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Notes on Contributors. Guest Editors' Introduction. Ana Raquel Fernandes and Claire Williams. Susan Bassnett. Suzan Bozkurt. Ana Raquel Fernandes. Zuzanna Sanches. Claire Williams. Anna Boschetti ed.
Richard Hibbitt. Elisa Segnini. Eleni Papargyriou. Amir Khadem. Brewer, Elizabeth Boyle. Back to Top. For this the King grants you a tower in his keep? Stul Ophan's face darkened. My divinations are of a more This raw and bloody murder business isn't my speciality, is it? What I meant was, my sorceries are in an administrative theme. Affairs of the realm, and such. Stul nodded, his lips twitching. Even the rats saw nothing — nothing that stayed in their brains, anyway —". The rats.
Reading their minds has become an art in Moll, with loot-hungry warlocks training the damn things and sending them under the streets, into the old barrows, down among the bones of a people so far dead as to be nameless in the city's memory. The thought soothed him somewhat.
There was truth in the world after all, when mages and rats saw so closely eye to eye. And thank Hood for the rat-hunters, the fearless bastards will spit at a warlock's feet if that spit was the last water on earth. Rats, fine. Finding none — naturally — he turned and spat on the cobbles. Guld snorted. A distant cousin of a distant cousin.
A middling cloth merchant with no heirs —". The King wants results.
Bauchelain and Korbal Broach : Three Short Novels of the Malazan Empire, Volume One
He turned away, dismissing the mage for the moment. My head's on the pinch-block, and the grey man's stacking his stones. The noble families are scared. They're gnawing the King's wrinkled feet in between the sycophantic kissing. Eleven nights, eleven victims. No witnesses.
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The whole city's terrified — things could get out of hand. I need to find the bastard — I need him writhing on the spikes at Palace Gate. A sorceror, that's new — I've got my clue, finally.
See a Problem?
He looked down at the merchant's covered body. These dead don't talk. That should've told me something. And the street diviners, so strangely terse and nervous. A mage, powerful enough to scare the average practitioner into silence. And worse yet, a necromancer — someone who knows how to silence souls, or send them off to Hood before the steam leaves the blood. Stul Ophan cleared his throat a second time. Guld winced, then shook himself.
Guld's eyes fixed on the mage, making Stul Ophan take a step back. What does that mean? I simply assumed he made some effort to disguise that — some simple cantrips and the like —". Does that fit with a mage who can silence souls and wipe clean the brains of rats? Guld hitched his thumbs into his sword-belt. It'd been years since he'd last drawn the weapon, but he'd dearly welcome the chance to do so now. He studied the crowd, the tide of faces pushing the ring of guards into an ever tighter circle.
Could be any one of them. That wheezing beggar with the hanging mouth. Those two rat-hunters. That old woman with all the dolls at her belt — some kind of witch, seen her before, at every scene of these murders, and now she's eager to start on the next doll, the eleventh — questioned her six mornings back. Then again, she's got enough hair on her chin to be mistaken for a man. Or maybe that dark-faced stranger — armour under his fine cloak, well-made weapon at his belt — a foreigner for certain, since nobody around here uses single-edged scimitars.
So, could be any one of them, come to study his handiwork by day's light, come to gloat over the city's most experienced guardsman in these sort of crimes. Guld continued drily, "And inform King Seljure that I found his court mage passably helpful, although I have many more questions for him, for which I anticipate the mage's fullest devotion of energies in answering my inquiries. The sergeant sighed. A list of suspects. How many mages in Lamentable Moll?
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A hundred? Two hundred? How many real Talents among them? How many coming and going from the trader ships? Is the killer a foreigner, or has someone local turned bad? There are delvings in high sorcery that can twist even the calmest mind. Or has a shade broken free, climbed out nasty and miserable from some battered barrow — any recent deep construction lately?
Better check with the Flatteners. Not their style, though —. The bells clanged wildly, then fell silent.
The long tale of the British short story
Guld frowned, then recalled his order to the young corporal. Oh damn, did that lad take me literally? Emancipor sat at the lone round table near the back in the company of Kreege and Dully, who kept the pitchers coming as the hours rolled into afternoon.
Emancipor's usual disgust with the two wharf rats diminished steadily with each refilled tankard of foamy ale.
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