Free Assail by Ian C. Esslemont Page A

studying him for some time now, sullen and still fearful, though covering this with a brittle truculence. ‘Well?’ the older one demanded.
    ‘Well what?’
    ‘Will you take him from us?’
    Fisher almost gaped. ‘Oh – aye. That is, yes. Certainly.’
    The lads let out long pent up breaths and even shared quick smiles of success. Clearly they were in dread of the curse of this black-skinned demon out of foreign lands. Fisher motioned that he would take him from the skiff. Together, the lads awkwardly eased the bundled body up to Fisher, who set it over his shoulder. At that instant he almost tumbled all of them into the waves as from within the rag cowl at the Andii’s head a great mass of billowing hair tumbled free to lash in the contrary winds: a long mane of straight black hair shot through by streaks of white.
    Andii – with streaks of silver! Fisher almost staggered. Jesting gods indeed! Could this be …
him
? Surely not. It must be another. He was not alone in his silvering hair, was he?
    The lads pushed him on his way, grateful now to be free of any death-curse from this eerie demon thrust upon them by the water and the night. Though Fisher was an unusually strong man he staggered beneath his burden back to town; this Andii was an unusually solid fellow. He selected a modest outbuilding, a small barn, and kicked open the door to lay his burden within. Then he went to find means to start a fire to warm him.
    As he returned carrying a brazier he’d taken from the front of another house, the noise of fighting erupted into the night. Angry shouts and the reports of crossbows reached him together with the clash of iron and yells of pain. A large fire arose to brighten the darkness towards the middle of town. Smoke billowed black into the night sky, obscuring the stars. Blasts of magery sounded, punching the air and flashing like munitions. Fisher recognized the Warrens of Serc and Telas, and wondered which of the three parties had brought such powerful attendants.
    He sat on a stool in the doorway while his charge warmed under blankets next to the brazier. Soon Letherii soldiery emerged from the night, retreating, casting fierce glances back, stopping and turning to fire their crossbows, then running on. Marshal Teal’s men.
    After them a troop of Enguf’s raiders appeared. They came jogging up the street, axes and swords loose, hugging the buildings, keeping a watchful eye behind. Spotting Fisher, a small band broke off to run his way. A voice burst out, bellowing and dismissive: ‘He’s with us, damn you all! Halt here!’
    The raiders jogged past. Many bore minor wounds. Fisher took out his pipe to examine it and Enguf, sweating and puffing, came running up. ‘Bard,’ he greeted Fisher. ‘Wondered what happened to you. Thought maybe you ate a sword during the dust-up.’
    ‘What happened at the meet?’
    The pirate angrily sheathed his sword. ‘Monumental stupidity is what happened. This Countess’s damned fool men tried to arrest us!’ The idea seemed to fill him with outrage. ‘I’m a lettered privateer. Have certificates from Elingarth! All quite legal, I assure you.’
    ‘I’m sure,’ Fisher supplied. Enguf ran his fingers through his beard and squinted off into the night. ‘And now you are fleeing.’
    ‘Fleeing!’ the man echoed, offended. He pulled at his beard, considering. ‘Ach – they got the drop on us, didn’t they? We didn’t come to sack them.’ He called to his crew members: ‘Go on! Head out!’
    ‘No looting?’ a woman answered scornfully.
    The big man offered Fisher an apologetic shrug and said, his voice low: ‘We were leaving anyway …’
    ‘The arrest …?’ Fisher prompted.
    The man regained his indignation. ‘Hood’s dead hand, yes! That dried up Malazan crone – she came with two mages! They’re damned pricey.’
    Fisher pointed his pipe to where Enguf’s crew now kicked down doors and were in the process of throwing burning brands and lanterns into