A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

any rustle or whisper of noise would alert his hunter. Arms and shoulders trembling, Kalam drew his legs up, a fraction at a time, tucked his right leg even higher, then edged it, foot first, through the triangular gap above the brace.
    He hooked that leg, pulled, and was finally able to ease the strain on his arms and shoulders.
    Kalam hung there, motionless, for a long minute.
    Claws liked waiting games. They excelled in contests of patience. His hunter had evidently concluded that this was one of those games, and he intended to win it.
    Well, stranger, I don't play by your rules.
    He slipped the tongs free, held them out and lifted them towards the balcony's floor. This was the greatest risk, since he had no idea what occupied that floor above him. He probed with the tongs in minute increments until he could reach no farther, then he lowered the tool down and left it there.
    The knife stayed clenched between his teeth, filling his mouth with the taste of his own blood. With both hands freed, Kalam gripped the balcony's ledge, slowly pulled his weight away from the brace and drew himself up. Hands climbing the railings, he swung a leg over and, a moment later, crouched on the balcony floor, the tongs at his feet.
    He scanned the area. Clay pots housing various herbs, a moulded bread oven on a foundation of bricks occupying one end, the heat radiating from it reaching the assassin's sweat-cooled face.
    A barred hatch that a person would have to crawl to get through offered the only way into the room beyond.
    His scan ended upon meeting the eyes of a small dog crouched at the end opposite the bread oven. Black-haired, compactly muscled and with a foxlike snout and ears, the creature was chewing on half a rat, and as it chewed it watched Kalam's every move with those sharp, black eyes.
    Kalam released a very soft sigh. Another dubious claim to fame for Malaz City: the Mahzan ratter, bred for its fearless insanity. There was no predicting what the dog would do once it had decided its meal was done. It might lick his hand. It might bite his nose off.
    He watched it sniff at the mangled meat between its paws, then gobble it up, chewing overlong as it considered Kalam. Then it ate the rat's tail, choking briefly – the sound barely a whisper – before managing to swallow its length.
    The ratter licked its forepaws, rose into a sitting position, ducked its head to lick elsewhere, then stood facing the bleeding assassin.
    The barking exploded in the night air, a frenzy that had the ratter bouncing around with the effort.
    Kalam leapt up onto the balcony rail. A blur of motion darted beneath him, down in the alley. He plunged straight for it, the throwing knife in his left hand.
    Even as he dropped through the air, he was sure he was finished. His lone hunter had found allies – another entire Hand.
    Sorcery flared upward to strike Kalam like a massive fist. The knife flew from nerveless fingers. Twisting, his trajectory knocked awry by the mage's attack, he missed his target and struck the cobbles hard on his left side.
    The maniacal barking overhead continued unabated.
    Kalam's intended target charged him, blades flashing. He drew his legs up and kicked out, but the man slipped past with a deft motion. The knife blade scored against Kalam's ribs on either side. The hunter's forehead cracked against his nose. Light exploded behind the assassin's eyes.
    A moment later, as the hunter reared back, straddling Kalam, and raised both knives, a snarling black bundle landed on the man's head. He shrieked as razorlike, overlong canines ripped open one side of his face.
    Kalam caught one wrist, snapped it and pulled the knife from the spasming hand.
    The hunter was desperately stabbing at the ratter with the other knife, without much luck, then he threw the weapon away and reached for the writhing dog.
    Kalam sank his knife into the hunter's heart.
    Pushing the body aside, he staggered upright – to find himself surrounded.
    'You can call your dog off, Kalam,' a woman said.
    He glanced down at the animal – it hadn't slowed. Blood spattered the cobbles around the corpse's head and neck.
    'Alas,' Kalam growled. 'Not mine ... though I wish I had a hundred of the beasts.' The pain of his shattered nose throbbed. Tears streamed from his eyes, joining the flow of blood dripping from his lips and chin.
    'Oh, for Hood's sake!' The woman turned to one of her hunters. 'Kill the damned thing—'
    'Not necessary,' Kalam said, stepping