“Yes. We're on our own. They know where to find us, all three of them.” He glanced up at the estate window. The man with the red hands was still there, though now he was studying the distant rooftops. A cloud of dust rose between them, and Whiskeyjack returned his attention to the city map, where every major intersection, the barracks and Majesty Hill had been circled in red. “Mallet?”
“Sarge?”
“Bit the inside of my cheek again.”
The heater stepped close, once more raising his hand.
Crokus Younghand strode south on Trallit's Walk. The first signs of the upcoming Gedderone F?te had appeared. Dyed banners hung from clothes-lines over the street, painted flowers and strips of bark framed doorways, and bushels of dried weeds had been tacked to walls at every crossing.
Outlanders already filled the streets, Gadrobi herders, Rhivi traders, Catlin weavers-a mob of sweaty, shouting, excited people. Animal smells mixed with human, making the narrower alleys so redolent as to be almost impassable, which in turn crowded the main thoroughfare even more.
In past years Crokus had revelled in the celebration, pushing through the midnight crowds and filling his own pockets by emptying those around him. During the F?te, worries of the Malazan Empire's exploits in the far north disappeared for a time. His uncle always smiled at that, saying the turn of the season gave the efforts of humanity their proper perspective. “The mewling, petty acts,” he'd say, “of a short-lived ar short-sighted species, Crokus, can do nothing to mar the Great Cycles of Life.”
As he walked home Mammot's words returned to him now. He had always looked upon his uncle as a wise, if slightly ineffectual, old man. Increasingly, however, he found himself troubled by Mammot's observations.
Celebrating Gedderone's Rite of Spring shouldn't be an excuse to avoid the pressures of reality. It wasn't just a harmless escape: it was a means of delaying the probable and making it inevitable. We could dance in the streets all year long, he scowled to himself, to a thousand Great Cycles, and with the same certainty reserved for the coming and going of seasons the Malazan Empire would march through our gates. They'd end the dance with the edge of a sword, being industrious, disciplined people, impatient with useless expenditures of energy-grimly short-sighted.
He came to a tenement and, nodding at the pipe-smoking old woman sitting on the steps, went inside. The hallway was empty, the usual crowd of children no doubt outside playing in the streets, and a calming domestic murmur drifted out from behind closed doors. He climbed the creaking staircase to the first floor.
Outside Mammot's door the scholar's pet winged monkey hovered, scratching and pulling desperately at the latch. It ignored Crokus until he arrived to push it aside, then it squealed and flew in circles around his head.
“Being a pain again, eh?” Crokus said to the creature, waving a hand as it flew too close and ended up snarled in his hair. Tiny human-like hands gripped his scalp. “All right, Moby,” he said, relenting, and opened the door.
Inside, Mammot was preparing herbal tea. Without turning he asked, “Tea, Crokus? And as for that little monster who's probably riding your head, tell him I've had just about enough of him today.”
Moby sniffed indignantly and flapped over to the scholar's desk, where he landed with a belly-flop, scattering papers to the floor. He chirped.
Sighing, Mammot turned with the tray in his hands. His watery eyes fixed on Crokus. “You look tired, lad.”
Crokus slumped into the less ragged of the two chairs occupying the room. “Yes. Tired, and in a dark mood.”
“My tea will do its usual wonders,” Mammot said, smiling.
Crokus grunted, not looking up. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Mammot stepped forward and laid the tray on a small table between the chairs. He sat down with a soft groan. “As you know, I possess few moral qualms about your chosen profession, Crokus, since I question rights of any kind, including ownership. Even privileges demand responsibility, as I've always said, and the privilege of ownership demands that the owner be responsible for protecting his or her claim. My only concern, of course, is for risks you must perforce take.”
Mammot leaned forward and poured tea. “Lad, a thief must be sure of one thing-his concentration. Distractions are dangerous.”
Crokus glanced up at his uncle. “What have you been writing all these years?” he asked suddenly, gesturing at the desk.
Surprised, Mammot picked up his cup and sat back. “Well! A genuine interest in education, then? Finally? As I've said before, Crokus, you possess the intelligence to go so far. And while I'm but a humble man of letters, my word will open to you many doors in the city. Indeed, even the City Council is not beyond your reach, if you would choose such a direction. Discipline, lad, the very same requirement you've mastered as a thief.”
