Paran shoved the door open. Shouldering his heavy, gold-filled pack, he stepped into the antechamber beyond.

'Raest! Where are you?'

The armour-clad Jaghut emerged from somewhere to halt before Paran, said nothing.

'That's right,' Paran muttered, 'I've decided to take up residence here.'

Raest's voice was a cold rasp, 'You have.'

'Aye. Three weeks in that damned inn was enough, believe me. So, here I am, courage worked up, ready to settle into the dreaded, infamous Finnest House – and I see your skills as housekeeper leave much to be desired.'

'These two bodies on the threshold – what will you do with them?'

Paran shrugged. 'I haven't decided yet. Something, I suppose. But, for now, I want to drop this gold off – so I can sleep easy for a change. They're opening the place up tonight, you know . . .'

The giant warrior replied, 'No, Master of the Deck, I do not.'

'Never mind. I said I'd go. Hood knows, I doubt anybody else in this city will, except maybe Kruppe, Coll and Murillio.'

'Go where, Master of the Deck?'

'Ganoes, please. Or Paran. Where, you ask? Picker's new tavern, that's where.'

'I know nothing of—'

'I know you don't, that's why I'm telling—'

'—nor do I care, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck.'

'Well, your loss, Raest. As I was saying, Picker's new tavern. Her and her partner's, that is. They've spent half their pay on this insane project.'

'Insane?'

'Yes – you don't know the meaning of insane?'

'I know it all too well, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck.'

Paran was brought up short by that. He studied the helmed face, seeing only shadows behind the visor's slots. A faint shiver ran through the Malazan. 'Uh, yes. In any case, they purchased the K'rul Temple, belfry and all. Made it into a—'

'A tavern.'

'A temple everyone in the city calls haunted.'

'I imagine,' Raest said, turning away, 'it came cheap, all things considered . . .'

Paran stared after the armoured Jaghut. 'See you later,' he called.

Faintly came the reply, 'If you insist...'

 

Emerging from the battered gateway onto the street, Paran almost stumbled over a decrepit, hooded figure sitting awkwardly on the edge of the gutter. A grimy hand lifted from the rags towards the Malazan.

'Kind sir! A coin, please! A single coin!'

'Luckily for you, I can spare more than one, old man.' Paran reached for the leather purse tucked into his belt. He drew out a handful of silvers.

The beggar grunted, dragged himself closer, his legs trailing like dead weights. 'A man of wealth! Listen to me. I have need of a partner, generous sir! I have gold. Councils! Hidden in a cache on the slopes of the Tahlyn Hills! A fortune, sir! We must needs only mount an expedition – it's not far.'

Paran dropped the coins into the old man's hands. 'Buried treasure, friend? No doubt.'

'Sir, the sum is vast, and I would gladly part with half of it – the repayment to your investment will be ten times at the very least.'

'I've no need for more riches.' Paran smiled. He stepped away from the beggar, then paused and added, 'By the way, you probably shouldn't linger overlong at this particular gate. The House does not welcome strangers.'

The old man seemed to shrink in on himself. His head twisted to one side. 'No,' he muttered from beneath his ragged hood, 'not this House.' Then he softly cackled. 'But I know one that does ...'

Shrugging at the beggar's obscure words, Paran turned once more and set off.

Behind him, the beggar broke into a wretched cough.

 

Picker could not pull her eyes from the man. He sat hunched over, on a chair that had yet to find a table, still clutching in his hands the small rag of tattered cloth on which something had been written. The alchemist had done all he could to return life to what had been a mostly destroyed, desiccated body, and Baruk's talents had been stretched to their limits – there was no doubt of that.

She knew of him, of course. They all did. They all knew, as well, where he had come from.

He spoke not a word. Had not since the resurrection. No physical flaw kept him from finding his voice, Baruk had insisted.

The Imperial Historian had fallen silent. No-one knew why.

She sighed.

The grand opening of K'rul's Bar was a disaster. Tables waited, empty, forlorn in the massive main chamber. Paran, Spindle, Blend, Antsy, Mallet and Bluepearl sat at the one nearest the blazing hearth, barely managing a word among them. Nearby was the only other occupied table, at which sat Kruppe, Murillio and Coll.

And that's it. Gods, we're finished. We should never have listened to Antsy . . .

The front door swung open.

Picker looked over hopefully. But it was only Baruk.

The High Alchemist paused within the antechamber, then slowly made his way forward to where the other Daru sat.

'Dearest friend of honourable Kruppe! Baruk, stalwart champion of Darujhistan, could you ask for better company this night? Here, yes, at this very table! Kruppe was astonishing his companions – and indeed, these grim-faced ex-soldiers next to us – with his extraordinary account of Kruppe and this tavern's namesake, conspiring to fashion a new world.'

'Is the tale done, then?' Baruk asked as he approached.

'Just, but Kruppe would be delighted to—'

'Excellent. I'll hear it some other time, I suppose.' The High Alchemist glanced over at Duiker, but the Imperial Historian had not so much as even looked up. Head still bowed, eyes fixed on the cloth in his hands. Baruk sighed. 'Picker, have you mulled wine?'

'Aye, sir,' she said. 'Behind you, beside the hearth.'

Antsy reached for the clay jug, rose to pour Baruk a cup.

'All right,' Picker said in a loud voice, walking over. 'So, this is it. Fine. The fire's warm enough, we've drunk enough, and I for one am ready for some stories to be told – no, not you, Kruppe. We've heard yours. Now, Baruk here, and Coll and Murillio for that matter, might be interested in the tale of the final taking of Coral.'

Coll slowly leaned forward. 'So, you'll finally talk, will you? It's about time, Picker.'

'Not me,' she replied. 'Not to start, anyway. Captain? Refill your cup, sir, and weave us a tale.'

The man grimaced, then shook his head. 'I'd like to, Picker.'

'Too close,' Spindle grumbled, nodding and turning away.

'Hood's breath, what a miserable bunch!'

'Sure,' Spindle snapped, 'a story to break our hearts all over again! What's the value in that?'

A rough, broken voice replied, 'There is value.'

Everyone fell silent, turned to Duiker.

The Imperial Historian had looked up, was studying them with dark eyes. 'Value. Yes. I think, much value. But not yours, soldiers. Not yet. Too soon for you. Too soon.'

'Perhaps,' Baruk murmured, 'perhaps you are right in that. We ask too much—'

'Of them. Yes.' The old man looked down once more at the cloth in his hands.

The silence stretched.

Duiker made no move.

Picker began to turn back to her companions – when the man began speaking. 'Very well, permit me, if you will, on this night. To break your hearts once more. This is the story of the Chain of Dogs. Of Coltaine of the Crow Clan, newly come Fist to the 7th Army ...'

This ends the Third Tale of the
Malazan Book of the Fallen