A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

as
Banaschar stared, still not quite comprehending, he saw her
drive the heel of a palm into the elbow joint of that arm,
snapping it clean. The knife, sprung loose, spun away to
clatter on the cobbles, even as the woman, snarling something
under her breath, tugged the broken arm down and
drove her knee into the man's face.
    A savage cracking sound, blood spraying as the head
rocked back, eyes wide, and the woman twisted the arm
round, forcing the man face-first onto the cobbles. She
descended onto him, grasped him by the hair with both
hands and began systematically pounding his skull into
the street.
    And, between each cracking impact, words grated from
her:
    'No—'
    crunch
    'you—'
    crunch
    'don't!'
    crunch
    'This one's—'
    CRUNCH!
    'mine!'
    Appalled, Banaschar reached down, grasped the terrible
apparition by her sodden jerkin, and dragged her back. 'For
Hood's sake, woman! You've shattered his skull! It's all
pulp! Stop! Stop!'
    She twisted free, turned on him and, with smooth
precision, set the tip of a knife just beneath his right eye.
Her pocked, blood-smeared, filthy face shifted into a sneer,
as she snarled, 'You! Finally! You're under arrest!'
    And someone screamed from down the avenue. Again.
     
    Thirty paces away, Fiddler, Gesler and Stormy all stared at
the commotion not far from an alley mouth. An attempted
assassination, interrupted – with fatal ferocity – by some
woman—
    Gesler suddenly gripped Fiddler's arm. 'Hey, that's
Hellian there!'
    Hellian? Sergeant Hellian?
    They then heard her pronounce an arrest.
    Even as screams ripped the air from farther down, and
figures began racing away from the waterfront. Now, what's
all that about? Never mind. His eyes still fixed on Hellian,
who was now struggling with the poor man who looked as
drunk as she was – her husband? – Fiddler hesitated, then he
shook his head. 'Not a chance.'
    'You got that right,' Gesler said. 'So, Fid, meet you in a
bell, right?'
    'Aye. Until then.'
    The three soldiers set off, then almost immediately parted
ways, Gesler and Stormy turning south on a route that
would take them across the river on the first bridge, Fiddler
continuing west, into the heart of the Centre District.
    Leaving behind those frantic, terrified cries from the
north end of the Centre Docks harbourfront, which
seemed, despite Fiddler's pace, to be drawing ever nearer.
    Plague. Smart man, Keneb. Wonder how long the ruse will last? Then, as he reached very familiar streets on the bay side
of Raven Hill Park, there came a surge of pleasure.
    Hey. I'm home. Imagine that. I'm home!
    And there, ten paces ahead, a small shop front, little more
    than a narrow door beneath a crumbling overhang from which dangled a polished
    tin disc, on its surface an acid-etched symbol. A burning mouse. Fiddler halted
    before it, then thumped on the door. It was a lot more solid than it looked.
    He pounded some more, until he heard a scratching of latches being drawn back
    on the other side. The door opened a crack. A small rheumy eye regarded him
    for a moment, then withdrew.
    A push and the door swung back.
    Fiddler stepped inside. A landing, with stairs leading
upward. The owner was already halfway up them, dragging
one stiff leg beneath misaligned hips, his midnight-blue
night-robe trailing like some imperial train. In one hand
was a lantern, swinging back and forth and casting wild
shadows. The sergeant followed.
    The shop on the next floor was cluttered, a looter's haul
from a hundred battles, a hundred overrun cities. Weapons,
armour, jewellery, tapestries, bolts of precious silk, the
standards of fallen armies, statues of unknown heroes, kings
and queens, of gods, goddesses and demonic spirits.
Looking round as the old man lit two more lanterns,
Fiddler said, 'You've done well, Tak.'
    'You lost it, didn't you?'
    The sergeant winced. 'Sorry.'
    Tak moved behind a broad, lacquered table and sat
down, gingerly, in a plush chair that might have been the
throne of some minor Quon king. 'You careless runt,
Fiddler. You know I only make one at a time. No market,
you see – aye, I keep my promises there. Labours of love,
every time, but that kind of love don't fill the belly, don't
feed the wives and all those urchins not one of 'em looking
like me.' The small eyes were like barrow coins. 'Where is
it, then?'
    Fiddler scowled. 'Under Y'Ghatan.'
    'Y'Ghatan. Better it than you.'
    'I certainly thought so.'
    'Changed your mind since?'
    'Look, Tak, I'm no wide-eyed recruit