The Bonehunters

'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, blackskinned. 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 suddenly, excruciating in its intensity before easing a fraction – enough to let him draw breath, and force one foot forward yet again. Then another.

He reached a corner, struggled to lift his head. But fire consumed his eyes, he could make out nothing of the world beyond. This far… on instinct, following a map in his head, a map now torn into ribbons by the pain.

He was close. He could feel it.

Kalam Mekhar reached out to steady himself on a wall, but there was no wall, and he toppled, thudded hard onto the cobbles, where, unable to prevent it, his limbs drew inward and he curled up round the seething, lashing agony.

Lost. There should have been a wall, a corner, right there. His map had failed him. And now it was too late. He could feel his legs dying.

His arms, his spine a spear of molten fire.

He felt one temple resting on the hard, damp stone.

Well, dying was dying. The assassin's art ever turns on its wielder.

Nothing in the world could be more just, more proper**** Ten paces away, Shadowthrone bared his teeth. 'Get up, you fool. You' re very nearly there. Get up!' But the body did not stir.