A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

the healer was
a dead man – she threw herself at the office door, slamming
it shut even as footfalls rushed closer. Dropping the latch,
a heartbeat before a heavy weight pounded into the solid
barrier, she went to the crate at the foot of the desk.
    Fumbled with the key for a moment – thundering thumps
from the door behind her, mayhem in the taproom below
– before working the lock free and flinging back the lid.
She drew out her heavy crossbow and a clutch of quarrels.
    She heard the echo of sharpers from the kitchen and
grinned, but it was a cold grin.
    On her feet once more, even as wood splintered on the
door, she rushed back to the window – in time to see Blend
knocked back by a bolt in her shoulder, and an assassin lunging
after her from the doorway.
    It was a damned good shot, her quarrel striking the man
in the forehead, snapping his head back in a burst of blood,
skull and brains.
    Whirling round, she went back to the crate, found the
lone sharper she'd stashed there, then back to the window,
where she leapt up on to the sill, balanced in a crouch.
Directly below was a table. Two bodies bled out beside it,
legs tangled in the knocked-over chairs – two innocent
patrons, two regulars who never did nobody any harm,
good with tips, always a smile—
    The door crashed open behind her. She twisted and
threw the sharper, then dropped down from the sill. The
crack of the grenado in the office, a gout of flames and
smoke, as Picker landed on the tabletop.
    It exploded beneath her. One of her knees slammed into
her chin and she felt teeth crack as she fell to one side,
thumping down on one of the corpses. She managed to
hold on to the crossbow, although the quarrels scattered
across the floor.
    Spitting blood, she sat up.
    *
    Blend saw her attacker flung back, saw his head cave
inward above his eyes. She crouched down, reaching up
for the quarrel embedded in her left shoulder. The point
was jammed into the cartilage between the bone of the
upper arm and the shoulder's socket. Leaving it in there
was probably worse than pulling the damned thing out.
Gritting her teeth, she tugged the bolt free.
    That made her pass out.
    After pushing the surviving crew in the kitchen back out
into the alley – now crowded with a dozen torn-up corpses
– Antsy crossed the room, collecting the iron lid of a large
cauldron along the way. At the entrance leading to the
taproom he found Bluepearl, dead as dead could be in a
pool of ale, and just beyond him knelt an assassin who
seemed to have taken his dagger to his own face, which
was now a sliced, shredded, eyeless mess. He was crooning
some wordless melody from deep in his throat.
    Antsy's backslash split the bastard's skull. Tugging the
sword loose, he edged forward.
    There'd been another sharper, from upstairs, and the
crashing of furniture, but little else now. Moving in a
crouch, sword ready, lid held like a shield, he worked his
way round the near end of the bar.
    There was Picker, on her knees directly ahead, reaching
out for a quarrel on the floor and quickly loading her
marine-issue weapon. Blend was lying motionless near the
bar entrance.
    Antsy hissed.
    Picker looked up, met his eyes. She signalled with one
hand, six gestures, and he nodded, answering with two.
    Dripping ale and blood, a few soft groans here and
there.
    Soft footfalls on the landing at the top of the stairs.
    Antsy set down his sword, drew out a sharper and showed
it to Picker, who nodded and then quietly moved round, using
the wreckage of the table for cover, and trained her
crossbow on the stairs.
    When he saw she was ready, Antsy lifted his makeshift
shield to cover shoulder and head, then quickly stepped
round to the foot of the stairs. And threw the grenado
upward.
    Two quarrels clanged off the cauldron lid, with enough
force to knock it from his hand. At the same moment an
assassin, having launched herself from halfway down the
stairs, sailed down towards him.
    Picker's quarrel caught the attacker somewhere in the
midsection, convulsing her in mid-flight. She crashed
down just as the sharper detonated near the landing.
    And then Antsy, sword in hand once more, was rushing
up those steps. Picker raced into his wake, drawing out
her own sword. 'Get outa the way with that pigsticker!'
she snarled. 'Cover me in close!' She pulled him back and
round by one shoulder and pushed past.
    Limbs twitching from a heap of bodies on the landing,
and splashed blood on the walls – and movement