A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

instant. But that sword. What god plays with this fool noble?' The puppet spoke on, but his words dwindled into inaudible mumbles.
    Quick Ben waited, hoping for more, though what he'd already heard was enough to set his heart pounding. This mad creature was unpredictable, and all that held him in check was a tenuous control – the strings of power he'd attached to Hairlock's wooden body. But with this kind of madness came strength – enough strength to break those strings? The wizard was no longer as sure of his control as he had been.
    Hairlock had fallen silent. His painted eyes still flickered with black flame – the leaking of Chaotic power. Quick Ben took a step forward.
    'Pursue Tayschrenn's plans,' he commanded, then he kicked hard. The toe of his boot struck Hairlock's chest and sent the puppet spinning. Hairlock flew out over the edge, then fell downward. His outraged snarl dwindled as he disappeared into the yellow clouds.
    Quick Ben drew a deep breath of the thick, stale air. He hoped that his abrupt dismissal had been enough to skew Hairlock's recollections of the past few minutes. Still, he felt those strings of control growing ever more taut. The more this Warren twisted Hairlock, the more power he would command.
    The wizard knew what he'd have to do – Hairlock had given it to him, in fact. Still, Quick Ben wasn't looking forward to it. The taste of sour bile rose into his mouth and he spat over the ledge. The air stank of sweat and it was a moment before he realized it was his own. He hissed a curse. 'Time to leave,' he muttered. He raised his arms.
    The wind returned with a roar, and he felt his body flung up, up into the cavern above, then the next. As the caverns blurred by, a single word clung to his thoughts, a word that seemed to twist around the problem of Hairlock like a web.
    Quick Ben smiled, but it was a smile responding to terror. And the word remained, Gear, and with that name the wizard's terror found a face.
     
    Whiskeyjack rose amid silence. The expressions arrayed around him were sober, eyes downcast or fixed elsewhere, closed into some personal, private place where swam the heaviest thoughts. The lone exception was Sorry, who stared at the sergeant with bright, approving eyes. Whiskeyjack wondered who was doing the approving within those eyes – then he shook his head, angry that something of Quick Ben and Kalam's suspicions had slipped into his thoughts.
    He glanced away, to see Quick Ben approaching. The wizard looked tired, an ashen tint to his face. Whiskeyjack's gaze snapped to Kalam.
    The assassin nodded. 'Everyone, look alive,' he said. 'Load up the boat and get it ready.'
    Mallet leading the way, the others headed down to the beach.
    Waiting for Quick Ben to arrive, Kalam said, 'The squad looks beat, Sergeant. Fiddler, Trotts and Hedge moved enough dirt in those tunnels to bury the Empire's dead. I'm worried about them. Mallet – he seems to be holding together, so far ... Still, whatever Sorry knows about fishing, I doubt any one of us could row their way out of a bathtub. And we're about to try crossing a lake damn near big as a sea?'
    Whiskeyjack's jaw tightened, then he forced a casual shrug into his shoulders. 'You know damn well that any Warren opening anywhere near the city will likely be detected. No choice, Corporal. We row. Unless we can rig up a sail.'
    Kalam grunted. 'Since when does the girl know about fishing?'
    The sergeant sighed. 'I know. Came out of nowhere, didn't it?'
    'Bloody convenient.'
    Quick Ben reached the dome of rock. Both men fell silent at seeing his expression.
    'I'm about to propose something you're going to hate,' the wizard said.
    'Let's hear it,' Whiskeyjack replied, in a voice empty of feeling.
    Ten minutes later the three men arrived on the slick pebbled beach, both Whiskeyjack and Kalam looking shaken. A dozen yards from the water's edge sat the fisher boat. Trotts was straining on the rope attached to the prow hook, gasping and moaning as he leaned forward with all his weight.
    The rest of the squad stood in a clump off to one side, quietly discussing Trotts' futile efforts. Fiddler chanced to look up. Seeing Whiskeyjack marching towards them, he blanched.
    'Trotts!' the sergeant bellowed.
    The Barghast's face, woad tattoos stretched into illegibility, turned to Whiskeyjack with wide eyes.
    'Let go of the rope, soldier.'
    Kalam released an amused snort behind Whiskeyjack, who glared at the others. 'Now,' he said, his voice harsh,