The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (660 page)

‘Oh.'

‘Anyway, there's more Unaligned. Master of the Deck, and aye, him I recognize. And Chain – a knot in the centre, with links stretching out in all directions. Don't like the look of that one.'

‘Some gift, Fid.'

‘Aye, like a rock thrown to a drowning sailor.'

‘Put it away,' Gesler said.

The rat listened as the Deck was dragged back from the centre of the table.

‘We got us a problem,' Gesler continued.

‘Only,' Stormy added, ‘we don't know what it is. We only know that something's rattled Keneb, and that assassin friend of yours, Fid. And Quick Ben. Rattled them all.'

‘The Adjunct,' Fiddler said. ‘Kalam and Quick weren't talking, but they're not happy.' A pause, then, ‘Could be it's the way Pearl just vanished, right after Y'Ghatan, likely straight back to the Empress. Just a Claw operative delivering his report? Maybe. But even that leaves a sour taste in the mouth – he was too quick to act, too quick to reach conclusions – as if what he thought happened at Y'Ghatan was only confirming suspicions he already held. Think on it – do you really suppose a report like that has anything good to say?'

‘She killed Sha'ik,' Balm said, exasperated. ‘She broke open that wasp nest in Raraku and damned nothing came buzzing out. She nabbed Korbolo Dom and sent him back in shackles. And she did all that with us not losing nobody, or almost nobody – the scraps on the way were expected, and not nearly so bad as they could've been. Then she chases Leoman to Y'Ghatan. Unless you got someone on the inside to crack open the gate, sieges are costly, especially when the attackers got no time to wait it out. And we didn't, did we? There was a damned plague on the way!'

‘Calm down,' Fiddler said, ‘we lived through all that, too, remember?'

‘Aye, and did any one of us really think Leoman would broil his own people? That he'd turn a whole city into a heap of ashes and rivers of lead? All I'm saying, Fid, is we ain't done too bad, have we? When you think on it.'

‘Balm's right,' Stormy said, scratching again. ‘Fiddler, in that Deck you got, that House of War – did you smell Treach there? Those wolves, they got me wondering.'

‘I have real doubt about that version,' Fiddler replied. ‘That whole House, in fact. I'm thinking the maker was confused, or maybe what she saw was confused—'

‘She?'

‘I think so, except the rogue one, the Guardians of the Dead. That's a man's hand for sure.'

There was a sudden tension in Stormy's voice. ‘Pull 'em out again, Fid. Let's see that House of War – all the cards in that House.'

Shuffling noises. ‘I'll show each one, then. Not on the table, but still in my hand, all right? One at a time. Okay. As for titles, I'm just reading what's in the borders.' A moment, then, ‘The Lords of War. Two wolves, one male, one female. Suggests to me the name for this one is wrong. But it's the plural that counts, meaning the unoccupied throne isn't that important. All right, everybody had a look? Good, next one. The Hunter, and aye, that's Treach—'

‘What's with the striped corpse in the foreground? That old man with no hands?'

‘No idea, Gesler.'

‘Next one,' said Stormy.

‘Guardians of the Dead—'

‘Let me get a closer…good. Wait…'

‘Stormy,' said Balm, ‘what do you think you're seeing?'

‘What's next?' the Falari corporal demanded. ‘Quick!'

‘The Army and the Soldier – I don't know – two names for this, which may be determined by context or something.'

‘Any more?'

‘Two, and I don't like these ones at all. Here, Life Slayer…'

‘Jaghut?'

‘Half-Jaghut,' Fiddler said in a dull voice. ‘I know who this is – the horn bow, the single-edged sword. Life Slayer is Icarium. And his protector, Mappo Runt, is nowhere in sight.'

‘Never mind all that,' Stormy said. ‘What's the last card?'

‘Icarium's counterpoint, of sorts. Death Slayer.'

‘Who in the Abyss is that supposed to be? That's impossible.'

A sour grunt from Fiddler, then he said, ‘Who? Well, let's see. Squalid hut of skins and sticks, brazier coughing out smoke, a hooded thing inside the hut, broken limbed, shackles sunk into the earth. Now, who might that be?'

‘That's impossible,' Gesler said, echoing Stormy's assertion. ‘He can't be two things at once!'

‘Why not?' Fiddler said, then sighed. ‘That's it. Now, Stormy, what's lit that fire in your eyes?'

‘I know who made these cards.'

‘Really?' Fiddler sounded unconvinced. ‘And how did you come by that?'

‘The Guardians card, something about the stonework on the bridge. Then those last two, the skulls – I got a damned good look at Faradan Sort's medal. So's I could sew the like, you see.'

There was a long, long silence.

And Bottle stared, unseeing, as implications settled in his mind – settled momentarily, then burst up and out, like dust-devils, one after another.
The Adjunct wants that Deck of Dragons in Fiddler's hands. And either she or T'amber – or maybe Nether and Nil, or someone – is boiling over with arcane knowledge, and isn't afraid to use it. Now, Fid, he never lays a field with those cards. No. He makes up games.

The Adjunct knows something. Just like she knew about the ghosts at Raraku…and the flood. But she carries an otataral sword. And the two Wickans are nothing like they once were, or so goes the consensus. It must be T'amber.

What awaits us?

Is this what's got Quick Ben and the others so rattled?

What if—

‘Something just nudged my foot – what? Is that a rat? Right under our table?'

‘Ain't no rats on the
Silanda
, Stormy—'

‘I'm telling you, Ges – there!'

Fiddler swore, then said, ‘
That's Bottle's rat! Get it!
'

‘After it!'

Skidding chairs, the crash of crockery, grunts and stamping boots.

‘It's getting away!'

There were so many places, Bottle knew, on a ship, where only a rat could go. Y'Ghatan made her escape, despite all the cursing and thumping.

Moments later, Bottle saw Fiddler appear on deck amidships – the soldier looked away a moment before the sergeant's searching gaze found him, and Bottle listened – staring out to sea – as the man, pushing past lounging soldiers, approached.

Thump thump thump
up the steps to the foredeck.

‘Bottle!'

Blinking, he looked over. ‘Sergeant?'

‘Oh no I ain't fooled – you was spying! Listening in!'

Bottle gestured over at Koryk and Tarr, who had looked up from their game and were now staring. ‘Ask them. I've been sitting here, not doing a thing, for more than a bell. Ask them.'

‘Your rat!'

‘Her? I lost track of her last night, Sergeant. Haven't bothered trying to hunt her down since – what would be the point? She's not going anywhere, not with her pups to take care of.'

Gesler, Stormy and Balm were now crowding up behind Fiddler, who looked ready to rip off his own stubbly beard in frustration.

‘If you're lying…' Fiddler hissed.

‘Of course he's lying,' Balm said. ‘If I was him, I'd be lying right now, too.'

‘Well, Sergeant Balm,' Bottle said, ‘you're not me, and that is the crucial difference. Because I happen to be telling the truth.'

With a snarl, Fiddler turned round and pushed his way back down to the mid deck. A moment later the others followed, Balm casting one last glare at Bottle – as if only now comprehending that he'd just been insulted.

A low snort from Koryk after they'd left. ‘Bottle, I happened to glance up a while back – before Fiddler came out – and, Hood take me, there must have been fifty expressions crossing your face, one after the other.'

‘Really?' Bottle asked mildly. ‘Probably clouds passing the sun, Koryk.'

Tarr said, ‘Your rat still has those pups? You must've carried them on the march, then. If I'd been the one carrying them, I would've eaten them one by one. Pop into the mouth, crunch, chew. Sweet and delicious.'

‘Well, it was me, not you, wasn't it? Why does everyone want to be me, anyway?'

‘We don't,' Tarr said, returning to study the game. ‘We're just all trying to tell you we think you're a raving idiot, Bottle.'

Bottle grunted. ‘All right. Then, I suppose, you two aren't interested in what they were talking about in that cabin just a little while ago.'

‘Get over here,' Koryk said in a growl. ‘Watch us play, and start talking, Bottle, else we go and tell the sergeant.'

‘No thanks,' Bottle said, stretching his arms. ‘I think I'm in need of a nap. Maybe later. Besides, that game bores me.'

‘You think we won't tell Fiddler?'

‘Of course you won't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because then this would be the last time – the last time ever – you got any inside information from me.'

‘You lying, snivelling, snake of a bastard—'

‘Now now,' Bottle said, ‘be nice.'

‘You're getting worse than Smiles,' Koryk said.

‘Smiles?' Bottle paused at the steps. ‘Where is she, by the way?'

‘Mooning away with Corabb, I expect,' Tarr said.

Really?
‘She shouldn't do that.'

‘Why?'

‘Corabb's luck doesn't necessarily extend to people around him, that's why.'

‘What does that mean?'

It means I talk too much
. ‘Never mind.'

Koryk called out, ‘They'll get that rat, you know, Bottle! Sooner or later.'

Nobody's thinking straight around here. Gods, Koryk, you still think those pups are little helpless pinkies. Alas, they are all now quite capable of getting around all by themselves. So, I haven't got just one extra set of eyes and ears, friends. No. There's Baby Koryk, Baby Smiles, Baby Tarr, Baby…oh, you know the rest…

He was halfway to the hatch when the alarms sounded, drifting like demonic cries across the swollen waves, and on the wind there arrived a scent…
no, a stench
.

 

Hood take me, I hate not knowing
. Kalam swung himself up into the rigging, ignoring the pitching and swaying as the
Froth Wolf
heeled hard about on a new course, northeast, towards the gap that had – through incompetence or carelessness – opened between two dromons of the escort. As the assassin quickly worked his way upward, he caught momentary glimpses of the foreign ships that had appeared just outside that gap. Sails that might have been black, once, but were now grey, bleached by sun and salt.

Amidst the sudden confusion of signals and alarms, one truth was becomingly appallingly evident: they had sailed into an ambush. Ships to the north, forming an arc with killing lanes between each one. Another crescent, this one bulging towards the Malazans, was fast approaching before the wind from the northeast. Whilst another line of ships formed a bristling barrier to the south, from the shallows along the coast to the west, then out in a saw-toothed formation eastward until the arc curled north.

Our escorts are woefully outnumbered. Transports loaded down with soldiers, like bleating sheep trapped in a slaughter pen.

Kalam stopped climbing. He had seen enough.
Whoever they are, they've got us in their jaws
. He began making his way down once more, an effort almost as perilous as had been the ascent. Below, figures were scrambling about on the decks, sailors and marines, officers shouting back and forth.

The Adjunct's flagship, flanked still to starboard by the
Silanda
, was tacking a course towards that gap. It was clear that Tavore meant to engage that closing crescent. In truth, they had little choice. With the wind behind those attackers, they could drive like a spear-point into the midst of the cumbersome transports. Admiral Nok was commanding the lead escorts to the north, and they would have to seek to push through the enemy blocking the way, with as many of the transports following as were able –
but all the enemy ships have to do is drive them into the coast, onto whatever uncharted reefs lurk in the shallows
.

Kalam dropped the last distance to the deck, landed in a crouch. He heard more shouts from somewhere far above as he made his way forward. Positioned near the pitching prow, the Adjunct and Quick Ben stood side by side, the wind whipping at Tavore's cloak. The High Mage glanced over as Kalam reached them.

‘They've shortened their sails, drawn up or whatever it is sailors call slowing down.'

‘Now why would they do that?' Kalam asked. ‘That makes no sense. Those bastards should be driving hard straight at us.'

Quick Ben nodded, but said nothing.

The assassin glanced over at the Adjunct, but of her state of mind as she stared at the opposing line of ships he could sense nothing. ‘Adjunct,' he said, ‘perhaps you should strap on your sword.'

‘Not yet,' she said. ‘Something is happening.'

He followed her gaze.

‘
Gods below, what is that?
'

 

On the
Silanda
, Sergeant Gesler had made use of the bone whistle, and now banks of oars swept out and back with steady indifference to the heaving swells, and the ship groaned with each surge, easily keeping pace with the Adjunct's dromon. The squads had finished reefing the sails and were now amidships, readying armour and weapons.

Fiddler crouched over a wooden crate, trying to quell his ever-present nausea –
gods, I hate the sea, the damned back and forth and up and down. No, when I die I want my feet to be dry. That and nothing more. No other stipulations. Just dry feet, dammit
– as he worked the straps loose and lifted the lid. He stared down at the Moranth munitions nestled in their beds of padding. ‘Who can throw?' he demanded, glaring over at his squad, then something cold slithered in his gut.