A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Fanderay and damned castaways
...'
    Trapped since Fiddler's reading in a small closet-sized
cabin on the Froth Wolf, Bottle worked the finishing
touches on the doll nestled in his lap. The Adjunct's
commands made no sense – but no, he corrected with a
scowl, not the Adjunct's. This – all of this – belonged to that
tawny-eyed beauty, T'amber. Who in Hood's name is she?
Oh, never mind. Only the thousandth time I've asked myself
that question. But it's that look, you see, in her eyes. That
knowing look, like she's plunged through, right into my heart.
    And she doesn't even like men, does she?
    He studied the doll, and his scowl deepened. 'You,' he
muttered, 'I've never seen you before, you know that? But
here you are, with a sliver of iron in your gut – gods but that
must hurt, cutting away, always cutting away inside. You,
sir, are somewhere in Malaz City, and she wants me to find
you, and that's that. A whole city, mind you, and I've got
till dawn to track you down.' Of course, this doll would
help, somewhat, once the poor man was close enough for
Bottle to stare into his eyes and see the same pain that now
marked these uneven chips of oyster shell. That, and the
seams of old scars on the forearms – but there were plenty
of people with those, weren't there?
    'I need help,' he said under his breath.
    From above, the voices of sailors as the ship angled in
towards the jetty, and some deeper, more distant sound,
from the dockfront itself. And that one felt ... unpleasant.
    We've been betrayed. All of us.
    The door squealed open behind him.
    Bottle closed his eyes.
    The Adjunct spoke. 'We're close. The High Mage is
ready to send you across – you will find him in my cabin. I
trust you are ready, soldier.'
    'Aye, Adjunct.' He turned, studied her face in the gloom
of the corridor where she stood. The extremity of emotion
within her was revealed only in a tightness around her eyes. Desperate.
    'You must not fail, Bottle.'
    'Adjunct, the odds are against me—'
    'T'amber says you must seek help. She says you know
who.'
    T'amber, the woman with those damned eyes. Like a lioness.
What is it, damn it, about those eyes? 'Who is she, Adjunct?'
    A flicker of something like sympathy in the woman's
gaze. 'Someone ... a lot more than she once was, soldier.'
    'And you trust her?'
    'Trust.' She smiled slightly. 'You must know, as young as
you are, Bottle, that truth is found in the touch. Always.'
    No, he did not know. He did not understand. Not any of
it. Sighing, he rose, stuffing the limp doll beneath his
jerkin, where it sat nestled alongside the sheathed knife
under his left arm. No uniform, no markings whatsoever
that would suggest he was a soldier of the Fourteenth – the
absence of fetishes made him feel naked, vulnerable. 'All
right,' he said.
    She led him to her cabin, then halted at the doorway.
'Go on. I must be on deck, now.'
    Bottle hesitated, then said, 'Be careful, Adjunct.'
    A faint widening of the eyes, then she turned and walked
away.
     
    Kalam stood at the stern, squinting into the darkness
beyond where transports were anchoring. He'd thought
he'd heard the winching of a longboat, somewhere a few
cables distant from shore. Against every damned order the
Adjunct's given this night.
    Well, even he wasn't pleased with those orders. Quick
Ben slicing open a sliver of a gate – even that sliver might
get detected, and that would be bad news for poor Bottle.
He'd step out into a nest of Claw. He wouldn't stand a
chance. And who might come through the other way?
    All too risky. All too ... extreme.
    He rolled his shoulders, lifting then shrugging off the
tension. But the tautness came back only moments later.
The palms of the assassin's hands were itching beneath the
worn leather of his gloves. Decide, damn you. just decide.
    Something skittered on the planks to his right and he turned
    to see a shin-high reptilian skeleton, its long-snouted head tilting as the
    empty eye sockets regarded him. The segmented tail flicked.
    'Don't you smell nice?' the creature hissed, jaws
clacking out of sequence. 'Doesn't he smell nice, Curdle?'
    'Oh yes,' said another thin voice, this time to Kalam's
left, and he glanced over to see a matching skeleton
perched on the stern rail, almost within reach. 'Blood and
strength and will and mindfulness, nearly a match to our
sweetheart. Imagine the fight between them, Telorast.
Wouldn't that be something to see?'
    'And where is she?' Kalam asked in a rumble. 'Where's
Apsalar