Surly raised her brows, surprised and impressed by Temper's pragmatism. "What is it you wish? Rank? Titles? A regionale governorship?"
Ferrule squeezed Temper's wounded arm in a ferocious grip. Temper bit his lips to keep from shouting. Pressing his hand into Ferrule's back, he arranged his fingers in a sign: wait.
Temper managed in a controlled voice, "Dassem's life, for one thing."
Surly nodded. "That might be arranged."
Her response decided the night for Temper. It seemed neither of them had any intention of keeping their word. 'No witnesses' was almost Surly's credo. The Claws never left anyone alive. It was part of their terror tactics. He also believed that she knew he wouldn't sell out, or frankly didn't care either way. Yet they had their roles to play, a charade to complete.
"Okay," he breathed out long and slow. "We'll stay with him. For the meantime."
Surly pursed her lips. Temper could almost see the plans and various options spinning through her thoughts as she eyed him and Ferrule. Her gaze lingered at his wounded arm and something changed in the set of her shoulders; she inclined her head a fraction. "Very well. You may discuss the particulars with these two representatives. Possum. Jade. Take care of these gentlemen. Topper, accompany me."
The two Claws edged forward a half-step. Surly crossed to the entrance, the cloth of her pants brushing soundlessly. As she turned away, Temper glanced to his own arm: fresh blood soaked the new dressings. So. She figured her best should be enough to finish the job.
Night of Knives, by Ian C. Esslemont (Novels of the Malazan Empire #1)
