The Bonehunters

  She stepped back. 'Get in here, unless you're of a mind to get torn to pieces!'

  'I'm Bottle,' he said, following her into an apothecary thick with the scents of herbs, 'that's not my real name, but—'

  'Oh, never mind all that. Your boots are filthy. Where have you come from and why did you choose this night of all nights to visit Malaz City? Tea?'

  Blinking, Bottle nodded. 'I'm from the Fourteenth Army, Agayla—'

  'Well, that was silly of you, wasn't it?'

  'Excuse me?'

  'You should be hiding in the boats with all the rest, dear boy.'

  'I can't. I mean, the Adjunct sent me:—'

  She turned. 'To see me? Whatever for?'

  'No, it's not that. It was my idea to find you. I'm looking for someone. It's important — I need your help.'

  Her back to him once more, she poured the herbal brew into two cups. 'Come get your tea, Bottle.'

  As he stepped forward, Agayla quickly faced him again, reached into the folds of his cloak and snatched free the doll. She studied it for a moment, then, with a scowl, shook the doll in front of Bottle's face. 'And what is this? Have you any idea what you are dabbling in, child?'

  'Child? Hold on—'

  'Is this the man you need to find?'

  'Well, yes—'

  'Then you leave me no choice, do you?'

  'Sorry?'

  She stuffed the doll back into the folds of his cloak and turned away once more. 'Drink your tea. Then we'll talk.'

  'You can help me?'

  'Save the world? Well, yes, of course.'

  Save the world? Now, Adjunct, you never mentioned that part.

  ****

  Koryk rolled his shoulders to adjust the weight of the heavy chain armour. Longsword and shield were positioned on the damp stones behind him. In his gauntleted hands he held his crossbow. Three paces to his left stood Smiles, a sharper in her right hand, her bared teeth gleaming in the dull moonlight. To his right was Cuttle, crouched down over a collection of munitions laid out on a rain-cape. Among them was a cusser.

  'Hold on, Cuttle,' Koryk said upon seeing that oversized grenado. 'Pass that cusser right back down, will you? Unless you're planning on blowing up everyone here, not to mention the Silanda and the Froth Wolf.'

  The sapper squinted up at him. 'If it takes a hundred of 'em with us, I'm happy, Koryk. Don't mind that one — it's for the last thing left — you'll probably be all down by then, anyway'

  'But maybe still alive—'

  'Try and avoid that, soldier. Unless you're happy with the mob having fun with what's left of you.'

  Scowling, Koryk returned his attention to the massing crowd opposite. Twenty paces away, milling, shouting threats and ugly promises. Plenty of serious weapons among them. The City Guard had vanished, and all that seemed to be holding the fools back for the moment was the solid line of shield-locked soldiers facing them. Tarr, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas, Uru Hela, Mayfly, Shortnose and Flashwit. A few rocks and brick fragments had been thrown across the killing ground, and those that came close were met by shields lifting almost languidly to fend them off.

  Burning arrows were being readied along the flanks of the mob.

  They'll try to fire the ships here first, and that is not good. He didn't think the Silanda would burn, not after what Gesler had told them. But the Froth Wolf was another matter. He glanced over to see Corporal Deadsmell cross the gang­plank back to the jetty, and behind him was Fist Keneb, who then spoke.

  'Sergeant Balm.'

  'Aye, Fist?'

  Keneb looked around. 'Where're Gesler and Fiddler?'

  'Scouting, sir.'

  'Scouting. I see. So, you're it, are you?'

  'Those arrows, sir—'

  'Destriant Run'Thurvian assures me our moored craft will be safe. The transports, alas, are another matter. We have signalled the nearest ones, with the command that they withdraw until out of range. What this means, Sergeant, is that you and your soldiers are on your own. The bow ballista on Froth Wolf will provide support.'

  'Appreciate that, sir,' Balm said, a strangely bewildered look in his eyes. 'Where's the siege?'

  'Excuse me?'

  Deadsmell cleared his throat and said to Keneb, 'Don't mind him, sir. Once the fighting starts he'll be fine. Fist, you're saying those arrows won't light up the ships — once they see that they'll turn 'em on us.'

  Nodding, Keneb looked over at Cuttle. 'Sapper, I want you to hit those archers on the flanks. Don't wait for their first move. Sharpers, assuming they're within range.'

  Straightening, Cuttle looked over. 'Easy, sir. Gait, Lobe, get over here and collect yourselves a couple sharpers — not the cusser, Gait, you idiot — those small round ones, right? Two, damn you, no more than that. Come back if you need more—'

  'Maybe three—'

  'No! Think on it, Lobe. How many hands you got? Where you gonna hold the third one — between your cheeks? Two, and don't drop 'em or this whole jetty will vanish and us with it.' He turned. 'Fist, you want us to hit 'em now?'

  'Might as well,' Keneb replied. 'With luck, the rest will scatter.'

  Flaming arrows hissed out, seeking the rigging of the Froth Wolf. The sizzling arcs suddenly disappeared.

  Koryk grunted. 'Cute. Better get to it, Cuttle. The next salvo's coming our way, I'd wager.'

  Cuttle on the right, Gait and Lobe on the left. Hefting sharpers, then at Cuttle's command they threw the clay grenados.

  Detonations, snapping like cracks in brittle stone, and bodies were down, writhing, screaming—

  The centre mob, with a guttural roar, charged.

  'Shit,' from one of the heavies up front.

  Smiles launched her sharper into that onrushing midst.

  Another explosion, this one ten paces in front of the shield-wall, which instinctively flinched back, heads ducking beneath raised shields. Shrieks, tumbling figures, blood and bits of meat, bodies underfoot tripping the attackers —the front of that charge had become a chaotic mess, but those behind it pushed on.

  Koryk moved along to the right — he could hear someone shouting orders, a heavy voice, authoritarian — the cadence of a Malazan officer — and Koryk wanted the bastard.

  The ballista mounted on the prow of the Froth Wolf bucked, the oversized missile speeding out, ripping through the crowd in a streak of spraying blood. A quarrel designed to knock holes in hulls punched through flesh and bone effortlessly, one body after another.

  A few arrows raced towards the soldiers on the jetty, and then the mob reached the front line.

  Undisciplined, convinced that the weight of impetus alone would suffice in shattering the shield-wall, they were not prepared for the perfectly timed answering push from the heavies, the large shields hammering into them, blades lashing out.

  The only soldier untrained in holding a wall was Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas, and Koryk saw Smiles move up behind the man as he chopped away at a foe with his cutlass. The man before him was huge, wielding shortswords, one thrusting the other slashing, and Corabb dropped into a sustained defence with his round shield and his weapon — even as Smiles, seeing an opening, threw a knife that took the attacker in the throat. As the man crumpled, Corabb swung and the cutlass crunched down into the unprotected head.

  'Back into the gap!' Smiles screamed, pushing Corabb forward.

  Koryk caught sight of a figure off to one side — not the commander — gods, that's a mage, and he's readying a warren – he raised his crossbow, depressed the trigger.

  The quarrel sent the man spinning.

  Three more sharpers detonated further back in the press­ing mob. All at once the attack crumpled, and the shield-wall advanced a step, then another, weapons slash­ing down to finish off the wounded. Figures raced away, and Koryk heard someone in the distance shouting, calling out a rallying point — for the moment, he saw, few were listening.

  One down.

  On the broad loading platform and to either side, scores of bodies littered the cob
bles, 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.