A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

fever of malice afflicting damned near
everyone – with all those acid rumours of betrayal and
murder in Seven Cities, and now the unofficial pogrom
unleashed against the Wickans – there was, in addition, all
that other stuff.
    Scratching at the stubble on his scalp, Cartheron Crust
turned and fixed narrow eyes on Mock's Hold. Mostly dark,
of course. Faint glow from the gatehouse top of the Stairs –
that would be Lubben, the old hunchback keeper, probably
passed out by now as was his wont whenever the Hold had
uninvited guests. Of course, all guests were uninvited, and
even though a new Fist had arrived a month ago, that man
Aragan had been posted here before and so he knew the
way things worked best – and that was lying as low as you
could, not once lifting your head above the parapet. Who
knows? Aragan's probably sharing that bottle with Lubben.
    Uninvited guests ... like High Mage Tayschrenn. Long
ago, now, Crust had found himself in that snake's company
all too often, and he'd struggled hard not to do something
somebody'd probably regret. Not me, though. The Emperor,
maybe. Tayschrenn himself, definitely, but not me. He would
dream of a moment alone, just the two of them. A moment,
that was all he'd need. Both hands on that scrawny neck,
squeeze and twist. Done. Simple. Problem solved.
    What problem? That's what Kellanved would have asked,
in his usual apoplectic way. And Crust had an answer waiting. No idea, Emperor, but I'm sure there was one, maybe two,
maybe plenty. A good enough reply, he figured, although
Kellanved might not have agreed. Dancer would've, though. Hah.
    'Four dromons!' Vole called down suddenly.
    Crust stared up at the idiot. 'We're in the harbour! What
did you expect? That's it, Vole, no more sending your meals
up there – haul your carcass down here!'
    'Cutting in from the north, Captain. 'Top the masts ...
something glinting silver ...'
    Crust's scowl deepened. It was damned dark out there.
But Vole was never wrong. Silver ... that's not good. No,
that's plain awful. He strode over to Palet and nudged the
man. 'Get up. Send what's left of the crew back to those
warehouses – I don't care who's guarding them, bribe the
bastards. I want us low in the water and scuttling outa here
like a three-legged crab.'
    The man looked up at him with owlish eyes. 'Captain?'
    'Did they knock all sense from your brain, Palet?
Trouble's coming.'
    Sitting up, the First Mate looked round. 'Guards?'
    'No, a whole lot troubler.'
    'Like what?'
    'Like the Empress, you fool.'
    Palet was suddenly on his feet. 'Supplies, aye, sir. We're
on our way!'
    Crust watched the fool scamper. The crew was drunk.
Too bad for them. They were sorely undermanned, too. It'd
been a bad idea, diving into the bay when old Ragstopper went down, what with all those sharks. Four good sailors
had been lost that night. Good sailors, bad swimmers. Funny
how that goes together.
    He looked round once more. Damn, done forgot again,
didn't I? No dinghies. Well, there's always something.
    Four dromons, visible now, rounding into the bay, backlit
by one of the ugliest storms he'd ever seen. Well, not
entirely true – he'd seen the like once before, hadn't he?
And what had come of it? Not a whole lot ... except, mat is,
a mountain of otataral ...
    The lead dromon – Laseen's flagship, The Surly. Three in
her wake. Three, that was a lot – who in Hood's name has she
brought with her? A damned army?
    Uninvited guests.
    Poor Aragan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
    Who are these strangers, then, with their familiar faces?
Emerging from the crowd with those indifferent eyes,
and the blood streaming down from their hands.
It is what was hidden before, masked by the common
and the harmless, now wrenching features revealed
in a conflagration of hate and victims tumble underfoot.
    Who led and who followed and why do flames thrive
in darkness and all gaze, insensate and uncomprehending,
come the morning light, upon the legacy of unleashed
spite? I am not fooled by wails of horror. I am not moved
by expostulations of grief. For I remember the lurid night,
the visage flashing in firelit puddles of blood was my own.
    Who was this stranger, then, with that familiar face?
Melting into the crowd in the fraught, chaotic heave,
and the blood raging in the storm of my skull boils frantic
as I plunge down and lay waste all these innocent lives,
my hate at their weakness a cauldron overturned, whilst
drowning in my own, this stranger, this stranger ...
    On the Dawn I