A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

none other than
Banaschar. Now, are you two up for surprising a Claw
tonight? Do this and I'll think nice thoughts about the both
of you.'
    The two men were already on their feet.
    Gentur spat onto his hands and rubbed them together. 'I
used to dream of nights like this,' he said. 'Let's go, Mudder.
Before we lose 'im.'
    'Heading towards the waterfront,' Braven Tooth said.
'Northering t'the Stairs, right?'
    He watched the two soldiers hurry to the back door. Out
they went, looking far too eager.
    Mudslinger, he knew, was a lot tougher than he looked.
Besides, he didn't think that Claw would be thinking about
anyone on his own trail. And with the crowds ... well,
they shouldn't have too much trouble. Soldiers love killing
assassins . ..
    Someone threw a handful of knuckle dice at the back of
the low-ceilinged room.
    And Braven Tooth suddenly shivered.
    I must be getting soft.
     
    There were plenty of well-armed figures among the crowd
gathering along the harbourfront, although, for the
moment, those weapons remained beneath heavy cloaks, as
these selected agents moved into designated positions.
Faint nods passing between them, a few whispered words
here and there.
    The City Watch stood in a ragged line, pikes shifting
nervously as the bolder thugs edged forward with taunts
and threats.
    There were Wickans in those ships out there.
    And we want them.
    Traitors, one and all, and dealing with traitors was a
punishment that belonged to the people. Wasn't the
Empress herself up there at Mock's Hold? Here to witness
imperial wrath – she's done it before, right, back when she
commanded the Claw.
    Never mind you're waiting for an officer, you fools, the
signals are lit and we ain't stupid – they're telling those bastards
to come in. Tie up. Disembark. Look at 'em, the cowards! They
know the time's come to answer their betrayal!
    Believe us, we're gonna fill this bay with Wickan heads –
won't that be a pretty sight come morning?
    Gods below! What's that?
    A chorus of voices shouted that, or something similar,
and hands lifted, fingers pointing, eyes tracking a blazing
ball of fire that slanted down across half the sky to the west,
trailing a blue-grey plume of smoke like the track of an eel
on black sand. Growing in size with alarming swiftness.
    Then ... gone ... and a moment later, a savage crack rolled in from beyond the bay, where rose a tumbling cloud
of steam.
    Close.' A third of a league, you think?
    Less.
    Not much impact, though.
    Must've been small. Smaller than it looked.
    Went right overhead —
    It's an omen! An omen!
    A Wickan head! Did you see it? It was a Wickan head! Sent
    down by the gods!
     
    Momentarily distracted by the plunging fireball that
seemed to land just beyond the bay, the Claw Saygen Maral
pushed himself forward once more. The assassin was
pleased with the heaving press he moved through, a press
settling down once again, although at a higher pitch of
anticipation than before.
    Up ahead, the crowd had slowed the ex-priest's pace,
which was good, since already nothing was going as
planned. The target should have been settled in for the
night at Coop's, and the Hand was likely closing in on the
alley behind the inn, there to await his contacting them
with the necessary details.
    Pointing the Skull, they used to call it. Identifying the
target right there, right then, in person. A proper reward
for following the fool around for sometimes weeks on end –
seeing the actual assassination. Be that as it may, as things
were turning out he would be bloodying his own hands
with this target tonight, now that the decision had been
made to kill the drunkard.
    A convenient conjoining of Saygen Maral's divided
loyalties. Trained from childhood in the Imperial Claw –
ever since he had been taken from his dead mother's side,
aged fourteen, at the Cull of the Wax Witches in the
Mouse Quarter all those years ago – his disaffection with
the Empress had taken a long time to emerge, and even
then, if not for the Jhistal Master it would never have
found focus, or indeed purpose. Of course, discovering
precisely how his mother had died had helped considerably.
    The empire was rotten through and through, and he
knew he wasn't the only Claw to realize this; just as he
wasn't the only one who now followed the commands of
the Jhistal Master – most of the Hand on its way down from
Mock's Hold belonged to the phantom Black Glove that
was the name of Mallick Rel's spectral organization. In
truth, there was no