The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (166 page)

Kalam sighed. “I'm an Imperial veteran, Lieutenant—”

“Which army?”

He hesitated, then said, “Second. Ninth Squad, Bridgeburners.”

As one, the marines sat back. All eyes were on him now.

The lieutenant scowled. “Now how likely is that?”

Another marine, a grizzled veteran, barked out, “Your sergeant? Let's hear some names, stranger.”

“Whiskeyjack. Other sergeants? Not many left. Antsy. Tormin.”

“You're Corporal Kalam, ain't you?”

The assassin studied the man. “Who are you?”

“Nobody, sir, and been that way a long time.” He turned to his lieutenant and nodded.

“Can we count on you?” she asked Kalam.

“Not up front, but I'll be close by.”

She looked around. “The treasurer's got an Imperial Writ—we're shackled to it, Corporal.”

“I don't think the treasurer trusts you, should it come down to making a choice between him and the captain.”

She made a face, as if tasting something bad. “This attack's madness, but it's sharp madness.”

Kalam nodded, waited.

“I guess the treasurer's got reason.”

“If it comes to it,” the assassin said, “leave the bodyguards to me.”

“Both of them?”

“Aye.”

The veteran spoke up. “If we make the sharks sick in the gut with the treasurer, we'll hang for it.”

“Just be somewhere else when it happens—all of you.”

The lieutenant grinned. “I think we can manage that.”

“Now,” Kalam said, loud enough to be heard by every marine, “I'm just another one of those grease-faced civilians, right?”

“We never figured this outlawing stuff was for real,” a voice called out. “Not Dujek Onearm. No way.”

Hood, for all I know you may be right, soldier
. But he hid his uncertainty with a half-salute before making his way back down the length of the deck.

Ragstopper
reminded Kalam of a bear crashing through thickets as it barrelled along—lumbering, broad and solid in the spraying high seas
—a spring bear, an hour out of the den, eyes red-rimmed with old sleep, miserable and gnawed with hunger deep in its belly. Somewhere ahead, two wolves slinking through the dark…they're in for a surprise…

The captain was on the sterncastle, braced against the hand manning the tiller. His First Mate stood near him, one arm looped around the stern mast. Both were glaring ahead into the darkness, awaiting the first sighting of their quarry.

Kalam opened his mouth to speak, but a shout from the First Mate stopped him.

“A point to port, Captain! Beating three-quarters! Hood's breath, we're right on top of her!”

The pirate vessel, a low, single-masted raider barely visible in the gloom, was less than a hundred paces away, on a tack that would cut directly in front of
Ragstopper
. The positioning was breathtakingly perfect.

“All hands,” the captain bellowed through the howl of the storm, “prepare to ram!”

The First Mate bolted ahead, shouting orders to his crew. Kalam saw the marines crouch low to the deck, readying for the impact. Faint screams reached the assassin from the pirate vessel. The taut square sail, storm-jibbed, billowed suddenly, the ship's prow pitching away as the pirate crew made a last, doomed effort to avoid the collision.

The gods were grinning down on the scene, but it was the rictus of a death's head. A swell lifted
Ragstopper
high just before the contact, then dropped the trader down onto the raider's low gunnels, just behind the peaked prow. Wood exploded, splintered and shuddered. Kalam was thrown forward, losing his grip on the starboard stern rail. He pitched from the sterncastle, struck the main deck with a tucked shoulder, rolling as the momentum carried him forward.

Masts snapped somewhere above him, sails whipping like ghost wings in the rain-tracked air.

Ragstopper
settled, grinding, popping, canting heavily. Sailors were screaming, shrieking on all sides, but Kalam could see little of what was happening from where he lay. Groaning, he worked his way upright.

The last of the marines were plunging over the forward port rail, down and out of sight—presumably onto the raider's deck.
Or what's left of it
. The clash of weapons rose muted beneath the wailing wind.

The assassin turned, but the captain was nowhere in sight. Nor was there anyone at the tiller. The wreckage of a snapped spar cluttered the sterncastle.

Kalam made his way aft.

The locked ships had no steerage. Waves were pummeling
Ragstopper
's starboard hull, flinging sheets of foaming water across the main deck. A body lay in that wash, face down and leaking blood that stretched weblike in the rolling water.

Reaching the man, Kalam turned him over. It was the First Mate, his forehead sharply caved in. The blood was coming from nose and throat; the water had washed clean the killing blow, and the assassin stared at the damage for half a dozen heartbeats before rising and stepping over the corpse.

Not so seasick after all
.

He climbed to the sterncastle and began searching through the wreckage. The man at the tiller had lost most of his head, only a few twisted ropes of flesh and skin holding what was left of it to the body. He examined the slash across the neck.
Two-handed, a step behind and to the left. The spar crushed what was already dead
.

He found the captain and one of the treasurer's bodyguards beneath the sail. Splinters of wood jutted from the giant tribesman's chest and throat. He still gripped his two-handed tulwar. The captain's hands were shredded ribbons closed on the blade-end, blood pulsing from them to stain the swirling wash of seawater. A massive discoloring reached the span of the man's brow, but his breathing was steady.

Kalam pried the captain's fingers from the tulwar blade and dragged him free of the wreckage.

Ragstopper
loosed its grip on the raider at the same time, dropping down into a trough, then pitching wildly as waves battered its hull. Figures appeared on the sterncastle, one taking the tiller, another crouching down beside the assassin.

Glancing up, Kalam found himself looking into Salk Elan's dripping face.

“He lives?”

“Aye.”

“We're not out of trouble yet,” Elan said.

“To Hood with that! We've got to get this man below.”

“We've sprung leaks up front—most of the marines are at the pumps.”

They lifted the captain between them. “And the raider?”

“The one we hit? In pieces.”

“In other words,” the assassin said as they manhandled the captain down the slippery steps, “not what the treasurer planned.”

Salk Elan stopped, his eyes sharpening. “Seems we've slunk on the same path, you and I.”

“Where is the bastard?”

“He's taken command…for now. Seems every officer's suffered an unlikely accident—anyway, we've got the other vessel closing on us, so, like I said, the fun's anything but over.”

“One thing at a time,” Kalam grunted.

They made their way down through the galley and into the passage. Water swirled ankle-deep, and the assassin could feel just how sluggish
Ragstopper
had become.

“You pulled rank on the marines, didn't you?” Elan asked as they reached the captain's door.

“I don't outrank the lieutenant.”

“Even so. Call it the power of notoriety, then—she's already had harsh words with the treasurer.”

“Why?”

“The bastard wants us to surrender, of course.”

They carried the captain to his cot. “A transfer of cargo in this blow?”

“No, they'll wait it out.”

“Then we got time enough. Here, help me get him undressed.”

“His hands are bad.”

“Aye, we'll bandage them up next.”

Salk Elan stared down at the captain as the assassin pulled the blanket up around the man. “Think he'll live?”

Kalam said nothing, pulling the captain's hands free to study the lacerations. “He stopped a blow with these.”

“Now that's not an easy thing to do. Listen, Kalam, how are we in this?”

The assassin hesitated, then said, “How did you put it? ‘Slunk the same path?' It seems neither one of us wants to end up in a shark's belly.”

“Meaning we'd better work together.”

“Aye, for now. Just don't expect me to kiss you good night, Elan.”

“Not even once?”

“You'd better get up top, find out what's going on. I can finish here.”

“Don't tarry, Kalam. Blood could spill fast.”

“Aye.”

Alone with the captain, the assassin found a sewing kit and began stitching flesh. He finished one hand and had started on the other when the captain groaned.

“Hood's breath,” Kalam muttered. “Just another ten minutes, that's all I needed.”

“Doublecross,” the captain whispered, his eyes squeezed shut.

“We'd guessed as much,” the assassin said, continuing closing wounds. “Now shut up and let me work.”

“Poor Pormqual's treasurer is crooked.”

“Like attracts like, as the saying goes.”

“You and that poncy skulker…two of a kind.”

“Thanks. So I keep hearing.”

“Up to you two, now.”

“And the lieutenant.”

The captain managed a smile, his eyes still closed. “Good.”

Kalam sat back, reached for the bandages. “Almost done.”

“Me too.”

“That bodyguard's dead, you'll be pleased to know.”

“Aye. Killed himself, the idiot. I ducked the first swing. The blade bit through the wrong ropes. Feel that, Kalam? We're rolling even—someone up top knows what we're doing, thank the gods. Still, way too heavy…but she'll hold together.”

“Got enough rags for that, then.”

“That we have.”

“All right, I'm done,” Kalam said, rising. “Get some sleep, Captain. We need you hale. And fast.”

“Not likely. That other bodyguard will finish it first chance he gets. The treasurer needs me out of the way.”

“We'll take care of it, Captain.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that?”

Closing the door behind him, Kalam paused, loosened the long-knife in its scabbard.
Just like that, Captain
.

 

The squall was spent, and the sky to the east was brightening, clean and gold.
Ragstopper
had come around as the tradewind returned. The mess on the sterncastle had been cleared away and the crew looked to have things in hand, although Kalam could see their tension.

The treasurer and his remaining bodyguard stood near the mainmast, the former staring steadily at the raider keeping pace to starboard, close enough to see figures on its deck, watching them in turn. The bodyguard's attention, however, was on Salk Elan, lounging near the forecastle steps. None of the crew seemed willing to cut across the ten paces separating the two men.

Kalam made his way to the treasurer's side. “You have taken command, then?”

The man nodded sharply, his diffidence obvious as he avoided the assassin's eye. “I intend to buy our way clear—”

“Take your cut, you mean. And how much would that be? Eighty, ninety percent? With you along as hostage, of course.” He watched the blood leave the man's face.

“This is not your concern,” the treasurer said.

“You're right. But killing the captain and his officers is, because it jeopardizes this voyage. If the crew doesn't know for certain, you can rest assured it suspects.”

“We have the marines to deal with that. Back away and you'll survive intact. Step in and you'll be cut down.”

Kalam studied the raider. “And what's their percentage? What's to stop them from slitting your throat and sailing off with the whole share?”

The treasurer smiled. “I doubt my uncle and cousins would do that. Now, I suggest you go below—back to your cabin—and stay there.”

Ignoring that advice, Kalam went off to find the marines.

The engagement with the pirates had been fierce and short. Not only was the ship coming apart under them, but there was little fight left in the raider's panicked crew.

“More like a slaughter,” the lieutenant muttered as the assassin crouched down opposite her. The two squads sat in the forward hold, amidst streams of water running down the planks, busy stuffing rags into the breaches in the hull. “We didn't even take a scratch.”

“What have you worked out thus far?” Kalam quietly asked.

She shrugged. “As much as we need to, Corporal. What do you want us to do?”

“The treasurer will order you to stand down. The pirates will then relieve you of your weapons—”

“At which point they slit our throats and toss us overside—Imperial Writ or no, the man's committing treason.”

“Well, he's stealing from a thief, but I take your point.” Kalam rose. “I'll talk with the crew and get back to you, Lieutenant.”

“Why don't we take down the treasurer and his bodyguard right now, Kalam?”

The assassin's eyes narrowed. “Stick to the rules, Lieutenant. Leave murder to those whose souls are already stained.”

She bit her lip, studied him for a long time, then slowly nodded.

 

Kalam found the sailor he'd spoken with when the hold was being loaded at the Aren pier. The man was coiling ropes on the sterncastle with the air of someone needing to keep busy.

“Heard you saved the captain,” the sailor said.

“He's alive, but in bad shape.”

“Aye. Cook's standing outside his cabin door, sir. Wi' a cleaver and—ask any hog—the man can use it. Beru's blessing, I seen the man shave wi' it once, as clean as a virgin's tit.”