A scrawny, shadowy apparition appeared before her near the far end, where the alley reached a side street just this side of a bridge leading across the river and into the Mouse. Apsalar halted before it.
'Tell Cotillion, I have done as he asked.'
Shadowthrone made a whispering sound, like sighing, and one almost formless hand emerged from the folds of his ghostly cloak, gripping the silver head of a cane, that tapped once on the cobbles. 'I watched, my dear. Your Shadow Dance. From the foot of Rampart Way and onward, I was witness.'
She said nothing.
Shadowthrone resumed. 'Not even Cotillion. Not even Cotillion.'
Still, Apsalar did not speak.
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.