A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

bridge
leading over to Centre Docks. Familiar buildings for
Fiddler, on all sides, yet a surreal quality had come to the
air, as if the master hand of some mad artist had lifted every
detail into something more profound than it should have
been.
    From the docks came the roar of battle, punctuated with
the occasional crackle of Moranth munitions. Sharpers,
mostly. Cuttle. He's using up my supply!
    They reached the intersection. Legana Breed paused in
the middle, slowly faced the sagging façade of a tavern
opposite. Where the door slammed open and two figures
stumbled out. Reeling, negotiating the cobbles beneath
them as if traversing stepping stones across a raging river,
one grasping the other by an arm, tugging, pulling, then
leaning against him, causing both to stagger.
    Swearing under his breath, Fiddler headed towards them.
'Sergeant Hellian, what in Hood's name are you doing
ashore?'
    Both figures hitched up at the voice, turned.
    And Hellian's eyes fixed on the T'lan Imass. 'Fiddler,' she
said, 'you look awful.'
    'Over here, you drunken idiot.' He waved Gesler and
Stormy ahead as he came closer. 'Who's that with you?'
    Hellian turned and regarded the man she held by an arm,
for what seemed a long time.
    'Your priz'ner,' the man said by way of encouragement.
    'Thaz right.' Hellian straightened as she faced Fiddler
again. 'He's wanted for questioning.'
    'By whom?'
    'Me, thazoo. So's anyway, where's the boat?'
    Gesler and Stormy were making their way towards the
bridge. 'Go with them,' Fiddler said to Legana Breed, and
the T'lan Imass set off, feet scraping. The sapper turned
back to Hellian. 'Stay close, we're heading back to the ships
right now.'
    'Good. Glad you could make it, Fid, in case thiz one tries
an' 'scapes, right? Y'got my p'mission to shoot 'im down.
But only in the foot. I wan' answers from 'im an' I'm gonna
get 'em.'
    'Hellian,' Fiddler said, 'could be we'll need to make a run
for it.'
    'We can do that. Right, Banash?'
    'Fool,' Fiddler muttered. 'That's Smiley's there. The
demon doesn't serve regular ale. Any other place ...' He
then shook his head. 'Come on, you two.'
    Up ahead, Gesler and Stormy had reached the bridge.
Crouched low, they moved across its span.
    Fiddler heard Gesler shout, a cry of surprise and alarm –
and all at once both he and Stormy were running – straight
for a heaving crowd that loomed up before them.
    'Shit!' Fiddler sprinted forward.
     
    A winding trench swallowed in gloom, a vein that seemed
to run beneath the level where the frenzy of slaughter commanded
every street, every alley to either side. The woman
behind her coughing gouts of blood as she sloshed along,
the Adjunct, Tavore Paran, waded through a turgid stream
of sewage.
    Ever closer to the sounds of fighting at Centre Docks.
    It had seemed impossible – the Claws had not found
them, had not plunged down the rotted brick walls to
deliver murder in the foul soup that was Malaz River. Oh,
Tavore and T'amber had pushed past enough corpses on
their journey, but the only sounds embracing them were
the swirl of water, the skittering of rats along the ledges to
either side, and the whine of biting insects.
    That all changed when they reached the edge of the concourse.
The concussion of a sharper, startlingly close, then
the tumbling of a half-dozen bodies as a section of the
retaining wall collapsed directly ahead. More figures sliding
down, screaming, weapons waving in the air—
    —and a soldier turned, saw them—
    As he bellowed his discovery, T'amber pushed past the
Adjunct. Longsword arced across, diagonally, and cut off
the top third of the man's head, helm and bone, white matter
spraying out.
    Then T'amber reached back, closed a bloody hand on
the Adjunct's cloak, dragged her forward, onto the sunken
bank of dislodged brick, sand and gravel.
    The strength in that grip stunned Tavore, as T'amber
assailed the slope, dragging the Adjunct from her feet, up,
up onto the level of the concourse. Stumbling onto her
knees, even as that hand left her and the sounds of fighting
erupted around them—
    City Guard, three squads at least – detonations had
pushed them to this side of the concourse, and they turned
upon the two women like rabid wolves—
    Tavore pushed herself upright, caught a sword-thrust
reaching for her midsection with a desperate parry, the
weapons ringing. She instinctively counter-attacked, and
felt the tip of her sword tear through chain and gouge the
muscles of a shoulder. Her opponent