‘We travel this same road,’ she said, ‘for the moment. Sergeant, you need fear nothing from me.’
‘And what about the rest of us?’ Quick Ben asked.
She did not reply.
Sudden unease whispered through Kalam. He met Quick’s eyes for a brief moment, then faced forward once more. ‘Let’s just catch up with that damned army first.’
‘I’d like to see Pearl disposed of,’ Quick Ben said.
No-one spoke for a long moment. It wasn’t often that the wizard voiced his desire so…brazenly, and Kalam realized, with a chill, that things were getting bad. Maybe even desperate. But it wasn’t that easy. Like that rooftop in Darujhistan – invisible enemies on all sides – you look and look but see nothing.
Pearl, who was once Salk Elan. Mockra warren…and a blade sliding like fire into my back. Everyone thinks Topper’s the master in the Claw, but I wonder…can you take him, Kalam? Quick’s got his doubts – he’s just offered to help. Gods below, maybe I am getting old. ‘You never answered me, friend,’ the assassin said to Quick Ben.
‘What was the question again?’
‘Ever get tired of your own memories?’
‘Oh, that one.’
‘Well?’
‘Kalam, you have no idea.’
Fiddler didn’t like this conversation. In fact, he hated it, and was relieved as everyone fell silent once more, walking the dusty track, every step pushing that damned ruin of a city further behind them. He knew he should be back in the column, with his squad, or maybe up ahead, trying to pry stuff loose from Faradan Sort – that captain was full of surprises, wasn’t she just. She’d saved all their lives – there was no doubting that – but that didn’t mean that he had to trust her. Not yet, despite the truth that he wanted to, for some arcane reason he’d yet to comprehend.
The little girl with the runny nose sniffled in her sleep, one small hand clutching his left shoulder. Her other hand was at her mouth, and her sucking on her thumb made tiny squeaking sounds. In his arms, she weighed next to nothing.
His squad had come through intact. Only Balm, and maybe Hellian, could say the same. So, three squads out of what, ten? Eleven? Thirty? Moak’s soldiers had been entirely wiped out – the Eleventh Squad was gone, and that was a number that would never be resurrected in the future history of the Fourteenth. The captain had settled on the numbers, adding the Thirteenth for Sergeant Urb, and it turned out that Fiddler’s own, the Fourth, was the lowest number on the rung. This part of Ninth Company had taken a beating, and Fiddler had few hopes for the rest, the ones that hadn’t made it to the Grand Temple. Worse yet, they’d lost too many sergeants. Borduke, Mosel, Moak, Sobelone, Tugg.
Well, all right, we’re beaten up, but we’re alive.
He dropped back a few paces, resumed his march alongside Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas. The last survivor of Leoman’s rebel army – barring Leoman himself – had said little, although the scowl knotting his expression suggested his thoughts were anything but calm. A scrawny boy was riding his shoulders, head bobbing and dipping as he dozed.
‘I was thinking,’ Fiddler said, ‘of attaching you to my squad. We were always one short.’
‘Is it that simple, Sergeant?’ Corabb asked. ‘You Malazans are strange. I cannot yet be a soldier in your army, for I have not yet impaled a babe on a spear.’
‘Corabb, the sliding bed is a Seven Cities invention, not a Malazan one.’
‘What has that to do with it?’
‘I mean, Malazans don’t stick babes on spears.’
‘Is it not your rite of passage?’
‘Who has been telling you this rubbish? Leoman?’
The man frowned. ‘No. But such beliefs were held to among the followers of the Apocalypse.’
‘Isn’t Leoman one such follower?’
‘I think not. No, never. I was blind to that. Leoman believed in himself and no other. Until that Mezla bitch he found in Y’Ghatan.’
‘He found himself a woman, did he? No wonder he went south.’
‘He did not go south, Sergeant. He fled into a warren.’
‘A figure of speech.’
‘He went with his woman. She will destroy him, I am sure of that, and now I say that is only what Leoman deserves. Let Dunsparrow ruin him, utterly—’
‘Hold on,’ Fiddler cut in, as an uncanny shiver rose through him, ‘did you call her Dunsparrow?’
‘Yes, for such she named herself.’
‘A Malazan?’
‘Yes, tall and miserable. She would mock me. Me, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, Leoman’s Second, until I became his Third, the one he was content to leave behind. To die with all the others.’
Fiddler barely heard him. ‘Dunsparrow,’ he repeated.
‘Do you know the hag? The witch? The seductress and corrupter?’
Gods, I once tossed her on my knee. He realized of a sudden that he was clawing a hand through the remnants of his singed, snarled hair, unmindful of the snags, indifferent to the tears that started from his eyes. The girl squirmed. He stared over at Corabb, unseeing, then hurried ahead, feeling dizzy, feeling…appalled. Dunsparrow…she’d be in her twenties now. Middle twenties, I suppose. What was she doing in Y’Ghatan?
He pushed between Kalam and Quick Ben, startling both men.
‘Fid?’
‘Tug Hood’s snake till he shrieks,’ the sapper said. ‘Drown the damned Queen of Dreams in her own damned pool. Friends, you won’t believe who went with Leoman into that warren. You won’t believe who shared Leoman’s bed in Y’Ghatan. No, you won’t believe anything I say.’
‘Abyss take you, Fid,’ Kalam said in exasperation, ‘what are you talking about?’
‘Dunsparrow. That’s who’s at Leoman’s side right now. Dunsparrow. Whiskeyjack’s little sister and I don’t know – I don’t know anything – what to think, only I want to scream and I don’t know why even there, no, I don’t know anything any more. Gods, Quick – Kalam – what does it mean? What does any of it mean?’
‘Calm down,’ Quick Ben said, but his voice was strangely high, tight. ‘For us, for us, I mean, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It’s a damned coincidence and even if it isn’t, it’s not like it means anything, not really. It’s just…peculiar, that’s all. We knew she was a stubborn, wild little demon, we knew that, even then – and you knew her better than us, me and Kalam, we only met her once, in Malaz City. But you, you were like her uncle, which means you got some explaining to do!’
Fiddler stared at the man, at his wide eyes. ‘Me? You’ve lost your mind, Quick. Listen to you! Blaming me, for her! Wasn’t nothing to do with me!’
‘Stop it, both of you,’ Kalam said. ‘You’re frightening the soldiers behind us. Look, we’re all too nervous right now, about all sorts of things, to be able to make sense of any of this, assuming there’s any sense to be made. People choose their own lives, what they do, where they end up, it don’t mean some god’s playing around. So, Whiskeyjack’s little sister is now Leoman’s lover, and they’re both hiding out in the Queen of Dreams’ warren. All right, better that than crumbling bones in the ashes of Y’Ghatan, right? Well?’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Fiddler said.
‘What in Hood’s name does that mean?’ Kalam demanded.
Fiddler drew a deep, shaky breath. ‘We must have told you, it’s not like it was secret or anything, and we always used it as an excuse, to explain her, the way she was and all that. Never so she could hear, of course, and we said it to take its power away—’
‘Fiddler!’
The sapper winced at Kalam’s outburst. ‘Now who’s frightening everyone—’
‘You are! And never mind everyone else – you’re frightening me, damn you!’
‘All right. She was born to a dead woman – Whiskeyjack’s stepmother, she died that morning, and the baby – Dunsparrow – well, she was long in coming out, she should have died inside, if you know what I mean. That’s why the town elders gave her up to the temple
, to Hood’s own. The father was already dead, killed outside Quon, and Whiskeyjack, well, he was finishing his prenticeship. We was young then. So me and him, we had to break in and steal her back, but she’d already been consecrated, blessed in Hood’s name – so we took its power away by talking about it, ha ha, making light and all that, and she grew up normal enough. More or less. Sort of…’ He trailed away, refused to meet the two sets of staring eyes, then scratched at his singed face. ‘We need us a Deck of Dragons, I think…’
Apsalar, four paces behind the trio, smiled as the wizard and assassin both simultaneously cuffed Sergeant Fiddler. A short-lived smile. Such revelations were troubling. Whiskeyjack had always been more than a little reticent about where he’d come from, about the life before he became a soldier. Mysteries as locked away as the ruins beneath the sands. He’d been a mason, once, a worker in stone. She knew that much. A fraught profession among the arcana of divination and symbolism. Builder of barrows, the one who could make solid all of history, every monument to grandeur, every dolmen raised in eternal gestures of surrender. There were masons among many of the Houses in the Deck of Dragons, a signifier of both permanence and its illusion. Whiskeyjack, a mason who set his tools down, to embrace slaughter. Was it Hood’s own hand that guided him?
It was believed by many that Laseen had arranged Dassem Ultor’s death, and Dassem had been the Mortal Sword of Hood – in reality if not in name – and the centre of a growing cult among the ranks of the Malazan armies. The empire sought no patron from among the gods, no matter how seductive the invitation, and in that Laseen had acted with singular wisdom, and quite possibly at the command of the Emperor. Had Whiskeyjack belonged to Dassem’s cult? Possibly – still, she had seen nothing to suggest that was so. If anthing, he had been a man entirely devoid of faith.
Nor did it seem likely that the Queen of Dreams would knowingly accept the presence of an avatar of Hood within her realm. Unless the two gods are now allies in this war. The very notion of war depressed her, for gods were as cruel and merciless as mortals. Whiskeyjack’s sister may be as much an unwitting player in all this as the rest of us. She was not prepared to condemn the woman, and not yet ready to consider her an ally, either.
She wondered again at what Kalam and Quick Ben were planning. Both were formidable in their own right, yet intrinsic in their methods was staying low, beneath notice. What was obvious – all that lay on the surface – was invariably an illusion, a deceit. When the time came to choose sides, out in the open, they were likely to surprise everyone.
Two men, then, whom no-one could truly trust. Two men whom not even the gods could trust, for that matter.
She realized that, in joining this column, in coming among these soldiers, she had become ensnared in yet another web, and there was no guarantee she would be able to cut herself free. Not in time.
The entanglement worried her. She could not be certain that she’d walk away from a fight with Kalam. Not a fight that was face to face, that is. And now his guard was up. In fact, she’d invited it. Partly from bravado, and partly to gauge his reaction. And just a little…misdirection.
Well, there was plenty of that going round.
The two undead lizards, Curdle and Telorast, were maintaining some distance from the party of soldiers, although Apsalar sensed that they were keeping pace, somewhere out in the scrubland south of the raised road. Whatever their hidden motives in accompanying her, they were for the moment content to simply follow. That they possessed secrets and a hidden purpose was obvious to her, as was the possibility that that purpose involved, on some level, betrayal. And that too is something that we all share.
Sergeant Balm was cursing behind Bottle as they walked the stony road. Scorched boots, soles flapping, mere rags covering the man’s shoulders beneath the kiln-hot sun, Balm was giving voice to the miseries afflicting everyone who had crawled out from under Y’Ghatan. Their pace was slowing, as feet blistered and sharp rocks cut into tender skin, and the sun raised a resisting wall of blinding heat before them. Clawing through it had become a vicious, enervating struggle.
Where others among the squads carried children, Bottle found himself carrying a mother rat and her brood of pups, the former perched on his shoulder and the latter swathed in rags in the crook of one arm. More sordid than comic, and even he could see that, but he would not relinquish his new…allies.
Striding at Bottle’s side was the halfblood Seti, Koryk. Freshly adorned in human finger bones and not much else. He’d knotted them in the singed strands of his hair, and with each step there was a soft clack and clatter, the music grisly to Bottle’s ears.
Koryk carried more in a clay pot with a cracked rim that he’d found in the pit of a looted grave. No doubt he planned on distributing them to the other soldiers. As soon as we’ve found enough clothes to wear.
He caught a skittering sound off among the withered scrub to his left. Those damned lizard skeletons. Chasing down my scouts. He wondered to whom they belonged. Reasonable to assume they were death-aspected, which possibly made them servants of Hood. He knew of no mages among the squads who used Hood’s Warren – then again those who did rarely advertised the fact. Maybe that healer, Deadsmell, but why would he want familiars now? He sure didn’t have them down in the tunnels. Besides, you’d need to be a powerful mage or priest to be able to conjure up and bind two familiars. No, not Deadsmell. Who, then?
Quick Ben. That wizard had far too many warrens swirling round him. Fiddler had vowed to drag Bottle up to the man, and that was an introduction Bottle had no desire to make. Fortunately, the sergeant seemed to have forgotten his squad, caught up as he was in this sordid reunion of old-timers.
‘Hungry enough yet?’ Koryk asked.
Startled, Bottle glanced over at the man. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Skewered pinkies to start, then braised rat – it’s why you’ve brought them along, isn’t it?’
‘You’re sick.’
Just ahead, Smiles turned to fling back a nasty laugh. ‘Good one. You can stop now, Koryk – you’ve reached your quota for the year. Besides, Bottle ain’t gonna eat them rats. He’s married the momma and adopted the whelps – you missed the ceremony, Koryk, when you was off hunting bones. Too bad, we all cried.’
‘We missed our chance,’ Koryk said to Bottle. ‘We could’ve beat her unconscious and left her in the tunnels.’
A good sign. Things are getting back to normal. Everything except the haunted look in the eyes. It was there, in every soldier who’d gone through the buried bones of Y’Ghatan. Some cultures, he knew, used a ritual of burial and resurrection to mark a rite of passage. But if this was a rebirth, it was a dour one. They’d not emerged innocent, or cleansed. If anything, the burdens seemed heavier. The elation of having survived, of having slipped out from the shadow of Hood’s Gates, had proved woefully shortlived.
It should have felt…different. Something was missing. The Bridgeburners had been forged by the Holy Desert Raraku – so for us, wasn’t Y’Ghatan enough? It seemed that, for these soldiers here, the tempering had gone too far, creating something pitted and brittle, as if one more blow would shatter them.
Up ahead, the captain called out a halt, her voice eliciting a chorus of curses and groans of relief. Although there was no shade to be found, walking through this furnace was far worse than sitting by the roadside easing burnt, cut and blistered feet. Bottle stumbled down into the ditch and sat on a boulder. He watched, sweat stinging his eyes, as Deadsmell and Lutes moved among the soldiers, doing what they could to heal the wounds.
‘Did you see that Red Blade captain?’ Smiles asked, crouching nearby. ‘Looking like she’d just come from a parade ground.’
‘No she didn’t,’ Corporal Tarr said. ‘She’s smoke-stained and scorched, just like you’d expect.’
‘Only she’s got all her hair.’
‘So that’s what’s got you snarly,’ Koryk observed. ‘Poor Smiles. You know it won’t grow back, don’t you? Never. You’re b
ald now for the rest of your life—’
‘Liar.’
Hearing the sudden doubt in her voice, Bottle said, ‘Yes, he is.’
‘I knew that. And what’s with the black-haired woman on the horse? Anybody here know who she is?’
‘Fiddler recognized her,’ Tarr said. ‘A Bridgeburner, I’d guess.’
‘She makes me nervous,’ Smiles said. ‘She’s like that assassin, Kalam. Eager to kill someone.’
I suspect you’re right. And Fid wasn’t exactly thrilled to see her, either.
Tarr spoke: ‘Koryk, when you going to share those finger bones you collected?’
‘Want yours now?’
‘Aye, I do.’
Her throat parched, her skin layered in sweat even as shivers rippled through her, Hellian stood on the road. Too tired to walk, too sick to sit down – she feared she’d never get up again, just curl into a little juddering ball until the ants under her skin finished their work and all that skin just peeled away like deer hide, whereupon they’d all march off with it, singing songs of triumph in tiny squeaking voices.
It was the drink, she knew. Or, rather, the lack of it. The world around her was too sharp, too clear; none of it looked right, not right at all. Faces revealed too many details, all the flaws and wrinkles unveiled for the first time. She was shocked to realize that she wasn’t the oldest soldier there barring that ogre Cuttle. Well, that was the one good thing that had come of this enforced sobriety. Now, if only those damned faces could disappear just like the wrinkles on them, then she’d be happier. No, wait, it was the opposite, wasn’t it? No wonder she wasn’t happy.
Ugly people in an ugly world. That’s what came from seeing it all the way it really was. Better when it was blurred – all farther away back then, it had seemed, so far away she’d not noticed the stinks, the stains, the errant hairs rising from volcanic pores, the miserable opinions and suspicious expressions, the whisperings behind her back.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 518