A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

bladed
whirlwind had raced through a hundred or more imperial
assassins – and, slowly, Lostara Yil realized something, as
she looked upon one cut-up figure after another ... a
pattern to the wounds, to their placements, to the smooth
precision of every mortal blow.
    Her chill deepened, stole into her bones.
    Three paces ahead, Grub was humming a Wickan
drover's song.
     
    Halfway across Admiral Bridge, Kalam lodged one weapon
under an arm and reached for the acorn tucked into the
folds of his sash. Smooth, warm even through the leather of
his tattered glove, as if welcoming. And ... impatient.
    Ducking into a crouch along one of the low retaining
walls on the bridge, Kalam flung the acorn to the pavestones.
It cracked, spun in place for a moment, then stilled.
    'All right, Quick,' Kalam muttered, 'any time now.'
     
    In a cabin on the Froth Wolf, Adaephon Delat, seated crosslegged
on the floor, his eyes closed, flinched at that distant
summons. Closer to hand, he could hear more fighting
along the harbour-front, and he knew the Perish were being
pushed back, step by step, battered by sorcery and an evergrowing
mass of frenzied attackers. Whilst above decks
Destriant Run'Thurvian was maintaining a barrier against
every magical assault on the ship itself. Quick Ben sensed
that the man was not exactly hard-pressed, but clearly distracted
by something, and so there was a hesitation in him,
as if he but awaited a far more taxing calling – a moment
that was fast approaching.
    Well, we got trouble everywhere, don't we just?
    It would not be easy slipping through the maze of
warrens unleashed in the streets of the city this night.
Pockets of virulent sorcery wandered here and there,
mobile traps eager to deliver agonizing death, and Quick
Ben recognized those. Ruse, the path of the sea. Those traps
are water, stolen from deep oceans and retaining that savage
pressure – they crush everything they envelop. This is High
Ruse, and it's damned ugly.
    Someone out there was waiting for him. To make his
move. And whoever it was, they wanted Quick Ben to
remain precisely where he was, in a cabin on the Froth
Wolf. Remain, doing nothing, staying out of the fight.
    Well. He had unveiled four warrens, woven an even
dozen sorcerous spells, all eager to be sprung loose – his
hands itched, then burned, as if he was repeatedly dipping
them in acid.
    Kalam's out there, and he needs my help.
    The High Mage allowed himself the briefest of nods, and
the rent of a warren opened before him. He slowly rose to
his feet, joints protesting the motion – gods, I think I'm
getting old. Who'd have thought? He drew a deep breath,
then, blinking to clear his vision, he lunged forward – into
the rent—
    —and, even as he vanished he heard a soft giggle, then a
sibilant voice: 'You said you owed me, remember? Well, my dear
Snake, it's time.'
     
    Twenty heartbeats. Twenty-five. Thirty. Hood's breath! Kalam stared down at the broken acorn. Shit. Shit shit shit. Forty. Cursing under his breath, he set off.
    That's the problem with the shaved knuckle in the hole.
Sometimes it doesn't work. So, I'm on my own. Well, so be it, I've
been getting sick of this life anyway. Murder was overrated, he
decided. It achieved nothing, nothing of real value. There
wasn't an assassin out there who didn't deserve to have his or
her head cut off and stuck on a spike. Skill, talent, opportunity
– none of them justified the taking of a life.
    How many of us – yes you – how many of you hate what you
are? It's not worth it, you know. Hood take all those blistering
egos, let's flash our pathetic light one last time, then surrender to
the darkness. I'm done with this. I'm done.
    He reached the end of the bridge and paused once more.
Another backward glance. Well, it ain't burning, except
here in my mind. Closing the circle, right? Hedge, Trotts,
Whiskeyjack ...
    The dark, pitted and broken face of the Mouse
beckoned. A decayed grin, destitution and degradation, the
misery that haunted so much life. It was, Kalam Mekhar
decided, the right place. The assassin burst into motion, a
diagonal sprint, hard and as low to the ground as he could
manage, up to the leaning façade of a remnant of some
estate wall, surging upward, one foot jamming in a cluttered
murder hole – dislodging a bird's nest – up, forearm
wrapping round the top edge, broken shards of cemented
crockery cutting through the sleeve, puncturing skin – then
over, one foot gaining purchase on the ragged