Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,787

and foremost.' As the soldiers scrambled he turned to Run'Thurvian, and said in a low voice, 'I assume you can protect yourself, Destriant.'

'Yes, I have held myself in abeyance, anticipating such a moment. But what of you, Fist Keneb?'

'I doubt I'm important enough.' Then something occurred to him and he called over to the marines. 'Smiles! Head down to the First Mate's cabin – warn Quick Ben and if you can, convince him to get up here.' He made his way to the starboard rail, leaned out to study the fighting at the base of the jetty.

There were uniformed Malazan soldiers amidst the mob, now, all pretence gone. Armoured, many with shields, others holding back with crossbows, sending one quarrel after another into the line of Perish. The foreign allies had been pushed back almost to the jetty itself.

Cuttle was on the foredeck, yelling at the ballista crew – the sapper held a handful of fishing net in one hand and a large round object in the other. A cusser. After a moment the crew stepped back and Cuttle set to affixing the munition just behind the head of the oversized dart.

Nice thinking. A messy way to clear a space, but there's little choice.

Smiles returned, hurried up to Keneb. 'Fist, he's not there.'

'What?'

'He's gone!'

'Very well. Never mind. Go join your squad, soldier.'

From somewhere in Malaz City, a bell sounded, the sonorous tones ringing four times. Gods below, is that all?

Lieutenant Pores stood beside his captain, staring across the dark water to the mayhem at Centre Docks. 'We're losing, sir,' he said.

'That's precisely why I made you an officer,' Kindly replied. 'Your extraordinary perceptiveness. And no, Lieutenant, we will not disobey our orders. We remain here.'

'It's not proper, sir,' Pores persisted. 'Our allies are dying there – it's not even their fight.'

'What they choose to do is their business.'

'Still not proper, sir.'

'Lieutenant, are you truly that eager to kill fellow Malazans? If so, get out of that armour and you can swim ashore. With Oponn's luck the sharks won't find you, despite my fervent prayers to the contrary. And you'll arrive just in time to get your head lopped off, forcing me to find myself a new lieutenant, which, I grant you, will not be hard, all things considered. Maybe Hanfeno, now there's officer material – to the level of lieutenant and no higher, of course. Almost as thick and pig-headed as you. Now go on, climb out of that armour, so Senny can start laying bets.'

'Thank you, sir, but I'd rather not.'

'Very well. But one more complaint from you, Lieutenant, and I'll throw you over the side myself.'

'Yes, sir.'

'In your armour.'

'Yes, sir.'

'After docking your pay for the loss of equipment.'

'Of course, Captain.'

'And if you keep trying to get the last word here I think I will kill you outright.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Lieutenant.'

Pores clamped his jaws shut, and held off. For the moment.

With barely a whisper, the figure landed on the sundered, pitched rooftop. Paused to look round at the sprawl of corpses. Then approached the gaping hole near one end.

As it neared, another figure seemed to materialize as if from nowhere, crouched down on one knee above a body lying face-down near the breach. A quarrel was buried deep in that body's back, the fletching fashioned of fish bone – the cheek sections of some large sea-dwelling species, pale and semi-translucent. The newcomer swung a ghostly face up to regard the one who approached.

'The Clawmaster killed me,' the apparition said in a rasp, gesturing to its own body beneath it. 'Even as I cursed his name with my last breath. I think ... yes, I think that is why I am still here, not yet ready to walk through Hood's Gate. It is a gift ... to you. He killed Kalam Mekhar. With Kartoolian paralt.' The ghost turned slightly and gestured to the edge of the hole. 'Kalam – he pulled the quarrel loose ... no point of course, it makes no difference since the paralt's in his blood. But I did not tell Pearl – it's right there, balanced on the very lip. Take it. There is plenty of poison left. Take it. For the Clawmaster.'

A moment later the ghost was gone.

The cloth-wrapped figure crouched down and collected the blood-smeared quarrel in one gloved hand. Tucked it into a fold of the sash belt, then straightened, and set off.

Through skeins of vicious sorcery, the lone figure moved with blinding speed down the street, deftly avoiding every snare – the coruscating pockets