‘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.