A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

Awl the beleaguered
king had invited Letherii troops to effect victory against
the nomads. Decades later, evidence had come out that the
conflict itself had been the result of Letherii manipulations.
In any case, the Letherii troops had never left; the king
accepted the title of vizier and in a succession of tragic
accidents he and his entire line were wiped out. But that
was history, now, the kind that was met with indifference.
    Four principal avenues extended out from the garrison's
parade grounds, the one leading northward converging
with the Gate Road that led to the city wall and the North
Coast track – the least frequented of the three landward
routes to and from the city.
    In the shadows beneath the gabled balcony of a palatial
estate just beyond the armoury, on the north avenue, a
clear line of sight was available for the short, lithe figure
standing in the cool gloom. A rough-woven hood hid the
features, although had anyone bothered to pause in passing,
squinting hard, they would have been startled to see the
glint of crimson scales where the face should have been,
and eyes hidden in black-rimmed slits. But there was something
about the figure that encouraged inattention. Gazes
slid past, rarely comprehending that, indeed, someone
stood in those shadows.
    He had positioned himself there just before dawn and it
was now late afternoon. Eyes fixed on the garrison,
the messengers entering and exiting the headquarters, the
visitation of a half-dozen noble merchants, the purchasing
of horses, scrap metal, saddles and other sundry materiel.
He studied the skin hides on the round-shields of the
lancers – flattened faces, the skin darkened to somewhere
between purple and ochre, making the tattooing subtle and
strangely beautiful.
    Late afternoon, the shadows lengthening, and the figure
made note of two Letherii men, passing across his field of
vision for the second time. Their lack of attention seemed
. . . conspicuous, and some instinct told the cowled figure
that it was time to leave.
    As soon as they had passed by, heading up the street,
westward, the figure stepped out from the shadows, walked
swiftly and silently after the two men. He sensed their
sudden, heightened awareness – and perhaps something
like alarm. Moments before catching up to them, he turned
right, into an alley leading north.
    Fifteen paces in, he found a dark recess in which he
could hide. He drew back his cloak and cinched it, freeing
his arms and hands.
    A dozen heartbeats passed before he heard their footfalls.
    He watched them walk past, cautious, both with drawn
knives. One whispered something to the other and they
hesitated.
    The figure allowed his right foot to scrape as he stepped
forward.
    They spun round.
    The Awl'dan cadaran whip was a whisper as it snaked
out, the leather – studded with coin-sized, dagger-sharp,
overlapping half-moon blades – flickering out in a gleaming
arc that licked both men across their throats. Blood
sprayed.
    He watched them crumple. The blood flowed freely,
more from the man who had been on the left, spreading
across the greasy cobbles. Stepping close to the other
victim, he unsheathed a knife and plunged it point-first
into his throat; then, with practised familiarity, he cut
off the man's face, taking skin, muscle and hair. He
repeated the ghastly task with the other man.
    Two fewer agents of the Patriotists to contend with.
    Of course, they worked in threes, one always at a
distance, following the first two.
    From the garrison, the first alarms sounded, a shrill
collection of bells that trilled out through the dusty air
above the buildings.
    Folding up his grisly trophies and pushing them beneath
a fold in the loose rodara wool shirt that covered his scaled
hauberk, the figure set off along the alley, making for the
north gate.
    A squad of the city guard appeared at the far mouth, five
armoured, helmed Letherii with shortswords and shields.
    Upon seeing them, the figure sprinted forward, freeing
the cadaran whip in his left hand, while in his right hand
he shook free the rygtha crescent axe from the over-under
strips of rawhide that had held it against his hip. A thick
haft, as long as a grown man's thigh bone, to which each
end was affixed a three-quarter-moon iron blade, their
planes perpendicular to each other. Cadaran and rygtha:
ancient weapons of the Awl'dan, their mastery virtually
unknown among the tribes for at least a century.
    The constabulary had, accordingly, never before faced
such