How the time for dreams of the future seemed to slip past unnoticed, until in reviving them a man realized, with a shock, that the privilege was no longer his to entertain, that it belonged to those younger faces he saw on all sides, laughing in the tavern and on the streets, running wild.

‘You have changed,’ Murillio said from the bed where he reclined, propped up on pillows, his hair hanging unbound and unwashed, ‘and I’m not sure it’s for the better,’

Cutter regarded his old friend for a moment, then asked, ‘What’s better?’

‘What’s better. You wouldn’t have asked that question, and certainly not in that way, the last time I saw you: Someone broke your heart, Crokus-not Challice D’Arle, I hope!’

Smiling, Cutter shook his head. ‘No, and what do you know, I’d almost forgot-ten her name. Her face, certainly… and the name is Cutter now, Murillio.’

‘If you say so.’

He just had, but clearly Murillio was worse for wear, not up to his usual standard of conversation. If he’d been making a point by saying that, well, maybe Crokus would’ve snatched the bait. It’s the darkness in my soul… no, never mind.

‘Seven Cities, was it? Took your time coming home.’

‘A long journey, for the ship I was on. The north route, along the island chains, stuck in a miserable hovel of a port for two whole seasons-first winter storms, which we’d expected, then a spring filled with treacherous ice rafts, which we didn’t-no one did, in fact.’

‘Should have booked passage on a Moranth trader.’

Cutter glanced away. ‘Didn’t have a choice, not for the ship, nor for the company on it.’

‘So you had a miserable time aboard?’

He sighed. ‘Not their fault, any of them. In fact, I made good friends-’

‘Where are they now, then?’

Cutter shrugged. ‘Scattered about, I imagine.’

‘Will we meet them?’ Murillio asked.

He wondered at this line of questioning, found himself strangely irritated by Murillio’s apparent interest in the people he had come back with. ‘A few, maybe. Some stepped ashore only to leave again, by whatever means possible-so, not any of those. The others… we’ll see.’

‘Ah, I was just curious.’

‘About what?’

‘Well, which of your groups of friends you considered more embarrassing, I suppose.’

‘Neither!’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend… Cutter. You’re just seeming somewhat… restless, as if you’d rather be elsewhere.’

It’s not that easy. ‘It all feels… different. That’s all. Bit of a shock, finding you nearly dead.’

‘I imagine besting Rallick in a knife fight was rather shocking, as well.’

Cutter didn’t much want to think about that. ‘I could never have imagined that you’d lose a duel, Murillio.’

‘Easy to do, when you’re drunk and wearing no breeches.’

‘Oh.’

‘Actually, neither of those is relevant to my present situation, I was careless, Why was I careless? Because I’m getting old. Because it’s all slowing down, I’m slowing down. Look at me, lying here, healed up but full of aches, old pains, and nothing but cold ashes in my soul. I’ve been granted a second chance and I intend to take it.’

‘Meaning?’

Murillio shot him a look. Seemed about to say something, then changed his mind and said something else. ‘I’m going to retire. True, I’ve not saved up much, but then, I should be able to live with more modest expectations, shouldn’t I? There’s a new duelling school in the Daru. I’ve heard it’s doing rather well, long lists of applicants and all that. I could help out, a couple of days a week.’

‘No more widows. No more clandestine trysts.’

‘Precisely.’

‘You’ll make a good instructor.’

‘Not likely,’ he replied with a grimace, ‘but I have no aspirations to be one, ei-ther. It’s work, that’s all. Footwork, forms, balance and timing-the more serious stuff they can get from someone else.’

‘If you go in there talking like that,’ Cutter said, ‘you’ll never get hired.’

‘I’ve lost my ability to charm?’

Cutter sighed and rose from his chair. ‘I doubt it.’

‘What brought you back?’ Murillio asked.

The question stopped him. ‘A conceit, maybe.’

‘What kind of conceit?’

The city is in danger. It needs me. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning to the door, ‘the child-ish kind. Be well, Murillio-I think your idea is a good one, by the way. If Rallick drops by looking for me, tell him I’ll be back later.’

He took the back stairs, went through the dank, narrow kitchen, and out into the alley, where the chill of the night just past remained in the air. He did need to speak to Rallick Nom, but not right now. He felt slightly punch drunk. The shock of his return, he supposed, the clash inside himself between who he had once been and who he was now. He needed to get settled, to get the confusion from his mind. If he could begin to see clearly again, he’d know what to do.

Out into the city, then, to wander. Not quite running wild, was it?

No, those days were long gone.

The wound had healed quickly, reminding him that there had been changes-the powder of otataral he had rubbed into his skin only a few days ago, or so it seemed. To begin a night of murder now years past. The other changes, however, were proving far more disconcerting. He had lost so much time. Vanished from the world, and the world just went on without him. As if Rallick Nom had been dead, yes-no different from that, only now he was back, which wasn’t how things should be. Pull a stick from the mud and the mud closes in to swallow up the hole, until no sign remains that the stick ever existed.

Was he still an assassin of the Guild? Not at the moment, and this truth opened to him so many possibilities that his mind reeled, staggered back to the simpler no-tion of descending into the catacombs, walking up to Seba Krafar and announcing his return, resuming, yes, his old life.

And if Seba was anything like old Talo, he would smile and say welcome back, Rallick Nom. From that moment the chances that Rallick would make it back out alive were virtually nonexistent. Seba would see at once the threat standing More him, Vorcan had favoured Rallick and that alone was sufficient justifica-tion for getting rid of him. Seba wanted no rivals-he’d had enough of those if Ktule’s tale of the faction war was accurate.

He had another option when it came to the Guild. Rallick could walk in and kill Seba Krafar, then announce he was interim Master, awaiting Vorcan’s return. Or he could stay in hiding for as long as possible, waiting for Vorcan to make her own move. Then, with her ruling the nest once again, he could emerge out of the woodwork and those missing years would be as nothing, would be without mean-Ing. That much he shared with Vorcan, and because of that she would trust no one but Rallick. He’d be second in command, and how could he not be satisfied with that?

Oh, this was an old crisis-years old now. His thought that Turban Orr would be the last person he killed had been as foolish then as it was now.

He sat on the edge of the bed in his room. From the taproom below he could hear Kruppe expounding on the glories of breakfast, punctuated by some muted no doubt savage commentary by Meese, and with those two it was indeed as if nothing had changed. The same could not be said for Murillio, alas. Nor for Crokus, who was now named Cutter-an assassin’s name for certain, all too well suited to the man Crokus had become. Now who taught him to fight with knives like that? Something of the Malazan style-the Claw, in fact.

Rallick had been expecting Cutter to visit, had been anticipating the launch of a siege of questions. He would want to explain, wouldn’t he? Try to justify his de-cisions to Rallick, even when there was no possible justification. He didn’t listen to me, did he? Ignored my warnings. Only fools think they can make a differ-ence. So, where was he? With Murillio, I expect, holding off on the inevitable.