Dust of Dreams

Chapter Eleven

Clearly,’ said King Tehol, ‘there’s nothing to be done.’ he held up the Akrynnai gift and peered at it for a time, and then sighed.

‘No suggestions, sire?’ Bugg asked.

‘I’m at a loss. I give up. I keep trying, but I must admit: it’s hopeless. Darling wife?’

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘Some help you are. Where’s Brys?’

‘With his legions, husband. Preparing to march.’

‘The man’s priorities are a mess. I remember how our mother despaired.’

‘Of Brys?’ Janath asked, surprised.

‘Well, no. Me, mostly. Never mind. The issue here is that we’re facing a disaster. One that could scar this nation for generations to come. I need help, and see how none of you here can manage a single useful suggestion. My advisors are even more pathetic than the man they purport to advise. The situation is intolerable.’ He paused, and then frowned over at Bugg. ‘What’s the protocol? Find me that diplomat so I can chase him out of here again-no, wait, send for the emissary.’

‘Are you sure, sire?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

Bugg gestured at the gift in the King’s hands. ‘Because we’re no closer to finding a suitable gift in reciprocation.’

Tehol leaned forward. ‘And why, dear Chancellor, is that?’

‘Because none of us has a clue what that thing is, sire.’

Tehol grimaced. ‘How can this thing defeat the greatest minds of the kingdom?’

‘I didn’t know we’d tried them yet,’ murmured Janath.

‘It’s bone, antler, inlaid pearl and it has two handles.’ Tehol waited, but no one had anything to add to that succinct description. ‘At least, I think they’re handles…’

Janath’s breath caught, and then she said, ‘Oh.’

King Tehol scratched his jaw. ‘Best the emissary wait a little longer, I think.’

‘Sound decision, sire.’

‘Such opinions, Bugg, are invaluable. Now, dear wife, shall we retire to our private chambers to further our exploration of this, uhm, offering?’

‘You must be mad. Find Shurq Elalle. Or Rucket.’

‘Finally, proper advice!’

‘And I’ll buy myself a new dagger.’

‘That hints of high emotions, my beloved. Jealous rage does not become you.’

‘It doesn’t become anyone, husband. You didn’t really think I wanted you to follow my suggestion?’

‘Well, it’s true that it’s easy to make suggestions when you know they won’t be heeded.’

‘Yes it is. Now, you will find a small room with a stout door and multiple locks, and once the emissary has departed, in goes that gift, never again to see the light of day.’ And she settled back on the throne, arms crossed.

Tehol eyed the gift forlornly, and then sighed once more. ‘Send for the emissary, Bugg.’

‘At once, sire.’ He gestured to a servant waiting at the far end of the throne room.

‘While we’re waiting, is there any kingly business we need to mull over?’

‘Your repatriation proclamation, sire-that’s going to cause trouble.’

Tehol thumped the arm of his throne with a fist. ‘And trouble is precisely what I want! Indignation! Outrage! Protests! Let the people rail and shake their knobby fists! Let us, yes, stir this steaming stew, wave the ladle about, spattering all the walls and worse.’

Janath turned to eye him speculatively.

Bugg grunted. ‘Should work. I mean, you’re taking land away from some very wealthy families. You could well foment a general insurrection. Assuming that would be useful.’

‘Useful?’ demanded Janath. ‘In what context could insurrection be useful? Tehol, I warned you about that edict-’

‘Proclamation-’

‘-and the rage you’ll incite. But did you listen?’

‘I most certainly did, my Queen. But let me ask you, are my reasons any less just?’

‘No, it was stolen land to begin with, but that’s beside the point. The losers won’t see it that way.’

‘And that, my love, is precisely my point. Justice bites. With snippy sharp teeth. If it doesn’t, then the common folk will perceive it as unbalanced, forever favouring the wealthy and influential. When robbed, the rich cry out for protection and prosecution. When stealing, they expect the judiciary to look the other way. Well, consider this a royal punch in the face. Let them smart.’

‘You truly expect to purge cynicism from the common people, Tehol?’

‘Well, wife, in this instance it’s more the sweet taste of vengeance, but a deeper lesson is being delivered, I assure you. Ah, enough prattling about inconsequential things-the noble Akrynnai emissary arrives! Approach, my friend!’

The huge man with the wolf-skin cloak strode forward, showing his fiercest scowl.

Smiling, King Tehol said, ‘We delight in this wondrous gift and please do convey our pleasure to Sceptre Irkullas, and assure him we will endeavour to make use of it as soon as an opportunity… arises.’

The warrior’s scowl deepened. ‘Make use? What kind of use? It’s a damned piece of art, sire. Stick it on a damned wall and forget about it-that’s what I would do were I you. A closet wall, in fact.’

‘Ah, I see. Forgive me.’ Tehol frowned down at the object. ‘Art, yes. Of course.’

‘It wasn’t even the Sceptre’s idea,’ the emissary grumbled. ‘Some ancient agreement, wasn’t it? Between our peoples? An exchange of meaningless objects. Irkullas has a whole wagon stuffed with similar rubbish from you Letherii. Trundles around after us like an arthritic dog.’

‘The wagon’s pulled by an arthritic dog?’

The man grunted. ‘I wish. Now, I have something to discuss. Can we get on with it?’

Tehol smiled. ‘By all means. This has proved most fascinating.’

‘What has? I haven’t started yet.’

‘Just so. Proceed, then, sir.’

‘We think our traders have been murdered by the Barghast. In fact, we think the painted savages have declared war on us. And so we call upon our loyal neighbours, the Letherii, for assistance in this unwanted war.’ And he crossed his arms, glowering.

‘Is there precedent for our assistance in such conflicts?’ Tehol asked, settling his chin in one hand.

‘There is. We ask, you say “no”, and we go home. Sometimes,’ he added, ‘you say, “Of course, but first let us have half a thousand brokes of pasture land and twenty ranks of tanned hides, oh, and renounce sovereignty of the Kryn Freetrade Lands and maybe a royal hostage or two.” To which we make a rude gesture and march home.’

‘Are there no other alternatives?’ Tehol asked. ‘Chancellor, what has so irritated the-what are they called again-the Barnasties?’

‘Barghast,’ corrected Bugg. ‘White Face Clans-they claim most of the plains as their ancestral homeland. I suspect this is the reason for their setting out to conquer the Akrynnai.’

Tehol turned to Janath and raised an eyebrow. ‘Repatriation issues, see how they plague peoples? Bugg, are these Barghast in truth from those lands?’

The Chancellor shrugged.

‘What kind of answer is that?’ Tehol demanded.

‘The only honest kind, sire. The problem is this: migratory tribes move around, that’s what makes them migratory. They flow in waves, this way and that. The Barghast may well have dwelt on the plains and much of the Wastelands once, long, long ago. But what of it? Tarthenal once lived there, too, and Imass, and Jheck-a well-trammelled land, by any count. Who’s to say which claim is more legitimate than the next?’

The emissary barked a laugh. ‘But who lives there now? We do. The only answer that matters. We will destroy these Barghast. Irkullas calls to the Kryn and their mercenary Warleader Zavast. He calls to Saphinand and to the D’rhasilhani. And he sends me to you Letherii, to take the measure of your new King.’

‘If you will crush the Barghast with the assistance of your allies,’ said Tehol, ‘why come here at all? What measure do you seek from me?’

‘Will you pounce when our backs are turned? Our spies tell us your commander is in the field with an army-’

‘We can tell you that,’ Tehol said. ‘There’s no need for spies-’

‘We prefer spies.’

‘Right. Well. Yes, Brys Beddict leads a Letherii army-’

‘Into the Wastelands-through our territory, in fact.’

‘Actually,’ said Bugg, ‘we will be mostly skirting your territories, sir.’

‘And what of these foreigners you march with?’ the emissary asked, adding an impressive snarl after the question.

Tehol held up a hand. ‘A moment, before this paranoia gets out of hand. Deliver the following message to Sceptre Irkullas, from King Tehol of Lether. He is free to prosecute his war against the Barghast-in defence of his territory and such-without fear of Letherii aggression. Nor, I add, that of the Malazans, the foreigners, I mean.’

‘You cannot speak for the foreigners.’

‘No, but Brys Beddict and his army will be escorting them, and so guarantee that nothing treacherous will take place-’

‘Hah! Bolkando is already warring with the foreigners’ allies!’

Bugg snorted. ‘Thus revealing to you that the much acclaimed Bolkando Alliance has a straw spine,’ he pointed out. ‘Leave the Bolkando to sort out their own mess. As for the Malazans, assure Irkullas, they are not interested in you or your lands.’

The emissary’s eyes had narrowed, his expression one of deep, probably pathological suspicion. ‘I shall convey your words. Now, what gift must I take back to Irkullas?’

Tehol rubbed his chin. ‘How does a wagonload of silks, linens, quality iron bars and a hundred or so silver ingots sound, sir?’

The man blinked.

‘Outmoded traditions are best left behind, I’m sure Sceptre Irkullas will agree. Go, then, with our blessing.’

The man bowed and then walked off, weaving as if drunk.

Tehol turned to Janath and smiled.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Now the poor bastard has to reciprocate in kind-which will likely impoverish him. Those old traditions survived for a reason, husband.’

‘He won’t be impoverished with the haul I just sent his way.’

‘But he’ll need to divide it up among his warleaders, to buy their loyalty.’

‘He would have done that anyway,’ said Tehol. ‘And where did this insane notion of buying loyalty come from? It’s a contradiction in terms.’

‘The currency is obligation,’ said Bugg. ‘Gifts force honour upon the receiver. Sire, I must speak with you now as the Ceda. The journey Brys intends is more fraught than we had initially thought. I fear for his fate and that of his legions.’

‘This relates, I assume,’ said Janath, ‘to the unknown motives of the Malazans. But Brys is not compelled to accompany them beyond the Wastelands, is he? Indeed, is it not his intention to return once that expanse is successfully crossed?’

Bugg nodded. ‘Alas, I now believe that the Wastelands are where the greatest peril waits.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘Blood has been spilled on those ancient soils. There will be more to come.’

Tehol rose from the throne, the Akrynnai gift in his hands. He held it out to one side and a servant hurried forward to take it. ‘I do not believe my brother is as unaware of such dangers as you think, Bugg. His sojourn in the realm of the dead-or wherever it was-has changed him. Not surprising, I suppose. In any case, I don’t think he returned to the realm of the living just to keep me company.’

‘I suspect you are right,’ said Bugg. ‘But I can tell you nothing of the path he has taken. In a sense, he stands outside of… well, everything. As a force, one might view him as unaligned, and therefore unpredictable.’

‘Which is why the Errant sought to kill him,’ said Janath.

‘Yes,’ replied Bugg. ‘One thing I can say: while in close company with the Malazans, Brys is perhaps safer from the Errant than he would be anywhere else.’

‘And on the return journey?’ Tehol asked.

‘I expect the Errant to be rather preoccupied by then, sire.’

‘Why is that?’

Bugg was long in replying, and on his blunt face could be seen a reluctant weighing of risks, ending in a grimace and then a sigh. ‘He compels me. In my most ancient capacity, he compels me. Sire, by the time Brys begins his return to the kingdom, the Errant will be busy… contending with me.’

The iron beneath Bugg’s words silenced the two others in the throne room, for a time.

Tehol then spoke, looking at neither his wife nor his closest friend. ‘I will take a walk in the garden.’

They watched him leave.

Janath said, ‘Brys is his brother, after all. And to have lost him once…’

Bugg nodded.

‘Is there anything more you can do?’ she asked him. ‘To protect him?’

‘Who, Brys or Tehol?’

‘In this matter, I think, they are one and the same.’

‘Some possibilities exist,’ Bugg allowed. ‘Unfortunately, in such circumstances as these, often the gesture proves deadlier than the original threat.’ He held up a hand to forestall her. ‘Of course I will do what I can.’

She looked away. ‘I know you will. So, friend, you are compelled-when will you leave us?’

‘Soon. Some things cannot be resisted for long-I am making him sweat.’ He then grunted and added, ‘and that’s making me sweat.’

‘Is this a “binding of blood”?’ she asked.

He started, eyed her curiously. ‘I keep forgetting you are a scholar, my Queen. That ancient phrase holds many layers of meaning, and almost as many secrets. Every family begins with a birth, but there can never be just one, can there?’

‘Solitude is simple. Society isn’t.’

‘Just so, Janath.’ He studied her for a moment. She sat on the throne, leaning to one side, head resting on one hand. ‘Did you know you are with child?’

‘Of course.’

‘Does Tehol?’

‘Probably not. It’s early yet-Bugg, I suffered greatly in the hands of the Patriotists, didn’t I? I see scars on my body but have no memory of how they came to be there. I feel pains inside and so I believe there are scars within, as well. I suspect your hand in my strange ignorance-you have scoured away the worst of what I experienced. I don’t know if I should thank you or curse you.’

‘An even measure of both, I should think.’

She regarded him levelly. ‘Yes, you understand the necessity of balance, don’t you? Well, I think I will give it a few more weeks before I terrify my husband.’

‘The child is healthy, Janath, and I sense no risks-those pains are phantom ones-I was thorough in my healing.’

‘That’s a relief.’ She rose. ‘Tell me, was it simply a question of my twisted imagination, or did that Akrynnai artist have something disreputable in mind?’

‘My Queen, neither mortal nor immortal can fathom the mind of an artist. But as a general rule, between two possible answers, choose the more sordid one.’

‘Of course. How silly of me.’

‘Draconus is lost within Dragnipur. Nightchill’s soul is scattered to the winds. Grizzin Farl vanished millennia ago. And Edgewalker might well deny any compulsion out of sheer obstinacy or, possibly, a righteous claim to disassociation.’ Knuckles managed a twisted smile, and then shrugged. ‘If there is one presence I would find unwelcome above all others, Errastas, it is Olar Ethil.’

‘She is dead-’

‘And supremely indifferent to that condition-she embraced the Ritual of Tellann without hesitation, the opportunistic bitch-’

‘And so bound herself to the fate of the T’lan Imass,’ said the Errant, as he eyed Kilmandaros. The huge creature had dragged a massive trunk to the centre of the chamber, snapping the lock with one hand and then flinging back the lid; and now she was pulling out various pieces of green-stained armour, muttering under her breath. On the walls on all sides, seawater was streaming in through widening cracks, swirling ankle-deep and rising to engulf the fire in the hearth. The air was growing bitter cold.

‘Not as bound as you might hope for,’ said Sechul Lath. ‘We have discussed K’rul, but there is one other, Errastas. An entity most skilled at remaining a mystery to us all-’

‘Ardata. But she is not the only one. I always sensed, Setch, that there were more of us than any of us imagined. Even with my power, my command of the Tiles, I was convinced there were ghosts, hovering at the edge of my vision, my awareness. Ghosts, as ancient and as formidable as any of us.’

‘Defying your rule,’ said Sechul slyly, swirling the amber wine in his crystal goblet.

‘Afraid to commit themselves,’ the Errant said, sneering. ‘Hiding from each other too, no doubt. Singly, not one poses a threat. In any case, it is different now.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. The rewards we can reap are vast-whatever has gone before is as nothing. Think on it. All that was stolen from us returned once more into our hands. The ghosts, the ones in hiding-they would be fools to hesitate. No, the wise course is to step out from the shadows.’

Knuckles took a mouthful of wine. The water was soaking the seat of the chair beneath him. ‘The House is eager to wash us out.’

Kilmandaros had shrugged her way into a sopping hauberk of chain. She reached down to the submerged floor and lifted from the foaming swirl a huge gauntlet through which water gushed in a deluge. She dragged the gauntlet over one gnarled fist, and then reached down to find the other one.

‘She’s pleased,’ said Errastas.

‘No she isn’t,’ countered Knuckles. ‘You have awakened her anger, and now she must find an enemy worthy of it. Sometimes-even for you-control is a delusion, a conceit. What you unleash here-’

‘Is long overdue. Cease your efforts to undermine me, Setch-you only reveal your own weaknesses.’

‘Weaknesses I have never run from, Errastas. Can you say the same?’

The Errant bared his teeth. ‘You are cast. It cannot be undone. We must take our fate into our own hands-look to Kilmandaros-she will show us how it must be. Discard your fears-they sting like poison.’

‘I am ready.’

At her words both men turned. She was clad for war and stood like a bestial statue, a hoary apparition enwreathed in seaweed. Algae mottled her hauberk. Verdigris mapped her helm’s skullcap. The broad, low-slung, grilled cheek-guards looked like iron chelae, the bridge gleaming like a scorpion’s pincer. Her gauntleted hands were closed into fists, like giant mauls at the ends of her apish, multi-jointed arms.

‘So you are,’ said Errastas, smiling.

‘I have never trusted you,’ Kilmandaros said in a growl.

He rose, still smiling. ‘Why should I be unique? Now, who among us will open the portal? Knuckles, show us your power.’

The gaunt man flinched.

The water had reached hip-level-not Kilmandaros’s hips, of course. The Errant gestured in Sechul Lath’s direction. ‘Let us see you as you should be. This is my first gift, Setch.’ Power blossomed.

The ancient figure blurred, straightened, revealing at last a tall, youthful Forkrul Assail-who reeled, face darkening. He flung away his goblet. ‘How dare you! Leave me as I was, damn you!’

‘My gift,’ snapped Errastas. ‘To be accepted in the spirit in which it is given.’

Sechul held his elongated hands up over his face. ‘How could you think,’ he rasped, ‘I ever regretted what I left behind?’ He pulled his hands away, glaring. ‘Give me back all that I have earned!’

‘You are a fool-’

‘We will leave now,’ cut in Kilmandaros, loud enough to thunder in the chamber.

‘Errastas!’

‘No! It is done!’

A second gesture, and a portal opened, swallowing an entire wall of the House. Kilmandaros lumbered through, vanishing from sight.

The Errant faced Knuckles.

His old friend’s eyes were filled with such wretched distress that Errastas snarled, ‘Oh, have it your way, then-’ and cruelly tore the blessing from the man, watched with satisfaction as the man bowed, gasping in sudden pain.

‘There, wear your pathos, Setch, since it fits so damned well. What is this? You do not welcome its return?’

‘It pleases you to deliver pain, does it? I see that you are unchanged… in the essential details of your nature.’ Groaning, Sechul conjured a staff and leaned heavily upon it. ‘Lead on then, Errastas.’

‘Why must you sour this moment of triumph?’

‘Perhaps I but remind you of what awaits us all.’

The Errant struggled not to strike Knuckles, not to knock that staff away with a kick and watch the old creature totter, possibly even fall. A shortlived pleasure. Unworthy to be sure. He faced the portal. ‘Stay close-this gate will slam shut behind us, I suspect.’

‘It’s had its fill, aye.’

Moments later, water roared in to reclaim the chamber, darkness devoured every room, every hall. Currents rushed, and then settled, until all was motionless once more.

The House was at peace.

For a time.

Captain Ruthan Gudd was in the habit of grooming his beard with his fingers, an affectation that Shurq Elalle found irritating. Thoughtful repose was all very well, as far as poses went, but the man was so terse she had begun to suspect his genius was of the ineffable kind; in other words, it might be the man was thick but just clever enough to assume the guise of wisdom and depth. The silly thing was how damned successful and alluring the whole thing was-that hint of mystery, the dark veil of his eyes, his potent silences.

‘Errant’s sake, get out of here.’

He started, and then reached for his sword belt. ‘I will miss you.’

‘Everyone says that to me sooner or later.’

‘A curious observation.’

‘Is it? The simple truth is, I wear men out. In any case, I’m about to sail, so all in all it’s just as well.’

He grunted. ‘I’d rather be standing on a deck, letting the sails do all the work, than marching.’

‘Then why did you become a soldier?’

He raked through his beard, frowned, and then said, ‘Habit.’ As he made his way to the door he paused, and squinted down at an urn sitting against one wall. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘That thing? I’m a pirate, Ruthan. I come by things.’

‘Not purchased at a market stall in the city, then.’

‘Of course not. Why?’

‘The crows caught my eye. Seven Cities, that pot.’

‘It’s an urn, not a pot.’

‘Fall of Coltaine. You preyed on a Malazan ship-’ he turned and eyed her. ‘Has to have been recently. Did you pounce on one of our ships? There were storms, the fleet was scattered more than once. A few were lost, in fact.’

She returned his stare flatly. ‘And what if I had? It’s not like I knew anything about you, is it?’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose not. Though the idea that you put some fellow Malazans to the sword doesn’t sit well.’

‘I didn’t,’ she replied. ‘I pounced on a Tiste Edur ship.’

After a moment he nodded. ‘That makes sense. We first encountered them outside Ehrlitan.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

His eyes hardened. ‘You are a cold woman, Shurq Elalle.’

‘I’ve heard that before, too.’

He left without another word. It was always better this way, find something annoying to sour the moment, a brief exchange of lashing words, and then it was done with. Yearning goodbyes, dripping with soppy sentimentalities, were never quite as satisfying as one would like.

She quickly collected the last of her gear-most of her stuff was already stowed aboard Undying Gratitude. Skorgen Kaban the Pretty had taken charge of things, more or less, down at the harbour. Clearing up berth fees, sobering up the crew and whatnot. Her two Bolkando guests were safely stowed in the main cabin; and if Ublala Pung still hadn’t shown up by the time she arrived, that was just too bad-the oaf had the memory of a moth.

He probably got confused and tried to walk to the islands.

She buckled her rapier to her hip, slung a modest duffel bag over one shoulder, and left, not bothering to lock the door-the room was rented and besides, the first thief inside was welcome to everything, especially that stupid urn.

A pleasant and promising offshore breeze accompanied her down to the docks. She was satisfied to see plenty of activity aboard her ship as she strode to the gangplank. Stevedores were loading the last of the supplies, suffering under cruel commentary from the gaggle of whores who’d come down to send off the crew, said whores shooting her withering looks as she swept past them. Hardly deserved, she felt, since she hadn’t been competing with them for months and besides, wasn’t she now leaving?

She stepped down on to the main deck. ‘Pretty, where did you get that nose?’

Her First Mate clumped over. ‘Snapper beak,’ he said, ‘stuffed with cotton to hold back on the drip, Captain. I bought it at the Tides Market.’

She squinted at him. The strings holding the beak in place looked painfully tight. ‘Best loosen it up some,’ she advised, dropping the bag down to one side and then setting her fists on her hips as she surveyed the others on deck. ‘No Pung?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, I want to take advantage of this wind.’

‘Good, Captain, the giant’s an ill omen besides-’

‘None of that,’ she snapped. ‘He made a fine pirate in his days with us, and there was nothing ill-omened about him.’ Kaban was jealous, of course. But the nose looked ridiculous. ‘Get these dock rats off my ship and crew the lines.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

She watched him limp off, nodded severely when he roared into the ear of a lounging sailor. Walking to the landward rail up near the bow, she scanned the crowds on the waterfront. No sign of Ublala Pung. ‘Idiot.’

Captain Ruthan Gudd collected his horse at the stables and set out northward along the main avenue running partway alongside the central canal. He saw no other Malazans among the crowds-he could well be the last left in the city. This suited him fine, and better still if Tavore and her Bonehunters were to pull stakes before he arrived, leaving him behind.

He’d never wanted to be made a captain since it meant too many people paid attention to him. Given a choice, Ruthan would be pleased to spend his entire life not being noticed by anyone. Except for the occasional woman, of course. He had considered, rather often lately, deserting the army. If he had been a regular foot-soldier, he might well have done just that. But a missing officer meant mages joining in the search, and the last thing he wanted was to be sniffed down by a magicker. Of course Tavore wouldn’t hold back on the army’s march just to await his appearance-but there might well be a mage or two riding for him right now.

Either way, Fist Blistig was probably rehearsing the tongue-lashing he’d be delivering to Ruthan as soon as the captain showed.

Under normal circumstances, it was easy to hide in an army, even as an officer. Volunteer for nothing, offer no suggestions, stay in the back at briefings, or better still, miss them altogether. Most command structures made allowances for useless officers-no different from the allowances made for useless soldiers in the field. ‘Take a thousand soldiers. Four hundred will stand in a fight but do nothing. Two hundred will run given the chance. Another hundred will get confused. That leaves three hundred you can count on. Your task in commanding that thousand is all down to knowing where to put that three hundred.’ Not Malazan doctrine, that. Some Theftian general, he suspected. Not Korelri, that was certain. Korelri would just keep the three hundred and execute the rest.

Greymane? No, don’t be stupid, Ruthan. Be lucky to get five words a year out of that man. Then again, who needs words when you can fight like that? Hood keep you warm, Greymane.

In any case, Ruthan counted himself among the useless seven hundred, capable of doing nothing, getting confused, or routed at the first clash of weapons. Thus far, however, he’d not had a chance to attempt any of those options. The scraps he’d found himself in-relatively few, all things considered-had forced him to fight like a rabid wolf to stay alive. There was nothing worse in the world than being noticed by someone trying to kill you-seeing that sudden sharp focus in a stranger’s eyes-

The captain shook himself. The north gate waited ahead.

Back into the army. Done with the soft bed and soft but oddly cool feminine flesh; with the decent (if rather tart) Letherii wines. Done with the delicious ease of doing nothing. Attention was coming his way and there was nothing to be done about it.

You told me to keep my head low, Greymane. I’ve been trying. It’s not working. But then, something in your eyes told me you knew it wouldn’t, because it wasn’t working for you either.

Ruthan Gudd clawed at his bead, reminding himself of the stranger’s face he now wore.

Let’s face it, old friend. In this world it’s only the dead who don’t get noticed.

The place of sacrifice held an air of something broken. Ruined. It was a misery being there, but Ublala Pung had no choice. Old Hunch Arbat’s rasping voice was in his head, chasing him this way and that, and the thing about a skull-even one as big as his-was how it was never big enough to run all the way away, even when it was a dead old man doing the chasing.

‘I did what you said,’ he said. ‘So leave me alone. I got to get to the ship. So Shurq and me can sex. You’re just jealous.’

He was the only living thing in the cemetery. It wasn’t being used much any more, ever since parts of it started sinking. Sepulchres tilted and sagged and then broke open. Big stone urns fell over. Trees got struck by lightning and marsh gases wandered round looking like floating heads. And all the bones were pushing up from the ground like stones in a farmer’s field. He’d picked one up, a leg bone, to give his hands something to play with while he waited for Arbat’s ghost.

Scuffling sounds behind him-Ublala turned. ‘Oh, you. What do you want?’

‘I was coming to scare you,’ said the rotted, half-naked corpse, and it raised bony hands sporting long, jagged fingernails. ‘Aaaagh!’

‘You’re stupid. Go away.’

Harlest Eberict sagged. ‘Nothing’s working any more. Look at me. I’m falling apart.’

‘Go to Selush. She’ll sew you back up.’

‘I can’t. This stupid ghost won’t let me.’

‘What ghost?’

Harlest tapped his head, breaking a nail in the process. ‘Oh, see that? It’s all going wrong!’

‘What ghost?’

‘The one that wants to talk to you, and give you stuff. The one you killed. Murderer. I wanted to be a murderer, too, you know. Tear people to pieces and then eat the pieces. But there’s no point in having ambitions-it all comes to naught. I was reaching too high, asking for too much. I lost my head.’

‘No you didn’t. It’s still there.’

‘Listen, the sooner we get this done the sooner that ghost will leave me so I can get back to doing nothing. Follow me.’

Harlest led Ublala through the grounds until they came to a sunken pit, three paces across and twice as deep. Bones jutted from the sides all the way down. The corpse pointed. ‘An underground stream shifted course, moved under this cemetery. That’s why it’s slumping everywhere. What are you doing with that bone?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Get rid of it-you’re making me nervous.’

‘I want to talk to the ghost. To Old Hunch.’

‘You can’t. Except in your head and the ghost isn’t powerful enough to do that while it’s using me. You’re stuck with me. Now, right at the bottom there’s Tarthenal bones, some of the oldest burials in the area. You want to clear all that away, until you get to a big stone slab. You then need to pull that up or push it to one side. What you need is under that.’

‘I don’t need anything.’

‘Yes you do. You’re not going to get back to your kin for a while. Sorry, I know you’ve got plans, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Karsa Orlong will just have to wait.’

Ublala scowled into the pit. ‘I’m going to miss my ship-Shurq’s going to be so mad. And I’m supposed to collect all the Tarthenal-that’s what Karsa wants me to do. Old Hunch, you’re ruining everything!’ He clutched his head, hitting himself with the bone in the process. ‘Ow, see what you made me do?’

‘That’s only because you keep confusing things, Ublala Pung. Now get digging.’

‘I should never have killed you. The ghost, I mean.’

‘You had no choice.’

‘I hate the way I never get no choice.’

‘Just climb into the hole, Ublala Pung.’

Wiping his eyes, the Tarthenal clambered down into the pit and began tossing out clumps of earth and bones.

Some time later Harlest heard the grinding crunch of shifting stone and drew closer to the edge and looked down. ‘Good, you found it. That’s it, get your hands under that edge and tilt it up. Go on, put your back into it.’

For all his empty encouragement, Harlest was surprised to see that the giant oaf actually managed to lift that enormous slab of solid stone and push it against one of the pit’s walls.

The body interred within the sarcophagus had once been as massive as Ublala’s own, but it had mostly rotted away to dust, leaving nothing but the armour and weapons.

‘The ghost says there’s a name for that armour,’ said Harlest, ‘even as the mace is named. First Heroes were wont to such affectations. This particular one, a Thelomen, hailed from a region bordering the First Empire-in a land very distant-the same land the first Letherii came from, in fact. A belligerent bastard-his name is forgotten and best left that way. Take that armour, and the mace.’

‘It smells,’ complained Ublala Pung.

‘Dragon scales sometimes do, especially those from the neck and flanges, where there are glands-and that’s where those ones came from. This particular dragon was firstborn to Alkend. The armour’s name is Dra Alkeleint-basically Thelomen for “I killed the dragon Dralk.” He used that mace to do it, and its name is Rilk, which is Thelomen for “Crush”. Or “Smash” or something similar.’

‘I don’t want any of this stuff,’ said Ublala. ‘I don’t even know how to use a mace.’

Harlest examined his broken nail. ‘Fear not-Rilk knows how to use you. Now, drag it all up here and I can help you get that armour on-provided you kneel, that is.’

Ublala brought up the mace first. Two-handed, the haft a thick, slightly bent shaft of bone, horn or antler, polished amber by antiquity. A gnarled socket of bronze capped its base. The head was vaguely shaped to form four battered bulbs-the ore was marled mercurial and deep blue.

‘Skyfall,’ said Harlest, ‘that metal. Harder than iron. You held it easily, Ublala, while I doubt I could even lift the damned thing. Rilk is pleased.’

Ublala scowled up at him, and then ducked down once again.

The armour consisted of shoulder plates, with the chest and back pieces in separate halves. A thick belt joined the upper parts to a waisted skirt. Smaller dragon scales formed the thigh-guards, with knee bosses made of dew-claws forming deadly spikes. Beneath the knees, a single moulded scale protected each shin. Vambraces of matching construction protected the wrists, with suppler hide covering the upper arms. Gauntlets of bone strips sheathed the hands.

Time’s assault had failed-the scales were solid, the gut ties and leather straps supple as if new. The armour probably weighed as much as a grown human.

Last came the helm. Hundreds of bone fragments-probably from the dragon’s skull and jaws-had been drilled and fastened together to form an overlapping skull cap, brow-and cheek-guards, and articulated lobster tail covering the back of the neck. The effect was both ghastly and terrifying.

‘Climb out and let’s get you properly attired.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘You want to stay in that hole?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s not allowed. The ghost insists.’

‘I don’t like Old Hunch any more. I’m glad I killed him.’

‘So is he.’

‘I change my mind then. I’m not glad. I wish I’d left him alive for ever.’

‘Then he would be the one standing here talking to you instead of me. There’s no winning, Ublala Pung. The ghost wants you in this stuff, carrying the mace. You can leave off the helm for now, at least until you’re out of the city.’

‘Where am I going?’

‘The Wastelands.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that place.’

‘You have a very important task, Ublala Pung. In fact, you’ll like it, I suspect. No, you will. Come up here and I’ll tell you all about it while we’re getting that armour on you.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘No. It’s a secret unless you climb out.’

‘You’re going to tell me it if I come up there?’

‘And get into the armour, yes.’

‘I like people telling me secrets,’ said Ublala Pung.

‘I know,’ said Harlest.

‘Okay.’

‘Wonderful.’ Harlest looked away. Maybe he’d go to Selush after all. Not until night arrived, though. The last time he’d attempted the city streets in daytime a mob of scrawny urchins threw stones at him. What was the world coming to? Why, if he was in better shape, he could run after them and rip limbs from bodies and that’d be the end of the teasing and laughing, wouldn’t it?

Children needed lessons, yes they did. Why, when he was a child…

Brys Beddict dismissed his officers and then his aides, waiting until everyone had left the tent before sitting down on the camp stool. He leaned forward and stared at his hands. They felt cold, as they had done ever since his return, as if the memory of icy water and fierce pressure still haunted them. Gazing upon the eager faces of his officers was proving increasingly difficult-something was growing within him, a kind of abject sorrow that seemed to broaden the distance between himself and everyone else.

He had looked at these animated faces but had seen in each the shadow of death, a ghostly face just beneath the outward one. Had he simply gained some new, wretched, insight into mortality? Sanity was best served when one dealt with the here and now, with reality’s physical presence-its hard insistence. That brush of otherness scratched at his self-control.

If consciousness was but a spark, doomed to go out, fade into oblivion, then what value all this struggle? He held within him the names of countless long-dead gods. He alone kept them alive, or at least as near alive as was possible for such forgotten entities. To what end?

There was, he decided, much to envy in his brother. No one delighted more in the blessed absurdity of human endeavours. What better answer to despair?

Of the legions accompanying him, he had restructured all but one, the Harridict, and he had only spared that brigade at the request of the Malazan soldiers who’d worked with them. Doing away with the old battalion and brigade organization, he’d created five distinct legions, four of them consisting of two thousand soldiers and support elements. The fifth legion encompassed the bulk of the supply train as well as the mobile hospital, livestock, drovers and sundry personnel, including five hundred horse troops that employed the new fixed stirrups and were swiftly gaining competence under the tutelage of the Malazans.

Each of the combat legions, including the Harridict, now housed its own kitchen, smithy, armourers, triage, mounted scouts and messengers, as well as heavy assault weapons. More than ever, there was greater reliance upon the legion commanders and their staff-Brys wanted competence and self-reliance and he had selected his officers based on these qualities. The disadvantage to such personalities was evinced in every staff briefing, as egos clashed. Once on the march, Brys suspected, the inherent rivalries would shift from internal belligerence to competition with the foreign army marching on their flank, and that was just as well. The Letherii had something to prove, or, if not prove, then reinvent-the Malazans had, quite simply, trashed them in the invasion.

For too long the Letherii military had faced less sophisticated enemies-even the Tiste Edur qualified, given their unstructured, barbaric approach to combat. The few battles with the Bolkando legions, a decade ago, had proved bloody and indecisive-but those potential lessons had been ignored.

Few military forces were by nature introspective. Conservatism was bound to tradition, like knots in a rope. Brys sought something new in his army. Malleable, quick to adapt, fearless in challenging old ways of doing things. At the same time, he understood the value of tradition, and the legion structure was in fact a return to the history of the First Empire.

He clenched his hands, watched the blood leave his knuckles.

This would be no simple, uneventful march.

He looked upon his soldiers and saw death in their faces. Prophecy or legacy? He wished he knew.

Reliko saw the Falari heavies, Lookback, Shoaly and Drawfirst-all of them closing up their kit bags near the six-squad wagon-and walked over. ‘Listen,’ he said. Three dark faces lifted to squint at him, and they didn’t have to lift much, even though they were kneeling. ‘It’s this. That heavy, Shortnose-you know, the guy missing most of his nose? Was married to Hanno who died.’

The three cousins exchanged glances. Drawfirst shrugged, wiped sweat from her forehead and said, ‘Him, yeah. Following Flashwit around these days-’

‘That’s the biggest woman I ever seen,’ said Shoaly, licking his lips.

Lookback nodded. ‘It’s her green eyes-’

‘No it ain’t, Lookie,’ retorted Shoaly. ‘It’s her big everything else.’

Drawfirst snorted. ‘You want big ’uns, look at me, Shoaly. On second thoughts, don’t. I know you too good, don’t I?’

Reliko scowled. ‘I was talking about Shortnose, remember? Anyway, I seem to recall he only had one ear that time he got into that scrap and got his other ear bitten off.’

‘Yeah,’ said Drawfirst. ‘What about it?’

‘You look at him lately? He’s still got one ear. So what happened? Did it grow back?’

The three soldiers said nothing, their expressions blank. After a moment they returned to readying their kits.

Muttering under his breath, Reliko stomped off. This army had secrets, that it did. Shortnose and his damned ear. Nefarias Bredd and his one giant foot. That squad mage and his pet rats. Vastly Blank who had no brain at all but could fight like a demon. Lieutenant Pores and his evil, now dead, twin. Bald Kindly and his comb collection-in fact, Reliko decided as he returned to his squad, just about everyone here, barring maybe himself and his sergeant, was completely mad.

It’s what no one outside an army understood. They just saw the uniforms and weapons, the helms and visors, the marching in time. And if they ever did realize the truth, why, they’d be even more scared. They’d run screaming.

‘Ee cham penuttle, Erlko.’

‘Shut up, Nep. Where’s Badan?’

‘Ee’n ere, y’poffle floob!’

‘I can see that-so where did he go is what I want to know?’

The mage’s wrinkled prune of a face puckered into something indescribable. ‘Anay, ijit.’

‘Ruffle! You seen the sergeant?’

The squad corporal sat leaning against a wagon wheel, one of those fat rustleaf rollers jammed between her fat lips, smoke puffing out from everywhere, maybe even her ears.

‘Doo sheen see inny ting tru at smick!’ barked Nep Furrow.

Despite himself Reliko grunted a laugh. ‘Y’got that one right, Nep-Ruffle, you got something wrong with air?’

She lifted one hand languidly and plucked the thing from her mouth. ‘You fool. This is keeping those nasty mosquitoes away.’

‘Hey, now that’s clever-where can I get me some?’

‘I brought about a thousand of ’em. But I warn you, Reliko, they’ll make you green the first few days. But pretty soon you start sweating it outa your pores and not a bug will want you.’

‘Huh. Anyway, where’s Badan?’

‘Having a chat with some other sergeants, Fiddler and them.’ Ruffle puffed some more, and then added, ‘I think Badan’s decided we should stick with them-we all worked good enough before.’

‘I suppose.’ But Reliko didn’t like the idea. Those squads were lodestones to trouble. ‘What’s Sinter say about that?’

‘Seems all right with it, I guess.’

‘Hey, where’s our useless recruits?’

‘Some Letherii came by and scooped them up.’

‘Who said he could do that?’

Ruffle shrugged. ‘Didn’t ask.’

Reliko rubbed the back of his neck-not much to rub, he didn’t have much of a neck, but he liked rubbing it, especially along the ridge of calluses where his helm’s flare usually rested. He saw Skim’s booted feet sticking out from under the wagon, wondered if she was dead. ‘I’m going to get Vastly. Squad should be together for when Badan gets back.’

‘Aye, good idea,’ said Ruffle.

‘You’re the laziest damned corporal I ever seen.’

‘Privilege of rank,’ she said around her roller.

‘You won’t last a day on the march,’ observed Reliko. ‘You’re fatter than the last time I seen you.’

‘No I’m not. In fact, I’m losing weight. I can feel it.’

‘Kennai felp too?’

‘Don’t even think it, Nep, you dried-up toad,’ drawled Ruffle.

Reliko set off to find Vastly Blank. Him and Badan and that was it. The rest… not even close.

Fiddler tugged free the stopper on the jug and then paused to survey the others. Gesler had caught a lizard by the tail and was letting it bite his thumb. Balm sat crosslegged, frowning at the furious lizard. Cord stood leaning against the bole of a tree-something he’d likely regret as it was leaking sap, but he was making such an effort with the pose no one was going to warn him off. Thom Tissy had brought up a salted slab of some local beast’s flank and was carving it into slices. Hellian was staring fixedly at the jug in Fiddler’s hands and Urb was staring fixedly at Hellian. The three others, the two South Dal Honese-Badan Gruk and Sinter-and Primly, were showing old loyalties by sitting close together on an old boom log and eyeing everyone else.

Fiddler wanted maybe five more sergeants here but finding anyone in the chaotic sprawl that was a camp about to march was just about impossible. He lifted the jug. ‘Cups ready, everyone,’ and he set out to make the round. ‘You only get half, Hellian,’ he said when he came opposite her, ‘since I can see you’re already well on your way.’

‘On my way where? Fillitup and don’ be cheap neither.’

Fiddler poured. ‘You know, you ain’t treating Beak’s gift with much respect.’

‘What giff? He never give me nothing but white hair and thank the gods that’s gone.’

When he had filled the other cups he returned to the rotted tree-stump and sat down once more. Fifty paces directly opposite was the river, the air above it swirling with swallows. After a moment he dropped his gaze and studied the soldiers arrayed round the old fisher’s campfire. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘this is the kind of meeting sergeants used to do back in the days of the Bridgeburners. It was a useful tradition and I’m thinking it’s time it was brought back. Next time we’ll get the rest of the company’s sergeants.’

‘What’s the point of it?’ Sinter asked.

‘Every squad has its own skills-we need to know what the others can do, and how they’re likely to do it. We work through all this and hopefully there won’t be any fatal surprises in a scrap.’

After a moment, Sinter nodded. ‘Makes sense.’

Cord asked, ‘You’re expecting us to run into trouble any time soon, Fid? That what your deck told you? Has this trouble got a face?’

‘He’s not saying,’ said Gesler. ‘But it’s a fair guess that we’ll know it when we see it.’

‘Bolkando,’ suggested Badan Gruk. ‘That’s the rumour anyway.’

Fiddler nodded. ‘Aye, we might have a bump or two with them, unless the Burned Tears and the Perish slap them into submission first. The Saphii seem to be the only ones happy to have us pay a visit.’

‘It’s pretty isolated, ringed in mountains,’ said Cord, crossing his arms. ‘Probably starving for a few fresh faces, even ones as ugly as ours.’

‘Thing is, I don’t know if we’re even heading into Saphinand,’ Fiddler pointed out. ‘From the maps I’ve seen it’s well to the north of the obvious route across the Wastelands.’

Cord grunted. ‘Crossing any place named the Wastelands seems like a bad idea. What’s in this Kolanse anyway? What’s driving the Adjunct? Are we heading into another war to right some insult delivered on the Malazan Empire? Why not just leave it to Laseen-it’s not like we owe the Empress a damned thing.’

Fiddler sighed. ‘I’m not here to chew on the Adjunct’s motives, Cord. Speculation’s useless. We’re her army. Where she leads, we follow-’

‘Why?’ Sinter almost barked the word. ‘Listen. Me and my sister half starved in a Letherii cell waiting on execution. Now, maybe the rest of you thought it was all fucking worth it taking down these Tiste Edur and their mad Emperor, but a lot of marines died and the rest of us are lucky to be here. If it wasn’t for that Beak you’d all be dead-but he’s gone. And so is Sinn. We got one High Mage and that’s it, and how good is he? Fiddler-can Quick Ben do what Beak did?’

Fiddler unstrapped his helm and drew it off. He scratched at his sweat-matted hair. ‘Quick Ben doesn’t work that way. Used to be he was more behind-the-scenes, but Hedge tells me it’s been different lately, maybe ever since Black Coral-’

‘Oh great,’ cut in Cord, ‘where the Bridgeburners were wiped out.’

‘That wasn’t his fault. Anyway, we all saw what he could do against the Edur mages off the coast of Seven Cities-he made them back down. And then, in Letheras, he chased off a damned dragon-’

‘I’m sure the cussers stuffed up its nose helped,’ Cord muttered.

Gesler grunted a sour laugh. ‘Well, Fid, Bridgeburner sergeants we ain’t, and I guess that’s pretty obvious. Can you imagine Whiskeyjack and Brackle and Picker and the rest moaning over every damned thing the way you got here? I can’t and I never even met them.’

Fiddler shrugged. ‘I wasn’t a sergeant back then, so I really can’t say. But something tells me they did plenty of chewing. Don’t forget from about Blackdog all the way down to Darujhistan somebody in the empire wanted them dead. Now, maybe they never had much to complain about when it came to Dujek Onearm, but at the same time it’s not like they knew what their High Fist was up to-it wasn’t their business.’

‘Even when that business killed soldiers?’ Sinter asked.

Fiddler’s laugh was harsh and cutting. ‘If that isn’t a commander’s business, what is? The Adjunct’s not our Hood-damned mother, Sinter. She’s the will behind the fist and we’re the fist. And sometimes we get bloodied, but that’s what comes when you’re hammering an enemy in the face.’

‘It’s all those teeth,’ added Gesler, ‘and I should know.’

But Sinter wasn’t letting go. ‘If we know what we’re getting into, we’ve got a better chance of surviving.’

Fiddler rose, his right hand slamming the helm on to the ground where it bounced and rolled into the firepit’s ashes. ‘Don’t you get it? Surviving isn’t what all this is about!’

As those words shot out bitter as a dying man’s spit, the gathered sergeants flinched back. Even Gesler’s eyes widened. The lizard took that moment to pull free and scamper away.

In the shocked silence Fiddler half-snarled and clawed at his beard, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. Hood’s breath, Fid-you’re a damned fool. You let her get to you. That look in her eyes-she’s no natural soldier-what in Fener’s name is she even doing here? And how many more like her are there in this army?

‘Well,’ said Cord in a flat voice, ‘that must have been one Hood’s piss of a reading.’

Fiddler forced out a ragged breath. ‘Not a piss, Cord, a fucking deluge.’

And then Sinter surprised them all. ‘Glad that’s cleared up. Now, let’s talk about how we’re going to work together to make us the meanest Hood-shitting fist the Adjunct’s got.’

Lying flat behind a tangle of brush, Throatslitter struggled to swallow. His mouth and throat were suddenly so dry and hot he thought he might cough flames. He cursed himself for being so damned nosy. He spied to feed his curiosity and-he had to admit-to give himself an advantage on his fellow soldiers, reason for his sly expression and sardonic, knowing smile, and a man like him wasn’t satisfied if it was all just for show.

Well, now he knew.

Fid’s been dragged low. He says he doesn’t know Tavore’s business but he just showed them he was lying. He knows and he’s not telling. Aye, he’s not telling but he just told them anyway. Who needs details when we’re all ending up crow meat?

He might cough flames, aye, or laugh out a cloud of ashes. He needed to talk to Deadsmell, and he needed to find that other Talon hiding among the marines-there’d been markers, every now and then, calls for contact only a fellow Talon would recognize. He’d done a few of his own, but it seemed they were dancing round each other-and that had been fine, until now. If we’re heading for Hood’s grey gate, I want allies. Deadsmell for certain. And whoever my hidden dancer happens to be.

The sergeants were talking back and forth now, cool and calm as if Fiddler hadn’t just sentenced them all, and Throatslitter wasn’t paying much attention until he heard his name.

‘He can guard our backs if we need it,’ Balm was saying, not a hint of confusion in his voice.

‘I don’t think we will,’ Fiddler said. ‘When I spoke of betrayal I wasn’t meaning within our ranks.’

Betrayal? What betrayal? Gods, what have I missed?

‘Our allies?’ Cord asked. ‘I can’t believe it, not from the Perish or the Burned Tears. Who else is there?’

‘There’s the Letherii,’ said Sinter. ‘Our oversized escort.’

‘I can’t be any more specific,’ Fiddler responded. ‘Just make sure we keep our noses in the air. Badan Gruk, what’s your mage capable of?’

‘Nep Furrow? Well, he’s a bush warlock, mostly. Good at curses.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve not seen much else, though he once conjured up a seething ball of spiders and threw it at Skim-they looked real and bit hard enough to make Skim shriek.’

‘Could still have been an illusion, though,’ Sinter said. ‘Sometimes, Dal Honese curses edge close to Mockra-that’s how it sneaks into the victim’s thoughts.’

‘You seem to know something about all that,’ observed Gesler.

‘I’m not a mage,’ she replied. ‘But I can smell magics.’

‘Who’s our nastiest all-weapons-out fighter?’ Cord asked.

‘Skulldeath,’ said Sinter and Badan Gruk simultaneously.

Fiddler grunted and added, ‘Koryk and Smiles would agree with you. Maybe reluctantly from Koryk, but that’s just jealousy.’

Hellian laughed. ‘Glad t’hear he’s good f’something,’ and she drank from her cup and then wiped her mouth.

When it became obvious she wasn’t going to elaborate, Fiddler resumed. ‘We can throw forward a solid line of heavies if we need to. While we’re not short on sappers we are on munitions, but there’s nothing to be done for that. They’re good for night work, though. And they can crew the heavier weapons we got from the Letherii.’

The discussion went on, but Throatslitter was distracted by a faint scuffling sound beside his head. He turned to find himself eye to eye with a rat.

One of Bottle’s. That bastard.

But that’s a point, isn’t it? Fiddler’s not talked about him. He’s holding him back.

Now, that’s interesting.

He bared his teeth at the rat.

It returned the favour.

Riding along the well-beaten track leading to the Bonehunter encampment, Ruthan Gudd saw five other captains, all mounted, cantering to a rise between the Malazan and Letherii contingents. Grimacing, he angled his horse to join them. Palavers of this sort always depressed him. Captains got stuck from both ends, not privy to what the Fists knew and despised by their underlings. Lieutenants were usually either ambitious backstabbers or butt-licking fools. The only exception he’d heard about was Pores. Kindly was lucky having a rival like that, someone to match wits with, someone with enough malicious evil going on in his head to keep his captain entertained. Ruthan’s own lieutenant was a sullen Napan woman named Raband, who might be incompetent or potentially murderous. He’d lost his other two in Y’Ghatan.

The others had reined in and were eyeing Ruthan as he rode up, an array of expressions unified in their disapproval. Seniority put Kindly in charge. Below him was a black-haired Kanese, Skanarow, a woman of about forty, uncharacteristically tall and lean-limbed for a Kanese-probably from the southern shore-folk who had originally been a distinct tribe. Her features were harsh, seamed in scars as if she’d suckled among wildcats as a child.

Next was Faradan Sort, who’d served all over the place and maybe even stood the Stormwall-Ruthan, who knew more about that than most, suspected it was true. She held herself like someone who’d known the worst and never wanted to know it again. But there were experiences that a person could never leave behind, could never, ever forget. Besides, Ruthan had seen the etching on Sort’s sword, and that kind of damage could only come from the deadly touch of wand-magic.

Ruthan was next, followed by the two in-field promotions, a Hengian named Fast who was already taking aim on a fisthood, and an island-born ferret of a man named Untilly Rum, who’d been busted over from the marines after his soldiers had set a deathmark on him-for reasons unknown to any but them. Despite his background, Untilly could ride a horse like a damned Wickan, and so he was now commanding the light lancers.

‘Considerate of you to show up,’ said Kindly.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Ruthan replied, combing fingers through his beard as he studied the chaos that was the Malazan encampment. ‘We’ll be lucky to get away by tomorrow.’

‘My company’s ready,’ said Fast.

‘Maybe the last time you saw them,’ Skanarow said with a tight smile. ‘Probably scattered to a dozen whore tents by now.’

Fast’s pinched face darkened. ‘Sit and wait, was my order, so that’s what they’re doing. My lieutenants are making sure of it.’

‘If they’re any good then I doubt it,’ Skanarow replied. ‘They’ve been watching the soldiers getting bored, listening to the bickering get worse and worse, and maybe pulling a few off each other. If they got any wits in them, they’ll have cut them loose by now.’

‘Skanarow’s point, Captain Fast,’ said Faradan Sort, ‘is this: it doesn’t pay to get your squads up and ready too early. You’d do well to heed the advice of those of us with more experience.’

Fast bit down on a retort, managed a stiff nod.

Ruthan Gudd twisted in his saddle to observe the Letherii legions. Well-ordered bastards, that much was clear. Brys Beddict had them all close hobbled and waiting on the Malazans, patient as old women waiting for their husbands to die.

Kindly spoke: ‘Skanarow, Fast, you and the rest of the officers under Fist Blistig’s command must be seeing firsthand the problem we’re all facing. Fist Keneb is being pulled every which way when he should be worrying about his own companies and nothing else. He’s shouldering the logistics for Blistig’s companies and we’re suffering for it.’

‘There’s no lighting fires under Blistig these days,’ said Skanarow.

‘Can you take up the slack?’

She blinked. ‘The only reason I’m a captain, Kindly, is that I know how to lead soldiers into battle and I know what to do with them once there. I’ve no head for organization.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve a pair of decent lieutenants who keep the rows tallied and nobody issued two left boots to march in. Without them I’d be as bad as Blistig.’

‘Logistics is no problem for me,’ opined Fast.

No one responded to that.

Kindly arched his back and winced. ‘It was said, back when he was commanding the Aren Garrison, that Blistig was a sharp, competent officer.’

‘Witnessing the slaughter of the Seventh and then Pormqual’s army broke him,’ Faradan Sort said. ‘I am surprised the Adjunct doesn’t see that.’

‘The one thing we can address,’ said Kindly, ‘is how we can help Keneb-we need the best Fist we have, captains, not exhausted, not overwhelmed.’

‘We can’t do a thing without the squad sergeants,’ Faradan Sort said. ‘I suggest we corral our respective noncoms into the effort.’

‘Risky,’ said Kindly.

Ruthan grunted-an unintentional response that drew unwelcome attention.

‘Pray, explain that,’ Kindly asked in a drawl.

He shrugged. ‘Maybe it suits us officers to think we’re the only ones capable of seeing how High Command is falling apart.’ He met Kindly’s gaze. ‘The sergeants see better than we do. Pulling them in sacrifices nothing and may even relieve them, since it’ll show we’re not all a bunch of blind twits, which is probably what they’re thinking right now.’ Having said his piece he subsided once more.

‘ “Who speaks little says a lot,” ’ Faradan Sort said, presumably quoting someone.

Kindly collected his reins. ‘It’s decided, then. Draw in the sergeants. Get them to straighten out their squads-Hood knows what Brys must be thinking right now, but I’m damned sure it’s not complimentary.’

As Kindly and the others rode away, Skanarow angled her mount in front of Ruthan’s, forcing him to halt. He squinted at her.

She surprised him with a grin and it transformed her face. ‘The old ones among my people say that sometimes you find a person with the roar of a sea squall in their eyes, and those ones, they say, have swum the deepest waters. In you, Ruthan Gudd, I now understand what they meant. But in you I see not a squall. I see a damned typhoon.’

He quickly looked away, ran fingers through his beard. ‘Just a spell of gas, Skanarow.’

She barked a laugh. ‘Have it your way, then. Avoid raw vegetables, Captain.’

He watched her ride off. Fisherfolk. You, Skanarow with the lovely smile, I need to avoid. Too bad.

Greymane, you always said that between the two of us I was the luckier one. Wrong, and if your ghost hearkens to its name, spare me any echo of laughter.

He paused, but all he could hear was the wind, and there was no humour in that moan.

‘Walk on, horse.’

Koryk looked a mess, trembling and wild-eyed, as he tottered back to the squad camp. Tarr frowned. ‘You remind me of a pathetic d’bayang addict, soldier.’

‘If paranoia comes with them shakes,’ said Cuttle, ‘he might as well be just that. Sit down, Koryk. There’s room in the wagon for ya come tomorrow.’

‘I was just sick,’ Koryk said in a weak growl. ‘I seen d’bayang addicts at the trader forts and I don’t like being compared to them. I made a vow, long ago, to never be that stupid. I was just sick. Give me a few days and I’ll be right enough to stick my fist in the next face gabbling about d’bayang.’

‘That sounds better,’ said Smiles. ‘Welcome back.’

Corabb appeared from a tent carrying Koryk’s weapon belt. ‘Honed and oiled your blade, Koryk. But it looks like the belt will need another notch. You need to get some meat back on your bones.’

‘Thanks, Mother, just don’t offer me a tit, all right?’ Sitting down on an old munitions box, he stared at the fire. The walk, Tarr judged, had exhausted the man. That boded ill for all the other soldiers who’d come down with the same thing. The tart water had worked, but the victims who’d recovered were wasted one and all, with a haunted look in their eyes.

‘Where’s Fid?’ Koryk asked.

Bottle stirred from where he had been lying, head on a bedroll and a cloth over his eyes. Blinking in the afternoon light he said, ‘Fid’s been listing all our faults. One of those secret meetings of all the sergeants.’

Tarr grunted. ‘Glad to hear it’s secret.’

‘We ain’t got any faults,’ said Smiles. ‘Except for you, Corporal. Hey Bottle, what else were they talking about?’

‘Nothing.’

That snatched everyone’s attention. Even Corabb looked up from the new hole he was driving through the thick leather belt-he’d jammed the awl into the palm of his left hand but didn’t seem to have noticed yet.

‘Hood knows you’re the worst liar I ever heard,’ said Cuttle.

‘Fid’s expecting a fight, and maybe soon. He’s tightening the squads. All right? There. Chew on that for a while.’

‘How hard is he working on that?’ the sapper asked, eyes narrowed down to slits.

Bottle looked ready to spit out something foul. ‘Hard.’

‘Shit,’ said Koryk. ‘Look at me. Shit.’

‘Take the wagon bed tomorrow and maybe the next day,’ said Tarr. ‘And then spell yourself for a few days after that. We’ve that long at least until we’re into possibly hostile territory. And eat, Koryk. A lot.’

‘Ow,’ said Corabb, lifting the hand with the awl dangling from the palm.

‘Pull it and see if you bleed,’ said Smiles. ‘If you don’t, go see a healer quick.’ Noticing the others looking at her she scowled. ‘Fish hooks. The, uh, fisherfolk who used to work for my family-well, I’ve seen it go bad, is all. Punctures that don’t bleed, I mean. Oh, piss off, then.’

‘I’m going for a walk,’ said Bottle.

Tarr watched the mage wander off, and then glanced over and found Cuttle staring at him. Aye, it’s looking bad.

Corabb plucked out the awl and managed to squeeze out a few drops of blood. He gave Smiles a triumphant grin, then returned to working on the belt.

Bottle wandered through the encampment, avoiding the disorganized mobs besieging the quartermaster’s HQ, the armourer compound, the leather and cordage workshops, and a host of other areas crowded with miserable, overworked specialists. Even outside the whore tents soldiers were getting into scraps. Gods, where are all the officers? We need military police-this is what happens when there’s no imperial oversight, no Claws, no adjutants or commissars.

Adjunct, why aren’t you doing anything about this? Hold on, Bottle-it ain’t your problem. You’ve got other problems to worry about. He found he was standing in the centre of a throughway, one hand clutching his hair. A storm of images warred in his head-all his rats were out, crouched in hiding in strategic places-but the one in Tavore’s command tent was being assailed by folds of burlap-someone had bagged it! He forced the other ones out of his head. You! Little Koryk! Pay attention! Start chewing as if your life depended on it-because maybe it does-get out of that sack!

‘You. You’re in Fiddler’s squad, right?’

Blinking, Bottle focused on the man standing in front of him. ‘Hedge. What do you want?’

The man smiled, and given the wayward glint in the man’s mud-grey eyes that was a rather frightening expression. ‘Quick Ben sent me to you.’

‘Really? Why? What’s he want?’

‘Never could answer that one-but you’re the one, Bottle, isn’t it?’

‘Look, I’m busy-’

Hedge lifted up a sack. ‘This is for you.’

‘Bastard!’ Bottle snatched the bag. A quick look inside. Oh, stop your chewing now, Koryk. Relax.

‘It was moving,’ said Hedge.

‘What?’

‘The sack. Got something alive in there? It was jumping around in my hand-’ He grunted then as someone collided with him.

An armoured regular, big as a bear, lumbered past.

‘Watch where you’re walking, y’damned ox!’

At Hedge’s snarl, the man turned. His broad, flat face assumed the hue of a beet. He stomped back, lips twisting.

Seeing the man’s huge hands closing into fists, Bottle stepped back in alarm. Hedge simply laughed.

The beet looked ready to explode.

Even as the first fist flew, Hedge was ducking under it, closing tight up against the man. The sapper’s hands shot between the soldier’s legs, grabbed, squeezed and yanked.

With a piercing shriek, the soldier doubled over.

Hedge added a knee to his jaw, flinging the head back upward. Then he drove an elbow into a cheekbone, audibly shattering it.

The huge man crumpled. Hedge stood directly over him. ‘You just went for the last living Bridgeburner. I’m guessing you won’t do that again, huh?’ Hedge then turned back to Bottle and smiled a second time. ‘Quick Ben wants to talk with you. Follow me.’

A few paces along, Bottle said, ‘You’re not, you know.’

‘Not what?’

‘The last living Bridgeburner. There’s Fiddler and Quick Ben, and I even heard about some survivors from Black Coral hiding out in Darujhistan-’

‘Retired or moved on every one of them. Fid said I should do the same and I thought about it, I really did. A new start and all that.’ He tugged at his leather cap. ‘But then I thought, what for? What’s so good about starting all over again? All that ground you covered the first time, why do it a second time, right? No-’ and he tapped the Bridgeburner sigil sewn on to his ratty rain-cape. ‘This is what I am, and it still means something.’

‘I expect that regular back there agrees with you.’

‘Aye, a good start. And even better, I had me a talk with Lieutenant Pores, and he’s giving me command of a squad of new recruits. The Bridgeburners ain’t dead after all. And I hooked up with a Letherii alchemist, to see if we can come up with replacements for the Moranth munitions-he’s got this amazing powder, which I’m calling Blue. You mix it and then get it inside a clay ball which you seal right away. In about half a day the mix is seasoned and set.’

Bottle wasn’t much interested, but he asked anyway. ‘Burns good, does it?’

‘Don’t burn at all. That’s the beauty of Blue, my friend.’ Hedge laughed. ‘Not a flicker of flame, not a whisper of smoke. We’re working on others, too. Eaters, Sliders, Smarters. And I got two assault weapons-a local arbalest and an onager-we’re fitting clay heads on the quarrels. And I got me a new lobber, too.’ He was almost jumping with excitement as he led Bottle through the camp. ‘My first squad’s going to be all sappers along with whatever other talents they got. I was thinking-imagine a whole Bridgeburner army, say, five thousand, all trained as marines, of course. With heavies, mages, sneaks and healers, but every one of them is also trained as a sapper, an engineer, right?’

‘Sounds terrifying.’

‘Aye, doesn’t it? There.’ He pointed. ‘That tent. Quick’s in there. Or he said he would be, once he got back from the command tent. Anyway, I got to go collect my squad.’

Hedge walked off.

Bottle tried to imagine five thousand Hedges, with the real Hedge in charge. Hood’s breath, I’d want a continent between me and them. Maybe two. He repressed a shiver, and then headed to the tent. ‘Quick? You in there?’

The flap rippled.

Scowling, Bottle crouched and ducked inside.

‘Stop spying on the Adjunct and me,’ the wizard said. He was sitting at the far end, crosslegged. In front of him and crowding the earthen floor in the tent’s centre was a heap of what looked like children’s dolls.

Bottle sat down. ‘Can I play?’

‘Funny. Trust me, these things you don’t want to play with.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. My grandmother-’

‘I’m tying threads, Bottle. You want to get yourself tangled in that?’

Bottle shrank back. ‘Ugh, no thanks.’

Quick Ben bared his smallish teeth, a neat white row. ‘The mystery is, there’s at least three in there I can’t even identify. A woman, a girl and some bearded bastard who feels close enough to spit on.’

‘Who are they tied to?’

The wizard nodded. ‘Your granny taught you way too much, Bottle. I already told Fiddler to treat you as our shaved knuckle. Aye, I’ve been trying to work that out, but the skein’s still a bit of a mess, as you can see.’

‘You’re rushing it too much,’ Bottle said. ‘Leave them to shake loose on their own.’

‘Maybe so.’

‘So, what have you and the Adjunct got to be so secret about? If I really am your shaved knuckle, I need to know things like that, so I know what to do when it needs doing.’

‘Maybe it’s her,’ mused Quick Ben, ‘or more likely it was T’amber. They’ve sniffed me out, Bottle. They’ve edged closer than anybody’s ever done, and that includes Whiskeyjack.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Maybe Kallor. Maybe Rake-yes, Rake probably saw clear enough-was it any wonder I avoided him? Well, Gothos, sure, but-’

‘High Mage,’ cut in Bottle, ‘what are you going on about?’

Quick Ben started, and then glared. ‘Distracted, sorry. You don’t need to spy on her-Lostara saw the rat and nearly chopped it in half. I managed to intervene, made up some story about using it for an augury. If anything vital comes up, I will let you know.’

‘A whisper in my skull.’

‘We’re heading into a maze, Bottle. The Adjunct’s ageing in front of my eyes, trying to figure out a way through the Wastelands. Have you tried soul-riding anything into it? It’s a snarl of potent energies, massive blind-spots, and a thousand layers of warring rituals, sanctified grounds, curse-holes, blood-pits, skin-sinks. I try and just reel back, head ready to split, tasting blood in my mouth.’

‘The ghost of a gate,’ said Bottle.

Quick Ben’s eyes glittered in the gloom. ‘An area of influence, yes, but that ghost gate, it’s wandered-it’s not even there any more, in the Wastelands, I mean.’

‘East of the Wastelands,’ said Bottle. ‘That’s where we’ll find it, and that’s where we’re going, isn’t it?’

Quick Ben nodded. ‘Better the ghost than the real thing.’

‘Familiar with the real one, are you, High Mage?’

He glanced away. ‘She’s worked that one out all on her own. Too canny, too damned unknowable.’

‘Do you think she’s in communication with her brother?’

‘I don’t dare ask,’ Quick Ben admitted. ‘She’s like Dujek that way. Some things you just don’t bring up. But, you know, that might explain a lot of things.’

‘But then ask yourself this,’ said Bottle. ‘What if she isn’t?’

The wizard was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. ‘If not Paran, then who?’

‘Right.’

‘That’s a nasty question.’

‘I don’t spy on the Adjunct just when she has you for company, Quick Ben. Most of the time I watch her, it’s when she’s alone.’

‘That’s pathetic-’

‘Fuck the jokes, High Mage. Our Adjunct knows things. And I want to know how. I want to know if she has company none of us know a thing about. Now, if you want me to stop doing that, give me a solid reason. You say she’s got close to you. Have you returned the favour?’

‘I would, if I knew how. That otataral sword pushes me away-it’s what they’re made to do, isn’t it.’ Seeing the sceptical expression opposite him, he scowled. ‘What?’

‘It doesn’t push you as hard as you like to pretend it does. The risk is that the harder and deeper you push through the otataral, the more of yourself you potentially expose-and if she catches sight of you, she won’t just be close to knowing you, she’ll be certain.’ He jabbed a finger at Quick Ben. ‘And that is what you don’t want to happen, and it’s the real reason why you don’t dare push through. So, your only chance is me. Do I resume spying or not?’

‘Lostara’s suspicious-’

‘When the Adjunct is presumably alone.’

The High Mage hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Found anything yet?’

‘No. She’s not in the habit of thinking out loud, that much is obvious. She doesn’t pray, and I’ve yet to hear a one-sided conversation.’

‘Could you be blinded?’

‘I could, yes, but I’d sense the gaps of awareness. I think. Depending on how good the geas is.’

‘If it’s a geas directed specifically at your extra eyes?’

‘It would have to be. But you’re right, something specific, Mockra maybe, that slips into the rat’s tiny brain and paints a pretty picture of nothing happening. If that’s the case, then I don’t know how I could do anything about it, because with the local effect of the otataral, the source of that sorcery would be an appallingly high level-a damned god’s level, I mean.’

‘Or an Elder’s.’

‘These waters are too deep for a mortal like me, Quick Ben. My spying only works because it’s passive. Strictly speaking, riding a soul isn’t magic, not in the common sense.’

‘Then seek out something on the Wastelands, Bottle. See what you can see, because I can’t get close and neither, I think, can the Adjunct. Find a wolf, or a coyote-they like to hang round armies and such. Who’s out there?’

‘I’ll try. But if it’s that risky, you might lose me. I might lose me, which is even worse.’

Quick Ben smiled his little smile and reached into the heap of dolls. ‘That’s why I’ve tied this thread to this particular doll.’

Bottle hissed. ‘You miserable shit.’

‘Stop complaining. I’ll pull you back if you get into trouble. That’s a promise.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Bottle, rising.

The High Mage looked up in surprise. ‘What’s to think about?’

‘Quick Ben, if it’s that dangerous in the Wastelands, hasn’t it occurred to you that if I’m grabbed, you may not be the one doing the pulling on that thread? With you suddenly drooling and playing with dolls for real, the Adjunct and, more importantly, her army, are well and truly doomed.’

‘I can hold my own,’ Quick Ben growled.

‘How do you know you can? You don’t even know what’s out there. And why would I want to put myself in the middle of a tugging contest? I might well get torn to pieces.’

‘Since that wasn’t the first thing you brought up,’ said Quick Ben, with a sly look, ‘I expect you have a few contingency plans to deal with the possibility.’

‘I said I’d think about it.’

‘Don’t wait too long deciding, Bottle.’

‘Two full crates of that smoked sausage, aye. Fist Keneb’s orders.’

‘Will do, Master Sergeant.’

‘Strap them tight, remember,’ Pores reminded the spotty-faced young man and was pleased at the eager nod. Quartermaster division always pulled in the soldiers who couldn’t fight their way out of a school playground, and they had two ways of going once they’d got settled-either puppies who jumped at the snap of an officer’s fingers or the ones who built impregnable fortresses out of regulations and then hoarded supplies somewhere inside-as if to give anything up drew blood and worse. Those ones Pores had made a career out of crushing; but at times like this, the puppies were the ones he wanted.

He cast a surreptitious glance around, but the chaos swirled unabated on all sides and no one was paying him any attention. And the puppy was happy at being collared, so when accosted he could shake his head, duck down and use the various lines Pores himself used. ‘Fist Keneb’s orders, take it up with him.’ And ‘Master Sergeant’s got recruits to outfit, fifty of ’em, and Captain Kindly said to do it quick.’ Keneb was safe enough since at the moment nobody apart from his personal adjutants could even get close to him; and as for Kindly, well, the name itself usually sucked the blood from even the heartiest faces.

It was a minor and mostly irrelevant detail that Pores had somehow lost his recruits. Snatched away from the marine squads by someone nobody knew anything about. If trouble arrived Pores could look innocent and point fingers at the squad sergeants. Never make a roadblock of yourself on trouble’s road. No, make yourself a bridge instead, with stones slick as grease.

I should compose a mid-level officer’s guide to continued health, indolence and undeserved prosperity. But then, if I did that, I’d have to be out of the battle, no longer in competition, as it were. Say, retired somewhere nice. Like a palace nobody was using. And that would be my crowning feat-requisitioning a palace.

‘Queen Frabalav’s orders, sir. If you got a problem, you can always discuss it with her one-eyed torturer.’

But for now, fine Letherii smoked sausages, three crates of excellent wine, a cask of cane syrup, all for Fist Keneb (not that he’d ever see any of that); and extra blankets, extra rations, officer boots including cavalry high-steppers, rank sigils and torcs for corporals, sergeants, and lieutenants, all for his fifty or was it sixty vanished recruits-which translated into Pores’s very own private stock for those soldiers on the march who lost things but didn’t want to be officially docked for replacements.

He’d already commandeered three wagons with decent teams, under guard at the moment by soldiers from Primly’s squad. It occurred to him he might have to draw those three squads in as partners in his black-market operation, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Envy diminished the more one shared the rewards, after all, and with something at stake those soldiers would have the proper incentive when it came to security and whatnot.

All in all, things were shaping up nicely.

‘Hey there, what’s in that box?’

‘Combs, sir-’

‘Ah, for Captain Kindly then.’

‘Aye, sir. Personal requisition-’

‘Excellent. I’ll take those to him myself.’

‘Well, uhm-’

‘Not only is the captain my immediate superior, soldier, I also happen to be his barber.’

‘Oh, right. Here you go, sir-just a signature here-that wax bar, yes sir, that’s the one.’

Smiling, Pores drew out his reasonable counterfeit of Kindly’s own seal and pressed it firmly down on the wax bar. ‘Smart lad, keeping things proper is what makes an army work.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hedge’s pleasure at seeing that his Letherii alchemist had rounded up the new recruits as he had ordered quickly drained away when he cast a gauging eye on the forty would-be soldiers sitting not fifteen paces from the company latrine trench. When he first approached the bivouac he’d thought they were waving at him, but turned out it was just the swarming flies.

‘Bavedict!’ he called to his alchemist, ‘get ’em on their feet!’

The alchemist gathered up his long braid and with a practised twist spun it into a coil atop his head, where the grease held it fast, and then rose from the peculiar spike-stool he’d set up outside his hide tent. ‘Captain Hedge, the last mix is ready to set and the special rain-capes were delivered by my brother half a bell ago. I have what I need to do some painting.’

‘That’s great. This is all of them?’ he asked, nodding towards the recruits.

Bavedict’s thin lips tightened in a grimace. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘How long have they been sitting in that stench?’

‘A while. Not ready to do any thinking for themselves yet-but that’s what’s to be expected from us Letherii. Soldiers do what they’re told to do and that’s that.’

Hedge sighed.

‘There’s two acting sergeants,’ Bavedict added. ‘The ones with their backs to us.’

‘Names?’

‘Sunrise-he’s the one with the moustache. And Nose Stream.’

‘Well now,’ Hedge said, ‘who named them?’

‘Some Master Sergeant named Pores.’

‘I take it he wasn’t around when you snatched them.’

‘They’d been tied to some squads and those squads were none too pleased about it anyway. So it wasn’t hard cutting them loose.’

‘Good.’ Hedge glanced over at Bavedict’s carriage, a huge, solid-looking thing of black varnished wood and brass fittings; he then squinted at the four black horses waiting in their harnesses. ‘You was making a good living, Bavedict, leading me to wonder all over again what you’re doing here.’

‘Like I said, I got too close a look at what one of those cussers of yours can do-to a damned dragon, no less. My shop’s nothing but kindling.’ He paused and balanced himself on one foot, the other one set against the leg just below the knee. ‘But mostly professional curiosity, Captain, ever a boon and a bane both. So, you just keep telling me anything and everything you recall about the characteristics of the various Moranth alchemies, and I’ll keep inventing my own brand of munitions for your sappers.’

‘My sappers, aye. Now I better go and meet-’

‘Here come two of ’em now, Captain.’

He turned and almost stepped back. Two enormous, sweaty women had fixed small eyes on him and were closing in.

They saluted and the blonde one said, ‘Corporal Sweetlard, sir, and this is Corporal Rumjugs. We got a request, sir.’

‘Go on.’

‘We want to move from where we was put down. Too many flies, sir.’

‘An army never marches or camps alone, Corporal,’ said Hedge. ‘We got rats, we got mice, we got capemoths and crows, ravens and rhizan. And we got flies.’

‘That’s true enough, sir,’ said the black-haired one, Rumjugs, ‘but even over here there ain’t so many of ’em. Ten more paces between us and the trench there, sir, is all we’re asking.’

‘Your first lesson,’ said Hedge. ‘If the choice is between comfortable and miserable, choose comfortable-don’t wait for any damned orders neither. Distracted and irritated makes you more tired. Tired gets you killed. If it’s hot look for shade. If it’s cold bundle t’gether when not on post. If you’re in a bad spot for flies, find a better one close by and move. Now, I got a question for you two. Why are you bringing me this request and not your sergeants?’

‘They was going to,’ said Rumjugs, ‘but then me and Sweet here, we pointed out that you’re a man and we’re whores or used to be, and you was more likely to be nice to us than to them. Assuming you prefer women an’ not men.’

‘Good assumption and smart thinking. Now, go back there and get everybody on their feet and over here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He returned their salute and watched them wheeze and waddle back to the others.

Bavedict moved up beside him. ‘Maybe there’s hope for them after all.’

‘Just needs teasing out, that’s all,’ said Hedge. ‘Now, find a wax tablet or something-I need a list of their names made up-my memory is bad these days, ever since I died and came back, in fact.’

The alchemist blinked, and then recovered. ‘Right away, Captain.’

All in all, Hedge concluded, a decent start.

Lostara slammed the knife back into its sheath, then walked to examine an array of tribal trophies lining one wall of the presence chamber. ‘Fist Keneb is not at his best,’ she said. Behind her in the centre of the room, the Adjunct said nothing. After a moment Lostara went on. ‘Grub’s disappearance hit him hard. And the thought that he might have been swallowed up by an Azath is enough to curdle anyone’s toes. It’s not helping that Fist Blistig seems to have decided he’s already good as dead.’

She turned to see the Adjunct slowly drawing off her gauntlets. Tavore’s face was pale, a taut web of lines trapping her eyes. She’d lost weight, further reducing the few feminine traits she possessed. Beyond grief waited emptiness, a place where loneliness haunted in mocking company, and memories were entombed in cold stone. The woman that was the Adjunct had decided that no one would ever take T’amber’s place. Tavore’s last tie to the gentler gifts of humanity had been severed. Now there was nothing left. Nothing but her army, which looked ready to unravel all on its own-and even to this she seemed indifferent.

‘It’s not like the King to keep us waiting,’ Lostara muttered, reaching to unsheathe her knife.

‘Leave it,’ the Adjunct snapped.

‘Of course. My apologies, Adjunct.’ She dropped her hand and resumed her uninterested examination of the artifacts. ‘These Letherii devoured a lot of tribes.’

‘Empires will, Lieutenant.’

‘I imagine this Kolanse did the same. It is an empire, is it not?’

‘I do not know,’ the Adjunct replied, then added, ‘it does not matter.’

‘It doesn’t?’

But with her next words it was clear that the Adjunct was not interested in elaborating. ‘My predecessor, a woman named Lorn, was murdered in a street in Darujhistan. She had, by that point, completed her tasks, insofar as anyone can tell. Her death seemed to be little more than ill luck, a mugging or something similar. Her corpse was deposited in a pauper’s pit.’

‘Forgive me, Adjunct, but what is this story in aid of?’

‘Legacies are never what one would hope for, are they, Captain? In the end, it does not matter what was achieved. Fate holds no tally of past triumphs, courageous deeds, or moments of profound integrity.’

‘I suppose not, Adjunct.’

‘Conversely, there is no grim list of failures, moments of cowardice or dishonour. The wax is smooth, the past melted away-if it ever existed at all.’ Those snared eyes fixed briefly on Lostara before sliding away once more. ‘She died on a street, just one more victim of mischance. A death devoid of magic.’

Lostara’s attention dropped down to the sword strapped at Tavore’s hip. ‘Most deaths are, Adjunct.’

Tavore nodded. ‘The wax melts. There is, I think, some comfort to be found in that. A small measure of… release.’

Is that the best you can hope for, Tavore? Gods below. ‘Lorn was not there to gauge the worth of her legacy, if that is what you mean, Adjunct. Which was probably a mercy.’

‘I sometimes think that fate and mercy are often one and the same.’

The notion chilled Lostara.

‘The army,’ continued the Adjunct, ‘will sort itself out once on the march. I give them this touch of chaos, of near anarchy. As I do for Fists Keneb and Blistig. I have my reasons.’

‘Yes, Adjunct.’

‘In the King’s presence, Captain, I expect you to refrain from any undue attention to the knife at your side.’

‘As you command, Adjunct.’

Moments later an inner door swung open and King Tehol strode in, trailed by the Chancellor. ‘My sincerest apologies, Adjunct. It’s all my Ceda’s fault, not that you need to know that, but then’-and he smiled as he sat down on the raised chair-‘now you do, and I don’t mind telling what a relief that is.’

‘You summoned us, Majesty,’ said Adjunct.

‘Did I? Oh yes, so I did. Relax, there’s no crisis-well, none that concerns you directly. Well, not in Letheras, anyway. Not at the moment, I mean. Ceda, step forward there now! Adjunct Tavore, we have a gift for you. In expression of our deepest gratitude.’

Queen Janath had arrived as well, moving up to stand to one side of her husband, one hand resting on the chair’s high back.

Bugg was holding a small hand-polished wooden case, which he now set into the Adjunct’s hands.

The chamber was silent as Tavore unlatched the lid and tilted it back to reveal a water-etched dagger. The grip and pommel were both plain, functional, and as far as Lostara could see, the blade itself, barring the etched swirls, was unspectacular. After a moment’s examination, the Adjunct shut the lid and looked up at the King. ‘Thank you, sire. I shall treasure this-’

‘Hold on,’ said Tehol, rising and walking over. ‘Let’s see that thing-’ and he lifted the lid once more, and then faced Bugg. ‘Couldn’t you have selected something prettier than that, Ceda? Why, I imagine the Chancellor is mortified now that he’s seen it!’

‘He is, sire. Alas, the Ceda was under certain constraints-’

‘Excuse me,’ said the Adjunct, ‘am I to understand that this weapon is ensorcelled? I am afraid that such piquancy will be lost in my presence.’

The old man smiled. ‘I have done what I can, Tavore of House Paran. When you face your most dire necessity, look to this weapon.’

The Adjunct almost stepped back and Lostara saw what little colour there had been in her face suddenly drain away. ‘My most… dire… necessity? Ceda-’

‘As I said, Adjunct,’ Bugg replied, his gaze unwavering. ‘When blood is required. When blood is needed. In the name of survival, and in that name alone.’

Lostara saw that Tavore was at a loss for words-and she had no idea why. Unless the Adjunct already knows what that necessity will be. Knows, and is horrified by this gift. Bowing, Adjunct closed the lid a second time and stepped back.

Tehol was frowning at Bugg. After a moment he returned to the modest chair and sat down once more. ‘Fare you well on your journey, Adjunct. And you as well, Lostara Yil. Do not neglect my brother, he has many talents. A lot more than me, that’s for certain-’ and at seeing Bugg’s nod he scowled.

Janath reached down and patted his shoulder.

Tehol’s scowl deepened. ‘Look to Brys Beddict during your traverse of Bolkando Kingdom. We are very familiar with our neighbours, and his advice should prove valuable.’

‘I shall, sire,’ the Adjunct said.

And suddenly it was time to go.

Moments after the Malazans had departed, Tehol glanced over at Bugg. ‘My, you look miserable.’

‘I dislike departures, sire. There is ever a hint of… finality.’

Janath came round and sat on one of the flanking benches. ‘You do not expect to see the Malazans again?’

He hesitated, and then said, ‘No.’

‘What of Brys?’ Tehol asked.

Bugg blinked and opened his mouth to reply but the King raised a hand. ‘No, that question should not have been asked. I’m sorry, old friend.’

‘Sire, your brother possesses unexplored… depths. Fortitude, unassailable fidelity to honour-and, as you well know, he carries within him a certain legacy, and while I cannot gauge the measure of that legacy, I believe it has the potential to be vast.’

‘You danced carefully there,’ Janath observed.

‘I did.’

Sighing, Tehol leaned back on the chair. ‘This seems a messy conclusion to things, doesn’t it? Little that amuses, even less that entertains. You must know I prefer to leap from one delightful absurdity to another. My last gesture on the Malazan stage should have been the highest of dramas is my feeling. Instead, I taste something very much like ashes in my mouth and that is most unpleasant.’

‘Perhaps some wine will wash things clean,’ suggested Bugg.

‘Won’t hurt. Pour us some, please. You, guard, come and join us-standing there doing nothing must be a dreadful bore. No need to gape like that, I assure you. Doff that helm and relax-there’s another guard just like you on the other side of that door, after all. Let him bear the added burden of diligence. Tell us about yourself. Family, friends, hobbies, scandals-’

‘Sire,’ warned Bugg.

‘Or just join us in a drink and feel under no pressure to say anything at all. This shall be one of those interludes swiftly glossed over in the portentous histories of great and mediocre kings. We sit in the desultory aftermath, oblivious to omens and whatever storm waits behind yonder horizon. Ah, thank you, Bugg-my Queen, accept that goblet and come sit on my knee-oh, don’t make that kind of face, we need to compose the proper scene. I insist and since I’m King I can do that, or so I read somewhere. Now, let’s see… yes, Bugg, stand right over there-oh, massaging your brow is the perfect pose. And you, dearest guard-how did you manage to hide all that hair? And how come I never knew you were a woman? Never mind, you’re an unexpected delight-ow, calm down, wife-oh, that’s me who needs to calm down. Sorry. Women in uniforms and all that. Guard, that dangling helm is exquisite by the way, take a mouthful and do pass judgement on the vintage, yes, like that, oh, most perfect!

‘Now, it’s just occurred to me that we’re missing something crucial. Ah, yes, an artist. Bugg, have we a court artist? We need an artist! Find us an artist! Nobody move!’