The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (686 page)

One down.

On the broad loading platform and to either side, scores of bodies littered the cobbles, faint voices crying with sorrow and pain.

Gods below, we're killing our own here.

 

On the foredeck of the
Froth Wolf
, Keneb turned to Captain Rynag. He struggled to contain his fury as he said, ‘Captain, there were soldiers in that mob. Out of uniform.'

The man was pale. ‘I know nothing of that, Fist.'

‘What is the point of this? They won't get their hands on the Fourteenth.'

‘I – I don't know. It's the Wickans – they want them. A pogrom's begun and there's no way of stopping it. A crusade's been launched, there's an army marching onto the Wickan Plains—'

‘An army? What kind of army?'

‘Well, a rabble, but they say it's ten thousand strong, and there's veterans among them.'

‘The Empress approves? Never mind.' Keneb turned once more and regarded the city. The bastards were regrouping. ‘All right,' he said, ‘if this goes on long enough I may defy the orders given me by the Adjunct. And land the whole damned army—'

‘Fist, you cannot do that—'

Keneb spun round. ‘Not long ago you were insisting on it!'

‘
Plague
, Fist! You would unleash devastation—'

‘So what? I'd rather give than receive, under the circumstances. Now, unless the Empress has a whole army hidden here in the city, the Fourteenth can put an end to this uprising – the gods know, we've got enough experience when it comes to those. And I admit, I am now of a mind to do just that.'

‘Fist—'

‘Get off this ship, Captain. Now.'

The man stared. ‘You are threatening me?'

‘Threatening? Coltaine was pinned spreadeagled to a cross outside Aren. While Pormqual's army hid behind the city's walls. I am sorely tempted, Captain, to nail you to something similar, right here and now. A gift for the unbelievers out there, just to remind them that some of us remember the truth. I am going to draw three breaths and if you're still here when I'm done—'

The captain scrambled.

 

Koryk watched the officer rush down the gangplank, then edge round the heavies in their line. He seemed to be making for the nearest crowd that was rallying at the mouth of a broad street.

Had Koryk considered, he would have found that array of dark thoughts in his mind – each and every one ready to find voice – to give him the excuses he needed. But he did not consider, and as for excuses, there was, for him, no need, no need at all.

He raised his crossbow.

Loosed the quarrel.

Watched it strike the captain between the shoulder-blades, watched the man sprawl forward, arms flung out to the sides.

Tarr and others in that front line turned to study him, silent, expressions blank beneath the rims of helms.

Smiles voiced a disbelieving laugh.

Heavy boots on the gangplank, then Keneb's harsh demand: ‘Who was responsible for that?'

Koryk faced the Fist. ‘I was, sir.'

‘You just murdered a captain of the Untan Palace Guard, soldier.'

‘Yes, sir.'

From Tarr: ‘They're coming back for another try! Looks like you got 'em mad, Koryk.'

‘Proof enough for me,' the half-blood Seti said in a growl, as he began reloading his crossbow. As he waited for Keneb to speak. Waited for the command to Balm to arrest him.

Instead, the Fist said nothing. He turned about and walked back to the
Froth Wolf
.

A hiss from Smiles. ‘Look out, Koryk. Wait till Fid hears about this.'

‘Fid?' snapped Sergeant Balm. ‘What about the Adjunct? You're gonna get strung up, Koryk.'

‘If I am then I am. But I'd do it all over again. Bastard wanted us to hand them the Wickans.'

 

Numbed, Keneb stepped back onto the mid deck. ‘…
wanted us to hand them the Wickans
…' Marines and sailors were all looking at him, and the Destriant Run'Thurvian had appeared from below and now approached.

‘Fist Keneb, this night is not proceeding well, is it?'

Keneb blinked. ‘Destriant?'

‘A most grievous breach of discipline—'

‘I am sorry,' Keneb cut in, ‘it's clear you misunderstand. Some time ago, the Adjunct proclaimed the birth of the Bonehunters. What did she see then? I had but a sense of it – barely a sense. More like a suspicion. But now…' he shook his head. ‘Three squads on the jetty standing their ground, and why?'

‘Fist, the threat is perceived, and must be answered.'

‘We could cast lines and sail out. Instead, here we are. Here they are, ready to bloody the noses of anyone who dares come close. Ready to answer blood with blood. Betrayal, Destriant, stalks this night like a god, right here in Malaz City.' He strode past the others, back to the forecastle. ‘That ballista loaded?' he demanded.

One of the crew nodded. ‘Aye, Fist.'

‘Good. They're closing fast.'

The Destriant moved up beside Keneb. ‘Fist, I do not understand.'

Keneb pulled his attention from the hundreds edging ever closer. ‘But I do. I've seen. We're holding the jetty, and not one damned soldier down there gives a damn about anything else! Why?' He thumped the rail. ‘Because
we're waiting
. We're waiting for the Adjunct. Destriant, we're
hers
, now. It's done, and the damned empire can rot!'

The other man's eyes slowly widened at this outburst, and then, with a faint smile, he bowed. ‘As you say, Fist. As you say.'

 

Last door down the tenement hall, uppermost floor.
Typical
. The knife-edge slipped easily between the door and the frame, lifted the latch. A slow, even push moved the door back with but the faintest moan from the leather hinges.

Fiddler slipped inside, looked round in the gloom.

Loud animal snoring and grunts from the cot, a smell of stale beer pervading the turgid air.

Moving in the tiniest increments, Fiddler lowered his collection of crossbows to the floor, a procedure taking nearly thirty heartbeats, yet not once did the stentorian notes of slumber pause from the figure on the cot.

Unburdened now, Fiddler crept closer, breathing nice and slow, until he hovered right above his unsuspecting victim's shaggy head.

Then he began whispering in a singsong voice, ‘
Your ghosts – we're back – never to leave you alone, never to give you a moment's rest – oh yes, dear Braven Tooth, it's me, Fiddler, dead but not gone – a ghost, returning to haunt you until your last
—'

The fist came out of nowhere, connecting solidly with Fiddler's midriff. All air driven from him, the sergeant collapsed backward, onto the floor, where he curled up round the agony—

As Braven Tooth climbed upright. ‘That wasn't funny, Fiddler,' he said, looking down. ‘But you, squirming round down there on the floor, now that's funny.'

‘Shut that mouth,' gasped Fiddler, ‘and find me a chair.'

The Master Sergeant helped him to his feet. Leaning heavily, Fiddler carefully straightened, the effort punctuated with winces and the hiss of breath between his teeth.

‘You'll live?'

A nod, and Fiddler managed to step back. ‘All right, I deserved that—'

‘Goes without saying,' Braven Tooth replied.

They faced each other in the darkness for a moment, and then they embraced. And said nothing.

A moment later the door swung open behind them. They parted to see Gesler and Stormy, the former carrying two bottles of wine and the latter three loaves of bread.

‘Hood's breath!' Braven Tooth laughed. ‘The old bastards one and all come home!'

As Gesler and Stormy set their victuals down on a small table, Fiddler examined the fiddle that had been strapped to his back. No damage beyond the old damage, he was pleased to see. He drew out the bow, looked round as Braven Tooth ignited a lantern, then walked over to a chair and sat down.

A moment, then all three men were staring across at him.

‘I know,' Fiddler said. ‘Braven Tooth, you remember the last time I played—'

‘That was the
last
time?'

‘It was, and there's been a lot who've fallen since then. Friends. People we grew to love, and now miss, like holes in the heart.' He drew a deep breath, then continued, ‘It's been waiting, inside, for a long time. So, my old, old friends, let's hear some names.'

Braven Tooth sat down on the cot, scratching at his beard. ‘Got a new one for you. A soldier I sent off this very night who got himself killed. Name of Gentur. His friend Mudslinger nearly died himself but it looks like the Lady pulled. And we found him in time to help things along.'

Fiddler nodded. ‘Gentur. All right. Gesler?'

‘Kulp. Baudin. And, I think, Felisin Paran – she had no luck at all, and when good things showed up, rare as that was, well, she didn't know what to do or say.' He shrugged. ‘A person hurts enough inside, all they can do is hurt back. So, her as well.' He paused, then added, ‘Pella, Truth.'

‘And Coltaine,' Stormy said. ‘And Duiker, and the Seventh.'

Fiddler began tuning the instrument. ‘Good names, one and all. I'll add a few more. Whiskeyjack. Hedge. Trotts. And one more – no name yet, and it's not so bad as that. One more…' He grimaced. ‘Could sound a little rough, no matter how much rosin I use. No matter. Got a sad dirge in my head that needs to come out—'

‘All sad, Fid?'

‘No, not all. I leave the good memories to you – but I'll give you a whisper every now and then, to tell you I know what you're feeling. Now, settle down – pour them cups full, Gesler – this'll take a while, I expect.'

And he began to play.

 

The heavy door at the top of Rampart Way opened with a squeal, revealing a massive, humped form silhouetted on the threshold. As the Adjunct reached the level, the figure stepped back. She strode into the gatehouse, followed by T'amber, then Fist Tene Baralta. Kalam entered the musty room. The air was sweet with the cloying fumes of rum.

The assassin paused opposite the keeper. ‘Lubben.'

A heavy, rumbling reply, ‘Kalam Mekhar.'

‘Busy night?'

‘Not everybody uses the door,' Lubben replied.

Kalam nodded, and said nothing more. He continued on, emerging out into the keep's courtyard, tilted flagstones underfoot, the old tower off to the left, the hold itself slightly to his right. The Adjunct had already traversed half the length of the concourse. Behind Kalam the escort of Untan Guard now separated themselves from the group, making for the barracks near the north wall.

Kalam squinted up at the murky moon. A faint wind brushed across his face, warm, sultry and dry, plucking at the sweat on his brow. Somewhere overhead, a weather vane squealed momentarily. The assassin set off after the others.

Two Claws flanked the keep entrance – not the usual guard. Kalam wondered where the resident Fist and his garrison were this night.
Probably in the storehouse cellars, blind drunk. Hood knows, it's where I would be in their boots.
Not old Lubben, of course. That hoary hunchback was as old as the Rampart Gate itself – he'd always been there, as far back as the Emperor's time and even, if rumours were true, back to Mock's rule of the island.

As Kalam passed between the two assassins, both tilted their hooded heads in his direction. A mocking acknowledgement, he concluded, or something worse. He made no response, continuing on into the broad hallway.

Another Claw had been awaiting them, and this cowled figure now led them towards the staircase.

Ascending two levels, then down a corridor, into an antechamber, where Tene Baralta ordered his Red Blades to remain, barring his captain, Lostara Yil. The Fist then sent off two of his soldiers after a brief whispered set of instructions. The Adjunct watched all of this without expression, although Kalam was tempted to call Baralta out on what was obviously an act of pointed independence – as if Tene Baralta was divesting himself and his Red Blades of any association with the Adjunct and the Fourteenth Army.

After a moment, the Claw led them onward, through another portal, into another corridor, then down its length to a set of double doors. Not the usual room for official meetings, Kalam knew. This one was smaller – if the approach was any indication – and situated in a quarter of the keep rarely frequented. Two more Claws stood guard at the entrance, and both turned to open the doors.

Kalam watched the Adjunct stride in, then halt. As did T'amber and Tene Baralta. Beside the assassin, Lostara Yil's breath caught.

A tribunal awaited them, and seated opposite them were Empress Laseen, Korbolo Dom – attired as a High Fist – and another person Kalam did not recognize. Round-faced and full-featured, corpulent, wearing blue silks. His hair was colourless, cut short and oiled. Sleepy eyes regarded the Adjunct with an executioner's avarice.

The tables were arranged in an inverted T, and three chairs waited, their high backs to the newcomers.

After a long moment, the Adjunct stepped forward, drew out the centre chair, and sat, her back straight. T'amber took the chair to Tavore's left. Tene Baralta gestured Lostara Yil to accompany him and moved off to the far right side, where he stood at attention, facing the Empress.

Kalam slowly sighed, then walked to the remaining chair. Sitting down, he settled both gloved hands on the scarred tabletop before him.

The oily fat man fixed his gaze on the assassin and leaned forward slightly. ‘Kalam Mekhar, yes? Great pleasure,' he murmured, ‘in meeting you at last.'

‘Is it? I'm happy for you…whoever you are.'

‘Mallick Rel.'

‘Here in what capacity?' Kalam asked. ‘Chief snake?'