A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

over. He reached down, grabbed the creature by its scruff and lobbed it back towards the balcony. The ratter yelped, just clearing the rail, then vanished from sight. A wild skitter of claws announced its landing.
    A wavering voice reached down from the balcony's hatch. 'Flower, darling, settle down now, there's a good boy.'
    Kalam eyed the leader. 'All right, then,' he said. 'Finish it.'
    'With pleasure—'
    The quarrel's impact threw her into Kalam's arms, almost skewering him on the great barbed point jutting from her chest. The four remaining hunters dived for cover, not knowing what had arrived, as horse hooves crashed in the alley.
    Kalam gaped to see his stallion charging for him and, crouched low over the saddle and swinging back the clawfoot on the Marine-issue crossbow, Minala.
    The assassin stepped aside a split second before being trampled, grasped an edge of the saddle and let the animal's momentum swing him up behind Minala. She thrust the crossbow into his hands. 'Cover us!'
    Twisting, he saw four shapes in pursuit. Kalam fired. The hunters pitched down to the ground as one. The quarrel careened off a wall and skittered away into the darkness.
    The alley opened onto a street. Minala wheeled the stallion to the left. Hooves skidded, spraying sparks. Righting itself, the horse bolted forward.
    Malaz City's harbour district was a tangle of narrow, twisting streets and alleys, seemingly impossible for a horse at full gallop, in the dead of night. The next few minutes marked the wildest ride Kalam had ever known. Minala's skill was breathtaking.
    After a short while, Kalam leaned close to her. 'Where in Hood's name are you taking us? The whole city's crawling with Claws, woman—'
    'I know, damn you!'
    She guided the stallion across a wooden bridge. Looking up, the assassin saw the upper district and, beyond it, a looming black shape: the cliff- and Mock's Hold.
    'Minala!'
    'You wanted the Empress, right? Well, you bastard, she's right there – in Mock's Hold!'
    Oh, Hood's shadow!
     
    The tiles gave way without a sound. Cold blackness swallowed the four travellers.
    The drop ended abruptly, in a bone-jarring impact with smooth, polished flagstones.
    Groaning, Fiddler sat up, the sack of munitions still strapped to his shoulders. He'd injured his barely healed ankle in the fall and the pain was excruciating. Teeth clenched, he looked around. The others were all in one piece, it seemed, slowly clambering to their feet.
    They were in a round room, a perfect match to the one they had left in Tremorlor. For a moment, the sapper feared they had simply returned there, but then he smelled salt in the air.
    'We're here,' he said. 'Deadhouse.'
    'What makes you so sure?' Crokus demanded.
    Fiddler crawled over to a wall and levered himself upright. He tested the leg, winced. 'I smell Malaz Bay – and feel how damp the air is. This ain't Tremorlor, lad.'
    'But we might be in any House, in any place beside a bay—'
    'We might,' the sapper conceded.
    'It's simply a matter of finding out,' Apsalar said reasonably. 'You've hurt your ankle again, Fiddler.'
    'Aye. I wish Mappo was here with his elixirs...'
    'Can you walk?' Crokus asked.
    'Not much choice.'
    Apsalar's father approached the stair, looked down. 'Someone's home,' he said. 'I see lantern light.'
    'Oh, that's just wonderful,' Crokus muttered, unsheathing his knives.
    'Put 'em away,' Fiddler said. 'Either we're guests or we're dead. Let's go introduce ourselves, shall we?'
    Descending to the main floor – with Fiddler leaning hard on the Daru – they passed through an open door into the hallway. Lanterns glowed in niches along its length, and the flicker of firelight issued from the open double doors opposite the entranceway.
    As at Tremorlor, a massive suit of armour filled an alcove halfway down the hall's length, and this one had seen serious battle.
    The group paused to regard it briefly, in silence, before continuing on to the opened doors.
    Apsalar leading, they entered the main chamber. The flames in the stone fireplace seemed to be burning without fuel, and a strange blackness around its edges revealed it as a small portal, opened onto a warren of ceaseless fire.
    A figure, its back to them, stood staring into those flames. Dressed in faded ochre robes, the man was solid, broad-shouldered and at least seven feet tall. A long, iron-hued ponytail swept down between his shoulders, bound just above the small of his back with a dull length of