A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

breath.
    Too much blood-loss; Kalam felt himself weakening. If
any more Hands arrived ...
    He leapt back, almost to the edge of the roof, and threw
both long-knives, a move unexpected, particularly given
the top-heavy imbalance of the weapons – but Kalam had
practised short-range throwing with them, year after year.
One buried itself deep in the chest of the Claw to his right;
the other struck the breastbone of the Claw on the left with
a solid thud and remained in place, quivering. Even as he
threw the weapons, Kalam launched himself, barehanded,
at the man in the middle.
    Caught one forearm in both hands, pushed it back then
across – the hunter attempted an upthrust from low with
his other long-knife, but Kalam kneed it aside. A savage
wrench dislocated the arm in his hands, then he pushed it
back up, grinding the dislodged bones into the ruptured
socket – the man shrieked. Releasing the arm, he brought
both hands up behind the Claw's head, then, leaving his
own feet, he drove that head downward, using all of
his weight, downward, face-first into the roof.
    A crunch, a loud crack, and the entire rooftop sagged –
explosions of old rotted timber beams, crumbling mortar
and plaster.
    Swearing, Kalam rolled over the man – whose face was
buried in the roof, amidst bubbling blood – and saw,
through an ever widening fissure, a darkened room below.
He slid himself forward—
    Time to leave.
     
    Ten paces away, Pearl stood and watched. Shaken, disbelieving.
On the slanting rooftop all round him lay bodies.
The finest assassins of the Malazan Empire. He cut through
them all. Just ... cut through them. And, in his heart, there
was terror – a sensation new to him, filling him with
trembling weakness.
    He watched as Kalam Mekhar, streaming blood, weaponless,
dragged himself towards that hole in the roof. And
Pearl drew back the sleeve of his left arm, extended it,
aimed and released the quarrel.
    A grunt with the impact, the quarrel sinking deep just
under Kalam's outstretched left arm, even as the man slid
forward, down, and vanished from sight.
    I am sorry, Kalam Mekhar. But you ... I cannot accept ...
your existence. I cannot ...
    He then made his way forward, joined now by the lone
survivor of the two Hands, and collected Kalam's weapons.
    My ... trophies.
    He turned to the Claw. 'Find the others—'
    'But what of Kalam—'
    'He's finished. Gather the Hands here in the Mouse –
we're paying a visit to the Centre Docks, now. If the
Adjunct makes it that far, well, we have to take her down
there.'
    'Understood, Clawmaster.'
    Clawmaster. Yes. It's done, Empress Laseen. Yes, he's dead. By my own hand. I am without an equal in the Malazan
Empire.
    Where would he begin?
    Mallick Rel.
    Korbolo Dom.
    Neither of you will see the dawn. I swear it.
    The other Claw spoke from the edge of the hole in the
roof: 'I don't see him, Clawmaster.'
    'He's crawling off to die,' Pearl said. 'Kartoolian paralt.'
    The man's head snapped round. 'Not the snake? The
spider's ... ? Gods below!'
    Aye, a most painful, protracted death. And there's not a
priest left on the island who can neutralize that poison.
    Two weapons clunked on the roof. Pearl looked over.
'What are you doing?' he demanded.
    The man was staring at him. 'Enough. How much dishonour
will you set at the feet of the Claw? I am done with
you.' And he turned away. 'Find the Adjunct yourself, Pearl,
give her one of your damned spider bites—'
    Pearl raised his right arm, sent a second quarrel flying
across the rooftop. Striking the man between the shoulderblades.
Arms flung out to the sides, the Claw toppled.
    'That, regrettably, was white paralt. Much quicker.'
    Now, as he had intended all along, there were no
witnesses left. And it was time to gather the remaining
Hands.
    He wished it could have been different. All of it. But this
was a new Malazan Empire, with new rules. Rules I can
manage well enough. After all, I have nothing left. No-one
left...
     
    Closing his eyes, Fiddler set down his fiddle. He said
nothing, for there was nothing to say. The reprise that had
taken him was done. The music had left his hands, had left
his mind, his heart. He felt empty inside, his soul riven,
lifeless. He had known this was coming, a truth that
neither diminished the pain of loss nor intensified it – a
burden, that was all. Just one more burden.
    Screams from the street below, then the sound of a door
smashing into kindling.
    Braven Tooth glanced up, wiped at his eyes.
    Heavy