The outrider saluted, looked once more upon Lostara Yil, and then departed.
The Malazan captain blew out a breath. ‘Well.’
‘Please accept my apologies,’ said Brys. ‘There are somewhat fewer women in my army than there are in yours—certainly not by policy, but Letherii women seem more inclined to pursue other professions. It may be that Henar has not—’
‘I take your point, Commander, if you’ll forgive the interruption. Besides, it must be said that he is a most impressive man, so there is no need for you to apologize.’ She uncrossed her legs and rose. ‘In any case, sir, the lizards he mentioned certainly seem to fit with descriptions of K’Chain Che’Malle. These were living specimens? Not undead?’
‘There was no evidence to suggest that they were anything but alive. In the first battle, they took wounds.’
Lostara nodded. ‘Then Quick Ben is probably right.’
‘He is.’ Brys leaned back, regarded the tall woman for a moment, and then said, ‘There was a god once … I know its name but that isn’t particularly relevant now. What is relevant is where it dwelt: in the lands we now call the Wastelands. It lived there and it died there. Its life was stolen from it by a force, a power coming from the K’Chain Che’Malle—a civilization, by the way, that I’d never heard of, but in that god’s memories there are the name itself and scattered … images.’ He shook his head, and after a moment continued, ‘It may be that this power’—and he glanced over at Aranict for a moment—‘is one of these warrens you Malazans have brought to us. Or it could have been a ritual of some sort. Its name was Ahkrast Korvalain. What it did, Captain, was steal the life-force of the land itself. In fact, it may well have created the Wastelands, and in so doing it killed the spirits and gods dwelling there, and with them, their worshippers.’
‘Interesting. The Adjunct needs to hear all of this.’
‘Yes, we must pool our knowledge as best we can. Please, Captain, can you ride to the Adjunct and inform her that we will be paying her a visit.’
‘At once, Commander. How soon?’
‘Let us make it the midday meal.’
‘I had best go, then, sir.’ And she saluted.
Brys smiled. ‘No need for that in here, Captain. Oh, on your way out, could you please tell one of my aides to get in here.’
‘Of course. Until noon then, Commander.’
After she had left the chamber, Brys gestured to the now empty chair. ‘Sit down, Atri-Ceda. You look a little pale.’
She hesitated, and then relented. He watched her settle nervously on the chair’s edge. Well, it’s a start.
There was a scuffing sound at the room’s flap and then Corporal Ginast entered and stood at attention.
‘Corporal, attach Henar Vygulf to my staff. Furthermore, he is to accompany my entourage when I attend a lunch today at the Malazan camp. Issue him the appropriate cloak and inform him he is now a lance corporal.’
‘Er, excuse me, Commander, but isn’t Vygulf Bluerose?’
‘He is. What of it?’
‘Well, military regulations state that no Bluerose-born soldier is eligible for any officer’s rank in the regular Letherii forces, sir. Only among the Bluerose Lancers can a Bluerose-born soldier ascend in rank, and even there only to that of lieutenant. It was written into the capitulation agreement following the conquest of Bluerose, sir.’
‘The same agreement that demanded horses and stirrups from the Bluerose, not to mention the creation of the Lancers themselves?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the stirrups they sent us were rubbish, weren’t they?’
‘A nasty trick, sir, that one. I’m surprised the King has not insisted on proper reparations.’
‘You are most welcome to your surprise, Ginast, but not to your disapproving tone. As far as those stirrups are concerned, I admit to applauding the Bluerose in their deviousness. Revenge most deserved. As for the ceiling on advancement in the Letherii army, I have this to say: from now on, any and every soldier in the Letherii army, no matter where they originally come from, has equal opportunity for advancement based on merit and exemplary service to the kingdom. Bring in a scribe and we’ll get that written up immediately. As for you, Ginast, best hurry since you need to track Henar down in time for him to return here, mounted and ready as my escort, understood?’
‘Sir, the highborn officers will not like—’
‘I understand the Malazan Empress conducted a campaign that scoured her armies of those ranks bought by privilege and station. Do you know how she went about it, corporal? She arrested the officers and either executed them or sent them to work in mines for the rest of their lives. A most charming solution, I think, and should the nobleborn in my forces prove at all troublesome, I might well advise my brother to adopt something similar. Now, you are dismissed.’
The aide saluted and then fled.
Brys glanced over to see shock on Aranict’s face. ‘Oh come now, Atri-Ceda, you don’t really think I’d suggest such a thing, do you?’
‘Sir? No, of course not. I mean, it wasn’t that. Well, sorry, sir. Sorry.’
Brys cocked his head and regarded her for a moment. ‘What then? Ah, you are perhaps surprised that I’d indulge in a little matchmaking, Atri-Ceda?’
‘Yes, sir. A little.’
‘That was the first hint of life I’ve seen in Captain Yil’s face since I first met her. As for Henar, why, he seems man enough for her, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, sir! I mean—’
‘He clearly has a taste for the exotic. Do you think he stands a chance?’
‘Sir, I wouldn’t know.’
‘As a woman, rather, what think you?’
Her eyes were darting, her colour high. ‘She saw him admiring her legs, sir.’
‘And made no move to cover up.’
‘I’d noticed that, sir.’
‘Me too.’
There was silence then in the chamber, as Brys studied Aranict while she in turn endeavoured to look everywhere but at her commander.
‘For the Errant’s sake, Atri-Ceda, make use of the rest of that chair, will you? Sit back.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Throatslitter’s high-pitched laugh cut across from behind the captain’s tent. Again. Wincing, Cuttle leaned over and dragged close his studded hauberk. No point in crawling into the thing until they were finally ready to march. But it was getting patchy, needing some grease. ‘Where’s the rend pail?’
‘Here,’ said Tarr, collecting the small bucket and passing it over. ‘Don’t take too much, we’re getting low and now that Pores is in charge of the quartermaster’s—’
‘The bastard ain’t in charge of nothing,’ Cuttle snapped. ‘He’s just set himself up as a middleman, and we all choke our way through him to get anything. Quartermaster’s happy since so few requests ever reach ’im, and between the two of ’em they’re hoarding and worse. Someone should tell Sort, so she can tell Kindly, so he can—’
‘Kindly’s got nothing to do with Pores any more, Cuttle.’
‘So who does?’
‘Nobody, s’far as I can tell.’
Smiles and Koryk trudged back into the camp—which wasn’t much of a camp any more, just a smouldering hearth and a ring of kit packs and gear. ‘First bell after noon,’ said Smiles, ‘and no sooner.’
‘Any other word on Ges and Stormy?’ Cuttle asked her.
‘Fid can say what he wants,’ said Koryk, ‘and same for the others. They probably bolted.’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ retorted Cuttle. ‘Veterans don’t walk. That’s what makes them veterans.’
‘Until they decide they’ve had enough.’
‘Go ask Bottle,’ said Tarr, his face darkening as he glared at Koryk, ‘and he’ll tell you the same. They got snatched.’
‘Fine, they got snatched. Point is, they’re gone. Probably dead by now. Who’s next?’
‘With luck,’ said Smiles, slumping down to lean against her pack, ‘y
ou, Koryk.’ She looked over to Tarr. ‘His brain is burnt out—Koryk ain’t the Koryk I once knew, and I bet you’re all thinking the same.’ She was on her feet again. ‘Piss on this, I’m going for a walk.’
‘Take your time,’ said Koryk.
Another piping laugh from Throatslitter. Cuttle scowled. ‘What’s so fucking funny?’
Corabb had been sleeping, or pretending to sleep, and now he sat up. ‘I’ll go find out, Cuttle. It’s getting on my nerves too.’
‘If he’s being a bastard, Corabb, punch his face in.’
‘Aye, Cuttle, count on it.’
Cuttle paused to watch him tramp off. He grinned over at Tarr. ‘Catch all that?’
‘I’m sitting right here.’
‘He ain’t on the outside of us no more, is he. He’s our heavy. That’s good.’
‘So he is and so it is,’ said Tarr.
‘I’m this squad’s heavy,’ said Koryk.
Tarr resumed lacing his boots. Cuttle looked away and ran a hand through what was left of his hair, and then realized that the hand was thick with grease. ‘Hood’s breath!’
Tarr looked over and snorted. ‘Won’t keep it from cracking,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Your skull.’
‘Funny.’
Koryk stood as if he didn’t know where to go, as if he no longer belonged anywhere. After a moment he walked off, in a direction opposite to the one Smiles had taken.
Cuttle resumed rubbing down his hauberk. When he needed more grease he collected it from the top of his head. ‘He might, you know.’
‘He won’t,’ Tarr replied.
‘Gesler and Stormy, they’re his excuse. That and Kisswhere.’
‘Kisswhere didn’t care about anybody but Kisswhere.’
‘And Koryk does? Used to, maybe, but now he’s all inside his own head, and in there it’s as Smiles says, burnt up, nothing but cinders.’
‘He won’t run.’
‘Why are you so sure, Tarr?’
‘Because, somewhere inside, in all those ashes, something remains. He still has something to prove. Not to himself—he can convince himself of anything—but to all of us. Like it or not, admit it or not, he’s stuck.’
‘We’ll see, I guess.’
Tarr reached over and collected some grease from Cuttle’s temple. He started rubbing down his boots.
‘Funny,’ said Cuttle.
Corabb walked round the command tent to find Throatslitter, Widdershins and Deadsmell crouched in a huddle just beyond the latrine trench. He made his way over. ‘Stop that laughing, Throatslitter, or I’ll have to bash your face in.’
The three men looked over guiltily. Scowling, Throatslitter said, ‘Like to see you try, soldier.’
‘No you wouldn’t. What are you doing?’
‘Playing with scaled rats, what’s it to you?’
Corabb edged closer and peered down. Three of the scrawny things were struggling in the grass, their tails tied together. ‘That’s not a nice thing to do.’
‘Idiot,’ said Widdershins, ‘we’re going to eat them for lunch. We’re just making sure they don’t go nowhere.’
‘You’re torturing them.’
‘Go away, Corabb,’ said Throatslitter.
‘Not until you either untie their tails or snap their necks.’
Throatslitter sighed. ‘Explain it to him, Deadsmell.’
‘They ain’t got brains, Corabb. Just ooze, like pus, in those tiny skulls. They’re like termites, or ants. They can only do any thinking if there’s lots of them. Looks like three ain’t enough. Besides, they stink of something. Like magic, only oilier. Me and Wid, we’re trying to figure it out, so leave us alone, will you?’
‘We’re eating greasy magic?’ Corabb asked. ‘That sounds bad. I’m not eating those things any more.’
‘Then pretty soon you’re gonna go hungry,’ Widdershins said, reaching down to flip one of the scaled rats on to its back. The other two attempted to drag it away, but chose opposite directions. ‘There’s millions of these things out here, Hood knows what they live on. We saw a swarm of ’em this morning, like a glittering river. Killed about fifty before the rest took off.’ The flipped-over rat managed to right itself and once more the three were all pulling in different directions. ‘More and more of them, every day. Like maybe they’re following us.’
The notion chilled Corabb, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as though the rats could do anything. They didn’t even seem to be going for their food supplies. ‘I heard they got a nasty bite.’
‘If you let ’em, aye,’ said Deadsmell.
‘So, Throatslitter, they stopped being funny?’
‘Aye, now go.’
‘Cos if I hear another laugh, I ain’t coming back to talk.’
‘It’s just a laugh, Corabb. People got ’em, right? All kinds—’
‘But yours makes the skin crawl.’
‘Good, since it’s how I sound when I slit some bastard’s useless throat.’
Corabb stepped between Widdershins and Deadsmell, reached down and snatched up the three rats. In quick succession he broke their necks. Then dropped the tangled bodies between the three men.
‘Next time you hear me laugh …’ growled Throatslitter.
‘Fine,’ Corabb replied, ‘only I don’t need a single breath to cut off your damned head, Throatslitter, so that laugh will be your last.’
He headed off. This was getting ugly. Whatever ever happened to glory? Used to be this army, for all its miseries, had some dignity. Made being a Bonehunter mean something, something worthwhile. But lately it was just a mob of bored bullies and thugs.
‘Corabb.’
He looked up, found Faradan Sort blocking his path. ‘Captain?’
‘Fiddler back with you yet?’
‘Don’t think so. He wasn’t there a quarter bell ago.’
‘Where’s your squad?’
‘They ain’t moved, sir.’ He jerked a thumb backward. ‘Just over there.’
‘Then where are you going?’
‘Somewhere, nowhere, sir.’
Frowning, she marched past him. He wondered if she expected him to follow—she was heading to his squad mates, after all. But since she didn’t say anything and just continued on, he shrugged and resumed his aimless wandering. Maybe find the heavies again. Throw some bones. But then, why? I always lose. Corabb’s famous luck don’t run to dice. Typical. Never the important stuff. He rested his hand on the pommel of his new Letherii sword, just to confirm he still had it. And I ain’t gonna lose it neither. Not this one. It’s my sword and I’m gonna use it from now on.
He’d been thinking about Leoman lately. No real reason, as far as he could tell, except maybe it was the way Leoman had managed to lead soldiers, turn them into fanatical followers, in fact. He’d once believed that was a gift, a talent. But now he was no longer so sure. In some ways, that gift was the kind that made a man dangerous. Being a follower was risky. Especially when the truth showed up, that truth being that the one doing the leading didn’t really care a whit for any of them. Leoman and people like him collected fanatics the way a rich merchant collected coins, and then he spent them without a moment’s thought.
No, the Adjunct was better, no matter what everyone said. They talked as if they wanted a Leoman, but Corabb knew how that was. They didn’t. If they got a Leoman, every one of them would end up getting killed. He believed the Adjunct cared about them, maybe even too much. But between the two, he’d stay with her every time.
Dissatisfaction was a disease. It had ignited the Whirlwind and hundreds of thousands had died. Standing over grave pits, who was satisfied? Nobody. It had launched the Malazans into eating their own, and if every Wickan was now dead, who’d be so foolish as to believe the new land the settlers staked out for themselves wouldn’t exact its vengeance? Sooner or later, it would turn them into dust and the wind would just blow them away.
Even here, in this camp, among the Bonehunter
s, dissatisfaction spread like an infection. No reason but boredom and not-knowing. What was so bad about that? Boredom meant nobody was getting chopped up. Not-knowing was the truth of life itself. His heart could burst in the next step, or a runaway horse could trample him down at the intersection just ahead. A blood vessel in his skull could explode. A rock could come down out of the sky. Everything was about not-knowing, the whole future, and who could even make sense enough of the past to think they really knew everything and so, knowing everything, know everything to come?
Dissatisfied? See if this punch in the face makes you feel any better. Aye, Cuttle was a sour one, but Corabb was starting to like him. Maybe he complained a lot, but that wasn’t the same as being dissatisfied. Clearly, Cuttle liked being able to complain. He’d be lost without it. That was why, no matter what, he looked comfortable. Rubbing grease into boiled leather, honing his short sword and the heads of his crossbow bolts. Counting and counting again his small collection of sharpers and smokers, his one cracker, his eyes straying to Fid’s pack in which was hidden at least one cusser. The man was happy. You could tell by his scowl.
I like Cuttle. I know what to expect with him. He ain’t hot iron, he ain’t cold iron. He’s bitter iron. Me too. Bitter and getting bitterer. Just try me, Throatslitter.
Captain Kindly ran a hand through the last few threads of hair on his head and leaned back in his folding chair. ‘Skanarow, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s Ruthan.’
‘Of course it is. Hardly a secret, Skanarow.’
‘Not that, well, some of that. Thing is, he’s not what I think he is.’
‘Early days, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think he’s using his real name.’
‘Who is? Look at me. I earned mine over years of diligent deliberation. Now, even “Skanarow” isn’t what most people think, is it? Archaic Kanese for a female hill-dog, I believe.’
‘Not like that, Kindly. He’s hiding something—oh, his story works out, at least on the surface. I mean, his timeline makes sense—’
‘Excuse me, his what?’
‘Well, when he did what and where he did it. A proper course of events, but I figure that just means he’s worked it out to sound plausible.’
‘Or it sounds plausible because it is in fact his history.’
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