* * *
Greymane did not witness the actual explosion. He'd been looking away, scanning for activity among the anchored Malazan man-o-wars, when the light suddenly changed – a great white flash threw his shadow across the deck and punched shouts of amazement and alarm from the men on the vessel. When he turned to look the light was gone. In its place rose an immense cloud of smoke that swelled even as he watched, billowing and burgeoning over the city. All across the waterfront great knots of birds scattered, wheeling their panic. While Greymane stared a wave seemed to pass over the city, bursting tiled rooftops, toppling spires, racing outward from the blast until it reached the waterfront. He had a moment to yell, ‘Brace yourselves!’ as it jumped the intervening water of the harbour, frothing the calm surface as it charged. Then it struck the vessel, tearing away half-lowered sails like paper and batting the ship like a toy. The thunderclap was so loud it deadened Greymane's ears, leaving him insensible of any sounds; men's mouths moved and equipment fell but no sound reached him. His first thought was: so ends the Guard. Obliterated by Laseen in one titanic explosion. But the blast seemed to have originated much farther inland from the fires marking the fighting. He'd have to make sure.
He righted a man, waved to the wharf and the sweeps. Then the ship shuddered again. He spun; men pointed to the deck – there gaped a smoking hole that hadn't existed a moment ago. Burn's Mercy – and how many leagues away was that explosion? A moment later a sailor came up from below carrying a pot. It held a piece of rock still hot to the touch. A shard of scorched building stone. Greymane waved the staring men to the sweeps. There must be some survivors, but he feared the worst.
They passed only one other vessel underway – an old scow merchantman, alarmingly low in the water, sails hanging in shreds, deck a mess of tossed gear, with its wiry, grey-haired Napan captain bellowing scalding invective at his scrambling crew. Greymane was surprised by the name gouged in the rotting wood of the bow; he didn't think anyone would've dared use the name Ragstopper after the career of its predecessor, pirate admiral, lieutenant of Laseen then known as Surly, and brother of Urko – Cartharon Crust.
But the mystery of the Ragstopper had to wait, for crewmen pointed to the wharf, shouting their amazement. There, massed like an army of shades, waited the surviving Guardsmen. Even as the ship closed more came marching down thoroughfares, surrounded by citizens, weapons held ready, though none attacked. Rather, an unofficial truce seemed to have been agreed upon – perhaps so long as it was obvious that the Guard wanted nothing more than to get away, and the citizens were more than happy to prod them along. All appeared shocked numb by the monumental explosion, while the unearthly white ash that rained down rendered all alike: uniformly pale ghosts, and everyone uniformly eerily silent.
Greymane supervised the loading of the survivors and there found Shimmer, carried on a tabletop serving as a litter, attended by Avowed mages Smoky, Lor-sinn and Shell. ‘Take us west,’ she gasped, pale with lost blood, long hair sweat-matted to her face.
‘Skinner?’
She waved him on. ‘He'll find us.’
The last Guardsman to step from the stone wharf was an Avowed named Black. Water dripped from him as he stood scanning the gathering crowd of Untan citizenry that edged ever closer, yelling obscenities. A few pieces of broken litter flew.
‘We have to go!’ Greymane shouted.
Reluctantly, limping, the man abandoned the wharf. Rocks, broken tiles, offal and vegetables now pelted down upon them as the crowd roared, some even jeering their scorn. Greymane ordered double-time on the sweeps, called to Black, ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. You didn't happen – there the bastards are!’ Pointing, the Avowed threw himself to the railing, almost falling out of the ship.
There, low in the water under a pier, a small crew in a launch waved farewell. Greymane recognized the harbour guard. One of them, a skinny pox-faced fellow, stood and bared his arse to them until the heavyset woman in armour next to him kicked him into the water. The crowd howled their appreciation.
‘I swear to Hood I'll find you!’ Black was yelling as the open water grew between them. ‘I swear!’
When the ship came alongside the harbour mole they found it lined by fist-waving youths. The Guard oared from the harbour accompanied by distant taunts and thrown trash. At the side of the trailing vessel Greymane watched the gesturing youths. His thoughts turned to the Guard and its vow. How could they hope to free a citizenry from their rulers when they so obviously did not wish to be freed? The Guard seemed to have outlived its relevance. Though it did seem from the intelligence they'd gleaned so far that elsewhere the move to end Imperial rule had come very far indeed. From Shimmer's orders to go west he assumed the Avowed intended to link up with that movement. Yet he was troubled. His experience with political power told him that no vacuum would long endure. With what, he wondered, did this secessionist movement – or the Avowed for that matter – intend to replace Imperial rule?