A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

a few cuts here and there, but nothing serious. They'd
carved through that ambush quick and dirty, like he'd
wanted it.
    They were on a second floor, in a room filled with bolts
of cloth – a fortune's worth of silks. Lobe had said they'd
come from Darujhistan, of all places. A damned fortune's
worth, and now most of it was soaked with blood and bits
of human meat.
    'Maybe we should check the top floor,' Throatslitter said,
eyeing the nicks in his long-knives. 'Thought I heard some
scuffing, maybe.'
    'All right, take Widdershins. Deadsmell, go to the
stairs—'
    'Leading up? It's a ladder.'
    'Fine, the Hood-damned fucking ladder, then. You're
backup and mouthpiece, got it? Hear any scrapping upstairs
and you join it, but not before letting us know about it.
Understood?'
    'Clear as piss, Sergeant.'
    'Good, the three of you go. Galt, stay at the window and
keep looking at what's opposite you. Lobe, do the same at
that window. There's more crap waiting for us and we're
gonna carve right through all of it.'
    A short while later, the sound of footfalls padding back
and forth from above ceased and Deadsmell called out from
the hallway that Throatslitter and Widdershins were
coming down the ladder. A dozen heartbeats later and all
three entered the silk room. Throatslitter came close to
Balm's side and crouched. 'Sergeant,' he said, his voice near
a whisper.
    'What?'
    'We found something. Don't much like the looks of it.
We think you should take a look.'
    Balm sighed, then straightened. 'Galt?'
    'They're there, all right, all three floors.'
    'Lobe?'
    'Same here, including on the roof, some guy with a
hooded lantern.'
    'Okay, keep watching. Lead on, Throatslitter. Deadsmell,
back into the hallway. Widdershins, do some magic or
something.'
    He followed Throatslitter back to the ladder. The floor
above was low-ceilinged, more of an attic than anything
else. Plenty of rooms, the walls thick, hardened clay.
    Throatslitter led him up to one such wall. At his feet
stood huge urns and casks. 'Found these,' he said, reaching
down behind one cask and lifting into view a funnel, made
from a gourd of some sort.
    'All right,' Balm said, 'what about it?'
    His soldier kicked one of the casks. 'These ones are full.
But the urns are empty. All of 'em.'
    'Okay ...'
    'Olive oil.'
    'Right, this city's famous for it. Go on.'
    Throatslitter tossed the funnel aside, then drew a knife.
'See these damp spots on these walls? Here.' He pointed
with the knife-tip, then dug into the patch. 'The clay's soft,
recently plugged. These walls, they're hollow.'
    'For Fener's sake, man, what are you going on about?'
    'Just this. I think these walls – the whole building, it's
filled with oil.'
    'Filled? With ... with oil?'
    Throatslitter nodded.
    Filled with oil? What, some kind of piping system to supply it
downstairs? No, for Hood's sake, Balm, don't be an idiot. 'Throatslitter, you think other buildings are rigged like this?
Is that what you're thinking?'
    'I think, Sergeant, that Leoman's turned Y'Ghatan into
one big trap. He wants us in here, fighting in the streets,
pushing in and in—'
    'But what about his followers?'
    'What about them?'
    But ... that would mean ... He thought back – the faces
of the enemy, the fanaticism, the gleam of drugged madness. 'Abyss take us!'
    'We got to find Fist Keneb, Sergeant. Or the captains.
We got—'
    'I know, I know. Let's get out of here, before that bastard
with the lantern throws it!'
     
    It had begun messy, only to get messier still. Yet, from that
initial reeling back, as ambushes were unveiled one after
another, mauling the advance squads of marines, Fist
Keneb's and Fist Tene Baralta's companies had rallied,
regrouped, then pushed inward, building by building, street
by street. Somewhere ahead, Keneb knew, what was left
of the marines was penetrating still further, cutting through
the fanatic but poorly armed and thoroughly undisciplined
warriors of Leoman's renegade army.
    He had heard that those warriors were in a drug-fuelled
frenzy, that they fought without regard to injury, and that
none retreated, dying where they stood. What he had
expected, truth be told. A last stand, a heroic, martyred
defence. For that was what Y'Ghatan had been, what it
was, and what it would always be.
    They would take this city. The Adjunct would have her
first true victory. Bloody, brutal, but a victory nonetheless.
    He stood one street in from the breach, smouldering
rubble behind him, watching the line of wounded