A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

breath, 'those flags.'
    'Fist Keneb.'
    'Indeed?'
    'Aye.' Then Kalam smiled. 'Spinner of Death. A prettier
lie you won't find. Fid must be grinning ear to ear, if he ain't
drowning.'
    'Drowning?'
    'He was over the side before the Silanda shipped oars, is
my guess – probably Gesler and Stormy went with him,
too.'
    Just then they reached the line of City Watch, who
parted to let them pass.
    Weapons hissed from scabbards and shields were brought
round by the Red Blades.
    And, as Kalam had predicted, the crowds fell silent,
watchful, and backed away to each side to let the party
make its way through.
    'So,' the assassin said under his breath, 'we've got
ourselves a long, dull walk. Sound idea, by the way,
Captain, your Fist deciding to act on his own.'
    The look she shot him started sweat beneath Kalam's
clothing, as she asked, 'Was it, Kalam Mekhar?'
    'Well—'
    She faced straight ahead again. 'The Fist,' she said in a
whisper, 'hasn't even begun.'
    Well ... oh, that's not good at all.
    Behind the troop, the mob closed in once again, and
there arose new shouts, this time of horror.
    'Plague flags! On the transports in the bay! Plague flags!'
    In moments belligerence drained away like piss down a
leg, and terror grabbed hold between those legs – squeezing
hard – and people began swarming in every direction, but a
heartbeat away from pure, frenzied panic. Kalam kept his
smile to himself.
     
    Ever so faint, the clatter of knuckles bouncing and skidding
had alerted Banaschar. This night the Worm was awake,
and with it the return of the ex-priest's old sensitivities to
the whisper of magic. In rapid succession thereafter, as he
shifted from his path and found a dead-end alley in which
to crouch, heart pounding, he felt multiple pulses of sorcery
– a gate, slicing open the thinnest rent, the sudden, violent
unravelling of some unseen tapestry, and then, finally, a
trembling underfoot, as if something terrible and vast had
just stepped onto the dry land of this island.
    Dizzy from the successive waves of virulent power,
Banaschar straightened once more, one hand against a
grimy wall for support, then he headed off – back, back
towards the harbourfront.
    No choice, no choice. I need to see ... to understand ...
    As he drew nearer, he could smell panic in the air, acrid
and bitter, and all at once there were mute figures hurrying
past him – the beginnings of an exodus. Faces twisted in
fear blurred by, and others dark with rage – as if their plans
had been suddenly knocked awry, and there was not yet
time to find a means to regroup, nor yet the opportunity to
think things through.
    Something's happened.
    Maybe to do with that falling rock or whatever it was.
    In the old days, such an occurrence, on the eve of
autumn, the eve of D'rek's arrival upon the mortal earth ... well, we'd have flooded the streets. Out from the temples,
raising our voices to the heavens. And the coffers would overflow,
because there could be no mistaking .. .
    The thoughts trailed away, vanished, leaving naught but
a taste of ashes in his mouth. We were such fools. The sky
casts down, the world heaves up, the waters wash it all away.
None of this – none of it! – has anything to do with our
precious gods!
    He reached the broad avenue fronting the docks. People
moving about here and there. If anger remained it was roiling
about, all direction lost. Some vast desire had been ...
blunted.
    Passing an old woman Banaschar reached out to her.
'Here,' he said. 'What has happened?'
    She glared up at him, pulling free as if his touch was a
contaminant. 'Plague ships!' she hissed. 'Get away from
me!'
    He let her go, halted, stared out at the ships filling the
bay.
    Ah, the flags ...
    Banaschar sniffed the air.
    Poliel? I can't sense you at all ... out there. Or anywhere
else, come to think of it. His eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he
smiled.
    At that moment, a heavy hand thumped down on his
left shoulder, spun him round—
    And someone screamed.
     
    Lifting clear of the swirling black, filthy waters.
Straightening, slime and grit streaming off, blood-sucking
eels flapping down to writhe on the muddy rocks, the
broken pottery and the brick fragments beneath the
wooden dock. One step forward, then another, heavy,
scraping.
    A rough wall directly ahead, revealing layers of street
levels, bulwarks, old drainage holes dating back to the city's
youth – before iron was first forged by humans – when the
sewer system was a superb, efficient subterranean