The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Well—’

  She faced straight ahead again. ‘The Fist,’ she said in a whisper, ‘hasn’t even begun.’

  Well…oh, that’s not good at all.

  Behind the troop, the mob closed in once again, and there arose new shouts, this time of horror.

  ‘Plague flags! On the transports in the bay! Plague flags!’

  In moments belligerence drained away like piss down a leg, and terror grabbed hold between those legs – squeezing hard – and people began swarming in every direction, but a heartbeat away from pure, frenzied panic. Kalam kept his smile to himself.

  Ever so faint, the clatter of knuckles bouncing and skidding had alerted Banaschar. This night the Worm was awake, and with it the return of the ex-priest’s old sensitivities to the whisper of magic. In rapid succession thereafter, as he shifted from his path and found a dead-end alley in which to crouch, heart pounding, he felt multiple pulses of sorcery – a gate, slicing open the thinnest rent, the sudden, violent unravelling of some unseen tapestry, and then, finally, a trembling underfoot, as if something terrible and vast had just stepped onto the dry land of this island.

  Dizzy from the successive waves of virulent power, Banaschar straightened once more, one hand against a grimy wall for support, then he headed off – back, back towards the harbourfront.

  No choice, no choice. I need to see…to understand…

  As he drew nearer, he could smell panic in the air, acrid and bitter, and all at once there were mute figures hurrying past him – the beginnings of an exodus. Faces twisted in fear blurred by, and others dark with rage – as if their plans had been suddenly knocked awry, and there was not yet time to find a means to regroup, nor yet the opportunity to think things through.

  Something’s happened.

  Maybe to do with that falling rock or whatever it was.

  In the old days, such an occurrence, on the eve of autumn, the eve of D’rek’s arrival upon the mortal earth…well, we’d have flooded the streets. Out from the temples, raising our voices to the heavens. And the coffers would overflow, because there could be no mistaking…

  The thoughts trailed away, vanished, leaving naught but a taste of ashes in his mouth. We were such fools. The sky casts down, the world heaves up, the waters wash it all away. None of this – none of it! – has anything to do with our precious gods!

  He reached the broad avenue fronting the docks. People moving about here and there. If anger remained it was roiling about, all direction lost. Some vast desire had been…blunted.

  Passing an old woman Banaschar reached out to her. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘What has happened?’

  She glared up at him, pulling free as if his touch was a contaminant. ‘Plague ships!’ she hissed. ‘Get away from me!’

  He let her go, halted, stared out at the ships filling the bay.

  Ah, the flags…

  Banaschar sniffed the air.

  Poliel? I can’t sense you at all…out there. Or anywhere else, come to think of it. His eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he smiled.

  At that moment, a heavy hand thumped down on his left shoulder, spun him round—

  And someone screamed.

  Lifting clear of the swirling black, filthy waters. Straightening, slime and grit streaming off, blood-sucking eels flapping down to writhe on the muddy rocks, the broken pottery and the brick fragments beneath the wooden dock. One step forward, then another, heavy, scraping.

  A rough wall directly ahead, revealing layers of street levels, bulwarks, old drainage holes dating back to the city’s youth – before iron was first forged by humans – when the sewer system was a superb, efficient subterranean web beneath level streets. In all, plenty of hand- and foot-holds, given sufficient determination, strength and will.

  Of all three, the one standing facing that wall had been given plenty.

  More steps.

  Then, climbing. A stranger had come to Malaz City.

  Gasping, she leaned against a wall. What a mistake, trying to swim in all that armour. And then, all those damned eels! She’d emerged from the water covered in the damned things. Hands, arms, legs, neck, head, face, dangling and squirming and probably getting drunk every one of them and it wasn’t no fun anyway, pulling them off. Squeeze too hard and they sprayed blood, black stuff, smelly stuff. But you had to squeeze, to get a good grip, because those mouths, they held fast, leaving huge circular weals on her flesh, puckered and oozing.

  Stumbling ashore like some kind of worm witch, or demon – ha, that mongrel dog that sniffled up to her sure did run, didn’t it? Stupid dog.

  Sewer ramp, pretty steep, but there were rungs on the sides and she was able to work her way along it, then the climb which had damn near killed her but no chance of that. Thirst was a demanding master. The most demanding master. But she’d dumped her armour, down there knee-deep in the muck of the bottom with the keel of the damned ship nearly taking her head off – took the helmet, didn’t it? And if that strap hadn’t broke so conveniently…anyway, she’d even dropped her weapon belt. Nothing to pawn, and that was bad. Except for this knife, but it was the only knife she got, the only one left.

  Still, she was thirsty. She needed to get the taste of the harbour soup out of her mouth, especially that first gasp after struggling back up to the surface, sucking in head-first the bloated corpse of a disgusting rat – that had come as close to killing her as anything so far – what if it’d been alive, and eager to climb down her throat? She’d had nightmares like that, once. During a dry spell, it was, but that’s what dry spells did – they reminded you that the world was awful and ugly and miserable and there were things out there that wanted to get you. Spiders, rats, eels, caterpillars.

  Had there been a crowd up here? Not many left now, and those that came close to her kept crying out and running away in some weird blind panic. She wiped at the stinging weals on her face, blinked more muck from her eyes, lifted her head and looked around.

  And now, who is that?

  Sudden sobriety, sudden intent, a blast of white incandescence purging her brain and who knew what else.

  And now now now, just who oh who is that? Right there – no, don’t turn your back, too late. Hee hee, too too too late late late!

  Hellian crept forward, as quiet as could be, came up right behind him. Drew her knife with her right hand, reached out with her left. Five more paces to go…

  Saygen Maral stepped out from the alley. The target had doubled back, the bastard. But there he was, not ten paces away, and few people around him. Convenient. He would cease being subtle. Sometimes, it paid to remind citizens that the Claw was ever present, ever ready to do what was necessary.

  The assassin drew out from beneath his cloak a paralt-smeared dagger, gingerly adjusting his grip on the weapon as he moved forward.

  Some woman was staring at Banaschar – a hoary, sodden thing, with an eel dangling from under her left ear and round sores all over her exposed flesh – people, upon seeing her, were running away. Aye, she looks like she’s got the plague, but she doesn’t. Must’ve fallen in or something. No matter.

  He returned his attention to his target’s back, moved lithely forward, his footsteps making no sound. He’d spin the fool around, to catch the death in the man’s eyes. Always more pleasurable that way, the rush of power that raced through the killer when the eyes locked, and recognition blossomed, along with pain and the sudden knowledge of impending death.

  He was addicted to it, he knew. But he was hardly alone in that, now, was he?

  With a half-smile, Saygen Maral drew up behind the drunkard, reached out and gripped the man’s shoulder, then spun him round, even as the knife in his other hand rustled free of the cloak, darted forward—

  A scream sounded from down the avenue.

  As Banaschar was pulled around, he saw – on the face of the man opposite him – a look of shock, then consternation—

  A woman had grasped the man’s forearm – an arm at the end of which was a gleaming, stained
knife – and, as Banaschar stared, still not quite comprehending, he saw her drive the heel of a palm into the elbow joint of that arm, snapping it clean. The knife, sprung loose, spun away to clatter on the cobbles, even as the woman, snarling something under her breath, tugged the broken arm down and drove her knee into the man’s face.

  A savage cracking sound, blood spraying as the head rocked back, eyes wide, and the woman twisted the arm round, forcing the man face-first onto the cobbles. She descended onto him, grasped him by the hair with both hands and began systematically pounding his skull into the street.

  And, between each cracking impact, words grated from her:

  ‘No—’

  crunch

  ‘you—’

  crunch

  ‘don’t!’

  crunch

  ‘This one’s—’

  CRUNCH!

  ‘mine!’

  Appalled, Banaschar reached down, grasped the terrible apparition by her sodden jerkin, and dragged her back. ‘For Hood’s sake, woman! You’ve shattered his skull! It’s all pulp! Stop! Stop!’

  She twisted free, turned on him and, with smooth precision, set the tip of a knife just beneath his right eye. Her pocked, blood-smeared, filthy face shifted into a sneer, as she snarled, ‘You! Finally! You’re under arrest!’

  And someone screamed from down the avenue. Again.

  Thirty paces away, Fiddler, Gesler and Stormy all stared at the commotion not far from an alley mouth. An attempted assassination, interrupted – with fatal ferocity – by some woman—

  Gesler suddenly gripped Fiddler’s arm. ‘Hey, that’s Hellian there!’

  Hellian? Sergeant Hellian?

  They then heard her pronounce an arrest.

  Even as screams ripped the air from farther down, and figures began racing away from the waterfront. Now, what’s all that about? Never mind. His eyes still fixed on Hellian, who was now struggling with the poor man who looked as drunk as she was – her husband? – Fiddler hesitated, then he shook his head. ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘You got that right,’ Gesler said. ‘So, Fid, meet you in a bell, right?’

  ‘Aye. Until then.’

  The three soldiers set off, then almost immediately parted ways, Gesler and Stormy turning south on a route that would take them across the river on the first bridge, Fiddler continuing west, into the heart of the Centre District.

  Leaving behind those frantic, terrified cries from the north end of the Centre Docks harbourfront, which seemed, despite Fiddler’s pace, to be drawing ever nearer.

  Plague. Smart man, Keneb. Wonder how long the ruse will last?

  Then, as he reached very familiar streets on the bay side of Raven Hill Park, there came a surge of pleasure.

  Hey. I’m home. Imagine that. I’m home!

  And there, ten paces ahead, a small shopfront, little more than a narrow door beneath a crumbling overhang from which dangled a polished tin disc, on its surface an acid-etched symbol. A burning mouse. Fiddler halted before it, then thumped on the door. It was a lot more solid than it looked. He pounded some more, until he heard a scratching of latches being drawn back on the other side. The door opened a crack. A small rheumy eye regarded him for a moment, then withdrew.

  A push and the door swung back.

  Fiddler stepped inside. A landing, with stairs leading upward. The owner was already halfway up them, dragging one stiff leg beneath misaligned hips, his midnight-blue night-robe trailing like some imperial train. In one hand was a lantern, swinging back and forth and casting wild shadows. The sergeant followed.

  The shop on the next floor was cluttered, a looter’s haul from a hundred battles, a hundred overrun cities. Weapons, armour, jewellery, tapestries, bolts of precious silk, the standards of fallen armies, statues of unknown heroes, kings and queens, of gods, goddesses and demonic spirits. Looking round as the old man lit two more lanterns, Fiddler said, ‘You’ve done well, Tak.’

  ‘You lost it, didn’t you?’

  The sergeant winced. ‘Sorry.’

  Tak moved behind a broad, lacquered table and sat down, gingerly, in a plush chair that might have been the throne of some minor Quon king. ‘You careless runt, Fiddler. You know I only make one at a time. No market, you see – aye, I keep my promises there. Labours of love, every time, but that kind of love don’t fill the belly, don’t feed the wives and all those urchins not one of ’em looking like me.’ The small eyes were like barrow coins. ‘Where is it, then?’

  Fiddler scowled. ‘Under Y’Ghatan.’

  ‘Y’Ghatan. Better it than you.’

  ‘I certainly thought so.’

  ‘Changed your mind since?’

  ‘Look, Tak, I’m no wide-eyed recruit any more. You can stop treating me like I was a damned apprentice and you my master.’

  Gnarled brows rose. ‘Why, Fiddler, I wasn’t doing nothing of the sort. You feel that way, it’s because of what’s been stirred awake inside that knobby skull of yours. Old habits and all that. I meant what I said. Better it than you. Even so, how many is it now?’

  ‘Never mind,’ the sergeant growled, finding a chair and dragging it over. He slumped down into it. ‘Like I said, you’ve done well, Tak. So how come you never got that hip fixed?’

  ‘I gauge it this way,’ the old man said, ‘the limp earns sympathy, near five per cent. Better still, since I don’t say nothing about nothing they all think I’m some kind of veteran. For my soldiering customers, that’s another five per cent. Then there’s the domestic. Wives are happier since they all know I can’t catch them—’

  ‘Wives. Why did you agree to that in the first place?’

  ‘Well, four women get together and decide they want to marry you, it’s kinda hard to say no, right? Sure, wasn’t my manly looks, wasn’t even that crooked baby-maker between my legs. It was this new shop, and all that mysterious coin that helped me set up again. It was the house here in the Centre District. You think I was the only one who ended up losing everything in the Mouse?’

  ‘All right, if it makes you happy. So, you kept the limp. And you kept the promise. Well?’

  Tak smiled, then reached under the table, released two latches and Fiddler heard the clunk of a hidden drawer dropping down onto its rails. Pushing the throne back, the old man slid open the large drawer, then carefully removed a cloth-wrapped object. He set it down on the table and pulled the cloth away. ‘A few improvements,’ he purred. ‘Better range for one.’

  His eyes on the extraordinary crossbow between them, Fiddler asked, ‘How much better?’

  ‘Add fifty paces, I figure. Never tested that, though. But look at the ribs. That’s ten strips of iron folded together. Inside band has the most spring, grading less and less as you go out. The cable’s four hundred strands into twenty, then wound in bhederin-gut and soaked in dhenrabi oil. Your old one was two hundred strands into ten. Now, look at the cradle – I only had clay mock-ups of cussers and sharpers and burners, weighted as close as I could figure—’

  ‘Sharpers and burners?’

  An eager nod. ‘Why just cussers, I asked? Well, because that’s what was wanted and that’s how we did the cradle, right? But the mock-ups gave me an idea.’ He reached back into the drawer and lifted free a clay cusser-sized grenado. ‘So, I made cradles inside this, to fit five sharpers or three burners – the weight’s close on all three configurations, by the way – the Moranth were always precise on these sort of things, you know.’ As he was speaking, he took the clay object, one hand on top, the other beneath, and pushed in opposite directions until there was a grating click, then he was holding two halves of the hollow mock-up. ‘Like I said, improvements. You can load up how you like, without ever having to change the bow’s cradle. I got ten of these made. Empty, they’re nice and light and you won’t fly through Hood’s Gate if one of ’em breaks by accident in your satchel.’

  ‘You are a genius, Tak.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘How much do you want
for all of this?’

  A frown. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Fiddler. You saved my life, you and Dujek got me out of the Mouse with only a crushed hip. You gave me money—’

  ‘Tak, we wanted you to make crossbows, like that old jeweller did before you. But he was dead and you weren’t.’

  ‘That don’t matter. Call it a replacement guarantee, for life.’

  Fiddler shook his head, then he reached into his pack and withdrew a real cusser. ‘Let’s see how it fits, shall we?’

  Tak’s eyes glittered. ‘Oh yes, do that! Then heft the weapon, check the balance – see that over-shoulder clamp there? It’s a brace for steadying aim and evening out the weight. Your arms won’t get tired holding and aiming.’ He rose. ‘I will be right back.’

  Distracted, Fiddler nodded. He set the cusser down into the weapon’s cradle and clamped in place the open-ended, padded basket. That motion in turn raised from the forward base of the cradle a denticulate bar to prevent the cusser slipping out when the weapon was held point-down. That bar was in turn linked to the release trigger, dropping it flush with the cradle in time for the projectile to fly clear. ‘Oh,’ the sapper murmured, ‘very clever, Tak.’ With this weapon, there was no need for a shaft. The cradle was the launcher.

  The old man was rummaging in a chest at the back of the shop.

  ‘So tell me,’ Fiddler said, ‘how many more of these have you made?’

  ‘That’s it. The only one.’

  ‘Right. So where are the others?’

  ‘In a crate above your head.’

  Fiddler glanced up to see a long box balanced across two blackened beams. ‘How many in there?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Identical to this one?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Any more?’

  ‘Lots. For when you lose these ones.’

  ‘I want those four above me, Tak, and I’ll pay for them—’

  ‘Take ’em, I don’t want your coin. Take ’em and go blow up people you don’t like.’ The old man straightened and made his way back to the table.