sentinels on the roof armed with bows? Swordsmen posted in the alley? Sunny didn't hesitate, but then he never did. Even on the battlefield. He waved her to a narrow side-door, rolled his eyes. It was secured by a bronze lock-plate bolted to planks with an iron padlock. Solid enough for everyday. Whoever was inside might even feel confident of its strength. But against a trained Malazan engineer armed with Moranth alchemicals it was a joke. Hurl took out her tools.
While she worked Hurl thought again of her father. He'd been a smith. A whitesmith specializing in acid etching. She'd been his unofficial apprentice all her youth – unofficial because of course no girl could apprentice. Never mind she was ten times better at the work than her doltish brothers. At least, she thought, he'd given her that much – if only that. She brought those skills with her when she signed up and the Malazans shipped her fast as they could to the engineering academy. There the instructors introduced her to Moranth alchemy and it was love at first smell.