'mine!'
Appalled, Banaschar reached down, grasped the terrible apparition by her sodden jerkin, and dragged her back. 'For Hood's sake, woman! You' ve shattered his skull! It's all pulp! Stop! Stop!'
She twisted free, turned on him and, with smooth precision, set the tip of a knife just beneath his right eye. Her pocked, blood-smeared, filthy face shifted into a sneer, as she snarled, 'You! Finally! You' re under arrest!'
And someone screamed from down the avenue. Again.
Thirty paces away, Fiddler, Gesler and Stormy all stared at the commotion not far from an alley mouth. An attempted assassination, interrupted – with fatal ferocity – by some womanGesler suddenly gripped Fiddler's arm. 'Hey, that's Hellian there!'
Hellian? Sergeant Hellian?
They then heard her pronounce an arrest.
Even as screams ripped the air from farther down, and figures began racing away from the waterfront. Now, what's all that about? Never mind. His eyes still fixed on Hellian, who was now struggling with the poor man who looked as drunk as she was – her husband? – Fiddler hesitated, then he shook his head. 'Not a chance.'
'You got that right,' Gesler said. 'So, Fid, meet you in a bell, right?'
'Aye. Until then.'
The three soldiers set off, then almost immediately parted ways, Gesler and Stormy turning south on a route that would take them across the river on the first bridge, Fiddler continuing west, into the heart of the Centre District.
Leaving behind those frantic, terrified cries from the north end of the Centre Docks harbourfront, which seemed, despite Fiddler's pace, to be drawing ever nearer.
Plague. Smart man, Keneb. Wonder how long the ruse will last?
Then, as he reached very familiar streets on the bay side of Raven Hill Park, there came a surge of pleasure.
Hey, I'm home. Imagine that. I'm home!
And there, ten paces ahead, a small shopfront, little more than a narrow door beneath a crumbling overhang from which dangled a polished tin disc, on its surface an acid-etched symbol. A burning mouse.
Fiddler halted before it, then thumped on the door. It was a lot more solid than it looked. He pounded some more, until he heard a scratching of latches being drawn back on the other side. The door opened a crack. A small rheumy eye regarded him for a moment, then withdrew.
A push and the door swung back.
Fiddler stepped inside. A landing, with stairs leading upward. The owner was already halfway up them, dragging one stiff leg beneath misaligned hips, his midnight-blue night-robe trailing like some imperial train. In one hand was a lantern, swinging back and forth and casting wild shadows. The sergeant followed.
The shop on the next floor was cluttered, a looter's haul from a hundred battles, a hundred overrun cities. Weapons, armour, jewellery, tapestries, bolts of precious silk, the standards of fallen armies, statues of unknown heroes, kings and queens, of gods, goddesses and demonic spirits. Looking round as the old man lit two more lanterns, Fiddler said, 'You've done well, Tak.'
'You lost it, didn't you?'
The sergeant winced. 'Sorry.'
Tak moved behind a broad, lacquered table and sat down, gingerly, in a plush chair that might have been the throne of some minor Quon king. '
You careless runt, Fiddler. You know I only make one at a time. No market, you see – aye, I keep my promises there. Labours of love, every time, but that kind of love don't fill the belly, don't feed the wives and all those urchins not one of 'em looking like me.' The small eyes were like barrow coins. 'Where is it, then?'
Fiddler scowled. 'Under Y'Ghatan.'
'Y'Ghatan. Better it than you.'
'I certainly thought so.'
'Changed your mind since?'
'Look, Tak, I'm no wide-eyed recruit any more. You can stop treating me like I was a damned apprentice and you my master.'
Gnarled brows rose. 'Why, Fiddler, I wasn't doing nothing of the sort.
You feel that way, it's because of what's been stirred awake inside that knobby skull of yours. Old habits and all that. I meant what I said. Better it than you. Even so, how many is it now?'
'Never mind,' the sergeant growled, finding a chair and dragging it over. He slumped down into it. 'Like I said, you've done well, Tak. So how come you never got that hip fixed?'
'I gauge it this way,' the old man said, 'the limp earns sympathy, near five per cent. Better still, since I don't say nothing about nothing they all think I'm some kind of veteran. For my soldiering customers, that's another five per cent. Then there's the domestic.
Wives are happier since they all know I can't catch them-'
'Wives. Why did you agree to that in the first place?'
'Well, four women get together and decide they want to marry you, it's kinda hard to say no, right? Sure, wasn't my manly looks, wasn't even that crooked baby-maker between my legs. It was this new shop, and all that mysterious coin that helped me set up again. It was the house here in the Centre District. You think I was the only one who ended up losing everything in the Mouse?'
'All right, if it makes you happy. So, you kept the limp. And you kept the promise. Well?'
Tak smiled, then reached under the table, released two latches and Fiddler heard the clunk of a hidden drawer dropping down onto its rails. Pushing the throne back, the old man slid open the large drawer, then carefully removed a cloth-wrapped object. He set it down on the table and pulled the cloth away. 'A few improvements,' he purred. 'Better range for one.'
His eyes on the extraordinary crossbow between them, Fiddler asked, '
How much better?'
'Add fifty paces, I figure. Never tested that, though. But look at the ribs. That's ten strips of iron folded together. Inside band has the most spring, grading less and less as you go out. The cable's four hundred strands into twenty, then wound in bhederin-gut and soaked in dhenrabi oil. Your old one was two hundred strands into ten. Now, look at the cradle – I only had clay mock-ups of cussers and sharpers and burners, weighted as close as I could figure-'
'Sharpers and burners?'
An eager nod. 'Why just cussers, I asked? Well, because that's what was wanted and that's how we did the cradle, right? But the mock-ups gave me an idea.' He reached back into the drawer and lifted free a clay cusser-sized grenado. 'So, I made cradles inside this, to fit five sharpers or three burners – the weight's close on all three configurations, by the way – the Moranth were always precise on these sort of things, you know.' As he was speaking, he took the clay object, one hand on top, the other beneath, and pushed in opposite directions until there was a grating click, then he was holding two halves of the hollow mock-up. 'Like I said, improvements. You can load up how you like, without ever having to change the bow's cradle. I got ten of these made. Empty, they're nice and light and you won't fly through Hood's Gate if one of 'em breaks by accident in your satchel.'
'You are a genius, Tak.'
'Tell me something I don't know.'
'How much do you want for all of this?'
A frown. 'Don't be an idiot, Fiddler. You saved my life, you and Dujek got me out of the Mouse with only a crushed hip. You gave me money-'
'Tak, we wanted you to make crossbows, like that old jeweller did before you. But he was dead and you weren't.'
'That don't matter. Call it a replacement guarantee, for life.'
Fiddler shook his head, then he reached into his pack and withdrew a real cusser. 'Let's see how it fits, shall we?'
Tak's eyes glittered. 'Oh yes, do that! Then heft the weapon, check the balance – see that over-shoulder clamp there? It's a brace for steadying aim and evening out the weight. Your arms won't get tired holding and aiming.' He rose. 'I will be right back.'
Distracted, Fiddler nodded. He set the cusser down into the weapon's cradle and clamped in place the open-ended, padded basket. That motion in turn raised from the forward base of the cradle a denticulate bar to prevent the cusser slipping out when the weapon was held pointdown. That bar was in turn linked to the release trigger, dropping it flush with the cradle in time for the projectile to fly clear. 'Oh,' the sapper murmured, 'very clever, Tak.' With this weapon, there was no need for a shaft. The cradle was the launcher.
The old man was rummaging in a chest at the back of the shop.
'So tell me,' Fiddler said, 'how many more of these have you made?'
'That's it. The only one.'
'Right. So where are the others?'
'In a crate above your head.'
Fiddler glanced up to see a long box balanced across two blackened beams. 'How many in there?'
'Four.'
'Identical to this one?'
'More or less.'
'Any more?'
'Lots. For when you lose these ones.'
'I want those four above me, Tak, and I'll pay for them-'
'Take 'em, I don't want your coin. Take 'em and go blow up people you don't like.' The old man straightened and made his way back to the table.
In his hands was something that made Fiddler's eyes widen. 'Gods below, Tak…'
'Found it a year ago. Thought to myself, oh yes, there's always the chance. Cost me four copper crescents.'
Tak reached out to set the fiddle in the sergeant's hands.
'You were robbed,' Fiddler said. 'This is the ugliest piece of junk I' ve ever seen.'
'What's the difference? You never play the damned things anyway!'
'Good point. I'll take it.'
'Two thousand gold.'
'Got twelve diamonds with me.'
'Worth?'
'Maybe four thousand.'
'All right, six then for the fiddle. You want to buy the bow as well?'
'Why not?'
'That's another two thousand. See the horsehair? It's white. I knew this horse. Used to pull carts of rubbish from Hood's own temple in Old Upper. Then one day the hauler had his heart burst and he stumbled down under the animal's hoofs. It panicked and bolted, right through the webbed window wall this side of the fourth bridge-'
'Wait! That huge lead window? Fourth Bridge?'
'Fronting the recruiting kit store, aye-'
'That's it! That old temple-'
'And you won't believe who was standing there with a half-dozen knockkneed recruits when that insane horse exploded into the room-'
'Braven Tooth!'
Tak nodded. 'And he turned right round, took one look, then hammered his fist right between the beast's eyes. It dropped dead right there.
Only, the animal lands half on one lad's leg, snapping it clean, and he starts screaming. Then, ignoring all that, Master Sergeant he just turns round again and says to the wide-eyed supply clerk – I swear, I heard all this from one of those recruits – he said: "These pathetic meer-rats are heading back up to Ashok to rejoin their regiment. You make sure they got waterskins that don't leak." And he looks down at that screaming broke-leg recruit, and he says, "Your name's now Limp.
Aye, not very imaginative, but it's like this. If you can't hear Hood laughing, well, I can." And so, that's where this horsehair come from.'
'Two thousand gold for the bow?'
'With a story like that, aye, and it's a bargain.'
'Done. Now, let's get that crate down – I don't want the box. I'll just sling 'em all on my back – '
'They ain't strung, and neither is this one.'
'So we'll string 'em. You got extra cables?'
'Three for each. You want those mock-ups, too?'
'Absolutely, and I've got sharpers and burners in this pack, so let's load 'em up and check the weight and all that. But let's be quick.'
'Fiddler, it's not nice out there any more, you know? Especially tonight. Smells like the old Mouse.'
'I know, and that's why I don't want to head back out without this cusser nestled in.'
'Just be glad you're not Wickan.'
'First Wickan-hater I come across gets this egg up his dark dining hall. Tell me, Braven Tooth still live in the same house down in Lower? Near Obo's Tower?'
'That he does.'
Hellian dragged Banaschar down the winding alley – at least, it seemed to be winding, the way they kept careening off grimy walls. And she talked. 'Sure, you thought you got away clean. Not a chance. No, this is Sergeant Hellian you're dealing with here. Think I wouldn't chase you across half the damned world? Damned fool-'
'You idiot. Half the damned world? I went straight back down to the docks and sailed back to Malaz City.'
'And you thought that'd fool me? Forget it. Sure, the trail was cold, but not cold enough. And now I got you, a suspect wanted for questioning.'
The alley opened out onto a wider street. Off to their left was a bridge. Scowling, Hellian yanked her prisoner towards it.
'I told you the first time, Sergeant!' Banaschar snapped. 'I had nothing to do with that slaughter – the same thing had happened in every damned temple of D'rek, at precisely the same time. You don't understand – I have to get to Mock's Hold. I have to see the Imperial High Mage-'
'That snake! I knew it, a conspiracy! Well, I'll deal with him later.
One mass-murderer at a time, I always say.'
'This is madness, Sergeant! Let go of me – I can explain-'
'Save your explanations. I got some questions for you first and you'd better answer them!'
'With what?' he sneered. 'Explanations?'
'No. Answers. There's a difference-'
'Really? How? What difference?'
'Explanations are what people use when they need to lie. Y'can always tell those, 'cause those explanations don't explain nothing and then they look at you like they just cleared things up when really they did the opposite and they know it and you know it and they know you know and you know they know that you know and they know you and you know them and maybe you go out for a pitcher later but who picks up the tab? That's what I want to know.'
'Right, and answers?'
'Answers is what I get when I ask questions. Answers is when you got no choice. I ask, you tell. I ask again, you tell some more. Then I break your fingers, 'cause I don't like what you're telling me, because those answers don't explain nothing!'
'Ah! So you really want explanations!'
'Not till you give me the answers!'
'So what are your questions?'
'Who said I got questions? I already know what your answers are, anyway. No point in questions, really.'
'And there's no need to break my fingers, Sergeant, I give up already.'
'Nice try. I don't believe you.'
'Gods below-'
Hellian dragged him back. Halting, looking about. The sergeant scowled. 'Where are we?'
'That depends. Where were you taking me?'
'Back to the ships.'
'You idiot – we went the wrong way – all you had to do was turn around back there, when you first caught me-'
'Well I didn't, did I? What's that?' She pointed.
Banaschar frowned at the brooding, unlit structure just beyond the low wall they had been walking along. Then he cursed under his breath and said, 'That's the Deadhouse.'
'What, some kind of bar?'
'No, and don't even think of dragging me in there.'
'I'm thirsty.'
'I have an idea, then, Sergeant. We can go to Coop's-'
'How far is that?'
'Straight ahead-'
'Forget it. It's a trap.' She tugged him right and they made their way along the front of the Deadhouse, then through a short alley with uneven walls, where Hellian guided her prisoner left once more. Then she halted and pointed across the way. 'What place is that one?'
'That's Smiley's. You don't want to go in there, it's where rats go to die-'
'Perfect. You're buying me a drink. Then we're heading back to the ships.'
Banaschar ran a hand across his scalp. 'As you like. They say the ale brewed in there uses water run off from the Deadhouse – and then there's the proprietor-'
'What about him?'
'Related, it's rumoured, to the old dead Emperor himself – that place used to be Kellanved's, you know.'
'The Emperor owned a tavern?'
'He did, partnered with Dancer. And there was a serving wench, named Surly-'
She shook him. 'Just because I asked questions don't mean I wanted answers, especially not those kinda answers, so be quiet!'
'Sorry.'
'One drink, then we go back to the ships and take a swim-'
'A what?'
'Easy. Ain't no drowned spiders in this bay.'
'No, just blood-sucking eels! Like the one dangling from behind your ear. It's already sucked all the blood from half of your face. Tell me, is your scalp getting numb on one side?'
She glared at him. 'I never gave you no permission to ask questions.
That's my task. Remember that.' Then she shook her head. Something long and bloated bumped against her neck. Hellian reached up and grasped the eel. She yanked it off. 'Ow!' Glared at the writhing creature in her hand, then dropped it and crushed it under a heel.
Black goo spattered out to the sides. 'See that, Banaschar? Give me trouble and you get the same treatment.'
'If I hang from your ear? Really, Sergeant, this is ridiculous-'
They turned at murmuring sounds from the street behind them. Thirty or forty locals came into view, heading for Front Street. Some of them were now carrying bows, and canisters of burning pitch swinging from straps. 'What are they about?' Hellian asked.
'They think the fleet's rotten with plague,' the ex-priest said. 'I expect they mean to set a few transports on fire.'
'Plague? There ain't no plague-'
'I know that and you know that. Now, there's another problem,' he added as the mob saw them and a half-dozen thugs split away, then slowly, ominously approached. 'Those weals all over you, Sergeant – easily mistaken for signs of plague.'
'What? Gods below, let's get into that tavern.'
They hurried forward, pushed through the doors.
Inside, inky gloom broken only by a few tallow candles on blackened tabletops. There was but one other customer, seated near the back wall. The ceiling was low, the floor underfoot littered with rubbish.
The thick air reminded Hellian of a cheese-sock.
From the right appeared the proprietor, a pike-thin Dal Honese of indeterminate age, each eye looking in a different direction – neither one fixing on Hellian or Banaschar as he smiled unctuously, hands wringing.
'Ah, most sweet tryst, yes? Come! I have a table, yes! Reserved for such as you!'
'Close that ugly mouth or I'll sew it up myself,' Hellian said. 'Jus' show us the damned table then get us a pitcher of anything you got that won't come back up through our noses.'
Head bobbing, the man hobbled over to a table and, reaching out multiple times he finally grasped hold of the chairs and made a show of dragging them back through the filth.
Banaschar made to sit, then he recoiled. 'Gods below, that candle-'
'Oh yes!' said the Dal Honese gleefully, 'the few wax witches left are most generous with Smiley's. It's the history, yes?'
Sudden loud voices outside the entrance and the proprietor winced. '
Uninvited guests. A moment whilst I send them on their way.' He headed off.
Hellian finally released her grip on the ex-priest and slumped down in the chair opposite. 'Don't try nothing,' she said in a growl. 'I ain't in the mood.'
Behind her the door was pulled back by the owner. A few quiet words, then louder threats.
Hellian saw Banaschar's gaze flick past her – he had a good view of what was going on out front – and then he bolted back in his chair, eyes widening – as shrieks erupted from the mob, followed by the sounds of panicked flight.
Scowling, Hellian twisted round in her chair.
The proprietor was gone, and in the man's place stood a demon, its back to them, big enough to fill the entire doorway. A thrashing victim was in its huge hands and, as the sergeant watched, the demon tore off the screaming man's head, leaned through the doorway and threw it after the fleeing citizens. Then it flung the headless corpse in the same direction.
A strange blurring, and a sweet, spicy scent drifted back into the tavern, and then the demon was gone, in its place the old Dal Honese, brushing clean his hands, then the front of his grimy tunic. He turned about and walked back to the table.
Another smile beneath skewed eyes. 'Finest ale, then, a pitcher, coming right up!'
Hellian swung back round in her chair. Her gaze flicked over to the other customer at the back wall. A woman, a whore. The sergeant grunted, then called to her, 'You! Get much business?'
A snort in reply, then, 'Who cares?'
'Well, you got a point there, you do.'
'Both of you be quiet!' Banaschar shouted, his voice sounding halfstrangled. 'That was a Kenryll'ah demon!'
'He's not so bad,' said the whore, 'once you get to know 'im.'
From behind the bar came the sound of crashing crockery, then a curse.
In clumps, in bands, in ragged troops, the crowds began reappearing along the Centre Docks harbourfront. More weapons among them now, and here and there bows. Torches flared in the dark, and voices rose, delivering commands.
Leaning against the prow of the Silanda – moored just behind the longboat the Red Blades had used – Koryk watched the proceedings on the front street for a time, then he turned about and made his way back down to the mid deck.
'Sergeant Balm.'
'What?'
'We could be in for some trouble soon.'
'Typical,' Balm hissed, rising to begin pacing. 'Fid vanishes. Gesler vanishes. Leaving just me, and I ain't got no whistle, do I?
Deadsmell, get up'n'over, talk to Fist Keneb. See what they want us to do about it.'
The corporal shrugged, then made his way to the boarding ladder.
Tarr was climbing into his armour. 'Sergeant,' he said, 'we got Fid's crate of munitions below-'
'Hood's balls, you're right! Cuttle, get down there. Sharpers and burners, all you can lay hands on. Throatslitter – what are you doing there?'
'Was thinking of sneaking into that crowd,' the man said from the rail, where he'd thrown one leg over and was about to climb down into the murky water. 'It doesn't sound right, does it? There's ringleaders up there – Claws, maybe, and you know how I like killing those. I could make things more confused, like they should be-'
'You'll get torn to pieces, you idiot. No, you stay here, we're undermanned enough as it is.'
Koryk crouched down near Tarr and Smiles. 'Fid keeps doing this, doesn't he?'
'Relax,' Tarr said. 'If need be, me and Gesler's heavies will hold the jetty.'
'You're looking forward to that!' Smiles accused.
'Why not? Since when did the Wickans deserve all this hate? That mob's hungry for the Fourteenth, fine, why disappoint them?'
''Cause we was ordered to stay aboard here,' Smiles said.
'Easier holding the jetty than letting the bastards jump down onto this deck.'
'They'd jump right back off,' Koryk predicted, 'once they see those heads.'
'I'm itching for a fight, Koryk.'
'Fine, Tarr, you go up and get yourself ready. Me, Smiles and Cuttle will be right behind you, with a few dozen sharpers.'
Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas joined them. The man was strapping on a round-shield. 'I will flank you, Corporal Tarr,' he said. 'I have found a cutlass and I have some skill with that weapon.'
'Appreciate the company,' Tarr said, then looked over to where Shortnose, Flashwit, Uru Hela and Mayfly were donning armour. 'Six in all, front line. Let them try and get past us.'
Cuttle reappeared, dragging a crate.
'Pass 'em out, sapper,' Balm ordered. 'Then we all go up top and give that mob a wave over.'
Koryk loaded his crossbow, then pounded Tarr on the shoulder. 'Let's go take a look. I'm in the mood to kill someone, too.'
The corporal straightened, then spat over the side. 'Aren't we all?'