A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

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beneath level streets. In all, plenty of hand- and foot-holds,
given sufficient determination, strength and will.
    Of all three, the one standing facing that wall had been
given plenty.
    More steps.
    Then, climbing. A stranger had come to Malaz City.
     
    Gasping, she leaned against a wall. What a mistake, trying
to swim in all that armour. And then, all those damned
eels! She'd emerged from the water covered in the
damned things. Hands, arms, legs, neck, head, face,
dangling and squirming and probably getting drunk every
one of them and it wasn't no fun anyway, pulling them off.
Squeeze too hard and they sprayed blood, black stuff, smelly
stuff. But you had to squeeze, to get a good grip, because
those mouths, they held fast, leaving huge circular weals on
her flesh, puckered and oozing.
    Stumbling ashore like some kind of worm witch, or
demon – ha, that mongrel dog that sniffled up to her sure
did run, didn't it? Stupid dog.
    Sewer ramp, pretty steep, but there were rungs on the
sides and she was able to work her way along it, then the
climb which had damn near killed her but no chance of
that. Thirst was a demanding master. The most demanding
master. But she'd dumped her armour, down there kneedeep
in the muck of the bottom with the keel of the
damned ship nearly taking her head off – took the
helmet, didn't it? And if that strap hadn't broke so conveniently
... anyway, she'd even dropped her weapon
belt. Nothing to pawn, and that was bad. Except for this
knife, but it was the only knife she got, the only one left.
    Still, she was thirsty. She needed to get the taste of the
harbour soup out of her mouth, especially that first gasp
after struggling back up to the surface, sucking in head-first
the bloated corpse of a disgusting rat – that had come as
close to killing her as anything so far – what if it'd been
alive, and eager to climb down her throat? She'd had
nightmares like that, once. During a dry spell, it was, but
that's what dry spells did – they reminded you that the
world was awful and ugly and miserable and there were
things out there that wanted to get you. Spiders, rats, eels,
caterpillars.
    Had there been a crowd up here? Not many left now, and
those that came close to her kept crying out and running
away in some weird blind panic. She wiped at the stinging
weals on her face, blinked more muck from her eyes, lifted
her head and looked around.
    And now, who is that?
    Sudden sobriety, sudden intent, a blast of white incandescence
purging her brain and who knew what else.
    And now now now, just who oh who is that? Right there –
no, don't turn your back, too late. Hee hee, too too too late late
late!
    Hellian crept forward, as quiet as could be, came up right
behind him. Drew her knife with her right hand, reached
out with her left. Five more paces to go ...
     
    Saygen Maral stepped out from the alley. The target had
doubled back, the bastard. But there he was, not ten paces
away, and few people around him. Convenient. He would
cease being subtle. Sometimes, it paid to remind citizens
that the Claw was ever present, ever ready to do what was
necessary.
    The assassin drew out from beneath his cloak a paralt-smeared
    dagger, gingerly adjusting his grip on the weapon as he moved forward.
    Some woman was staring at Banaschar – a hoary, sodden
thing, with an eel dangling from under her left ear and
round sores all over her exposed flesh – people, upon seeing
her, were running away. Aye, she looks like she's got the
plague, but she doesn't. Must've fallen in or something. No
matter.
    He returned his attention to his target's back, moved
lithely forward, his footsteps making no sound. He'd spin
the fool around, to catch the death in the man's eyes.
Always more pleasurable that way, the rush of power that
raced through the killer when the eyes locked, and recognition
blossomed, along with pain and the sudden
knowledge of impending death.
    He was addicted to it, he knew. But he was hardly alone
in that, now, was he?
    With a half-smile, Saygen Maral drew up behind the
drunkard, reached out and gripped the man's shoulder, then
spun him round, even as the knife in his other hand rustled
free of the cloak, darted forward—
     
    A scream sounded from down the avenue.
    As Banaschar was pulled around, he saw – on the face
of the man opposite him – a look of shock, then
consternation—
    A woman had grasped the man's forearm – an arm at the
end of which was a gleaming, stained knife – and,