A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Fist. 'I was, sir.'
    'You just murdered a captain of the Untan Palace Guard,
soldier.'
    'Yes, sir.'
    From Tarr: 'They're coming back for another try! Looks
like you got 'em mad, Koryk.'
    'Proof enough for me,' the half-blood Seti said in a growl,
as he began reloading his crossbow. As he waited for Keneb
to speak. Waited for the command to Balm to arrest him.
    Instead, the Fist said nothing. He turned about and
walked back to the Froth Wolf.
    A hiss from Smiles. 'Look out, Koryk. Wait till Fid hears
about this.'
    'Fid?' snapped Sergeant Balm. 'What about the Adjunct?
You're gonna get strung up, Koryk.'
    'If I am then I am. But I'd do it all over again. Bastard
wanted us to hand them the Wickans.'
     
    Numbed, Keneb stepped back onto the mid deck. '... wanted us to hand them the Wickans ...' Marines and sailors
were all looking at him, and the Destriant Run'Thurvian
had appeared from below and now approached.
    'Fist Keneb, this night is not proceeding well, is it?'
    Keneb blinked. 'Destriant?'
    'A most grievous breach of discipline—'
    'I am sorry,' Keneb cut in, 'it's clear you misunderstand.
Some time ago, the Adjunct proclaimed the birth of the
Bonehunters. What did she see then? I had but a sense of it
– barely a sense. More like a suspicion. But now ...' he
shook his head. 'Three squads on the jetty standing their
ground, and why?'
    'Fist, the threat is perceived, and must be answered.'
    'We could cast lines and sail out. Instead, here we are.
Here they are, ready to bloody the noses of anyone who
dares come close. Ready to answer blood with blood.
Betrayal, Destriant, stalks this night like a god, right here
in Malaz City.' He strode past the others, back to the forecastle.
'That ballista loaded?' he demanded.
    One of the crew nodded. 'Aye, Fist.'
    'Good. They're closing fast.'
    The Destriant moved up beside Keneb. 'Fist, I do not
understand.'
    Keneb pulled his attention from the hundreds edging
ever closer. 'But I do. I've seen. We're holding the jetty, and
not one damned soldier down there gives a damn about
anything else! Why?' He thumped the rail. 'Because we're
waiting. We're waiting for the Adjunct. Destriant,
we're hers, now. It's done, and the damned empire can rot!'
    The other man's eyes slowly widened at this outburst,
and then, with a faint smile, he bowed. 'As you say, Fist. As
you say.'
     
    Last door down the tenement hall, uppermost floor. Typical. The knife-edge slipped easily between the door and the
frame, lifted the latch. A slow, even push moved the door
back with but the faintest moan from the leather hinges.
    Fiddler slipped inside, looked round in the gloom.
    Loud animal snoring and grunts from the cot, a smell of
stale beer pervading the turgid air.
    Moving in the tiniest increments, Fiddler lowered his
collection of crossbows to the floor, a procedure taking
nearly thirty heartbeats, yet not once did the stentorian
notes of slumber pause from the figure on the cot.
    Unburdened now, Fiddler crept closer, breathing nice
and slow, until he hovered right above his unsuspecting
victim's shaggy head.
    Then he began whispering in a singsong voice, 'Your
ghosts – we're back – never to leave you alone, never to give you
a moment's rest – oh yes, dear Braven Tooth, it's me, Fiddler,
dead but not gone – a ghost, returning to haunt you until your
last—'
    The fist came out of nowhere, connecting solidly with
Fiddler's midriff. All air driven from him, the sergeant
collapsed backward, onto the floor, where he curled up
round the agony—
    As Braven Tooth climbed upright. 'That wasn't funny,
Fiddler,' he said, looking down. 'But you, squirming round
down there on the floor, now that's funny.'
    'Shut that mouth,' gasped Fiddler, 'and find me a chair.'
    The Master Sergeant helped him to his feet. Leaning
heavily, Fiddler carefully straightened, the effort punctuated
with winces and the hiss of breath between his teeth.
    'You'll live?'
    A nod, and Fiddler managed to step back. 'All right, I
deserved that—'
    'Goes without saying,' Braven Tooth replied.
    They faced each other in the darkness for a moment, and
then they embraced. And said nothing.
    A moment later the door swung open behind them.
They parted to see Gesler and Stormy, the former carrying
two bottles of wine and the latter three loaves of bread.
    'Hood's breath!' Braven Tooth laughed. 'The old bastards
one and all come home!'
    As Gesler and Stormy set their victuals down on a small
table, Fiddler examined the fiddle that had been