Return of the Crimson Guard

‘When Kellanved's fleet took the harbour I fled inland with half the city's treasury. The horses panicked and the blasted carriage toppled over. Broke my neck.’

The crowd roared, shouting all at once. Fists shook in the air. ‘What is it?’

‘They're reading out the charges. A brazier's been set up. Knives are being sharpened. Looks like they're going to cook his entrails right in front of him while keeping him alive as long as possible. Never seen it work:

‘It will this time.’

‘How so?’

‘A Denul healer will sustain him.’

‘But the Otataral?’

‘Precious little is used. The strain of the opposing forces of the magic-deadening Otataral and the healing magics would kill him, of course — if he lived long enough.’

‘I see. He is being restrained, standing, head forced down to watch. His shirts have been torn away. A cut is being made side to side across his lower abdomen. Another cut, this one vertical down his front. The brazier's being moved closer. Now they're-‘

The crowd thundered a roar that to Possum sounded of commingled disgust, fear, awe and fascination. Yet the mass pressed even closer to the stage, confirming for Possum his opinion of human nature.

‘They've set his viscera on to the hot coals in front of him — he's still standing! — though I cannot say for certain that he is conscious. What is this? A large axe?’

‘They will dismember him now, starting at the hands, cauterizing each cut.’

‘I'll give you this — you Malazans put on better shows than we ever did. A hand is gone. He must be unconscious, supported by the executioner's assistants. No, I see his mouth moving. Here comes another of the defters.’

Startled, Possum flinched from the wall, crouching, scanning the backs of the crowd before him. A woman edged into view, faced him. Not a slim athletic figure such as the Empress but a stocky older woman, grey-haired, mouth wrinkled tight and frowning her displeasure. Their target this night: Janul's sister and partner, Janelle.

‘You,’ she spat. ‘The lap-dog. I'd hoped for the lap itself.’

Possum smiled. ‘I like to think of myself as a lap-guard-dog.’

‘Save your poor wit.’ The woman straightened, crossed her arms. ‘I know what you want and I'm not going to give it to you.’

Edging one foot forward, Possum scanned her carefully. A dangerous mage, an adept of the D'riss Warren. Together the two siblings had run many dangerous missions for Kellanved. Yet he detected no active magics. What was this?

She hissed a long breath through her clamped teeth. ‘Hurry, damn you. I'm losing my nerve.’

Possum darted forward. He hugged her to him, slipped his longest stiletto up through her abdominal cavity. She clung to him with that startled look they always get when cold iron pricks the heart.

‘At least you can stab straight,’ she gasped huskily into his ear.

Faces nearby turned to them. ‘The heat,’ Possum said. ‘Poor woman.’ They turned away. He brought his face close to hers. ‘Why?’

The woman's expression relaxed into a kind of wistfulness. ‘There he goes, they will say,’ she whispered. ‘He took Janelle, they will say… but you'll know. You'll know what you have always known,’ she took a shuddering wet breath, ‘… that you are nothing more than… a fraud.’

Possum lowered her to the ground, kneeling over her. Damn the bitch! This was not how things were supposed to go. He stepped away from the body, slipped behind bystanders, edged his way slowly to the opening of the street of Opals. As he went he relaxed his limbs, allowed himself to merge with the crowd streaming from the square. Behind him the meat that had been Janul was being chopped to pieces and those pieces thrown into a fire to be burned to ashes. Ashes that would then be tossed into Unta Bay.