Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,778

of death engulfed him. Bile and blood.

Five corpses, all clothed in black, hooded, they appeared to have been cut to pieces. Perhaps only moments earlier.

He heard screams erupt from a street nearby, cries filled with terror. Gods, what's out there? He contemplated releasing Y'Ghatan, then decided against it – he would need the rat's eyes later, he was certain of it, and risking the creature now invited potential disaster. Besides, I'm not far from my destination. I think. I hope.

He picked his way gingerly past the bodies, approached the alley mouth beyond.

Whatever had elicited the shrieks had gone another way, although Bottle saw a few running figures flash past, heading towards the docks. Reaching the street he turned right and set off in the same direction.

Until he came opposite the entrance to a tavern. Saddlebacked stairs, leading down. The prickle of sweat stole over his body. In here. Thank you, Agayla.

Bottle made his way down the steps, pushed through the doorway, and entered Coop's Hanged Man Inn.

The cramped, low-ceilinged den was crowded, yet strangely quiet. Pale faces turned in his direction, hard eyes fixing on him as he paused just inside the threshold, looking round.

Damned veterans. Well, at least you're not all out there, trying to kill marines.

Bottle made his way to the bar. Beneath the folds of his cloak he felt the doll move slightly, a limb twitching – the right arm – and then he saw a figure before him, facing in the other direction. Broad back and shoulders, lifting a tankard with his right hand as he leaned on the counter. The ragged sleeve on that arm slipped down, revealing a skein of scars.

Bottle reached the man. Tapped him on the shoulder.

A slow turn, eyes dark as cold forges.

'You're the one called Foreigner?'

The man frowned. 'Not many call me that, and you're not one of them.'

'I have a message to deliver,' Bottle said.

'From who?'

'I can't say. Not here, anyway.'

'What's the message?'

'Your long wait is at an end.'

The faintest gleam in those eyes, as of embers fanned to life once more. 'Is that it?'

Bottle nodded. 'If there's things you need to gather up, I can wait here for you. But not for long. We need to move, fast.'

Foreigner turned his head, called out to a huge figure behind the bar who had just driven a spigot into a cask.

'Temper!'

The older man looked over.

'Keep an eye on this one,' Foreigner said, 'until I'm back.'

'You want me to tie him up? Knock him senseless?'

'No, just make sure he stays breathing.'

'He's safe enough in here,' Temper replied, stepping closer, his eyes on Bottle. 'We know the Fourteenth did well, soldier. That's why we're all in here and not out there.'

Foreigner's regard seemed to undergo some subtle alteration as he looked upon Bottle once more. 'Ah,' he said under his breath, 'now it's making more sense. Wait, I won't be long.'

Bottle watched the man push his way through the crowd, then he glanced back at Temper. 'He got a real name?'

'I'm sure of it,' Temper replied, turning away.

Three shadows huddled round a table in the far corner. They hadn't been there a moment earlier, Sergeant Hellian was sure of that. Maybe. They didn't look to be drinking anything, which was suspicious enough, and those black murky heads drawn together whispered of conspiracy, nefarious plans, malicious intentions, but if they were speaking she could hear nothing of it and the gloom was such that she could not see their mouths move. Assuming they had mouths.

The whore at the other table was playing a game of Troughs. With no-one.

Hellian leaned closer to her prisoner. 'This place is strange, if you ask me.'

Brows lifted marginally. 'Really? Wraiths and ghosts, one haggardly whore and a demon behind the bar—'

'Watch who you're callin' haggardly,' the woman growled as black round stones bounced in the trough of their own accord. She scowled at the result and muttered, 'You're cheatin', aren't ya? I swear it and I meant what I said – if I catch you at it, Hormul, I'm buying a candle wi' your name on it.'

Hellian looked over at the bar. The demonic owner, back into his scrawny, puny shape, was moving back and forth behind the counter, only his head visible. He seemed to be eating wedges of some kind of yellow fruit, his face twisting as he sucked all the juice from each wedge, then flung the rind over a shoulder. Back and forth, wedge after wedge. 'So who let him loose?' she demanded. 'Ain't