A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

strapped
to his back. No damage beyond the old damage, he was
pleased to see. He drew out the bow, looked round as
Braven Tooth ignited a lantern, then walked over to a chair
and sat down.
    A moment, then all three men were staring across at
him.
    'I know,' Fiddler said. 'Braven Tooth, you remember the
last time I played—'
    'That was the last time?'
    'It was, and there's been a lot who've fallen since then.
Friends. People we grew to love, and now miss, like holes in
the heart.' He drew a deep breath, then continued, 'It's
been waiting, inside, for a long time. So, my old, old
friends, let's hear some names.'
    Braven Tooth sat down on the cot, scratching at his
beard. 'Got a new one for you. A soldier I sent off this very
night who got himself killed. Name of Gentur. His friend
Mudslinger nearly died himself but it looks like the Lady
pulled. And we found him in time to help things along.'
    Fiddler nodded. 'Gentur. All right. Gesler?'
    'Kulp. Baudin. And, I think, Felisin Paran – she had no
luck at all, and when good things showed up, rare as that
was, well, she didn't know what to do or say.' He shrugged.
'A person hurts enough inside, all they can do is hurt back.
So, her as well.' He paused, then added, 'Pella, Truth.'
    'And Coltaine,' Stormy said. 'And Duiker, and the
Seventh.'
    Fiddler began tuning the instrument. 'Good names, one
and all. I'll add a few more. Whiskeyjack. Hedge. Trotts.
And one more – no name yet, and it's not so bad as that.
One more ...' He grimaced. 'Could sound a little rough, no
matter how much rosin I use. No matter. Got a sad dirge in
my head that needs to come out—'
    'All sad, Fid?'
    'No, not all. I leave the good memories to you – but I'll
give you a whisper every now and then, to tell you I know
what you're feeling. Now, settle down – pour them cups
full, Gesler – this'll take a while, I expect.'
    And he began to play.
     
    The heavy door at the top of Rampart Way opened with a
squeal, revealing a massive, humped form silhouetted on
the threshold. As the Adjunct reached the level, the figure
stepped back. She strode into the gatehouse, followed by
T'amber, then Fist Tene Baralta. Kalam entered the musty
room. The air was sweet with the cloying fumes of rum.
    The assassin paused opposite the keeper. 'Lubben.'
    A heavy, rumbling reply, 'Kalam Mekhar.'
    'Busy night?'
    'Not everybody uses the door,' Lubben replied.
    Kalam nodded, and said nothing more. He continued on,
emerging out into the keep's courtyard, tilted flagstones
underfoot, the old tower off to the left, the hold itself
slightly to his right. The Adjunct had already traversed half
the length of the concourse. Behind Kalam the escort of
Untan Guard now separated themselves from the group,
making for the barracks near the north wall.
    Kalam squinted up at the murky moon. A faint wind
brushed across his face, warm, sultry and dry, plucking at
the sweat on his brow. Somewhere overhead, a weather
vane squealed momentarily. The assassin set off after the
others.
    Two Claws flanked the keep entrance – not the usual
guard. Kalam wondered where the resident Fist and his
garrison were this night. Probably in the storehouse cellars,
blind drunk. Hood knows, it's where I would be in their boots. Not old Lubben, of course. That hoary hunchback was as
old as the Rampart Gate itself – he'd always been there,
as far back as the Emperor's time and even, if rumours were
true, back to Mock's rule of the island.
    As Kalam passed between the two assassins, both tilted
their hooded heads in his direction. A mocking acknowledgement,
he concluded, or something worse. He made no
response, continuing on into the broad hallway.
    Another Claw had been awaiting them, and this cowled
figure now led them towards the staircase.
    Ascending two levels, then down a corridor, into an
antechamber, where Tene Baralta ordered his Red Blades to
remain, barring his captain, Lostara Yil. The Fist then sent
off two of his soldiers after a brief whispered set of
instructions. The Adjunct watched all of this without
expression, although Kalam was tempted to call
Baralta out on what was obviously an act of pointed independence
– as if Tene Baralta was divesting himself and
his Red Blades of any association with the Adjunct and the
Fourteenth Army.
    After a moment, the Claw led them onward, through
another portal, into another corridor, then down its length
to a set of double doors. Not the usual room for official
meetings, Kalam knew. This one was