Who are these strangers, then, with their familiar faces?
Emerging from the crowd with those indifferent eyes, and the blood streaming down from their hands.
It is what was hidden before, masked by the common and the harmless, now wrenching features revealed in a conflagration of hate and victims tumble underfoot.
Who led and who followed and why do flames thrive in darkness and all gaze, insensate and uncomprehending, come the morning light, upon the legacy of unleashed spite? I am not fooled by wails of horror. I am not moved by expostulations of grief. For I remember the lurid night, the visage flashing in firelit puddles of blood was my own.
Who was this stranger, then, with that familiar face?
Melting into the crowd in the fraught, chaotic heave, and the blood raging in the storm of my skull boils frantic as I plunge down and lay waste all these innocent lives, my hate at their weakness a cauldron overturned, whilst drowning in my own, this stranger, this stranger…
On the Dawn I Take My Life
The Wickan Pogrom
Kayessan As the longboat from the Jakatakan fleet's flagship drew up alongside, the commander and four marines quickly clambered aboard the Froth Wolf.
They were Untan, one and all, bedecked in elaborate, expensive armour, the commander tall, weak-chinned with a watery, uneasy look in his pale eyes. He saluted Admiral Nok first, and then the Adjunct.
'We were not expecting you for months, Adjunct Tavore.'
Arms crossed, Fist Keneb stood a short distance away, leaning against the mainmast. After the commander's words, Keneb shifted his attention to the marines. Is that parade kit you're wearing? And then he noticed their expressions of disdain and hatred as the soldiers stared over to where stood Nil and Nether. Keneb glanced round, then hesitated.
The Adjunct spoke, 'Your name, Commander?'
A slight bow. 'My apologies, Adjunct. I am Exent Hadar, of House Hadar in Unta, firstborn-'
'I know the family,' Tavore cut in, rather sharply. 'Commander Hadar, tell your marines to stand down immediately – if I see one more hand casually touch a sword grip they can swim back to your ship.'
The commander's pale eyes flicked to Admiral Nok, who said nothing.
Keneb relaxed – he had been about to walk over to strip the hides from those fools. Adjunct Tavore, you miss nothing, do you? Ever. Why do you continue to surprise me? No, wrong way of putting that – why am I constantly surprised? 'Apologies again,' Hadar said, his insincerity obvious as he gestured to his guards. 'There have been a succession of, uh, revelations-'
'Regarding what?'
'Wickan complicity in the slaughter of Pormqual's Loyal Army at Aren, Adjunct.'
Keneb stared at the man, dumbfounded. 'Complicity?' His voice was hoarse and the word barely made it out.
The Adjunct's expression was as fierce as Keneb had ever seen on the woman, but it was Admiral Nok who spoke first. 'What insanity is this, Commander Hadar? The loyalty and service of the Wickans was and remains beyond reproach.'
A shrug. 'As I said, Admiral. Revelations.'
'Never mind that,' the Adjunct snapped. 'Commander, what are you doing patrolling these waters?'
'The Empress commanded that we extend our range,' Hadar replied, 'for two reasons. Foremost, there have been incursions from an unknown enemy in black warships. We have had six engagements thus far.
Initially, our ship mages were not able to contend with the sorcery the black ships employed, and accordingly we suffered in the exchanges. Since then, however, we have increased the complement and the calibre of our own cadres. Negating the sorcery in the battles evened matters considerably.'
'When was the last encounter?'
'Two months past, Adjunct.'
'And the other reason?'
Another slight bow. 'Intercepting you, Adjunct. As I said, however, we were not expecting you for some time. Oddly enough, our precise position right now came by direct command from the Empress herself, four days ago. Needless to say, against this unseasonal gale, we were hard pressed to make it here in time.'
'In time for what?'
Another shrug. 'Why, it turns out, to meet you. It seems obvious,' he added with condescension, 'that the Empress detected your early arrival. In such matters, she is all-knowing, and that is, of course, only to be expected.'
Keneb watched as the Adjunct mulled on these developments, then she said, 'And you are to be our escort to Unta?'
'No, Adjunct. I am to instruct you to change the course of the imperial fleet.'
'To where?'
'Malaz City.'
'Why?'
Commander Hadar shook his head.
'Tell me, if you know,' Tavore said, 'where is the Empress right now?'
'Well, Malaz City, I would think, Adjunct.'
'See that marine on the left?' Kalam asked in a low whisper.
'What of him?' Quick Ben asked with a shrug.
'He's a Claw.'
They stood on the forecastle deck, watching the proceedings below. The air was fresh, warm, the seas surprisingly gentle despite the hard, steady wind. Damned near paradise, the assassin considered, after that wild three days in the raw, tumultuous warren of Togg and Fanderay.
The ships of the fleet, barring those of the Perish, were badly battered, especially the transports. None had gone down, fortunately, nor had any sailor or marine been lost. A few dozen horses, alas, had broken legs during the storms, but such attrition was expected, and no-one begrudged fresh meat in the stew-pots. Now, assuming this wind stayed at their backs, Malaz Island was only two days away, maybe a touch more.
With his message delivered, Commander Hadar's haste to leave was pathetically obvious, and it seemed neither the Adjunct nor the Admiral was inclined to stretch out his stay.
As the visitors returned to their longboat, a voice spoke quietly behind Kalam and Quick Ben. 'Did I hear correctly? We are now sailing for Malaz City?'
Kalam fought down a shiver – he'd heard nothing. Again. 'Aye, Apsalar-'
But Quick Ben had wheeled round in alarm and, now, anger. 'The damned steps up here are right in front of us! How in Hood's name did you get there, Apsalar? Breathing down our damned backs!'
'Clearly,' the Kanese woman replied, her almond-shaped eyes blinking languidly, 'you were both distracted. Tell me, Kalam Mekhar, have you any theories as to why an agent of the Claw accompanied the Jakatakan commander?'
'Plenty, but I'm not sharing any of them with you.'
She studied him for a moment, then said, 'You are still undecided, aren't you?'
Oh how I want to hit her. Right here, right now. 'You don't know what you're talking about, Apsalar. And I don't, neither.'
'Well, that hardly makes sense-'
'You're right,' Quick Ben snapped, 'it doesn't. Now get out of our shadows, damn you!'
'High Mage, it occurs to me that you are under a certain misapprehension. The Hounds of Shadow, in G'danisban, were after you.'
'Opportunistic!'
'Certainly, if you care to believe that. In any case, it should then follow – even for one as immune to logic as you – that I acted then.
Alone. The choice was mine, High Mage, and mine alone.'
'What's she talking about, Quick?' Kalam demanded.
But his friend was silent, studying the woman before him. Then he asked, 'Why?'
She smiled. 'I have my reasons, but at the moment, I see no reason to share any of them with you.'
Apsalar then turned away, walked towards the prow.
'It's just that, isn't it?' Quick Ben muttered under his breath.
'What do you mean?'
'Undecided, Kal. We're all undecided. Aren't we?' Then he swung round and looked back down at the Adjunct.
The assassin did the same.
Tavore and Nok were talking, but quietly, their words stolen by the wind.
'Now,' Quick Ben continued, 'is she?'
Undecided? Not about anything, it seems. Kalam grimaced. 'Malaz City.
I didn't have much fun the last time I visited. Your skin crawling, Quick? Mine is. Crawling bad.'
'You notice something?' the wizard asked. 'That commander – he didn't ask a damned thing about the Perish ships with us. Now, that Claw, he must have made his report already, by warren, to Topper or the Empress herself. So…'
'So, she knows we've got guests. Maybe that's why she doesn't want us sailing into Unta's harbour.'
'Right, Laseen's rattled.'
Then Kalam grunted. 'I just realized something else,' he said in a low voice.
'What?'
'The Adjunct, she sent the Destriant to her cabin. And she made no formal invitation to the commander the way she's supposed to – no, she made them all discuss things out here, in the open. Anyway, maybe the Adjunct didn't want the commander or that Claw to see Run'thurvian, or talk to him, about anything.'
'She's no fool.'
'A damned game of Troughs between them, isn't it? Quick Ben, what is going on here?'
'We'll find out, Kal.'
'When?'
The High Mage scowled, then said, 'The moment, friend, we stop being undecided.'
Aboard the Silanda, Fiddler had crawled from the hold like a crippled rat, dishevelled, pale and greasy. He spied Bottle and slowly, agonizingly, made his way over. Bottle was feeding out line. There were shoals out there, and he'd seen fish leaping clear of whatever chased them beneath the surface. One of the Jakatakan dromons was sidling past to port, a rock's throw away, and the rest of the squad had lined up to give them a show.
Bottle shook his head, then glanced over as his sergeant arrived. '
Feeling any better?'
'I think so. Gods, I think that nightmare realm cured me.'
'You don't look any better.'
'Thanks, Bottle.' Fiddler pulled himself into a sitting position, then looked over at the rest of the squad. 'Hood's breath!' he exploded. '
What are you doing?!'
Koryk, Smiles, Cuttle and Tarr had joined up with Deadsmell, Throatslitter and Widdershins, standing in a row at the rail, looking across at the passing dromon, and under each soldier's left arm was a Tiste Andii head.
At Fiddler's outburst, Gesler and Stormy appeared on deck.
Bottle watched them take it all in, then Gesler called out, 'Give 'em a wave!'
The soldiers complied, began waving cheerfully across at what seemed to be a mass of staring sailors and marines and – Bottle squinted – officers.
Smiles said, 'It's all right, Sergeant. We just thought they'd appreciate a change of scenery.'
'Who?'
'Why, these heads, of course.'
Then Stormy was running past, towards the stern, where he dragged down his breeches and sat over the rail, his back end hanging open, exposed. With a savage grunt, he began defecating.
And while his comrades lining the rail all turned to stare at the mad corporal, Bottle was transfixed by the ghastly expressions of delight on those severed heads. Those smiles – the line in Bottle's hands kept spinning out, then vanished, unnoticed, as sudden nausea clenched his gut.
And he bolted for the opposite rail.
Captain Kindly made a gagging sound. 'That is disgusting.'
Lieutenant Pores nodded. 'I'll say. Gods, what did that man eat to produce those?'
A crowd was gathering on the deck as laughing marines and sailors all watched the antics proceeding apace on the Silanda half a cable ahead.
The Jakatakan dromon was now to port, a mass of onlookers on the decks, silent, watching.
'That is highly unusual,' Pores commented. 'They're not rising to the bait.'
'They look scared witless,' Kindly said.
'So those marines have got themselves a collection of heads,' Pores said, shrugging.
'You idiot. Those heads are still alive.'
'They're what?'
'Alive, Lieutenant. I have this from reliable sources.'
'Even so, sir, since when did Malazans get so soft?'
Kindly regarded him as he would a skewered grub. 'Your powers of observation are truly pathetic. That ship is filled with Untans.
Coddled nobleborn pups. Look at those damned uniforms, will you? The only stains they got on 'em is gull shit, and that's because the gulls keep mistaking them for dead, bloated seals.'
'Nice one, sir.'
'Another comment like that,' Kindly said, 'and I'll get the stitcher to sew up your mouth, Lieutenant. Ha, we're changing course.'
'Sir?'
'For Hood's sake, what are those fools doing?'
Pores followed his captain's glare, to the stern of their own ship, where two heavy infantry soldiers were seated side by side, their leggings round their ankles. 'I would hazard a guess, sir, that Hanfeno and Senny are adding their stone's worth.'
'Get back there and make them stop, Lieutenant. Now!'
'Sir?'
'You heard me! And I want those two on report!'
'Stop them, sir? How do I do that?'
'I suggest corks. Now move!'
Pores scrambled.
Oh please, please be finished before I arrive. Please…
The send-off to the Jakatakan Fleet encompassed every Malazan ship, a cavalcade of defecation that brought sea-gulls for leagues round with mad shrieks and wheeling plunges. The Adjunct had not remained on deck for very long, but issued no orders to halt the proceedings. Nor did Admiral Nok, although Keneb noticed that the sailors of the dromon escorts and the transports did not participate. This gesture belonged exclusively to the Fourteenth Army.
And maybe it had some value. Hard to tell with things like this, Keneb knew.
The wind drove them onward, east by southeast now, and before a quarter bell was sounded, the Jakatakans were far behind.
Destriant Run'thurvian had appeared earlier, and had watched the escapades of the marines on the surrounding ships. Frowning for some time, he eventually spotted Keneb and approached. 'Sir,' he said, 'I am somewhat confused. Is there no honour between elements of the Mezla military?'
'Honour? Not really, Destriant. Rivalries provide the lifeblood, although in this case matters proved somewhat one-sided, and for the reason for that you will have to look to the Silanda.'
A sage nod. 'Of course, the ship woven in sorceries, where time itself is denied.'
'Do you know the manner of those sorceries, Destriant?'
'Kurald Emurlahn, Tellann, Telas and a residue of Toblakai, although in this latter case the nature of the power is… uncertain. Of course,' he added, 'there is nothing unusual in that. Among the ancient Toblakai – according to our own histories – there could arise individuals, warriors, who became something of a warren unto themselves. Such power varies in its efficacy, and it would appear that this sort of blood talent was waning in the last generations of the Toblakai civilization, growing ever weaker. In any case,' the Destriant added, shrugging, 'as I said, a residue remains on this Silanda. Toblakai. Which is rather interesting, since it was believed that the giant race was extinct.'
'There are said to be remnants,' Keneb offered, 'in the Fenn Range of north Quon Tali. Primitive, reclusive…'
'Oh yes,' Run'thurvian said, 'of mixed bloods there are known examples, vastly diminished, of course. The Trell, for example, and a tribe known as the Barghast. Ignorant of past glories, as you suggest.
Fist, may I ask you a question?'
'Of course.'
'The Adjunct Tavore. It appears that the relationship with her Empress has become strained. Have I surmised correctly? This is disturbing news, given what awaits us.'
Keneb looked away, then he cleared his throat. 'Destriant, I have no idea what awaits us, although it seems that you do. As for the Empress, again, there is nothing I can imagine to give rise to mutual distrust. The Adjunct is the Hand of the Empress. An extension of Laseen's will.'
'The Empress would not be inclined, therefore,' Run'thurvian said, 'to sever that hand, yes? I am relieved to hear this.'
'Good… why?'
'Because,' the Destriant said, turning away, 'your Fourteenth Army will not be enough.'
If wood could be exhausted by unceasing strain, the ships of the imperial fleet were at their very limits, two bells out from Malaz Island on the night of the second day, when the wind suddenly fell away, a coolness coming into the air, and it seemed that every ship sagged, settling deeper into the swells, and now, in place of the hot dry gale, a softer breeze arrived.
Kalam Mekhar had taken to pacing the deck, restless, his appetite gone and a tightness gripping his guts. As he made his way aft for the thirtieth time since dusk, Quick Ben appeared alongside him.
'Laseen's waiting for us,' the High Mage said. 'And Tayschrenn's there, like a scorpion under a rock. Kal, everything I'm feeling…'
'I know, friend.'
'Like I did back outside Pale.'
They turned about and slowly walked forward. Kalam scratched at his beard. 'We had Whiskeyjack, back then. Even Dujek. But now…' He growled under his breath, then rolled his shoulders.
'Ain't seen you do that in a long time, Kal, that shrug of yours.'
'Well.'
'That's what I thought.' The High Mage sighed, then he reached out and grasped the assassin's arm as a figure emerged from the gloom before them.
The Adjunct. 'High Mage,' she said in a low voice, 'I want you to cross over to the Silanda, by warren.'
'Now?'
'Yes. Is that a problem?'
Kalam sensed his friend's unease, and the assassin cleared his throat.
'Adjunct. The Imperial High Mage Tayschrenn is, uh, dead ahead.'
'He does not quest,' she replied. 'Does he, Quick Ben?'
'No. How did you know that?'
She ignored the question. 'By warren, immediately, High Mage. You are to collect Fiddler, and the soldier named Bottle. Inform the sergeant that the time has come.'
'Adjunct?'
'For a game. He will understand. Then, the three of you are to return here, where you will join myself, Kalam, Fist Keneb, T'amber and Apsalar, in my cabin. You have a quarter of a bell, High Mage. Kalam, come with me now, please.'
One of Fiddler's games.
Gods below, a game!
A moccasined foot thumped into Bottle's side. Grunting, he sat up, still mostly asleep. 'That you, Smiles? Not now…' but no, it wasn't Smiles. His heart thumped awake in a savage drumbeat. 'Oh, High Mage, uh. Um. What is it?'
'On your feet,' Quick Ben hissed. 'And quietly, damn you.'
'Too late,' muttered Koryk from his bedroll nearby.
'It had better not be, soldier,' the wizard said. 'Another sound from you and I'll push your head up the next soldier's backside.'
A head lifted from blankets. 'That'd beat the view I got now… sir.'
Then he settled back down.
Bottle climbed to his feet, chilled yet sweating.
And found himself looking at Fiddler's miserable face, hovering there behind the High Mage. 'Sergeant?'
'Just follow us aft, Bottle.'
The three of them picked their way clear of the sleeping forms on the mid deck.
There was a strange scent in the air, Bottle realized. Familiar, yet… 'Sergeant, you're carrying that new Deck of yours…'
'You and your damned rat,' muttered Fiddler. 'I knew it, you lying bastard.'
'Wasn't me,' Bottle began, then fell quiet. Gods below, even for me that was lame. Try something better. 'Just looking out for you, Sergeant. Your shaved knuckle in the hole, that's me.'
'Hah, where have I heard that before, eh Quick?'
'Quiet, you two. We're going across now. Grab belts…'
Bottle blinked, and found himself on another deck, and directly ahead, steps leading down. Abyss take me, that was fast. Fast and… appalling. Quick Ben waved them into his wake as he descended, ducking the frame, then halting three strides down the corridor, knocking upon a door to his left. It opened at once.
T'amber, the eyes that gave her her name scanning the three men cramped in the narrow corridor. Then she stepped back.
The Adjunct stood behind her chair at the map-table. The rest were seated, and Bottle stared wildly from one to the next. Fist Keneb.
Apsalar. Kalam Mekhar.
A low moan from Fiddler.
'Sergeant,' the Adjunct said, 'you have your players.'
Players?
Oh.
Oh no.
'I really don't think this is a good idea,' the sergeant said.
'Perhaps,' the Adjunct replied.
'I agree,' T'amber said. 'Or, rather, my participation… as a player.
As I said earlier, Tavore-'
'Nonetheless,' the Adjunct cut in, drawing out the empty chair opposite the one reserved for Fiddler and sitting herself down on Keneb's left. She pulled her gloves free. 'Explain the rules, please.'
Keneb watched as Fiddler cast helpless, desperate looks to both Kalam and Quick Ben, but neither would meet his eyes, and both were clearly miserable. Then the sergeant slowly walked over to the last chair. He settled into it. 'That's just it, Adjunct, there ain't no rules, except those I make up as I go.'
'Very well. Begin.'
Fiddler scratched at his greying beard, his eyes fixing on T'amber who sat to the Adjunct's left, directly opposite Keneb. 'This is your Deck,' he said, lifting it into view and setting it down on the tabletop. 'It has new cards in it.'
'Your point?' the young woman demanded.
'Just this. Who in Hood's name are you?'
A shrug. 'Does it matter?'
A grunt from Kalam Mekhar on Keneb's right. Beyond the assassin, on the same side and immediately to Fiddler's left was Apsalar. Bottle was on the sergeant's right, with the High Mage beside him. The only one who really doesn't belong is me. Where's Blistig? Nok? Temul, Nil and Nether? 'Last chance,' Fiddler said to the Adjunct. 'We stop this now-'
'Begin, Sergeant.'
'Bottle, find us some wine.'
'Sergeant?'
'First rule. Wine. Everybody gets a cup. Except the dealer, he gets rum. Go to it, Bottle.'
As the young soldier rose Fiddler collected the cards. 'Player on dealer's right has to serve drinks during the first hand.' He flung out a card, face-down, and it slid crookedly to halt in front of Quick Ben. 'High Mage has last card. Last card's dealt out first, but not shown until the end.'
Bottle came back with cups. He set the first one down in front of the Adjunct, then T'amber, Keneb, Quick, Kalam, Apsalar, Fiddler and finally one into the place before his empty chair. As he returned with two jugs, one of wine and the other Falari rum, Fiddler held up a hand and halted him.
In quick succession the sergeant flung out cards, matching the order Bottle had used in setting down the cups.
Suddenly, eight face-up cards marked the field, and Fiddler, gesturing Bottle over with the rum, began talking. 'Dealer gets Soldier of High House Life but it's bittersweet, meaning it's for him and him alone, given this late hour. Empty chair gets Weaver of Life and she needs a bath but nobody's surprised by that. So we got two Life's to start.'
Fiddler watched as Bottle poured rum into his cup. 'And that's why Kalam's looking at an Unaligned. Obelisk, the Sleeping Goddess – you' re getting a reversed field, Kal, sorry but there's nothing to be done for it.' He downed his rum and held out his cup again, interrupting Bottle's efforts to fill the others with wine. 'Apsalar's got Assassin of High House Shadow, oh, isn't that a surprise. It's the only card she gets-'
'You mean I win?' she asked, one brow lifting sardonically.
'And lose, too. Nice move, interrupting me like that, you're catching on. Now, nobody else say a damned thing unless you want to up the ante.' He drank down his second cupful. 'Poor Quick Ben, he's got Lifeslayer to deal with, and that puts him in a hole, but not the hole he thinks he's in – a different hole. Now T'amber, she's opened the game with that card. Throne, and it's shifting every which way. The pivot card, then-'
'What's a pivot card?' Bottle asked, finally sitting down.
'Bastard – knew I couldn't trust you. It's the hinge, of course.
Finish that wine – you got to drink rum now. You're a sharp one, ain't you? Now Fist Keneb, well, that's a curious one. Lord of Wolves, the throne card of High House War, and aren't they looking baleful – Fist, where's Grub hiding these days?'
'On Nok's ship,' Keneb replied, bewildered and strangely frightened.
'Well, that knocks you outa the game, though you still get four more cards, since we've made a course correction and the northeast headland's rising up two pegs to starboard. In seventy heartbeats we' ll be sliding closest to that rocky coast, and Nok's ship will be even closer, and Grub will dive overboard. He's got three friends living in the caves in the cliff and here are their cards-' Three more skidded out to just beyond the centre of the table. 'Crown, Sceptre, Orb. Hmm, let's ignore those for now.'
Keneb half-rose. 'Diving overboard?'
'Relax, he'll be back. So, we get to the Adjunct's card. House of War, Guardians of the Road, or the Dead – title's uncertain so take your pick.' He threw another card and it slid up beside it. 'Oponn. As I thought. Decisions yet to be made. Will it be the Push or the Pull?
And what's that got to do with this one?' A skitter, ending up in the middle, opposite both Kalam and Quick Ben – 'Herald of High House Death. A distinctly inactive and out-of-date card in this field, but I see a Rusty Gauntlet-'
'A what?' demanded Kalam Mekhar.
'Right here before me. A new drink that Bottle in his inebriated state just invented. Rum and wine – half and half, soldier, fill us up – you too, that's what you get for making that face.'
Keneb rubbed at his own face. He'd taken but a single mouthful of the wine, but he felt drunk. Hot in here. He started as four cards appeared in a row in front of the one already before him.
'Spinner of Death, Queen of Dark, Queen of Life and, ho, the King in Chains. Like hopping stones across a stream, isn't it? Expecting to see your wife any time soon, Fist? Forget it. She's set you aside for an Untan noble, and my, if it isn't Exent Hadar – I bet he kept his gaze averted back then, probably ignored you outright, that's both guilt and smugness, you know. Must have been the weak chin that stole her heart – but look at you, sir, you look damned relieved and that's a hand that tops us all and even though you were out when it comes to winning you're back in when it comes to losing, but in this case you win when you lose, so relax.'
'Well,' muttered Bottle, 'hope I nev'win one a theez'ands.'
'No,' Fiddler said to him, 'you got it easy. She plays and she takes, and so-' A card clattered before the owl-eyed soldier. 'Deathslayer.
You can sleep now, Bottle, you're done as done for the night.'
The man's eyes promptly closed and he slid down from his chair, the piece of furniture scraping back. Keneb heard the man's head thump on the boards, once.
Yes, that'd be nice. Exent Hadar. Gods, woman, really! 'So how does Kalam get from Herald Death to Obelisk? Let's see. Ah, King of High House Shadows! That shifty slime bung, oh, doesn't he look smug! Despite the sweat on his upper lip – who's gone all chilled in here? Hands up, please.'
Reluctantly… Kalam, T'amber, then Apsalar all lifted hands.
'Well, that's ugly as ugly gets – you've got the bottles now, Apsalar, now that Bottle's corked. This one's for you, T'amber. Virgin of Death, as far as you go. You're out, so relax. Kalam's cold, but he don't get another card 'cause he don't need one and now I know who gets pushed and who gets pulled and I'll add the name to the dirge to come. Now for the hot bloods. Quick Ben gets the Consort in Chains but he's from Seven Cities and he just saved his sister's life so it's not as bad as it could've been. Anyway, that's it for you. And so, who does that leave?'
Silence for a moment. Keneb managed to lift his leaden head, frowning confusedly at the scatter of cards all over the table.
'That would be me and you, Sergeant,' the Adjunct said in a low voice.
'You cold?' Fiddler asked her, drinking down yet another cup of Rusty Gauntlet.
'No.'
'Hot?'
'No.'
Fiddler nodded, slamming his empty cup down for Apsalar to refill with wine and rum. 'Aye,' He floated a card down the length of the table.
It landed atop the first card. 'Master of the Deck. Ganoes Paran, Adjunct. Your brother. Even cold iron, Tavore Paran, needs tempering.'
He lifted up another card and set it down before him. 'Priest of Life, hah, now that's a good one. Game's done.'
'Who wins?' the Adjunct, her face pale as candlewax, asked in a whisper.
'Nobody,' Fiddler replied. 'That's Life for you.' He suddenly rose, tottered, then staggered for the door.
'Hold it!' Quick Ben demanded behind him. 'There's this face-down card in front of me! You said it closes the game!'
'It just did,' mumbled the sergeant as he struggled with the latch.
'Do I turn it over, then?'
'No.'
Fiddler stumbled out into the corridor and Keneb listened to the man's ragged footsteps receding towards the stairs leading to the deck. The Fist, shaking his head, pushed himself upright. He looked at the others.
No-one else had moved.
Then, with a snort, Apsalar rose and walked out. If she was as drunk as Keneb felt, she did not show any signs of it.
A moment later both Quick Ben and Kalam followed.
Under the table, Bottle was snoring.
The Adjunct and T'amber, Keneb slowly realized, were both looking at the unturned card. Then, with a hiss of frustration, Tavore reached out and flipped it over. After a moment, she half-rose and leaned forward on the table to read its title. 'Knight of Shadow. I have never heard of such a card. T'amber, who, what did you-'
'I didn't,' T'amber interrupted.
'You didn't what?'
She looked up at the Adjunct. 'Tavore, I have never seen that card before, and I certainly didn't paint it.'
Both women were silent again, both staring down at the strange card.
Keneb struggled to focus on its murky image. 'That's one of those Greyskins,' he said.
'Tiste Edur,' T'amber murmured.
'With a spear,' the Fist continued. 'A Greyskin, like the ones we saw on those black ships…' Keneb leaned back, his head swimming. 'I don' t feel very well.'
'Please stay for a moment, Fist. T'amber, what just happened here?'
The other woman shook her head. 'I have never seen a field laid in such a manner. It was… chaotic – sorry, I did not mean that in an elemental sense. Like a rock bouncing down a gorge, ricocheting from this and that, yet, everywhere it struck, it struck true.'
'Can you make sense of it?'
'Not much. Not yet.' She hesitated, scanning the cards scattered all over the map-table. 'Oponn's presence was… unexpected.'
'The push or the pull,' Keneb said. 'Someone's undecided about something, that's what Fiddler said. Who was it again?'
'Kalam Mekhar,' the Adjunct replied. 'But the Herald of Death intervenes-'
'Not the Herald,' cut in T'amber, 'but an inactive version, a detail I believe is crucial.'
Muted shouts from beyond announced the sighting of Malaz Harbour. The Adjunct faced Keneb. 'Fist, these are your orders for this night. You are in command of the Fourteenth. No-one is to disembark, barring those I will dispatch on my own behalf. With the exception of the Froth Wolf all other ships are to remain in the harbour itself – all commands directing the fleet to tie up at a pier or jetty are to be ignored until I inform you otherwise.'
'Adjunct, any such orders, if they reach me, will be from the Empress herself. I am to ignore those?'
'You are to misunderstand, Fist. I leave the details of that misunderstanding to your imagination.'
'Adjunct, where will you be?'
The woman studied him for a moment, then it seemed she reached a decision. 'Fist Keneb, the Empress awaits me in Mock's Hold. I expect she will not wait until morning to issue her summons.' A flicker of emotion in her face. 'The soldiers of the Fourteenth Army do not return as heroes, it would appear. I will not expose their lives to unnecessary risks. In particular I speak of the Wickans and the Khundryl Burned Tears. As for the Perish, the nature of their alliance depends upon my conversation with the Empress. Unless circumstances warrant a change, I assume their disposition rests with Laseen, but I must await her word on that. Ultimately, Fist, it is for Mortal Sword Krughava – do the Perish disembark and present to the Empress as they did with us, or, if events turn unfortunate, do they leave? My point is this, Keneb, they must be free to choose.'
'And Admiral Nok's view on that?'
'We are agreed.'
'Adjunct,' said Keneb, 'if the Empress decides to attempt to stay the Perish, we could end up with a battle in Malaz Harbour. Malazan against Malazan. This could start a damned civil war.'
Tavore frowned. 'I do not anticipate anything so extreme, Fist.'
But Keneb persisted. 'Forgive me, but I believe it is you who misunderstands. The Perish swore service to you, not the Empress.'
'She will not listen to that,' T'amber said, with an unexpected tone of frustration in her voice, even as she walked to where Bottle slept.
A kick elicted a grunt, then a cough. 'Up, soldier,' T'amber said, seemingly unmindful of the glare the Adjunct had fixed upon her.
No you fool, Keneb, hardly unmindful.
'You have your orders, Fist,' Tavore said.
'Aye, Adjunct. Do you wish me to drag this marine here out with me?'
'No. I must speak with Bottle in private. Go now, Keneb. And thank you for attending this night.'
I'm fairly certain I had no choice. At the doorway he looked back once more at the cards. Lord of Wolves, Spinner of Death, Queens of Dark and Life, and the King in Chains. Lord of Wolves… that has to be the Perish.
Gods below, I think it's begun.
On the harbour-facing wall of Mock's Hold, Pearl stood at the parapet, watching the dark shapes of the imperial fleet slowly swing round into the calm waters of the bay. Huge transports, like oversized bhederin, and the dromon escorts on the flanks lean as wolves. The Claw's eyes narrowed as he attempted to make out the foreign ships in the midst of the others. Enormous, twin-hulled… formidable. There seemed to be a lot of them.
How had they come here so quickly? And how did the Empress know that they would? The only possibility in answer to the first question was: by warren. Yet, who among the Adjunct's retinue could fashion a gate of such power and breadth? Quick Ben? Pearl did not think that likely.
That bastard liked his secrets, and he liked playing both a weakling and something considerably deadlier, but neither conceit impressed Pearl. No, Tavore's High Mage didn't have what was necessary to open such a massive rift.
Leaving those damned foreigners. And that was very troubling indeed.
Perhaps it might prove a propitious moment for some kind of preemptive, covert action. Which would, now that the Empress had arrived, be possible after all. And expedient – for we have no idea who has now come among us, right to the heart of the empire. A foreign navy, arriving virtually unopposed… within striking distance of the Empress herself.
It was going to be a busy night.
'Pearl.'
The voice was low, yet he did not need to turn round to know who had spoken. He knew, as well, that Empress Laseen would frown disapprovingly should he turn to face her. Odd habits, that way. No, just paranoia. 'Good evening, Empress.'
'Does this view please you?'
Pearl grimaced. 'She has arrived. In all, well timed for everyone concerned.'
'Do you look forward to seeing her again?'
'I travelled in her company for some time, Empress.'
'And?'
'And, to answer your question, I am… indifferent.'
'My Adjunct does not inspire loyalty?'
'Not with me, Empress. Nor, I think, with the soldiers of the Fourteenth Army.'
'And yet, Pearl, has she failed them? Even once?'
'Y'Ghatan-'
The seemingly disembodied voice interrupted him. 'Do not be a fool.
This is you and I, Pearl, speaking here. In absolute private. What occurred at Y'Ghatan could not have been anticipated, by anyone. Given that, Adjunct Tavore's actions were proper and, indeed, laudable.'
'Very well,' Pearl said, remembering that night of flames… the distant screams he could hear from inside his tent – when in my anger and hurt, I hid, like some child. 'Facts aside, Empress, the matter hinges upon how one is perceived.'
'Assuredly so.'
'Adjunct Tavore rarely emerges from an event – no matter how benign or fortuitous – untarnished. And no, I do not understand why this should be so.'
'The legacy of Coltaine.'
Pearl nodded in the darkness. Then, he frowned. Ah, Empress, now I see… 'And so, the dead hero is… unmanned. His name becomes a curse. His deeds, a lie.' No, damn you, I was close enough to know otherwise. No. 'Empress, it will not work.'
'Will it not?'
'No. Instead, we all are tainted. Faith and loyalty vanish. All that gifts us with pride becomes stained. The Malazan Empire ceases to have heroes, and without heroes, Empress, we will self-destruct.'
'You lack faith, Pearl.'
'In what, precisely?'
'The resilience of a civilization.'
'The faith you suggest seems more a wilful denial, Empress. Refusing to acknowledge the symptoms because it's easier that way. Complacency serves nothing but dissolution.'
'I may be many things,' Laseen said, 'but complacent is not one of them.'
'Forgive me, Empress, I did not mean to suggest that.'
'That fleet of catamarans,' she said after a moment, 'looks rather ominous. Can you sense the power emanating from it?'
'Somewhat.'
'Does it not follow, given their appearance, Pearl, that in allying themselves with Adjunct Tavore, these foreigners perceived in her something we do not? I wonder what it might be.'
'I cannot imagine their motives, Empress, for I have yet, to meet them.'
'Do you wish to, Pearl?'
As I anticipated. 'In truth, those motives are of little interest to me.'
'It would seem that not much is these days, Pearl. With you.'
And who has made that particular report, Empress? He shrugged, said nothing.
'The fleet is anchoring in the bay,' the Empress suddenly said, and she stepped up to stand beside Pearl, her gloved hands resting on the battered stone. 'There, two ships only, sliding forward to dock. What does she believe, to have issued such orders? And, perhaps more significantly, why has Admiral Nok not countermanded her – the signal flags are lit, after all. There can be no mistaking my command.'
'Empress,' said Pearl, 'there are not enough berths for this fleet in the entire harbour. It may be that the ships will dock in a particular order-'
'No.'
He fell silent, but he could feel sweat prickling beneath his clothes.
'Her first move,' the Empress whispered, and there was something like excitement – or dark satisfaction – in her tone.
A squeal sounded from the weather vane atop the tower behind them, and Pearl shivered. Aye, on a night with no wind… He looked down upon the city, and saw torchlight in the streets. Sparks to tinder, the word of the arrival in the hay races from mouth to mouth, eager as lust. The Wickans have returned, and now the mob gathers… the rage awakens.
Thus, Empress – you need those ships to close, you need the lines drawn fast.
You need the victims to disembark, to bring the flames to a roar.
She turned about then. 'Follow me.'
Back along the watch-mount, across the causeway span to the keep itself. Her strides sure, almost eager. Beneath the arched entranceway, between the two cloaked, hooded forms of Claws – he felt their warrens held open, power roiling invisibly from their unseen hands.
A long, poorly lit corridor, the pavestones humped where subsurface settling had occurred, marking where an enormous crack was riven through the entire fortress. One day, this whole damned place will tumble into the bay, and good riddance. Of course, the engineers and mages had assured everyone that such a risk was half a century away, or longer. Too bad.
An intersection, the Empress leading him to the left – oh yes, she was familiar with this place. Where she had, years ago, assassinated the Emperor and Dancer. Assassination. If you could call it that. More like inadvertently aided and abetted. Along another canted corridor, and finally to the doors of a meeting chamber. Where stood two more Claws, the one on the left turning upon sighting them and tugging open the left door, in time for the Empress to pass within without change of pace.
Pearl followed, his steps suddenly slowing as soon as he stepped into the room.
Before him, a long T-shaped table. A tribunal arrangement. He found himself at its intersection. A raised chair marked the head, up the length of the axis, and that modest throne was flanked by figures already seated, although they both rose with Laseen's arrival.
Mallick Rel.
And Korbolo Dom.
Pearl struggled to keep the disgust from his face. Immediately before him were the backs of three chairs along the horizontal span. He hesitated. 'Where, Empress,' he asked, 'shall I sit?'
Settling into the throne, she regarded him for a moment, then one thin brow rose. 'Pearl, I do not expect you to be present. After all, you indicated you had no particular interest in seeing the Adjunct again, and so I shall relieve you of that burden.'
'I see. Then what would you have me do?'
The Jhistal priest on her right cleared his throat, then said, 'A burdensome but essential mission, Pearl, falls upon you. Organization is required, yes? The dispatch of a Hand, which you will find assembled at the Gate. A solitary killing. A drunkard who frequents Coop's Hanged Man Inn. His name: Banaschar. Thereafter, you may return to your quarters to await further instruction.'
Pearl's eyes remained fixed on the Empress, locked with her own, but she gave nothing away, as if daring him to ask what he so longed to:
Does a Claw take his orders from a Jhistal priest of Mael now? A man delivered here in chains not so long ago? But, he knew, her silence gave him his answer. He broke his gaze from her and studied Korbolo Dom. The Napan bastard was wearing the regalia of a High Fist. Seeing the man's smug, contemptuous expression, Pearl's palms itched. Two knives, my favourite ones, slowly slicing that face away – all of it – gods, never mind that – I could bury a blade in his damned throat right now – maybe I'd be fast enough, maybe not. That's the problem.
The hidden Claw in this room will take me down, of course, but maybe they're not anticipating… no, don't be a fool, Pearl. He glanced once more at the Empress and something in her look told him she had comprehended, in full, the desires with which he struggled… and was amused.
Still, he hesitated. Now was the time, he realized, to speak out against this. To seek to convince her that she'd invited two vultures, perched now on each shoulder, and what they hungered for was not the ones who would in a short time be seated before them – no, they wanted the throne they flanked. And they will kill you, Laseen. They will kill you.
'You may now go,' Mallick Rel said in a sibilant voice.
'Empress,' Pearl forced himself to say, 'please, consider well Tavore' s words this night. She is your Adjunct, and nothing has changed that.
No-one can change that-'
'Thank you for the advice, Pearl,' Laseen said.
He opened his mouth to add more, then closed it again. He bowed to his Empress, turned about and strode from the chamber. And so, Pearl, you fling it into Tavore's lap. All of it. You damned coward.
Still, who killed Lostara Yil? Well, Adjunct, such disregard ever comes home to roost.
So be it. Tonight belonged to them. Korbolo Dom he could take another night, at his leisure, and yes indeed, he would do just that. And maybe that grinning lizard of a priest as well. Why not? Topper was missing, probably dead. So, Pearl would act, in the name of the empire. Not in Laseen's name, but in the empire's, and this was one instance – clearer than any other he could think of – where the two loyalties clashed. But, as ever with the Claw, as with you once, long ago, Empress, the choice is obvious. And necessary.
For all the bravado of his thoughts, as he made his way down to the courtyard, another voice whispered over and over, cutting through again and again. One word, burning like acid, one word…
Coward.
Scowling, Pearl descended the levels of the keep. A Hand was waiting, to be given the task of assassinating a drunk ex-priest. And in this, as well, Pearl had waited too long. He could have forced things into the open, reached through to Tayschrenn – that bastard had virtually entombed himself, never mind that nest of hidden helpers. Oh, the Imperial High Mage wanted to be close to things. Just not involved.
Poor Banaschar, a haunted, befuddled scholar who simply wanted to talk to an old friend. But Mallick Rel did not want Tayschrenn disturbed.
Because the Jhistal priest has plans.
Was Laseen truly a fool? There was no possible way she trusted them.
So, what was the value in placing those two men in that chamber? To unbalance Tavore? Unbalance? More like a slap in the face. Is that really necessary, Empress? Never mind Tavore, you cannot just use men like Mallick Rel and Korbolo Dom. They will turn on you, like the vipers they are.
The risk in unleashing false rumours was when they proved too successful, trapping the liar in the lie, and Pearl began to realize something… a possibility. To ruin the name of Coltaine, that of his enemy must be raised. Korbolo Dom, from traitor to hero. Somehow… no, I don't want to know the details. Laseen could not then execute or even imprison a hero, could she? Indeed, she'd have to promote him.
Empress, you have trapped yourself. Now, I cannot believe you are not aware of it…
His steps slowed. He had reached the main floor, was ten paces from the postern door that would take him out along the base of the wall, a path of shadows leading him to the Gate.
What do you seek to tell your Adjunct, then? The extremity of the danger you are in? Do you ask Tavore… for help? Will she, upon walking into that chamber, be in any condition to see and understand your plea? For Hood's sake, Laseen, this could go very, very wrong.
Pearl halted. He could do what was necessary, right now. Walk to the east tower and kick down Tayschrenn's door. And tell the fool what he needed to hear. He couldTwo hooded figures stepped into view before him. Claws. Both bowed, then the one on the left spoke. 'Claw, we are informed that our target is ensconced in the Hanged Man Inn. There is a piss trough in the alley behind it, which he will frequent throughout the night.'
'Yes,' Pearl said, suddenly exhausted. 'That would be ideal.'
The two cowled figures before him waited.
'There is more?' Pearl asked.
'Such matters are for you to command.'
'What matters?'
'Sir, killing undesirables.'
'Yes. Go on.'
'Just that, sir. This target was delivered to us… from elsewhere.
From one who expected unquestioned compliance.'
Pearl's eyes narrowed, then he said, 'This assassination tonight… you would not accede to it without my direct command.'
'We seek… affirmation.'
'Did not the Empress herself confirm the Jhistal's words?'
'Sir, she did not. She… said nothing.'
'Yet she was present.'
'She was.'
Now what am I to make of that? Was she just feeding out enough rope?
Or was she, too, frightened of Tayschrenn and so was pleased to unleash Mallick Rel on Banaschar? Damn! I don't know enough about all of this. No choice, then, for now. 'Very well. The command is given.'
The Claw, Mallick Rel, are not yours. And the Empress has… abstained. No, it seems that, until – or if – Topper returns, the Claw are mine. Convenient as well, Laseen, that you brought six hundred with you…
The two assassins bowed, then departed through the postern door.
Then again, why did it feel as if he was the one being used? And worse, why did it seem that he no longer cared? No, it was well.
Tonight he would not think, simply obey. Tomorrow, well, that was another matter, wasn't it? Tomorrow, then, I will kick through what's left. And decide what needs to be decided. There you have it, Empress.
Tomorrow, the new Clawmaster once more cleans house. And maybe… maybe that is what you ask from me. Or you have asked it already, for it wasn't just the Adjunct for whom you assembled that tribunal, was it? You just gave me command of six hundred assassin-mages, didn't you? What else would they be for?
The truth was, he could not guess the mind of Empress Laseen, and in that he most certainly was not alone.
Nerves slithered awake in his stomach, born of sudden fears he could not comprehend. Six hundred…
Face it, Pearl. The Adjunct did not kill Lostara. You did. You sent her away, and she died. And that's that.
But that changes nothing. It makes no real difference what I do now.
Let them all die.
Pearl turned about and made his way to his rooms. To await more orders. Six hundred killers to unleash… but upon whom?
Hellian decided she hated rum. She wanted something else, something not so sweet, something better suited to her nature. It was dark, the wind warm and humid but falling off, and the harbourfront of Malaz seemed to whisper an invitation, like a lover's breath on the back of her neck.
The sergeant stood watching as the Froth Wolf moved ahead of the rest of the ships, the Silanda following in its wake. Yet, from all around now came the liquid rattle of anchor chains sliding down, and the craft beneath her was tugged to a halt. Staring wildly about, Hellian cursed. 'Corporal,' she said.
'Me?' asked Touchy behind her.
'Me?' asked Brethless.
'That's right, you. What's going on here? Look, there's soldiers on the jetties, and well-wishers. Why aren't we heading in? They're waving.' Hellian waved back, but it was unlikely they could see that – there were hardly any lights from the fleet at all. 'Gloom and gloom,' she muttered, 'like we was some beaten dog creeping home.'
'Or like it's real late,' Brethless said, 'and you was never supposed to be with your mother's friend at all especially when Ma knows and she's waiting up with that dented skillet but sometimes, you know, older women, they come at you like a fiend and what can you do?'
'Not like that at all, you idiot,' Touchy hissed. 'More like that daughter of that priest and gods below you're running but there ain't no escaping curses like those, not ones from a priest, anyway, which means your life is doomed for ever and ever, as if Burn cares a whit she's sleeping anyway, right?'
Hellian turned round and stared at a space directly between the two men. 'Listen, Corporal, make up your damned mind, but then again don't bother. I wasn't interested. I was asking you a question, and if you can't answer then don't say nothing.'
The two men exchanged glances, then Brethless shrugged. 'We ain't disembarking, Sergeant,' he said. 'Word's just come.'
'Are they mad? Of course we're disembarking – we've just sailed a million leagues. Five million, even. We been through fires and storms and green lights in the sky and nights with the shakes and broken jaws and that damned rhizan piss they called wine. That's Malaz City there, right there, and that's where I'm going, Corporal Brethy Touchless, and I don't care how many arms you got, I'm going and that's that.'
She swung about, walked forward, reached the rail, pitched over and was suddenly gone.
Brethless and Touchy stared at each other again, as a heavy splash sounded.
'Now what?' Touchy demanded.
'She's done drowned herself, hasn't she?'
'We'd better report it to somebody.'
'We do that and we're in real trouble. We was standing right here, after all. They'll say we pushed her.'
'But we didn't!'
'That don't matter. We're not even trying to save her, are we?'
'I can't swim!'
'Me neither.'
'Then we should shout an alarm or something.'
'You do it.'
'No, you.'
'Maybe we should just go below, tell people we went looking for her but we didn't never find her.'
At that they both paused and looked round. A few figures moving in the gloom, sailors doing sailor things.
'Nobody saw or heard nothing.'
'Looks like. Well, that's good.'
'Isn't it. So, we go below now, right? Throw up our hands and say nothing.'
'Not nothing. We say we couldn't find her nowhere.'
'Right, that's what I mean. Nothing is what I mean, I mean, about her going over the side, that sort of nothing.'
A new voice from behind them: 'You two, what are you doing on deck?'
Both corporals turned. 'Nothing,' they said in unison.
'Get below, and stay there.'
They hurried off.
'Three ashore,' the young, foppishly attired figure said, his eyes fixed on the knuckle dice where they came to a rest on the weathered stone.
His twin stood facing the distant, looming bulk of Mock's Hold, the night's wind caressing the gaudy silks about her slim form.
'You see how it plays out?' her brother asked, collecting the dice with a sweep of one hand. 'Tell me truly, have you any idea – any idea at all – of how mightily I struggled to retain our card during that horrendous game? I'm still weak, dizzy. He wanted to drag us out, again and again and again. It was horrifying.'
'Heroic indeed,' she murmured without turning.
'Three ashore,' he said again. 'How very… unexpected. Do you think that dreadful descent above Otataral Island was responsible? I mean, for the one that's even now on its way?' Straightening, he moved to join his sister.
They were standing on a convenient tower rising from the city of Malaz, south of the river. To most citizens of the city, the tower appeared to be in ruins, but that was an illusion, maintained by the sorceror who occupied its lower chambers, a sorceror who seemed to be sleeping. The twin god and goddess known as Oponn had the platform – and the view – entirely to themselves.
'Certainly possible,' she conceded, 'but is that not the charm of our games, beloved?' She gestured towards the bay to their right. 'They have arrived, and even now there is a stirring among those abject mortals in those ships, especially the Silanda. Whilst, in the fell Hold opposite, the nest slithers awake. There will be work for us, this night.'
'Oh yes. Both you and me. Pull, push, pull, push.' He rubbed his hands together. 'I can hardly wait.'
She faced him suddenly. 'Can we be so sure, brother, that we comprehend all the players? All of them? What if one hides from us?
Just one… wild, unexpected, so very terrible… we could end up in trouble. We could end up… dead.'
'It was that damned soldier,' her brother snarled. 'Stealing our power! The arrogance, to usurp us in our very own game! I want his blood!'
She smiled in the darkness. 'Ah, such fire in your voice. So be it.
Cast the knuckles, then, on his fate. Go on. Cast them!'
He stared across at her, then grinned. Whirled about, one hand flinging out and down – knuckles struck, bounced, struck again, then spun and skidded, and finally fell still.
The twins, breathing hard in perfect unison, hurried over and crouched down to study the cast.
And then, had there been anyone present to see them, they would have witnessed on their perfect faces bemused expressions. Frowns deepening, confusion reigning in immortal eyes, and, before this night was done, pure terror.
The non-existent witness would then shake his or her head. Never, dear gods. Never mess with mortals.
'Grub and three friends, playing in a cave. A Soletaken with a stolen sword. Togg and Fanderay and damned castaways…'
Trapped since Fiddler's reading in a small closet-sized cabin on the Froth Wolf, Bottle worked the finishing touches on the doll nestled in his lap. The Adjunct's commands made no sense – but no, he corrected with a scowl, not the Adjunct's. This – all of this – belonged to that tawny-eyed beauty, T'amber. Who in Hood's name is she?' Oh, never mind. Only the thousandth time I've asked myself that question. But it's that look, you see, in her eyes. That knowing look, like she's plunged through, right into my heart.
And she doesn't even like men, does she?
He studied the doll, and his scowl deepened. 'You,' he muttered, 'I've never seen you before, you know that? But here you are, with a sliver of iron in your gut – gods but that must hurt, cutting away, always cutting away inside. You, sir, are somewhere in Malaz City, and she wants me to find you, and that's that. A whole city, mind you, and I' ve got till dawn to track you down.' Of course, this doll would help, somewhat, once the poor man was close enough for Bottle to stare into his eyes and see the same pain that now marked these uneven chips of oyster shell. That, and the seams of old scars on the forearms – but there were plenty of people with those, weren't there? 'I need help,' he said under his breath.
From above, the voices of sailors as the ship angled in towards the jetty, and some deeper, more distant sound, from the dockfront itself.
And that one felt… unpleasant.
We've been betrayed. All of us.
The door squealed open behind him.
Bottle closed his eyes.
The Adjunct spoke. 'We're close. The High Mage is ready to send you across – you will find him in my cabin. I trust you are ready, soldier.'
'Aye, Adjunct.' He turned, studied her face in the gloom of the corridor where she stood. The extremity of emotion within her was revealed only in a tightness around her eyes. Desperate.
'You must not fail, Bottle.'
'Adjunct, the odds are against me-'
'T'amber says you must seek help. She says you know who.'
T'amber, the woman with those damned eyes. Like a lioness. What is it, damn it, about those eyes? 'Who is she, Adjunct?'
A flicker of something like sympathy in the woman's gaze. 'Someone… a lot more than she once was, soldier.'
'And you trust her?'
'Trust.' She smiled slightly. 'You must know, as young as you are, Bottle, that truth is found in the touch. Always.'
No, he did not know. He did not understand. Not any of it. Sighing, he rose, stuffing the limp doll beneath his jerkin, where it sat nestled alongside the sheathed knife under his left arm. No uniform, no markings whatsoever that would suggest he was a soldier of the Fourteenth – the absence of fetishes made him feel naked, vulnerable.
'All right,' he said.
She led him to her cabin, then halted at the doorway. 'Go on. I must be on deck, now.'
Bottle hesitated, then said, 'Be careful, Adjunct.'
A faint widening of the eyes, then she turned and walked away.
Kalam stood at the stern, squinting into the darkness beyond where transports were anchoring. He'd thought he'd heard the winching of a longboat, somewhere a few cables distant from shore. Against every damned order the Adjunct's given this night.
Well, even he wasn't pleased with those orders. Quick Ben slicing open a sliver of a gate – even that sliver might get detected, and that would be bad news for poor Bottle. He'd step out into a nest of Claw.
He wouldn't stand a chance. And who might come through the other way?
All too risky. All too… extreme.
He rolled his shoulders, lifting then shrugging off the tension. But the tautness came back only moments later. The palms of the assassin's hands were itching beneath the worn leather of his gloves. Decide, damn you. Just decide.
Something skittered on the planks to his right and he turned to see a shin-high reptilian skeleton, its long snouted head tilting as the empty eye sockets regarded him. The segmented tail flicked.
'Don't you smell nice?' the creature hissed, jaws clacking out of sequence. 'Doesn't he smell nice, Curdle?'
'Oh yes,' said another thin voice, this time to Kalam's left, and he glanced over to see a matching skeleton perched on the stern rail, almost within reach. 'Blood and strength and will and mindfulness, nearly a match to our sweetheart. Imagine the fight between them, Telorast. Wouldn't that be something to see?'
'And where is she?' Kalam asked in a rumble. 'Where's Apsalar hiding?'
'She's gone,' Curdle said, head bobbing.
'What?'
'Gone,' chimed in Telorast with another flick of the tail. 'It's only me and Curdle who are hiding right now. Not that we have to, of course.'
'Expedience,' explained Curdle. 'It's scary out there tonight. You have no idea. None.'
'We know who's here, you see. All of them.'
Now, from the dark waters, Kalam could hear the creak of oars. Someone had indeed dropped a longboat and was making for shore. Damned fools – that mob will tear them to pieces. He turned about and set off for the mid deck.
The huge jetty appeared to starboard as the ship seemed to curl round, its flank sidling ever closer. The assassin saw the Adjunct arrive from below and he approached her.
'We've got trouble,' he said without preamble. 'Someone's going ashore, in a longboat.'
Tavore nodded. 'So I have been informed.'
'Oh. Who, then?'
From nearby T'amber said, 'There is a certain… symmetry to this. A rather bitter one, alas. In the longboat, Kalam Mekhar, are Fist Tene Baralta and his Red Blades.'
The assassin frowned.
'Deeming it probable, perhaps,' T'amber continued, 'that our escort coming down from Mock's Hold will prove insufficient against the mob.'
Yet there seemed to be little conviction in the woman's tone, as if she was aware of a deeper truth, and was inviting Kalam to seek it for himself.
'The Red Blades,' said the Adjunct, 'ever have great need to assert their loyalty.' … their loyalty…
'Kalam Mekhar,' Tavore continued, stepping closer, her eyes now fixed on his own, 'I expect I will be permitted but a minimal escort of my own choosing. T'amber, of course, and, if you would accede, you.'
'Not an order, Adjunct?'
'No,' she answered quietly, almost tremulously. And then she waited.
Kalam looked away. Dragon's got Hood by the nose hairs… one of Fid's observations during one of his games. Years ago, now. Blackdog, was it? Probably. Why had he thought of that statement now? Because I know how Hood must have felt, that's why.
Wait, I can decide on this without deciding on anything else. Can't I?
Of course I can. 'Very well, Adjunct. I will be part of your escort.
We'll get you to Mock's Hold.'
'To the Hold, yes, that is what I have asked of you here.'
As she turned away, Kalam frowned, then glanced over at T'amber, who was regarding him flatly, as if disappointed. 'Something wrong?' he asked the young woman.
'There are times,' she said, 'when the Adjunct's patience surpasses even mine. And, you may not know this, but that is saying something.'
Froth Wolf edged closer to the jetty.
On the other side of the same stone pier, the longboat scraped up against the slimy foundation boulders. Lines were made fast to the rings set in the mortar, and Lostara Yil watched as one of the more nimble Red Blades hauled himself upward from ring to ring, trailing a knot-ladder. Moments later, he had reached the top of the jetty, where he attached the ladder's hooks to still more rings.
Tene Baralta was the first to ascend, slowly, awkward, using his one arm and grunting with each upward heave on the rungs.
Feeling sick to her stomach, Lostara followed, ready to catch the man should he falter or slip.
This is a lie. All of it.
She reached the top, clambered upright and paused, adjusting her weapon belt and her cloak.
'Captain,' Tene Baralta said, 'form up to await the Adjunct.'
She glanced to the right and saw a contingent of Imperial Guard pushing through the milling crowd, an officer in their midst.
Tene Baralta noticed them as well. 'Not enough, as I suspected. If this mob smells blood…'
Turning to the company of Red Blades, Lostara kept her face impassive, even as a sneering thought silently slithered through her mind:
Whatever you say, Fist. Just don't expect me to believe any of this.
At that moment a deeper roaring sound filled the air, and the sky above the bay suddenly blazed bright.
Banaschar squinted through the haze of smoke, scanning the crowd, then he grunted. 'He's not here,' he said. 'In fact, I haven't seen him in days… I think. How about you, Master Sergeant?'
Braven Tooth simply shrugged, his only reponse to Mudslinger's question.
The soldier glanced at Gentur, his silent companion, then said, 'It's just this, Master Sergeant. First we lose them, then we hear something about him, and we put it together, you see?'
The hairy old man bared his teeth. 'Oh yeah, Mudslinger. Now go away before I tie a full cask to your back and send you round the harbourfront at double-time.'
'He can't do that, can he?' Gentur asked his fellow soldier.
But Mudslinger had paled. 'You never forget, do you, sir?'
'Explain it to your friend. But not here. Try the alley.'
The two soldiers backed off, exchanging whispers as they made their way back to their table.
'I always like to think,' Banaschar said, 'that a nasty reputation is usually mostly undeserved. Benefit of the doubt, and maybe I've got some glimmer of faith in humanity clawing its way free every now and again. But, with you, Braven Tooth, alas, such optimism is revealed for the delusion it truly is.'
'Got that right. What about it?'
'Nothing.'
They heard shouting in the street outside, a clamour of voices that then died away. This had been going on all evening. Roving bands of idiots looking for someone to terrorize. The mood in the city was dark and ugly and getting worse with every bell that chimed, and there seemed to be no reason for it, although, Banaschar reminded himself, that had now changed.
Well, maybe there was still no reason as such. Only, there had arrived… a target.
'Someone's poking with a knife,' Braven Tooth said.
'It's the imperial fleet,' Banaschar said. 'Bad timing, given all the Wickans in those ships, and the other foreigners with them, too, I imagine.'
'You ain't drinking much, Banaschar. You sick or something?'
'Worse than that,' he replied. 'I have reached a decision. Autumn has arrived. You can feel it in the wind. The worms are swarming to shore.
It's D'rek's season. Tonight, I talk with the Imperial High Mage.'
The Master Sergeant scowled across at him. 'Thought you said trying that would get you dead quick. Unless, of course, that's what you want.'
'I plan on losing my follower in the crowd,' Banaschar said in a low voice, leaning over the table. 'I'll take the waterfront way, at least to the bridge. I hear there's City Watch there, pushing the brainless dolts back from the jetties – gods, how stupid can people be? That's an army out on those ships!'
'Like I said, someone's poking. Be nice to meet that someone. So's I can put my fist into his face and watch it come out the back of his head. Messy way to go, but fast, which is more than the bastard deserves.'
'What are you going on about?' Banaschar asked.
'Never mind.'
'Well,' the ex-priest said with more bravado in his voice than he in truth felt, 'it's now or never. Come tomorrow night I'll buy you a pitcher of Malaz Dark-'
'That reminds me – you always seem to find enough coin – how is that?'
'Temple coffers, Braven Tooth.'
'You stole from the D'rek Temple here?'
'Here? That's good. Yes, here, and all the others I visited, too. Got it all squirrelled away, where no-one but me can get to it. Problem is, I feel guilty every time I pinch from it. I never take much – no point in inviting a mugging, after all. But that's just the excuse I use. Like I said, it's guilt.'
'So, if you get yourself killed tonight…'
Banaschar grinned and flung up his hands. 'Phoof! All of it. Gone. For ever.'
'Nice trick, that.'
'You want I should leave it to you?'
'Hood no! What would I do with chests of coin?'
'Chests? Dear Master Sergeant, more like roomfuls. In any case, I'll see you tomorrow… or not. And if not, then, well met, Braven Tooth.'
'Forget that. Tomorrow, like you said.'
Nodding, Banaschar backed away, then began threading his way towards the front door.
Alone at the table now, Braven Tooth slowly raised his tankard for a drink, his eyes almost closed – and to anyone more than a pace or two away they would have seemed closed indeed – and so the figure who hastily rose, slipping like an adder into Banaschar's wake, noticed nothing of the Master Sergeant's fixed attention, the small eyes tracking for a moment, before Braven Tooth finished the ale in three quick swallows. Then the huge, hairy man climbed gustily to his feet, weaving slightly, one hand reaching to the table for balance.
He staggered over to Mudslinger and Gentur, both of whom looked up in guilt and fear – as if they'd been discussing bad things. Braven Tooth leaned between them. 'Listen, you fools,' he said under his breath.
'We're just waiting for Foreigner,' Mudslinger said, eyes wide. 'That' s all. We never-'
'Quiet. See that snake at the steps up front – quickly!'
'Just… gone,' Gentur observed, squinting. 'Snake, you said. I'd say more like a-'
'And you'd be right. And the target is none other than Banaschar. Now, are you two up for surprising a Claw tonight? Do this and I'll think nice thoughts about the both of you.'
The two men were already on their feet.
Gentur spat onto his hands and rubbed them together, 'I used to dream of nights like this,' he said. 'Let's go, Mudder. Before we lose 'im.'
'Heading towards the waterfront,' Braven Tooth said. 'Northering t'the Stairs, right?'
He watched the two soldiers hurry to the back door. Out they went, looking far too eager.
Mudslinger, he knew, was a lot tougher than he looked. Besides, he didn't think that Claw would be thinking about anyone on his own trail. And with the crowds… well, they shouldn't have too much trouble. Soldiers love killing assassins…
Someone threw a handful of knuckle dice at the back of the lowceilinged room.
And Braven Tooth suddenly shivered.
I must be getting soft.
There were plenty of well-armed figures among the crowd gathering along the harbourfront, although, for the moment, those weapons remained beneath heavy cloaks, as these selected agents moved into designated positions. Faint nods passing between them, a few whispered words here and there.
The City Watch stood in a ragged line, pikes shifting nervously as the bolder thugs edged forward with taunts and threats.
There were Wickans in those ships out there.
And we want them.
Traitors, one and all, and dealing with traitors was a punishment that belonged to the people. Wasn't the Empress herself up there at Mock's Hold? Here to witness imperial wrath – she's done it before, right, back when she commanded the Claw.
Never mind you're waiting for an officer, you fools, the signals are lit and we ain't stupid – they're telling those bastards to come in.
Tie up. Disembark. Look at 'em, the cowards! They know the time's come to answer their betrayal!
Believe us, we're gonna fill this bay with Wickan heads – won't that be a pretty sight come morning?
Gods below! What's that?
A chorus of voices shouted that, or something similar, and hands lifted, fingers pointing, eyes tracking a blazing ball of fire that slanted down across half the sky to the west, trailing a blue-grey plume of smoke like the track of an eel on black sand. Growing in size with alarming swiftness.
Then… gone… and a moment later, a savage crack rolled in from beyond the bay, where rose a tumbling cloud of steam.
Close! A third of a league, you think?
Less.
Not much impact, though.
Must've been small. Smaller than it looked.
Went right overheadIt's an omen! An omen!
A Wickan head! Did you see it? It was a Wickan head! Sent down by the gods!
Momentarily distracted by the plunging fireball that seemed to land just beyond the bay, the Claw Saygen Maral pushed himself forward once more. The assassin was pleased with the heaving press he moved through, a press settling down once again, although at a higher pitch of anticipation than before.
Up ahead, the crowd had slowed the ex-priest's pace, which was good, since already nothing was going as planned. The target should have been settled in for the night at Coop's, and the Hand was likely closing in on the alley behind the inn, there to await his contacting them with the necessary details.
Pointing the Skull, they used to call it. Identifying the target right there, right then, in person. A proper reward for following the fool around for sometimes weeks on end – seeing the actual assassination.
Be that as it may, as things were turning out he would be bloodying his own hands with this target tonight, now that the decision had been made to kill the drunkard.
A convenient conjoining of Saygen Maral's divided loyalties. Trained from childhood in the Imperial Claw – ever since he had been taken from his dead mother's side, aged fourteen, at the Cull of the Wax Witches in the Mouse Quarter all those years ago – his disaffection with the Empress had taken a long time to emerge, and even then, if not for the Jhistal Master it would never have found focus, or indeed purpose. Of course, discovering precisely how his mother had died had helped considerably.
The empire was rotten through and through, and he knew he wasn't the only Claw to realize this; just as he wasn't the only one who now followed the commands of the Jhistal Master – most of the Hand on its way down from Mock's Hold belonged to the phantom Black Glove that was the name of Mallick Rel's spectral organization. In truth, there was no way of telling just how many of the Imperial Claw had been turned – each agent was aware of but three others, forming a discrete cell – in itself a classic Claw structure.
In any case, Clawmaster Pearl had confirmed the order to kill Banaschar. Comforting, that.
He remained ten paces behind the ex-priest, acutely aware of the seething violence in this mob – encouraged by the idiotic cries of 'An omen!' and 'A Wickan head!' – but he carried on his person certain items, invested with sorcery, that encouraged a lack of attention from everyone he pushed past, that dampened their ire momentarily no matter how rude and painful his jabbing elbows.
They were close to the docks now, and agents of the Jhistal Master were in the milling crowd, working them ever nastier and more belligerent with well-timed shouts and exhortations. No more than fifty City Watch soldiers faced a mass now numbering in the high hundreds, an under-strength presence that had been carefully coordinated by selective incompetence among the officers at the nearby barracks.
He noted a retinue of more heavily armed and armoured soldiers escorting a ranking officer towards the centre dock, before which now loomed the Adjunct's flagship. The captain, Saygen Maral knew, was delivering a most auspicious set of imperial commands. And those, in turn, would lead inexorably to a night of slaughter such as this city had never before experienced. Not even the Cull in the Mouse would compare.
The assassin smiled.
Welcome home, Adjunct.
His breath caught suddenly as a prickling sensation awoke on his left shoulder beneath his clothes. A small sliver of metal threaded under his skin had awakened, informing him that he was being followed by someone with murderous intent. Clumsy. A killer should ever mask such thoughts. After all, Mockra is the most common natural talent, needing no formal training – that whispering unease, the hair rising on the back of the neck – far too many people possess such things.
Nonetheless, even a clumsy killer could know the Lady's' Pull on occasion, just as Saygen Maral, for all his skills and preparation, could stumble – fatally – to the Lord's Push.
Ahead, now fifteen paces away, Banaschar was working free of the crowd, and Saygen sensed the man's warren – Mockra, yes, achieving what my own invested items have done. Uninterest, sudden fugue, confusion – the sharper the mind, after all, the more vulnerable it proves to such passive assaults. To be a killer, of course, one needed to fend off such sorcery. Simple awareness of the trap sufficed, and so Saygen Maral was not concerned. His intent was most singular.
Of course he would have to eliminate his own hunters first.
Banaschar was heading for the Stairs. There was little risk in Saygen effecting a slight delay. He saw an alley mouth off to the left, where the crowd was thin. The assassin angled himself towards it, and, as he stepped past the last figure, quickly turned left and slipped into the alley.
Gloom, rubbish under foot, a tortured, winding route before him. He continued on five more steps, found an alcove and edged into it.
'He's getting ready to take the drunk,' Gentur hissed. 'He'll circle round-'
'Then let's get after 'im,' Mudslinger whispered, pushing his friend on.
They entered the alley, padded forward.
The shadows swallowing the niche were too deep, too opaque to be natural, and both soldiers went right past without a second thought.
A faint sound, whistling past Mudslinger's left shoulder, and Gentur grunted, flinging up his hands as he staggered forward, then collapsed. Whirling, Mudslinger ducked low, but not low enough, as a second tiny quarrel struck him on his chest, directly over his heart, and, still spinning round with his own momentum, the soldier's feet skidded out beneath him. He fell hard, the back of his head crunching on the greasy cobbles.
Saygen Maral studied the two motionless bodies for a moment longer, then he reloaded the corkscrew crossbows strapped to his wrists. First shot, base of the skull. Second shot, heart – that was a lucky one, since I was aiming for low in the gut. Guess he didn't want all that pain. Too bad. Anyway… What were they thinking of doing! Mugging me?
No matter, it's done. Adjusting his sleeves, hiding the weapons once more, he set off after Banaschar.
A sixth of a bell later, the Claw realized that he had lost the man.
In rising panic, he began backtracking, down alleys and streets, as a cool breeze lifted withered leaves that spun random paths across cobbles.
Making clicking sounds, like the skittering of dice.
The huge wheels of twisted rope suspended on the side of the stone jetty compressed as the Froth Wolf shouldered its bulk against them, then the craft slid away again, momentarily, until the lines, made fast to the dock's huge bollards, drew taut. The gangplank rattled and thumped into place even as the garrison captain and his guards approached along the jetty's length. Pointedly ignoring the troop of Red Blades standing at attention opposite the plank with their onearmed, one-eyed commander.
Something had just struck the sea beyond the anchored fleet, and the thunderous sound of its impact still echoed, even as darkness swept back into the wake of the bright, blazing fireball. The smell of steam was heavy in the air.
It had seemed to Keneb that there was a peculiar lack of reaction to this event, from the Adjunct and T'amber, at any rate. There had been plenty of shouts, warding gestures then animated talk among the sailors, but that was to be expected.
Let's face it, Keneb admitted, the timing was less than auspicious. It was no wonder that thousand-strong mob awaiting them were shouting about omens.
The Fist's attention was drawn once more to the approaching contingent.
'They mean to come aboard, Adjunct,' Keneb said as she prepared to disembark.
Tavore frowned, then nodded and stepped back. T'amber positioned herself to the Adjunct's left.
Boots thumped on the plank, and the captain halted one step from the ship's deck. He looked round, as if deciding what to do next.
Moving forward, Keneb said, 'Good evening, Captain, I am Fist Keneb, Eighth Legion, Fourteenth Army.'
A moment's hesitation, then a salute. 'Fist Keneb. I have orders for the Adjunct Tavore Paran. May I come on deck?'
'Of course,' Keneb said.
Mostly unintelligible shouts and curses reached them from the crowds massing behind a line of soldiers on the waterfront, many of them taunts directed at the Red Blades. At these sounds, the captain winced slightly, then he moved forward until he faced the Adjunct. 'The Empress awaits you,' he said, 'in Mock's Hold. In your absence, command of the Fourteenth Army temporarily falls to me, with respect to disembarking and standing down.'
'I see,' Tavore said.
The captain shifted uneasily, as if he had been expecting some kind of protest, as if her lack of reaction to his words was the very last thing he anticipated. 'It appears that the transports are anchoring in the bay, Adjunct.'
'Yes, it does appear so, Captain.'
'That will need to be countermanded immediately.'
'Captain, what is your name?'
'Adjunct? My apologies. It is Rynag. Captain Rynag of the Untan Imperial Guard.'
'Ah, then you have accompanied the Empress to the island. Your normal posting is as an officer in the Palace Guard.'
Rynag cleared his throat. 'Correct, Adjunct, although as a matter of course my responsibilities have expand-'
'T'amber,' the Adjunct cut in. 'Please collect Kalam Mekhar. He is, I believe, once more at the stern.' She studied the captain for a moment longer, then asked him, 'The Empress commands that I meet her alone?'
'Uh, she was not specific-'
'Very well-'
'Excuse me, Adjunct. Not specific, as I said, with one exception.'
'Oh?'
'Yes. The High Mage Adaephon Delat is to remain on board until such time as directed otherwise.'
Tavore frowned for a moment, then said, 'Very well.'
'I believe I was speaking about countermanding the order to drop anchor-'
'I leave that to you, Captain Rynag,' the Adjunct said as T'amber reappeared, Kalam trailing a step behind. 'We will make use of your escort, as well as that of Fist Baralta's Red Blades, to ensure our passage through that mob.' With that, and a gesture to T'amber and the assassin to follow, she disembarked.
Bemused, the captain watched them cross over to the jetty. A few curt commands to the Imperial Guards assembled there and a careless gesture to Tene Baralta and his soldiers to fall in, and the two groups moved out in uneasy company to flank Tavore and her two companions. Then the party set off.
Rynag swung back to Keneb. 'Fist?'
'Yes?'
'Well…'
'Things aren't going as planned, Captain?' Keneb stepped close and slapped a hand on the man's shoulder. 'Consider this, it could be worse. Correct that. It is much worse.'
'No longer,' the man snapped, finally angry. 'I am now in command of the Fourteenth Army, Fist Keneb, and these are my orders. Signal flag to Admiral Nok. The escorts are to withdraw and set sail without delay for Unta. Signal flag to the foreign fleet, they are to anchor outside the bay, this side of the shoals on the headland north of Mock's Hold.
A pilot ship will guide them. Finally, signal flag to the transports – we will establish a number system; and thereafter in sets of fifteen they will weigh anchor and draw in to the designated moorings. The disembarking will begin as soon as possible, Fist. Furthermore, the soldiers are to be unarmed, their kits secured for transportation.'
Keneb scratched his stubbly jaw.
'Why are you just standing there, Fist Keneb?'
'I am trying to decide, Captain, where to begin.'
'What do you mean?'
'All right, never mind. First of all, whether you are in command of the Fourteenth Army or not, you do not outrank Admiral Nok. Signal him all you want. He will do precisely as he pleases.'
'I am instructed by the Empress-'
'He will need to see those orders, Captain. In person. The Admiral is very precise with such protocol. I assume you have said orders?'
'Of course I have! Very well, signal him aboard!'
'Alas, he will not comply.'
'What?'
'Now, as for the Perish – the foreign fleet, Captain Rynag – the only command they acknowledge, under the circumstances, is their own. By all means, make your request, but be certain that it is a request.
Lest they take offence, and Captain, you truly do not want them to take offence.'
'You are leaving me no choice but to relieve you of command, Fist.'
'Excuse me?'
'I have given you my orders, yet still you stand here-'
'Well that is precisely the problem, Captain. Not one of your orders can be carried out, for the imperative overriding them cannot be challenged, not by you, not even by the Empress herself.'
'What are you talking about?'
Keneb said, 'Follow me, please, Captain.'
They walked to the stern. In the bay beyond, the huge transports loomed a short distance away like gigantic, slumbering beasts.
'Granted,' Keneb said, 'darkness obscures, and for this reason it is understandable that you do not as yet comprehend. But, allow me to direct your gaze, Captain, to the topmost signal flag on those near ships, a flag identical to those on Nok's dromons. In a moment, when that cloud passes by the moon, with Oponn's blessing there will be enough light with which to see. There is an edict, Captain, pertaining to survival itself. You seem to forget, both the Fourteenth Army and the imperial fleet have come from Seven Cities.'
The cloud slid away from the blurred, hazy moon, and enough light licked waves, ships, and flags for Rynag to see. The captain's breath caught in a half-choke. 'Gods below!' he whispered.
'And Seven Cities,' Keneb continued in a calm voice, 'was struck by a most virulent plague. Which, as you can now see, we inadvertently brought with us. So, Captain, do you now understand why we cannot comply with your commands?'
The man spun to face him, his eyes filled with terror and panic. 'And this damned ship?' he demanded in a hoarse voice. 'And the other one that just docked? Fist Keneb-'
'Plague-free, both of them, Captain, as was the ship from whence came the Red Blades. We would not have moored alongside were it otherwise.
Anyway, beyond signal flags, there is no contact between ships. For obvious reasons. I suppose, if you believe the Empress would nonetheless insist we one and all disembark regardless of the slaughter our presence would deliver to Malaz Island – and, inevitably, to the entire mainland – you can insist on countermanding our collective gesture of compassion and mercy. Unquestionably, the name of Captain Rynag will acquire legendary status, at least among devotees to Poliel – nothing wrong with seeing the positives, don't you think?'
The group marched ever closer to the wall of belligerence blocking the streets. Kalam loosened the long-knives in their scabbards. Glancing over, he found himself walking alongside Captain Lostara Yil, who looked profoundly unhappy.
'Suggest you all draw your weapons any time now,' the assassin said to her. 'That should be enough to make them back off.'
She grunted. 'Until they start throwing bricks.'
'I doubt it. We're for the Empress, not them. The ones these people are hungry to sink their teeth into are out there in the transports.
The Wickans. The Khundryl Burned Tears.'
'Clever ruse,' Lostara said under her breath, 'those flags.'
'Fist Keneb.'
'Indeed?'
'Aye.' Then Kalam smiled. 'Spinner of Death. A prettier lie you won't find. Fid must be grinning ear to ear, if he ain't drowning.'
'Drowning?'
'He was over the side before the Silanda shipped oars, is my guess – probably Gesler and Stormy went with him, too.'
Just then they reached the line of City Watch, who parted to let them pass.
Weapons hissed from scabbards and shields were brought round by the Red Blades.
And, as Kalam had predicted, the crowds fell silent, watchful, and backed away to each side to let the party make its way through.
'So,' the assassin said under his breath, 'we've got ourselves a long, dull walk. Sound idea, by the way, Captain, your Fist deciding to act on his own.'
The look she shot him started sweat beneath Kalam's clothing, as she asked, 'Was it, Kalam Mekhar?'
'Well-'
She faced straight ahead again. 'The Fist,' she said in a whisper, ' hasn't even begun.'
Well… oh, that's not good at all.
Behind the troop, the mob closed in once again, and there arose new shouts, this time of horror.
'Plague flags! On the transports in the bay! Plague flags!'
In moments belligerence drained away like piss down a leg, and terror grabbed hold between those legs – squeezing hard – and people began swarming in every direction, but a heartbeat away from pure, frenzied panic. Kalam kept his smile to himself.
Ever so faint, the clatter of knuckles bouncing and skidding had alerted Banaschar. This night the Worm was awake, and with it the return of the ex-priest's old sensitivities to the whisper of magic.
In rapid succession thereafter, as he shifted from his path and found a dead-end alley in which to crouch, heart pounding, he felt multiple pulses of sorcery – a gate, slicing open the thinnest rent, the sudden, violent unravelling of some unseen tapestry, and then, finally, a trembling underfoot, as if something terrible and vast had just stepped onto the dry land of this island.
Dizzy from the successive waves of virulent power, Banaschar straightened once more, one hand against a grimy wall for support, then he headed off – back, back towards the harbourfront.
No choice, no choice. I need to see… to understand…
As he drew nearer, he could smell panic in the air, acrid and bitter, and all at once there were mute figures hurrying past him – the beginnings of an exodus. Faces twisted in fear blurred by, and others dark with rage – as if their plans had been suddenly knocked awry, and there was not yet time to find a means to regroup, nor yet the opportunity to think things through.
Something's happened.
Maybe to do with that falling rock or whatever it was.
In the old days, such an occurrence, on the eve of autumn, the eve of D'rek's arrival upon the mortal earth… well, we'd have flooded the streets. Out from the temples, raising our voices to the heavens. And the coffers would overflow, because there could be no mistaking…
The thoughts trailed away, vanished, leaving naught but a taste of ashes in his mouth. We were such fools. The sky casts down, the world heaves up, the waters wash it all away. None of this – none of it! – has anything to do with our precious gods!
He reached the broad avenue fronting the docks. People moving about here and there. If anger remained it was roiling about, all direction lost. Some vast desire had been… blunted.
Passing an old woman Banaschar reached out to her. 'Here,' he said. '
What has happened?'
She glared up at him, pulling free as if his touch was contaminant. '
Plague ships!' she hissed. 'Get away from me!'
He let her go, halted, stared out at the ships filling the bay.
Ah, the flags…
Banaschar sniffed the air.
Poliel? I can't sense you at all… out there. Or anywhere else, come to think of it. His eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he smiled.
At that moment, a heavy hand thumped down on his left shoulder, spun him roundAnd someone screamed.
Lifting clear of the swirling black, filthy waters. Straightening, slime and grit streaming off, blood-sucking eels flapping down to writhe on the muddy rocks, the broken pottery and the brick fragments beneath the wooden dock. One step forward, then another, heavy, scraping.
A rough wall directly ahead, revealing layers of street levels, bulwarks, old drainage holes dating back to the city's youth – before iron was first forged by humans – when the sewer system was a superb, efficient subterranean web beneath level streets. In all, plenty of hand- and foot-holds, given sufficient determination, strength and will.
Of all three, the one standing facing that wall had been given plenty.
More steps.
Then, climbing. A stranger had come to Malaz City.
Gasping, she leaned against a wall. What a mistake, trying to swim in all that armour. And then, all those damned eels! She'd emerged from the water covered in the damned things. Hands, arms, legs, neck, head, face, dangling and squirming and probably getting drunk every one of them and it wasn't no fun anyway, pulling them off. Squeeze too hard and they sprayed blood, black stuff, smelly stuff. But you had to squeeze, to get a good grip, because those mouths, they held fast, leaving huge circular weals on her flesh, puckered and oozing.
Stumbling ashore like some kind of worm witch, or demon – ha, that mongrel dog that sniffled up to her sure did run, didn't it? Stupid dog.
Sewer ramp, pretty steep, but there were rungs on the sides and she was able to work her way along it, then the climb which had damn near killed her but no chance of that. Thirst was a demanding master. The most demanding master. But she'd dumped her armour, down there kneedeep in the muck of the bottom with the keel of the damned ship nearly taking her head off – took the helmet, didn't it? And if that strap hadn't broke so conveniently… anyway, she'd even dropped her weapon belt. Nothing to pawn, and that was bad. Except for this knife, but it was the only knife she got, the only one left.
Still, she was thirsty. She needed to get the taste of the harbour soup out of her mouth, especially that first gasp after struggling back up to the surface, sucking in head-first the bloated corpse of a disgusting rat – that had come as close to killing her as anything so far – what if it'd been alive, and eager to climb down her throat?
She'd had nightmares like that, once. During a dry spell, it was, but that's what dry spells did – they reminded you that the world was awful and ugly and miserable and there were things out there that wanted to get you. Spiders, rats, eels, caterpillars.
Had there been a crowd up here? Not many left now, and those that came close to her kept crying out and running away in some weird blind panic. She wiped at the stinging weals on her face, blinked more muck from her eyes, lifted her head and looked around.
And now, who is that?
Sudden sobriety, sudden intent, a blast of white incandescence purging her brain and who knew what else.
And now now now, just who oh who is that? Right there – no, don't turn your back, too late. Hee hee, too too too late late late!
Hellian crept forward, as quiet as could be, came up right behind him.
Drew her knife with her right hand, reached out with her left. Five more paces to go…
Saygen Maral stepped out from the alley. The target had doubled back, the bastard. But there he was, not ten paces away, and few people around him. Convenient. He would cease being subtle. Sometimes, it paid to remind citizens that the Claw was ever present, ever ready to do what was necessary.
The assassin drew out from beneath his cloak a paralt-smeared dagger, gingerly adjusting his grip on the weapon as he moved forward.
Some woman was staring at Banaschar – a hoary, sodden thing, with an eel dangling from under her left ear and round sores all over her exposed flesh – people, upon seeing her, were running away. Aye, she looks like she's got the plague, but she doesn't. Must've fallen in or something. No matter.
He returned his attention to his target's back, moved lithely forward, his footsteps making no sound. He'd spin the fool around, to catch the death in the man's eyes. Always more pleasurable that way, the rush of power that raced through the killer when the eyes locked, and recognition blossomed, along with pain and the sudden knowledge of impending death.
He was addicted to it, he knew. But he was hardly alone in that, now, was he?
With a half-smile, Saygen Maral drew up behind the drunkard, reached out and gripped the man's shoulder, then spun him round, even as the knife in his other hand rustled free of the cloak, darted forward**** A scream sounded from down the avenue.
As Banaschar was pulled around, he saw – on the face of the man opposite him – a look of shock, then consternationA woman had grasped the man's forearm – an arm at the end of which was a gleaming, stained knife – and, as Banaschar stared, still not quite comprehending, he saw her drive the heel of a palm into the elbow joint of that arm, snapping it clean. The knife, sprung loose, spun away to clatter on the cobbles, even as the woman, snarling something under her breath, tugged the broken arm down and drove her knee into the man's face.
A savage cracking sound, blood spraying as the head rocked back, eyes wide, and the woman twisted the arm round, forcing the man face-first onto the cobbles. She descended onto him, grasped him by the hair with both bands and began systematically pounding his skull into the street.
And, between each cracking impact, words grated from her: 'No-' crunch 'you-' crunch 'don't!' crunch 'This one's-'