Free Stonewielder by Ian C. Esslemont Page A

it into its bag. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘That fellow you used to chum with, the other foreigner. The merchant houses he got to put up the money for his place … they foreclosed on him. Closed him up tight.’
    Cinching the pouch, Kyle glanced over. ‘Really?’
    ‘Uh-huh. When I heard the news, I wondered … what would you have done if it was his place we went to visit tonight?’
    Kyle hefted the feather-light pouch. ‘Nothing. I wouldn’t have had to do anything because he would have scattered you lot like geese.’
    The chief enforcer for Best, the man who controlled most of the blackmailing and extortion in the city, seemed to peer down sleepily at Kyle over the great bulk of his chest. His nostrils flared as he snorted. ‘Some kinda hot ex-mercenary you’ve turned out to be. I ain’t seen fuck-all that impresses from you yet.’
    ‘And you won’t. Here,’ Kyle flicked the pouch at him, ‘keep your ears on. See you around.’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ the man called after him. ‘He’d be in prison right now ’cept someone bought his debts – and that someone ain’t from around here …’
    The man’s sly rumbling laughter followed Kyle down the darkened street.
    Some Falaran legal documents, all ribboned and weighted by wax seals, hung nailed to the door of Orjin’s school. Kyle tried the door and found it unlocked. Just inside the tunnel he stopped to study the empty practice floor; the sand shone in the moonlight like glittering quicksilver.
    ‘Orjin?’ he hissed. ‘Orjin?’ Movement from the shadows. A figure staggered into the pale light, sword held slack and low in one hand. Great Harrier preserve us! What’s happened? He ran to him, grunted as the man’s extraordinary weight sagged on him. ‘What’s happened? Are you wounded?’
    Something banged from Kyle’s head, sloshing. He snatched an earthenware jug from Orjin’s hand. ‘What’s this?’
    ‘No more of your talk!’ the man bellowed hotly in his ear. ‘Keep your contracts and writs! Dare to face me like a man, Dead Poliel take you!’
    ‘Oh for Hood’s sake!’ Kyle pushed him away. He should’ve smelled it, but the last months spent sitting in a common room had blunted his nose.
    Tottering, Orjin swung the slim Darujhistan epée, almost cutting Kyle. ‘Come on! Arm yourself! We’ll settle this the old-fashioned way!’ He crossed to a weapon rack and heaved it over in a ringing clatter of ironmongery. ‘Take your pick! As you see – there’s plenty!’
    ‘Orjin … Greymane …’
    The man blinked, weaving. ‘What’s that? Greymane? Greymane? ’ His head sank chin to chest and for a time he seemed to study all the fallen swords glowing silver in the moonlight. ‘That man is dead.’
    ‘Orjin … I heard someone’s coming. Someone from elsewhere –that can only mean the Malazans. They’ve found you.’ He stepped closer. ‘Now come on. Let’s go. There’s nothing for us here. I hate this place. These people would bend over for donkeys if they had gold. Let’s go.’
    Orjin breathed out a noisy wet sigh and eased himself down amidthe blades. He hung his head. His long unkempt mane shone just as bright as the tangled iron. ‘No. I’m finished. Let them come.’ He waved broadly to encompass the surroundings. ‘This was always my dream, you know, Kyle. Retire. Open a fighting college. Teach something of what I’ve learned.’ At random, he picked up a longsword, a heavy northern Genabackan weapon; sighted down the blade. ‘But no one really wants to know what a bellyful of war teaches.’
    Looking down at the man, Kyle considered trying to wrench him up but didn’t think he’d be able to budge his bulk. He knelt to his haunches. ‘Listen, Orjin. Hood take these merchants and gangsters. They’re no different from each other. Let’s just go! Hire on to the first ship we come to in the harbour – who cares where it’s headed.’
    ‘No, no. That’s a young man’s game. I’m too old. You