A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

beneath a layer of fat.
    'High Denul,' Lostara said, 'the Empress will not hesitate
in seeing you properly mended.'
    'That she will,' he said, settling back into the chair. 'And
then, Lostara Yil, you will not flinch when looking upon
me. I have had many thoughts, of you and me.'
    'Indeed.' She moved up behind him yet again, and began
kneading the rock-hard tension gripping the muscles to
either side of his neck.
    'Yes. It is, I believe now, meant to be.'
    'Do you recall, sir,' she said, 'a visit I made, long ago now,
when on Kalam Mekhar's trail. A visit to a garrison keep. I
sat at the very same table as the assassin. A Deck was
unveiled, rather unexpectedly. Death and Shadow predominated
the field, if my memory serves – and that, I
admit, I cannot guarantee. In any case, following your
instructions precisely, I later conducted a thorough slaughter
of everyone present – after Kalam's departure, of course.'
    'You have always followed orders with impressive
precision, Lostara Yil.'
    She brought her left hand up along his jaw-line,
stroking softly. 'That morning of murder, Commander,
remains my greatest regret. They were innocents, one and
all.'
    'Do not let such errors weigh on you, my love.'
    'That is a difficult task, sir. Achieving the necessary
coldness.'
    'You have singular talents in such matters.'
    'I suppose I have,' she said, as her palm brushed his
mangled lips, then settled there, against his mouth. And
the knife in her other hand slid into the side of his neck,
behind the windpipe, then slashed out and down.
    Blood flooded against the palm of her hand, along with
gurgling sounds and bubbles of escaping air. The body in
the chair twitched a few times, then slumped down.
    Lostara Yil stepped away. She wiped the knife and her
hands on the silk bedding. Sheathing the weapon once
more, she collected her gloves, and walked to the door.
    She opened it only wide enough to permit her passage
through, and to the two Red Blades standing guard outside,
she said, 'The commander sleeps now. Do not disturb him.'
    The soldiers saluted.
    Lostara closed the door, then strode down the corridor.
    Very well, Cotillion, you were right about him after all.
    And once again, the necessary coldness was achieved.
     
    Uru Hela was down, screaming and curling up round the
spear transfixing her torso. Swearing, Koryk pushed hard
with his shield, driving the attackers back until he could
step over her. Smiles edged in behind him, grasped the
downed soldier by the belt and pulled Uru Hela back.
    Another sharper exploded, bodies whirling away in
sheets of blood, the spray striking Koryk's face beneath the
helm. He blinked stinging heat from his eyes, took a mace
blow against his shield, then thrust upward from beneath it,
the sword-point ripping into a groin. The shriek that
exploded from the crippled attacker nearly deafened him.
He tugged the sword loose.
    There were shouts behind him, but he could make little
sense of them. With Uru Hela out of the fight, and
Shortnose getting crippled by a sword through a thigh in
the last rush, the front line was desperately thin. Both Galt
and Lobe had joined it now. Deadsmell worked on
Shortnose's bleeder, and Widdershins was frantically trying
to deflect assaults of Mockra – the sorcerous attacks seeking
to incite confusion and panic – and the squad mage was
fast weakening.
    What in Hood's name was Quick Ben up to? Where was
he? Why hadn't he emerged onto the deck of the Froth Wolf.
    Koryk found himself swearing in every language he
knew. They couldn't hold.
    And who was playing that damned music, anyway?
    He fought on.
    And saw nothing of what was happening behind him,
the sliding out of darkness of the enormous wolf-headed
catamaran, closing on the end of the jetty. The broad
platforms scraping outward, thumping down on the solid
stone. Units of heavily armoured soldiers marching across
those platforms, archers among them, long arrows nocked
to bowstrings.
    Koryk slashed with his sword, saw some poor Malazan
citizen's face split in half, the jaw torn away, a torrent of
blood – the white gleam of exposed bone beneath each ear
– then, reeling away, eyes filled with disbelief, horror—
    Killing our own – gods below – our own —
    A sudden ringing command from Sergeant Balm behind
him. 'Disengage! Marines disengage!'
    And discipline took hold – that command, echoing a
hairy Master Sergeant's bawled orders on a drill field years
ago – Koryk, snarling, lurched back, bringing up