A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

way of telling just how many of the
Imperial Claw had been turned – each agent was aware of
but three others, forming a discrete cell – in itself a classic
Claw structure.
    In any case, Clawmaster Pearl had confirmed the order
to kill Banaschar. Comforting, that.
    He remained ten paces behind the ex-priest, acutely
aware of the seething violence in this mob – encouraged by
the idiotic cries of 'An omen!' and 'A Wickan head!' – but he
carried on his person certain items, invested with sorcery,
that encouraged a lack of attention from everyone he
pushed past, that dampened their ire momentarily
no matter how rude and painful his jabbing elbows.
    They were close to the docks now, and agents of the
Jhistal Master were in the milling crowd, working them
ever nastier and more belligerent with well-timed shouts
and exhortations. No more than fifty City Watch soldiers
faced a mass now numbering in the high hundreds, an
under-strength presence that had been carefully coordinated
by selective incompetence among the officers at
the nearby barracks.
    He noted a retinue of more heavily armed and armoured
soldiers escorting a ranking officer towards the centre dock,
before which now loomed the Adjunct's flagship. The
captain, Saygen Maral knew, was delivering a most
auspicious set of imperial commands. And those, in turn,
would lead inexorably to a night of slaughter such as this
city had never before experienced. Not even the Cull in
the Mouse would compare.
    The assassin smiled.
    Welcome home, Adjunct.
    His breath caught suddenly as a prickling sensation awoke
on his left shoulder beneath his clothes. A small sliver of
metal threaded under his skin had awakened, informing him
that he was being followed by someone with murderous
intent. Clumsy. A killer should ever mask such thoughts. After
all, Mockra is the most common natural talent, needing no formal
training – that whispering unease, the hair rising on the back of the
neck – far too many people possess such things.
    Nonetheless, even a clumsy killer could know the Lady's
Pull on occasion, just as Saygen Maral, for all his skills and
preparation, could stumble – fatally – to the Lord's Push.
    Ahead, now fifteen paces away, Banaschar was working
free of the crowd, and Saygen sensed the man's warren – Mockra, yes, achieving what my own invested items have done.
Uninterest, sudden fugue, confusion – the sharper the mind,
after all, the more vulnerable it proves to such passive assaults. To be a killer, of course, one needed to fend off such sorcery.
Simple awareness of the trap sufficed, and so Saygen Maral
was not concerned. His intent was most singular.
    Of course he would have to eliminate his own hunters
first.
    Banaschar was heading for the Stairs. There was little
risk in Saygen effecting a slight delay. He saw an alley
mouth off to the left, where the crowd was thin. The
assassin angled himself towards it, and, as he stepped past
the last figure, quickly turned left and slipped into the
alley.
    Gloom, rubbish under foot, a tortured, winding route
before him. He continued on five more steps, found an
alcove and edged into it.
     
    'He's getting ready to take the drunk,' Gentur hissed. 'He'll
circle round—'
    'Then let's get after 'im,' Mudslinger whispered, pushing
his friend on.
    They entered the alley, padded forward.
    The shadows swallowing the niche were too deep, too
opaque to be natural, and both soldiers went right past
without a second thought.
    A faint sound, whistling past Mudslinger's left shoulder,
and Gentur grunted, flinging up his hands as he staggered
forward, then collapsed. Whirling, Mudslinger ducked low,
but not low enough, as a second tiny quarrel struck him on
his chest, directly over his heart, and, still spinning round
with his own momentum, the soldier's feet skidded out
beneath him. He fell hard, the back of his head crunching
on the greasy cobbles.
     
    Saygen Maral studied the two motionless bodies for a
moment longer, then he reloaded the corkscrew crossbows
strapped to his wrists. First shot, base of the skull. Second shot,
heart – that was a lucky one, since I was aiming for low in the
gut. Guess he didn't want all that pain. Too bad. Anyway ...
What were they thinking of doing? Mugging me? No matter, it's
done. Adjusting his sleeves, hiding the weapons once more,
he set off after Banaschar.
    A sixth of a bell later, the Claw realized that he had lost
the man. In rising panic, he began backtracking, down
alleys and