The Bonehunters

'I was wrong. She has that effect.'



'Who – what is she?'



'The Eres'al. Lostara, you must never tell the Adjunct. Never.'



The Red Blade captain scowled. 'Another damned secret to keep from her.'



'Just the two,' Grub said. 'You can do that.'



Lostara glanced over at the boy. 'Two, you said.'



Grub nodded. 'Her sister, yes. That one, and this one. Two secrets.



Never to tell.'



'That won't be hard,' she said, straightening. 'I'm not going with them.'



'Yes you are. Look! Look at the Eres'al!'



The strange female was lowering her head towards the body of T'amber.



'What's she doing?'



'Just a kiss. On the forehead. A thank-you.'



The apparition straightened once more, seemed to sniff the air, then, in a blur, vanished.



'Oh!' said Grub. Yet added nothing. Instead, taking her hand in his. '



Lostara. The Adjunct, she's lost T'amber now. You need to take that place-'



'I'm done with lovers, male or female-'



'No, not that. Just… at her side. You have to. She cannot do this alone.'



'Do what?'.



'We have to go – no, not that way. To the Mouse Docks-'



'Grub – they're casting off!'



'Never mind that! Come on!'



****

Deadsmell pushed Fiddler out of the way and knelt beside the body of the Adjunct. He set a hand on her begrimed forehead, then snatched it back. 'Hood's breath! She doesn't need me.' He backed- away, shaking his head. 'Damned otataral – I never could get that, what it does…'



Tavore's eyes opened. After a moment, she struggled into a sitting position, then accepted Fiddler's hand in helping her to her feet.



The Froth Wolf was edging away from the jetty. The Silanda had pulled further out, the oars sweeping and sliding into the water.



Blinking, the Adjunct looked round, then she turned to Fiddler. '



Sergeant, where is Bottle?'



'I don't know. He never made it back. Seems we lost Quick Ben, too.



And Kalam.'



At the last name, she flinched.



But Fiddler had already known. The game… 'Adjunct-'



'I have never seen a man fight as he did,' she said. 'Him, and T' amber, the two of them – cutting through an entire city-'



'Adjunct. There's signals from the other ships. Where are we going?'



But she turned away. 'Bottle – we have failed, Sergeant. He was to retrieve someone.'



'Someone? Who?'



'It doesn't matter, now. We have failed.'



All of this? All of the fallen this night – for one person? 'Adjunct, we can wait here in the bay until light, send a detachment into the city looking-'



'No. Admiral Nok's escorts will be ordered to sink the transports – the Perish will intervene, and more will die. We must leave.'



'They can chase us down-'



'But they won't find us. The Admiral has assured me of his impending incompetence.'



'So, we signal the others to ship their anchors and make sail?'



'Yes.'



A shout from one of the crew. 'Ship closing to starboard!' Fiddler followed the Adjunct to the rail. Where Fist Keneb already stood.



A small craft was approaching on an intercept course. A lantern appeared at its bow, flashing.



'They got passengers to drop off,' the lookout called down.



The ship came alongside with a crunch and grinding of hulls. Lines were thrown, rope ladders dropped down.



Fiddler nodded. 'Bottle.' Then he scowled. 'I thought you said one person – the fool's brought a damned score with him.'



The first to arrive over the rail, however, was Grub.



A bright grin. 'Hello, father,' he said as Keneb reached out and lifted the boy, setting him on the deck. 'I brought Captain Lostara Yil. And Bottle's brought lots of people-'



A stranger then clambered aboard, landing lightly on the deck and pausing, hands on hips, to look round. 'A damned mess,' he said.



As soon as he spoke, Fiddler stepped forward. 'Cartheron Crust. I thought you were-'



'Nobody here by that name,' the man said in a growl, one hand settling on the knife handle jutting from his belt.



Fiddler stepped back.



More figures were arriving, strangers one and all: the first a huge man, his expression flat, cautious, and on his forearms were scars and old weals that Fiddler recognized. He was about to speak when Crust – who was not Crust – spoke.