Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 17

The coast looked wild and uninhabited to Lars, yet Kallor remained locked within his cabin, so he and the other seven survivors of the great ocean crossing waited at anchor while white tendrils of noxious smoke came leaking round the door and through gaps in the planking of their master’s cabin walls.

Finally, towards noon, the door opened, disgorging a massive cloud of evil-smelling smoke that quickly wafted away. Kallor strode out accoutred as usual in his full-length coat of mail, his weapon at his side. He carried a burning smudge-pot that he waved in front of him as he walked to the side.

Lars, weak and faint with starvation, limped to him. Taking a deep breath, he dared, ‘M’lord … shall we … disembark?’

Kallor ignored him. He studied the shore as if as hungry as Lars. He waved more of the dense smoke across his face, and murmured, bizarrely, ‘Try to smell me now, bitch.’

The smoke lashed then, fuming as if caught in a fierce wind, though no such gusting brushed Lars or the gentle waves about them.

Kallor raised a hand for silence and studied the smoke intently. After a time he nodded as if at some conclusion, then covered the pot with its lid. ‘We wait,’ he announced, not even turning to face Lars. ‘Something strange is coming.’

Lars eyed the quiet coast, uninhabited but for a few modest fishers’ huts. What could possibly be coming that this fiend would be wary of? Whatever it might be, Lars decided that he certainly wanted nothing to do with it. Still, land, animals, larders … ‘But perhaps there is food,’ he whined before realizing it, and he flinched, covering his head, ready for a kick or a blow.

Their tormentor turned to him, scowling his profound disgust. ‘There are fish, aren’t there?’

Lars glanced at the listless, huddled crew. Fish! Of course! ‘But,’ he ventured, bowing, ‘what can we use as bait?’

Kallor had started back to his cabin, but he paused, glancing at Lars. His deeply lined mouth drew up in an evil one-sided smile. ‘Those rotting bodies you have hidden below, I should think.’ And he slammed the door shut.

Lars started guiltily. He eyed the ragged sailors, who stared back, blinking, almost uncomprehending. He pointed angrily. ‘You’ve been nibbling too! I know it! Now get some lines over the side!’

The sailors shuffled to obey.

* * *

Dassem sat before a modest fire next to a small series of half-buried walls and toppled stone arches. It was not night, as he would understand it, though the mage Kellanved had called it that. It was more like an overcast dusk, the sky a dark iron, the shadows thick and heavy. Sighing his impatience, he made a show of warming his hands. In his opinion this was a stupid errand. They should be on the island; it was clear to him that the power base these two counted on was not secure. Enemies remained within striking distance and ought to be eliminated. Greater consolidation was necessary, yet here they were, wasting precious time.

A dark shape came looming out of the dusky sky. Its ragged membranous wings flapped loudly as it descended to alight on an arch of ancient stones across the fire from him and he sat back, studying the strange cross between a pelican and a bat.

At last, he thought.

The creature paced atop the stone ledge. ‘A fire?’ it cawed harshly. ‘You sit here plain as day and light a fire? Don’t you know where you are?’ Dassem opened his mouth to answer but the beast cut in, ‘Never mind! Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want?’

He thought through the answers the mage had schooled him in and responded, casually, ‘I just thought I’d take a stroll…’

The beast pressed the tiny hands on its wings to its head. ‘A stroll! Ancient ones! What have we come to?’ It swept a wing to encompass the desolate surroundings. ‘What does this look like? A garden pastoral? Have you no respect?’

‘It seems quiet enough,’ Dassem answered.

The thing cackled a cawed laugh. It shifted its tiny black pebble eyes left and right. ‘You’ll see. Soon enough.’ It pressed a tiny hand to one earhole, head cocked. ‘Any time now…’

Dassem peered round as well, as if curious.

‘Yup. Any moment…’ The creature dropped its little hand. ‘They should be here by now.’

‘What should?’ Dassem asked.

‘Shut up, fool.’

Dassem sat back, sighing. ‘Please?’ he called loudly.

The thing frowned its confusion at him. ‘What’s that? Please? Why?’ It hopped then, startled, peering round at the ruins. ‘Who’s there? Gaahh!’ It leapt into the sky but shadows came lashing about it like knotted ropes and it fell tumbling to the sands.

Dancer came charging out from among the fallen stones to stand over it. Kellanved strolled along behind.

‘You!’ the creature gaped, astonished. ‘How did you…?’

Kellanved shrugged modestly, waved his walking stick. ‘Oh, it was nothing really. I just—’

‘Enough,’ Dancer cut in. To the beast: ‘Who do you work for?’

‘Go to the Abyss.’

Kellanved planted his stick into the sands and sighed his disappointment. ‘You really should cooperate.’

‘I will tell you nothing. Nothing.’ It struggled to raise one little hand, thumb and finger pinched together. ‘See this? You are this. Tiny. A flea. Nothing. Shadow will swallow you.’

‘We shall see.’ He nodded to Dassem and Dancer, and the two grasped the thing’s feet and dragged it off.

‘What are you doing?’ it demanded. ‘What’s going on?’

Dancer directed Dassem to a dark hole exposed among flagstones in the middle of the ruined building. They held the bat-like creature at the hole’s lip.

Coming along behind, Kellanved offered, ‘One last chance. Who is in charge here?’

‘Kiss my furry—’

Dassem and Dancer let it fall. They heard it thump to the floor far below.

‘What’s this?’ it squawked. ‘Bodies? There are bodies down here!’

Kellanved nodded to the stone that had covered the hole and Dassem began edging it towards the space. ‘Do you wish to talk now?’ he called.

‘Only if you join me!’

‘Well, you have a think about it,’ Kellanved suggested. ‘We’ll talk later. In a hundred years,’ he added, mostly to himself, as the stone slotted neatly back into place. ‘Disappointing,’ he went on. ‘I’d hoped to get something out of that creature.’

‘The island?’ Dassem reminded him. ‘Their strategic position is weak.’

‘Hmm? What’s that?’

‘The Napans.’

‘Our friend is right,’ Dancer added. ‘We’re supposed to be in charge, remember?’

Kellanved rolled his eyes. He threw his arms out wide as if to embrace their surroundings. ‘But this is all so much more fascinating!’

‘Later,’ Dancer answered firmly, and Dassem nodded his support.

Kellanved let his arms fall. His lips tightened into a disappointed moue, so very put upon. ‘Oh, very well! If you insist.’

* * *

It was late afternoon and Cartheron had the last of a pot of rendered glue heating over a fire on the pier next to the Twisted when Tocaras, up aloft among the standing rigging, called to him and pointed out to the bay. He stepped up on to a crate for a good look and as soon as he saw the vessel swinging in across the mouth of the harbour he knew with a sort of heavy weight of despair that they’d waited too long.

It was Tarel’s flagship, the Sapphire.

Choss, Urko, Hawl and Tocaras all gathered round.

‘Jammed with marines, no doubt,’ Urko said with a curse.

‘Why just the flagship?’ Tocaras wondered.

‘They’re not here to fight the Malazans,’ Hawl observed darkly.

Cartheron nodded his agreement. ‘Grab your gear and let’s go.’ He doused the fire, collected his tools, and jogged with the others for Smiley’s.

Already a launch was being lowered over the Sapphire’s side. Cartheron’s last glimpse of the harbour waters allowed him to see a white flag flapping above the crowded boat.

* * *

When word came of a large Napan man-o-war blockading the harbour mouth, Lee’s brows rose. When further word came that it was no less than King Tarel’s flagship, Lee decided to amble down to the waterfront to see how poor old Admiral Mock was going to handle this development.

The Malazan captains had the waterfront cordoned off by ranks of armed marines and sailors. A small contingent of Napans, an honour guard of some sort, together with one rather fat official, climbed up from a packed launch and approached along a jetty.

Mock was waiting with a handful of his captains. Lee pushed her way closer, thinking, This really ought to be good.

‘Admiral Koreth,’ Mock said, bowing. ‘You are come for another visit?’

The Napan admiral returned the bow, if curtly. ‘I am come at behest of King Tarel.’

Mock stroked his moustache, nodding. ‘Ah, yes. My brother regent. How fares he?’

Koreth had drawn off leather gloves that he now slapped across one leg, impatient. ‘The king is well. He is irked, however, by an oversight of yours. A mistake, no doubt, as I am certain you mean no insult.’

Mock peered about, eyeing the massed Malazan sailors and marines who held the waterfront and were glaring down at the admiral’s elite Napan escort. ‘Oh? An oversight, you say? And that is?’

‘You have allowed wanted Napan criminals to reside on your island.’

Mock raised his face to a freshening wind coming in off the bay, nodding to himself. ‘Ah … I see the way of your tack now, admiral.’ He shrugged. ‘Malaz is an open port. Any and all are welcome.’

Koreth was tapping his gloves against his thigh. ‘I understand your pride in this. Malaz has traditionally been an open port. That is a shame.’

Mock lost his playful smile, eyed the man’s small escort significantly. ‘Have a care, admiral.’

Koreth raised his open hands. ‘Oh, I do not mean for you or me. I meant for our prisoners.’

‘Prisoners?’

‘Yes. Captives from our recent … unpleasantness. Some four score Malazan crew, men and women.’

The Malazans assembled on the waterfront set to muttering among themselves. Lee had to shake her head in admiration. Well played, Koreth.

Mock could also see this news spreading among the crews, so he put on a stern face, shocked. ‘And where are these prisoners?’

Koreth gestured lazily to his vessel. ‘Why, on board the Sapphire, now.’

Mock set his hands on his hips, raising his voice. ‘I demand you hand them over immediately!’

‘In return for the Napan criminals in your midst, aye.’

‘First bring them all ashore.’

‘Half, first.’

‘You fetch these Napans – I’ll not lift a hand against any free resident.’

Koreth inclined his head, pleased. ‘As it should be. Done.’

‘Done!’

Koreth nodded to one of his escort, who began signalling the Sapphire. Mock turned to his captains. ‘Give the Napans some help in bringing our lads and lasses ashore.’ Hess, Guran and Renish set off down the pier, shouting orders.

Lee turned away. Everything seemed to be well in hand. Koreth’s hands, that is. A straight exchange, and one Mock could not have dared turn down. Could those damned Napans really be out of her way? She paused as she pushed through the crowd, thinking that she should get over there herself with her boys and be ready to move in immediately.

A familiar face caught her attention among the press: that scarred old mage who now worked for the Napans. She gave him her best savage smile. You, my friend, are about to be out of a job.

But the mage wasn’t even looking at her. His attention was focused to the north-east, far out to sea. The man’s eyes grew huge and he went scrambling off, shoving men and women out of his way.

Lee peered out over the bay, frowning. Some sort of strange disturbance was headed their way. It looked like a waterspout, or one of those twisting, gyring winds that could whip up over the plains. What did they call them – wind-devils? Cyclones?

She shaded her gaze now from dust being thrown up by the gathering winds. What was so frightening about a little localized blow like this? And there wasn’t even a cloud in the sky.

* * *

Cartheron came thumping down the stairs of Smiley’s, kitbag on his shoulder, sword at his hip. He was rather surprised to find the whole crew gathered in the common room. ‘We have to go now,’ he said, a touch uncertain. But Urko, leaning against a wall, just pointed to Surly. She had her arms crossed and Cartheron thought, Shit!

‘I’m not running,’ she said. ‘There’s nowhere to run to.’

Urko nodded his fierce agreement.

‘We can find a ship on the far side of the island…’

Choss snorted. ‘A ship? Rowboat, you mean.’

‘There’s bound to be something.’

Surly shook her head. ‘No. I’ll not be run down like a rabbit. We meet them here.’

Urko smacked a fist into a palm with a resounding slap. ‘About damned time.’

Cartheron motioned to the local hires watching the windows. ‘And the locals?’

Surly eyed them as well, then raised her voice to address them. ‘You’re all free to go. I give you leave. This isn’t your fight.’

Their unofficial leaders, the old veteran Dujek and his seeming adjutant Jack, shared a glance, then Dujek cleared his throat. ‘If it’s all right with all a’ you, we’ll stay.’

Surly nodded her gratitude. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

Two Malazan toughs watching the door shouted a warning, and yanked it open. In burst Hawl and Nedurian. ‘I have an errand!’ the old Talian mage shouted to Surly, then Hawl pushed him back towards the door and he was off.

Surly raised her hands to Hawl. ‘It’s okay, we know.’

Hawl shook her head, short of breath. ‘No – you most certainly don’t.’

* * *

Once again, Nedurian found Agayla out in the street before her shop. The cobbled way ran more or less east–west down to the waterfront and she was watching the waters of the bay in the darkening dusk. Barely visible far out across the waves rose a strange blur of a disturbance, and it looked to be headed straight for them.

‘Impressive, yes?’ he said to Agayla.

She nodded, her scowling face showing her habitual disapproval, together with a touch of apprehensiveness. ‘I’ve not seen the like in a century. And it is still leagues off…’

‘Who do you think it could be?’

She shook her head in a negative. ‘I do not know … but there are few who are that powerful.’

He blinked in the gusting winds, blew on his fists to warm his hands. ‘I’m not looking forward to this.’

She eyed him, frowned her confusion, then shook her head. ‘We’re not interfering. It’s not our fight.’

‘But the city…’

She continued shaking her head in a firm negative. ‘Even so. Our duties lie elsewhere. Understood?’

‘But escalation … what of the other? This Nightchill?’

‘She has already moved out of the way. She’s in the south. In fact,’ and Agayla rubbed her arms as if chilled, ‘we should join her. We will be lodestones to what is coming.’

He looked away, into town. ‘I have other duties…’

‘You will be a danger to everyone around you and they will be helpless before this.’

He risked another glance towards the disturbance and winced at the yammering lashing power at its heart. He’d seen such things before. Abyss, he’d been a participant.

A full-on to the death mage duel, Warren sizzling against Warren. He’d seen such things brush entire battalions aside. For now, whoever it was, they appeared entirely engrossed with one another. He dared not upset that balance.

He gave a curt bob of his head. ‘Very well. Though it galls me to retreat like this.’

‘With luck they will sweep right on across the island. Frankly, to them, it is as if we aren’t even here.’

* * *

Kellanved shifted the three of them from Shadow and Dancer was relieved to find himself back within the House. No surprises for once! After brushing dust from his shirt and trousers, he led the way to the front door. As usual, the armoured giant stood resting in its alcove. Here, Dassem paused, eyeing the empty side room where they had left his friend.

‘As I said,’ Kellanved murmured in the silence, ‘the House has moved her somewhere.’

‘But where?’ the Dal Hon swordsman answered, and Dancer could tell he was upset by the way his hands clenched.

Kellanved gave a small shrug. ‘Perhaps somewhere less … busy.’

Dancer snorted his agreement. ‘I’ll say. It must seem like a major port now with us coming and going.’ He pushed open the door and set out across the yard to the gate. It was evening, the stars emerging overhead. Kellanved followed, and Dassem came along behind.

The wind was high; some sort of blow was closing upon them from the east, which was surprising as most storms swept in from the south. Strange, given that it was a clear night. Not one cloud in the darkening sky.

Dancer glanced down the way to the waterfront and stopped, surprised. A damned huge man-o-war lay at anchor, effectively blockading the harbour. And though its sails were down for the blow, they were clearly a very dark blue.

He gestured towards the bay. ‘What’s this?’

‘That is a Napan vessel,’ Dassem answered.

Dancer looked to the sky. ‘I can see that. I mean what’s going on?’

Kellanved threw his arms out, aggrieved. ‘For the love of Oponn. I leave on a short errand and everything goes to the Abyss!’

‘And there’s a windstorm blowing in over the island,’ Dancer added.

Kellanved squinted east into the gathering murk. His shaggy greying brows rose and he actually straightened a touch, as if rising up on his toes. ‘Oh, dear…’

‘Oh dear what?’ Dancer asked, knowing that tone.

The mage shooed him and Dassem away. ‘Go and see if our friends need help. I’m going to be busy for a time.’

‘Busy doing what?’

The little fellow waved them off. ‘Go now. Run.’

Dancer backed away, unwilling to leave. Dassem was already jogging towards Smiley’s.

The gyring winds struck them then, sweeping up the shore and over the city. It reminded Dancer of the dust storms that often came howling across the central Seti Plains. He raised a hand to shade his eyes against the gusting, stinging grit and dirt. Kellanved now stood at the middle of the street, arms out, as if he were beckoning to the winds.

Dancer took a step towards him. What on earth …

The heavens opened up in a white blinding blast that threw him backwards into a wall. Dazed, he staggered for the street. ‘Kellanved!’

A smoking hole in the cobbles was all that remained. The stones lay about, some glowing red, hissing and crackling. All the gods … he couldn’t possibly … really be … Blinking, Dancer forced himself to look away, then ran for Smiley’s.

He found the place preparing for a siege. Surly’s people were out piling carts and barrels across the front of the bar. Within, an argument was raging.

Dujek and the youth, Jack, stood in the centre of a ring of yelling Napans. Arms open as if begging, Jack was insisting, ‘Please, reconsider.’

‘At least listen to him,’ Dujek put in.

Spotting Dancer, Surly waved her brusque impatience at the two non-Napans. ‘Order these two to stand down.’

Dassem, Dancer noted, stood to one side, listening.

‘What’s the problem?’ Dancer asked Dujek.

Surly’s jaws worked as she swallowed her anger. ‘We don’t have time to argue,’ she snarled.

‘We’re wrong to dig in here,’ Jack told Dancer. ‘We have no avenue of retreat.’ Dujek nodded his support.

‘What would you have us do, then?’

Jack pointed outside. ‘The bridges are natural chokepoints in this swamp of a city. The south channel has only three to speak of. If we barricade those we can hold them off. If they look like breaking through, we fall back to another bridge, and so on.’

Dancer raised a hand to forestall the barrage of objections from the Napan crew. ‘Just how many soldiers are we talking here?’

‘We’re thinking about a hundred elites,’ said Grinner. ‘They’re forming columns now. We have to act.’

‘A hundred?’ Dassem said suddenly. Dancer was quite startled; he’d almost forgotten about the Dal Hon.

‘More or less,’ Grinner answered, wondering where this was going.

‘Which of the three bridges is the narrowest?’ Dassem asked.

Jack answered, frowning, ‘The one highest inland. Why?’

The swordsman strode for the door. ‘Hold the other two bridges and send the Napans to me. I will meet them there.’

He was out the door before Dancer could object. Dujek and Jack stared at one another, quite startled, until Surly threw her arms out, demanding, ‘Who in the name of the Abyss is that madman?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ Dancer answered.

Cartheron poked his head in the door, holding it open against a savagely gusting wind. ‘Are we staying or going? We have to move – now!’

Dancer waved everyone out. ‘Take all the carts and cargo and barricade the bridges.’

A brilliant flash burst upon them then, momentarily blinding them, and a blast rumbled across the city.

‘Lightning strike,’ Tocaras said as the echoes of the eruption died away.

‘That was no lightning,’ Dancer said.

* * *

Once most of them were on the way, plus some thirty local hires, Cartheron ducked back within Smiley’s and shut the door against the raging winds. All that remained were Grinner, Hawl, Shrift, and a very angry Surly. ‘Are you going to cooperate, Surly, or am I going to have to guard the door?’

She thrust an arm out, pointing. ‘Get going! You’re needed. We’re too shorthanded to hold anyone back.’

‘Except you,’ he answered, firm. ‘We can’t let them see you.’

‘I can fight!’ she nearly yelled, almost stamping a foot.

Cartheron rubbed the stubble of his unshaven chin. ‘Let’s hope you don’t have to,’ he answered, ‘because that would mean we’re all dead.’

Surly straightened as if slapped. She wrapped her arms round herself in a hug and jerked a fierce nod. ‘I’m sorry. Go. You’re needed.’

He answered her nod. ‘Good luck.’ To Grinner, he ordered, ‘Guard her.’

The burly fellow, their best fighter by far, waved him off.

He pushed open the door and leaned into the gusting, contrary wind. The streets were completely empty of anyone; the inhabitants of Malaz were more than familiar with stormy nights.

Urko and he had each been given charge of one of the lower bridges; what the Dal Hon swordsman intended at the third, he had no idea. He only knew that this Dancer character – who was no fool – had confidence in him. And in any case, he had enough to worry about at his own command. Jogging up to the bridge, he saw his troops still piling and lashing crates and cargo to carts that they’d turned on their sides. Young Jack was there, as well as Choss and Dancer, and some fifteen local Malazan hires, ex-raiders, toughs, and street-bravos all.

‘Just in time,’ Choss called, pointing past the barricade.

Cartheron nodded to him and climbed up on to a cart; a column of the Napan elites was on its way up the street.

The fierce wind buffeted him then, almost sending him head over heels, and he shielded his eyes, frowning into the winds. It was odd – there were no clouds at all.

‘Something strange, Crust,’ Choss called up. ‘I seen a robed guy watching us. When I looked back, he was gone.’

‘I believe it’s a mage battle,’ Dancer put in. ‘Kellanved’s … got involved.’

Cartheron grunted, unimpressed. What entirely engrossed him was the Napan officer leading the approaching column. He started down the opposite side of the barricade.

‘Crust!’ Choss bellowed, outraged.

‘Keep building!’ he shouted back. ‘I’ll buy us some time.’ Jumping down to the worn timbers of the bridge, he walked forward, hands raised. ‘Clementh!’ he called. ‘Is that you!’

The female officer raised a hand to call a halt and started forward alone. They met about a quarter of the way up the arch of the bridge. She wore a set of heavy leather armour, scaled in skirting down to her ankles, each scale intaglioed in swirls and edged in bronze. She pushed back her domed helm and unbuttoned its cheek-guards, then set her gauntleted fists at her hips.

‘Cartheron Crust … it is you.’

‘Clementh. Good to see you.’ He gestured to her gear. ‘Coming up in the world, I see.’

She inclined her head. ‘Lieutenant in the Royal Guard.’

Cartheron nodded, impressed. ‘So he sent the Royals, hey?’

‘For his sister? Of course.’

He shook his head. ‘She’s dead. Took her own life.’

Clementh waved a hand, dismissive. ‘Don’t even try. We’ve had spies on the island for weeks. She’s been identified.’

‘Listen, Clementh. Why follow that fool? Look at the damage he’s done to the fleets. Come over to us. You know Sureth is in the right.’

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘Look what damage he’s done to the Malazan fleets. At least he acts.’

‘The right is hers.’

She lifted a hand to forestall anything more. ‘Don’t try to involve me in a political argument right now, Crust. What’s done is done. Stand aside, or, unfortunately, I’ll just have to kill you and feel bad about it afterwards.’

‘You can try.’

She pulled down her helm. ‘What? Fifty of the Royal Guard against your ragtag pirates? Don’t be a fool, Crust.’

He was backing away. ‘We’ll see. Until then.’ He saluted and jogged back to the barricade.

Climbing down, he noticed that the piled wood of the crates and carts was wet and slick with oil. Choss met him on the other side. ‘Is that Clementh?’ he asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Damn. She’s good.’

‘I know.’

Choss handed him a spear and he took it, his brows rising. ‘Good idea.’

‘Jack’s.’

Everyone, he saw, was armed with spears and other pole weapons, even Dancer. With luck, they’d be able to hold the Napans off. He nodded to everyone. ‘Okay. Line up. Double ranks.’ He looked at the spear in Dancer’s hands. ‘You okay with that?’

The assassin was peering off at the sky as if distracted, but he nodded. ‘For now.’

‘Good.’ Marching boots shook the timbers of the bridge. ‘Because here they come.’

* * *

Dancer did his best to push aside his worries regarding Kellanved – had he truly been blown to atoms? Really? Just like that? Could anything regarding him be that plain and simple?

But once the fighting started it was easy to set all that aside and slip into the focus of battle and instantly forget all else. He thrust as quickly as he could through gaps in the barricade, catching thighs, stomachs, and occasionally necks, then yanking the spear back before the blade could be shorn off. The young officer, Jack, was the best armoured of all of them, in a long mail hauberk; he held the top of the barricade, hammering down with his shield. Choss and Cartheron fought as if on board a ship, with twinned long-knives each, catching swords and counter-thrusting, while the Malazans brawled without any rules at all – stabbing feet, spitting in faces, thrusting into groins. It appeared to Dancer that these Royal Guards were rather at a disadvantage in the chaos of this street-fight.

Yet weight of numbers was slowly telling. Their barricade was beginning to teeter backwards on to them. Gaps were being hacked open by the Guards’ heavy bastard-swords.

It was frankly looking bad for the defenders when Jack jumped down from a cart to snatch up a torch from its fitting on the bridge. He yelled to everyone: ‘Burn it!’ and threw the torch on to the oil-soaked wood. It went up with a bursting whoosh of air. Screams reached them through the roar of flames; Dancer retreated, shielding his face from the heat of the inferno. He held a length of wood now no taller than him, the rest having been hacked away some time ago, but its cut end was sharp, and wet with blood.

So hot was the fire that even the timbers of the bridge caught, and it soon became obvious that the white-hot conflagration would eventually consume the entire bridge. The defenders retreated to the street.

In the light of the burning bridge Dancer could see that the Napans had retreated as well. He saw them marching away for the next bridge – Urko’s command. After damning the noisome stinking swamp of a river all year, Dancer now blessed it; not one of those heavily armoured soldiers would dare wade into that quagmire.

He motioned to Cartheron. ‘I’m going to help Dassem. You join Urko.’

Cartheron raised a hand. ‘I’ll check on Surly first.’ He ordered everyone else to head for Urko.

Dancer started up the cobbled way that traced the channel. Cartheron struck off along an alleyway. Choss, who was wounded, was helped by Jack as the rest of the crew made their way to Urko’s bridge.

Jogging along through the blustering, lashing winds, Dancer decided that he had to believe that Kellanved couldn’t just have been blown up like that. After all the tricks he’d pulled? It must have been another of his diversions … mustn’t it?

He slowed to a walk. Someone had stepped out on to the empty street in front of him. A slim fellow all in dark clothes. Pale, with short black hair, his hands loose at his sides and a mocking arrogant grin on his lips, the meaning of which Dancer knew all too well.

He felt his shoulders fall as he looked up at the night sky. Oh, for the love of Burn … I do not have time for this. He waved the fellow off. ‘Not now. I’m damned busy.’

The lad laughed, high and sneering. ‘Not now,’ he teased. ‘Pathetic. You sound like a mark begging for his life. I expected better.’

Dancer pointed past him. ‘Look. There’s a man up there about to attempt the greatest feat of arms I’ve ever heard of, and he could use my help.’

The lad reached behind his back, and when he brought his hands out each held a very long and very slim blade. ‘Do I look like I give a shit?’

Dancer drew his own blades from his chest baldrics. ‘I don’t give a shit about this.’

‘That doesn’t sound like the Dancer I’m after.’

‘I guess I went and grew up.’

That pulled down the youth’s thin lips. He struck a ready stance, blades straight forward. ‘Just so you know – it’s Cowl who is about to kill you.’

Dancer eased back into a bent knee stance. ‘Spare me. I’ve heard it all before.’

The youth, Cowl, charged.

* * *

‘What’s he doin’ just standin’ there?’ one of her boys complained.

Lee rolled her eyes. ‘How in the Abyss should I know?’

‘Let’s rush ’im,’ another suggested.

She and ten of her remaining toughs were crouched in the mouth of an alleyway eyeing Stonemason Bridge, where a solitary swordsman stood watch. ‘Sure,’ Lee hissed, ‘your knife against his sword!’

‘Well, how’re we gonna get past?’

‘I don’t know!’ she growled once more.

‘Just shoot ’im,’ another urged.

Lee hefted her crossbow. ‘In this wind? Forget it. Have to get much closer.’

‘Fine. Let’s do it.’

‘Wait!’ another whispered. ‘Someone’s comin’.’

Marching feet approached up the channel road and a column of Napans emerged from the gloom. Grit and dirt blew about in lashing wind-devils as they closed on the bridge. Lee and her fellows eased further back into the alley.

At the base of the bridge, the swordsman drew his blade and threw the sheath out over the river. Lee watched it flash as it arced away. Something in that gesture made her lower her crossbow and gesture for her lads and lasses to stand down.

The dark fellow, a Dal Hon so she’d been told, struck a ready stance blocking the narrow stone bridge. The column of Napans paused briefly, as if dumbfounded, then an officer barked an order, and swords were drawn.

‘He’s not really goin’ to…’ one her lasses began before trailing off, almost in awe.

Lee found herself straightening for a better view. ‘It damn well looks like it.’

The Napan soldiers, heavy infantry all, came on two at a time. They carried swords and shields. The Dal Hon held his blade two-handed.

They met with a crash of blade against shield and blade. The Malazan toughs swore as the first ranks of the Napans seemed to melt one blurred stroke at a time. They fell, limp, to the mortared stones or tumbled over the low guarding lip to splash on to the muddy shore below.

Their officer called another order and the next ranks came on crouched behind shields, obviously meaning to push the fellow back. The Dal Hon did give way, but only one pace as he somehow slashed round or above or behind to bring each shieldbearer down in a dance that Lee simply could not believe.

‘What in the Abyss…’ one of her lads breathed, hushed.

The remaining column lost patience with hiding behind their shields and now charged as if meaning to trample the swordsman. This massed rush did buy them another two paces of the bridge, but some eight fell to achieve that length. Still the rest pressed on, as if simple brutal repetition would somehow win them through.

Lee actually winced when two blurred strokes felled the last two of the column. Now the swordsman faced the officer across a length of stone bridge carpeted by the armoured corpses of his command.

The officer stood motionless for a time as he scanned the wreckage of his men and women, and then his head rose to study the agent of this destruction. He reached up and unbuttoned his helm and threw it aside, drew his sword, and carefully, gingerly, stepped between the fallen to close with the Dal Hon.

The swordsman awaited him, blade out before him, not even the slightest movement of his chest beneath a simple blood-spattered jerkin betraying any shortage of breath.

And Lee could not breathe either. All she could think was how this could not be and how never, ever, would she have believed such a thing.

The two met perhaps a quarter of the way up the arch of the bridge. They touched blades and immediately the officer drew his back, slashing. The swordsman slid the blow and countered, and the officer’s head sailed through the air to fall with a splash into the Malaz river channel.

The swordsman cleaned his blade on the officer’s surcoat, sheathed it, and resumed his patient watch.

‘Hood’s mercy,’ another of her lads murmured.

‘I believe so,’ Lee said. ‘Let’s—’

Further marching boots rang in the night and a second column of Napan heavy infantry emerged through the wind-tossed dust and leaf litter.

Lee almost groaned in empathetic pain. Gods, no …

* * *

Dassem felt his shoulders fall ever so slightly as the second column of Napan soldiers came marching up the way. He did not know what he expected to come of pursuing his purpose here, but he hadn’t anticipated sadness. It was all such a waste. A damned useless waste of life and potential.

Downstream, just visible, pulsed the glow of a fire where one of the other bridges burned. Whether it was stone or wood did not matter; just so long as they kept the fire going long enough to funnel all the Napans to him.

And these appeared to be the last, for tonight. At orders from their female officer they formed up, facing him just back from the base of the bridge. Then the officer came forward, sword sheathed, and picked her way through her fallen fellows to study him.

For a Napan, sharing their blue coloration, she appeared rather sickly pale, even ashen now. ‘You did this?’ she breathed in disbelief.

He pointed back the way they’d come. ‘Turn round. Leave. No more need fall.’

She was shaking her head, studying the bodies. ‘We too have our duty.’

He regarded the woman with new understanding. ‘I see. Your name?’

‘Clementh.’

‘Dassem.’

‘We must try…’

‘Yes,’ he said, when her words tailed off. ‘I understand.’

She retreated to her command, and spoke to them for a time. Then, drawing, she came on, leading the attack. And Dassem winced inside: She would make this as hard as she could, wouldn’t she?

They met, and he slashed her among the first. Her soldiers dragged her back while the front rank raised shields. Then they came on again, two by two. The narrow stone span forced them together, inhibiting them. Dassem retreated one pace to clear space for himself and met them two-handed, clashing swords aside and thrusting at legs, arms, and exposed necks. He found he had to retreat yet another step as the fallen piled over one another on the narrow bridge.

More fell and Dassem had to force back his regret for what he had to do. It was pitiful that these good men and women should have to lay themselves down. He longed, then, for the old days of champions.

A shout pulled them back a step, shields raised, watching him warily from beneath the lips of their inlaid iron and bronze helmets. Clementh pushed her way forward, a bloodied arm hanging limp.

Even more ashen now from loss of blood, she eyed him, panting with the effort of holding herself erect. Dassem remained at the ready, blood-splashed and aching, but ready. She turned to her command, ordered, ‘Withdraw.’

They began backing away, stepping carefully over the fallen. A few stooped to pick up or drag wounded. Clementh struggled to sheathe her sword. ‘Tarel will have my head for this,’ she said.

‘But your men and women will live,’ Dassem finished for her.

She nodded, taking a deep breath. ‘We will see to the fallen.’

He nodded as well. ‘I will not interfere.’

‘I thank you for that.’

Now he shook his head. ‘No. I thank you. I did not enjoy this.’

She eyed him for a time, her gaze weighing. ‘Good.’

* * *

Cartheron slammed open the door to Smiley’s to find the common room empty. ‘Lady Sureth!’ he called, panicked for some reason.

‘Yes?’ she called, pushing open the kitchen door.

He swallowed his sudden dread. Ah. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Upstairs.’

Shrift appeared on the stairs, peering down into the room, looking very surprised. ‘Crust…’ she said, almost stammering. ‘What’re … what’re you doing here?’

‘Where’s Grinner?’

She gestured upstairs. ‘With Hawl. She’s sick or something. We’re worried about her.’

He started up. ‘I’ll take a look.’

Shrift allowed him to pass with a help yourself gesture. She followed him up.

He opened the door to her room and stood frozen for a heartbeat, unable to comprehend what confronted him. Hawl lay on the bed, her chest a wet mess of blood; on the floor just at his feet lay Grinner, face down, stabbed in the back.

As he drew breath to shout a hand closed over his mouth from behind and searing pain lanced his back as a length of razor iron was pushed through his torso. He fell, stunned in agony. Only distantly did he register a boot on his back and the blade’s being yanked free.

A woman’s voice, Shrift, breathed close into his ear: ‘Should’ve paid better, Crust.’ Then footsteps thumped away down the stairs.

Distantly, from below, he heard Sureth ask, ‘How is she?’

Some mumbled answer sounded, then a table crashed and feet stamped. Someone was cursing and he realized it was him. Low, he told himself, she struck low.

He started dragging his body towards the stairs.

* * *

They each fought with two knives. Their favourites, of course; preferred weight and lengths. Dancer lost count of the thin slashes he received on arms, sides and thighs as they ran, fought, twisted, jumped, swept and rolled. Conscious thought and planning were gone; all that remained was pure instinct and muscle reflex as attacks and blocks, feints and reverses flew past one another too fast for the mind to separate or even register.

His shirt hung in tatters, slashed from his arms, chest and back. The lad’s own face, neck and chest were a smear of blood, and when they grappled, tiring now, their arms slipped and slid on the sweat and blood sheathing them as they each fought for advantage.

Even so, the lad Cowl’s wide eyes blazed with a seemingly insane fury just a hand’s breadth from Dancer’s own, utterly untouched by the normal fear of mortality, and from this Dancer knew he was locked in potentially the most perilous duel of his life.

For no one was more dangerous than those who did not care if they lived or died.

So they fought on, crashing through doors, slamming into tables, slashing, neither quite able to land a stopping, definitive blow. A kick from Cowl sent him flying backwards into the road and the lad launched himself upon him and Dancer caught blade for blade. The lad head-butted him and though he’d turned his head aside stars still flashed in his vision and agony flamed from his thigh – he staggered off, clutching his leg.

Cowl followed, but slowly now, shifting his grips on his knives, rubbing a bloody forearm across his face but leaving even more of a smeared layer. His hair was a slick sweaty mess and he panted, favouring his own right leg as he tracked Dancer’s movements.

Dancer limped to half fall against the stone lip of a river channel. He shook drops of sweat from his vision, or perhaps they were tears of pain. He managed to straighten, held out his weapons, ready.

The lad was nodding now as he came. He pointed one blood-smeared knife. ‘You were good,’ he panted. ‘But now it ends as it always does.’

He edged up closer and closer, knives weaving in a dance of diversion and deceit, reversing, twisting, low and high, never stopping.

Dancer waited until just the right distance, then rushed him.

They grappled, arms twisting and sliding, neither releasing his blades. Their hot wet breath mixed as they turned round and round each other, grunting and hissing, legs kicking, searching for a hold.

Dancer realized his strength was leaving him in a steady stream out of the thrust through his leg. He had no more time.

He dipped his shoulder, which allowed Cowl to bring his knife up towards his chest. Immediately, the assassin abandoned his other weapon to clamp both hands to the slick grip to push. Dancer dropped his blades to wrap both hands round Cowl’s and they stood rigid, straining, their breaths rasping from taut chests.

‘It’s all right,’ Cowl whispered bare inches from his face, his eyes so eerie and wild. ‘You did your best.’ And he crooned as if to a child: ‘No more worries now … hush now … It’ll all be over soon…’

Dancer knew it had to be now. That this was in fact his last chance. He allowed a fraction of the true exhaustion that hung upon him to show, and the keen tip of Cowl’s blade edged closer to his chest. The assassin leaned even more of his weight on the knife, straining.

Dancer threw both of them backwards over the stone lip.

In that instant of surprise he twisted the blade up towards Cowl’s neck.

They hit the swampy mud and reeds and immediately sank. He lost track of the man as he flailed, coughing on a lungful of fetid slimy water. He drew two more blades, spinning, turning, searching, but no fiend came lunging from the weeds.

He lay still, worked on slowing his breath, and listened to the night.

The punishing winds lashed the tall weeds and rushes. Another brilliant burst flashed across the city and the report of the explosion rumbled and echoed over the rooftops. Slowly, so very weary, he pushed his way through the muck for the sloped stone wall of the channel.