A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

half-dozen
thugs split away, then slowly, ominously approached.
'Those weals all over you, Sergeant – easily mistaken for
signs of plague.'
    'What? Gods below, let's get into that tavern.'
    They hurried forward, pushed through the doors.
    Inside, inky gloom broken only by a few tallow candles
on blackened tabletops. There was but one other customer,
seated near the back wall. The ceiling was low, the floor
underfoot littered with rubbish. The thick air reminded
Hellian of a cheese-sock.
    From the right appeared the proprietor, a pike-thin Dal
Honese of indeterminate age, each eye looking in a
different direction – neither one fixing on Hellian or
Banaschar as he smiled unctuously, hands wringing.
    'Ah, most sweet tryst, yes? Come! I have a table, yes!
Reserved for such as you!'
    'Close that ugly mouth or I'll sew it up myself,' Hellian
said. 'Jus' show us the damned table then get us a pitcher of
anything you got that won't come back up through our
noses.'
    Head bobbing, the man hobbled over to a table and,
reaching out multiple times he finally grasped hold of the
chairs and made a show of dragging them back through
the filth.
    Banaschar made to sit, then he recoiled. 'Gods below,
that candle—'
    'Oh yes!' said the Dal Honese gleefully, 'the few wax
witches left are most generous with Smiley's. It's the
history, yes?'
    Sudden loud voices outside the entrance and the
proprietor winced. 'Uninvited guests. A moment whilst I
send them on their way.' He headed off.
    Hellian finally released her grip on the ex-priest and
slumped down in the chair opposite. 'Don't try nothing,'
she said in a growl. 'I ain't in the mood.'
    Behind her the door was pulled back by the owner. A few
quiet words, then louder threats.
    Hellian saw Banaschar's gaze flick past her – he had a
good view of what was going on out front – and then he
bolted back in his chair, eyes widening – as shrieks erupted
from the mob, followed by the sounds of panicked flight.
    Scowling, Hellian twisted round in her chair.
    The proprietor was gone, and in the man's place stood a
demon, its back to them, big enough to fill the entire doorway.
A thrashing victim was in its huge hands and, as the
sergeant watched, the demon tore off the screaming man's
head, leaned through the doorway and threw it after the
fleeing citizens. Then it flung the headless corpse in
the same direction.
    A strange blurring, and a sweet, spicy scent drifted back
into the tavern, and then the demon was gone, in its place
the old Dal Honese, brushing clean his hands, then the
front of his grimy tunic. He turned about and walked back
to the table.
    Another smile beneath skewed eyes. 'Finest ale, then, a
pitcher, coming right up!'
    Hellian swung back round in her chair. Her gaze flicked
over to the other customer at the back wall. A woman, a
whore. The sergeant grunted, then called to her, 'You! Get
much business?'
    A snort in reply, then, 'Who cares?'
    'Well, you got a point there, you do.'
    'Both of you be quiet!' Banaschar shouted, his voice
sounding half-strangled. 'That was a Kenryll'ah demon!'
    'He's not so bad,' said the whore, 'once you get to know
'im.
    From behind the bar came the sound of crashing
crockery, then a curse.
     
    In clumps, in bands, in ragged troops, the crowds began
reappearing along the Centre Docks harbourfront. More
weapons among them now, and here and there bows.
Torches flared in the dark, and voices rose, delivering
commands.
    Leaning against the prow of the Silanda – moored just
behind the longboat the Red Blades had used – Koryk
watched the proceedings on the front street for a time, then
he turned about and made his way back down to the mid
deck.
    'Sergeant Balm.'
    'What?'
    'We could be in for some trouble soon.'
    'Typical,' Balm hissed, rising to begin pacing. 'Fid
vanishes. Gesler vanishes. Leaving just me, and I ain't got
no whistle, do I? Deadsmell, get up'n'over, talk to Fist
Keneb. See what they want us to do about it.'
    The corporal shrugged, then made his way to the boarding
ladder.
    Tarr was climbing into his armour. 'Sergeant,' he said,
'we got Fid's crate of munitions below—'
    'Hood's balls, you're right! Cuttle, get down there.
Sharpers and burners, all you can lay hands on.
Throatslitter – what are you doing there?'
    'Was thinking of sneaking into that crowd,' the man said
from the rail, where he'd thrown one leg over and was
about to climb down into the murky water. 'It doesn't
sound right, does it? There's ringleaders up there