Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 18

Tayschrenn sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped round them. He rocked, eyes closed, thinking, Get up! Move! But he could not. He was so tired. Just resting on land was privilege enough. The barrage was a constant background now; blasting attacks potent enough to have sprayed the consciousness of any other practitioner across the hillsides. Still they pursued; still they sought him.

Just go away!

But they would not, of course. They smelled blood now, so to speak. A day ago he simply ignored all their combined efforts as a nuisance to his flight. But not now. Now it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his defences. Eventually, they would crack beneath the relentless punishment.

He’d been so certain he could escape them! Yet, somehow, they had pursued him into the deepest lineaments of D’riss and found him there; somehow they had even tracked his essence into far hinterlands of the Warren of Thyr. He had even thrown what little bits and pieces of Mockra he’d picked up as false trails and delusions; yet they had seen through these and pushed on upon his trail. Only through the sheer might of his command did he now stave them off.

The priests of D’rek were utterly remorseless.

If he could just hold on – outlast them. Then, perhaps, he had a chance.

He blinked then, where he crouched in an alley of shingle-stone buildings in some cold city, and suddenly found himself somewhere else.

It was light now, a sort of dusk, and the ground was soft beneath him. He eased the clench of his arms and raised his head, cracking open his eyes. His essence, his kha, had been transported somewhere new.

A plain of ashen dust surrounded him; rounded hills rose in the distance. The sky was clear – oddly so. Stars ought to be visible in this seeming evening dusk.

A man stood in front of him, short, in fine dark clothes that appeared to have seen better days. He rocked back and forth on the heels of new shoes, a short walking stick planted before him. He was Dal Hon, and projected the appearance of a wizened oldster, but Tayschrenn could see through this affectation to the features of a young skinny lad.

He frowned, sensing around himself. ‘Meanas?’ he offered.

The Dal Hon lad waggled his head in an ‘almost’ gesture. ‘Close.’

‘My body remains. This buys me no time.’

The lad tilted his head again, as if weighing the matter. ‘Eventually. In the meantime … let’s have a chat.’

Tayschrenn rose, stretching. He studied the fellow more closely, and the more he examined him, the more confused he became. The skein of his Warren manipulation was different from any he’d encountered before. Somehow … altered. It was as if the fellow was annealed with a multiplicity of commingled influences and sources of power. There was even a tinge of the Elder about him. It was clear to Tayschrenn that he had endured some sort of transformational experience.

‘I know of all the High Sorcerers of our age,’ he said, walking a circuit of the strange fellow. ‘I have made it my research. The Ascendants, the Enchantress, the Tiste, and the Jaghut. But you … I do not know you.’

The little fellow looked very pleased. ‘Good. Now, time is short…’

Tayschrenn shook his head. He looked away, studying his surroundings. ‘No. There is nothing you can offer. There is nowhere to hide. Not even here. And this is new – not young, obviously. No, this shard, or fragment, is very old. Ancient, even. New to be accessed, I mean.’

The Dal Hon lad appeared vexed. ‘Yes, yes. Fine. You are well versed in Warren thaumaturgy, I’m sure.’ He drew a breath as if calming himself. ‘Kellanved,’ he said, tipping his head.

‘Tayschrenn.’

‘Good. Now,’ and he raised his walking stick, brushed dirt from its silver-capped tip. ‘What if I told you there was a place where you could hide from your pursuers?’

‘As I said – there is no Warren or Realm that can escape D’rek.’

The Dal Hon mage raised a hand for silence. ‘Indulge me. What choice do you have?’

Indeed. What choice did he have? He was quite certain he wouldn’t last out the night. He sighed, still studying the plain of wind-blown ash. There was sadness here. Lingering ancient curses of inhuman power … Elders had forged this. He shook his head. ‘What of it?’

‘Do you vow to serve me?’

Tayschrenn turned to regard him directly. ‘Serve?’

The hunched mage, with his false projected thinning hair, fat little paunch, and age-twisted arms, shrugged, almost wincing. ‘Well … work for me.’

‘Work…’ Tayschrenn nodded thoughtfully. Clearly, there were insights to be gained here. What lay behind this one’s strange powers? Then he remembered his position and snorted. ‘If you can save my life then I will work for you.’

‘Very good. We have a deal. Now, the hard part is that you’re rather far from where you have to be. You’re going to have to move.’

‘Move?’ he echoed. ‘I do not think I have the strength.’

‘I will help.’

He looked the scrawny fellow up and down. ‘Pardon my scepticism.’

‘We shall just have to do our best, shan’t we?’

Tayschrenn shrugged. He considered himself as good as dead anyway.

* * *

Cartheron became conscious at the base of the stairs. He flailed, coughing and wincing, and thought, Shit, passed out. Must’ve been the slide down the stairs.

He edged his elbows underneath him and pulled, one over the other, until his vision darkened and he had to take a breather … or two …

He next came to on the common room floor. The door to Smiley’s was banging in the wind. Tables were overturned and broken glass and shards of stoneware littered the floor. Of Sureth or Shrift there was no sign.

He took another deep breath and started for the door. Somehow, though, he couldn’t bring his elbows up underneath himself any more and so he clawed at the floorboards, pulling. He heaved until his vision darkened once more, then eased off. No more strength. Gonna die on this damned beer-soaked floor. What a wretched comedown in the world. Always hoped to sink with my command in some damn-fool brave hopeless action.

Footsteps sounded and he blinked, focusing his vision to see two bare feet before his face – Napan blue. Bare? He peered up at a bloodied Lady Sureth; the sleeve and flesh of one arm was slashed open, and another gash bled across her stomach.

She lifted one of his arms and picked him up. ‘How … what…?’ he managed, sounding delirious to himself.

‘Shrift was smart,’ Sureth said as she half-dragged him out of the door. ‘She was patient, wasn’t she? She killed Amiss, she told me so. Amiss became suspicious of her so she staged her murder to start a blood-feud with Geffen – hoped to thin our numbers even more.’

Out on the street, Sureth dragged him to the nearest shop and banged on the door. ‘But she made one mistake, yes, Cartheron? Cartheron.’

He blinked heavily, nodded, or lolled his head. ‘Yes? A mistake?’ he said – or thought he did. He couldn’t be sure, there was such a loud roaring in his ears.

‘That’s right,’ Sureth said. ‘She was newest to my service, wasn’t she? She thought I’d be the easiest part.’

At this Cartheron laughed. The pain was excruciating, but he laughed anyway. Gods! Sureth easy? No, lass, you are the hardest of us all …

And he heard talk then. Sureth demanding to see a healer, or medicer, or churgeon, and he sank into the roaring dark winds that had been pulling at him so insistently.

* * *

Nedurian watched the mage-battle raging just to the north over Malaz City and was awed by the scale of it. Astounding. At least a hundred versus one – and that one not even answering the constant withering assault. He wondered what the man or woman could possibly have done. Spat on D’rek’s altar? For he knew the identity of the attackers. All shared the same aspect: that of the priest-mages of D’rek.

Watching also were Agayla and the eerie Nightchill. None had raised their Warrens, or powers, or whatever it may be that they could call upon should they wish to. Even this far from the clash they did not wish to risk attracting any attention.

Behind him, the sea still surged against the rocks and the thin strand of the south coast. The sky was clear and full of stars and it was quite cold. It was as if nothing untoward at all were happening just leagues off.

He hugged himself against the chill. Neither of the sorceresses appeared to notice the wintry bite to the night air. Offshore, a vessel had dropped anchor in a nearby cove, perhaps putting in against the strange blow.

Agayla had assured him that this battle, or duel, would merely lash its way across the island and continue onward unmindful of its course. Yet none of this had happened. The quarry of the chase appeared to have gone to ground somewhere in the city itself. He was anxious about this, but at least the feud didn’t appear to be spilling over into any actual physical damage to the city. If all went well, it would end soon enough, and the inhabitants of Malaz would open their shutters to tomorrow’s dawn and marvel at the wrack left behind by the strange storm that had battered the island overnight.

And that would be that.

He rubbed his hands together and blew upon them. A fire would be a fine idea; he supposed it would be up to him to collect the firewood.

And why did he think of fire just now? He peered round, frowning, because he could’ve sworn he’d smelled smoke. But not just any smoke – a rare and strange scent. Like burned exotic herbs and woods. Like … incense?

* * *

Two fists yanked on Tayschrenn’s shirt front and he peered up, blinking. It was the Dal Hon mage here with him in the narrow alleyway.

‘Keep moving,’ the mage of Meanas said.

‘This is suicide, you realize,’ Tayshcrenn told him. Nevertheless, he struggled to rise to his feet once more. Distantly, he marvelled at the survival imperative of mortal flesh.

Once he was on his feet the diminutive mage took part of his weight and guided him forward, saying, ‘Good, good. Just walk. Ignore everything you might see.’

Tayschrenn arched a brow, rather curious about that command despite his bleariness.

A storm of shadows enmeshed them. They churned and flowed, almost like a constant coursing waterfall, on and on. Within them Tayschrenn glimpsed an almost infinite regression of himself and his guide all limping along – all in differing locales: following various streets, crossing various squares, and even tracing waterfront wharves.

He turned an eye on his rescuer. ‘Impressive…’

‘Shh. That’s just the opening.’

Their next steps yanked them into a narrow canyon of dry dusty slopes and he pressed a hand to his head, groaning at the searing pain grating there from the workings of this man’s Warren, or altered aspect. As if peering through a kaleidoscope of possibilities he glimpsed himself cowering at the feet of a D’rek priest who laughed his victory; himself stepping through a Warren portal into a cityscape he did not know; himself fleeing onward across a broad savanna of windswept grasses; himself on board a small skiff sailing westward; himself dead in more ways than he would rather have seen or cared to consider.

And it all seemed so very real to him. The headache of it all was almost more than he could bear – he even began to worry for his sanity. The next moment he became almost certain of his insanity when their path among the canyons brought them right before the muzzles of two gigantic hounds who perked up as if startled, heads tilting in disbelief. He glanced back to see them now padding along behind, ears low, eyes narrowed, on the hunt.

‘There’s—’

‘Shh,’ came a tense warning from the mage. ‘Almost there.’

All this time, the flurry and rush of D’rek probing had not relented. If anything, it seemed to be intensifying. ‘They’re coming,’ he panted.

‘You’re too damned potent to disguise,’ his guide complained.

A roar like that of a lion sounded then, followed by a scream and the crunch of bones and rending of flesh. Fearful, he tried to turn to look but the mage of Meanas urged him onward. He was, at that moment, experiencing a kind of sliding simultaneity of multiple selves that threatened to split his head in its impossibility. He felt as if his consciousness was being fragmented into pieces and was astounded that this odd little fellow could so easily endure such a storm of manipulation, let alone generate it.

Among these multiple concurrent possibilities was one strengthening version where they pushed through a tiny iron gate and up a narrow path of paving stones to tumble on to a broad slate landing before an iron-bound door.

The mage was yanking on his sweaty, dirt-smeared robes. ‘Hurry!’

But he had to hold his head just to be sure that it was still whole. And he wondered, Am I really here?

‘Run down at last!’ a voice called, and Tayschrenn peered over see a coterie of D’rek priests and priestesses at the gate and low wall of the property.

The mage of Meanas was struggling with the door. ‘Come on!’

He shook his head. ‘It’s no use…’

The D’rek adherents swung over the wall and came on across the wild unkempt garden.

The door swung open, almost brushing Tayschrenn aside. At that moment he became further certain of his insanity as the ground itself became alive with writhing vines and roots all lashing themselves about the priests and priestesses, who screamed their mortal terror. They cut and pulled and blasted at the bonds but to no benefit he could discern as each now began sinking, flailing and writhing in utter blind panic.

The few who won through – mostly on the narrow walkway, and each of them a Fang of D’rek – now drew daggers. Yet at that instant a towering presence brushed past Tayschrenn to take these in huge armoured fists and throw them aside on to the steaming ground, where the vines and roots quickly enmeshed them.

All this Tayschrenn took in almost as if dream-walking, or in a daze. He turned to the house and what he now saw there, and what he understood of it, froze him completely.

The spindly mage was pulling at him. ‘Now! Come!’

He shook his head in mute denial. No, he mouthed, barely able to speak. ‘Do you know what this is?’

‘Yes, yes. Now move! More are coming!’

He gaped up at the armoured colossus as it thumped past, ignoring him completely, to re-enter the house. ‘You would choose to be entombed for ever?’

The fellow waved his hands, a touch frantic. ‘Not a bit of it! Now come!’

He shook his head. Better any fate than this mad desperate throw.

Strangely, instead of becoming angry or impatient, the little Dal Hon mage just shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Well, all right,’ he said. ‘But too bad for them.’ And he rocked back and forth on his heels.

Tayschrenn eyed him narrowly. ‘Who?’

The mage nodded to the street where Tayschrenn sensed a further mass of priests and priestesses rushing in upon them. ‘Damn you…’ he hissed.

The fellow shrugged innocently. ‘Perhaps you ought to get rid of them.’

Tayschrenn shook his heavy head. ‘I can’t kill them. They’re just being used.’

The wizened mage rolled his eyes to the sky. ‘Oh, dear Ascendants. Just get rid of them! Push them away. Whatever.’ He fluttered a hand to the door. ‘Demonstrate to me that you are worthy to be shown the secrets within.’

Tayschrenn blinked blearily in his exhaustion, taking this in. Of course I’ve driven them off before! Many times! But they’d just returned. Again and again. Like a stinging cloud of insects. Yet this mage claims this would be the last time … Very well. I’ll drive them off all right!

As more of the pursuers appeared, he drew down far into the depths of his Warren to summon every bare remaining scrap of power to thrust it outwards in one last great surge. He stored it momentarily, feeling it gnawing within at the lineaments of his flesh like a fire, then released it in a sudden surging blast of might that shot outwards like an eruption that seared across the Warrens.

He opened his eyes, blinking. The little mage now stood pressed up against the sturdy iron-bound door, a hand at his forehead. ‘Well,’ the fellow managed, his voice shaky and hoarse, ‘that was something.’ He waved to the sky. ‘Behold.’

Tayschrenn glanced about; the skies were clear of pursuers. Like summoning a gale within the Warrens, he’d driven them away. Just how far, though, he couldn’t say for certain. They may be gathering themselves to return this very moment – or perhaps not.

Kellanved gestured invitingly to the door. ‘Impressive. You may pass within.’

He eyed him sharply. ‘Not as a prisoner?’

‘No. Not as a prisoner, I assure you.’

Somehow, he didn’t think much of any assurance coming from this fellow, but he did burn with curiosity. The legendary Azath! What an opportunity! ‘Very well.’

The supposed elderly mage opened the door and waved him in. He entered a touch tentatively, still wary despite his wonder. Kellanved pushed in behind him.

The door slammed shut of its own volition.

* * *

‘The battle appears to be relenting,’ Nedurian pronounced – purely for form’s sake, as no doubt both Agayla and Nightchill had sensed this long before him. They nodded, kindly refraining from telling him to shut up.

The strange woman, Nightchill, whom Agayla had warned him to regard as pretty much an Ascendant, had been sitting atop a tall boulder, and she climbed down now, in a rather ungainly manner. This awkwardness suggested to Nedurian the suspicion that perhaps she was not entirely familiar, or at ease, with the form she currently possessed.

‘Resolution has been reached,’ she announced. ‘Though what form this has taken I cannot say for certain. I suspect—’

Her words were cut off abruptly as a shape swiftly rounded the boulder and something punched into her body. Nedurian gaped, horrified to see the bloody length of an enormous sword blade standing from her chest.

From behind, a man peered over her shoulder, all iron-grey hair and beard, lined savage face and sneering lips. He pointed past Nightchill to Agayla, shouting, ‘Make no move, witch! Or she dies.’ He spared a glance for Nedurian. ‘Or you, legionnaire. This is between me and her.’

Horribly, the blade twisted then as he turned it within Nightchill, and the woman shuddered, still conscious, still standing. The man returned his attention to Agayla. ‘Or your mistress!’ he warned. ‘I see her there, watching. Interfere, T’riss, and you are next! I, the High King, so swear!’

‘High King no longer, Kallor,’ Agayla grated, visibly shaking with rage.

Kallor barked a harsh laugh. ‘What matter circumstances? We speak in timeless truths now.’ He set his lips close to Nightchill’s ear. ‘Why not employ your witchery to blast me to cinders or crack me to shards? You are inestimably powerful. So very much more powerful than I. Why not?’

The blade twisted again and Nightchill gurgled her agony, rising up on to her toes. Blood marred her lips, bubbling. Nedurian cast a pleading look to Agayla but the sorceress shook her head.

‘Why not?’ Kallor raged. ‘I will tell you why not! Because I have been preparing for this, Sister. Ages ago – ages and ages – I purchased a rare ore mined in a land far away. A kingdom’s ransom it cost me. And I dusted it upon this blade just before I plunged it into you. A pinch. Just one tiny pinch. But it constrains you now, doesn’t it? Now you will be the first to feel the full weight of my judgement. And your damned brothers will follow! Damn you for interfering with me! Damn you for ever!’

He grasped a handful of her hair then, yanking her head high and exposing her neck. ‘Your kind are notorious for the difficulty of dispatching them – but I know of one sure way. A good clean beheading always does the trick.’

Nedurian lurched forward then, no matter Agayla’s objections, but in an instant Kallor had yanked free the blade and set it to Nightchill’s neck. ‘Think again, legionnaire! I will free her head from her body.’

‘You’re going to anyway,’ Nedurian growled.

‘Yes. But do you want to be the immediate cause?’ He backed away, half dragging the wounded Nightchill before him. ‘By the sea, I think. And I shall cast your head to the fishes…’

A strange thing happened then: ropes, or lines, or tangled netting, leapt up and lashed themselves about Kallor’s arm and neck to pull him backwards. He flailed, snarling, but the sea-wrack snatched him with a great yank and the heavy bastard-sword went flying from his grip. Nighchill collapsed and Nedurian and Agayla ran to her.

Nedurian cradled the poor woman’s shoulders. Amazingly, she was still conscious, and she fought to turn her head – to turn it to the shore where this Kallor fiend now flailed amid a lashing mass of twisting seaweed-draped old fishing netting and ancient grey lines, perhaps old forgotten rope from centuries of fishing.

The netting was dragging him, bellowing and struggling, down the strand to where a small skiff waited, pulled up on the gravel. To one side stood what appeared to be an old fisherman in tattered worn canvas jerkin and trousers, pipe in mouth. He was gesturing with his hands, making weaving motions, even as Kallor flopped up over the side of the skiff.

‘I will slay you too, you damned interfering old bastard!’ Kallor was yelling now, hoarse. ‘Sister!’ he called, ‘I will find you again! And when I do I will destroy you! I, Kallor, do so swear!’

The seamed, sun-darkened old fisherman pushed then, with his hands, and the skiff surged out into the surf, rising and falling as it crested waves, diminishing into the distance.

The fisherman took his pipe from his mouth. ‘You are not welcome here, Kallor Eiderann Tes’thesula,’ he called to the surf. ‘Each time you rise so too shall you fall.’ And he set the pipe back into his mouth, nodding to himself, and came up the shore to where Nightchill lay in Nedurian’s arms.

All this was astounding enough to him, but to top it all off Agayla then knelt to one knee before the old man, saying, ‘We are sorry, Fisher. We did not mean to disturb you.’

The old man waved her apology aside, his pale sky-blue eyes actually amused. ‘It is an old feud. And a stubborn one.’ He bent over Nightchill. ‘Ach, Sister. You are gravely wounded. It will not heal, will it?’

Nighchill seemed to recognize him and she whispered, ‘Fisher now, is it?’

He set a finger to her bloody lips. ‘Hush. Lucky for you m’lady is with me. She’ll sing you whole, she will.’

He picked her up quite easily for such an old fellow.

‘I’m honoured,’ she murmured.

‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, and headed off.

Nedurian moved to follow but Agayla held him back by gripping his arm. ‘She is in good hands,’ she said.

‘Who was that?’

‘Don’t you think we ought to be heading back?’ Agayla brushed her sleeves as if removing dust.

‘Agayla … who?’

She motioned aside as if inviting him to walk with her. ‘You’re not going to leave me to go alone, are you?’

He rolled his eyes and started off. ‘Fine. Don’t tell me.’

‘Some things,’ she said, taking his arm, ‘aren’t meant to be known.’

‘So I gather. But what about – what’s his name – that Kallor?’

She shook her head, her thick mane of dark hair blowing in the gusting winds. ‘I don’t believe we’ll be seeing him again.’

* * *

Dawn’s pink and golden light came slanting across the town to limn the man still standing guard on Stonemason’s Bridge. Lee also stood a vigil of a sort; leaning up against a wall, watching him. Half her lads and lasses had wandered off. A few lay in the alleyway, asleep.

But not Lee. She’d seen something she’d never ever expected to see in her lifetime. Perfection. Or at least the pursuit of it. None of this wretched slouching along she’d seen so much of everywhere. No, not that. Expertise. Mastery. And she recognized it as something she’d wanted and looked for all her life.

She peered down at a snoring Two-ton and kicked him awake. He snorted, fumbling, then blinked up at her. ‘Wha’?’

‘I’m quitting.’

He frowned, pulling a hand down his face. ‘Wha’?’

‘You boys and girls can decide who’s in charge, okay?’

He smacked his lips, screwed up one eye. ‘Quittin’? Really?’

‘Yeah.’

He pushed himself up on to one elbow. ‘Well … whatcha gonna do?’

She nodded towards the bridge. ‘We’ll see.’

He eyed the bridge. ‘Gonna throw in with them?’

She lifted her shoulders. ‘We’ll see.’

He pushed himself up all the way, brushed dirt from his trousers. ‘I’m with ya.’

She scowled up at him. ‘No … you don’t have to be.’

He crossed his arms, resolute. ‘I’m with ya, lass.’

She pressed a hand to her forehead, shook her head. ‘Gods. Fine! Whatever.’ She waved to the others. ‘Send them off.’

‘Right.’

Two-ton urged the rest of the gang back to the Gyrfalcon, then they set out towards the bridge. The swordsman calmly watched their approach. The stone arch was clear now; a crew from the Napan ship had come and collected the wounded and all the bodies. All that was left was scattered broken equipment and a lot of drying blood and other fluids staining the cobbles. He stood at ease, his sword sheathed. Crusted blood splashed his tunic and trousers. His sleeves were fairly stiff with it. Stopping a short distance off, she regarded him in turn. Dark, he was, with the curly kinky hair that suggested Dal Hon blood. Tall and wiry, handsome in a lean and hungry sort of way. His eyes appeared dark blue and they held an eerie distance in them, almost a kind of sadness. How the girls must sigh at that melancholy gaze, she admitted. But not her. That was not what she wanted from him.

She knelt to one knee and bowed her head. Gathering her resolve, she said forcefully, ‘I would serve … if you would have me.’

After a short silence, he said, ‘Stand.’ She rose. He regarded her, then his eyes switched to the lumbering Two-ton. She looked to him as well, a touch irked by his intrusion.

The giant of a fellow pushed a knuckle to his brow. ‘Two-ton, sor,’ he rumbled. ‘In your service – if you please.’

The swordsman nodded. ‘Dassem.’ He peered past them, towards the waterfront. ‘The Napan vessel?’

‘Withdrawn,’ Lee answered.

He raised a hand as if signalling a pause. ‘I warn you, it is not to me you should swear allegiance. It is my…’ He paused for some time, obviously searching for the correct term. Finally, he settled on ‘employer’.

‘The knifer Dancer?’

He inclined his head in assent. ‘If that troubles you, you may go. I would quite understand.’

She shook her head. ‘No. That doesn’t bother me.’

The man raised a brow, obviously quite surprised. ‘Very well. This way,’ and he turned round and headed back over the bridge.

* * *

Dancer walked the streets in the early morning light; or, more accurately, he tottered, paused, staggered, and dragged himself along. Early risers out on the streets to inspect the damage from the overnight storm took one look at him, gaped, and ran in the opposite direction.

He found the door to Smiley’s ajar, the common room a mess of overturned tables, chairs, and broken glassware. Surly sat on a tall stool at the bar, an old man bent at her bared arm, sewing up a long ugly-looking gash.

Seeing him, the Napan crew, Choss, Urko and Tocaras, all lurched to their feet, swearing, and came forward to help. He waved them off and eased himself down in a chair at a table next to the door. Choss came round with a tiny shot glass that he filled from some foreign-looking decanter. ‘You look like you’ve been dragged behind horses.’ He also draped a blanket over his shoulders.

‘Feel like it too,’ he answered, and tossed back the shot – only to hiss and wince when the alcohol stung his gashed lip. Blood now caked the glass from his smeared hands and he realized he badly needed to clean up.

‘Who’s after you?’ he asked of Surly.

The churgeon peered over and looked him up and down. ‘I’m good, but I’m not that good.’

‘I’ll take whatever you got,’ Dancer answered. He looked to Choss. ‘So. What happened?’

The burly mariner leaned forward on to his elbows, scowling. ‘We lost Hawl and Grinner. Shrift tried to throw in for Tarel an’ Crust is sore wounded.’

‘What of the locals – what was his name … Dujek?’

Urko jerked a thumb to the kitchen. ‘Him ’n’ Jack are making breakfast. We sent the rest of the troops off to rest.’

Dancer nodded at that. ‘Sounds good. I need that – and a bath.’

‘Don’t look at us,’ Tocaras told him.

The old churgeon looked round again and pointed down the street. ‘Try old lady Carragan. Runs a boarding house. She has a bath.’

Dancer tipped his head. ‘Many thanks.’ He tried to rise, then found he’d have to try harder if he wished to succeed.

The door opened and in strode a blood-splashed Dassem.

Everyone in the room stared for a time, silent. He answered their stares with a pinched brow.

‘So…’ Dancer finally said into the silence. ‘You held them off.’ The swordsman gave a curt assent. ‘I, ah, apologize for not being there. I was on my way. But I was … sidetracked.’

Dassem looked him up and down. ‘So I see.’

The door opened again and in walked their old enemy, Lee, and a huge street-tough.

Urko lurched to his feet, bellowing, ‘What’s this?’

Dassem raised his hands for calm. ‘They’re here to join.’

Urko fell back into his chair with a massive sigh. ‘Thank the gods.’

The young woman, his opponent from prior encounters, looked Dancer up and down. With a sort of sideways smile she said, ‘I see you met Cowl.’ Dancer nodded. ‘And I guess you won.’

‘I guess so,’ Dancer agreed. ‘You are here to join, then?’ Lee nodded. He pointed her to Surly. ‘Talk to her.’

Dassem peered round the room, then asked, ‘Where’s the mage – Kellanved?’

Dancer felt his face stiffen and he looked away. ‘Still … missing.’

A soft curse sounded from Surly at the bar. She poured herself a shot from the expensive foreign decanter and tossed it back. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘We need to organize,’ Dassem answered. ‘Mock may choose to strike against us now to gain favour—’

‘Mock no longer,’ Lee interjected.

Dassem looked at her. ‘Oh?’

‘One of the lasses let me know last night. He had an accident in the Hold. Fell off a parapet and over the cliff. A troika of captains rules now.’

‘Ah. None the less. They may strike.’

‘Let them,’ Urko growled, leaning forward. ‘We can take them!’

‘Not if they can unite all the crews,’ Surly warned.

Urko sank back into his chair. ‘Dammit.’

Surly waved Lee to her and the two spoke for a time. Two-ton thumped down at a table and poured himself a flagon of beer.

Then Dassem spoke to the room, addressing everyone. ‘My strength is tactics, and I am new, so it is not for me to say. But what is our position?’

Everyone eyed Surly. She pointed Lee aside, murmuring something to her, then sent a hard look to Dancer. Up to me, I guess, he decided, and he rose, wincing and hissing as multiple cuts stretched and reopened. ‘We rest up,’ he announced. ‘Keep a wary watch, of course. In a couple of days we’ll have a council to decide.’

Everyone nodded.

Dancer answered the nods. ‘Good. If anyone needs me I’ll be getting cleaned up.’ He walked stiff-legged out of the door, making for old lady Carragan’s.

* * *

The swampy delta of a salt marsh extends out into the harbour where the main channel of the Malaz river empties into the bay. Here, at dawn, the seabirds erupted into the air, cawing their complaints as something moved within the muck and slime.

The tall reeds and cattails shook as a mud-caked shape pulled itself out of the silts and up the side of a sandbar. The man had one hand pressed to his neck where the mud glistened a deep red. His chest was shaking as if spasming and finally, reluctantly, a gurgling laugh burst forth from his smeared lips as he chuckled uncontrollably. Crimson bubbles foamed at the fingers pressed to his neck. Yet he laughed on, wheezing.

After a time, he gestured with his other hand in a sweeping motion and darkness swirled up about him. When it dispersed he was gone, and the spiralling seabirds descended to roost among the reeds once again.