A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

nowhere, crouched down on one knee above a body
lying face-down near the breach. A quarrel was buried deep
in that body's back, the fletching fashioned of fish bone –
the cheek sections of some large sea-dwelling species, pale
and semi-translucent. The newcomer swung a ghostly face
up to regard the one who approached.
    'The Clawmaster killed me,' the apparition said in a rasp,
gesturing to its own body beneath it. 'Even as I cursed his
name with my last breath. I think ... yes, I think that is
why I am still here, not yet ready to walk through Hood's
Gate. It is a gift ... to you. He killed Kalam Mekhar. With
Kartoolian paralt.' The ghost turned slightly and gestured
to the edge of the hole. 'Kalam – he pulled the quarrel loose
... no point of course, it makes no difference since the
paralt's in his blood. But I did not tell Pearl – it's right
there, balanced on the very lip. Take it. There is plenty of
poison left. Take it. For the Clawmaster.'
    A moment later the ghost was gone.
    The cloth-wrapped figure crouched down and collected
the blood-smeared quarrel in one gloved hand. Tucked it
into a fold of the sash belt, then straightened, and set off.
     
    Through skeins of vicious sorcery, the lone figure moved
with blinding speed down the street, deftly avoiding every
snare – the coruscating pockets of High Ruse, the whispering
invitations of Mockra – and then into the light-stealing
paths of Rashan where assassins of the Claw had raced
along only moments earlier – and onto their trail, fast
closing, a dagger in each leather-clad hand.
    Near the harbourffont the Claws began emerging from
their warrens, massing by the score, moments from launching
an all-out assault on the foreign soldiers, on everyone
aboard the two moored ships.
    Approaching fast from behind, the figure's movements
acquired a fluidity, sinuous, weaving a flow of shadows, and
the approach that had been quick transformed into something
else – faster than a mortal eye could perceive in this
night of gloom and smoke – and then the lone attacker
struck the first of the Hands.
    Blood sprayed, sheeted into the air, bodies spun to either
side from its path, a whirlwind of death tearing into the
ranks. Claws spun round, shouted, screamed, and died.
     
    Clawmaster Pearl turned at the sounds. He was positioned
over twenty Hands from the rearguard – a rearguard now
down, writhing or motionless on the cobbles, as something
– someone – tore through them. Gods below. A Shadow
Dancer. Who – Cotillion? Cold terror seized his chest with
piercing talons. The god. The Patron of Assassins – coming for
me.
     
    In Kalam Mekhar's name, coming for me!
    He spun round, eyes searching frantically for a bolt-hole. To Hood with the Hands! Pearl pushed his way clear, then
ran.
    An alley, narrow between two warehouses, swallowed in
darkness. Moments to go, then he would open his warren,
force a rent, plunge through – through, and away.
    Weapons in his hands now. If I go down, it will be fighting – god or no god —
    Into the alley, embraced by darkness – behind him more
screams, coming closer – Pearl reached in his mind like a
drowning man for his warren. Mockra. Use it. Twist reality,
cut into another warren – Rashan, and then the Imperial, and
then —
    Nothing answered his quest. A ragged gasp burst from
Pearl's throat as he sprinted onward, up the alley—
    Something behind him – right behind—
    Strokes of agony, slicing through both Achilles tendons
– Pearl shrieked as the severed ligaments rolled up beneath
the skin, stumbled on feet that felt like clods of mud, shifting
hopelessly beneath him. Sprawling, refusing to release
his weapons, still grasping out for his warren—
    Blade-edges licking like tongues of acid. Hamstrings,
elbows – then he was lifted from the blackened cobbles by
a single hand, and thrown into a wall. The impact
shattered half his face, and as he fell backward, that hand
returned, fingers digging in, forcing his head back. Cold
iron slashed into his mouth, slicing, severing his tongue.
Choking on blood, Pearl twisted his head around – he was
grasped again, thrown into the opposite wall, breaking his
left arm. Landing on his side – a foot hammered down on
the point of his hip, the bone cradle collapsing into a
splintered mess beneath it – gods, the pain, sweeping up
through his mind, overwhelming him – his warren – where?
    All motion ceased.
    His attacker was standing over him. Crouching down.
    Pearl