A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

happened next. He had his knives out,
she was right there in front of him, and then her elbow smashed
into his face, shattering his nose and blinding him with pain.
And somehow both thrusts he sent her way, one seeking the soft
spot just beneath her sternum, the other striking lower down,
failed. One blocked, the other missing entirely, dagger point
driving into the wall she'd been leaning against.
    The blow to his face turned his knees to water, but only for
the briefest of moments, for Seba Krafar was a bull of a man, a
brawler. Damage was something to shake off and then just get
on with it, and so, shoulder hunching, he attempted a slanting
slash, trying to gut the bitch right then and there.
    Something hard hammered his wrist, sending the dagger
flying, and bones cracked in his arm. As he stumbled back,
tugging the other knife from the wall, he attempted a frantic
thrust to keep her off him. She caught his good wrist and her
thumb was like an iron nail, impaling the base of his palm. The
knife dropped from senseless fingers. She then took that arm
and twisted it hard round, pushing his shoulder down and so
forcing his head to follow.
    Where it met a rising knee.
    An already broken nose struck again, struck even harder,
in fact, is not something that can be shaken off. Stunned, not
a sliver of will left in his brain, he landed on his back. Some
instinct made him roll, up against the legs of his desk, and he
heaved himself upright once more.
    The quarrel took him low on the right side, just above his hip,
glancing off the innominate bone and slicing messily through his
liver.
    Seba Krafar sagged back down, into a slump with his back
against the desk.
    With streaming eyes he looked across at the woman.
    Malazan, right. She'd been a soldier once. No, she'd
been a Bridgeburner. He used to roll his eyes at that. A
Bridgeburner? So what? Just some puffed up ooh-ah crap. Seba
was an assassin. Blood kin to Talo Krafar and now there was
a monster of a man—
    Who'd been taken down by a quarrel. Killed like a boar in
a thicket.
    She walked over to stand before him. 'That was silly, Seba.
And now here you are, face broken and skewered. That's your
liver bleeding out there, I think. Frankly, I'm amazed you're not
already dead, but lucky for you that you aren't.' She crouched
and held up a small vial. 'If I pour this into that wound – once I
pluck out the bolt, that is, and assuming you survive that – well,
there's a good chance you'll live. So, should I do that, Seba?
Should I save your sorry arse?'
    He stared at her. Gods, he hurt everywhere.
    'The name,' she said. 'Give me the name and you've got a
chance to survive this. But best hurry up with your decision.
You're running out of time.'
    Was Hood hovering? In that buried place so far beneath the
streets? Well, of course he was.
    Seba gave her the name. He even warned her off – don't
mess with that one, he's a damned viper. There's something
there, in his eyes, I swear—
    Blend was true to her word.
    So Hood went away.
    The cascade of sudden deaths, inexplicable and outrageous
accidents, miserable ends and terrible murders filled every
abode, every corner and every hovel in a spreading tide, a
most fatal flood creeping out through the hapless city on
all sides. No age was spared, no weight of injustice tipped
these scales. Death took them all: well born and destitute,
the ill and the healthy, criminal and victim, the unloved
and the cherished.
    So many last breaths: coughed out, sighed, whimpered,
bellowed in defiance, in disbelief, in numbed wonder. And
if such breaths could coalesce, could form a thick, dry,
pungent fugue of dismay, in the city on this night not a
single globe of blue fire could be seen.
    There were survivors. Many, many survivors – indeed,
more survived than died – but alas, it was a close run thing,
this measure, this fell harvest.
    The god walked eastward, out from Gadrobi District and
into Lakefront, and, from there, up into the Estates.
    This night was not done. My, not done at all.
    Unseen in the pitch black of this moonless, smoke-wreathed
night, a massive shape sailed low over the
Gadrobi Hills, westward and out on to the trader's road.
As it drew closer to the murky lights of Worrytown, the
silent flier slowly dropped lower until its clawed talons
almost brushed the gravel of the road.
    Above it, smaller shapes beat heavy wings here and
there, wheeling round, plummeting and then thudding
themselves back up again. These too uttered no