The god suddenly giggled. 'Too many bad judgements, the poor woman. As we feared.' A pause, then another giggle. 'Tonight, the Clawmaster, and three hundred and seven Claws – all by your hands, dear lass. I still… disbelieve. No matter. She's on her own, now. Too bad for her.' The barely substantial hooded head cocked slightly. 'Ah. Yes, Apsalar. We keep our promises. You are free. Go.'
She held out the two long-knives, handles first.
A bow, and the god accepted Kalam Mekhar's weapons.
Then Apsalar moved past Shadowthrone, and walked on.
He watched her cross the bridge.
Another sigh. A sudden lifting of the cowled head, sniffing the air. '
Oh, happy news. But for me, not yet. First, a modest detour, yes. My, what a night!'
The god began to fade, then wavered, then re-formed.
Shadowthrone looked down at the long-knives in his right hand. '
Absurd! I must walk. And, perforce, quickly!' He scurried off, cane rapping on the stones.
A short time later, Shadowthrone reached the base of a tower that was not nearly as ruined as it looked. Lifted the cane and tapped on the door. Waited for a dozen heartbeats, then repeated the effort.
The door was yanked open.
Dark eyes stared down at him, and in them was a growing fury.
'Now now, Obo,' Shadowthrone said. 'This is a courtesy, I assure you.
Two most meddling twins have commandeered the top of your tower. I humbly suggest you oust them, in your usual kindly manner.' The god then sketched a salute with his cane, turned about and departed.
The door slammed shut after two strides.
And now, Shadowthrone began to quicken his pace once more. For one last rendezvous this night, a most precious one. The cane rapped swift as a soldier's drum.
Halfway to his destination, the top of Obo's tower erupted in a thunderous fireball that sent pieces of brick and tile flying. Amidst that eruption there came two outraged screams.
Recovering from his instinctive duck, Shadowthrone murmured. 'Most kindly, Obo. Most kindly indeed.'
And the god walked the streets of Malaz City. Once more with uncharacteristic haste.
They moved quickly along the street, keeping to the shadows, ten paces behind Legana Breed, who walked down the centre, sword tip clattering along the cobbles. The few figures who had crossed their path had hurriedly fled upon sighting the tattered apparition of the T'lan Imass.
Fiddler had given Gesler and Stormy crossbows, both fitted with the sharper-packed grenados, whilst his own weapon held a cusser. They approached a wider street that ran parallel to the harbourfront, still south of the bridge leading over to Centre Docks. Familiar buildings for Fiddler, on all sides, yet a surreal quality had come to the air, as if the master hand of some mad artist had lifted every detail into something more profound than it should have been.
From the docks came the roar of battle, punctuated with the occasional crackle of Moranth munitions. Sharpers, mostly. Cuttle. He's using up my supply!
They reached the intersection. Legana Breed paused in the middle, slowly faced the sagging facade of a tavern opposite. Where the door slammed open and two figures stumbled out. Reeling, negotiating the cobbles beneath them as if traversing stepping stones across a raging river, one grasping the other by an arm, tugging, pulling, then leaning against him, causing both to stagger.
Swearing under his breath, Fiddler headed towards them. 'Sergeant Hellian, what in Hood's name are you doing ashore?'
Both figures hitched up at the voice, turned.
And Hellian's eyes fixed on the T'lan Imass. 'Fiddler,' she said, 'you look awful.'
'Over here, you drunken idiot.' He waved Gesler and Stormy ahead as he came closer. 'Who's that with you?'
Hellian turned and regarded the man she held by an arm, for what seemed a long time.
'Your priz'ner,' the man said by way of encouragement.
'Thaz right.' Hellian straightened as she faced Fiddler again. 'He's wanted for questioning.'
'By whom?'
'Me, thazoo. So's anyway, where's the boat?'
Gesler and Stormy were making their way towards the bridge. 'Go with them,' Fiddler said to Legana Breed, and the T'lan Imass set off, feet scraping. The sapper turned back to Hellian. 'Stay close, we're heading back to the ships right now.'
'Good. Glad you could make it, Fid, in case thiz one tries an' ' scapes, right? Y'got my p'mission to shoot 'im down. But only in the foot. I wan' answers from 'im an' I'm gonna get 'em.'
'Hellian,' Fiddler said, 'could be we'll need to make a run for it.'
'We can do that. Right, Banash?'
'Fool,' Fiddler muttered. 'That's Smiley's there. The demon doesn't serve regular ale. Any other place…' He then shook his head. 'Come on, you two.'
Up ahead, Gesler and Stormy had reached the bridge. Crouched low, they moved across its span.
Fiddler heard Gesler shout, a cry of surprise and alarm – and all at once both he and Stormy were running – straight for a heaving crowd that loomed up before them.
'Shit!' Fiddler sprinted forward.
A winding trench swallowed in gloom, a vein that seemed to run beneath the level where the frenzy of slaughter commanded every street, every alley to either side. The woman behind her coughing gouts of blood as she sloshed along, the Adjunct, Tavore Paran, waded through a turgid stream of sewage.
Ever closer to the sounds of fighting at Centre Docks.
It had seemed impossible – the Claws had not found them, had not plunged down the rotted brick walls to deliver murder in the foul soup that was Malaz River. Oh, Tavore and T'amber had pushed past enough corpses on their journey, but the only sounds embracing them were the swirl of water, the skittering of rats along the ledges to either side, and the whine of biting insects.
That all changed when they reached the edge of the concourse. The concussion of a sharper, startlingly close, then the tumbling of a half-dozen bodies as a section of the retaining wall collapsed directly ahead. More figures sliding down, screaming, weapons waving in the air-and a soldier turned, saw themAs he bellowed his discovery, T'amber pushed past the Adjunct.
Longsword arced across, diagonally, and cut off the top third of the man's head, helm and bone, white matter spraying out.
Then T'amber reached back, closed a bloody hand on the Adjunct's cloak, dragged her forward, onto the sunken bank of dislodged brick, sand and gravel.
The strength in that grip stunned Tavore, as T'amber assailed the slope, dragging the Adjunct from her feet, up, up onto the level of the concourse. Stumbling onto her knees, even as that hand left her and the sounds of fighting erupted around themCity Guard, three squads at least – detonations had pushed them to this side of the concourse, and they turned upon the two women like rabid wolvesTavore pushed herself upright, caught a sword- thrust reaching for her midsection with a desperate parry, the weapons ringing. She instinctively counter-attacked, and felt the tip of her sword tear through chain and gouge the muscles of a shoulder. Her opponent grunted, flinched back. Tavore chopped down onto the knee of his lead leg, cutting in two the patella. He shrieked and fell.
To her left, T'amber cut, slashed, parried and lunged, and bodies were falling all around her. Even as swords
