‘Stop making that sound, Sergeant,’ Keneb said.
Someone rode back out through the gate and where did they think they were going? There was a fight here! ‘Boyfriends of the dancing girls,’ he whispered, reaching for his sword.
‘Corporal,’ Keneb said. ‘Guide your sergeant here to the barricade to the left. You too, Throatslitter.’
Deadsmell said, ‘He’ll be fine in a moment, sir-’
‘Yes, just go.’
‘Aye, Fist.’
Boyfriends. Balm wanted to kill every one of them.
‘This city looks like a hurricane went through it,’ Cuttle said in a low mutter.
He had that right. The looting and all the rest was days old, however, and now it seemed that word of the Malazan breach was sweeping through in yet another storm-this one met with exhaustion-as the squad crouched in shadows near one end of an alley, watching the occasional furtive figure rush across the street.
They’d ambushed one unit forming up to march for the western gate. Quarrels and sharpers and a burner under the weapons wagon-still burning back there by the column of black smoke lifting into the ever-brightening sky. Took them all out, twenty-five dead or wounded, and before he and Gesler had pulled away locals were scurrying out to loot the bodies.
The captain had commandeered Urb and his squad off to find Hellian and her soldiers-the damned drunk had taken a wrong turn somewhere-which left Fiddler arid Gesler to keep pushing for the palace.
Forty paces down the street to their right was a high wall with a fortified postern. City Garrison block and compound, and now that gate had opened and troops were filing out to form up ranks in the street.
‘That’s where we find the commander,’ Cuttle said. ‘The one organizing the whole thing.’
Fiddler looked directly across from where he and his marines were hiding and saw Gesler and his soldiers in a matching position in another alley mouth. It’d be nice if we were on the roofs. But no-one was keen to break into these official-looking buildings and maybe end up fighting frenzied clerks and night watch guards. Noise like that and there’d be real troops pushing in from behind them.
Maybe closer to the palace-tenement blocks there, “and crowded together. It’d save us a lot of this ducking and crawling crap.
And what could be messy ambushes.
‘Hood’s breath, Fid, there’s a hundred out there and still more coming.’ Cuttle pointed. ‘There, that’s the man in charge.’
‘Who’s our best shot with the crossbow?’ Fiddler asked.
‘You.’
Shit.
‘But Koryk’s all right. Though, if I’d pick anyone, it’d be Corabb.’
Fiddler slowly smiled. ‘Cuttle, sometimes you’re a genius.
Not that it’ll ever earn you rank of corporal or anything like that.’
‘I’ll sleep easy tonight, then.’ Cuttle paused, then mused, ‘Forty paces and a clear shot, but we’d blow any chance of ambush.’
Fiddler shook his head. ‘No, this is even better. He looses his quarrel, the man goes down. We rush out, throw five or six sharpers, then wheel and back into the alley-away as fast as we can. The survivors rush up, crowd the alley mouth, and Gesler hits ‘em from behind with another five or six sharpers.’
‘Beautiful, Fid. But how’s Gesler gonna know-’
‘He’ll work it out.’ Fiddler turned and gestured Corabb forward.
A freshly appointed Finadd of the Main Garrison, standing five paces from Atri-Preda Beshur, turned from reviewing his squads to see an aide’s head twitch, sparks flying from his helm, and then Finadd Gart, who was beside the Atri-Preda, shrieked. He was holding up one hand, seemingly right in Beshur’s face, and there was a quarrel stub jutting from that hand, and blood was gushing down Beshur’s face-as the Atri-Preda staggered back, the motion pulling Gart’s hand with him. For the quarrel was buried in Beshur’s forehead.
The new Finadd, nineteen years of age and now the ranking officer of this full-strength unit, stared in disbelief.
Shouts, and he saw figures appearing at the mouth of an alley a ways down the street. Five, six in all, rushing forward with rocks in their hands-
Pointing, the Finadd screamed the order to countercharge, and then he was running at the very head of. his soldiers, waving his sword in the air.
Thirty paces.
Twenty.
The rocks flew out, arced towards them. He ducked one that sailed close past his right shoulder and then, suddenly deaf, eyes filled with grit, he was lying on the cobbles and there was blood everywhere. Someone stumbled into his line of sight, one of his soldiers. The woman’s right arm dangled from a single thin strip of meat, and the appendage swung wildly about as the woman did a strange pirouette before promptly sitting down.