Night of Knives_ A Novel of the Malazan Empire - By Ian C. Esslemont Page 0,106

sweater. ‘Why the clothes?’

‘Ah, sorry.’ Seal shrugged an apology. ‘Best I could do. Your old clothes I had to burn.’ He leaned to the black pot, ladled out a bowlful.

Burn? Kiska wondered. Did he really have to burn them?

‘Well, Kiska. Speaking of frights, you gave me an ugly one last night.’

She took the bowl of steaming stew, tore off some bread and started stuffing it into her mouth. She hadn’t realized how famished she was. Seal watched her eat, a smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Where are they and how are they?’ she demanded around a mouthful.

‘We’ve got time – and they’ll live. The one, a Seti tribesman I believe, I take especial credit for. The other, well . . . he pretty much took care of himself. I do take credit for you too, however.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Spraining and bruising of the bones of the knee. Sundry mundane cuts and contusions of the flesh. Worst: a bruised kidney and torn musculature. Possibly resulting from a serious impact or blow.’

Kiska grimaced, remembering that. She’d felt as if that table had cut her in half, but she’d run on anyway. Amazing what being scared out of one’s wits can do. She swallowed, forced down the food against a rising tide of nausea. ‘And?’

‘And?’

‘What’s the message? Where are they?’

Seal sat up straighten ‘Ah! You ask what you should do about the various injuries you have inflicted upon your body? Well, I advise a hearty meal. And if you get sick tonight I suggest a regurgitant. Boiled alder leaves, I understand, works well for that. Also, I advise you take things easy for the next few weeks. Rest; no undue strain. Definitely no fighting or running. Understand?’ Kiska stared at the man, noted his drawn face, the sunken eyes circled in shadow and the tremor of his hands at his bowl. He caught her gaze and waved languidly. ‘Don’t bother to thank me.’

The man was utterly wrecked. He had obviously drawn upon his Denul Warren to the utmost to accomplish what was needed last night. She suspected she owed him much more than he’d suggested. Pushing the stew around the bowl for a moment, she cleared her throat. ‘So, is there really a message or not?’

‘Oh, yes,’ and he smiled secretly, pleased with himself.

‘And? That is?’

He raised a finger. ‘Ah! Treatment first. Finish your meal.’

The boy came to her elbow and handed her a ladle of water. Distracted, Kiska took it and swallowed. The water was sweet, fresh and cool, straight from an inland well. She thanked him. He stared at her with big brown eyes full of curiosity.

‘That’s all, Jonat,’ Seal said. The boy returned to his scrubbing. ‘My son, Jonat,’ he told Kiska.

She nodded, then remembered herself and glared. Stuffing down more of the bread, she said through her mouthful, ‘I think I know what the message is.’

Seal smiled simply, watching her eat. ‘You were quite a mess last night. You don’t remember?’

‘No, I don’t. I think the message is that they are down at the wharf.’

Seal started, his eyes widening. Then he coughed and laughed at the same time, thumped a fist to his chest and rocked in his chair.

Kiska was already on her feet. She gave him her own smug smile and he waved her away with the back of his hand. ‘Well done,’ he managed, ‘Very well done indeed.’

She limped out onto the Way of the Eel.

The residents of Malaz greeted the dawn like stunned survivors of a typhoon and earthquake combined. Faces peered out at the morning from behind storm-shutters and doors opened barely a crack. Though the sun already shone halfway to midday, and only thin clouds marred the sky’s perfect bowl, most of the inhabitants seemed unconvinced that last night’s nightmare had come to an end.

Walking down the streets, Kiska found faces spying on her, wary. She realized what a sight she must present, in her oversized sweater and long skirts gathered up in one hand. Seal seemed to have selected the worst mish-mash of garments he could possibly find. Still, she figured she ought to be thankful the man had a few women’s things around his place.

At first the stares bothered her. Then she elected not to give a damn. As she met knots of suspicious citizenry – usually huddled near a site of wreckage, or a suspiciously stained circle of cobbles, whispering, comparing stories – she just walked on, or hobbled actually, teeth clenched, cradling her side. They’d stop their whispers to gape openly, then,