The Bonehunters

  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 loy
alty.'

  ... 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 nigh
ts 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 low-ceilinged 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.