The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  'So we'll string 'em. You got extra cables?'

  'Three for each. You want those mock-ups, too?'

  'Absolutely, and I've got sharpers and burners in this pack, so let's load 'em up and check the weight and all that. But let's be quick.'

  'Fiddler, it's not nice out there any more, you know? Especially tonight. Smells like the old Mouse.'

  'I know, and that's why I don't want to head back out without this cusser nestled in.'

  'Just be glad you're not Wickan.'

  'First Wickan-hater I come across gets this egg up his dark dining hall. Tell me, Braven Tooth still live in the same house down in Lower? Near Obo's Tower?'

  'That he does.'

  ****

  Hellian dragged Banaschar down the winding alley — at least, it seemed to be winding, the way they kept careening off grimy walls. And she talked. 'Sure, you thought you got away clean. Not a chance. No, this is Sergeant Hellian you're dealing with here. Think I wouldn't chase you across half the damned world? Damned fool—'

  'You idiot. Half the damned world? I went straight back down to the docks and sailed back to Malaz City.'

  'And you thought that'd fool me? Forget it. Sure, the trail was cold, but not cold enough. And now I got you, a suspect wanted for questioning.'

  The alley opened out onto a wider street. Off to their left was a bridge. Scowling, Hellian yanked her prisoner towards it.

  'I told you the first time, Sergeant!' Banaschar snapped. 'I had nothing to do with that slaughter — the same thing had happened in every damned temple of D'rek, at precisely the same time. You don't understand — I have to get to Mock's Hold. I have to see the Imperial High Mage—'

  'That snake! I knew it, a conspiracy! Well, I'll deal with him later. One mass-murderer at a time, I always say.'

  'This is madness, Sergeant! Let go of me — I can explain—'

  'Save your explanations. I got some questions for you first and you'd better answer them!'

  'With what?' he sneered. 'Explanations?'

  'No. Answers. There's a difference—'

  'Really? How? What difference?'

  'Explanations are what people use when they need to lie. Y'can always tell those, 'cause those explanations don't explain nothing and then they look at you like they just cleared things up when really they did the opposite and they know it and you know it and they know you know and you know they know that you know and they know you and you know them and maybe you go out for a pitcher later but who picks up the tab? That's what I want to know.'

  'Right, and answers?'

  'Answers is what I get when I ask questions. Answers is when you got no choice. I ask, you tell. I ask again, you tell some more. Then I break your fingers, 'cause I don't like what you're telling me, because those answers don't explain nothing!'

  'Ah! So you really want explanations!'

  'Not till you give me the answers!'

  'So what are your questions?'

  'Who said I got questions? I already know what your answers are, anyway. No point in questions, really.'

  'And there's no need to break my fingers, Sergeant, I give up already.'

  'Nice try. I don't believe you.'

  'Gods below—'

  Hellian dragged him back. Halting, looking about. The sergeant scowled. 'Where are we?'

  'That depends. Where were you taking me?'

  'Back to the ships.'

  'You idiot — we went the wrong way — all you had to do was turn around back there, when you first caught me—'

  'Well I didn't, did I? What's that?' She pointed.

  Banaschar frowned at the brooding, unlit structure just beyond the low wall they had been walking along. Then he cursed under his breath and said, 'That's the Deadhouse.'

  'What, some kind of bar?'

  'No, and don't even think of dragging me in there.'

  'I'm thirsty.'

  'I have an idea, then, Sergeant. We can go to Coop's—'

  'How far is that?'

  'Straight ahead—'

  'Forget it. It's a trap.' She tugged him right and they made their way along the front of the Deadhouse, then through a short alley with uneven walls, where Hellian guided her prisoner left once more. Then she halted and pointed across the way. 'What place is that one?'

  'That's Smiley's. You don't want to go in there, it's where rats go to die—'

  'Perfect. You're buying me a drink. Then we're heading back to the ships.'

  Banaschar ran a hand across his scalp. 'As you like. They say the ale brewed in there uses water run off from the Deadhouse — and then there's the proprietor—'

  'What about him?'

  'Related, it's rumoured, to the old dead Emperor himself — that place used to be Kellanved's, you know.'

  'The Emperor owned a tavern?'

  'He did, partnered with Dancer. And there was a serving wench, named Surly—'

  She shook him. 'Just because I asked questions don't mean I wanted answers, especially not those kinda answers, so be quiet!'

  'Sorry.'

  'One drink, then we go back to the ships and take a swim—'

  'A what?'

  'Easy. Ain't no drowned spiders in this bay.'

  'No, just blood-sucking eels! Like the one dangling from behind your ear. It's already sucked all the blood from half of your face. Tell me, is your scalp getting numb on one side?'

  She glared at him. 'I never gave you no permission to ask questions. That's my task. Remember that.' Then she shook her head. Something long and bloated bumped against her neck. Hellian reached up and grasped the eel. She yanked it off. 'Ow!' Glared at the writhing creature in her hand, then dropped it and crushed it under a heel. Black goo spattered out to the sides. 'See that, Banaschar? Give me trouble and you get the same treatment.'

  'If I hang from your ear? Really, Sergeant, this is ridiculous—'

  They turned at murmuring sounds from the street behind them. Thirty or forty locals came into view, heading for Front Street. Some of them were now carrying bows, and canisters of burning pitch swinging from straps. 'What are they about?' Hellian asked.

  'They think the fleet's rotten with plague,' the ex-priest said. 'I expect they mean to set a few transports on fire.'

  'Plague? There ain't no plague—'

  'I know that and you know that. Now, there's another problem,' he added as the mob saw them and a half-dozen thugs split away, then slowly, ominously approached. 'Those weals all over you, Sergeant — easily mistaken for signs of plague.'

  'What? Gods below, let's get into that tavern.'

  They hurried forward, pushed through the doors.

  Inside, inky gloom broken only by a few tallow candles on blackened tabletops. There was but one other customer, seated near the back wall. The ceiling was low, the floor underfoot littered with rubbish. The thick air reminded Hellian of a cheese-sock.

  From the right appeared the proprietor, a pike-thin Dal Honese of indeterminate age, each eye looking in a different direction — neither one fixing on Hellian or Banaschar as he smiled unctuously, hands wringing.

  'Ah, most sweet tryst, yes? Come! I have a table, yes! Reserved for such as you!'

  'Close that ugly mouth or I'll sew it up myself,' Hellian said. 'Jus' show us the damned table then get us a pitcher of anything you got that won't come back up through our noses.'

  Head bobbing, the man hobbled over to a table and, reaching out multiple times he finally grasped hold of the chairs and made a show of dragging them back through the filth.

  Banaschar made to sit, then he recoiled. 'Gods below, that candle—'

  'Oh yes!' said the Dal Honese gleefully, 'the few wax witches left are most generous with Smiley's. It's the history, yes?'

  Sudden loud voices outside the entrance and the proprietor winced. 'Uninvited guests. A moment whilst I send them on their way.' He headed off.

  Hellian finally released her grip on the ex-priest and slumped down in the chair opposite. 'Don't try nothing,' she said in a gr
owl. 'I ain't in the mood.'

  Behind her the door was pulled back by the owner. A few quiet words, then louder threats.

  Hellian saw Banaschar's gaze flick past her — he had a good view of what was going on out front — and then he bolted back in his chair, eyes widening — as shrieks erupted from the mob, followed by the sounds of panicked flight.

  Scowling, Hellian twisted round in her chair.

  The proprietor was gone, and in the man's place stood a demon, its back to them, big enough to fill the entire door­way. A thrashing victim was in its huge hands and, as the sergeant watched, the demon tore off the screaming man's head, leaned through the doorway and threw it after the fleeing citizens. Then it flung the headless corpse in the same direction.

  A strange blurring, and a sweet, spicy scent drifted back into the tavern, and then the demon was gone, in its place the old Dal Honese, brushing clean his hands, then the front of his grimy tunic. He turned about and walked back to the table.

  Another smile beneath skewed eyes. 'Finest ale, then, a pitcher, coming right up!'

  Hellian swung back round in her chair. Her gaze flicked over to the other customer at the back wall. A woman, a whore. The sergeant grunted, then called to her, 'You! Get much business?'

  A snort in reply, then, 'Who cares?'

  'Well, you got a point there, you do.'

  'Both of you be quiet!' Banaschar shouted, his voice sounding half-strangled. 'That was a Kenryll'ah demon!'

  'He's not so bad,' said the whore, 'once you get to know 'im.'

  From behind the bar came the sound of crashing crockery, then a curse.

  ****

  In clumps, in bands, in ragged troops, the crowds began reappearing along the Centre Docks harbourfront. More weapons among them now, and here and there bows. Torches flared in the dark, and voices rose, delivering commands.

  Leaning against the prow of the Silanda — moored just behind the longboat the Red Blades had used — Koryk watched the proceedings on the front street for a time, then he turned about and made his way back down to the mid deck.

  'Sergeant Balm.'

  'What?'

  'We could be in for some trouble soon.'

  'Typical,' Balm hissed, rising to begin pacing. 'Fid vanishes. Gesler vanishes. Leaving just me, and I ain't got no whistle, do I? Deadsmell, get up'n'over, talk to Fist Keneb. See what they want us to do about it.'

  The corporal shrugged, then made his way to the board­ing ladder.

  Tarr was climbing into his armour. 'Sergeant,' he said, 'we got Fid's crate of munitions below—'

  'Hood's balls, you're right! Cuttle, get down there. Sharpers and burners, all you can lay hands on. Throatslitter — what are you doing there?'

  'Was thinking of sneaking into that crowd,' the man said from the rail, where he'd thrown one leg over and was about to climb down into the murky water. 'It doesn't sound right, does it? There's ringleaders up there — Claws, maybe, and you know how I like killing those. I could make things more confused, like they should be—'

  'You'll get torn to pieces, you idiot. No, you stay here, we're undermanned enough as it is.'

  Koryk crouched down near Tarr and Smiles. 'Fid keeps doing this, doesn't he?'

  'Relax,' Tarr said. 'If need be, me and Gesler's heavies will hold the jetty.'

  'You're looking forward to that!' Smiles accused.

  'Why not? Since when did the Wickans deserve all this hate? That mob's hungry for the Fourteenth, fine, why disappoint them?'

  'Cause we was ordered to stay aboard here,' Smiles said.

  'Easier holding the jetty than letting the bastards jump down onto this deck.'

  'They'd jump right back off,' Koryk predicted, 'once they see those heads.'

  'I'm itching for a fight, Koryk.'

  'Fine, Tarr, you go up and get yourself ready. Me, Smiles and Cuttle will be right behind you, with a few dozen sharpers.'

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas joined them. The man was strapping on a round-shield. 'I will flank you, Corporal Tarr,' he said. 'I have found a cutlass and I have some skill with that weapon.'

  'Appreciate the company,' Tarr said, then looked over to where Shortnose, Flashwit, Uru Hela and Mayfly were donning armour. 'Six in all, front line. Let them try and get past us.'

  Cuttle reappeared, dragging a crate.

  'Pass 'em out, sapper,' Balm ordered. 'Then we all go up top and give that mob a wave over.'

  Koryk loaded his crossbow, then pounded Tarr on the shoulder. 'Let's go take a look. I'm in the mood to kill some­one, too.'

  The corporal straightened, then spat over the side. 'Aren't we all?'

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Twins stood on their tower

  as the slaughter began below

  and the knuckles bouncing wild

  to their delight, now turned sudden

  sudden and sour and this game

  they played — the mortals bleeding

  and crying in the dark — they saw

  it turn and the game they played

  tossed to a new wind, a gale

  not their own — and so the Twins

  were played, oh how they were played.

  Slayer's Moon, Vatan Urot

  Within sight of Rampart Way — the stairs leading up to Mock's Hold — Kalam Mekhar glanced behind them yet again. Furtive crowds were closing in, moving one and all, it seemed, back towards the harbourfront. Who was behind all of this? What possible reason could there be?

  The Fourteenth would not be dragged down into slaughter. In fact, the only realistic outcome was the very opposite. Hundreds of citizens could well die tonight, before the rest broke and fled. True, there were but a handful of marines at the jetty, but, Kalam well knew, they had Moranth munitions. And then, of course, there was Quick Ben.

  Just don't use yourself up, friend. I think... The assassin reached beneath the folds of his cloak, reassured himself once again that he still carried the acorn the High Mage had prepared for him. My shaved knuckle in the hole. If it came to it, he could summon Quick. And I'm thinking...

  The Adjunct did not hesitate, beginning her ascent of Rampart Way. The others followed.

  A long climb ahead, a tiring one, rows upon rows of steps that had seen more than their share of spilled blood. Kalam had few pleasant memories of Rampart Way. She's up there, and so it flows down, ever down. They were above the level of the Upper Estates now, passing through a roiling updraught of mists bitter with woodsmoke. Condensation clung to the stone wall on their left, as if the promontory itself had begun to sweat.

  There was torchlight weaving through the streets below. City Watch alarms sounded here and there, and suddenly an estate was in flames, black smoke rising, eerily lit from beneath. Faint screams reached them.

  And they climbed without pause, not a single word shared among them. Naught but the muted clunk and rustle of armour, the scrape of boots, heavier breaths drawn with each step. The blurred moon emerged to throw a sickly light upon the city below and the bay, illuminating Old Lookout Island at the very outside edge of the harbour, the silvery reeds of Mud Island and, further south, opposite the mouth of Redcave River, Worm Island, where stood the ruins of a long abandoned temple of D'rek. The clear water this side of Mud Island was crowded with the transports, while Nok's escorts were positioned between those transports and the four Quon dromons of Empress Laseen's entourage, the latter still moored alongside the Imperial Docks directly beneath Mock's Hold.

  The world suddenly seemed etched small to Kalam's eyes, an elaborate arrangement of some child's toys. If not for the masses of torchlight closing in on the Centre Docks, the faintly seen running figures in various streets and avenues, and the distant cries of a city convulsing upon itself, the panorama would look almost picturesque.

  Was he seeing the Malazan Empire's death-throes? On the island where it began, so too, perhaps, would its fall be announced, here, this night, in a chaotic, senseless maelstrom of violence. The Adjunct crushed the rebellion
in Seven Cities. This should be a triumphal return. Laseen, what have you done? Is this mad beast now broken free of your control?

  Civilization's veil was so very thin, he well knew. Casting it aside required little effort, and even less instigation. There were enough thugs in the world — and those thugs could well be wearing the raiment of a noble, or a Fist, or indeed a priest's robes or a scholar's vestments — enough of them, without question, who lusted for chaos and the opportunities it provided. For senseless cruelty, for the unleashing of hatred, for killing and rape. Any excuse would suffice, or even none at all.

  Ahead of him, the Adjunct ascended without hesitation, as though she was climbing a scaffold, at peace with what the fates had decreed. Was he reading her true? Kalam did not know.

  But the time was coming, very soon now, when he would need to decide.

  And he hoped. He prayed. That the moment, when it arrived, would make his choice obvious, indeed, inevitable. Yet, a suspicion lurked that the choice would prove far harsher than he now dared admit.

  Do I choose to live, or do I choose to die?

  He looked down to his right, at those four ships directly below.

  She brought a lot of people with her, didn't she?

  ****

  Halfway to Raven Hill Park, Bottle drew up against a door, his heart pounding, sweat dripping from his face. Sorcery was roiling through every street. Mockra. Twisting the thoughts of the unsuspecting and the gullible, filling skulls with the hunger for violence. And lone figures making their way against the tide were victims in the waiting — he had been forced to take a roundabout route to this door, along narrow choking alleys, down beneath North Riverwalk, buried up to his ankles in the filthy mud of Malaz River, where insects rose in voracious swarms. But at last, he had arrived.

  He drew a knife and, fearful of making a louder noise, scratched against the door. At the moment the street behind him was empty, but he could hear riots beginning, the splintering of wood, the shrill cry of a dying horse, and everywhere throughout the city, dogs were now barking, as if some ancient wolf memory had been awakened. He scratched again.

  The door suddenly swung open. A tall, grey-haired woman stared down at him, expressionless.

  'Agayla,' Bottle said. 'My uncle married your aunt's husband's sister. We're family!'