A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

small craft was approaching on an intercept course. A
lantern appeared at its bow, flashing.
    'They got passengers to drop off,' the lookout called
down.
    The ship came alongside with a crunch and grinding of
hulls. Lines were thrown, rope ladders dropped down.
    Fiddler nodded. 'Bottle.' Then he scowled. 'I thought
you said one person – the fool's brought a damned score
with him.'
    The first to arrive over the rail, however, was Grub.
    A bright grin. 'Hello, father,' he said as Keneb reached
out and lifted the boy, setting him on the deck. 'I brought
Captain Lostara Yil. And Bottle's brought lots of people—'
    A stranger then clambered aboard, landing lightly on the
deck and pausing, hands on hips, to look round. 'A damned
mess,' he said.
    As soon as he spoke, Fiddler stepped forward. 'Cartheron
Crust. I thought you were—'
    'Nobody here by that name,' the man said in a growl, one
hand settling on the knife handle jutting from his belt.
    Fiddler stepped back.
    More figures were arriving, strangers one and all: the first
a huge man, his expression flat, cautious, and on his forearms
were scars and old weals that Fiddler recognized. He
was about to speak when Crust – who was not Crust –
spoke.
    'Adjunct Tavore, right? Well, I'm charging you sixteen
gold imperials for delivering this mob of fools to your ship.'
    'Very well.'
    'So get it, because we're not hanging round this damned
harbour any longer than we have to.'
    Tavore turned to Keneb. 'Fist, go to the legion paychest
and extract two hundred gold imperials.'
    'I said sixteen—'
    'Two hundred,' the Adjunct repeated.
    Keneb set off for below.
    'Captain,' the Adjunct began, then fell silent.
    The figures now climbing aboard were, one and all, tall,
black-skinned. One, a woman, stood very near the scarred
man, and this one now faced the Adjunct.
    And in rough Malazan, she said, 'My husband has been
waiting for you a long time. But don't think I am just
letting you take him away. What is to come belongs to us –
to the Tiste Andii – as much and perhaps more than it
does to you.'
    After a moment, the Adjunct nodded, then bowed.
'Welcome aboard, then, Tiste Andii.'
    Three small black shapes scrambled over the rail, made
immediately for the rigging.
    'Gods below,' Fiddler muttered. 'Nachts. I hate those
things—'
    'Mine,' the scarred stranger said.
    'What is your name?' Tavore asked him.
    'Withal. And this is my wife, Sandalath Drukorlat.
Aye, a handful of a name and more than a handful
of a—'
    'Quiet, husband.'
    Fiddler saw Bottle trying to sneak off to one side and he
set off after the soldier. 'You.'
    Bottle winced, then turned. 'Sergeant.'
    'How in Hood's name did you find Cartheron Crust?'
    'That Crust? Well, I just followed my rat. We couldn't
hope to get through the battle on the concourse, so we
found us a ship—'
    'But Cartheron Crust?'
    Bottle shrugged.
    Keneb had reappeared, and Fiddler saw the Adjunct and
Crust arguing, but he could not hear the exchange. After a
moment, Crust nodded, collected the small chest of coins.
And the Adjunct walked towards the bow.
    Where stood Nil and Nether.
    'Sergeant?'
    'Go get some rest, Bottle.'
    'Aye, thank you, Sergeant.'
    Fiddler walked up behind the Adjunct to listen in on the
conversation.
    Tavore was speaking,'... pogrom. The Wickans of your
homeland need you both. And Temul. Alas, you won't be
able to take your horses – the captain's ship is not large
enough – but we can crowd every Wickan aboard. Please,
make yourself ready, and, for all that you have done for me,
thank you both.'
    Nil was the first to descend to the mid deck. Nether
followed a moment later, but made for Bottle, who was
slumped into a sitting position, his back to the railing. She
glared down at him until, some instinct warning him, he
opened his eyes and looked up at her.
    'When you are done,' Nether said, 'come back.'
    Then she set off. Bottle stared after her, a dumbfounded
expression on his face.
    Fiddler turned away. Lucky bastard.
    Or not.
    He ascended to the forecastle. Stared across at Malaz
City. Fires here and there, smoke and the reek of death.
    Kalam Mekhar, my friend.
    Farewell.
     
    Blood loss, ironically, had kept him alive this far. Blood and
poison, streaming out from his wounds as he staggered
along, almost blind with the agony exploding in his
muscles, the hammering of his heart deafening in his skull.
    And he continued fighting his way. One step, then
another, doubling over as the pain clenched