‘The Clawmaster killed me,’ the apparition said in a rasp, gesturing to its own body beneath it. ‘Even as I cursed his name with my last breath. I think… yes, I think that is why I am still here, not yet ready to walk through Hood’s Gate. It is a gift… to you. He killed Kalam Mekhar. With Kartoolian paralt.’ The ghost turned slightly and gestured to the edge of the hole. ‘Kalam – he pulled the quarrel loose… no point of course, it makes no difference since the paralt’s in his blood. But I did not tell Pearl – it’s right there, balanced on the very lip. Take it. There is plenty of poison left. Take it. For the Clawmaster.’
A moment later the ghost was gone.
The cloth-wrapped figure crouched down and collected the blood-smeared quarrel in one gloved hand. Tucked it into a fold of the sash belt, then straightened, and set off.
Through skeins of vicious sorcery, the lone figure moved with blinding speed down the street, deftly avoiding every snare – the coruscating pockets of High Ruse, the whispering invitations of Mockra – and then into the light-stealing paths of Rashan where assassins of the Claw had raced along only moments earlier – and onto their trail, fast closing, a dagger in each leather-clad hand.
Near the harbourfront the Claws began emerging from their warrens, massing by the score, moments from launching an all-out assault on the foreign soldiers, on everyone aboard the two moored ships.
Approaching fast from behind, the figure’s movements acquired a fluidity, sinuous, weaving a flow of shadows, and the approach that had been quick transformed into something else – faster than a mortal eye could perceive in this night of gloom and smoke – and then the lone attacker struck the first of the Hands.
Blood sprayed, sheeted into the air, bodies spun to either side from its path, a whirlwind of death tearing into the ranks. Claws spun round, shouted, screamed, and died.
Clawmaster Pearl turned at the sounds. He was positioned over twenty Hands from the rearguard – a rearguard now down, writhing or motionless on the cobbles, as something – someone – tore through them. Gods below. A Shadow Dancer. Who – Cotillion? Cold terror seized his chest with piercing talons. The god. The Patron of Assassins – coming for me.
In Kalam Mekhar’s name, coming for me!
He spun round, eyes searching frantically for a bolt-hole. To Hood with the Hands! Pearl pushed his way clear, then ran.
An alley, narrow between two warehouses, swallowed in darkness. Moments to go, then he would open his warren, force a rent, plunge through – through, and away.
Weapons in his hands now. If I go down, it will be fighting – god or no god—
Into the alley, embraced by darkness – behind him more screams, coming closer – Pearl reached in his mind like a drowning man for his warren. Mockra. Use it. Twist reality, cut into another warren – Rashan, and then the Imperial, and then—
Nothing answered his quest. A ragged gasp burst from Pearl’s throat as he sprinted onward, up the alley—
Something behind him – right behind—
Strokes of agony, slicing through both Achilles tendons – Pearl shrieked as the severed ligaments rolled up beneath the skin, stumbled on feet that felt like clods of mud, shifting hopelessly beneath him. Sprawling, refusing to release his weapons, still grasping out for his warren—
Blade-edges licking like tongues of acid. Hamstrings, elbows – then he was lifted from the blackened cobbles by a single hand, and thrown into a wall. The impact shattered half his face, and as he fell backward, that hand returned, fingers digging in, forcing his head back. Cold iron slashed into his mouth, slicing, severing his tongue. Choking on blood, Pearl twisted his head around – he was grasped again, thrown into the opposite wall, breaking his left arm. Landing on his side – a foot hammered down on the point of his hip, the bone cradle collapsing into a splintered mess beneath it – gods, the pain, sweeping up through his mind, overwhelming him – his warren – where?
All motion ceased.
His attacker was standing over him. Crouching down. Pearl could see nothing – blood filled his eyes – a savage ringing filled his head, nausea rising up his throat, spilling out in racking heaves, streaked with gore from the gouting stub of his tongue. Lostara, my love, come close to the gate – and you will see me. Walking.
A voice, soft and low, cut through it all, brutally clear, brutally close. ‘My final target. You, Pearl. I had planned to make it quick.’ A long pause, in which he heard slow, even breathing. ‘But for Kalam Mekhar.’
Something stabbed into his stomach, was pushed deep. ‘I give you back the quarrel that killed him, Pearl.’ And the figure straightened once more, walked a few paces away, then returned, even as the first horrifying pulses of fire began to sear his veins, gathering behind his eyes – a poison that would keep him alive for as long as possible, feeding his heart with everything it needed, even as vessels throughout his body burst, again and again and again—
‘Kalam’s long-knives, Pearl. You weren’t thinking. You cannot open a warren with otataral in your hand. And so, he and I together, we have killed you. Fitting.’
Fires! Gods! Fire!
As Apsalar walked away. Continuing up the alley, away from the harbourfront. Away, from everything.
A scrawny, shadowy apparition appeared before her near the far end, where the alley reached a side street just this side of a bridge leading across the river and into the Mouse. Apsalar halted before it.
‘Tell Cotillion, I have done as he asked.’
Shadowthrone made a whispering sound, like sighing, and one almost formless hand emerged from the folds of his ghostly cloak, gripping the silver head of a cane, that tapped once on the cobbles. ‘I watched, my dear. Your Shadow Dance. From the foot of Rampart Way and onward, I was witness.’
She said nothing.
Shadowthrone resumed. ‘Not even Cotillion. Not even Cotillion.’
Still, Apsalar did not speak.
The god suddenly giggled. ‘Too many bad judgements, the poor woman. As we feared.’ A pause, then another giggle. ‘Tonight, the Clawmaster, and three hundred and seven Claws – all by your hands, dear lass. I still… disbelieve. No matter. She’s on her own, now. Too bad for her.’ The barely substantial hooded head cocked slightly. ‘Ah. Yes, Apsalar. We keep our promises. You are free. Go.’
She held out the two long-knives, handles first.
A bow, and the god accepted Kalam Mekhar’s weapons.
Then Apsalar moved past Shadowthrone, and walked on.
He watched her cross the bridge.
Another sigh. A sudden lifting of the cowled head, sniffing the air. ‘Oh, happy news. But for me, not yet. First, a modest detour, yes. My, what a night!’
The god began to fade, then wavered, then reformed.
Shadowthrone looked down at the long-knives in his right hand. ‘Absurd! I must walk. And, perforce, quickly!’ He scurried off, cane rapping on the stones.
A short time later, Shadowthrone reached the base of a tower that was not nearly as ruined as it looked. Lifted the cane and tapped on the door. Waited for a dozen heartbeats, then repeated the effort.
The door was yanked open.
Dark eyes stared down at him, and in them was a growing fury.
‘Now now, Obo,’ Shadowthrone said. ‘This is a courtesy, I assure you. Two most meddling twins have commandeered the top of your tower. I humbly suggest you oust them, in your usual kindly manner.’ The god then sketched a salute with his cane, turned about and departed.
The door slammed shut after two strides.
And now, Shadowthrone began to quicken his pace once more. For one last rendezvous this night, a most precious one. The cane rapped swift as a soldier’s drum.
Halfway to his destination, the top of Obo’s tower erupted in a thunderous fireball that sent pieces of brick and tile flying. Amidst that eruption there came two outraged screams.
Recovering from his instinctive duck, Shadowthrone murmured. ‘Most kindly, Obo. Most kindly indeed.’
And the god walked the streets of Malaz City. Once more with uncharacteristic haste.
They moved quickly along the street, keeping to the shadows, ten paces behind Legana Breed, who walked down the centre, sword tip clattering along the cobbles. The few figures who had crossed their path had hurriedly fled upon sighting the tattered apparition of the T’lan Imass.
Fiddler had given Gesler and Stormy crossbows, both fitted with the sharper-packed grenados, whilst his own weapon held a cusser. They approached a wider street that ran parallel to the harbourfront, still south of the bridge leading over to Centre Docks. Familiar buildings for Fiddler, on all sides, yet a surreal quality had come to the air, as if the master hand of some mad artist had lifted every detail into something more profound than it should have been.
From the docks came the roar of battle, punctuated with the occasional crackle of Moranth munitions. Sharpers, mostly. Cuttle. He’s using up my supply!
They reached the intersection. Legana Breed paused in the middle, slowly faced the sagging façade of a tavern opposite. Where the door slammed open and two figures stumbled out. Reeling, negotiating the cobbles beneath them as if traversing stepping stones across a raging river, one grasping the other by an arm, tugging, pulling, then leaning against him, causing both to stagger.
Swearing under his breath, Fiddler headed towards them. ‘Sergeant Hellian, what in Hood’s name are you doing ashore?’
Both figures hitched up at the voice, turned.
And Hellian’s eyes fixed on the T’lan Imass. ‘Fiddler,’ she said, ‘you look awful.’
‘Over here, you drunken idiot.’ He waved Gesler and Stormy ahead as he came closer. ‘Who’s that with you?’
Hellian turned and regarded the man she held by an arm, for what seemed a long time.
‘Your priz’ner,’ the man said by way of encouragement.
‘Thaz right.’ Hellian straightened as she faced Fiddler again. ‘He’s wanted for questioning.’
‘By whom?’
‘Me, thazoo. So’s anyway, where’s the boat?’
Gesler and Stormy were making their way towards the bridge. ‘Go with them,’ Fiddler said to Legana Breed, and the T’lan Imass set off, feet scraping. The sapper turned back to Hellian. ‘Stay close, we’re heading back to the ships right now.’
‘Good. Glad you could make it, Fid, in case thiz one tries an’ ’scapes, right? Y’got my p’mission to shoot ’im down. But only in the foot. I wan’ answers from ’im an’ I’m gonna get ’em.’
‘Hellian,’ Fiddler said, ‘could be we’ll need to make a run for it.’
‘We can do that. Right, Banash?’
‘Fool,’ Fiddler muttered. ‘That’s Smiley’s there. The demon doesn’t serve regular ale. Any other place…’ He then shook his head. ‘Come on, you two.’
Up ahead, Gesler and Stormy had reached the bridge. Crouched low, they moved across its span.
Fiddler heard Gesler shout, a cry of surprise and alarm – and all at once both he and Stormy were running – straight for a heaving crowd that loomed up before them.
‘Shit!’ Fiddler sprinted forward.
A winding trench swallowed in gloom, a vein that seemed to run beneath the level where the frenzy of slaughter commanded every street, every alley to either side. The woman behind her coughing gouts of blood as she sloshed along, the Adjunct, Tavore Paran, waded through a turgid stream of sewage.
Ever closer to the sounds of fighting at Centre Docks.
It had seemed impossible – the Claws had not found them, had not plunged down the rotted brick walls to deliver murder in the foul soup that was Malaz River. Oh, Tavore and T’amber had pushed past enough corpses on their journey, but the only sounds embracing them were the swirl of water, the skittering of rats along the ledges to either side, and the whine of biting insects.
That all changed when they reached the edge of the concourse. The concussion of a sharper, startlingly close, then the tumbling of a half-dozen bodies as a section of the retaining wall collapsed directly ahead. More figures sliding down, screaming, weapons waving in the air—
—and a soldier turned, saw them—
As he bellowed his discovery, T’amber pushed past the Adjunct. Longsword arced across, diagonally, and cut off the top third of the man’s head, helm and bone, white matter spraying out.
Then T’amber reached back, closed a bloody hand on the Adjunct’s cloak, dragged her forward, onto the sunken bank of dislodged brick, sand and gravel.
The strength in that grip stunned Tavore, as T’amber assailed the slope, dragging the Adjunct from her feet, up, up onto the level of the concourse. Stumbling onto her knees, even as that hand left her and the sounds of fighting erupted around them—
City Guard, three squads at least – detonations had pushed them to this side of the concourse, and they turned upon the two women like rabid wolves—
Tavore pushed herself upright, caught a sword-thrust reaching for her midsection with a desperate parry, the weapons ringing. She instinctively counterattacked, and felt the tip of her sword tear through chain and gouge the muscles of a shoulder. Her opponent grunted, flinched back. Tavore chopped down onto the knee of his lead leg, cutting in two the patella. He shrieked and fell.
To her left, T’amber cut, slashed, parried and lunged, and bodies were falling all around her. Even as swords sank into the woman – and she staggered.
Tavore cried out, twisting to move towards T’amber—
And saw, less than twenty paces away, a score or more Claws, rushing to join the fray.
A sword burst from T’amber’s back, between the shoulder-blades, and the soldier gripping the weapon pushed close to the woman and heaved her from her feet, throwing her backward, where she slid off the length of iron, landing hard on the cobbles, her own sword leaving her hand, clattering away.
Six paces between the Adjunct and a dozen Guards – and behind them and closing fast, the Claws. Tavore hacked away – faces turned to her, faces twisted in blind rage, eyes cold and hard, inhuman. The Adjunct raised her sword, both hands on the grip now, took a step back—
The Guards rushed forward—
Then, a blinding flash, immediately behind them, and that rush became a mass of torn bodies, severed limbs, sheets of blood – the roar of the detonation seemed to ignite in the centre of Tavore’s skull. The world pitched, she saw night sky, wheeling, stars seeming to race outward in all directions – her head cracking on the cobbles, dislodging her helm, and she was on her back, staring up, confused by the tumbling smoke, the red mist, the thundering protest of every muscle and bone in her body.
A second explosion lifted her from the cobbles, pounded her back down on a surface suddenly heaved askew. More blood rained down—
Someone skidded up against her, a hand reaching down to rest lightly on her sternum, a face, blurred, looming close. She watched the mouth move but heard nothing.
A flash, recognition. Sergeant Fiddler.
What? What are you doing?
And then she was being dragged along, boots pulling loose at the ends of senseless legs. The right one dislodging, left behind. She stared at her cloth-wrapped foot, soaked in river-slime and blood.
She could now see behind her as the sergeant continued pulling her towards the jetty. Two more marines, covering their retreat with strange, oversized crossbows in their hands. But no-one was coming after them – they were busy dying beneath a stone sword in the desiccated hands of a T’lan Imass – the creature punched at by virulent sorcery, yet pushing ever forward, killing, killing.
What was happening? Where had the marines come from? She saw another one, struggling with a prisoner – he wasn’t trying to escape, however, just stay on his feet. They’re drunk, the both of them – well, on this night, I think I’ll let it pass.
Oh, T’amber…
More figures surrounding them now. Bloodied soldiers. The Perish. People were shouting – she could see that – but the roaring in her head was unabated, drown
ing out all else. She half-lifted one arm, stared at her gauntleted hand – my sword. Where is my sword?
Never mind, just sleep, now. Sleep.
Grub led her into the alley, to where a body was lying, curled up, racked with spasms and voicing a dreadful moaning. As she drew closer, Lostara recognized him. Anguish rose up within her and she lunged past Grub, fell to her knees.
Pearl was covered in wounds, as if he had been systematically tortured. And pain was consuming him. ‘Oh, my love…’
Grub spoke behind her. ‘The poison has him, Lostara Yil. You must take his life.’
What?
‘He thought you were dead,’ the boy continued. ‘He’d given up. On everything. Except revenge. Against the Adjunct.’
‘Who did this?’
‘I won’t tell you,’ Grub said. ‘Pearl hungered for vengeance, and vengeance was repaid him. That’s all.’
That’s all.
‘Kill him now, Lostara. He can’t hear you, he can’t see you. There’s only the pain. It’s the spiders, you see, they breathe the blood of their victims, they need it rich, bright red. And so the venom, it doesn’t let go. And then, there’s the acid in the stomach, leaking out, eating everything up.’
Numbed, she drew out her knife.
‘Make the heart stop.’
Yes, there, behind and beneath the shoulder-blade. Push deep, work the edges. Pull it loose, look, how the body stills, how the muscles cease their clenching. It’s quiet, now. He’s gone.
‘Come along, there’s more. Quickly.’
He set off, and she rose and followed. You’ve left me. You were there, in Mock’s Hold, but I didn’t know. You didn’t know.
Past a tumbled mass of corpses now. Claws. The alley was filled with them.
Ahead, Centre Docks, the clearing—
Sudden detonations, rocking the buildings. Screams.
At the alley mouth, between warehouses, Grub crouched and waved her down to his side.
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