‘That Ironmonger will never get on the Council, Vidikas,’ Shardan Lim said. ‘There’s no available seat and that situation’s not likely to change any time soon. This partnership of yours will take you nowhere and earn you nothing.’

‘On the contrary, Shardan. I am getting wealthy. Do you have any idea how essential iron is to this city? Ah, I see that such matters are beneath you both. So be it. As a bonus, I am about to acquire a new property in the city as well. It has been and will continue to be a most rewarding partnership. Good day to you, sirs.’

There was no denying Seba Krafar’s natural air of brutality. He was a large, bearish man, and though virtually none of the people he pushed past while crossing the market’s round knew him for the Master of the Assassin’s Guild, they none the less quickly retreated from any confrontation; and if any might, in their own natural belligerence, consider a bold challenge to this rude oaf, why, a second, more searching glance disavowed them of any such notions.

He passed through the press like a heated knife through pig fat, a simile most suited to his opinion of humanity and his place within it. One of the consequences of this attitude, however, was that his derisive regard led to a kind of arrogant carelessness. He took no notice whatsoever of the nondescript figure who fell into his wake.

The nearest cellar leading down into the tunnels was at the end of a narrow, straight alley that led to a dead end. The steps to the cellar ran along the back of the last building on the left. The cellar had once served as a storage repository for coal, in the days before the harnessing of gas-back when the notion of poisoning one’s own air in the name of brainless convenience seemed reasonable (at least to people displaying their lazy stupidity with smug pride). Now, the low-ceilinged chamber squatted empty and sagging beneath three levels of half-rotted tenement rooms in symbolic celebration of modernity.

From the shutterless windows babies cried to the accompaniment of clanking cookware and slurred arguments, sounds as familiar to Seba Krafar as the rank air of the alley itself. His thoughts were busy enough to justify his abstracted state. Fear warred with greed in a mutual, ongoing exchange of masks which were in fact virtually identical, but never mind that; the game was ubiquitous enough, after all. Before too long, in any case, the two combatants would end up supine with exhaustion. Greed usually won, but carried fear on its back.

So much for Seba Krafar’s preoccupations. Even without them, it was unlikely he would have heard the one on his trail, since that one possessed unusual talents, of such measure that he was able to move up directly behind the Master Assassin, and reach out with ill intent.

A hand closed on Seba’s neck, fingers like contracting claws of iron pressing nerves that obliterated all motor control, yet before the assassin could collapse (as as his body wanted to do) he was flung halfway round and thrown up against a grimy stone wall. And held there, moccasined feet dangling.

He felt a breath along one cheek, and then heard whispered words.

‘Pull your watchers off K’rul’s Bar. When I leave here, you will find a small sack at your feet. Five councils. The contract is now concluded-I am buying it out.’ The tip of a knife settled beneath Seba’s right eye. ‘I trust five councils are sufficient. Unless you object.’

‘No, not at all,’ gasped Seba. ‘The Malazans are safe-at least from the Guild. Of course, that just means the client will seek, er, other means.’

‘Yes, about your client.’

‘I cannot-’

‘No need to, Seba Krafar. I am well aware of the Master Ironmonger’s particular obsession.’

‘Lucky you,’ Seba said in a growl-gods, whoever this was still held him off the ground, and that grip did not waver. ‘Because,’ he added-for he was still a brave man-‘I’m not.’

‘If you were,’ said the man, ‘you would not be so eager to take his coin, no matter how much he offered.’

‘Since you put it that way, perhaps those five councils down there could buy him an accident.’

‘Generous offer, but suicidal on your part. No, I do not hire people to do my dirty work.’

Through gritted teeth-feeling was returning to his limbs, like sizzling fire-Seba said, ‘So I’ve gathered.’

‘We’re done here,’ the man said.

‘Unless you’ve other pressing business,’ Seba managed, and felt a slackening of that grip, and, vague beneath his feet, the greasy cobblestones.

‘Very well,’ said the voice, ‘you’ve actually managed to impress me, Seba Krafar. Reach up to that old lantern hook, there on your left-you can hold yourself up until the strength returns to your legs. It wouldn’t do’anything to your already damaged dignity to have you fall now. Stay facing the wall for ten steady breaths, eyes closed. I don’t want to have to change my mind about you.’

‘First impressions are never easy to live up to,’ said Seba, ‘but I’ll do my best.’

The hand pulled away, then returned to give his shoulder a gentle pat.

He stood, forehead pressed against the wall, eyes closed, and counted ten slow breaths. Somewhere round the third one, he caught the stench-oh, more than just muscles let loose below his neck, and now he understood the man’s comments on dignity. Yes, plopping down on my arse would’ve been most unpleasant.

Sweat ran down both sides of his face. Glancing straight down, he saw thesmall bag with its measly five coins. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, ‘I forgot to write him a receipt.’

Fisher waited at the mouth of the alley, until he saw the Master Assassin delicately bend down to retrieve the bag.

Agreement consummated.

The Master Assassin, he was certain, would bother them no more. As for Humble Measure, well, that man’s downfall would require something considerably more complicated. But there was time.

And this is the lesson here, dear friends. Even a man such as Fisher kel Tath, for all his formidable, mysterious qualities, was quite capable of grievous errors in judgement.

Time then to return to K’rul’s Bar. Perhaps Picker had found her way back, into that cool flesh that scarcely drew breath. If not, why, Fisher might have to do something about that. Lost souls had a way of getting into trouble.

Was this sufficient cause for his own carelessness? Perhaps. Leaving the round and its crowds, he walked into the narrow, shady Avenue of the Bullocks, threading between the few hurrying passers-by-at night, this street was notorious for muggings, and indeed, was it not but two days ago that the City Guard found yet another battered corpse? There, before those very steps leading to a shop selling square nails, rivets and wooden frames on which to hang skinned things and other works worthy of display. Even during the day this track was risky. It was the shadows, you see-

And out from one stepped a small, toad-visaged apparition wearing a broad grin that split the very dark, somewhat pocked face, reminding one of a boldly slashed overripe melon. Seemingly balanced on this creature’s head was a bundle of bow-gut-no, it was hair-in which at least three spiders nested.

‘You,’ hissed the man, his eyes bright and then shifty, and then bright once more.

‘None other,’ said Fisher, with the faintest of sighs.

‘Of course not.’ The head tilted but the hair did not slide off. ‘Another idiot-this city’s full of them! “None other.” What kind of thing to say is that? If some other, why, I’d not have leapt into his path, would I? Best keep this simple.’ The head righted itself, spiders adjusting their perches to match. ‘I bring word from my brilliant not-all-there master.’ A sudden whisper: ‘Brilliant, yes, a word used most advisedly; still, use it once and we’re done with it for ever.’ He then raised his voice once more. ‘When all this is done-’

‘Excuse me,’ cut in Fisher. ‘When all what is done?’