On this morning, she did as she always did. Eating her fill of words, drinking deep the spaces in between, and mad—so mad—that none of it gave her any strength.
Saddic had been Rutt’s second follower, the first being Held. He now walked among the four or so moving in a loose clump a few paces behind Rutt and the new girl. Badalle was a little way back, in the next clump. Saddic worshipped her, but he would not draw close to her, not yet, because there would be no point. He had few words of his own—he’d lost most of them early on in this journey. So long as he was in hearing range of Badalle, he was content.
She fed him. With her sayings and her seeings. She kept Saddic alive.
He thought about what she had said for Visto’s deading. About how some of it wasn’t true, the bit about Visto not remembering anything about where he’d come from. He’d remembered too much, in fact. So, Badalle had knowingly told an untruth about Visto. At his deading. Why had she done that?
Because Visto was gone. Her words weren’t for him because he was gone. They were for us. She was telling us to give up remembering. Give it up so when we find it again it all feels new. Not the remembering itself but the things we remembered. The cities and villages and the families and the laughing. The water and the food and full stomachs. Is that what she was telling us?
Well, he had his meal for the day, didn’t he? She was generous that way.
The feet at the ends of his legs were like wads of leather. They didn’t feel much and that was a relief since the stones on the track were sharp and so many others had bleeding feet making it hard to walk. The ground was even worse to either side of the trail.
Badalle was smart. She was the brain behind the jaws, the tongue. She took what the snake’s eyes saw. She made sense of what the tongue tasted. She gave names to the things of this new world. The moths that pretended to be leaves and the trees that invited the moths to be leaves so that five trees shared one set of leaves between them, and when the trees got hungry off went the leaves, looking for food. No other tree could do that, and so no other tree lived on the Elan.
She talked about the jhaval, the carrion birds no bigger than sparrows, that were the first to swarm a body when it fell, using their sharp beaks to stab and drink. Sometimes the jhaval didn’t even wait for the body to fall. Saddic had seen them attacking a wounded ribber, even vultures and crows. Sometimes each other, too, when the frenzy was on them.
Satra Riders, as what did in poor Visto, and flow-worms that moved in a seething carpet, pushing beneath a corpse to squirm in the shade. They bit and drenched themselves in whatever seeped down and as the ground softened down they went, finally able to pierce the skin of the blistered earth.
Saddic looked in wonder at this new world, listened in awe as Badalle gave the strange things names and made for them all a new language.
Close to noon they found a waterhole. The crumbled foundations of makeshift corrals surrounded the shallow, muddy pit.
The snake halted, and then began a slow, tortured crawl into and out of the churned-up mud. The wait alone killed scores, and even as children emerged from the morass, slathered black, some fell to convulsions, curling round mud-filled guts. Some spilled out their bowels, fouling things for everyone that came after.
It was another bad day for the Chal Managal.
Later in the afternoon, during the worst of the heat, they spied a greyish cloud on the horizon ahead. The ribbers began howling, dancing in terror, and as the cloud rushed closer, the dogs finally fled.
What looked like rain wasn’t rain. What looked like a cloud wasn’t a cloud.
These were locusts, but not the normal kind of locusts.
Wings glittering, the swarm filling half the sky, and then all the sky, the sound a clicking roar—the rasp of wings, the snapping open of jaws—each creature a finger long. Out from within the cloud, as it engulfed the column, lunged buzzing knots where the insects massed almost solid. When one of these hammered into a huddle of children, shrieks of pain and horror erupted—the flash of red meat, and then bone—and then the horde swept on, leaving behind clumps of hair and heaps of gleaming bone.
These locusts ate meat.
This was the first day of the Shards.
Chapter Five
The painter must be mute
The sculptor deaf
Talents are passed out
Singly
As everyone knows
Oh let them dabble
We smile our indulgence
No end to our talent
For allowances
But talents are passed out
Singly
We permit you one
Worth lauding
The rest may do service
In serviceable fashion
But greatness?
That is a title passed out
Singly
Don’t be greedy
Over trying our indulgence
Permission
Belongs to us
Behind the makeshift wall—
The bricks of our
Reasonable scepticism.
A POEM THAT SERVES
ASTATTLE POHM
Corporal Tarr’s memory of his father could be entirely summed up inside a single recollected quote, ringing like Talian death bells across the breadth of Tarr’s childhood. A raw, stentorian pronouncement battering down on the flinching son. ‘Sympathy? Aye, I have sympathy—for the dead and no one else! Ain’t nobody in this world deserves sympathy unless they’re dead! You understanding me, son?’
‘You understanding me, son?’
Yes, sir. Good words for making a soldier. Kept the brain from getting too . . . cluttered. With things that might get in the way of holding his shield just so, stabbing out with his short sword right there. It was a kind of discipline, what others might call obstinate stupidity, but that simply showed that lots of people didn’t understand soldiering.
Teaching people to be disciplined, he was discovering, wasn’t easy. He walked the length of Letherii soldiers—and aye, that description was a sorry stretch—who stood at what passed for attention for these locals. A row of red faces in the blazing sunlight, dripping like melting wax.
‘Harridict Brigade,’ Tarr said in a snarl, ‘what kind of name is that? Who in Hood’s name was Harridict—no, don’t answer me, you damned fool! Some useless general, I’d imagine, or worse, some merchant house happy to kit you all in its house colours. Merchants! Businesses got no place in the military. We built an empire across three continents by keeping ’em outa things! Businesses are the vultures of war, and maybe those beaks look like smiles, but take it from me, they’re just beaks.’
He halted then, his repertoire of words exhausted, and gestured to Cuttle, who stepped up with a hard grin—the idiot loved this Braven role, as it was being called now (‘Letherii got master sergeants; we Malazans got Braven Sergeants, and say it toothy when you say it, lads, and be sure to keep the joke private’—so said Ruthan Gudd and that, Tarr had decided then and there, was a soldier).
Cuttle was wide and solid, a perfect fit to the role. Wider than Tarr but shorter by half a head, which meant that Tarr was an even better fit. Not one of these miserable excuses for soldiers could stand toe to toe with either Malazan for anything past twenty heartbeats, and that was the awful truth. They were soft. ‘This brigade,’ Cuttle now said, loud and contemptuous, ‘is a waste of space!’ He paused to glare at the faces, which were slowly hardening under the assault.
About time. Tarr watched on, thumbs hooked now in his weapon belt.
‘Aye,’ Cuttle went on, ‘I’ve listened to your drunken stories—’ and his tone invited them to sit at his table: knowing and wise and damned near . . . sympathetic. ‘And aye, I’ve seen for myself that raw, ugly pig you call magic hereabouts. Undisciplined—no finesse—brutal power but nothing clever. So, for you lot, battle means eating dirt, and a battlefield is where hundreds die for no good reason. Your mages have made war a miserable, useless joke—
’ and he spun round and stepped up to one soldier, nose to nose. ‘You! How many times has this brigade taken fifty per cent or more losses in a single battle?’
The soldier—and Cuttle had chosen well—almost bared his teeth. ‘Seven times, Braven Sergeant!’
‘Seventy-five per cent losses?’
‘Four, Braven Sergeant!’
‘Losses at ninety?’
‘Once, Braven Sergeant, but not ninety—one hundred per cent, Braven Sergeant.’
Cuttle let his jaw drop. ‘One hundred?’
‘Yes, Braven Sergeant!’
‘Wiped out to the last soldier?’
‘Yes, Braven Sergeant!’
And Cuttle leaned even closer, his face turning crimson. In a bellowing shout, he said, ‘And has it not once occurred to you—any of you—that you might do better by murdering all your mages at the very start of the battle?’
‘Then the other side would—’
‘You parley with ’em first, of course—you all agree to butcher the bastards!’ He reeled back and threw up his hands. ‘You don’t fight wars! You don’t fight battles! You just all form up and make new cemeteries!’ He wheeled on them. ‘Are you all idiots?’
On a balcony overlooking the parade grounds, Brys Beddict winced. Beside him, standing in the shade, Queen Janath grunted and then said, ‘You know, he has a point.’
‘It is, for the moment,’ Brys said, ‘almost irrelevant. We have few mages of any stature left, and even those ones have gone to ground—it seems there is a quiet revolution under way, and I suspect that when the dust has settled, the entire discipline of sorcery will be transformed.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘In any case, that wasn’t what alarmed me—listening to that soldier down there. It’s their notion of taking matters into their own hands.’
‘An invitation to mutiny,’ Janath was nodding, ‘but you could look at it another way. Their kind of thinking in turn keeps their commanders in check—following orders is one thing, but if those orders are suicidal or just plain stupid . . .’
‘The thought of my soldiers second-guessing me at every turn hardly inspires confidence. I am beginning to regret employing these Malazans in the reshaping of the Letherii military. Perhaps the way they do things works for them, but it does not necessarily follow that it will work for us.’
‘You may be right, Brys. There is something unusual about the Malazans. I find them fascinating. Imagine, an entire civilization that does not suffer fools.’
‘From what I have heard,’ Brys pointed out, ‘that did not protect them from betrayal—their very own Empress was prepared to sacrifice them all.’
‘But they did not kneel to the axe, did they?’
‘I see your point.’
‘There exists an exchange of trust between the ruler and the ruled. Abuse that from either direction and all mutual agreements are nullified.’
‘Civil war.’
‘Unless one of the aggrieved parties has the option of simply leaving. Assuming it’s not interested in retribution or vengeance.’
Brys thought about that for a time, watching the relentless bullying of his Letherii soldiers by those two Bonehunters in the yard below. ‘Perhaps they have things to teach us after all,’ he mused.
Cuttle stepped close to Tarr and hissed, ‘Gods below, Corporal, they’re worse than sheep!’
‘Been thrashed too many times, that’s their problem.’
‘So what do we do with them?’
Tarr shrugged. ‘All I can think of is thrash ’em again.’
Cuttle’s small eyes narrowed on his corporal. ‘Somehow, that don’t sound right.’
Grimacing, Tarr looked away. ‘I know. But it’s all I’ve got. If you’ve a better idea, feel free, sapper.’
‘I’ll get ’em marching round—that’ll give us time to think.’
‘There must be some clever strategy at work down there,’ Brys concluded after a time, and then he turned to the Queen. ‘We should probably attend to Tehol—he said something about a meeting in advance of the meeting with the Adjunct.’
‘Actually, that was Bugg. Tehol proposed a meeting to discuss Bugg’s idea of the meeting in advance—oh, listen to me! That man is like an infection! Yes, let us march with solemn purpose upon my husband—your brother—and at least find out whatever needs finding out before the Malazans descend upon us. What must they think? Our King wears a blanket!’
Lostara Yil’s hand crept to the knife at her hip and then drew back once more. A muttering whisper in her head was telling her the blade needed cleaning, but she had just cleaned and honed it not a bell ago, and even the sheath was new. None of this was logical. None of this made sense. Yes, she understood the reasons for her obsession. Twisted, pathetic reasons, but then, driving a knife through the heart of the man she loved was bound to leave an indelible stain on her soul. The knife had become a symbol—she’d be a fool not to see that.
Still, her hand itched, desperate to draw forth the knife.
She sought to distract herself by watching Fist Blistig pacing along the far wall, measuring out a cage no one else could see—yet she knew its dimensions. Six paces in length, about two wide, the ceiling low enough to make the man hunch over, the floor worn smooth, almost polished. She understood that kind of invention, all the effort in making certain the bars fit tightly, that the lock was solid and the key flung into the sea.
Fist Keneb was watching the man as well, doing an admirable job of keeping his thoughts to himself. He was the only one seated at the table, seemingly relaxed, although Lostara well knew that he was probably as bruised and battered as she was—Fiddler’s cursed reading had left them all in rough shape. Being bludgeoned unconscious was never a pleasant experience.
The three of them looked over as Quick Ben walked into the chamber. The High Mage carried an air of culpability about him, which was nothing new. For all his bravado, accusations clung to him like gnats on a web. Of course he was hiding secrets. Of course he was playing unseen games. He was Quick Ben, the last surviving wizard of the Bridgeburners. He thought outwitting gods was fun. But even he had taken a beating at Fiddler’s reading, which should have humbled the man.
She squinted as he sauntered up to the table, pulled out the chair beside Keneb, and sat, whereupon he began drumming his fingers on the varnished surface.
No, not much humility there.
‘Where is she?’ Quick Ben asked. ‘We’re seeing the King in a bell’s time—we need to settle on what we’re doing.’
Blistig had resumed pacing, and at the wizard’s words he snorted and then said, ‘She’s settled already. This is just a courtesy.’
‘Since when is the Adjunct interested in decorum?’ Quick Ben retorted. ‘No, we need to discuss strategies. Everything has changed—’
Keneb straightened at that. ‘What has, High Mage? Since the reading? Can you be specific?’
The wizard grinned. ‘I can, but maybe she doesn’t want me to.’
‘Then the rest of us should just leave you and her to it,’ said Blistig, his blunt features twisting with disgust. ‘Unless your egos demand an audience, in which case, why, we wouldn’t want those bruised, would we?’
‘Got a dog house in there, Blistig? You could always take a nap.’
Lostara made sure to glance away, amused. She had none of their concerns on her mind. In fact, she didn’t care where this pointless army ended up. Maybe the Adjunct would simply dissolve the miserable thing, cashier them all out. Letheras was a nice enough city, although a little too humid for her tastes—it was probably drier inland, away from this sluggish river.
She knew that such an outcome was unlikely, of course. Impossible, in fact. Maybe Tavore Paran didn’t possess the nobility’s addiction to material possessions. The Bonehunters were the exception. This was her army. And she didn’t want it sitting pretty on a shelf like some prized bauble. No, she wanted to use it. Maybe even use it up.
Which was where everyone else came in. Blistig and
Keneb, Quick Ben and Sinn. Ruthan Gudd—not that he ever bothered attending briefings—and Arbin and Lostara herself. Add to that eight and a half thousand soldiers in Tavore’s own command, along with the Burned Tears and the Perish, and that, Lostara supposed, more than satisfied whatever noble acquisitiveness the Adjunct might harbour.
It was no wonder these men here were nervous. Something was driving the Adjunct, her very own fierce, cruel obsession. Quick Ben might have some idea about it, but she suspected the man was mostly bluff and bluster. The one soldier who might well know wasn’t even here. Thank the gods above and below for that one mercy.
‘We’re marching into the Wastelands,’ said Keneb. ‘We know that much, I suppose. Just not the reasons why.’
Lostara Yil cleared her throat. ‘That is a rumour, Fist.’
His brows lifted. ‘I understood it to be more certain than that.’
‘Well,’ said Quick Ben, ‘it’s imprecise, as most rumours turn out to be. More specifically, it’s incomplete. Which is why most of the speculation thus far has been useless.’
‘Go on,’ said Keneb.
The wizard drummed the tabletop once more, and then said, ‘We’re not marching into the Wastelands, my friends. We’re marching through them.’ He smiled but it wasn’t a real smile. ‘See how that added detail makes all the difference? Because now the rumours can chew hard on possibilities. The notion of goals, right? Her goals. What she needs us to do to meet them.’ He paused and then added, ‘What we need to do to convince ourselves and our soldiers that meeting them is even worth it.’
Well, that was said plainly enough. Here, chew hard on this mouthful of glass.
‘Unwitnessed,’ Keneb muttered.
Quick Ben fluttered a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t think we have a problem with that. She’s already said what she needed to say on that subject. It’s settled. Her next challenge will come when she finally spills out precisely what she’s planning.’
‘But you think you’ve already figured that out.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 840
