The vague boom of a collapsing floor in a squalid tenement building somewhere overhead went unnoticed by Seba Krafar, Master of the Assassins’ Guild, as he staggered down the subterranean corridor, seeking the refuge of his nest.

Would the disasters never end? It had all started with that damned Rallick Nom cult, and then, almost before the dust settled on that, their first big contract ran up against the most belligerent, vicious collection of innkeepers imaginable. And the one that followed?

He suspected he was the only survivor. He’d left his crossbowmen to cover his retreat and not one of them had caught up with him; and now, with gas storage caverns igniting one after another, well, he found himself in an abandoned warren of tunnels, rushing through raining dust, coughing, eyes stinging.

All ruined. Wrecked. He’d annihilated the entire damned Guild.

He would have to start over.

All at once, the notion excited him. Yes, he could shape it himself-nothing to inherit. A new structure. A new philosophy, even.

Such… possibilities.

He staggered into his office, right up to the desk, which he leaned on with both hands on its pitted surface. And then frowned at the scattering of scrolls, and saw documents strewn everywhere on the floor-what in Hood’s name?

‘Master Krafar, is it?’

The voice spun him round.

A woman stood with her back resting against the wall beside the doorway. A cocked crossbow was propped beside her left boot, quarrel head resting on the packed earthen floor. Her arms were crossed.

Seba Krafar scowled. ‘Who in Hound’s name are you?’

‘You don’t know me? Careless. My name is Blend. I’m one of the owners of K’rul’s.’

‘That contract’s cancelled-we’re done with you. No more-’

‘I don’t care. It’s simple-I want the name. The one who brought you the con-tract. Now, you can give it to me without any fuss, and I will walk out of here and that’s the last you’ll see of me, and all your worries will be at an end. The Guild removed from the equation. Consider it a gift, but now it’s time for you to earn it.’

He studied her, gauging his chances. She didn’t look like much. There was no way she’d reach that crossbow in time-two quick strides and he’d be right in her face. With two knives in her gut. And then he’d send a note to Humble Measure and claim one more down-leaving what, two or three left? He’d get paid well for that, and Hood knew he needed the coin if he was going to start over.

And so he attacked.

He wasn’t sure what happened next. He had his knives out, she was right there in front of him, and then her elbow smashed into his face, shattering his nose and blinding him with pain. And somehow both thrusts he sent her way, one seeking the soft spot just beneath her sternum, the other striking lower down, both failed. One blocked, the other missing entirely, dagger point driving into the wall she’d been leaning against.

The blow to his face turned his knees to water, but only for the briefest of mo-ments, for Seba Krafar was a bull of a man, a brawler. Damage was something to shake off and then just get on with it, and so, shoulder hunching, he attempted a slanting slash, trying to gut the bitch right then and there.

Something hard hammered his wrist, sending the dagger flying, and bones cracked in his arm. As he stumbled back, tugging the other knife from the wall, he attempted a frantic thrust to keep her off him. She caught his wrist and her thumb was like an iron nail, impaling the base of his palm. The knife dropped from senseless fingers. She then took that arm and twisted it hard round, pushing his shoulder down and so forcing his head to follow.

Where it met a rising knee.

An already broken nose struck again, struck even harder, in fact, is not some-thing that can be shaken off. Stunned, not a sliver of will left in his brain, he landed on his back. Some instinct made him roll, up against the legs of his desk, and he heaved himself upright once more.

The quarrel took him low on the right side, just above his hip, glancing off the innominate and slicing messily through his liver.

Seba Krafar sagged back down, into a slump with his back against the desk.

With streaming eyes he looked across at the woman.

Malazan, right. She’d been a soldier once. No, she’d been a Bridgeburner. He used to roll his eyes at that. A Bridgeburner? So what? Just some puffed up ooh-ah crap. Seba was an assassin. Blood kin to Talo Krafar and now there was a monster of a man-

Who’d been taken down by a quarrel. Killed like a boar in a thicket.

She walked over to stand before him. ‘That was silly, Seba. And now here you are, face broken and skewered. That’s your liver bleeding out there, I think. Frankly, I’m amazed you’re not already dead, but lucky for you that you aren’t.’ She crouched and held up a small vial. ‘If I pour this into that wound-once I pluck out the bolt, that is, and assuming you survive that-well, there’s a good chance you’ll live. So, should I do that, Seba? Should I save your sorry arse?’

He stared at her. Gods, he hurt everywhere.

‘The name,’ she said. ‘Give me the name and you’ve got a chance to survive this. But best hurry up with your decision. You’re running out of time.’ Was Hood hovering? In that buried place so far beneath the streets? Well, of course he was.

Seba gave her the name. He even warned her off-don’t mess with that one, he’s a damned viper. There’s something there, in his eyes, I swear-

Blend was true to her word,

So Hood went away,

The cascade of sudden deaths, inexplicable and outrageous accidents, miserable ends and terrible murders filled every abode, every corner and every hovel in a spreading tide, a most fatal flood creeping out through the hapless city on all sides. No age was spared, no weight of injustice tipped these scales. Death took them all: well born and destitute, the ill and the healthy, criminal and victim, the unloved and the cherished.

So many last breaths: coughed out, sighed, whimpered, bellowed in defiance, in disbelief, in numbed wonder. And if such breaths could coalesce, could form a thick, dry, pungent fugue of dismay, in the city on this night not a single globe of blue fire could be seen.

There were survivors. Many, many survivors-indeed, more survived than died-but alas, it was a close run thing, this measure, this fell harvest.

The god walked eastward, out from Gadrobi District and into Lakefront, and, from there, up into the Estates.

This night was not done. My, not done at all.

Unseen in the pitch black of this moonless, smoke-wreathed night, a massive shape sailed low over the Gadrobi Hills, westward and out on to the trader’s road. As it drew closer to the murky lights of Worrytown, the silent flier slowly dropped lower until its clawed talons almost brushed the gravel of the road.

Above it, smaller shapes beat heavy wings here and there, wheeling round, plummeting and then thudding themselves back up again. These too uttered no. calls in the darkness.

To one side of the track, crouched in high grasses, a coyote that had been about to cross the track suddenly froze.

Heady spices roiled over the animal in a warm, sultry gust, and where a moment earlier there had been black, shapeless clouds sliding through the air, now there was a figure-a man-thing, the kind the coyote warred with in its skull, fear and curiosity, opportunity and deadly betrayal-walking on the road.

But this man-thing, it was… different.

As it came opposite the coyote, its head turned and regarded the beast.

The coyote trotted out. Every muscle, every instinct, cried out for a submissive surrender, and yet as if from some vast power outside itself, the coyote held its head high, ears sharp forward as it drew up alongside the figure.